What right had she to be dejected after the night he’d just given her?
He was angry as he drew the gown up her thigh, angry at her disloyalty, and angry at himself for so stupidly expecting loyalty from her, de Valcourt’s daughter. When she would have stopped him by blocking his hand and trying to tug her skirts down, he stilled her with a single word.
“Don’t.”
She stared up at him, a vulnerable creature trapped by a stronger, more crafty hunter. Stone walls on two sides, the open air beyond, and him, come to take of her whatever he wanted. He felt the wind, cool and erratic. It pushed the clouds across the sky and hissed over the crenellation that capped the walls. An occasional voice rose from within the castle, but for the most part they were alone. Surrounded by people, visible to both earth and sky, yet completely alone.
He pushed the heavy skirts up, past her bent knees so that the rich fabric pooled in her lap yet left her legs bare to his touch and his gaze.
This was even better than finding her in the bailey, he realized as desire rushed with an almost painful speed over him. He’d planned to take her by the wrist and haul her straight back to their bed, warning one and all not to disturb them. But he would do it here instead—or at least he would do it to her. No one would be able to see what he did as he bent between the merlons. But there would be speculation and there would be talk, and it would be clear to anyone who yet might harbor a loyalty to de Valcourt that de Valcourt’s daughter was his, and so was everything else the man had ever claimed to own. It was all his, to do with as he pleased, and it pleased him to see her faint with desire for him here and now.
He leaned against the stone merlon, just barely restraining the urge to grind his aching arousal against the unyielding blocks.
“Oh, no … no—” She caught his hand when he slid it between her warm and silky thighs. “No,” she pleaded, staring up at him with eyes as dark as the sea. “I’ll come back with you. I just … I just needed a moment alone—”
“I would not have you unhappy to be my wife, Beatrix.”
She shuddered at his words and turned her face away to stare bleakly at the vast stretch of land beyond them. But a tear spilled from the corner of her eye. He saw it and it infuriated him. Had he mistreated her he could understand her tears. But he’d been patient and attentive, far more so than any other man would have been.
He parted her thighs and shoved his hand roughly down to cup her woman’s place. She was all warm skin and soft curls—and slow, hot tears. But the sight of her tears managed only to spur him on. He would make them stop, damn her. Just see if he didn’t turn her sobs of sorrow into gasps of pleasure!
He slid a finger in her, all the way in, and felt a satisfaction in the soft gasp that escaped her lips. She was wet, and so hot that it made a lie of her tears. She could not cry tears of sorrow and yet be so ready for him.
He began a rhythm of stroking her, slow and then gradually faster, until he felt the muscles of her thighs relax their resistance and saw the heaving breaths that lifted her lovely breasts in so appealing a fashion. Could he fit himself in the skinny opening between the merlons he would have taken those breasts in his mouth; he would have bitten them and teased them until any reluctance or resistance would have become but a shadow of a memory in the deepest recesses of her mind. But he could fit only one shoulder and arm into the narrow space, so he pressed on with renewed vigor.
When her head fell back against the stone and her eyes sought his, he felt an arousal so acute he groaned. Damn her for doing this to him! But he would turn it to his advantage.
He moved his finger to the taut bud protected by the sensitive folds of her female flesh. Yes, she was ready. Within a matter of moments he knew he would have her, for she was moaning out loud now. Her hands gripped the stone merlon above her head. Her right foot slipped over the edge of the wall and dangled in space as she strained up against his hand.
Then she cried out and jerked in violent reaction. He caught her by the waist, for she was dangerously close to tumbling over the edge. But that swift movement brought his hard member squarely against the corner of the merlon.
“God’s bones!” he exploded, seeing stars, it hurt so badly. Jesus God, but he wanted to double over at the excruciating pain. But he held on to her instead, until he could breathe again and stand upright.
“Didn’t I tell you to return to our chamber?” he barked, hauling her toward the narrow opening and forcing her through it. “Was I not clear enough in my expectations of you?”
She pressed back against the stone wall, trapped by his arms on either side of her. Her cheeks were stained with hot color, her eyes still glazed from the scarcely dissipated passion that had gripped her. She could hardly speak for she yet gasped for breath.
If she was beautiful under lesser circumstances, she was ravishing now. The pain in his cods was swiftly forgotten as he grew hard once more. He could have taken the wench where they stood, and died happy—except that now everyone would be able to see what he was about. He did not care that the castle folk speculated about the goings-on between their lord and lady. That happened in all castles. But he was not going to take her within their view, like some camp whore. She was his wife, no matter the circumstances, and she would be mother to his children. He would not have her publicly demeaned. Still, he had to have her. Now.
“Get you to our chamber. Strip bare of all your clothing. Lay on your stomach across the bear pelt, and wait for me.”
Then he made himself pull away from her and walk toward the gatehouse as if he were not more aroused in this moment than he’d ever been in his life. He would give her five minutes, not a moment longer. He could not endure waiting any longer than that.
Linnea stared at Axton’s retreating back. She did not know whether to rail at him, or beg him to return; whether to laugh at this ludicrous situation, or burst into tears. She had wed herself to a madman who seemed both to hate her and desire her in the same breath!
She slumped against the wall. Yes, a madman. But she must be mad too, for in the midst of her fear, she melted to his touch. Despite her shame, she quivered with unholy desire.
He wanted her naked upon that bear pelt. Dear God. Mother Mary. St. Jude, help me. She watched him stride down the wall-walk and disappear into the gatehouse, but his image yet remained in her head. Mad he might be, but he knew how to use every portion of his warrior’s strength and cunning to lay siege to her body. She had no defenses against him. Worse, she actually enjoyed it. In the midst of his physical dominance of her, she found an incredible freedom, a wild and reckless abandonment of all caution and all fear.
Had he not held on to her, she surely would have leaped out into the air, for she’d felt already that she was flying. He’d flung her high into air so brilliant that it had pained her even to breathe it.
Dear God, but she was nigh on to being besotted with the man. And he, her enemy!
That thought sobered her, but it did little to douse the wicked flame that burned unrepentant within her. Shuddering at her own perversion, she pushed away from the wall. He’d said to wait for him in their chamber—their chamber. Did that mean he intended for her to share it with him always? Even her father, who’d adored her mother, had kept separate chambers.
But then, she should not expect her husband to be anything like her father.
She straightened her skirts as best she could and took a deep breath. It did nothing to calm her, but it did get her going. As she made her way down the ladder, however, she was conscious with every step of the chain’s movement against her. Oh, but the man was truly perverse. Between the burning feel of his gift upon her skin, the lingering aftereffect of what he’d just done to her, and the anticipation of what he intended to do next, she was so preoccupied that she did not notice the several stares and sidelong looks that followed her. Only when she rounded the first flight of stairs in the keep and came into the antechamber, was she forced out of her unsettling thoughts.
“Peter,” she gasped as she skidded to a halt.
Her husband’s brother looked up from where he sat, his back against a newly hung tapestry that depicted William the Conqueror’s crossing of the English Channel. The monstrous animal he called a pet lay between his legs, its own legs opened and relaxed while its master groomed him.
“Well, ’tis my brother’s wife. How like you his robust manner?” he taunted her.
Shame stained her cheeks with burning color, while a cold lump choked her throat. She could not spar with this boy right now, not and hold her own with him.
“That robust, eh?” He laughed at her discomfiture. But when she bowed her head and hastened past him, intent only on gaining the privacy of her chamber and the protection of the stout plank door, he pushed to his feet. The dog leaped up too, but it promptly sat down and scratched at some vermin behind its ragged ear.
“What have we here?” the boy jested. “No dire looks? No threats to poison either me or Moor? Don’t tell me Axton has burned all the fire out of you.” He blocked her way with a hand on the iron door latch. “If you are made meek, what entertainment shall I find to divert me from the utter boredom of this place?”
She should have bristled at the bratling’s haughty tone. But Linnea simply could not. Mayhap he was right. Axton had burned all the fire from her—or at least he had diverted it into other areas.
She blushed all the harder. “Let me pass.”
He studied her, then frowned a little at her subdued tone. “Art tired? Ah, but of course. He has worn you down with his attentions.”
He chortled in the crude way of all young men, but even that was not enough to rouse Linnea’s temper. She had other troubles far more serious than this boy’s unpleasant humor.
“Let me pass,” she repeated. She grabbed his wrist and flung his hand aside, then pulled open the door and hurried in.
Unfortunately, Peter followed right behind her.
“Go away! Leave me be!”
But he was as stubborn as his brother, it seemed, for he only crossed his arms and stared at her. “What is wrong?”
Linnea let out a hysterical laugh. “What is wrong? What is wrong? Better to ask what is right, for I can answer that with one word. Nothing. Nothing is right anymore. Everything is wrong, wrong, wrong!”
She spun away from him—as if that might disguise her agitation. But that brought her face-to-face with the bed. And the bear pelt.
She felt every single link of the chain against her skin. Every individual stone.
“Gloat, if you must. Then leave,” she muttered. “But hurry, for Axton comes.”
She heard the shifting of his stance. “He has sent you here to await him? Again?” His voice rose in awe of his brother’s obvious prowess.
Linnea did not deign to answer. The fact was, she too was in awe of his brother’s damnable prowess.
“’Tis said you stabbed him.”
Linnea jerked around to face him. How did he know?
“So, ’tis true.” His face settled into a scowl that was a fair imitation of Axton’s. “I hope he beat you for the offense, for if he has not, I will.”
Once more Linnea laughed, but this time she was perilously close to tears. “Beat me? Yes, he has. But not in the manner you suggest. If you wish details, you should ask him, not me. He will boast and gloat and tell you all you would hear. Then you may both have a hearty laugh at my expense. Two big, strong men who have bested a girl. How proud you must be!”
Peter wanted to respond with some biting remark, some witty rejoinder. But he could not. Two big, strong men … They had bested her, hadn’t they? So why did he suddenly feel no joy of it? Why did he feel cruel and mean-spirited?
He stared at her in confusion. She no longer appeared the intimidating witch who’d threatened to poison Moor. Even his rage that she would raise a weapon to his brother—her husband, now—unaccountably dissipated in the face of her misery.
He stood there, inside her chamber, his legs wooden and his mind blank of any words, either of torment or comfort. Though she was nearly his height, at that moment she appeared small and slight, a sapling brought low in the violence of the storm around her. She had not caused the storm, he realized. She was merely trying to survive within it.
He cleared his throat and shifted from one foot to the other. “Lady Beatrix—”
“Just leave me be!” She glared at him and he was relieved to see that she retained at least some portion of her temper. “Go away from here. Leave me at least one moment’s peace before I must face my husband.”
Peter backed out of the opened door and she slammed it closed. But he did not leave right away. Moor approached him and nosed in his hand, searching, no doubt, for a treat. Peter reached mindlessly into a pouch tied at his girdle and gave his pet a hard baked roll of flavored dough. While the hound crunched the morsel, Peter stared at the door to the lord’s private chamber.
He stood there still when his brother burst into the antechamber.
“What do you here?”
“I … I was, ah, grooming Moor.” Peter glanced from his brother to the closed door, then back to Axton. “She is … I mean, well … What is—”
Axton cut him off with a sharp gesture. “If you can find no better task than to linger here with that overgrown hound, then I will find one for you. Begone.”
He did not bother to see if Peter complied, but with an impatient stride, crossed the room, threw open the door, then entered and slammed it shut.
Peter stood as he had before, staring at the door in shock. But it was worse this time. For when the door had been pulled wide, he’d seen something he’d rather he hadn’t. He’d had a clear view of the bed and the enormous bear pelt that draped it. On the pelt, however, lying there without a stitch of clothing to cover her, had been Beatrix.
It had lasted less than a moment, yet the image was burned forever in his head. She’d been naked, her milky white skin and golden hair a startling contrast on the huge black pelt. And she’d been lying on her stomach. He’d seen her tiny waist, the gentle curve to her hips and the twin mounds of her derriere. Beyond that, the endless length of her legs had stretched, to the bare soles of her delicate feet.
He’d heard of pagan sacrifices and to his mind, she looked disturbingly like one. The fact that she lay on her stomach bothered him even more, for it was clear to him that she had been terrified.
What in God’s name had Axton done to her? What was he doing to her this very minute?
He advanced to the door, then halted. No shouts came from within. No sounds, either of anger or violence.
He hesitated. She was his brother’s wife. Axton was her husband, and as such, he had the right to do with her as he wanted—short of killing her or maiming her, of course. And Axton would never do either of those, he told himself, recovering his filial loyalty.
He thought of his parents and the love they’d shared until his father had been killed in a battle near Caen. But his death had not killed his mother’s love for her husband. Though Peter never thought about the wife he would someday take, he knew now, with an unshakable conviction, that when he wed, it must be for love. He would not have a wife cower from him in their bed.
To think of his parents sharing such intimacies brought a flush of embarrassment to his cheeks. But he was nevertheless certain that on the few occasions they’d lain together, they’d done so in love, not in anger and fear as Axton and his bride now did.
Still, it was none of his concern. Axton would not welcome his interference, and Beatrix had made her mind clear in that matter as well. However, when he turned away, taking Moor by the collar as he quit the antechamber and trudged down the stairs, Peter was heavy of heart.
They’d come home to Maidenstone Castle, but it felt nothing like a home to him. Nothing at all.
Chapter 10
When she awoke she was alone. She knew it as surely as she knew night had fallen. Her eyes told her it was dark; some other sense—one without a name o
r a source, but an innate sense just the same—told her that Axton was gone.
Linnea rolled onto her back. She was naked, of course, and cocooned within the heavy bear pelt. The thick fur slid over her skin in a caress only one step removed from that of the man who’d wrapped it around her.
He’d killed the bear in a place called Gisors. He’d told her that in one of the brief moments of calm, as they’d lain there recovering their breath and their strength until they could begin again.
Linnea closed her eyes in utter dismay. A small cry of despair slipped past her lips into the shadowed silence of the chamber. She could not count all the times they’d come together in the way of husbands and wives—in the way of lovers.
She’d understood little enough of the goings-on between men and women before her marriage, but she knew that some women enjoyed it, while others dreaded it. Marriage gave no promise of enjoyment, so Linnea had assumed that love must be the factor that brought pleasure to the act, at least for women.
But now she knew that was not true. She had enjoyed it. She enjoyed it far too much. She did not love the man—how could she? He was her enemy, and besides, she hardly knew him. But she had cavorted with him as if he were her lover. She knew things about him now that she wished she did not know. And he knew things about her …
He knew she was ticklish. She knew he was not. She knew the scar on his chest came from the bear who comforted her now. He knew the mark on her leg was a birthmark. She knew he was twenty-eight and had been born at Maidenstone Castle, in this very chamber. He knew she was ten years younger and had been birthed in the room just across from this one.
But he didn’t know she had a sister. He didn’t know her name was Linnea. And he didn’t know how close she’d come to revealing the truth to him tonight.
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