Battle-Torn Bride

by Anne O'Brien

  He lowered his head, his kiss warm and capturing her breath. He poured into that meeting of mouth against mouth all the love and longing of the months of separation. All the regret for the pain and hurt. Until the exquisite tenderness became overwhelmed by a fire that raced through his blood, to ignite a more primitive urge to own and possess. Until kissing her was not enough and desire beat hard.

  “I have wanted to kiss you, hold you, for so long.” Releasing her lips, he feathered caresses over her forehead, eyelids, the soft skin at her temple, to the softer skin beneath her jaw. As her fingers dug into his forearms to hold him close, closer yet.

  “I have dreamed of that, too.” She turned her head to return his kisses. “Both waking and sleeping.”

  Now he held her a little away from him, aware that her heart beat as forcefully as his. She was as involved as he. And of one thing he was sure. That he wanted this woman more than he had ever wanted anything or anyone in his life before. And he knew, he prayed that she would want him. His eyes held hers, refusing to release her as time spun out between them, holding them in a soft net of care, of gentleness, one for the other, but with the promise of the sharp and delicious edge of passion that awaited them. Words were no longer necessary between them. He saw the delicate wash of color rise in her cheeks as she read his intent. So he would take the risk and give her the power to refuse.

  “My love. I would do more than kiss you.”

  She understood. Gloried in his willingness to allow her the choice. So she would choose and seize what was in her heart.

  “I have wanted that, too. Come then.” Taking his hand she led him from the parlor to the foot of the stairs.

  As Lawson, ever watchful for his lady’s well–being, emerged from the shadows. “Do you have need of anything, my lady?”

  “No, Lawson. We shall require nothing.” Lady Beatrice Somerton smiled and shook her head. “Now I have all I need.” Neither knowing nor caring what the servants would make of her willful behavior in their gossip over the midday meal. To retire to her chamber with Lord Richard Stafford in the full light of day. Not realizing that they would wish her well.

  Stepping inside the room after her, he closed the door. Waited until she turned to face him. The delight and anticipation in her face left him with no doubts as he held out his hand to her. Both command and invitation.

  “Nothing can come between us here. Nor will I allow it ever again.”

  “That is my wish. Richard—I did not trust you enough. How wicked a sin is that? And William. How could William have betrayed all he had lived by? I know that it forced you to make an impossible choice.”

  “Do you trust me now?”

  “Yes. Oh, yes.”

  He kept the fingers that he lifted to her cheek almost steady. Smoothed the satin of her skin, then held her still before him. His words were perhaps severe, a painful depth of honesty. “I made that choice, Beatrice. I know that I would choose the same again, and I feel no guilt for it. The terrible cost of war is not only apparent on the battlefield. It touches everyone. It creates impossible obstacles, excavates bottomless crevasses to tear apart and divide. Betrayal and bloodshed can never be lightly overlooked, nor should they be.” Then the austere lines of his face softened a little into a smile. “But for whatever reason, fate has chosen to smile on us, to give us a second chance to be together.” The hand that still held hers tightened, Richard’s fingers interlocking with hers in an unbreakable bond. “Somerton’s treachery will not stand between us. Let your heart be at peace, my loved one.”

  “Can we heal the wounds?” Her regard was steady.

  “I am certain of it. We can heal each other now.”

  Her love could have said nothing better, nothing more direct or more soothing to her troubled heart. She turned her face to press a kiss against his wrist where the blood pulsed heavily through his veins.

  “I love you, Richard Stafford. My heart is yours if you will have it.”

  His arms came round her. “As I love you. You are my life and my soul. I will gladly take your heart into my keeping. For you most assuredly have mine.” Richard turned his face into the smooth curve of her throat as the fears, which had been almost too great to withstand, finally dissipated. “It was always meant to be that we should be together.”

  They had waited long for this moment, believing that it would never be within their experience. Not merely the wretched months since their last parting, but through the years since their hands had first touched, their lips had first clung and parted in urgent demand. When their desires had been so thoroughly thwarted by the ambitions of a greedy, single–minded parent. Now the moment was theirs and the door of Beatrice’s bedchamber was closed against the rest of the world. Locked to bar all entry. Nothing would now prevent their coming together.

  She placed the swan on the coffer in the window embrasure for safe keeping. Then turned to him with confidence that he would take care of her.

  With formal grace he loosed her embroidered girdle to allow the fullness to flow to the floor. And then proved himself adept at managing the laces and ties at waist and neck until the garment slid down her body to leave her clad in a simple linen shift. And marveled. How much the fashion of the day succeeded to hide and disguise the most glorious aspects of womanhood. The soft curves and hollows of breast and waist and hip. He allowed one hand to stroke luxuriously downward from her shoulder in one long smooth caress. Then lifted her soft veil with careful fingers, removed the simple headdress. At last, as he had imagined doing so many times since that distant afternoon in the shadows of the drafty corridor in the palace of Westminster, he unpinned her hair. As glorious as he remembered, as thick and lustrous.

  He had no choice but to clench his fists in it, draw her close to bury his face within its fragrant depths.

  “Beatrice. Are you mine at last?”

  “I am.”

  She, too, it transpired, was perfectly capable of disrobing a man. To push off his coat from his shoulders. To unbuckle his sword belt and lift away the heavy sword. To unlace the ties of his shirt. But her fingers trembled, surprisingly clumsy. He stilled them against his chest with his own hands.

  “I think I shall be faster.” Because suddenly speed was of the essence.

  So she stood, took his shirt from him, his boots as he removed them. Then, her eyes on his face, she put out a hand to stop him.

  “Richard …”

  He looked up, saw the fleeting concern there. With sensitive understanding he led her to sit on the bed. Sat beside her.

  “Do you not wish for this? Forgive me if I am impatient.” His smile was rueful.

  She shook her head in an unaccustomed attack of shyness. “I would have you know … I have so little experience of this. William did not come to my bed except on the night of our marriage. He had no need of an heir, you see. He preferred to take his pleasure elsewhere.”

  “Ah, Beatrice.” His heart bled for her rejection. All he could do was enclose her hands securely in his.

  “My only experience is of … of discomfort and a cold bed,” she continued. “Even on that one night he did not stay longer than … than the necessity demanded of the deed.”

  “It is of no importance to me, Beatrice.”

  “It is just that you might prefer … a bedmate with some knowledge.”

  So much uncertainty from so confident a lady.

  “I prefer you to be yourself. Between us we have all the experience we need. It will please me to bring you both knowledge and pleasure.”

  The sun slanted through the window, painting the bed with golden bars as he pushed the shift from her shoulders. The linen fell to be held in check on her forearms.

  “How could he resist you?” Richard murmured. “For I cannot.”

  Slender she might be but supremely feminine, her high breasts firm and to his mind perfect. Her shoulders begged to be kissed and so he did, and the soft joining between jaw and throat, the hollow where her pulse beat. It was intoxicat
ing. Her skin warmed and flushed under the caress of his lips and tongue.

  “Let me touch you.”

  The flat of her palms smoothed over his skin. Warm from the sun that now engulfed them in its brightness. Firm from exercise and the activity of warfare. She shivered as she explored, molded, as her fingertips drifted over old scars. Shivered again as did he.

  It was time. With quick dexterity he pulled back the linen covers of her bed and lifted her back against the pillows. And as she waited for him there he stripped off his remaining clothes to join her.

  “Now I may look at you. You are so beautiful.” The long muscled lines of hip and thigh, the wide shoulders tapering oh so smoothly to a narrow waist. The curl of dark hair at chest and groin. His strong arousal, evidence of his need for her. For the briefest moment Beatrice remembered William’s aging body. Then closed her mind to it. No more. No need to think of that ever again. She was here now with Richard.

  And she turned to him as he stretched beside her. Lifted her arms to enclose him and draw him close as he drew her. All the doubts and fears, all the guilt of the past, were washed away as his mouth traveled over brow and closed eyes and delicately flushed cheeks. The happiness that surged from her heart was peerless in its intensity.

  “You are mine, with or without the sanction of the law and the church. With or without the consent of your family. I would make it true.” He murmured the words against the silken skin of her shoulder.

  “As would I.”

  Richard had concern for her nervousness but there was no need. She would give herself to him with all the spontaneity and joy that was inherent in her character. She would learn from him with delight. He knew it as she returned his kisses, the softness of her lips an invitation and a surrender as his tongue claimed and possessed. So began a gentle campaign to seduce and awaken. Long slow caresses, the glide of smooth flesh against even smoother flesh. Nothing to hurry or concern as the hours of the day moved on. The time, the moment was their own to savor and enjoy. His breath caught at the hum of pleasure deep in her throat.

  But it was not in either temperament to remain calm and unhurried in their mutual delight. Nor did their enforced separation with all its pain and uncertainty dictate a slow loving. Their mutual desire was lit by the long drugging kisses and stroke of clever fingers. It smoldered, then burned, a leaping flame, until it exploded into outrageous need to own and prove their love in spite of all that had conspired to destroy and deny this desire that consumed them both. Now they were unaware of the comfort of their surroundings, the shimmering fall of dust motes in the bright air. Ignorant of the singing of the blackbird in the apple tree outside the window. Oblivious to the whole world that could distract them from what they might discover in each other. The purest celebration of life that they were at last together.

  Nothing would part them again. They held on to that one fact as Beatrice found herself standing on the very edge of sensation that threatened to overpower and send her headlong into some dark unknown territory. It leaped through her veins. It blossomed in her loins, unfurling tight petals. The intensity of it hovered between pleasure and delicious pain, a searing heat. It took away her control and her power to think.

  “No!” Her nails scored the skin of his shoulders. “I cannot.”

  “But, yes!” Her lover had no mercy. Captured her hands, which would have pushed against him. Continued to assault every pulse and nerve–ending in her body with mouth and skillful touch. The shocking slide of teeth and tongue. Bringing every inch of finesse into play. Until his fingers slid inside her. She would have cried out but his mouth took hers, swallowing her stunned response. Then the flames engulfed her and Beatrice had no choice but to relinquish her control and step out into that unknown. And found it exquisite beyond bearing.

  And also found that she was not alone. For Richard held her as she shuddered uncontrollably against him. Held her until the tremors died away and she buried her face against his chest.

  The room fell into silent stillness around them. Even the blackbird had sung its fill.

  “I have known nothing like that,” she whispered against his throat in astonished delight, finding a need to hide her face from him. “How should I have ever known that?”

  “Did it please you?” Undoubtedly he knew her answer.

  “Yes.”

  But it did not end there. His mouth was now heated, an exciting brand against her skin, hands more demanding, their bodies slick with arousal His tongue possessed her mouth more forcefully, then left a burning trail along the elegant curve of her throat, down the soft valley between her breasts, and lower as his fingers sought and owned all her undiscovered secrets. Until she gasped and cried out again as the heat built once more, spearing her belly with the sharp demands of passion.

  Until he could hold back no longer.

  With swift agility he lifted his weight and held her as he wound his hands into her hair, all the dark cloud of it. Her reaction was immediate, an irresistible invitation. His weight was a delight to her. So her hips arched in timeless response, her thighs parted to hold him close. She felt his arousal hard and smooth against her and longed to know the thick heat within her.

  He thrust, unable to hold back any longer. Hard and powerful. Again and again. Beatrice knowing instinctively how to mirror his movements. He stilled for a last moment as control became a matter of knife–edged urgency. Took his weight on his arms, framed her face with his hands and kissed her mouth with such tenderness, at odds with his dominant position, causing her to shiver at the glory of it.

  “Beatrice …” He sighed against her mouth as he fought to prolong the experience for her.

  “Richard.” Her eyes, wide and the deepest of blue, locked on his and held there. It was, he thought, as if she allowed him to see into her soul, as she had taken him within the slippery heat of her body.

  “You destroy me.” It was a groan, his voice harsh with need.

  “Is that good?”

  “Oh yes.” He moved against her. “It is more than good.” And drove on to his own release from the unspeakable demands that raced through his whole body, because he had no other choice, watching her eyes as she, too, shook in his arms.

  “Well, lady?” His breathing had settled, the thunder of his blood slowed in his veins. He had lifted his weight from her, to draw her close. He would not let her go.

  “I think it was a miracle.”

  “Better than you anticipated?”

  “It brought me no memories of William!”

  “God rest his miserable soul!”

  “Amen.”

  “I did not realise … It was … I cannot think.” Planting quick kisses along his jaw, she curled into his side with all the contentment of a cat in a sunbeam. “My mind seems not to be my own.”

  “It can be even better.”

  He bent his head, his lips discovering anew her breast, the hardened peak. His tongue sent ripples along her skin. His teeth scraped sharp darts of desire.

  “Oh!”

  “It can be,” he murmured, his breath warm, his mouth hot, his fingers insistent, “beyond belief.”

  “I do not see how—but you could show me.” He heard the smile in her voice. Felt her hand move seductively along the length of his spine, her nails scoring. Renewed need ignited in him as she stretched against him in blatant invitation.

  “Look at me.” He waited until her lashes lifted, her eyes dark and full of secrets. “This time look at me when I take you. Know that you are mine.”

  Her smile illuminated her whole face. Forcing him to draw a breath at the beauty of the woman who lay so trustingly in his arms.

  Beatrice could see the hunger in his eyes, feel it in his body as he moved over her, into her. “I know you, Richard Stafford.”

  “As I know you, Beatrice Hatton. I love you. I adore you. I will willingly spend my whole life showing you.”

  And he set himself to the task.

  Epilogue

  As the shor
t April day faded she lay with her head on his shoulder, his arms holding her secure. The shadows deepened companionably around them, enhanced by the enclosing walls of linenfold paneling, the heavy damask curtains of the bed. The blackbird returned for an evening song. Richard and Beatrice absorbed all without comment. There was no need for speech, the long loving after their first dramatic coming together speaking more loudly than mere words ever could. Her blood cooled, her heartbeat steadied, as she knew Richard’s did, to be replaced with utter contentment. A happiness that wrapped them around as in satin sheets.

  “Beatrice? You are very quiet.” She could feel his mouth smile against her hair. “I think that you are not always quiet.” One hand swept in a long silken glide from shoulder to wrist. He felt her shiver against him from the same aftermath of desire that still rippled through his veins.

  “No.” Beatrice hid her face against the hard muscle of his shoulder as a lingering doubt touched her mind. When she was silent for a little while, he pressed his mouth against her temple.

  “What troubles you?”

  “Richard—I would know one thing.” She pushed herself to sit up beside him but their fingers remained entwined and she gave not a thought to the linen sheet that fell interestingly to her waist.

  “Well?” It was difficult to repress a smile. Or the immediate leap of response in his body. He was not done with her yet.

  “Why did you wait so long to return? Why did you not write to me?” Then she saw the grief, brief but vicious, touch his face with cruel fingers, sensed the depth of his suffering and loss in the weeks of warfare, and tightened her clasp as if the warmth of her hands might heal the wounds. “I thought you might be dead. I did not know—and I worried so. There was no one who could tell me.”

  “Then I must ask your indulgence.” He raised their joined right hands to kiss her fingers, one by one, a most delicate maneuver, which caused her belly to flutter anew. “For I deliberately did not come until now.”

  “Did you think I would change my mind and fall out of love as quickly as I fell into it? I am no child to do so on a whim!” The gleam in her eye, the angle of her raised chin left him in no doubt of the inner fire and quick temper. He loved her for it.