He groaned low in his chest. It was a sound of animal lust, aye, but also of adoration and yielding, an erotic sound that drove her to the brink of surrender. She let her head fall back, reveling in the glorious torment, never realizing her fingers, of their own accord, crept forward to tangle in his hair.
Pagan felt as if he swirled in a storm-swollen river, utterly out of control, spinning recklessly away, farther and farther from shore. And yet he was neither capable nor desirous of swimming free.
He’d kissed bosoms before, of women far more buxom than Deirdre. Breasts were one of God’s finest creations—soft and supple and delicious—and he worshipped them as much as any man. But never had that adoration had such an intense and dramatic effect upon him.
A moan was torn from his throat as he suffered an agony of his own making. God, he wanted her. With every fiber of his being. His tongue had never tasted anything so sweet, and he feasted upon her flesh like a starving man set before a king’s table. His body shuddered with barely suppressed lust, and his cock throbbed insistently, demanding he bring it relief.
He’d thought his desire couldn’t possibly increase, that his willpower was strained to the breaking point. But when he felt her hands move up to clasp his head to her bosom, holding him close, welcoming him, longing surged in him like a tide upon that river, hauling him past reason, past care.
God, he wanted her. Nay, needed her.
Damn his promise! Damn his honor! He must claim her. Now!
Deirdre whimpered once in sweet distress. The soft sound, so full of feminine yearning, was assurance that this time she wouldn’t refuse him.
And yet even from the depths of desire, the cursed wench somehow managed to fight her own instincts with a stubbornness that defied nature.
“Nay!” she gasped, the word at obscene odds with her tightening embrace. “Cease!”
Disbelief and dismay and outrage warred within him. Cease? Surely she didn’t mean that. She desired him. He knew she did. How then could she say him nay?
But when her fingers began to tug at his hair, reversing to pull him away, it was clear she intended to frustrate him again. Her breast slipped free of his mouth, leaving his appetite whetted for a feast never to be served.
He staggered back a step, unable to do more than stare at her, his eyes half-lidded, his mouth open, his breath coming in great gulps. She, too, seemed dazed with desire, fumbling to pull her gown up over her shoulder again.
For a long moment, there was no sound in the room but the counterpoint of their haggard breathing.
When she finally spoke, her voice was rough and trembling. “I’ve paid your price. On the morrow then...in the tiltyard...at dawn?”
Pagan slowly closed his jaw until his teeth ground together. How dared Deirdre reduce this moment of shared passion to a mere bargain! Surely she realized it was much more than that. Was the wench heartless? Did ice run in her Norse veins?
Defying the urge to ram his fist through the plaster wall in frustration, he snarled, “Aye.”
She nodded curtly, then turned her back on him, making a show of folding back the coverlet, appearing to dismiss him as easily as a swatted fly.
He simmered with impotent rage, resisting the overwhelming desire to snag her arm, spin her around, and kiss her so fiercely on the mouth that her lips would burn for days. But he’d said it himself. One kiss. No more.
So he wheeled and stormed out into the hall, slamming the new door behind him so hard that he heard weapons from the bedchamber wall crash to the floor.
The first wench he laid eyes on he’d bed, he promised himself as he stomped down the stairs. His loins could only take so much frustration. Bloody hell! It was unhealthy to dam the tide of lust this way.
As he entered the great hall, he glimpsed the serving maid from supper, weaving her way among the other servants who cleared away the trestle tables. She gave him a coy smile. He raised a brow and nodded toward the buttery. Her smile widened.
The buttery would give them privacy enough. In his present state, it would take only a moment or two to alleviate his pain. Across the hall, Deirdre’s father gathered men around him to play his nightly game of dice. Pagan would be discreet, and none would be the wiser.
He watched the wench slip past the buttery screens, waited a moment, then made his way toward the spot where she’d disappeared.
The buttery was dark and cool and smelled of ripe cheese. He would have preferred a more comfortable place for coupling, but his need was imminent.
Her soft giggle led him to the dimmest corner of the cell. He wasted no time, seizing her by the shoulders and placing a rough kiss upon her eager lips. While she wriggled closer, hiking her skirts up, he slipped a finger inside her low neckline, freeing one of her generous breasts. Slanting his mouth across hers, he mashed the soft flesh of her plump bosom in his palm. One more moment, he thought, and he’d get the reward he deserved.
But even as he availed himself of her ripe and willing body, he realized she didn’t send his heart hammering like Deirdre did. She didn’t steal his breath away. No wave of desire swept him along. Her mouth was not nearly as sweet as Deirdre’s. And beside Deirdre’s firm, small, lovely breasts, this maid’s were as spongy as unbaked dough. Even her mews of contentment seemed feigned and shallow in contrast to Deirdre’s ragged gasps.
He tore away from her and felt his cock go limp. “Lucifer’s ballocks,” he muttered.
“What’s wrong?” the maidservant whined.
“Go!” he barked. “Just go!”
Mumbling curses of disappointment and scorn, she scurried off.
When she was gone, he leaned forward against the wall and banged his head on the cold plaster in exasperation. Never had his body connived against him so pitilessly. It was ludicrous. He was like an urchin who’d rather starve than eat anything less than lord’s fare.
On the morrow, he vowed, he’d exhaust Deirdre in the tiltyard, work her till her limbs collapsed from fatigue. Maybe then she’d lack the will to resist him.
“Get up, you lazy wench! ‘Tis past dawn.” Pagan swatted Deirdre on the hindquarters, waking her with a jolt.
Even before her eyes opened, her hand thrust instinctively beneath her pillow for a weapon, coming up empty. “Where’s my dagger?” she mumbled.
He banged open the shutters at the window, letting in the light of the rising sun. “You sleep with a Knight of Cameliard to guard you,” he said, buckling on his sword belt. “You need no dagger.”
She frowned, but was obviously too sleepy to argue. She sat up, her eyes only half-open, her hair an intriguing mess, her shoulders delectably bare. God help him, it was all Pagan could do not to strip out of his armor again and dive back into bed with her. If that coverlet lowered one more inch, he couldn’t be held responsible for his actions.
But he forced his gaze away. He’d had a long night of watching his tempting wife slumber in self-satisfied repose while he lay mere inches away, fitful and frustrated, and he’d come to the conclusion that he only tortured himself with wanting her. It was apparent from her behavior last eve that Deirdre wasn’t likewise tormented. She might experience a measure of feminine longing, she might feel the stirrings of lust, but she still managed to refuse desire with all the resolve of a tonsured monk.
Very well, he decided. If Deirdre wished to deny her womanhood, if she wanted to be treated like a man, if she wanted nothing from him but a political alliance, then, damn the wench, he’d oblige her. He’d ignore his body’s cravings. He’d forget she was his wife. In his eyes, she’d be no different than one of his knights. No matter how difficult that was to imagine.
“I’ll be in the tiltyard,” he said. “Don’t be late. I have a full day.”
Before he even opened the door to leave, Deirdre was out of bed and eagerly diving for her chest of armor. He didn’t dare turn to look. He knew she was gloriously naked. If he looked, he’d never make it to the tiltyard.
He was still finishing his breakfast
of a bannock and ale, idly spinning the quintain with his hand, when Deirdre came hurrying toward the gate. How the wench managed to make chain mail appear feminine, he didn’t know, but she looked as desirable as the goddess Athena, rushing breathlessly toward him.
The morning wore on as they engaged in a battery of military exercises. Pagan believed he’d never worked with a more dedicated soldier or a more voracious student. They sparred together for more than an hour, and he showed her no mercy, training her the same way he trained his squires. He had her lifting buckets of water to increase her arm strength. He showed her how to throw her body into her lunges to achieve more force. And he taught her a few shield defenses she didn’t know.
But he learned from her, too. Deirdre possessed a speed and cunning he’d never seen in a man. She fought with uncanny instinct, and she showed him a couple of innovative tricks she’d perfected for overthrowing much larger opponents.
For a man accustomed to doing but one thing with a woman, Pagan was surprised to find that he rather enjoyed Deirdre’s company.
Eventually a small crowd gathered outside the fence, armored knights waiting to enter the field, watching the curious battle. But even though Deirdre’s arms trembled and her legs kept crumpling beneath her, she refused to quit.
“Come!” she gasped out. “Have at me. Again.”
He grinned and shook his head. The warrior wench was more focused than a priest in a room full of harlots. He doubted she’d even noticed they’d drawn an audience. “Once more, but this will be the last match.”
From beyond her shoulder, Pagan glimpsed the men of Rivenloch, Deirdre’s men, observing the fight with keen interest. For courtesy’s sake, he wouldn’t shame the lass by defeating her before her men. And yet he dared not be seen to fall beneath her blade himself, lest the men lose faith in him. Somehow he had to keep everyone’s honor intact.
With a sly smile, he removed his helm, tossed it aside. Naturally, out of propriety, she did the same. His pulse quickened as he beheld her face, aglow with sweat and rosy-cheeked, her lips parted with deep-drawn breath, her belabored expression so reminiscent of desire. It was impossible to imagine, looking upon her now, that she was anything but pure woman.
Steeling his resolve, he saluted and squared off against her.
They fought back and forth a long while, and Pagan was careful not to take the advantage. He knew Deirdre would eventually resort to one of her tricks. Even when he knew it was coming, he couldn’t avoid falling prey to the wily foot she slipped behind his heel. He tripped and fell with a thud onto his back. Beyond the fence, he could hear the mixed responses of the men, the cheers of Rivenloch, the disgust of his own knights. He lay there, coughing in the dust, while Deirdre stood above him in triumph.
Then she made the mistake of reaching down to help him up.
With calculated purpose, he seized her wrist and pulled her down on top of him, snagged one hand in her hair and planted a big, wet, indiscreet kiss on her astonished mouth.
Everyone laughed then at the jest.
Pagan would have ended it there, released her and helped her back up to her feet. But after her initial shock, Deirdre, whether inflamed by battle or desire or an attempt to match his effrontery, answered his kiss with a passion as fast and fierce as her fighting. She cocked her head and pressed her parted lips hard against his, seeking with her tongue as if she hungered for whatever he harbored within his mouth.
It was no jest now. His blood, warm from battle, pumped into his loins in a molten rush. The crowded faded from his awareness as pure sensation overtook him.
Deirdre, too, seemed oblivious to the world. Groans born deep within her called to the beast inside him. A drop of her sweat rolled down onto his face as their joined mouths spoke a common language, the language of desire. And that desire, here on the hard ground of the tiltyard, raged with as much violence as their battle.
The loud creak of the tiltyard gate brought Pagan back to his senses. He tore his mouth away from her. For an instant, he thought he glimpsed disappointment in her eyes.
Faith, was it possible? Was she disappointed? Did she truly desire him? Sweet hope filled his heart.
Then she, too, heard the intruders, and gave a soft, startled cry. He released her, and she scrambled up, blushing fiery pink. Before he could whisper farewell, she quickly gathered her wits and her weapons and rushed from the field.
“Good match, sir!” someone called.
“Well met, my lord!” said another.
Pagan bounded to his feet and cast one last longing look toward his departing bride. It wasn’t mere lust he felt as he watched her, he realized. Nay, the feeling went deeper than that. By the Saints, he admired her. Before she was out of hearing, he announced, “If you knights had as much devotion to practice as my wife, no army would dare approach Rivenloch.”
Fortunately she’d disappeared by the time Sir Benedict jested, “If you’d give us a little kiss, my lord, maybe we’d be more agreeable to the long practice hours.”
“Fifty lifts of the buckets, all of you,” Pagan charged.
The men groaned.
“One hundred if you complain.”
CHAPTER 18
Deirdre’s fingers fluttered over her mouth as she hurried toward the keep. Her lips were still wet, still warm. God’s blood! What had happened? One moment she’d been battling Pagan with all the ferocity of a charging boar, and the next, she’d found herself reacting to his kiss with the same fervor.
And now she overheard Pagan praising her to his men. To her consternation, a flush of pleasure rose in her cheeks.
That was absurd! She’d never needed a man to tell her she was a capable warrior. Besides, he was a knave who’d shamelessly tricked her into a kiss, curse his hide, a kiss that lingered pleasurably on her lips.
But she’d realized something, fighting him, that she hadn’t acknowledged in their bedchamber, something she’d wanted to deny the invading Norman, something she could no longer withhold.
She respected Pagan.
As much as he infuriated her with his cocky swaggering and cruel seduction and merciless humiliations, she respected the lout.
He was a man of strength, an incomparable warrior, of course. But he was also a man of honor and fairness. Diplomatic and dedicated. A model of chivalry.
Curiously, she longed to impress him. To have such a man praise her publicly was a heady honor indeed.
To have such a man love her...
Nay! She’d not think of that. It was just a kiss. And one stolen for the amusement of his men. Anyone who would mistake that for affection would be a fool. No matter how it made her head swim and her pulse race. Besides, a man so dedicated to warfare didn’t have time for love. Lust, aye, but not love. It didn’t matter that she’d glimpsed something suspiciously close to fondness in his gaze. Such emotions could be falsified.
It was enough that he afforded her some level of respect. With mutual respect, they might make a good marriage. Still, she considered, there were many men she respected. None had ever made her heart beat so recklessly.
It was a dangerous thing, this...fondness. She’d lost control in the tiltyard, all because of a kiss. If she melted at the mere touch of his lips, how would she steel herself against more intimate contact? She must, of course, fight him at every turn. Though she’d ceded command of the army to Pagan, she hadn’t surrendered control of Rivenloch. Nor would she...ever.
As testament to that promise, Deirdre intended to devote the rest of the day to helping Miriel sort out the affairs of the household. With the addition of so many Normans to Rivenloch, there were still permanent quartering issues to address, provisions yet to purchase, and new servants to direct, in addition to the usual conflicts arising between the castle folk and crofters that needed solving.
But to Deirdre’s exasperation, as she set about making changes and issuing commands, she discovered that Pagan had already sunk his claws deeply into the workings of Rivenloch. When she ordered a pai
r of Scots servants to beat the dust from the tapestries, they told her it had already been done at Pagan's command. When she tried to set three Norman maids to mending surcoats, they complained that Pagan had directed them to launder the linens. The kitchen lads, who she meant to have scour pots, had been sent to the loch to fish. By Pagan.
The man seemed to countermand her every order. He reassigned servants on a whim, moved and removed the furnishings at will, and to her horror, had already torn down the very walls of some of the outbuildings. She thought she’d seen the worst of his interference as she stared at the demolished blacksmith shed, its rotted, splintered timbers lying on the sod like charred bones.
But nothing could prepare her for the spectacle taking place in the courtyard as she rounded the corner of the west tower. A small crowd circled the castle’s whipping post. She frowned. That post was seldom used. At Rivenloch, most disobedience was punished by assigning unpleasant chores to offenders or charging stiff fines of goods or coin. Though the post had served as a site of execution on rare occasions, it was employed primarily now as a cautionary symbol, one a parent might use to threaten a child into compliance.
Peering between the onlookers, Deirdre spied two young lads lashed to the post, face to face. Their shirts hung loose from their hips, baring their pale, scrawny backs, as yet unmarked. But they quivered with fear as a willow switch whipped through the air nearby like a hungry falcon swooping down to feed. Deirdre couldn’t see the boys’ faces, but her heart plummeted as she immediately recognized their flaming red hair.
Lady Danger (The Warrior Maids of Rivenloch, Book 1) Page 17
