Or would he?
Cate had been amazingly responsive when she came to him in his chamber. Who would have guessed it when she appeared so cool on the surface, as if little affected by common passion?
Some men preferred their wives to be submissive and unmoved in the marriage bed, as if that lack of desire guaranteed purity and fidelity. He’d overheard a man marveling at his luck because his bride prayed all the while he enjoyed himself between her legs. Ross thought the idiot must have married either a poor, affrighted female or else a clever lady who intended to rule the braggart with her more tender parts.
Cate was not like that. Never had he been so beguiled by a woman’s kisses, her touch, the generous way she opened herself to him. It was almost worth the risk of death to have known it. Yet would it ever be that way again? Could it be, when a question of attempted murder lay between them?
He didn’t care if she did try to kill him in his sleep. He wanted her, had dreamed of little else while sleeping rough among men who smelled as rank as the stags they hunted. Nothing under God’s heaven would prevent him from having her this night.
Cracked nuts and pears stewed in wine and spices were still on the trestles when Henry finally rose and gave his hand to his queen. The two of them made their good-nights, and then turned away toward the solar that opened from the dais. The company saw them out. They then remained on their feet as Ross immediately took Lady Catherine’s hand and led her from the hall. Laughter, ribald suggestions and shouted encouragement followed after them.
“What are you doing?” Cate demanded in a whisper. “I should have been taken away and prepared for bed, then left to wait for you.”
He gave her a dry look. “And who was to prepare you?”
“Marguerite, of course, as she is my only family present, though naturally Gwynne will be waiting to serve me.”
“Your sister seemed little inclined. All she has done these hours past is scowl at me while chewing on her veil, as if she expected me to keel over in front of her.”
“I’m sure you’re wrong.”
“And I’m convinced she thought all along her services would be unnecessary. As, in all truth, they are,” Ross said, leaning close, inhaling his lady wife’s intoxicating scent—of roses and warm female—as he spoke against her ear. “If you are to be placed naked in my bed, I prefer to attend to it myself.”
She gave him a glance of dawning comprehension. “You have no friends or family to escort you to the chamber when the time comes.”
“A number of men offered. I discouraged it.”
“You did?”
“It was unnecessary. Also unwanted.”
Her lashes swept down to conceal her expression. “You would have no public disrobing, no one to see us closed inside the bed curtains.”
“No.”
Her chest lifted in a deep breath that she released in the softest of sighs. “I’m glad. It’s heaven’s sweet mercy, for which I must say a prayer of thankfulness.”
Ross rather thought she should thank him, as he had seen to it. Though he’d assumed she would prefer to avoid the ordeal, the arrangement had been made for his own satisfaction. Common though it might be to have a dozen witnesses trooping along with him to his marriage chamber, seeing to it he and his bride were left together in the same state as Adam and Eve, he had no wish to share the sight of Cate’s tender white body with his hunting companions. Nakedness was no particular mystery, but he preferred to reserve her sweet secrets for his eyes alone.
And if she drew her knife against him, he wanted no witnesses who might drag her away for summary justice. That, too, was something he meant to keep for himself.
Gwynne waited in the chamber they were to share, just as Cate had said. It was a fair-size room that had been extended to him on his return from the hunt. He’d had scant opportunity to make use of its fireplace and glazed window, the large carved bed and heavy chest that sat at its foot, the carpet in Turkey red and the table with matching benches. It appeared he would have even less now, if they were to leave with the dawn. As there was little time to waste, Ross merely stood at the door, holding it while Cate walked into the chamber. He gave the serving woman a straight glance and tilted his head toward the hall outside.
Gwynne curtsied with bowed head, though she darted a look to her mistress. Cate nodded in dismissal. The woman did not tarry, but went quickly from the room. Ross closed the door behind her, then turned to face his wife.
He might have been somewhat hasty, he thought, as he ran his gaze down her comely shape, noting the intricate fastening of the golden girdle that draped her hips. It looked to be fiendishly complicated to remove. No matter. He would manage.
Deliberately, he secured the latch and then leaned against the door. He crossed his arms over his chest and waited.
Cate swallowed, a swift movement in the smooth line of her throat, while watching him as a sparrow watches a hawk. Long seconds passed while the fire on the hearth danced, throwing shadows on the walls, and the candle flames trembled on their wicks. Then she placed her own hands to the catch of the girdle and slowly released it. She set it on the table, piling the chains and other accoutrements it carried next to it, including her poniard. She turned to him then with a dazed look on her face and tears rimming her eyelids.
He lowered his arms, took a quick step toward her. “What is it?”
“I can’t…” She stopped with a helpless gesture, unable to speak.
“What?” he asked, in hard certainty that she meant to deny him this night. It seemed, now he thought about it, that something like a bright shimmer of anger lay in her eyes, like fire in water.
She swallowed, tried again. “I can hardly believe we’re here, that you are here.”
“That damnable curse again,” he said, moving to take her shoulders in his hands. “Have I not told you it’s nothing more than superstition?”
“Yes, but so many others died.” She met his gaze a scant second before looking away again. “Are you sure you don’t…don’t care for me, that it hasn’t taken you?”
“Cate.”
“That is known to make it harmless. It would explain why you…why you escaped not only Trilborn’s attack but the dangers of the hunt and an assassin’s skill.”
She had not used the word love, yet it hung there between them. Did he love her? Was it possible?
Suppose he did—and he was by no means sure of it—how could he say so when her bewilderment might be caused by his escape from her scheme to see him dead? By all the saints, he had no wish to believe it. And yet he’d seen her slash the outlaw leader in the forest, had recognized the lethal anger that drove her blade then, the fiery resolve that she could summon at will. She wanted no husband, had thought never to have one. How could he believe she had changed her mind? Was he to be fooled by the age-old female lure, her smile, her taste, her soft yielding to his need?
Ah, yes, his need. He wanted her, and everything else was shadows and darkness. None of it mattered. Another time it might, but not here, not now.
“I escaped because of luck and a cautious nature,” he said with deliberation. “What matters is that I am here, as you pointed out, and so are you. You are my wedded wife and I want you in my bed. Take off your clothes.”
The order snapped her out of her odd bemusement, as it was meant to do. She stiffened in his hold, lifting her head. “Just like that?”
“How else?” he asked, his voice tight in his throat. “Unless you’d like me to do it for you?”
“You will have to,” she said with precision, “as you sent Gwynne away.”
So he had, and a fine arrangement it was, too, now that she was free of her girdle. To strip her naked was his most perfect wish. In fact, he had never wanted anything so desperately in his life.
He loosened his hold, sliding his open hands from her shoulders down to her breasts, which rose and fell with the quickness of her breathing. He skimmed the twin mounds, molding them briefly with his fingers. H
er bodice of embroidered green velvet was laced with silk cord held by gold hooks. He gazed into her wide eyes as he freed each one with precision so the bodice edges spread open, then fell away, along with the overskirt attached to it. Her heavy oversleeves had been sewn to the edges of her gown, but the long stitches gave under his quick tugs. He slid them down her arms and tossed them aside. Quickly then, he unbuttoned the two large rounds of gold that held her skirt, and shoved the heavy folds of velvet down over her hips so they made a puddle around their feet. And there she was in her embroidered shift, slender and pale and vulnerable to his every wish.
He spanned her waist through the fabric, drew her closer and smoothed his palm down her spine and over the swell of her backside. He pressed against her, almost groaning at the feel of her, then nudged her with slow and deliberate movements, watching her face turn rose-red with her recognition of what rubbed against her soft belly. Gathering warm linen in his hands, he drew up her shift in back, higher and higher, until his hands encompassed bare flesh, and he smiled a little, deep inside, at her shivering gasp. Releasing one deliciously full sphere with reluctance, Ross tangled his hand in her hair, drew her head back and took her mouth.
Dear God, but she was sweet and fresh and warm, so warm. Though the corners of her lips trembled, she took him in, twining her tongue with his with such delicate acceptance that he was nearly undone. The need to push her down onto the bed and fill her was so strong it was an agony. So virulent was the impulse that he barely noticed as, one-handed, he jerked her shift up until it was caught under her armpits.
He broke the kiss in order to draw the garment over her head and down her arms. It joined her skirt on the floor as he set his hands on her rib cage, holding her away a few inches while he stared down at the sculpted perfection of gently molded shoulders, high, tip-tilted breasts, not overlarge but beautifully formed and delectably pink at the nipples; also a sweetly curved waist and hips that blended into sculpted thighs and calves to rival those of a marble goddess.
“You are mine,” he said with a growl as he lifted his gaze to her face again. “My wife. Mine.”
“So I vowed before the priest,” she answered, her eyes richly blue and her voice a strained whisper. “But you are also my husband, and mine alone.”
The words were like a brand, and yet he didn’t mind. Nor did he mind when she lifted her hands to his belt and unfastened it and his sporran, so his plaid fell free. More nimble than he by far, she opened the braided edges of his doublet and shoved it from him, slid his shirt up his torso and brushed his arms upward with a quick gesture so she could strip it away.
When he turned back, they were naked together in the firelight, unprotected by the trappings of modesty and pretence. And she looked at him as if she could not quite tear her gaze away, as if she’d never seen the like.
Mayhap she had not. Surely she had not.
It stirred Ross far too much, forced him to movement, so he caught her up in his arms and turned with her to the bed. He laid her upon it and joined her on the mattress. Though goose bumps pebbled her skin, he did not cover her, but lay on his side with his head propped on the heel of his palm as he skimmed his hand over her from knees to her waist to her throat and back down again, sliding over breasts and belly and the silken curls at the meeting of her legs, enjoying the satin smoothness of the skin at the tops of her thighs. Yes, and between them.
While he busied himself below her waist, she put her hand on his chest, trailing her fingertips through the hair that veiled it, touching the flat brown circles of his nipples while watching from under her lashes as they tightened. She brushed her palm over his shoulder, down his biceps and along his elbow. Dropping her hand to his hip bone, she smoothed the backs of her fingers over the flat surface of his abdomen, again and again as if that unremarkable hardness enthralled her. Then slowly, she inched toward the jutting hardness of him until her knuckles grazed his fevered flesh. She uncurled her fingers, fastened them around it.
He covered her small, sweet mound with his hand and pressed a long finger into her folds.
Her fingers flew open and she inhaled sharply, snatching her hand away from its prize. He shook his head, probing deeper. “Take it,” he said, “if you want it.”
She was innocent as yet, but not without imagination. She caught the implication that he had in hand what he most desired. As lightly as a butterfly then, she reached to grasp him, holding carefully as he jerked in that gentle imprisonment.
His vision blurred and his breath whistled in his throat with the sudden need to be clasped tighter, more firmly, with movement. She was learning him, however, tracing strutted veins, thumbing the smooth tip. Mindlessly, he plundered what he held, circled the silken nub at the apex of her soft folds with his thumb until she moaned. He leaned to lick a pink nipple as if tasting a berry, took it between his teeth, suckled in rhythm to her discovery of the gliding motion of skin over skin where she held him.
She was moist and molten hot, and he was blind with the restraint he clamped upon his responses. Until, suddenly, his control was at an end.
Catching her close, he leaned over her and then rolled to his back, pulling her with him so she lay full upon him, stretched out atop his long form. Her legs were spread open and he nestled against her, so close, yet not where he belonged.
“As you will, my lady,” he said against her hair, “when you will.”
She put a hand flat on his chest, raised herself enough to drag her other arm up and brace it upon his shoulder. Her hair twined around her, around them both, like fine gold wires binding them together. She moistened her lips, the look in her eyes intrigued yet determined, poised yet uncertain. “You mean…”
“Exactly,” he answered, pressing a little against her warm and open wetness to make his meaning clearer.
She was still for long seconds, measuring his will, mayhap, for he felt it stretch to its utmost reach. Then, with a hesitant dip of her head, she hitched higher and pressed her lips to his.
It was sweet, that kiss, but so far from what his body clamored for that he nearly devoured her with his mouth. His heart thundered in his chest, so fiercely she must surely feel it. His brain felt on fire, and his lungs strained for air.
She lifted her head, squirming upon him in a way that put a catch in her breath and caused his arms to tighten around her of their own accord. “I’m too heavy,” she said in breathless protest. “Let me off.”
“Nay, never. You’re a mere feather. Only take me inside you, if you have any mercy. Take me inside you now.”
She stilled an instant, and then moved down to allow a bare inch of penetration. “You mean…like this?”
“Exactly, only…” She was killing him. Was it, could it be, deliberate?
“This?” she said, wriggling lower.
“Aye,” he breathed, and would have begged for more, except she shifted to brace her hands upon his shoulders and raise herself, getting her knees under her and adjusting her weight until she sank home, so fully that he shuddered with the piercing gratification of it.
She was vise-tight, but relaxed by slow degrees so he was seated even more deeply inside her. She altered the angle a degree to accommodate him, dragging a hissing breath from her lungs that he echoed in full.
“I’m hurting you,” she insisted, lifting as if she would dismount.
“Nay, don’t move. Don’t stop,” he commanded, catching her hips and holding her in place while he pressed upward.
“Don’t stop what? I’m not doing anything. I don’t know what to do.”
He liked the frustration in her voice. In fact, he adored it. “Do whatever pleases you.”
“This?” she asked, easing forward and then back again.
“Aye, God, aye,” he managed to say.
She took him at his word, clutching his shoulders as she began to ride him. And her efforts set her hair to flailing him like a thousand tiny whips. She flung it behind her shoulders, leaning her head back with her eyes closed.
Her breasts jounced in a most enticing fashion and she panted, her rose-red lips parted.
Ross watched her with fierce wonder and a curious ache in his chest. He aided her with a firm grip, forced her onward when she would have faltered, grasping her so tightly he feared he’d leave bruises, though he could not let her go. And when at last he felt her internal muscles clench around him, pulsating, he raised his head and took a nipple into his mouth, suckling strongly while he bucked under her.
She cried out, went rigid as her body surrendered to infinite pleasure. He released her breast, burying his face between the twin mounds as he thrust upward with hard power, again, again and yet again, until his world dissolved and the bursting brightness behind his eyes was like a small and glorious death in the midst of perfect life.
13
“Up, milady! The bell for prime has rung, and we must be gone. You’ll not want to keep the horses standing, for ’tis cold as a witch’s teat, and snowing besides.”
Cate moaned at the sound of Gwynne’s voice, for it seemed she had only just fallen into sleep. The night past was a hodgepodge of images and sensations in her mind, most so incredible she blushed to recall them. She had never dreamed there were so many ways to make love, most of them sinful, according to the holy fathers who condoned one position only and that with as little touching as possible. Ross surely had pagan leanings, for he brushed aside all such prohibitions. Any way of seeking such joy was good, he said, and priests who preached otherwise merely begrudged their parishioners the pleasures denied to them.
Turning with a grimace due to soreness in muscles she’d never dreamed she might use, Cate opened a single eye. Her voice husky with sleep, she asked, “What horses?”
“Those readied for your travel, of course. We leave the instant you are dressed.”
“Leave?” she asked in confusion.
“For Braesford Hall? Did yon Dunbar not tell you?”
Cate gave a slow shake of her head.
“Just like a man, to leave the telling to someone else. Doubtless he’d no wish to hear you moan.”
By Grace Possessed Page 18
