“Oh, didst thou see Sir Demetrius in the communal bath?”
“Yea.” A particularly lovely domestic clasped her hands beneath her chin and sighed. “And what a large sword he doth brandish.”
“How I would love to polish his helmet.”
“Well, I prefer Sir Morgan.” Another maid arched a brow and grinned. “Hast thou admired his one-eyed horse?”
“Mm.” A brunette rocked on her heels. “What I would give to ride him.”
“I like Sir Geoffrey and his flaxen hair.”
“I favor Sir Aristide, as he is quiet.” A blonde bit her lip. “And the quiet ones art always the most adventurous.”
“Indeed, the knights art giants, and Lady Isolde hath married the biggest, of all,” declared the redhead.
“But I imagine her ladyship doth not complain.”
“Who would, with that in thy bed?”
The women collapsed into a fit of hilarity, and Isolde retreated to the courtyard. Never had it occurred to her that another female would admire Arucard, as he was Isolde’s husband, and the revelation disturbed her for some reason she could not quite understand. But she would caution her man to guard his habits, as she would neither tolerate nor permit unsanctioned observation of Arucard, as his man’s yard was hers. As her mood grew sour, she stomped toward her chambers, but a soldier flagged her.
“Lady Isolde, a message is just arrived for thee.” He handed her correspondence, which bore familiar script.
“Thank ye.” A wave of nausea swirled in her belly, as Isolde noted her father’s seal. Clutching the letter to her chest, she ran through the great hall and navigated the passage to her quarters. When she strolled through the solar and entered her room, she started. “Oh—Margery. What art thou doing hither?”
“As thou hast hired no lady’s maid, I shall continue to perform the services thou dost require.” The steward glanced at Isolde and frowned. “What is wrong, my lady? Thou art white as a sheet.”
Seized by fear neither frivolous nor acute, Isolde could not manage a reply, so she merely thrust the envelope at her friend. When Margery did not immediately respond, Isolde flicked her wrist.
“What is it?” Margery took a single step, her expression sobered, and she flinched. “Nay, not again.”
“Help me, Margery.” Shivering with uncontrollable terror, Isolde dropped the parchment, fell to her knees on the stone floor, and clutched her throat, as all manner of nefarious enterprises assailed her. “What am I to do if Father comes for me? His first missive declared his unmistakable intent to take me from Arucard, and I cannot allow that. I must act with expediency, so how can I stop him?”
“Stop—who?” Arucard loomed in the solar, and Isolde gulped as she pondered his reaction to her dire news. “And wherefore art thou on the ground? Art thou ill?” Then he peered at Margery and narrowed his stare. “Hast thou revealed my surprise?”
“Nay, my lord.” With a shrug, Margery folded and unfolded her arms, and then she glanced at Isolde. “I was just preparing thy wife’s bath, as usual.”
“What surprise?” Isolde inquired, as he grasped her by the elbows and lifted her to her feet. “Have I displeased thee? Art thou vexed?”
“Thou art on the verge of tears, when I bring glad tidings.” He framed her chin and turned her left and then right. “Wherefore art thou distressed?”
Given the grim backlash from the first letter, which still possessed the power to cause her alarm upon reflection, and her promise to apprise him of future correspondence, Isolde pointed to the disconcerting item. “Father hath written again, and I dread reading his entreaty, which I suspect contains evil intentions, given his last demands, and I have yet to fulfill his petition.”
“That is thy worry?” In play, he tapped her cheek and then bent to retrieve the envelope. Without hesitation, he broke the seal and unfolded the note, which he scanned. “Margery, thou art dismissed, as I shall see to Lady Isolde’s bath. And I trust everything is in order for our supper?”
“Aye, sir. I shall convey thy meal to the solar at the requested hour.” After a quick curtsey, Margery scurried from the lord’s apartment.
It was then she noticed his damp hair. “Hast thou already washed?”
“Aye.” He grimaced, and her belly twisted and turned. “I joined my men in the communal quarters, as I did not wish to disturb thee.”
That revelation did little to improve her state of unrest, as she imagined the maids admiring Arucard’s sword.
“Husband, take pity on my gentle spirit, as it withers beneath the weight of my father’s unscrupulous scheme.” In that instant, Isolde could tolerate no more suspense, and she tugged on his sleeve. “Pray, what does it say?”
“More of the same nonsense, which does not signify at this moment. As it stands, I have arranged a meeting with the locals, with the assistance of de Cadby, and I shall gather information regarding the contentious burgage plots and inform His Majesty of the developments.” He set the parchment on his bedside table and then faced her. “Now about thy bath, shall I help thee disrobe?”
“Thou cannot be serious.” Venting a half-smothered sob, she flung herself at her husband and wrenched his tunic, as the tension investing her burst forth. “Do not let him take me from thee. Give me thy solemn vow, else I shall go mad, as I cannot be parted from thee.”
“Sweet Isolde, if thou dost require it, allow me to allay thy fears, as I will never surrender thee to thy father, or anyone else, as long as I draw breath.” Then he unbuttoned her cotehardie. “Is that lavender I smell?”
“Yea, it is my favorite.” But she could not believe how calm he remained, when all she wanted to do was scream. “My lord, dost thou not perceive the danger? Dost thou not comprehend the threat my father presents? As we have yet to consummate our nuptials, our marriage—”
“—Shall at last be unimpeachable, once I claim thy maidenhead this eventide.” With that, he kissed her silent, nibbled gently on her flesh, but he could not quiet her thoughts, which ran amok in light of his statement. When he lifted his head and met her gaze, he smiled. “Better?”
“Dost thou speak the truth, or dost thou jest?” After kicking off her leather slippers, she shed the heavy wool outer garment and then turned, so he could unlace her gown. Then she untied her chemise, and he whisked the slip from her body. Naked, she accepted his escort, as he led her to the ancere. Nudity bothered her not in his presence, as they had engaged in various intimate diversions since they journeyed to Chichester. “Prithee, do not tease me, as I cannot bear it.”
“My lady, I would think thou dost know me well enough by now to know I would never jest on the matter.” As she eased into the warm water, he grabbed a barilla of soap. “And I know of no other way to ensure thy father cannot annul our marriage. But the real reason I wish to seal our vows is far simpler.” With great care, he scrubbed her back. “The fact is I want to make thee mine, and I can delay no longer.”
“Oh, my lord.” How her heart sang in accompaniment to her amazement, as she would shout from the rooftops that she was Arucard’s wife in every way. “I want that, too.” Reaching up, she cupped his cheek and drew him to her. Emboldened by newfound courage, she licked his lips, and then took his mouth, as she speared her fingers through his thick hair. At once, he dropped the cloth and caressed her breasts.
“Isolde, thou art a sorceress, and thou has cast a spell over me.” He tickled her navel, and then touched her between her legs, and she gasped. “I am thy grateful servant.”
“Art thou?” She adored his warm and flirty side, which he reserved for their private hours, and she caught his earlobe with her teeth. “And what would thou do for me?”
“Whatever thou dost require.” He nipped the tip of her nose. “As I am thine to command.”
“Thou dost know what I want.” As he eased a finger inside her, she nuzzled his chest. “What I have always wanted.”
When she spread her thighs further apart, he groaned. “Then permit me t
o tend thy needs, that we might hasten to our bed.”
#
At the table in the solar, Arucard sat across from Isolde, both wearing naught but robes, and shoveled a healthy portion of pork into his mouth. In painful silence, he mulled the situation, which had grown ever more contentious after her bath, and he was at a loss to explain what happened and whither he had lost control.
What began as a pleasant interlude had devolved into an awkward series of clumsy moves on his part, after he spilled her wine and knocked over his tankard of ale. As he sipped his beer, he cast his wife a furtive glance, and she peered at him and blushed. And he returned his attention to his trencher, as the tension built.
“So how was thy day?” Isolde inquired in a small voice.
“Fine.” Like an idiot, he searched for something to say but could seize upon naught of interest or significance, so he settled for the obvious. “And how was thy day?”
“Fine.” With her elbow propped atop the table, she rested her cheek to her knuckles and huffed a breath.
Again, the room grew quiet as a tomb, while they ate. Then Arucard snapped his fingers. “How is thy meal?”
“Delicious.” With a hopeful expression, Isolde sat upright. “Mylates of pork art my favorite.”
“Yes, I know.” Wherefore had the heretofore-pedestrian act of conversing with his bride become so difficult? “I asked Margery for information regarding thy preferences, as I would please thee on our special occasion.”
“Thou art very thoughtful.” For a brief moment, she smiled—until she gazed at their bed.
“I would be a good husband to thee.” What an imbecile he had been, planning the singular event as a staged production, when he could have taken her after they retired, as they always engaged in a bit of intimate play before they slept. It would have been a natural progression on their nocturnal games. Instead, he quivered like the virgin he was and cursed himself a fool.
“My lord, may I ask a question?” Shifting her weight, she bit her lip. “If it is no trouble.”
“Thou mayest ask whatever thou dost wish.” He reached across the table and covered her hand with his. “What would thou know of me, as I have naught to hide from thee?”
“Art thou nervous?” After a strained lull, she inclined her head. “About tonight, I mean. As I cannot stop shaking.”
“I hope this doth not lessen thy opinion of me, but I am nervous, too.” Yes, he had bungled the entire affair, but how could he set it right? “In fact, I quiver as a green lad on the eve of his first battle.”
“Oh, I am so glad to hear thee say it.” To his surprise, she jumped from her seat and walked to his side. “Wilt thou hold me, as I am never afraid in thy embrace?”
“Of course.” Without hesitation, he tossed his napkin atop the table, eased back his chair, and stood. When he splayed his hands wide, she all but ran into his waiting arms, which he closed about her. “Isolde, thou art shivering.” He tightened his grip and posited a proposal that might render him insane if she agreed. “If thou dost prefer to postpone the consummation, I will not protest.”
“Art thou mad? I cannot bear to delay another second.” With a violent flinch, she grasped fistfuls of his robe. “I demand thee take me now.”
Given her haughty demeanor, he could not stave off laughter, which did much to abate the tension currently investing his shoulders. But her innocent request also had another effect he had not foreseen, as his man’s yard grew hard as stone, upon which he could bounce a thousand groats should he choose to do so.
“But what of thy sweet?” No, Arucard had no intention of denying his wife, but he could not resist baiting her. “I had Margery prepare the gyngerbrede just for thee.”
“We could enjoy it, anon.” With a half-sob, she wrested free, grabbed his wrist, and led him to their inner chamber. “Perchance, thou might feed me, as a treat, after the deflowering.”
“An excellent suggestion.” So he stoked the blaze in the hearth and wondered whither to begin, as Pellier had provided no specifics, in that respect. Again at a loss, Arucard rubbed the back of his neck. “Art thou warm enough?”
“Aye, my lord.” Wringing her fingers, Isolde shuffled her feet. “May I ask another question?”
“My dear, thou mayest ask whatever thee dost wish.” Painfully aroused, he feared he might spill his seed before they ever made it to bed, but her trembling chin gave him pause. Summoning the patience of a saint, he sighed. “What dost thou want to know?”
“What if I fail to please thee?” Wide-eyed, and her distress apparent, she hugged herself. “What if thou dost find no satisfaction?”
“Thou must be joking.” At the irony of her worry, he chuckled. “Allow me to assure thee that thy anxiety is ill-founded, as what concerns thee is not possible.”
“I do not follow.” In light of her naïveté, she furrowed her brow. “Of the marital relations I know naught, and I have no idea how to inspire thee. But another woman of experience could service thee to my detriment.”
“As I told thee on our wedding night, I will join only with whom I have taken the sacrament, and that is thee.” How could make her understand his predicament, when he possessed no direct knowledge, either? “Dost thou trust me?”
“Aye.” She nodded once.
“Take off thy robe.” She did as he bade, untying the belt and letting the garment slip to the floor, and he smiled. “I am inspired.”
“Art thou truly?” Telltale fidgeting declared her skepticism.
Without a word, he doffed his garb and shrugged. As he anticipated, her gaze lit upon his most prominent protuberance, which, at the moment, provided substantial and indubitable proof of his desire. “Dost thou still doubt me?”
“No.” With an arresting grin, she shook her head.
“Then come hither.” While his petition seemed rather pedestrian, his current state proved tricky, until she situated his length to rest against her belly. As she nestled close, he kissed her hair. “I am sorry, Isolde. Thou dost deserve a man familiar with the mysteries of intercourse.”
“I prefer thee.” Then she met his stare. “So how should we initiate the deed?”
“The natural progression would be to lie abed.” His gut clenched at the mere suggestion. “Shall we adjourn to our respective places?”
It struck him as ridiculous that he should suffer uncanny nervousness at the prospect, when he and Isolde had shared the tent, the mattress, and even the ancere since their wedding a fortnight ago. So he bolstered his resolve as he slide between the sheets, reclined, and exhaled. After adjusting his pillow, he studied the dancing shadows on the intricate wood ceiling, as the flames flickered in the fireplace.
“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 p
revious 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.”
Tall, Dark, and Medieval Page 61
