Heloise felt like a woodland creature watching the hunter inch his way towards her. Make it irrevocable. When no words of love had been spoken? Irrevocable. The word was sinister. Instinctively her fingers struggled for freedom. “I am not sure any longer.” They should have done this with Gloucester’s blessing, not behind his back.
Across the board between them, Rushden’s jaw slackened. “But you said this was your wish also. Be grateful, madam, in God’s name! You have a husband who desires you. Come!” His hold tightened, urging her to her feet. His intense gaze was unrelenting—waiting, predatory.
It dawned upon her addled mind like a mystic revelation that he was half-turned towards the stairs, that a bedchamber was spoken for. That the necessary act of consummation was not to be tonight but now! Now in the daylight.
Outwitted at last, Heloise was into deep water, her magic useless. His mind was made up. He wanted her. The thought that he would intimately enter her body ripened her, made her womb quiver in readiness, and she shivered at the incredible sensations that were throbbing through her body and forcing her powers of reasoning into abeyance.
This was a different Miles Rushden. A bridegroom. Doublet half open, shirt neck loosened, this was the stranger that she had known at Bramley and feared: his black hair wild, his mouth mocking and determined, a man of power and consequence who had her breathless and trembling. But this must be a marriage of equals. He needed to learn that now, else he never would.
“No!” She stared down at the crumbs scattering the grainy wood, biting her lip, frightened of her rebelliousness, but she was not a horse to be led into the stable and mounted. “I went to Brecknock because I had nowhere else to go and . . .”
“Go on.” He seemed to be circling like a hawk.
Heloise’s fears bred fast. St. Catherine protect her and grant her body’s defenses could safely prove she was a virgin! She was afraid of tyranny—of finally becoming this man’s property like her mother and Matillis had been her father’s. “If you think I am going to lie down for you obligingly, the moment you snap your fingers and whistle, then . . .”
“Oh, but you shall.” Strong arms came from behind her to clasp her elbows and raise her. Her heart fluttered like a frantic moth as she felt his body hard against her, his breath stirring her veil. “And believe me, I shall do more than whistle, lady.”
His little witch was shaking as Miles drew her up the stairs, his arm about her waist. This was the last thing he had expected; his level-headed Heloise behaving like a skittish bride. The bedchamber did not help but where else could he have taken her?
At least it was clean and spacious. Apart from a screen that hid a corner of the sunlit, whitewashed room, the bed, huge enough to sleep half a dozen travelers, took up the entire space. Heloise gasped audibly. Miles gently pushed her over the threshold and kicked the door to behind him lest the inn servants carried the gossip over the entire city. It was not ideal, he admitted with wry amusement at his predicament, but give a mare time to balk at a fence and she will not take it.
“I assumed you would not want another wedding feast and a public unrobing.” He lifted off his silver collar lest the intermeshing rings bruise her, unlooped the last pearl buttons of his doublet, and shrugged his gathered shirtsleeves loose. Drawing her gently towards him, he kissed her. The lady began to thaw.
“I promise you I can be deft as any servant,” he murmured against her mouth and then cursed inwardly as he tried to ease free the inner wire of her headdress so he might uncoil Heloise’s moonlight hair from beneath her cap. It was she who finished the task, which did not appease her uncertain temper. Miles had not tamed his little rebel yet.
“What if I had wanted an annulment, sir?” she protested as his hands fell to mold the curves that had tantalized him all through their repast. He eased away the triangle of black satin that covered her from cleavage to her slender, high waist. She was as exquisite as he had remembered her from Bramley. The sable, sloping collar of her overgown erotically half-concealed her coral-tipped breasts and he pushed back the fabric, feasting his gaze, delighting in the knowledge that this wondrous pleasure garden belonged to him, to wander where he willed. “An annulment?” he answered dazedly. “It is too late for that, believe me.” She was his shapeshifter, the she-knight who had fought him. He needed her to know that she was his. His fingers slid to where touching had been denied him and watched with the satisfaction of a skilled journeyman as her lips parted in pleasure more than protest. “So you like that.”
“Well enough.”
“You shrewcat, you do.” Yes, she did.
He unfastened her platelet belt, ignoring the hands that shyly sought to prevent him. Her outer robe was swiftly lifted.
“Sir, I wish you would wait until darkness and spare my modesty.” Heloise’s voice was muffled within the damask’s depths. She emerged tousled and defiant, but this was a very determined bridegroom she was dealing with and there was a wicked, sensual glitter in his admiring gaze.
“And spoil my pleasure?” Outrageous man, he was making her feel as though she were naked already. She retreated, clutching the gown in front of her until the back of her thighs met the bed.
“Well, what of my pleasure, sir?”
The gown was twitched from her hands and flung aside. “You will find, my delight, that I have sufficient experience to please both of us. I thought you wanted this, cariad.” The intensity of his clouded gaze was working a magic that she could not resist. Yes, she wanted him very much, Heloise decided. “Turn, my armored angel.” She felt the hardness of him through her thin underskirt. Relentless fingers were freeing her of the chemise, peeling the tight sleeves from her wrists.
“You are perfection, you know that? Beautiful beyond most men’s imaginings.” His words were soft breath caressing her cheek. Her body willingly arched against his shoulder as skillful hands slid slowly down her in persuasive adoration. An unassuaged hunger flooded Heloise’s body between breast and thigh.
Miles lifted aside the veil of her hair and kissed her shoulder. Why had he been a fool to delay tasting her delights? “Admit you have kept me hungering for you, my sorceress, ever since you lured me to your orchard, punishing me night after night.”
“Can you not understand”—she gestured helplessly, wriggling around to face him—“what I want from you?”
“You think too much, my darling.” Rushden tipped her face up. His eyes were darker than she had ever seen them, ruthless as an enemy’s. If she kept her arms defiantly at her sides, thought Heloise, regretting her inexperience in bedchamber jousting, perhaps he would listen, but she had no defense from his lips. His mouth came firmly down on hers, demanding and taking, while his hands wandered, testing, teasing, lighting fires that burned and melted. “Why do you not trust me to be gentle with you?” he asked, setting his hands beneath her arms and lifting her onto the bed.
“Because . . . Oh!” She needed more than adoration, more than the worship of his lips.
With strong hands upon her forearms, he rolled sideways. Heloise found herself straddling him, his aroused body hard beneath her lawn underskirt, her hands splaying the proud symmetry of shining skin and curling hair where his shirt had fallen away.
Further knavery suffused his handsome face as she blushed above his appreciative gaze. His hands, curved in support beneath her elbows, shook her teasingly. “Lady Rushden, you do understand what we are supposed to do in order to consummate this marriage?”
The question distracted her from her mental battle. Heloise moistened her lips consideringly with sudden confidence—she rather liked having him beneath her—and received a curl of lip from him. So he thought her an ignoramus, did he? Well, she had seen stallions mounting mares. She knew he would have to approach her from the back so he was definitely not dangerous or threatening at the moment. In fact it was delicious to have him at her mercy and she wriggled herself into a more comfortable position, disregarding his deep, ecstatic growl. And one of them had to
retain common sense.
“I—I think whatever is necessary, sir,” she declared, exploratively drawing a finger down through the silky pelt of his breast, “we should do it twice to be sure. So that there is absolutely no confusion afterwards.”
“God ha’ mercy!” He bucked, laughing heartily. Thrown off balance, Heloise tumbled forward onto her forearms across his chest, almost drowning him in her hair.
“Do you think you can manage to call me Miles?” he asked, tenderness and desire deepening his smile.
“Hmm.” She tilted her head and mischievously twisted a black lock of his hair about her finger, then she traced the line of his lips; but the passion in his eyes belied his calm.
“Heloise,” he said hoarsely, “I hope I have not tethered my future to a tease. I would very much appreciate it if you kissed me.”
“Like this, Miles?”
“Promising,” he murmured against her mouth and, with a swift thrust, had her on her back again. She was sweetly parting her lips to him, threading her fingers through his hair. “Do you know what you do to me, Heloise?” His voice was a soft, ragged whisper. “One by one, all my rational thoughts have succumbed to a delicious, divine aching that only you can satisfy.” His experienced hand reached beneath her skirt and drew down her stockings. The lady’s breath grew swifter still as his fingers worked their magic between her thighs. He relished her astonishment, enjoyed watching the dark centers of her eyes widen with yearning. “The tylwyth teg,” he lied as he efficiently dispensed with her undergown, “believe that a bride who is a changeling must be bedded in the afternoon lest she disappear by twilight. That is why we could not wait until tonight.”
“That cannot be true,” she protested.
“Having slept in several faery rings, I can assure you it is common gossip in such circles.”
With a ripple of laughter, Heloise clouted him, and then she realized that he had utterly demolished her shyness and blushed all over.
A faery maiden with silver hair. Her modesty pleased Miles, reassured him that it was not witchcraft that had him hot for her. Once she learned that lovemaking was not sinful, she would know how to touch him also. He swung his feet to the ground and loosened the laces of his gypon—that would be her task another time—and pushed it down with his hose and underdrawers so he might step free.
Upon his soul, what mischief now? Looking round he saw that Heloise had rolled away from him onto all fours and crouched like a wildcat, her enchantress’s hair cascading down her shoulders. Her firm pointed breasts were driving him to madness.
“Why is it that you suddenly find my merchant blood acceptable? Is it because I have the lion’s share of his estate?”
With an effort, he tried to stay sane. “No,” he exclaimed. Battling his shirt, he flung it from him. “I find you acceptable.”
The virgin in her was too disconcerted at his sudden nakedness to argue more. As she glanced swiftly away, her sweet body blushing, he sprang onto the bed and snared her wrists.
“So what is it to be, madam? Do you want a marriage between us or not?”
What was he doing wrong? He was only human, for God’s sake. He had hoped to light a fire of passion in her that would burn all her doubts, but the fey in her was still embattled, still fighting to keep control. Or was it that she wanted him as a friend but not a lover? Perhaps he was wrong to think that she could be attracted to him.
“Heloise. Is it my appearance?” His voice gentled and he knelt, holding her up so that she faced him, her balance dependent on his strength. “Changeling, look at me.” Her gaze fell upon his pitted face. “Heloise Ballaster, will you have me as your lord and husband and plight me your troth?” Slowly she nodded. But he needed more. “Truly, lady? For if you find me repugnant, by the saints, you must tell me now and we shall pretend this never happened.”
“How could you think so?” Her fingertips smoothed his cheekbone with great tenderness. “I swear I would not wish you otherwise in any way.”
“Then God’s blessing on us.” He drew her right hand close and kissed it. Then he drew the ring she had returned from his hand and set it upon her finger. “For I hereby take you as my wife, for better and for worse, to have and to hold until the end of my life.” The tension left her face. As she calmed, he steadied her shoulders within the frames of his hands, thankful that God had shown him the right way, grateful that the offering of words had cleansed away the falseness of their winter ceremony.
“Amen,” she whispered and lifted her other palm to his cheek.
“So, Lady Rushden?” He waited.
Her soft laughter filled the kissing distance between them and chased away the demons. “So, my newly married lord, whistle!”
Twenty
There was something akin to treason about being unclothed, Heloise decided. The May sun was filling the room with soporific warmth as they lay across the middle of the huge bed face to face, but outside the window, a hungry thrush beat a snail against a branch. Miles Rushden, arms folded, studied her as she lay with her chin upon her crossed wrists. With consideration and intelligence, with sensitivity of touch and patience, he had led her into a realm beyond her imagining.
“This is wondrously sinful.” She drew a nameless map with her nail upon the sheet and could not resist teasing: “Buckingham may be running amok.”
“He will when he hears of this.” Rushden ran his finger along her swollen lips, amused at her growing confidence.
“Yes, I know.” Blushing, she lowered her head so that her hair veiled her.
He pulled aside the silvery curtain. “The first time is hardest of all. There is much to accommodate.”
Her lips quivered, her impish glance interbred with ruefulness. “Yes.”
“She-devil!”
“And what now? Am I to be returned to Baynards’ gatehouse like a borrowed horse, bruised and ridden?”
“Crumpled certainly. Perhaps that might be best, unless you would like to share a bed with me and de la Bere.”
“I thought you were going to suggest dear Harry for a moment. Perhaps we can invite him, too.” She rolled over, gleeful at teasing him, and then, feeling his lusty gaze, swiftly rolled back to hide her womanly parts.
Had Cleopatra looked so when Caesar rolled her from the carpet? Miles laughed and generously dragged his gaze away from the beautiful valleys and rises that now belonged to him. It was tempting to make love to her yet again but he remembered his first wife had suffered the soreness that affects new brides. Wiser now, more controlled, more understanding, he would not make the same mistake with Heloise.
“I should like Bishop Stillington’s blessing and we must inform her grace of York.”
“It shall be done.”
“And now you may tell me about the loan.” The sudden question winded him, as she had known it would. Heloise watched him roll from the bed, his back a surly breadth of angered manliness.
His shirt briefly muffled an answer. “There are hundreds of loans being arranged this day in London. Which one are we talking about?” He tugged on his black hose and stood up to fasten his points.
“The loan my father promised to someone in Northampton.”
Under control, he studied her across his shoulder. “There was none made to me, I promise you.”
“No, to Gloucester, I believe. My sister spoke of it.”
“Your sister is a brazen, interfering piece.” He disappeared beneath the level of the bed and her much-creased gown, followed by her sorry headdress, hurtled up. She gasped as he bowled her over backwards on the coverlet, shackling her wrists beside her head. “My sword is not for sale, nightingale.” His lower lip roughed hers.
A beauty white as whalles bone,
A pearl shod in goodly gold,
A turtle dove my herte desires
The joy of hir . . .
“Forget the past.” The manacles broke and he gathered her to him. “Lady knight, the only loan I took out was you.”
***
HER NEW LORD TOOK HER TO THE RED ROSE FOR SUPPER AND announcements. Buckingham, to Heloise’s relief, was dining at Lord Howard’s. Miles, merry with ale after their repast in the hall, led her up into the duke’s solar and flung open the casement to let in the western sun. The seven o’clock bells rang out across the city.
“You know Gloucester better than I,” he murmured, taking a piece of clean parchment from a shelf. “I should like to write to him out of courtesy and tell him that he has one ward less. Is that a wise notion? Or do your instincts suggest he will clap me in the Tower?”
Heloise beamed. “He has more important matters than us.”
“You think so?” He looked up from sharpening a quill, disarming her with a wicked grin. “And now, Lady Rushden, you need entertainment.” He seated her upon the settle that backed the hearth in summer fashion, lifted a gilded book onto the small table before her, and unlocked the clasps.
Running her fingers across Buckingham’s broad signature below the handsome illuminated title, De Propietatibus Rerum, Heloise felt not the duke’s delight in such a treasure but his envy of the dead author, Bartholomew. Perturbed, she turned the pages distractedly, preferring to watch her husband as he at last leaned forward to write in swift, decisive strokes.
“There,” he said eventually, jabbing a Rushden serpent into the sealing wax. “Signed and sealed, like us.”
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