It was in pain.
He froze in stunned disbelief, looking down at her.
“Hell,” he breathed in horror. “Bloody hell.”
Chapter 15
It wasn’t possible. The way she’d talked, the way she’d moved, the way she’d taken him so willingly in her mouth. How could she have been a virgin? And yet he’d felt her tear as he’d pushed forward. God’s blood! If only he’d known. If only he’d been able to stop himself.
He’d taken virgins before. Indeed, he was renowned for his gentleness and care where they were concerned. Many a damsel had come to him for the singular purpose of losing her maidenhead. But he’d used none of his celebrated finesse with Helena. He’d caused her pain.
He brushed the hair back from her forehead with his thumb. “Sweet Helena, why did you not…”
There was no way to undo what had been done. There was no way to make amends for what he’d taken. But at least he might better the ordeal for her.
Though her brow was creased, her eyes yet smoldered with passion. At least he hadn’t killed all her desire.
“The sting will fade in a moment, and then I promise I’ll make it better,” he murmured, resting his cheek alongside hers. “Indeed, I’ll take you to a heaven like you’ve never known.”
She was still panting, mere moments away from climax, and he likewise hovered on the brink. But his sobering discovery had made his need less urgent. Which was useful.
“Let your muscles ease around me,” he whispered. “’Twill decrease the pain if you—”
She gave a proud toss of her head. “’Tis nothing,” she muttered. “Your dagger is not so sharp.”
Her words would have made him smile if the situation were not so grave. “I didn’t mean to hurt you at all, my lady. If I’d only known…”
“Kiss me.”
He blinked. “What?”
“Kiss me.”
Cautiously, wondering at her intent, he pressed his lips to hers. She returned his kiss and gradually seemed to melt at the coaxing of his mouth. She shifted her hips beneath him, adjusting to his invasion. He felt her relax around him, and he breathed a sigh of relief, knowing henceforth it would only get better for her.
He let his hand slip down between her breasts, then turn to follow the slight curve of her belly and fondle the curls below. “May I?”
She looked at him with smoky emerald eyes. “I insist.”
He smiled. God, she was beguiling, even in the middle of this unfortunate situation. Her courage and spirit made her all the more alluring. She was no helpless maid to burst into tears at her perceived ruin. She was a true warrior, worthy of his admiration. And as Colin gradually teased the embers of her desire back to life, he began to wonder if what he felt for her could be more than mere lust, more than admiration.
Colin’s dagger might not be so sharp, Helena thought, but it was of considerable size. He seemed to fill her completely. It wasn’t an unpleasant feeling, just an unfamiliar one. As his fingers worked their divine magic upon her, she rocked her hips gently forward and back, seeking…something. At first he mirrored her movements, remaining fixed within her. But soon, as his kisses deepened and her heart pummeled at her ribs and her skin began to tingle with a greater need, she arched backward, counter to his movement, forcing him to partially withdraw.
He gasped, and she, too, drew in a ragged breath at the lovely friction. But still he hesitated to move.
“Are you ready?” he whispered.
For answer, she strove upward, sheathing him again, delighting in the full sensation and the groan of pleasure she elicited from Colin.
“Oh, my lady, what you invoke.” His brow creased, and his eyes squeezed shut, as if he suffered some grievous torment.
And yet she showed him no mercy. She arched back and thrust her hips forward again, and he sucked a sharp breath between his teeth.
This was victory, she thought, dizzy with power. Soon she’d have him surrendering to his passions just as she’d surrendered earlier. It was a heady feeling.
Maybe if things had continued thus, she’d have won that victory. But suddenly Colin was having no more of her manipulations. He seized the reins of her runaway desire and began steering it to his own course.
Slowly at first, he plunged forward, then retreated, and with each determined stroke, he whispered encouragements against her hair. “Aye,” he breathed. “Slow. That’s it. Gently.”
His voice grew more ragged with each thrust, until he rasped out syllables that were no longer words, and she experienced some satisfaction as he seemed to lose control. But, curse her compliant body, she was losing control just as quickly.
A throbbing ache built inside her, deeper and more all-encompassing than the intense lightning from before. She moaned as her hips moved with a will of their own, matching his thrusts. His fingertips rubbed at her more insistently now, urging her to higher levels of sensation as he climbed the rise beside her. She clawed at his shoulders, clinging to something solid in a world that was rapidly melting beneath her. Then the fire began to blaze fiercely, spreading faster than she could douse it, and she found herself burning out of control.
Just as she reached the brink of helplessness, she heard his breath catch, once, twice. She opened her eyes to the most exquisite expression of longing and anticipation and pure need upon his face. It was that expression that catapulted her beyond worldly passion to a sphere of such bliss, such euphoria, such utter satisfaction, that she cried out in joy, shuddering like a falcon diving from the highest heights.
He groaned with her, burying his face in her hair and cradling her with possessive arms as he pumped out the last of his seed.
And then the only residue of their delirious voyage was the sound of their mingled gasps. Eventually, their bodies stilled. After such chaos, the silence seemed shattering. Helena had never felt so drained, even after the fiercest battle. She lay upon the pallet like wilted seaweed washed up on the shore.
Colin had spoken truly. He’d taken her to heaven. Never had she experienced such ecstasy. Never had she felt such fire in her veins. Not even in the most rousing battle had her blood run so hot.
But most curious, she couldn’t say for certain who had emerged the victor in this battle. Part of her felt triumphant. After all, Colin sprawled across her like a dead man, one leg flung over hers, his arms cast wide, his body limp, a foe defeated by her hand. And yet part of her felt he had bested her again. He’d forced her to succumb to her passions, and she’d had no strength to resist his seduction.
Nay, she amended, seduction hadn’t been his idea at all. It had been born of her own thirst for revenge and her cursed impulsiveness.
Only this time she’d paid for that impulsiveness with her maidenhood.
She was not so naive as to believe it was his fault. She’d bear that burden. She’d encouraged him, nay, baited him. He’d never suspected she was a virgin. He couldn’t be blamed for taking what she’d so willingly offered him.
Besides, she thought philosophically as she lay basking in the warm afterglow of their mating, it was just as well the deed was done. It was no matter to her whether she was a virgin. Until Pagan’s arrival, she’d never planned to marry anyway. She was a Warrior Maid.
Indeed, she might well grow to enjoy this sort of disport as much as she did sword fighting. After all, it was said that trysting was a knight’s second favorite form of exercise. Even now she felt her loins awakening about him, her nipples stiffening against his firm chest, a taut vibration of anticipation singing in her blood as she prepared to reengage him.
Colin’s head was filled with warring emotions—guilt and contentment, shame and ecstasy, dread and desire—to say nothing of his loins. Already they hungered for her again.
But he’d made a grave mistake.
He might be a man who kept many mistresses, but he was neither philanderer nor seducer. Indeed, his morality had always been impeccable. He never forced a damsel against her will. He never tryst
ed with married women. And he never accepted the gift of a maiden’s virginity without thorough counsel beforehand.
Contrary to what Helena might think of Normans, Colin was a man of principle. He’d claimed the maidenhead of a noble lady, the daughter of a lord. Chivalry demanded he do the right thing.
But he wasn’t so boorish as to speak of it now, not while he yet dwelt within her like an invader and she lay beneath him like a fallen angel. Such serious discourse required that he sit across from her, holding her hand, looking into her eyes.
He lifted himself up on his elbows and began to ease from her. But she uttered a small sound of protest and moved her hips to sheathe him again. Again, he tried to withdraw, and she foiled his attempt.
“My lady,” he murmured with a rueful chuckle, “you must let me go.”
“Not yet.”
Her rough-voiced entreaty drew him to her like a moth to flame. God, how he longed to stay within her, to feel her passion rise again, to couple with the delectable little Hel-cat all night long. But he’d not let his cock rule his conscience.
“My lady”—he sighed—“we must talk.”
But when he tried to ease from her this time, she wrapped her silken thighs about him, dug her heels into his buttocks, and held on to him with surprising strength.
“So talk,” she breathed, her eyes sultry with desire.
He shivered. Lord, the woman knew not what she did to him. He couldn’t talk. Bloody hell, he could hardly think.
Her lips curved into a most calculating smile then as she rocked beneath him, slowly, deliberately, teasing him with her movements.
He groaned aloud with mental anguish, knowing he had to make one last attempt at reason. “My lady, have I not done enough damage?”
“Aye,” she purred, “but the damage is done now.”
And with that feeble assurance and a wet, passionate, breathless kiss, he found himself swept away in the power of her temptation.
For a virgin, she had an uncanny instinct for seduction, a natural talent that led her to move in the most alluring way, to touch him where he was most responsive. She tugged off his garments, and he growled with approval as her hands spread across his shoulders, squeezing at the muscles of his upper arms. But when her fingers splayed over his chest, then slid down to pluck at his nipples, lust shot through his body like a flaming arrow.
Through half-closed lids, he studied her face. Her nostrils flared in excitement, and her eyes flickered with triumph. Her smile was wicked, unabashedly wicked, and as if he could read her thoughts, he suddenly knew what she wanted. He answered her with a weak grin, only too happy to oblige.
He swiftly rolled over, taking her with him and maintaining their union as he yielded the superior position. Then he lay back and let the Warrior Maid have her way with him.
Looming over him, she rocked back till she straddled his hips, and then pulled her gown off with a proud toss of her head. Sweet Saints, she was even more beautiful than he remembered. Her body was firm and lithe, her arms slim but well muscled, her belly flat, and her breasts… He sighed in appreciation. Her breasts were as plump and warm and inviting as loaves of cocket bread. But what drove him mad, what enticed him beyond reason, was not her voluptuous body, but the combination of smug victory and burning desire in her shimmering green eyes.
She wanted his unequivocal surrender.
He would give it to her gladly.
While she moved atop him, he closed his eyes and reveled in the sensuous rhythm. Her hands explored his body, gliding over his ribs, smoothing his chest, caressing his jaw, burying themselves in his hair. He reached out to softly cup her breasts, but after a light gasp of pleasure, she drew his hands away, pressing them back onto the pallet and holding him there by the wrists.
He smiled in lusty pleasure as she gazed down at him, her eyes dark with need, her hair tickling his neck, her breasts swaying gently back and forth, tantalizingly close to his mouth.
Twice as she rode him, he was tempted to cast her hands away so he might caress her face, her breasts, her buttocks. But her grasp was firm upon his wrists. It was clear she wanted complete control. And so he settled for feasting his eyes upon her creamy flesh, imagining its texture against his palms.
Too soon, too swiftly, fanned by her fervid gaze, the fires of his need flared to an all-consuming blaze. Making tight fists against the urge to enfold her in his arms and hold her close against his chest, he arched his head back and waited for the impending explosion.
And then the little witch did the unthinkable.
She stopped.
While he writhed at the edge of climax, she ceased her movements.
“Nay!” he cried, shivering with need.
He speared her with a glance and found she regarded him with breathless curiosity. Like a knight who’d never ridden a warhorse before, she was testing his limits.
She was close to his.
He grimaced with restraint and bit out a foul oath.
She moved the slightest bit, and he trembled at the sensation.
She rocked forward gently, and his hips thrust upward of their own accord.
She gasped, and her muscles squeezed around him, sending him to new heights of agony.
“Bloody hell,” he said between his teeth, “have mercy. Finish me now.”
She might have been wicked, but she wasn’t cruel. At his bidding, she resumed her sensual ride. As fast as a wayward steed, his desires galloped, leaving him unable to steer or stop, but only fight for purchase. At last, as she lurched above him in the throes of victory, he was catapulted to his own heaven, a place higher and purer and more intensely pleasurable than any he’d visited before.
Indeed, as she collapsed upon him, and he lay exhausted beneath her, he was filled with a kind of awe.
Colin had first coupled at the age of ten and six. He’d learned quickly and become a lover of considerable renown. Since then, he’d trysted with too many women to count, and yet, impossibly, Helena had taken him to greater heights than he’d ever imagined.
Her hands now loosened upon his wrists, and he moved his arms to embrace her, relishing the warmth of her skin against his and the thrum of her beating heart. Her breath rasped along his naked shoulder, and her hair was soft against his cheek.
Who was this temptress in an angel’s guise? This puzzle of a woman who was at once strong and vulnerable, wise and naive, cool and passionate? How could she know so much when she had experienced so little?
Instinct, he decided. The same instinct that made a man a gifted warrior. The same inherent talent he himself had for discerning a foe’s weakness.
He smiled as he inclined his head against hers and felt her rouse, running a tentative finger around his ear, pressing her lips against his shoulder, nudging her hips forward an inch. The little vixen wanted to test him again.
He chuckled in good-natured fatigue. “Nay, my love. Not yet.”
He felt her thwarted sigh upon his chest, which made him chuckle again.
“You’re like a knight with a new sword, my lady,” he chided, “wanting to spar past dark.”
“’Tis not…disagreeable,” she admitted.
He laughed loudly then, rattling her so that she was nearly unseated. “Not disagreeable? Is that the best you can manage?”
She stacked her fists upon his chest and rested her chin on top, glaring down at him. “Is that the best you can manage?”
He grabbed her wrists and spread them apart, forcing her head to drop low enough for him to steal a kiss. “You, my impatient Hel-cat, will have to wait.”
She stuck out her bottom lip, and he caught it gently between his teeth, turning the gesture into a fond kiss.
“Soon,” he promised.
He kept his promise, and this time their joining was sweet and tender. Gone was the fiery wench, and in her place was a delicate flower. He coaxed her petals to bloom, catching her soft cries against his shoulder before he sank into her welcoming depths, where their nectars mi
ght mingle.
And as he cradled her afterward, listening to her soft sounds of slumber, savoring the silken weight of her upon him, bathing in the musky fragrance of their lovemaking, he thought this night might not be such a tragedy after all. The marriage of honor he intended might be…what had she called it? Not disagreeable. He grinned. Indeed, he could well imagine a lifetime of utter contentment in Helena’s arms.
Chapter 16
“Nay?” Colin burst out. “What do you mean, nay?”
Helena almost felt sorry for him. There seemed a look of genuine shock and hurt on his face as he knelt before her.
“’Tisn’t that I find you…” She searched for the right word.
“Disagreeable?” he sulked.
That wasn’t the right word. Not at all. Indeed, she found Colin du Lac intoxicating, addictive, utterly irresistible. Which was why she had to refuse his offer.
Indeed, this morn, just glancing at him with his twinkling eyes and seductive smile and all that glorious flesh sent her heart racing. She wanted nothing but to couple with him again and again.
But marriage…
Until Pagan had come, she’d never considered taking a husband at all. Only desperation and the need to save her sister from an unhappy union had moved her to offer herself as a sacrifice.
She didn’t want to be a wife. She wanted to be a warrior.
All the best warriors were unfettered by marriage. A warrior needed a cold heart, a heart free of encumbrances. Pagan she might yet wed to save her sister, for she felt nothing for the man. But Colin…
She swallowed hard, withdrew her hand from between his, and crossed to the hearth. This affection she’d begun to feel for the Norman bordered dangerously on infatuation, and she dared not let him see how vulnerable she was.
She spoke over her shoulder with a nonchalance she didn’t feel. “You’re a fine man, and I’m sure you’d make a suitable husband, but—”
“But I’m a Norman,” he muttered.
“Nay, ’tisn’t that.”
“Is it because you believe I’m a philanderer?”
Maids with Blades Page 44
