Nature of the Beast

by Hannah Howell

  He stood suddenly, holding her in his arms, knocking over the chair. She gave a startled cry when he dumped her in the middle of the bed, then lifted the edge of her night rail and swiftly pulled it over her head. Eyes pinned to her now nude body, Haydn tore off his hose and boots.

  Naked, almost painfully aroused, he paused a moment to look at her. Her skin was the color of fresh milk, her breasts firm and full, the rosy peaks aching for his touch. Her legs were long and well formed, her waist slender, her hips curved. A blush colored her cheeks at his intense scrutiny, but she made no move to cover herself.

  “I like it when you look at me,” she confessed in a wicked whisper.

  “You are a very beautiful woman,” he rasped.

  “I am your woman.”

  She arched upward, offering herself. Her sensual abandon intoxicated him far more than any of the spirits he had consumed that day. He leaned in and kissed her, trailing his hands over her bare back, then moving forward to her front. He teased her with his tongue, with gentle nips of his teeth, and she gave a shuddering moan in response.

  Excited by her response, he ran his fingers lightly across her breasts. She gasped when he squeezed the hardened nipples. Taking a shuddering breath, he bent down, replacing his fingers with his tongue. He kissed her, lapped her, teased her, suckled her. She made a small noise in the back of her throat and lifted her hips.

  Smiling with savage determination, Haydn reached between her legs, sliding his hand up her smooth thigh. His thumb rubbed and circled and teased. Within moments she was swollen and wet and writhing on the bed.

  Passion nearly blinded him. He shifted, moving down her body, spreading the plump folds that guarded her womanhood, exposing the perfect pearl inside. Bethan cried out, arching her back, lifting herself off the mattress. Haydn never hesitated. He moved between her silken thighs and placed an open-mouth kiss on the very heart of her.

  She stiffened. Shocked? Frightened? Embarrassed? The reasons were unimportant to him. She had said she wanted to be his in every way and this was one of the ways. His fingers clutched her hips, lifting her closer. His tongue slid between the curls and settled against her swollen, sensitive flesh. He continued to feather his tongue over her, gently laving, then sucking.

  She cried out again, helpless in her pleasure, her hands grasping at his shoulders. His tempo increased to match the frantic thrust of her hips, his tongue stroking rhythmically over that one magical spot, until she gave a sharp gasp and her entire body began to shudder.

  Her climax unleashed the devil within Haydn. He grabbed a pillow from the head of the bed and shoved it under her hips, tilting her upward. Desire consumed every inch of his flesh, passion coursed swiftly and heatedly through his veins. He felt on fire, fully aroused and nearly trembling with need. Knowing he could wait no longer to possess her, Haydn nudged her legs farther apart with his knee, covered her fully, and thrust inside.

  She screamed as he filled her, a strangled moan of equal parts pain and pleasure. He paused, his desire faltering. He had not realized that breaking through her maidenhead would be so painful.

  Her face was buried against the side of his neck. He heard the muffled sound of her voice and nearly yelled out with frustration. Awash in an agony of pleasure, he moved his hand to cup her skull, holding her so he could look into her eyes.

  “Are you stopping?” she asked. “Is it over?”

  He saw the confusion, the frustration in her eyes. Her fingers clutched at his hair, tugging hard. He was unsure what she wanted. “Are you in pain? Do you want me to stop?”

  “No!”

  He might have laughed, had not his passion been so deeply aroused. It pleased him to know that she was not afraid, that she wanted to continue. Propping himself up on his forearms, Haydn stared down to where they were joined. It was an obscene, tantalizing sight to see himself swallowed inside her body. An unexpectedly emotional and humbling experience not being able to determine where he ended and she began.

  “I am still with you, Bethan.”

  He felt her move and realized she was also looking.

  “We are one,” she whispered in awe. “Oh, Haydn.”

  His control crumbled. Withdrawing but a few inches in a slow, measured stroke, Haydn brought her legs around him and then thrust forward, filling her again. He reached between them to stroke her as he moved within her, then felt her body soften, relax.

  It was heaven. He was buried inside her to the hilt, her softness surrounding him. Gritting his teeth, Haydn set a steady rhythm, holding back his release as he pumped into her. His patience was soon rewarded as her soft cries and murmurs intensified and she began to undulate beneath him, her movements mirroring his thrusts.

  He felt the first shudder radiate from her body into his, heard her strangled cry. She trembled, her inner muscles tightened around him as the convulsions overtook her, her shout of delight echoing throughout their candlelit chamber.

  Her climax gave him his. He grew harder, thrust deeper, then savagely filled her womb with the sudden, hot rush of his seed.

  Thoroughly sated, limp with exhaustion, Haydn pushed himself into a kneeling position, pulled out of her, and slid to the edge of the bed. Bethan lay sprawled wantonly on her back, her thighs slightly parted, her eyes closed, her skin flushed, her hair a golden tangle among the rumbled bed linens. Her expression was one of utter contentment, bringing him a stab of masculine pride, knowing he had done that to her.

  She mumbled and shifted her legs. He could see streaks of pink on her inner thighs and the covers beneath. Marks of her recently lost virginity.

  The sight pleased him. He had never before lain with a virgin and it gave him an odd sense of possession and ownership knowing he had been her first.

  He had done his duty by her and in the process brought them each great pleasure. But now it was over. Every instinct coursing through his veins told him to walk to the other side of the room and sit by the fire, calmly drinking another goblet of wine until she fell asleep. Given her state of pure contentment and exhaustion, it would not take long.

  Yet he found that he could not bring himself to leave her. Crawling forward, Haydn snaked his arm around Bethan’s waist and slowly pulled her into the center of the large bed. He stretched out beside her, adjusting their positions so that their bodies were pressed close.

  Bethan let out a small sigh of contentment and curled into him. Her skin was unbearably soft. Idly, Haydn stroked her shoulder, marveling at how the trusting yielding of a woman’s body could bring him such a strong measure of peace. It made him realize how alone he had been for so very long, how desperate he had been for the warmth of another’s touch.

  Shaking his head at such weak, fanciful thoughts, he pulled the furs over them. Trying to ignore the strong sense of possession he felt toward this woman, Haydn listened to the gentle cadence of her breathing. Then gradually he, too, allowed sleep to claim his weary body.

  Bethan awoke with her cheek nestled on Haydn’s bare chest, her body pressed against his, one of her legs settled between his thighs. The room was bathed in an eerie glow of sputtering candles and glowing embers from the low-burning fire in the grate. No sunlight, nor moonlight for that matter, invaded the chamber.

  Puzzled, Bethan glanced at the window on the far side of the room and realized it was covered with a dark swath of material. Haydn’s cloak? She shifted her weight, intending to investigate, but the movement woke her slumbering husband.

  “Is it morning?” he inquired huskily.

  She shook her head. “I am uncertain. I think ’tis still night.” She moved herself into a half-reclining position, staring intently at the hidden window. “Why did you place your cloak over the window?”

  “To ward off the chill,” he explained.

  Her brow rose in confusion. “I had no idea you were so affected by the cold.”

  “’Tis a grave secret that I shield from others.” He sighed with exaggeration. “Truth be told, I have a most delicate constitutio
n.”

  Was he jesting with her? Startled, she gazed down at his fit, muscular body, then up to his face where the merest hint of a smile curled his lips. The Warrior of the North was teasing her? The notion produced a sudden, almost painful tug on her heart.

  Uncertain how to interpret this unexpected, playful side to his character, she huddled down beside him. Her hand rested on his chest. When he moved, she felt the ripple of hard muscle under her fingers and the steady, heavy thump of his heart.

  “It must be night,” she muttered. “All is quiet and still inside the castle.”

  “Sleep. I am certain you are exhausted.”

  “No, not really. The small nap I just took has revived me.” She ran her hand over the knotted contours of his arms and chest. His physique was beautiful, the skin sleek and smooth. “You have no scars, no wounds at all. ’Tis strange for a warrior of your experience.”

  He opened one eye and stared at her. “And what do you know of warrior’s scars, wife?”

  Bethan smiled. She liked hearing him call her wife. “I have seen the soldiers on the practice field. When it gets too warm, they often remove their tunics and continue the training bare-chested.”

  Haydn snorted. “Saints preserve us all from curious maidens. No doubt the men worked harder to build up a sweat, knowing you were ogling them.”

  Laughing, she turned toward him, pressing her mouth to his chest, impishly sending her tongue across his nipple.

  Haydn went perfectly still. Curious, Bethan did it again. He groaned, softly. Encouraged, she swirled her tongue around the turgid peak, then pulled it into her mouth and sucked. Hard.

  He muttered a few words and she continued. Featherlight, her fingers slid down his belly, across his firm stomach. She smiled as his penis sprang up against her hand. The air grew sultry with need.

  “More,” he rasped.

  Bethan’s heavy-lidded gaze followed the path of her fingers. Thick and hard, his penis thrust out from a thatch of dark hair at his groin. Her hand looked very small as her fingers closed around the width of him.

  She felt him shudder. Bethan drew her hand up the stiff length of him, then repeated the motion going down to the root. He moaned, flexing his hips. The response delighted her. It made her feel wanton, womanly, in control.

  He caught at her hand, clamping his large one over hers, holding it immobile. Bethan, fearing he would pull it away, protested instantly. “No, let me.”

  For a minute he used her hand to stroke himself. Eagerly, Bethan followed his instruction. When he let go she continued the movements he had taught her, using her thumb to spread the silky bead of liquid that leaked from the tip all around the jutting head.

  He pressed himself more firmly against her, grinding his hips madly, then with an oath falling from his lips, pulled away. Dismayed, Bethan reached for him, but he held himself out of her reach.

  “’Tis late. You should sleep.”

  His words angered her. She was restless, edgy, filled with a need that only he could fulfill. And he wanted her to sleep? “I can sleep anytime, husband. I have but one wedding night to indulge myself.”

  He stared down at her, his silver eyes fierce. “I rode you hard, my little virgin. You will be sore,” he warned.

  “Probably.” She shrugged. And waited. And when he made no move, she reached out with both hands and curled them around his still hard penis.

  He sucked in a sharp breath. Quick as a flash of lightning, he flipped her onto her back, pulled her close, and covered her mouth with his. The heat from his body warmed her, the press of his lips and tongue delighted her. With a sigh of excitement, Bethan wrapped her arms around Haydn’s neck, giving herself completely to the moment, and the man.

  The next time Bethan awoke, the chamber was empty. Noting the hour was far later than usual, she summoned her maid. After a quick, thorough wash, she selected a deep red gown, delicately embroidered with silver thread around the scooped neckline and tapered cuffs. She plaited her hair, leaving one long golden braid down the center of her back, then added a short, simple linen veil.

  Bethan descended the winding stairs to the great hall with a heart that felt lighter than it had in years. As she reached the bottom of the stairs, she spied Haydn rising from his seat on the dais.

  Eagerly she started toward him, feeling a blush of color warm her cheeks as she remembered their ardent lovemaking. Yet the shy smile of greeting died on her lips as Haydn brushed past her with barely a glance, not even a nod of acknowledgment. For an instant Bethan was too stunned to react. But her hurt was soon pushed aside, replaced by a crushing sense of anger. How dare he treat her so?

  “My lord! My lord!”

  She trailed after him, running to catch up. He ignored her cries, but she quickened her pace. Somehow she was able to grab the sleeve of his tunic, forcing him to stop and turn to her. Yet before she could speak, Haydn clamped a fist around her upper arm and pulled her close.

  “Slap me,” he whispered in her ear.

  “What?”

  “Slap me! Hard. Your stepfather is watching.”

  Angry enough to oblige him, Bethan swung her open palm at his handsome face. But he was too fast for her. Capturing her wrist, he twisted her arm up over her head. She jerked and kicked, trying to break free, but he slammed her against the stone wall, immobilizing her with his hips.

  “What are you doing?” Her breath came in gasping pants.

  “Keeping you safe.” Slowly, deliberately, he ran one finger down her throat, lingering on the wildly beating pulse at the base.

  The sound of raucous laughter reached her ears. Bethan jerked her head to the left and saw several grinning knights watching the exchange. Behind them, with a smug smile of satisfaction on his lips, stood the Lord of Lampeter.

  “Come, Lord Meifod. We have important matters to attend,” de Bellemare shouted. “You can play with your wife later.”

  “Forgive me.” Haydn spoke barely above a whisper, studying her, his face expressionless. Then without a backward glance he released her, and strode away.

  Her hands shook as her heart clamored in her chest. Though he appeared to be doing it for her stepfather’s benefit, Bethan was horrified at the way her husband had treated her. Humiliated, embarrassed, angry, and hurt, she tried to go about her business as if it did not matter, but the day had been ruined, the hope within her dashed.

  The next three days were among the most miserable of Bethan’s life. Haydn spent all his time in the company of her stepfather. If he happened upon Bethan during the course of his day, her husband either ignored her or made a crude remark.

  Though a logical part of her mind realized it was necessary for Haydn to get close to de Bellemare, to understand his enemy before he could defeat him, it was nevertheless a painful time. Her bed remained empty at night, her heart lonely and frightened during the day.

  Rumors reached her ears of raids with neighboring villages, sport with other women. She tried to stifle the concern building inside her, yet these tales worried her, made her feel guilty. Each day, the knowledge that she had brought the Warrior of the North to Lampeter, had welcomed him into her bed and into her life, tore at her heart.

  On the afternoon of the fourth day, Bethan reached a decision. She could not go on like this, speculating as to Haydn’s motivation, not fully understanding his actions. She knew she must confront her husband, must hear from his lips precisely what he was planning.

  Her mood sour, Bethan walked briskly through the courtyard, trying to decide how best to approach Haydn, when a shout rang out. Villeins began running and she was swept up in the moving crowd. They stopped short at the edge of a solid wall of people and Bethan found herself jostled toward the front.

  Excitement charged the air and Bethan soon realized the reason. Two knights were fighting and it was quickly apparent this was not a practice drill, but a personal argument. Bethan froze as she recognized Haydn as one of the combatants. The men were equal in height, but Haydn was pure musc
le, giving him the clear advantage.

  They fought with their fists, not swords, and truth be told ’twas not much of a fight. Haydn ducked and swung, landing blows, yet receiving none. Frustrated, the knight lowered his head and charged, but Haydn easily smashed his face into the wall of a nearby building with a resounding crack that made her cringe. The man screamed as blood spouted from his nose and mouth.

  Pulling him up by the collar, Haydn hit him in the jaw. The knight collapsed at Haydn’s feet. As he lay on the ground, Haydn pulled his sword from its leather scabbard, then lifted his arms high over his head.

  “Stop! For God’s sake, stop!”

  Bethan screamed in distress, but Haydn never hesitated. She cringed, trying to avert her eyes but she was too slow turning her head away. To her horror, she witnessed the final blow, as Haydn swiped his blade smoothly across his opponent’s throat. There were gasps from the crowd, along with several shouts of approval. With a sickened stomach, Bethan scurried from the scene, her eyes nearly blinded by unshed tears.

  Minutes later, Haydn found her in the chapel.

  “Bethan?”

  She swallowed hard and prayed for strength as she rose slowly from her knees. He took a step forward and she gasped, recoiling.

  “You are afraid of me?”

  Tightly fisting her hands to keep them from shaking, Bethan squared her shoulders and tried to prepare herself for this confrontation. “Should I not be afraid? You have become little more than de Bellemare’s lackey, spending your days and nights by his side. The castle buzzes with rumors of your actions, tales of your cruelty.”

  “’Tis merely gossip.”

  “Perhaps. But with my own eyes I have witnessed your brutality.”

  “Are you speaking of the man in the courtyard?”

  “There are others?” Bethan covered her face with her hands, the fatigue and grief overwhelming her.

  Without another word Haydn turned and left the chapel.

  A sob escaped from her throat as Bethan fell back to her knees and began to pray.