Gwyneth looked straight at Beresford and said, “Sire Senlis had them on the tip of his tongue when you arrived. I believe you told me once, did you not, sire, that there were at least a half-dozen?”
Beresford felt that she was returning his challenge. He liked that. The topic was wholly trivial, and he liked that, too. “I recall something of the sort,” he said, and rattled off the names of the knights concerned.
Gwyneth accepted this list with a nod he interpreted as mockingly deferential, and she lowered her gaze from his. He found her demeanor very provocative.
Senlis might have caught something of what was passing between them, for he shifted on the bench then cleared his throat. The evening long, the talk had veered ever closer toward the heavier, more potent topic of Duke Henry’s purpose on the island kingdom. Finally, Senlis decided to dance no more around the edges of it. He laid a forearm on the table and leaned forward, looking at Beresford. “So tell us, Simon,” he said, “the news from Bristol.”
Beresford accepted the change of topic complacently. He was in an expansive mood, and felt a desire to spar. He wanted to work himself up by degrees to the main entertainment of the evening. He slanted a glance at Gwyneth and replied to Senlis, “Do we dare discuss the topic of our moves against Duke Henry in the presence of one of his sympathizers?”
Beresford was gratified to see Gwyneth’s quick flush, but it was not yet the color he was longing to fetch up. Still, the angry glare she flashed him was momentarily satisfying to him. “What harm could I possibly do, sire,” she replied with a very controlled voice, “when there are five castle guards in my home to prevent me from consorting with any of your enemies?”
“But you have the guards hauling water for you,” Beresford returned, “instead of watching over you.”
Gwyneth’s smile was exceedingly sweet and her voice remarkably submissive. “That is because the house was so very much in need of cleaning, sire. I have Adela to thank for having sent the guards along to help me.” She looked up at him guilelessly. “Unless I have someone else to thank for the consideration?”
When Beresford grunted a cagily indifferent, “No,” Senlis began to entertain some interesting ideas about this particular exchange. His brows had shot up at Beresford’s openly outrageous insult to his wife’s loyalties, then knit curiously at Gwyneth’s cool reply. She did not shrink an inch from countering him move for move, and she did it all with the clever naiveté that had characterized her demeanor during that first, disastrous meeting with him in the great hall. It was almost as if Beresford had deliberately baited her, and she had bit without getting caught on his hook.
Senlis tried to imagine such a scene being played out between Beresford and the late Roesia with such interesting results, but could not. Something told him that Roesia would not now be sitting calmly at the table and reaching for a little plum in a wooden bowl that had been placed before them. Nor would Beresford be relaxed on the bench next to her, with the deceptive readiness that Senlis knew usually characterized his friend’s mood before an engagement.
Beresford had not lingered over the skirmish with his wife. Before Senlis could completely calculate the effects of the exchange between husband and wife, he was answering, “It’s true that Gwyneth is hardly in position to make harmful use of anything I tell you. More to the point, however, is the fact that there is nothing at all sensitive that I can tell you.” Beresford shrugged. “Henry was not in the mood to fight.”
Gwyneth had peeled the plum with Beresford’s knife and now offered it to Senlis. She then began to prepare one for Beresford.
“That is what I heard this morning at the Tower from the messenger who preceded you,” Senlis said, popping the pretty fruit into his mouth. “Henry’s reluctance had something to do with the rains.”
“We were knee-deep in mire,” Beresford confirmed, “but I’ve never known a little mud to stop a good battle. My journey was a waste. We sent the messenger forward to report that Henry did not wish to sully his boots, nor those of his companions.’” Beresford flicked Senlis a glance. “When does a duke call soldiers ‘companions,’ Geoffrey?”
“When he’s on a mission of peace?” Senlis suggested.
Beresford accepted the offer of the plum from Gwyneth. “Do you believe that?” he asked before biting into it.
Senlis shrugged. “It’s as if Henry thinks to talk his way onto the throne.”
Beresford grunted. “Can he do it?”
Senlis considered the question then shrugged again, but not in response to the question. He perceived himself to be an unnecessary third in a conversation that was not verbal, and this unspoken conversation had little to do, he guessed, with kings or dukes or great affairs of state. He rose from the bench, made his excuses to leave and thanked Gwyneth grandly for an excellent evening and meal.
Gwyneth offered him the conventional responses. Beresford rose with him and said, “I shall miss your support, Geoffrey, when my wife and I pursue the topic of Henry’s motives in England.”
“You mean to pursue it?” Senlis asked, surprised.
“Yes,” Beresford answered, reaching over and taking the blade from Gwyneth’s hand, “and it is the very topic that requires me to check my wife for knives.”
Now came exactly the flush to Gwyneth’s cheeks that Beresford had been yearning all evening to see.
Chapter Fifteen
Gwyneth nearly gasped at Beresford’s audacity, but was able to maintain her composure during the parting courtesies. While he walked his friend downstairs to the main portal, she remained behind. She decided that she could compose herself best by finding distracting work to do, so she busied herself between the solar and the adjacent kitchens, administering the clearing of the supper. She began the bedtime preparations for Benedict and Gilbert. She discussed with the principal retainers the duties for the morrow. Somehow this domestic activity did not seem to lower the flush that she had felt surge through her body and up her cheeks at Beresford’s reference to knives.
Being honest with herself, she acknowledged that the flush had started earlier in the evening, perhaps when Beresford had toyed with her about the names of his squires and the tournament regulations. Or perhaps when they were ascending the stairs, and he had put a hand on her hip and kissed the back of her neck. Or perhaps, even before that, when she had first laid eyes on him in the courtyard, holding his sons in his arms. His obvious affection for his boys unexpectedly endeared him to her. Then he had looked up at her, and her heart had stopped for an uncounted second at sight of his strength and vitality and the look in his eyes when they came to rest on her. She had nearly melted on the spot.
She was directing one of her retainers to shake the tablecloth outside the window to free it of crumbs when two strong hands on her shoulders turned her around, and she was drawn into Beresford’s arms. In front of a very interested audience of several serving maids, who hastily called in their colleagues to witness an extraordinary sight, Gwyneth was soundly and passionately kissed. Caught off guard by this public display, she responded to him fully, kissing him back. She realized that she had wanted to feel herself in his arms since his return, just as she had wanted his lips to touch hers.
With this kiss, he tasted familiar to her, yet exotic—a touch of her own well-prepared food and heavy wine blended anew by his body’s alchemy and her desire for him. She nearly drew back when his tongue touched her lips. However, his grip was light but firm, and she did not escape. His tongue swirled around the inside edges of her lips, and the delight was so unexpected that her mouth yielded to his desire and her lips parted to receive his tongue more fully. She let herself settle into him, surrendering to him her initial reluctance, but not the part of her that met him challenge for challenge. Her tongue responded to his demand, answered him fully and asked more. She felt a thick, heavenly sweetness within her, the warm evening breezes wafting around them and their hushed and expectant audience heightening the surprise and the desire and the delight.
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Just when she thought he would take her then and there on the floor of the solar, he broke the kiss and nuzzled her neck. After a moment, his hold on her, which had become a little rough, relaxed. He said indistinctly against her neck, “We’ll retire,” adding with a kind of low groan, “now.”
She nodded and disentangled herself from his arms only partially, for he kept an arm around her shoulders as he turned to walk with her out of the solar. He must have become aware of their audience, for he looked up and growled something about everyone standing about gawking, and recommended that they go about their business. He emphasized his point with a threatening gesture of his free arm, causing the frozen line of wide-eyed serving women to break up immediately.
Although eager for what was to come, Gwyneth had not completely lost her wits. She said to Beresford saucily, “Does this count as the continuation of our discussion of Duke Henry’s campaign in England?”
With a provocatively punitive spank on her rear, he propelled her out the door of the solar and onto the gallery balcony. Now that she was turned to walk down the wing that led to their bedchambers, he slung his arm around her neck. He drew her backside up against his front and said into her ear, “Be very happy that I am not asking for the reckoning for all the craftsmen you employed in my absence.”
She recalled the argument she had made to Johanna— that the cost of the repairs had far exceeded what would have been the cost of maintenance—but decided that defensive indignation did not suit the mood of the moment. In fact, she far preferred the softer, flirtatious strategy that she had employed with such success on the morning after their wedding night.
She halted momentarily and looked up at him. “Do you mean that you will not ask for the reckoning, or that you are not asking for it yet?”
Beresford’s eyes narrowed to gray slits, glittering attractively. “That depends,” he said, putting his free hand on her hip, “on how well you persuade me of the necessity of having hired all the craftsmen.”
Did she properly interpret that as a challenge to pleasure him well this evening? She dared to ask, “Do you object, sire?” She wanted from him the obedient response that she had offered him when he’d been stretched out beside her, wanting her.
“To the household repairs, do you mean?” he countered. Then, playing along nicely, he mused, “But the question of permitting objections, wife, is one more fitting for me to demand of you, as I recall.”
She took a step forward, and he moved with her. “So it is up to me to persuade you of the necessity of the household repairs?”
“As a good wife, yes.”
She chose a course as blunt and outrageous as Beresford himself had ever taken. “As a good wife,” she said demurely, “I have already made it possible for you to finance these repairs.”
“Ah? How so?”
“Through marriage to me, you received a vast tract of land and the earl’s third penny, so you can well afford what I am spending.” When Beresford did not immediately reply, she continued virtuously, “So you see, husband, it is rather up to you to persuade me that the craftsmen are unnecessary.”
Beresford did not miss the fact that she had just issued him a counterchallenge that he should pleasure her well this evening. After a very charged pause, he said with effort, “We had better hurry.”
They did, indeed, hurry along the balcony and across the threshold to Gwyneth’s bedchamber. Beresford kicked the door shut with his heel. He did not pause to comment on any of the changes she had wrought in the place, which included the cleanliness, new bed covers and a new curtain on the doorway leading to his own chamber. He most likely did not notice them, for he was divesting himself of his clothing in a haphazard fashion, more careless than usual and a good deal less efficient. Nevertheless, he was stripped to the comfort of his skin before she had had more than a chance to unpin her hair and unlace her bliaut.
When he came toward her, he said in a low voice, “Don’t fear me.” He waited for her to look up at him before he touched her.
She was grateful for the consideration, for just then, in the wake of her bravado on the balcony, she was losing her nerve. The urgency of the undressing reminded her of the intensity of previous violence and hurt and humiliation in her married life. Despite the knowledge that this husband would treat her well, a tremor of well-remembered fear closed her throat and made her fingers fumble with her clothing.
He gently helped her with the rest of her garments, so that her skin could be next to his completely. Then he gathered her in his arms and crushed her to him, nuzzling her neck and bending her this way and that, so that he could find a better fit with her. His hands traveled up and down her body insistently and finally came to rest on her shoulders. He raised his head and looked into her eyes.
She put her hands hesitantly on his shoulders in turn, and he smiled. He dipped his head to kiss first one of her hands, then the other. He ran his palms down her arms and laced his fingers with hers, then brought them to his lips, kissing her fingertips one by one.
She watched in fascination as he kissed her fingers, causing tiny, pleasurable shocks to travel up her arms. He brought the back of her hand to his lips, and her gaze fell on his long fingers. She remembered his touch from their wedding night and must have been regarding his fingers speculatively, for when she lifted her eyes to look into his face, she saw that his heavy brows were raised and that a distinct gleam lit his gray eyes.
“Well, now,” he said softly and very meaningfully. He unlaced his hands from hers and replaced the tips of her fingers on his shoulders. Then he trailed his hands down her collarbone to her breasts to her waist to her hips to her abdomen and through her curls, coming to a halt at the apex of her thighs. He cocked his head, as if considering possibilities.
He kissed her lips. He ran his tongue around the inside of her mouth, as he had earlier in the solar. He teased and tasted her. Still kissing her, he slid his fingers lightly between her legs. “Perhaps we should try something different.” He withdrew his fingers and said gruffly, “I’ll show you what I want to do.”
Something in his tone caused her to brace herself and look at him directly. She decided to be brave. “All right,” she said.
“You can tell me to stop at any time,” he said, as he lowered his head to her neck. “Don’t be afraid.”
“I won’t,” she breathed.
He lowered his head further to her breasts and touched the tip of each with his tongue. He was about to move lower but decided against it, instead opening his mouth to take in one nipple, then the other, sucking lightly and swirling his tongue lavishly over their hard peaks. His hands went around her back and slid down to her buttocks, where he grasped her firmly, so that she would remain steady on her feet.
As he kissed her navel, which he also swirled with his tongue, her hands remained upon his shoulders, her fingers flexed. Her breathing was becoming more ragged. She was not precisely afraid of what he was doing, for the feelings that were pulsing through her were entirely pleasurable. Rather she was apprehensive. Of the unknown. Of the intuition that this was different. Of the knowledge that he was going to know her in a way that was dangerously intimate.
He rubbed his lightly stubbled chin in the triangle of curls at the juncture of her thighs. His hands were grasping her buttocks and slightly separating them. She felt a surge of stimulation that caused her knees to wobble, but he kept her steady. Then he brought his hands around to the front of her thighs. Slowly, delicately, he parted her tender, secret, swollen lips with his thumbs, as he might open a tiny, hinged amulet containing a gem or secret potion. His thumbs grazed the pearl within once or twice, and dipped into the secret potion, thereby producing more of it.
He moved his head and his mouth and his lips and his tongue just a fraction lower, then another fraction. It was a precious, breathless moment for both of them. He was daring her to trust him, daring himself to meet her on this precarious level, to taste her essence and make it part of him. She was dar
ing him to do it, to be forever the man who had braved this most extravagant kiss. She was daring herself to allow him to kiss her thus, to spread herself to him in a way that was well beyond embarrassment, well beyond intimacy. She feared being lost to him in a way that threatened her own security, and she fully experienced that threat in the strength of her desire for what was to come.
Just as she hoped and feared and dared, his thumbs spread her lips with just that irresistible amount of indecent possession, and his tongue came out to touch her pearl, to swirl around it, to lap experimentally. Then, acquiring the right pressure and the taste for it, his tongue became inquisitive and inventive.
She felt delicious with the exquisite sliding and swirling of his tongue, trying both to accept and to resist the sensations he was creating for her. It was, finally, impossible to resist. Under other circumstances, she might have felt embarrassed to be so exposed to him, or angry at his prying, or indignant at his audacity, or fearful of being hurt. Under other circumstances, she might have felt nobly regal, to have him kneeling before her, ministering to her like a slave. However, in these circumstances, she felt neither inferior nor superior to him. She felt only gloriously weak and lustily feminine and increasingly desirous. She wanted more: more touch, more tongue, more exposure, more sensations, more waves. She gulped in wondrously feminine gasps and moans.
When it seemed that he would not be able to keep her from falling from the effects of the shuddering pleasure she was experiencing, he lifted her up, and they toppled and tumbled gracelessly onto her bed, where he entwined himself instantly within her arms and legs. He burrowed his head in her neck.
In a voice edged with challenge, he said, “Now this is what I want you to do.”
She lazily opened her eyes and turned her head to regard him inquisitively. She had made the same mistake before, looking upon him while she was awash with the pleasure he had given her. She tried to mend the breached defenses within herself, the ones that kept her safe, but she was not entirely successful. When he told her what he wanted, daring her, she accepted the challenge, reasoning that, with Beresford, compliance was less risky than defiance. She hoped that his oddly tantalizing request would not cause her to lose any more of herself to him.
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