Lord of Midnight

by Jo Beverley

  “Ulric must have known how your father died.”

  Claire looked back to the earl. “Yes, he never left his side.” She sighed, despite the major part of her that just longed for the marriage bed. “I wish I had heard his tale.”

  “I’m sure you would have found it most enlightening.”

  Claire blinked at his strange tone. “Enlightening?” Where was Margret?

  “Lord Renald brought your father here, I understand. In mail, as he died.”

  “My lord, this is no time for such talk! I am trying to be joyous on my wedding day.”

  “I see you are eager for the bed.” After a moment he added, “Some of us are cowards.”

  She stared at him, wondering why he thought that of her, but Margret was coming, thank the Virgin, leading a group of noisy, laughing young women.

  The earl glanced at them and she thought she heard him sigh. “I will pray for you, Claire.” He suddenly leaned forward, bringing his face close to hers, forcing her to pay attention. “Before you revel in your marriage bed, Claire, think more on death. Think about your father. About mail, and swords.”

  She watched him walk away, wondering if drink had scrambled his wits. Think on death. Now? Clearly he did wish she would weep and wail through her wedding. As if she didn’t know that her father had never wanted her to marry a man so fond of his mail and sword. But by venturing into the world of mail and swords, her father had brought all this about. She was just trying to put things back together again.

  When the women surrounded her, she let them drive away all memory of the earl’s words, and surrendered to laughing excitement.

  In moments she was being dragged to the solar, pretending nervous unwillingness. Not having to entirely pretend. Despite desire, the marriage bed was a pit of the unknown, and there were those stories of screaming victims …

  Nonsense. Snake stories.

  Before she was dragged around the screen to the solar door, she looked back and saw Renald had risen to his feet to watch. It was as if flames of desire licked out from him to sear her.

  He took a step forward as if to follow, and three men grabbed him to hold him back. Perhaps it was just part of the act, but somehow, she didn’t think so. The power of his desire shocked her. But it thrilled her, too.

  Then she was in her bridal chamber, rich with the perfume of flowers and herbs. Scarlet rose petals scattered the coverlet and floor along with other blossoms of every hue.

  Busy hands undressed her but then someone said, “By the crown, Claire. Without your hair, you’re indecent!”

  “Into the bed, I think,” said Margret. Claire was happy to get under the perfumed covers and pull them up to her chin. Once again, her rash act of cutting her hair returned to plague her.

  Margret touched the ends. “I don’t know how you could.”

  “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  “Typical.”

  Claire wriggled, swallowing nervously. “Rose petals on the sheets feel quite strange.”

  “But smell pretty.” Margret scattered some grains of wheat for fertility. She also tucked some herbs under the pillow.

  “There, that should ensure a merry night and a babe in a nine-month.”

  “It certainly worked for you. At least,” Claire added, blushing, “the second part.”

  “And the first,” said Margret with a wink.

  “The first time? It was good the first time?”

  “It got better, but yes,” said Margret, “it was good the first time.”

  Claire glanced at the other ladies, who were standing by the door listening for the men. She had time for a quick question. “Margret,” she whispered, “is there anything I should know? Things I should do? Other than just lie there.”

  The men were coming, laughing and singing.

  Margret turned a little pink. “Oh. Well, tell him when you like things. Or when you don’t.”

  “He won’t mind?”

  “Alaine doesn’t.”

  Now they were hammering on the door, while the laughing young women held it shut. “Anything else?”

  “Don’t be afraid to touch him. Anywhere.” The door began to inch open. “When you feel like it, you could put your mouth to him.”

  “Mouth? To him?”

  “You know. Kiss it. Suck it. Drives them wild.”

  Claire stared at her friend. “Are you teasing me?”

  “No! I swear it.” The door was heaved inward.

  “Suck it,” Claire repeated as the men burst in.

  “Not right away!” Margret cautioned in a whisper. “I know you. He’ll think you’re overbold!”

  Most of the men were three-parts drunk, but they had Renald held tight in their midst as if he had, indeed, lost the way and had to be dragged to her. He freed himself easily and gazed at her. Her toes curled and breath suddenly became precious.

  “Hey, don’t we get to see the bride?” one of the men demanded.

  “No.” Renald was already stripping, not taking his eyes off her. “Only I do.” Naked, he turned to them. “Anyone want to fight me over it?”

  Claire was not surprised when the men laughingly backed away. Nor by the saucy comments of the women. She knew Renald was a big, strong man. Only now did she see that every inch was hard muscle—shoulders, back, buttocks, legs. When he turned back to her, her mouth was so dry she could neither speak nor swallow.

  Vaguely, she was aware of people leaving. Mostly, she was aware only of him walking toward the bed. His front was as awe-inspiring as his back, and his male member jutted urgently.

  It did seem rather big. Amazingly big.

  As fluid returned to her mouth she swallowed. “Don’t hurt me. Please.”

  He stopped, then sat on the bed. “Of course not, Claire. What’s frightened you?”

  “You’re big.”

  His lips twitched. “Not that big, I assure you. I won’t hurt you.”

  “My maidenhead?”

  He shrugged. “Perhaps a little, then. But with good fortune, it won’t go too hard.” He slid easily under the sheets and gathered her into his arms. “Better?”

  After a startled moment, Claire found that everything was better. Being up against his hot, hard body was a miraculous sensation that melted fears. She slid a leg over his, wrapped an arm around his broad chest, and worked her head into a comfortable dip.

  “I was just being silly.”

  His hand traced her back, which was even more wonderful than his teasing of her nape had been. “I won’t crush you. But if you like, you can be on top.”

  “On top?” But he was already moving her so she lay fully on top of him. It was like lying on sun-warmed smooth rock. His erection, however, lodged hard between her thighs, reminding her of certain problems.

  “By big,” she said, knowing she was turning red but determined to get this out in the open, “I meant your … your manhood.”

  It felt as if it was growing even bigger. Was that possible? Just how big could it grow?

  “Felice …” she said, wriggling slightly. “In your camp, Felice heard your men. Talking about your size. Down there. That you … that you damage women.”

  He closed his eyes and muttered, “Lucifer …” and something that might have been, “Hoist, indeed.” Then he looked into her eyes. “Claire, I swear to you, I have never damaged any woman that way. I’m not so big, and I do take care. Can I show you?”

  She nodded, even though she suddenly felt painfully shy.

  He eased her off him, flipping the bedclothes back so they were both uncovered, exploring her with his eyes. “So pale. So sweetly curved.” Then he ran his hand over her hip, up her belly, to caress a breast. “You feel like silk. My rough hand might snag silk, but it won’t hurt you.”

  At the slight abrasion of his touch on places never touched before, breath became scarce again. Claire put a tentative hand on his hard chest, feeling the heat and the silk of his own skin, but tracing the roughness of scars here and the
re. As her senses swam in his teasing touch, she counted and cherished her wolf’s marks.

  Once his size, his strength, had frightened her. Once scars of battle might have disgusted her. But now everything about him stirred only heat, and a feverish, aching hunger deep inside.

  She suddenly grasped his wandering hand and looked at the calluses there. “I do accept what you are,” she said, kissing the hard ridge that crossed his palm. “I accept the sword.”

  A look almost of pain crossed his face. “Ah, Claire. Sweetheart …” he murmured, and he kissed her, deeply, drowningly, seemingly with every inch of his hot body. Against her mouth he whispered, “I wish I were a better man for you, my wife. But I will be the best I can.”

  Then he lowered his lips to her breast.

  As Renald tasted her skin, relished the rough texture of her small, untried nipple, a shiver of ecstasy passed through him, swelling him to the point of pain. But he could deal with that. Almost, however, she’d broken him with that trusting kiss to the hand that had killed her father.

  He would put that out of his mind, however, and control his own need. He must. The news couldn’t be delayed much longer. This was his last chance, his last chance to forge Claire to him in the heat of desire so that she could never break free, not even when the truth came out.

  He heard her catch her breath, felt her sudden tension and summoned all his skills. He could read a woman—read her breathing, her subtle movements—as skillfully as Claire could read a book. He would use his skills to enslave her.

  Doubts slammed him. Teasing her with his tongue, seeking what she liked the best, he fought them.

  There was no other way.

  No choice.

  You could tell her, whispered conscience. You could tell her now, rather than binding her to you and waiting for the news to break. To break her.

  He rubbed his hard palm over her other breast. Heard her whisper, “Renald!” Felt her touch his hand as if to stop him, then stroke him, delicately, hesitantly.

  Ah, Claire. Beautiful Claire. Responsive Claire with skin like silk and courage like fire.

  We’re married. It’s already too late. But I can give her this.

  You’re not giving. You’re taking.

  He silenced his inner voices, raising his head to look at her, at her smiling, wondering face. She was already flushed. Already close to ready. She was going to be a wonderful lover.

  A finger in her folds found hot wetness waiting for him. Her eyes widened a little at his touch, but her smile grew and she parted her thighs in eager welcome.

  “Not yet,” he told her, stroking. “Not quite yet. With the best will, the first time is rarely perfect for a woman. Let me show you the good part first.”

  He used his hand and the music of her body, and skills learned with too many women, to sweep her into pleasure, into more than pleasure. Blocking all thought of his own urgent desire, he stroked and teased the response he wanted until her body told him she was her the end.

  She was silent. Some women were. He didn’t mind. Her face still spoke for her with frowns and gasps, and her body danced its message with her writhing hips. He drew it out, teased it out along a long, thin line of aching pleasure until she opened her eyes to plead, mutely, dazedly.

  Triumphant, he released her, bringing the cry he’d worked for, the convulsion of ecstasy, the sobbing breaths as sweet as any tourney prize. He gave her his lips and received the violent kiss of total satisfaction.

  What she thought was total satisfaction.

  For now.

  Her lids fluttered open and she laughed, dewy with sweat and rosy pink. “I didn’t know … Not like that.” Then she turned red at what she’d admitted.

  He grinned. “Now you know why two is better than one.”

  “But we haven’t … Have we?”

  “No. But we will. Take a moment.”

  “Why wait?”

  “Because I want to.”

  She looked at his erection. “Do I believe that?”

  He chuckled with pleasure at her frankness. “Yes, my cock wants you now. But my head wants a whole new dance.”

  “Why?” She reached for him and he seized her wrist.

  “Don’t.” His body was asking the same question. Why? It had seemed a good idea a moment ago.

  But he needed to be careful when he took her.

  In control. A control that was slipping.

  He clenched his teeth and thought of icy water instead of dewy, rosy skin, the sweet-spicy perfume of her body, and the hot cream just waiting …

  “Margret said men like to have it touched, kissed. Sucked even.”

  His body bucked its need.

  “Is it as hot as it looks?”

  Before he could seize control, before he could stop her again, she clasped him, stroked him—

  His body convulsed in white-hot relief. His seed shot free. After a few groaning moments of sheer ecstasy, fury bit.

  At himself for weakness.

  At her for impulsiveness.

  For wanton disobedience!

  He rolled away to sit on the side of the bed, head sunk in hands. Eventually, he had to turn back. She was sitting cross-legged among crushed crimson petals, looking as if a barrel of ale had exploded in front of her. Which was probably close enough.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, wide-eyed. “Did that hurt?”

  “Only in the nicest way. But I was trying to save it for you.” At least she wasn’t in shock.

  He went to get a damp cloth to clean himself, and brought another to her. She was already wiping some splashes off herself with a corner of the sheet.

  “Are you upset by that?” he asked carefully as he offered her the cloth. Claire of Summerbourne was not the most predictable woman.

  “No.” But she looked worried. “Is that it, though? Can we not … ?”

  “Look at me and answer yourself.”

  She looked and blushed. “I’m glad. I want to become your wife tonight.”

  He laughed for relief and in simple delight at the jewel she was. “You will, Claire. Have no fear.”

  “No fear,” she echoed and smiled so sweetly it could break his heart. “And to think that earlier I was afraid of you. Of it.”

  He hadn’t really thought he had a breakable heart yet now there was a pain in his chest that could only come from that. “But having seen how easily it’s conquered …” he teased, fighting, God help him, not to weep.

  From habit he picked up his scabbarded sword from beside the bed, checking that it hadn’t been splattered. When he glanced at her, she was staring at it.

  “I always sleep with it by my hand, Claire.”

  “It is a holy blade. It will bless us.” But she frowned.

  “I’m sorry. I’ll put it out of sight.” Remembering the previous night, he slid the blade out a little to be sure there were no more tricks. It glinted dark and clean so he pushed it back and put it down a little farther back in a less obvious place, trying to come to terms with this new world. The world in which he loved Claire of Summerbourne. Claire—his wife, the woman he was tricking and deceiving because soon, very soon, she would have reason to hate him.

  He’d snared and held and tricked and teased simply because he wanted her, and what he wanted he fought to have. What was the difference between wanting and love? He didn’t know except that there was, and it changed everything.

  Just maybe, if he’d loved her sooner, he would have found the strength to let her go.

  But the wheel had turned. There was nothing now but to go forward and pray. He turned to consider the sheet, whether it was too soiled for her comfort, and found her still frowning. “Claire, it would be foolish to keep my sword too far away. What if we were attacked in the night?”

  “Why would we be?” she asked, but vaguely. “Someone said it cuts through metal. Through mail.”

  Something in her tone, in the severity of her frown sent a splinter of icy dread into him. By all the saints, not yet.
Not now. He put one knee on the bed and reached for her. “Let’s not talk of swords now, sweetheart.”

  “Do most swords not?”

  “Claire. We have better subjects—”

  She slid from his reaching hand. “Do they not?”

  He let his hand fall. “No. Most swords cannot cut through metal.”

  “But there must be other swords like that.”

  “Of course.” He didn’t try again to touch her.

  “Then why was everyone so awestruck by it?”

  “It contains the stone from Jerusalem.” He made himself meet her panicked, questioning eyes.

  “They were even more astonished that it could cut through mail.” Her eyes fixed on him as if begging for something. “How many swords in England can do that?”

  He knew then, and it settled like stone in his gut. He wished he could lie for her—for himself—but that was one step he would not take. “Just that one as best I know.”

  She moved back a little farther. “My father was killed in chain mail. By a sword to the heart. The links were cut through.” She inched to the very edge of the bed. “Did that sword kill my father?”

  After a moment she whispered, “Did you— No, it cannot be!”

  The lie floated seductively to his lips. A temptation worthy of the snake in Eden. He could not be sure that he stopped it for honor’s sake, or simply because the news would come. Such a lie could not hold.

  Pale and frantic, she scrambled backward off the bed. “Oh, Jesu, of course you did! Why else were you given his property, one of his women for bride?”

  “Claire—”

  “Why else were you given that sword! A reward … No.” She stared at him. “You had the sword before. Mail is supposed to protect from swords. You cheated.“ She came around the bed in fierce attack. “You murdered him!”

  He backed away, hands raised. “Claire, listen to me—”

  “How could you?” She seized the sword in both hands.

  “How could you bring this here? How could you face us with his blood on your hands? How could you … !”

  When she seized the hilt as if she’d draw the weapon, he ripped it from her and tossed it to the far side of the bed.