by Jo Beverley
“I know. But we have to wait.”
“Why?”
“Custom, remember?” He raised a morsel of fish to her lips and she took it. It was eel, highly seasoned with spices.
“I wonder if it’s painful to be nibbled to death by eels?”
His brows rose. “You know someone that happened to?”
“No, but someone narrowly avoided the fate.”
He shook his head, clearly recognizing nonsense.
Claire grinned and chose food from the next platter, one of meat. They playfully fed each other through endless courses as they waited for their night. When she fed him a honey cake, however, he captured her hand and slowly licked her fingers clean. “Honey, ginger, cinnamon—”
“Don’t,” she breathed. “We must have ages still to wait, and I can’t bear it—”
“It’s surprising what a person can bear.”
“I want to drag you to our room. Now.”
“I’d resist. Waiting enhances pleasure.”
“We’ve waited a whole month.”
“True enough.” He took her hand and carried it down beneath the tablecloths to brush over his thigh to his erection, long and hard.
“Are you sure you want to wait?” Wickedly, she rubbed it, delighting in his caught breath, his look almost of agony. When he seized her hand, it hurt.
She bit her lip. She’d forgotten last time. “You started it,” she hissed.
“Perhaps I should start something else.”
While raising his goblet with his left hand and sipping from it, his right hand released hers and slid between her thighs. He worked a looseness in her skirt so he could press against her.
For a moment she thought of resisting, but then she relaxed. She even spread her thighs, daring him with her eyes, knowing he couldn’t go far with this here at the high table. The long cloths covered their legs, but waist up they were exposed to everyone’s interested gaze.
His lips twitched a warning. He turned the goblet toward her, presenting it to her lips even as his other hand moved, bringing the tingle of desire, causing her to suddenly shift in her seat. She hastily steadied the goblet with her right hand and sipped, hoping one movement hid the other.
Then she felt him slowly pulling up her skirt, felt his fingers brush her bare thigh. She gulped from the goblet again, trying not to show the way her breathing had changed, fearing her cheeks must be turning red. Surely someone would begin to notice what was going on.
Did he not care?
When she looked at him, his smile widened. He took back the goblet and sipped, then kissed her with wine-wet lips.
At least the music and chatter drowned her moan.
His hand stilled.
Her first instinct was to protest.
One hand tormentingly still, he put the goblet down and picked up a piece of the meat. He fed it to her, teasing her lips until she took it, until her mouth was full. She felt almost as if he stroked with his other hand, yet it did not move.
As she chewed then swallowed the tender beef, he teased her lips with his fingers, inviting her to lick them, then suck them. Aware at every moment of his other, still fingers, she drew him into her mouth to deliberately savor him with her tongue. Surely he must be suffering as much as she!
Clearly not. Almost breathless, she tried to squirm free of his hand. It was impossible. She wished desperately he’d either do something—lewd though it would be—or leave her in peace. She seized a spoon and fed him a mouthful of herbed barley, then one of stewed cress.
He swallowed. “You think I need nourishment, wife?”
“I’m afraid you might have lost some fat in important places.”
“If anything, I’m growing. Feel me and see.”
“I can imagine.”
“Then imagine me deep inside you, big and hot.”
She stared, hit by desire so strong she could almost feel him there, or feel where he should be.
Her spoon tilted, spilling greens on the white cloth. “Please—”
“Wait.”
“Wait! It’ll be ages yet.” She slid her own hand beneath the cloth to try to move his, smiling at him all the time. Of course, he was too strong, but he leaned to kiss her, saying, “Wait. Just a little while.”
“There’ll be entertainments before they let us go,” she said fretfully. “You’re a tyrant.”
“Remember our first wedding night? I still want you to feel the pleasure before the pain, but when we’re alone, I won’t be able to wait.”
“Then what—”
“Ah, the tumblers. Good.”
Indeed, the formal entertainment had begun with a troop of tumblers cartwheeling into the center space. They were extremely clever, and Claire could almost have been fascinated if not for the fingers between her thighs that occasionally flickered in a cruel tease but never moved enough.
What had he been talking about? The pleasure? Here? He couldn’t.
She heard herself moan, and hastily drowned it in a whole goblet of wine. When the ewerer refilled it, Renald said, “Feed me wine, wife. I find myself engaged elsewhere.”
“ ’Twould serve you right if I poured it over you.”
“I might find the cooling welcome.”
“If you’re heated, it is your fault! If we must wait—”
“You wouldn’t want to miss the man who juggles with fire.”
She stared at him. “I couldn’t care less about the man who juggles with fire.”
“I think you’ll change your mind. Wine, wife. I thirst.”
With a playful scowl, she raised the goblet to his lips, tilting it so he had to drink every drop. Then, trying to break his control, she leaned to lick a lingering drop from his lips.
She found that by changing the angle of her body, she could press against his tormenting hand, so she leaned closer. Remembering past occasions, she nibbled at his neck, his ear …
“Matilda, only look how impatient our lovers are for the night,” said the king, who sat on Renald’s other side. Claire realized with horror that she’d climbed half over Renald in a public place!
“Indeed we are, sire,” he said, with apparent calm while stopping her from moving too far away. “A month is a long wait.”
“But a holy one,” said the queen. “It will bring you great blessings. And we can’t rush things.” She shook a finger at them both. “A little patience here will be good for your souls, as well as whetting your earthly appetites. Anyway, I’m sure Lady Claire won’t want to miss the man who juggles with fire. It is wonderfully clever.”
“Very true, Highness,” said Renald. “In fact, Claire is wild with waiting. Aren’t you, love?” His fingers moved, almost depriving Claire of words, but she managed to agree.
“Trust me,” Renald murmured. “You really don’t want to miss Abdul. Ah, here he is.”
“I’ve seen fire jugglers before.”
“But Abdul is so good the king keeps him in his personal train.”
“Even so—”
He silenced her with a kiss. “Watch. I promise you. You’ll never forget it.”
“After this, can we go?”
“Yes. I think after this we’ll be ready.”
The fire juggler was a black man, which added a certain drama. Claire had only seen one Moor before, and in ordinary circumstances she’d want to talk to him of his homeland. At the moment, she simply wanted him to perform, finish, and leave.
He began with fire-eating, quenching fire with his mouth, or gushing out flames like a dragon. He was good, but not good enough to take Claire’s mind off Renald’s passive hand and her own unquenched fires.
Then Renald’s hand began to move.
Claire gasped, welcoming the touch she ached for, but horrified when they were the focus of so many eyes. Certainly most people were fascinated by the performance, but not everyone.
She tightened her thighs. He couldn’t!
Then the hall plunged into darkness. As women shrieked and men gasp
ed, Claire realized servants were holding up large boards to cover the windows. In the deep gloom, Abdul’s flaming torches spun wild patterns, driven by the juggler’s clever hands.
Clever hands.
Renald’s clever hand moved against her, then slid right into her. “Stop!” She clutched at the goblet for all she was worth.
“No one can see,” he whispered. “No one can hear. Surrender.”
The musicians had started a wild, raucous melody to go with the fire, a strident Moorish tune with a harsh drumbeat underneath. It seemed to bounce off the stone walls and up through the floorboards into her thrumming body.
Renald’s hand quickened in tempo. In sudden panic, Claire tried to close her thighs, but his leg came over hers, trapping her open as the drumbeat quickened and the torches whirled impossibly fast, dazzling her eyes.
He shifted hands, his right curling around to hold her, to tease her breast. His lips breathed heat on her sensitive neck.
Clutching the edge of the table, Claire pressed back, but not to escape. She no longer cared, even, if the whole world watched. She closed her eyes, and the whirling lights shone red, while music pounded to her soul.
She fought it. A trace of inhibition made her fight. She could not win against such an opponent, but the struggle drove her mad and madder. Like a babe at the breast, she sought his mouth, and drowned in his kiss as she spun into a void of dark silence.
It was only slowly that she realized that the void was real. Somehow the juggler had quenched all his torches at once, and the music had died, creating that dramatic moment.
No, that hadn’t been all that had created the moment.
As the servants took away their shields and the last of the sun flooded red into the room, Claire straightened in her seat, closing her trembling legs. Renald slid his hand free and, hot eyes on her, raised it to his lips to kiss it.
Loud applause and cries of approval buffeted her, crazily as if everyone applauded her orgasmic moment.
The king tossed a heavy, clinking purse to the grinning black man. “Well done, indeed! Your skills improve with each performance.”
The juggler bowed low. “You give me chance to perfect my art, sire.”
The queen leaned forward to speak to Claire. “There, you see. You wouldn’t have wanted to miss that, would you?”
Claire couldn’t help a weak laugh. “No, Highness. I wouldn’t have wanted to miss that, strange though it was.”
“Strange?” queried the king. “You have not seen fire jugglers before?”
“Not quite like that, sire.”
“I suppose not,” he said, with the pride of a patron. “He is remarkably clever.”
“Indeed, sire,” said Claire, looking at Renald.
“A precious gift.”
“How true, sire.” She bit her lip and struggled for control. Renald was looking strained.
“I am constantly amazed at what that man can do,” the queen remarked. “Such clever hands.”
Claire couldn’t speak for fear of the giggles.
“Result of years of practice, I suppose,” said Renald.
She kicked him under the table. “Perhaps I would like to practice such skills. It would be interesting to create such excitement. Almost ecstasy, wouldn’t you say?”
“Now, now, Lady Claire,” said the queen, “a gentle lady shouldn’t play with fire.”
Claire slipped a hand under the table to tease the long bulge there. “Oh, but Highness, I suspect my Lord Renald might quite enjoy a wife who liked to play with fire. Especially with clever hands.”
“He might at that,” murmured Renald, who looked as if he was fighting private battles.
“My dear,” the king said to the queen, “I think it’s time to get these two into their bed before abstinence turns their wits.” He was straight-faced, but his expression suggested that he had guessed some of their byplay.
“So soon?” said the queen. “But we have a very clever riddler to perform. I’m sure—”
“I’m sure a lady of Summerbourne knows all the good riddles, and would much rather explore other puzzles. Is that not true, Lady Claire?”
She gave him a smile of genuine gratitude. “Very true, sire. Am I to go up to my room with the ladies?” Suddenly she hated the idea of parting from Renald, even for a moment.
As if he guessed, Renald stood and swept her into his arms. “With Your Graces’ permission, this is not a true wedding night and I would take my wife and retire.”
Claire saw that the queen might have protested, but the king laid a hand over hers. “It is as Renald says, my dear. But we can’t do without ceremony entirely. Ho!” he called. “Music for the abstinent couple!”
So the musicians started up a merry march, and soon the whole hall was clapping to time, and laughing. Pelted with raucous advice, Renald carried Claire across the hall and up the wide stone steps. She just hid her face against his chest, desire swelling in her all afresh.
In the room he tossed her on the petal-strewn bed and started to strip off his clothes. After a startled moment, Claire struggled out of her own. As she emerged from her shift, he came down on her for a kiss so wild that it took a moment to realize that he was settling between her thighs.
At last.
At last.
She struggled free of his mouth. “I wanted to say—”
He covered her mouth with his hand. “Not now.” Watching her, holding himself up off her, he slid inside.
He was big, and she felt herself stretching, filling. She remembered Margret saying to tell him how he was doing. She didn’t really think Renald needed words, but she mumbled. When he took away his hand, she said, “It feels good.”
He laughed, but said, “I’m not hurting you?”
She shook her head. His face fascinated her, tense, yet composed, focused on their slow joining. As she was. She itched and hungered down there, and he was satisfying her. Slowly.
She knew it was costing him to be so slow, but that he did it out of love.
It was a strange sensation, and she moved slightly, trying to adjust. He closed his eyes and sucked in a breath.
She remembered last time and made herself stay still. She didn’t want another disaster.
“Still all right?” he asked tightly.
She nodded, then realized he still had his eyes shut. “Yes.” Her voice squeaked.
“Push your breasts up.”
When she eagerly obeyed, he curled down to suck first at one, then at the other. So much for staying still. Her hips went up. He went deep. Pain cut.
She couldn’t stop a cry.
“Pray,” he said, “that you are lightly made,” and thrust to settle deep within.
“Thank God,” he gasped.
“God should indeed be thanked,” she said, stunned to be full of him, and with so little discomfort. “How wonderful a gift, to possess a man this way.”
He laughed again, shaking with it as he moved, sliding in and out wetly. It was like but unlike what he had done before. Nothing like anything she’d ever done to herself.
She struggled desperately to stay still, though every muscle in her body screamed to dance.
The heat of his big body heated her. The smell drove her wild. “Can I move?” she gasped, even though she was anyway. She couldn’t help it.
“Hell, yes.” He put his hands beneath her to help. She didn’t need it. She danced in the bed with him to a wild private music, loving the sound, the feel, the slamming of their well-matched bodies.
“I’m glad it’s not dark,” she gasped, buffeted by the power of his thrusts, wrapped around his hot, hard flesh.
He didn’t answer except with a teeth-gritted groan that clearly had nothing to do with her words.
Feeling the whirlpool suck at her, Claire laughed for joy and bit him. She dug her nails into his buttocks as if—impossibly—she could urge him deeper, harder, faster.
More.
More.
More!
Perhaps she shouted it. As she clutched herself around his whole magnificent, rigid body, his groan rumbled through her. No, she couldn’t have shouted. Her mouth was full of his shoulder. He collapsed down, rolling and carrying her with him on her side. She had to let go with legs and teeth, but she kept her arms tight around him.
His lips met hers and she tried to eat him. Or that’s what it felt like. She wanted to. They were plastered together by sweat, she twined around him any way she could, he binding her to him with strong arms.
By all the saints and angels, marriage was a wonderful thing.
At last, at last, the kiss diminished, the grasping eased, and they relaxed into a softer embrace, but still entwined, still loving with lingering hands.
“All right?” he asked as he had so long ago. He brushed hair out of her eyes, and studied her—but without great doubt.
She stretched, watching him with wonderful, wicked possession. “I’m not sure. I think we’ll have to try again.”
He fell to laughing, rolling onto his back, pulling her to sprawl over him. She’d never seen him laugh like this before, but it was the true Renald. She knew it.
“Oh, definitely,” he gasped. “Perhaps we’ll have to hire our own fire juggler, too.”
She trailed her hand over his chest. “You mean we can’t have so much fun without?”
He kissed her lightly. “We’ll just have to be inventive.”
Claire moved slightly off him, the better to appreciate the beauty of his powerful body. “I come from inventive stock.” She looked at a particular part of his powerful body. “Will it always explode if I touch it?”
“Only if I’m a fool, and try to use God’s gift for base ends.” He took her hand and brought it to his new erection. “I long for your touch, Claire.”
She stroked him, fascinated by every flicker of expression on his face.
He covered her hand. “Let me show you how to make fire.”
“I think I know.” She escaped and slid down in the bed. “I want to practice fire-eating instead.”
Bright sunlight didn’t really incline them to leave their bed, exhausted as they were from little sleep and much exercise. Still, as they lay there, idly, lovingly playing with one another’s bodies, they mentioned the vague possibility of rising to face the world. And also, a bit more urgently, the thought of eating at some point in the future.
