Ysenda knew she should be cold. The air was frosty. The clouds were thick. There was a dusting of snow on all the tree branches. But she felt pleasantly cozy, tucked into the knight’s arms, enveloped in his cloak, snug against his firm chest.
She could feel the flush in her cheeks. Whether it was from the Bordeaux or the fact that a handsome man was carrying her across the courtyard, she wasn’t sure.
But when she suddenly succumbed to the irrational desire to steal a kiss, she blamed the wine.
It happened in an instant. In one moment, they were speaking reasonably, discussing the history and resources of the land. In the next, she pulled herself up by the edges of his cloak and pressed her lips to his.
Despite surprising him, he responded with levelheaded calm. Then, as if she’d done nothing untoward, he kissed her back.
After that, Ysenda—knowing full well she had no right to do it, no claim on him whatsoever—took his head between her hands and deepened the kiss.
The liquid warmth of their tangled tongues seemed to melt the icy night. Their fervent breaths mingled, making white mist against the black.
Suddenly, her hands were acting of their own will. Her fingers spanned his wide shoulders. They caressed the cords of his neck. They wove through the thick locks of his hair.
He pulled her closer. The pads of his fingers pressed into her back. His mouth ground against hers, tasting of wine and lust. And she liked the flavor.
“Ah, mon dieu, cherie,” he muttered between kisses.
As they continued feasting on each other, he tilted her body, letting her slip down to stand atop his boots. He took her head tenderly in his hands. He tipped up her chin, brushing his thumbs along the corners of her mouth. Then he drew her lower lip between his own, sucking gently.
Through a haze of desire, she felt his fingers drift down her throat and across her bosom. While he clasped the back of her head in one hand, the other strayed along the neck of her gown. When he delved beneath the linen, she was too delirious with desire to refuse him. And when his hand closed over her bare breast, she sucked in an awe-filled breath at the divine sensation.
She should have pushed him away. She should have clouted him. If she’d been in control of her senses, she would have shoved him into a snow bank to cool his loins.
But she wasn’t.
All she could do was float on a heavenly vessel of lust, neither knowing nor caring where she was bound.
“Ah, mon amour,” he murmured against her mouth. “Let’s go inside.”
She nodded. Anything that whisked her away from this mad and perilous place would be a wise choice. Once they were inside, surely reason would prevail.
He gave her breast one last fond caress. Then he picked her up and carried her swiftly toward the keep.
Luckily, she could blame her ruddy lips and cheeks on the cold weather, though no one paid the couple much heed as they came in. Everyone was too busy passing around the Bordeaux.
Ysenda’s breast still tingled where Noёl had touched her. But her gown was safely in place. She’d checked it three times to be sure.
Sir Noёl excused himself for a moment to confer with her father. The laird pointed up the stairs toward Cathalin’s room, and Noёl nodded.
Ysenda swallowed hard. This was not going to be easy.
Her brother glowered at her, as if he could read her mind.
She glowered back.
He shook his head.
She stuck out her tongue.
Unfortunately, Noёl turned at that moment and caught her in the childish gesture. She quickly withdrew her tongue, but not before his face split into a grin.
She’d hoped their escape to the bedchamber would go unnoticed. But it was not to be. Four Frenchmen gathered round with great pomp to carry Noёl on their shoulders. And before she could protest, two more had hoisted her up. With the clan cheering in noisy celebration, the couple were carried up the stairs and deposited before Cathalin’s chamber.
Noёl opened the door. Ysenda, unwilling to risk further humiliation, hurried in. She counted herself lucky his men didn’t push their way past her to make themselves welcome in the bedchamber. Noёl waved goodnight to the celebrants and secured the door.
The room was dim. While she stood beside the door, he hung up his cloak and crossed to the hearth, using the poker on the wall to jab the banked coals to life. Then he added a few chunks of peat to keep the fire going.
It had been a while since Ysenda had been in this chamber. Living in her cottage, she’d forgotten how luxurious the castle was. The carved wood bed was fitted with a thick pallet of feathers and draped in a deep blue brocade canopy. A heavy chest containing Cathalin’s gowns crouched at its foot. A large wooden trestle table stood against one wall. Its top was littered with vials and jars of the oils, powders, and potions Cathalin used to maintain her beauty.
The window was shuttered at the moment. But she knew it afforded a magnificent view of the distant brae and the forest where the old Viking well stood, because once, this chamber had belonged to Ysenda as well.
While she was lost in her thoughts, Noёl came up behind her. When his hands settled lightly on her shoulders, she jumped.
He chuckled. “I didn’t mean to frighten ye, lass.”
“I’m not frightened,” she scoffed. It wasn’t quite the truth. But showing fear was never wise. At least that was what her warrior mother had taught her.
He slid the edges of his thumbs along the tops of her shoulders. “I’m beginnin’ to suspect ye’re not frightened of anythin’.”
He was wrong about that. At the moment, she was a bit frightened of herself.
“Ye made me a promise,” she breathlessly reminded him. “I’m trustin’ ye to be a man o’ your word.”
“I’m a de Ware,” he said, as if that should explain everything.
Then he turned her in his arms to face him, holding her in his indigo gaze. “But ye know ye can only bend a man so far. I’m your husband now. On the morrow, I won’t take nae for an answer.”
She nodded. His demands were perfectly reasonable. But by morn, everything would be sorted out. And tomorrow night, in this very chamber, he would claim his husbandly rights…with her sister.
The idea turned her stomach.
Her eyes lowered to his mouth. She couldn’t abide the thought of Cathalin kissing Noёl. Her brat of a sister didn’t deserve to wrap her arms around his neck, to taste his sweet lips.
While she continued to stare, his mouth curved up in a slow, sly smile. “Go on then.”
“What?”
“Kiss me.”
“What?”
“I can see ye want to.”
Flustered, she gave her head a wee shake.
“Go on,” he urged, crossing his arms over his chest. “I won’t even kiss ye back.”
Kissing him again would be a mistake. She knew that. Yet she lowered her gaze to his mouth, considering the idea.
“Come on, lass. I can’t wait forever,” he teased.
On the other hand, this might be the last kiss she ever got…at least until she married whatever coarse and smelly sheepherder her father lined up for her.
It was that depressing thought that convinced her to take the chance while she had it.
“I suppose I can give ye one kiss goodnight,” she decided.
“O’ course.”
“But only one.”
His eyes twinkled with laughter. “Whate’er ye can spare.”
Resting her hands on his crossed forearms, she rose onto her toes. She lifted her chin and closed her eyes. He lowered his head to meet her halfway. When she felt his faint breath upon her face, she moved toward him until their lips touched.
If this was to be her last kiss, she wanted to remember it. So she focused on the supple warmth of his lips and the coarse brush of stubble on his chin. She inhaled his masculine fragrance—all leather and iron and spice. Daring to let her tongue venture out, she savored the tempting taste of his
mouth. She sighed against him with bittersweet longing.
And then he began to respond.
His mouth moved over hers, gently at first, and then with more urgency, as if he sought to drink the last bit of her before she was gone.
She too was filled with a strange desperation—a craving for more of him, for all of him. A soft moan of longing built in her throat. Frustration creased her brow.
His arms came unfolded. He pulled her into his embrace.
It was utterly thrilling.
It was also dangerous.
“Ye’re…kissin’ me…back,” she cautioned between kisses.
“Am I?”
“Aye.”
“Should I stop?”
She paused. “Nae.”
Chapter 4
Scarcely realizing what she did, Ysenda began gliding her hands beneath his surcoat. His collar bone was hard and smooth under her fingers. His pulse beat forcefully at his throat. The muscles of his chest flexed beneath her touch. She slid her palms outward. The garment loosened, slipping from his massive shoulders.
Encouraged by her boldness, he rewarded her in kind. He tugged the neckline of her gown lower and lower until it perched precariously on the tips of her breasts.
When their tongues began to entwine, she lost all hope of propriety and control. An erotic vibration began in her ears, blocking out the voice of reason. She pulled at his clothing, eager for his flesh.
He growled inside her mouth like a hungry, wild beast. And she let him feed upon her. She leaned against him, yearning to be closer. At last he pushed her sleeves down, baring her breasts so he could press his warm skin to hers.
It was heaven—this feeling—and she never wanted it to end. Where their naked flesh made contact, it seemed to melt together. Their tongues mated, creating the most intoxicating ambrosia.
She let her hands roam over him with abandon. They swept across his sleek muscles and delved into his lush hair. She tried to memorize every inch of him with her fingertips.
It wasn’t enough. She wanted more.
Breaking away from his mouth, she left a trail of kisses…from the corner of his lip…along his jaw…down the side of his neck where his pulse pounded.
He groaned and then sucked a hard breath between his teeth. He drew her closer, until she could feel the rigid length beneath his tabard.
She should have been appalled. Such a blatant display was improper, crude, disgusting. Yet disgust wasn’t at all what she felt as he pressed against her.
Instead, a heady thrill coursed through her, as if the Bordeaux filled her veins, warming her blood and making her drunk.
She’d done that. She’d made him harden like that.
But wrapped up in her exhilarating triumph was also her surrender. Her bones were melting. Her heart was softening. Her resolve was weakening.
She didn’t mean to retreat toward the bed. Somehow it just happened. Suddenly the back of her knees made contact with the wooden frame.
Noёl, in his eagerness, continued to advance, covering her face with kisses, not realizing she had nowhere to go.
They toppled together onto the feather pallet.
In the small sliver of her mind that wasn’t drunk on wine and desire, Ysenda knew she should resist him.
But a bigger part of her mind knew there was no hope of return. They’d leaped into the raging sea and were being carried away. And every sense she possessed told her to seize the moment.
So she did.
When he was a lad, one of Noёl’s brothers had tricked him into sitting astride an unbroken horse. The steed had bolted off across the countryside, taking him on a wild ride. And all he could do was hang on for his life.
Which was how he felt now.
He’d resigned himself to spending a tame and quiet evening with his new bride, convincing her with reasonable examples that he’d make a decent husband.
But when she began kissing him, his good intentions went right out of his head.
It wasn’t as if he’d never been kissed. He was a de Ware, for heaven’s sake. But he’d never been kissed with such passion, such enthusiasm, such genuine enjoyment.
It was his clumsiness that made them fall onto the bed. And once he was horizontal, it was hard to resist doing what came naturally any time he was horizontal with a woman in a bed.
Still, he tried to resist her.
But when the lovely lass began putting her hands on him—clutching at his tabard, tearing at his surcoat—she was difficult to ignore. When she rained feverish kisses all over his face, he was compelled to answer them. And when she rolled him onto his back, all his self-control vanished.
Afraid of the marriage bed?
Hardly.
His new bride was clearly no trembling novice. He wondered what game she played, trying to make him believe she was.
Perhaps she feared he wouldn’t wed her if he found out she wasn’t a virgin.
She needn’t have worried on that account. Noёl had always preferred voracity to virtue.
He chuckled low in his throat as she moved her hungry mouth along his collar bone. Now that he knew the truth, he couldn’t help teasing her a bit.
“I thought ye said just one kiss.”
“Did I?” she said breathlessly.
He grinned. No longer concerned about keeping a rein on his lust, he tangled his hands in her glorious hair and opened her mouth with his. He let his tongue dance on her lips, then plunge within, relishing her wine-sweet flavor.
It had been months since he’d lain with a lover. Once he’d learned of his betrothal to Cathalin, he’d sworn off coupling with other women.
But he was paying for his abstinence now. He was as hard as stone. Indeed, he felt as if he might explode at any moment.
Which would be a mistake. Nothing would disappoint a bride more than discovering her new husband spilled his seed quicker than a twelve-year-old lad.
So taking a sobering breath, he rolled her over, sitting back on his knees to straddle her so he could have more control. He slipped his hands beneath the neckline of her gown and slid it down past her shoulders, leaving kisses along the way. Then he pulled her garments lower, to her waist, trapping her arms beside her.
“Ye’re so beautiful,” he murmured. “They said ye were the bonniest lass in all Scotland. They were right.”
She gasped as he slowly ran the pads of his thumbs down her soft breasts until they rested above her taut nipples.
Noёl smiled as she arched up to force his touch, brushing the peaks of her breasts against his thumbs. Then he lowered his head to replace his thumb with his tongue, flicking lightly at each nipple before drawing the lovely nubbin into his mouth.
She groaned and clenched her fists.
Desire surged between his legs. But he had to temper his lust, at least until hers matched his.
He glided his hands slowly up her silken legs, raising her skirts. She lifted her head and jerked her arms as if she might try to stop him. But her hands were caught in her sleeves. And judging by the smoldering gray smoke of her gaze, he could see she didn’t truly want him to cease.
Sure enough, when his fingers crested the tops of her knees and continued upward, she dropped her head back onto the pallet with a sigh of rapture.
When he reached the crease of her thighs, he pushed back her gathered skirts. There he stole a glimpse of heaven. Dark, curling hair made a small, perfect triangle against her fair skin. His loins ached with longing as he perused her lovely body.
Swallowing back his ravenous desire, he gently urged her legs apart. Slipping his fingers into her nest of curls, he opened her as tenderly as a flower.
Ysenda sucked a sharp breath between her teeth. Why was she letting him do this to her? She didn’t know. But she couldn’t form the words to stop him. Nor did she want to.
She wanted this.
Nae, she didn’t want it. She needed it.
Yet it wasn’t hers to have. He didn’t belong to her.
St
ill, she wanted him so badly.
And when she felt his mouth upon her…down there…all rational thought abandoned her. Stricken by erotic lightning, she could form no words. His lips caressed her with delicious intimacy, flooding her with heat. His tongue bathed her with care, making her gasp in blissful wonder.
She squeezed her eyes closed, too ashamed of her own pleasure and weakness to face him. But her shame came with a curious joy. A powerful force began to build within her. Her veins filled with brilliant fire. Her blood surged with glorious energy. Her flesh warmed and swelled and longed.
Just when she thought she would burst with craving, the world seemed to stop for a timeless instant. Then, with a silent scream, she lost control.
She was rocked by waves of ecstasy as the most divine sensation encompassed her. It seemed she sailed along on a deep ocean of pleasure.
But it lasted for only a moment.
And then he plunged into her.
She cried out, feeling the sudden searing heat of his trespass like a knife.
Noёl bit out a curse and froze. What the devil?
He’d been so sure his new bride was not a virgin.
Ah, god, he’d made a terrible mistake. An unforgivable one.
“Oh non, non,” he lamented. “I’m so sorry, cherie.”
Her knuckles were white. Her eyes were tightly shut. And her lips were compressed into a tense line.
He ached with remorse. He’d give anything to undo what he’d done.
But he couldn’t.
All he could do was to withdraw and leave her alone, as he should have done all along…as he’d promised her he would.
Yet if he withdrew, it would only make things more difficult. The next time, she would be even more reluctant, and with good cause.
That was no way to start a marriage.
Nae, if he wanted to repair the damage he’d done, he had to help her through the pain and bring her back to pleasure. So he remained within her.
“I’ll make it better,” he promised, smoothing the hair back from her troubled brow. “I didn’t mean to hurt ye, lass. Truly I didn’t.”
He tugged her sleeves off, freeing her arms. Her hands relaxed. But she still wouldn’t look at him. And it broke his heart. He had to fan the flames of her desire quickly before his own subsided.
The Handfasting Page 4
