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 to 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 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?”
ARUCARD
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.”
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