Arucard (Brethren Origins Book 1)

by Barbara Devlin

  “Now what should we do,” Isolde inquired.

  “Mayhap we could indulge in our usual fare.” Just as he turned on his side, she faced him, and her ill-situated knee almost ended the evening on a sour note. He jumped and groaned, as he shielded his most male member. “Careful, my lady.”

  “Sorry, my lord.” She reached for him, just as he drew her near, and her forehead collided with his chin. “Ouch.”

  “No apologies necessary, as I am but a sad sack of ignorance.” Given the information Pellier had imparted, and Arucard had committed to memory, he mulled the most reliable path to his goal. “Perchance, we should kiss.”

  “All right.” To his unutterable astonishment, she charged as if running the gauntlet and bit his lip in the process. Wild and wanton, she yanked his hair and darted her tongue at his, as she pressed her pelvis to his.

  It occurred to him that he was supposed to direct their movements, and in that he had failed. Recalling Pellier’s sage counsel, Arucard nudged her legs apart and settled his palm to her thatch of sweet curls, as he always gave her the opportunity to adjust to his caress. Isolde shuddered and moaned, and he well nigh lost himself in the moment.

  Slow and steady, he slipped a finger into her moist and tight sheath, and she bucked as an unbroken horse. He had touched her thus on previous occasions, but each contact had been brief, as he had spilled his seed and brought their nightly forays to an abrupt end. In a scarce second, he promised himself to persist in his goal.

  To advance his cause, he rolled his wife onto her back, and she gasped as he loomed above her. With his mental notes ordered, he lowered his hips to hers and gently spread her thighs to accommodate him. Propped on his elbows, he framed her face. “Art thou comfortable?”

  “Is that of great importance?” Her expression did not inspire confidence.

  “It is to me.” Shifting, he brought his man’s yard to her slick passage. “Art thou ready?”

  “Aye.” She nodded and clutched his shoulders. “What should I do?”

  “Lift thy ankles.” As she abided his request, he flexed his spine and inched the tip of his arousal inside her. Everything Pellier recommended flooded Arucard’s consciousness, and he pressed forward. As she took him into her body, bathing him in succulent heat, he clenched his jaw and gritted his teeth. Resistance halted his path, and he paused. “Kiss me, Isolde.” When she set her mouth to his, he proceeded until he had fully seated himself deep within her pliant flesh, and she tensed beneath him. Against his better judgment and Pellier’s warning, Arucard retreated and then repeated the sumptuous attack—and he fired his seed in a vicious volley that left him huffing and wheezing for breath. “Oh, holy mother.”

  As the world spun beyond his control, a powerful euphoria simmered in his veins, and bursts of light flashed before his eyes, he relished each successive spasm of pure, unadulterated pleasure, such as he had never known possible. Tremor after spectacular tremor rocked his frame until he was spent, and then he collapsed. For a long while, he simply languished and savored the intimate bond with his bride.

  “My lord, is it done?” she asked in a whisper. “Art thou all right?”

  “Aye.” With insufficient energy to lift his head, he merely sagged atop her and grunted. “I have claimed thy maidenhead.”

  “So I am, at last, thine.” Then she wept and curled about him. “And our marriage is irreproachable.”

  “Wherefore dost thou cry?” Summoning the strength to shift and gain a view of her much-cherished visage, he frowned. “Have I hurt thee?”

  “Nay.” Favoring him with her shy smile, she brushed aside a lock of hair. “I am happy, my lord. In fact, I have never been so happy. And should my father attempt to take me from thee, I would fight to my death to stop him.”

  “That will never happen, Isolde.” When she hugged him tight with her arms and legs, a primitive hunger, raw and insatiable, flourished in the pit of his belly, and he struggled with a potent possessiveness he could neither understand nor contain. “Never will I surrender thee, as thou art mine per the sacrament and His Majesty. And I would slay an army to defend thee.”

  “Thou art my champion.” As she bestowed upon him another oh-so-tempting kiss, which stirred the dragon, she wiggled her hips, and that was all Arucard needed to resume the exquisite dance. When she closed her eyes and compressed her lips, he thrust. “Oh, my lord.”

  “Ah, thou dost entice me, beauteous Isolde.” Now he comprehended Pellier’s fascination with the female sex, as Isolde posited an allure he could not and would not resist. In silence, he swore an oath to sustain their conjugal activities beyond the meager two thrusts that marked their first coupling and injured his pride, and somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he vaguely recalled a recommendation to abstain from further enterprises in deference to his wife’s delicacy. As she voiced no complaints, he saw no reason to deny them the rapturous diversion he found so enthralling.

  But enchanting completion beckoned with the third drive of his hips, and he counted that a small yet significant improvement.

  Now he comprehended His Majesty’s caution, as Arucard would be content to spend the remains of his days between his bride’s supple thighs, and he counted himself a most fortunate husband—until Isolde tapped his shoulder and inquired, “So, is that all thither is to it?”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The sun cast its brilliant rays through the glazed windows, as Isolde stirred. At her side, Arucard slept, and she smiled as she revisited memories of the previous night. After the initial much prayed for consummation of their vows, her husband had taken her three more times in the wee hours, once following the tender relaxation wherein he fed her the gyngerbrede she loved, and she would treasure the memory until her death. And yet she remained oddly discomfited.

  While he declared his satisfaction in startling grunts and groans, she had been left oddly cold and empty by the experience, which she had not anticipated. The gentle caresses and long, intimate kisses, coupled with the joining of their bodies, had awakened something within her that she tried but failed to identify; yet she could not escape the pervasive intuition that something was missing.

  For a barely ex-virgin, the connubial games proved a mystery, as a foreign tension twisted her insides, pressure built in the now sensitive flesh between her thighs, and then—naught. As he found his prize, she ached for what she knew not. In short, she lacked.

  “Art thou awake?” With a chuckle, he poked her with a telltale aspect of his anatomy, and she giggled.

  “Aye, and it appears thou art aroused again.” Without prompting, she rolled onto her back and spread her legs in welcome, as she knew what he wanted. “So take thy ease, my lord. As I am thy most willing servant.”

  “Isolde, thou art irresistible when thou art so accommodating.” In mere seconds, Arucard lowered himself atop her and situated his sword, and she lifted her ankles and hugged him with her limbs. In a single fluid flex of his spine, he entered her, and she winced. Pausing, he kissed her forehead. “Did I hurt thee?”

  “Nay, my lord.” Despite her faults, and of that thither were many, he desired her, and that was all that mattered, so never would she refuse him. “Given thy appetite, which seems endless, I am a tad sore, but if thou would but move, I will adjust to thy gratifying invasion.”

  “Sweet Isolde, thy body intones a bewitching siren song to which I am incapable of contravening.” As he rose on his arms and towered above her, Arucard closed his eyes, grimaced, and pumped in a now familiar rhythm. When she splayed her fingers across his beauteous chest, he groaned. “Yea, I crave thy touch.”

  For some strange reason, she suspected he counted his drives, which struck her as absurd, so she dismissed the thought. But then the oh-so-tempting heat swirled and soared within her, providing fortuitous distraction, and she yielded to the sensations he incited, as he set his lips to hers. And just as she gained momentum, and her muscles tensed, Arucard threw back his head, contorted his face, and emitted another drama
tic roar, which well nigh terrified her. Then, huffing and puffing in time with tempered thrusts, his pleasure evident, he draped atop her.

  Thirsting for something as yet unknown to her, she remained strangely unfulfilled by their coupling. But she would not apprise him of that fact, as she feared the fault rested with her.

  “I am late for weapons practice.” He trailed his tongue along the curve of her neck. “But thou art a sorceress, and thou hast cast a spell over me, so I am thy most obliging prisoner.” As he shifted and withdrew, she vented a plaintive cry. “And I have used thee without compunction, when I should have moderated our first union. Forgive me, Isolde.”

  “Thither is naught to forgive, as I am thy wife, and it is my duty to please thee.” He could not possibly know what his declaration meant to her, as no one ever cared whether or not she was injured, much less expressed remorse for her pain. As she slipped from their bed, she took a single step, flinched, and toppled to the mattress. “Oh. I ache in places I did not know I could ache.”

  “God’s blood.” In seconds, her husband came to her aid. He flung back the covers and halted, as his gaze lit upon the small but distinct crimson stain that sealed their bond for all eternity. When he stared at her and brushed his knuckles to her cheek, she spied regret in his countenance. “I should be horsewhipped for abusing thee on our special occasion.”

  “Nay, my champion.” As he tucked her in with care, he kissed her forehead, and the customary yearning blossomed anew, in spite of her discomfort, which rendered her confused. “If thou would send for Margery, I will soak in a soothing bath and regain my strength for my lord’s taking, this eventide, as I would not disappoint thee.”

  “Thou dost employ my pet name, which I have yet to compose for thee, as it must be perfect, just like thee. And given our consummation, thou dost know that is not possible.” How she adored his blush and boyish grin. “But I would grant another deferment until thou hast recovered, before I take thee again, if thou art amenable.”

  “Nay, I do not accept, as I am not amenable to any further deferment.” To her relief, his man’s yard grew hard, offering irrefutable proof of his passion, and she worked his length, as she yearned to discover what she had yet to experience. “And thy body agrees with me.”

  He studied the ceiling. “Isolde, I must partake of weapons practice.”

  “Indeed, I concur.” A drop of moisture seeped from the tip. “As thy primary weapon beckons.”

  “Thou dost know what I mean.” He closed his eyes.

  “As doth thee.” She yelped when he jumped her.

  And so they ended up right whither they started—back in bed.

  The next thing Isolde knew, she woke just as Arucard bent and kissed her.

  “I have sent for Margery, and I have given orders that thou art to remain in our chambers and rest.” Again he claimed her mouth in a lengthy and thorough affirmation of his regard, and Isolde wrapped her arms about his neck and held him close. “Thou dost make it difficult to leave thee, but I shall return in time to sup with thee.”

  “But thou wilt not stay away too long.” As he made to withdraw, she tightened her grip. “Promise.”

  With nary a word, he seized her lips in a searing demonstration of his ardor, which left her breathless and in no doubt of his affection. Then he marched into the solar, closed the doors behind him, and she sighed and stretched. Almost immediately, visions of a heretofore-impossible future sprang to life, and she clutched the sheet to her chest, but a knock intruded on her fanciful thoughts.

  “Come.” She burrowed into the pillow and laughed.

  “My lady, how art thou this fine morrow?” Carrying her usual bag of potions, Margery perched on the edge of the mattress. “Thy bath is ready, and I had cook prepare a light meal.”

  “Trust me, after last night, I could eat a heavy meal.” Scooting to the side of the bed, Isolde accepted Margery’s proffered hand and stood. “Oh, dear friend, I am not certain I can make it to the ancere.”

  “I would have had it placed in thy inner chamber, but I did not wish to disturb thee, given Sir Arucard had not yet appeared in the courtyard.” The steward wrapped an arm about Isolde’s waist for support. “Take it slow, my lady. Thither is no rush.”

  “Tell me the truth, is this normal?” At the tub, Isolde moaned as she lifted one foot and then the other and sank into the unusually hot water. “I can hardly walk, and I feel as though I have been run over by Arucard’s destrier.”

  “I know not if I can describe it as normal.” Situated at the rear, Margery chuckled and used a basin to wash Isolde’s hair. “But it is a very good sign. And thy husband’s commands show concern for thee, which is God’s work, as thou art finally safe from thy father’s schemes.”

  “That reminds me, I have yet to read his latest letter.” Isolde peered over her shoulder. “It rests on Arucard’s bedside table. Wilt thou fetch it for me?”

  “Of course.” Margery dried her hands and returned seconds later with the correspondence. “How I wish he would leave thee alone.”

  Sitting upright, Isolde scanned the contents.

  Isolde,

  Wherefore hast thou not written in accordance with my commands? Dost thou willfully disobey me? Must I remind thee of thy obligations? As thy father, thou dost owe me thy allegiance. I must know the origin and location of Sir Arucard’s fortune, and how is he connected to His Majesty? I expect a response from thee, posthaste. If thou dost continue to disobey me, thou wilt live to regret it.

  Thy father, Lord Rochester

  “What does it say?” Margery massaged Isolde’s scalp. “If I may inquire.”

  “Arucard was correct.” Isolde dropped the parchment to the floor, reclined, and resumed her soak. “Father repeats his demands, though he hath abandoned the false endearments that never fooled me.”

  “Dost thou intend to respond?” With a towel, Margery dried Isolde’s hair. “Hath Sir Arucard instructed thee on a proper reply?”

  “Nay.” Savoring the bath, Isolde closed her eyes, revisited the glorious morrow, and savored the memory of her knight’s ardent attention. “My husband will deal with it, so what have I to fear?”

  #

  It was well past noon when Arucard, garbed in his mail coif and hauberk, and sword secured in his grasp, sauntered into the courtyard. Three days after the memorable consummation of his vows, wherein he surrendered his virginity in the very same moment he claimed Isolde’s innocence, and he had yet to report for weapons practice on time. As his marshalsea had correctly predicted, Arucard could not keep his hands off his wife.

  The hour mattered not, as he sought her company and took her without compunction. That should have satisfied him, yet he craved her body the instant they parted, which always drove him back to her arms. And while she never turned him away, he could not elude the unsettling suspicion that Isolde did not derive as much pleasure from their interludes as did he. It was a disconcerting deficiency he intended to amend, without delay.

  “Someone is distracted.” Waggling his brows, Morgan assumed a provoking stance. “Mayhap I can help thee focus.”

  “And it appears that very same someone hath trouble abandoning his bed.” To Morgan’s left, Demetrius brandished his sword and adopted a goading pose. “Perchance a sound defeat will improve thy commitment to duty.”

  “Thou dost challenge my dedication and abilities?” It was to their misfortune that Arucard was in no mood to play—unless his partner was his delectable bride. So the sooner he dispatched his antagonists, the sooner he could broach the topic foremost on his mind with his chief advisor in matters of the flesh. Planting his feet wide, he bent his knees, squared his shoulders, and lowered his chin. “Gird thy defenses, brothers.”

  Metal clashed with metal, as Arucard engaged his fellow Nautionnier knights in spirited combat neither facetious nor serious. When Demetrius charged, Morgan attempted a flanking maneuver, but Arucard deflected the gadling with a wide swing and then followed with a vicious mol
inetto, which caught Demetrius by surprise.

  As Arucard was briefly distracted, Morgan moved in with a wicked riverso, but Arucard spied the oncoming assault from the corner of his eye and turned aside the attack with a brutal taglio, which wrenched the weapon from the youngest brother’s grasp, and he splayed his palms in submission. “I yield.”

  In a flash, Arucard whirled about and discovered Demetrius with his sword leveled in preparation to strike, but just as he initiated his advance, his fingers tensed, which signaled Arucard. Lightning quick Arucard shifted to the right, inverted his sword, stomped his brother’s foot, and clipped his chin with the hilt. Demetrius dropped to the ground, and Arucard rested the pointed end of his blade to his friend’s throat.

  “Capitulate.” Arucard bared his teeth. “Now.”

  With a mighty scowl, Demetrius nodded once. “I concede.”

  “That did not take long.” With fists on hips, Geoffrey frowned. “Mayhap thou should concentrate thy efforts on thy own skills, and allow our fearless leader to tend his affairs.”

  “Indeed.” The voice of reason, Aristide rolled his eyes and clucked his tongue. “Demetrius, see to thy injury, and be grateful Arucard only toyed with thee, as the last time someone challenged his prowess on the field of honor, the ignorant soul lost his head.”

  “I thought we were merely exercising.” As he stood, Demetrius dusted off himself and then rubbed his jaw. “And we meant no offense.”

  “Perchance the Lady Isolde keeps thee busy in thy bed.” With an exaggerated strut, Morgan thrust his hips. “And Arucard doth not sleep much, which hath fouled his mood.”

  “Do not gainsay what thou hast not tried.” And that otherwise unremarkable comment brought Arucard full circle, as the pithy battle heated his blood, which pooled in a particular part of his anatomy, and he pondered a swift return to his chambers and his wife. Just then Pellier appeared in the courtyard. “Marshalsea, I require thy services, as Demetrius and Morgan have surrendered the fight.”