by Jayne Castel
Wulfhere whispered something she did not quite catch and pushed aside her curtain of hair so that he could kiss the back of her neck. Ermenilda’s gasp turned into a muffled groan.
Why does his touch do this to me?
His hands slid around her ribs to cup her breasts, and to her shame Ermenilda felt her nipples harden against his palms.
“Take off your tunic and turn to me,” he whispered in her ear.
Her hands were shaking so much it was difficult to obey him. She eventually managed, wriggling out of the sheer tunic. The night air, warm from the fires below, caressed her naked skin. She turned around and stifled a gasp when she saw that Wulfhere was undressing. He did so swiftly—already naked to the waist by the time she swiveled to face him.
His gaze met hers before it slid down the length of her naked body.
“Even more beautiful than I imagined,” he murmured.
Ermenilda watched him, transfixed as a moth circling too close to a naked flame. He was strong and broad shouldered, with a flat belly. Wulfhere was unlacing his breeches now, and he stripped them off to reveal a magnificent erection. His shaft lay swollen against his belly, and despite that she willed herself not to, Ermenilda could not take her gaze from it.
Seeing the direction of her gaze, Wulfhere smiled.
“No, certainly not as modest as I first thought.”
He stepped toward Ermenilda and without warning scooped her up in his arms, carrying her over to the furs. There, he laid her down, before moving across her so that their bodies were pressed together. Ermenilda felt his shaft pressing into her belly, and excitement arched up within her like a wild thing. The feel of his naked skin on hers, the smell of him, and his overwhelming presence all drowned her senses. A hunger, unlike anything she had ever experienced, rose within her.
Wulfhere began to kiss her again—deep, sensual kisses that made her gasp. She could not stop herself from touching him; her hands wandered along the hard planes of his chest. Her mind screamed at her to stop, but her body was traitorous.
After Wulfhere had kissed her for so long that her head was spinning, her mouth bee-stung, he moved down to her breasts. He suckled each peak until she began to make soft, wordless cries.
“What is it?” he asked, breathless.
“I want . . . ,” she gasped.
“What do you want?”
“I . . . I . . .”
Wulfhere gave a soft laugh before gently spreading her legs and stroking her between them.
“This?”
A shudder thrummed through her body, and an ache pulsed between her thighs.
What was he doing to her? She should have been mortified, yet all she could think about was the fact that he was now moving over her and had placed the head of his manhood at the entrance to her womb.
“I will try to be gentle,” he murmured, “but this may hurt you.”
Ermenilda had heard of the pain and blood that went along with a wedding night. Strangely, although those stories had frightened her in the past, she was not remotely afraid now.
All she wanted was to have him inside her. She felt as if she would die if he did not take her.
She whimpered as he slowly slid into her. She was tight, and had to stretch to accommodate him, but there was no pain—just an incredible fullness.
“Oh . . .”
“Aye,” Wulfhere groaned as he seated himself fully inside her. “We were made to go together, you and me.”
They stopped there for a moment, and Wulfhere stared down at her, his pupils dilated with pleasure. This time, Ermenilda held his gaze without shyness or embarrassment. The sensation of him inside her was exquisite. She could feel a slow pulse deep within her womb.
Wulfhere began to move inside her. The pleasure of his gentle movements tipped Ermenilda over the edge. She cried out—her fingernails digging into his back—hanging on as if she clung to a cliff’s edge. Pleasure came in deep, aching waves that threatened to consume her, and she writhed beneath him.
Wulfhere answered by covering her mouth with his and kissing her deeply, his tongue mimicking the slide of his shaft within her.
The last vestiges of Ermenilda’s self-restraint snapped, and she cried out. She arched her hips up against him and wrapped her legs around his hips. Wulfhere gave a strangled curse and began to move in slow, deep thrusts, as he too lost control.
By the time he spilled his seed within her, their cries echoing high in the rafters, both Ermenilda and Wulfhere were lost.
Chapter Sixteen
The Morning Gift
Ermenilda was the first to wake in the early dawn.
She stirred among the furs, her body languorous. A sense of well-being, unlike anything she had ever experienced, filled her. For a few blissful moments, she was at peace—nothing existed but the softness and warmth of the furs and the soft breathing of the man beside her.
There’s a man sleeping next to me.
Ermenilda’s eyes snapped open.
Slowly, wishing she was dreaming, she turned her head to the left. Her gaze settled upon Wulfhere’s face.
Asleep, he appeared a different man. The handsome yet austere lines of his face had softened in slumber, and he looked almost . . . vulnerable. Ermenilda inhaled slowly and reminded herself she was watching a sleeping predator. The moment those pale-blue eyes opened, there would not be anything remotely vulnerable about him.
Lord, forgive me.
Ermenilda rolled over onto her back and stared up at the smoke-blackened rafters.
I will be punished for such shamelessness.
To think just a few months ago she had been looking forward to taking her vows. Now, she was a wedded woman, and a bedded one too.
Ermenilda squeezed her eyes shut, mortification flooding through her.
She had planned to remain cold and detached with Wulfhere, to endure his touch and nothing more. Instead, she had gasped, whimpered, and groaned like a whore. She had not just suffered his lovemaking but encouraged every moment of it. Wulfhere had taken her twice more during the night, and she had eagerly accepted him each time.
I am a hypocrite, she railed at herself, and clenched her hands into fists so hard that her fingernails bit into her palms. She took slow, deep breaths, shame bathing her body in a hot tide, and eventually her panic and self-loathing subsided.
When she opened her eyes once more, Wulfhere was beginning to stir. Naked and virile, he stretched against the furs, his white-blond hair falling over his face.
Ermenilda’s throat closed at the sight of him. She had never thought she would ever enjoy looking upon a naked man, but Wulfhere was beautiful to gaze upon.
Yawning, Wulfhere pushed his hair out of his eyes and rolled to face her.
“Good morning,” he said, favoring her with a slow, sleepy smile. “Did you sleep well?”
Ermenilda nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
“Are you hungry?”
Truthfully, she was. She nodded once more.
“Good.” Wulfhere climbed to his feet and strolled over to where his clothing lay discarded a few feet away. “I shall return shortly with something for us to break our fast together,” he told her.
Ermenilda watched him dress in breeches and a quilted vest, before he disappeared down the ladder into the hall below. It was still quite early, and a hush hung over the Great Hall of Tamworth. Ermenilda imagined that after the previous evening’s revelry, few folk—except for the slaves who worked hard from dawn till dusk—would be awake.
As soon as Wulfhere disappeared, Ermenilda jumped off the furs and pulled on her undertunic. She dug around in one of the leather trunks she had brought and pulled out the plainest, most demure woolen overtunic she could find. By the time Wulfhere reappeared, she had dressed and braided her hair down her back.
“Not one to lie abed, I see,” her husband observed, raising an eyebrow. He did not seem to notice Ermenilda’s prim posture as she sat rigidly upon the edge of the furs.
H
er husband had somehow managed to climb the ladder one-handed, while in the other he balanced a platter of bread, cheese, fruit, and a jug of milk, with two wooden cups. He carried the food over to the furs and sat down next to Ermenilda, placing the platter between them.
Wordlessly, he poured her a cup of milk before helping himself to some bread and cheese. Then he gave her a slow smile.
“A night like that gives a man the hunger of a wolf.”
Ermenilda felt her face grow hot, and she looked away. She took a piece of bread, studded with walnuts, and studiously ignored him. However, she knew she could not chastise Wulfhere for his comments, not after her behavior the night before.
They finished their meal in silence, and Ermenilda was brushing crumbs off her dress, wishing there was a deep well she could throw herself down, when Wulfhere spoke once more.
“Since you are dressed, there is somewhere I wish to take you.”
Ermenilda glanced up, surprised. For the first time since awaking, she found her voice.
“Really, this early?”
“It is your morning gift,” he told her with a secretive smile, “so this would be the best time of day to give it to you.”
It was a chill, frosty morning in Tamworth. The sun had barely risen, sending shafts of golden light over the tops of the trees to the east and blinding Ermenilda as she followed Wulfhere across the yard toward the high gate.
Despite her discomfort, Wulfhere’s cryptic words intrigued Ermenilda. The morgen-gifu—morning gift. She had forgotten about the tradition of the new husband bestowing a gift upon his wife on the morning after their handfasting. Her father had given her mother a fine palfrey for a morning gift, whereas her aunt, Aethelthryth, had actually received an island from her new husband.
They had almost reached the high gate, with Ermenilda walking a few paces behind Wulfhere, when he turned left and made his way down a lane between the stables and the storehouse. Ermenilda hurried to keep up with his long strides, nearly running into his back when he abruptly stopped.
Ermenilda peered around her husband and saw they were standing at the entrance to a small enclosure. Around twenty yards long and ten wide, the rectangular area was nothing more than a stretch of pitted earth, still frozen hard with frost. A tall brush fence encircled the area.
Confused, Ermenilda turned to Wulfhere.
“Where are we?”
“This area used to house fowl, but I have had them shifted to another spot,” Wulfhere replied. “Welcome to your new garden . . . or it will be once you do something with it.”
Ermenilda stifled a gasp of surprise.
“How did you know I like gardening?”
A slow smile crept over Wulfhere’s face. “Your father told me of your love for the garden behind his hall. He said you would pine for it.”
Ermenilda was at a loss for words.
“I know it does not look like much now,” Wulfhere continued, “but the soil is good, and if you have the skill your father boasts of, you will soon transform it.”
“It is a thoughtful gift,” Ermenilda finally murmured, finding her manners. Truthfully, the gift humbled her, although she was still taken aback. “Thank you, milord.”
“Ermenilda, look at me,” he commanded.
She looked up, her gaze fusing with his.
“My name is Wulfhere,” he told her, his tone brooking no argument. “We are now man and wife. Enough with the cold formality.”
He reached into the pocket of the quilted vest he wore and withdrew a small object.
“A patch of bare earth is not my only gift.” He held out a necklace, a golden nugget of amber encircled by gold, which hung on a gold chain. “This is also for you.”
“It is beautiful,” she replied, before turning so that he could fasten it about her neck. “Thank you . . . Wulfhere.”
Truthfully, despite its beauty, the necklace was a mere bauble compared to the plot of land for her garden. Suddenly, she did not feel so trapped at Tamworth. She had feared she would spend endless days cooped up inside the oppressive stone tower, spinning and weaving. Now, she had a means of escape, a means of self-expression.
She had her husband, the man she had openly reviled on the journey here, to thank for it.
Ermenilda turned back to Wulfhere, her gaze meeting his once more. His expression was shuttered, although his eyes were keen. He may have not wanted to show it, but she sensed her reaction to his gifts mattered to him.
“These are generous gifts,” she began timidly, “and I am grateful.”
He reached out and gently stroked her cheek. Her skin thrilled at his touch, and her breathing stilled.
“Do you no longer loathe me then?”
“I . . . do not,” she managed.
His hand slid to the nape of her neck, where he stroked the sensitive skin there.
“So you could come to tolerate me?”
Ermenilda swallowed and tried to ignore the dizzying lust that melted her limbs like butter set too close to the fire.
“I . . . could.”
“I know you wished for another life,” he continued, “but I promise that you will want for nothing here. Gold, jewels, and finery—whatever you wish for, you will have.”
Ermenilda did not reply. His words had brought her swiftly to her senses. Desire drained from her, leaving her feeling slightly sick. Wulfhere had unwittingly ruined what had been a tender moment between them.
Gold, jewels, and finery. So, you think you can buy my affection?
Ermenilda stepped back from him, forcing Wulfhere to withdraw his hand.
“I have no need of riches,” she told him firmly. “The life you took from me was one of solitude, peace, and worship. Those things cannot be bought.”
She thought her response would anger him, but Wulfhere merely watched her, his gaze narrowing slightly.
“One thing my father taught me,” he told her quietly, “is that everyone has their price. From the highest to the lowest, we will all bargain. It’s just a matter of finding what yours is.”
PART TWO
Two months later . . .
Chapter Seventeen
Gardening
Wynflaed straightened up, brushing aside a lock of auburn hair that had come free of its braid.
“It’s starting to rain, milady. We should go inside.”
Ermenilda sighed and glanced up at the threatening sky. Drops of cool rain splashed onto her upturned face, and thunder rumbled in the distance. Her afternoon’s work was about to be cut short. She had lingered in church after the noon meal, and now the weather was turning. It was proving to be a wet spring. At this rate, they would never prepare the beds for planting.
Brushing dirt off her hands, Ermenilda climbed to her feet and looked about her. She stood at the heart of the garden, enveloped by the scent of damp earth. Her surroundings bore no resemblance to the bare plot Wulfhere had gifted her two months earlier. It was still far from the garden she had left behind in Cantwareburh, but now she could visualize how it would eventually look.
Even so, she wished her mother and sister could have seen how much work she and Wynflaed had put into this garden. At the thought of Seaxburh and Eorcengota, a blade of homesickness twisted under her ribs. There were days she missed them so much that it felt as if her soul ached.
Blinking back tears, Ermenilda surveyed the area. They had laid down gravel paths—one down the center with smaller paths running out to the perimeter—and planted roses around the edges. The bushes were bare and scrawny now, but as soon as the weather warmed, they would flourish with deep-red blooms.
In the largest bed, she and Wynflaed had sown early-spring greens, and the seedlings were just beginning to poke through the dark earth. If all of Ermenilda’s planting went to plan, kale, cabbages, onions, turnips, and carrots would fill the other beds by midsummer.
Ermenilda picked up her wicker basket of wooden gardening implements. Wordlessly, she led the way toward the gate, her boots crunching on the gr
avel underfoot. Just before leaving her garden, she glanced back at it, as was her habit every afternoon once she had finished work. Despite the melancholy that always settled upon her when she thought of her family, the sight of the work she and Wynflaed had done never failed to fill her with a sense of achievement.
The rain started to fall heavily, turning the earth muddy beneath the women’s feet as they hurried back to the Great Tower. By the time Ermenilda reached the oaken doors, the deluge had soaked her woolen cloak through. Likewise, Wynflaed was completely drenched, her hair plastered against her scalp.
They stepped through the doorway, into a passage that led up to the main hall, with store rooms off to the right and left. They were peeling off their wet cloaks when Ermenilda saw Elfhere emerge from the hall and make his way toward the main doors.
“Good afternoon, Lady Ermenilda . . . Wynflaed.” He greeted them both with a smile, although—as always—his gaze lingered upon Wynflaed.
“It is not so good,” Ermenilda replied with a grimace, shaking water out of her hair. “I would not venture outdoors, if I were you.”
Elfhere nodded, his gaze remaining upon Wynflaed.
“I have not spoken to you in a while, Wynflaed,” he said, his smile fading. “Is all well?”
The maid nodded, favoring him with a polite smile in return. “Aye, all is well—thank you. We have been busy preparing the garden.”
She turned away from him, signaling their conversation was over.
Ermenilda watched Elfhere step back, his expression shuttered. He nodded to Ermenilda and moved past them, disappearing outside into the rain.
Ermenilda watched him go, frowning, before turning to Wynflaed.
“Has that man done something to offend you?”
Her maid turned to her, surprised.
“No, milady. Why do you ask?”
Ermenilda shrugged. “You rebuff him every time he tries to speak to you. I thought you were friends with Elfhere?”
