by Tina Donahue
Winded, she joined him. “A moment.”
“You want me to wait again after you put me off for so long? No.” Bent at the waist, he slung her over his shoulder.
She squealed.
“Quiet.” He carried her to their chamber.
Earlier, he’d instructed the servants to prepare the room with so many candles and oil lamps the space would be brighter than when sun flooded inside, to scent the sheets and pillows with her sweet rose fragrance, and see to the pup.
With Hortensia taking care of Rosa tonight, he and Sancha would be alone and undisturbed, except for what they did to each other. Grinning, he ran his hand beneath her dress to the top of her thighs.
She gasped.
“Quiet I said. Do you want the others to hear?”
“I might ask you the same.” She cupped his buttocks and squeezed. “Do you truly expect me to be silent and still while you ravish me?”
He wanted her screaming in delight, panting in contentment. He wanted her delirious with love.
Once inside the chamber, he kicked the door closed and set her on her feet. She wavered slightly and righted herself, hair tumbling over her shoulders and face. On a huff, she pulled the tresses away.
He crossed his arms, affecting his most lordly expression. “Remove your clothing at once. I want to see what I got into this evening by wedding you.”
She lifted her chin. “I wed you. Give me a show.”
“In time.”
“Now.” She smiled. “Or I shall call a servant in here.”
“To do what?” He stalked toward her. She didn’t give an inch. He liked that. “You think any of them can keep me from you?”
“No, though my garments will. Remove my clothing, you say. How am I to do so on my own?” She gestured to the buttons and laces keeping her trapped in too much fabric.
He shook his head. “I should run your tailoress through.”
“Free me from these things first, I beg of you.” She flung out her arms. “They strangle me like a hangman’s noose, crush me worse than a vise, flay my tender flesh as much as a—”
“I can see Tomás has ruined you with his blather. I need to remedy that.”
“Please, no bloodshed. Running your brother through would be a crime.”
“Indeed. I suppose I will simply have to keep you naked so you can never leave this room.” He curled his forefinger toward himself, gesturing her closer.
With a wicked smile, she approached and promptly sank to her knees, her hands on his belly.
“What are you doing?”
She untied his hose. “Relieving you of your clothing so you can assist me with mine.”
As though anything would ever keep him from stripping her. “Do so with haste. I do not intend to wait—”
He stopped. He had to. She had his hose and braies around his knees, shirt lifted, face pressed to his pelt.
“No, no, no, no.” He eased her face away before her tongue made him forget what he truly wanted. “I demand your belly, not your mouth. As your husband, my word is law.”
She licked the inside of his thigh. He shivered. She made a sound of approval. “A request would be far nicer.”
“You have mine. Please take these garments off me so I may see to yours.”
She made fast work of undressing him, tossing his clothes everywhere until he stood naked and fully aroused before her.
She reached for his shaft.
He pushed her hand away. “Now you.” After he’d unbuttoned and unlaced her, he slid her clothing over her shoulders, past her breasts to her arms, trapping them. “Remain as you are. Not one move.”
He padded around her as a master would with a new slave, taking in her partial nudity. In the candlelight, her hair shimmered more beautiful than a Spanish sunset. Her fair skin seemed too delicate for any man to touch. Her constricted nipples contradicted his notion, the pink halos tight with passion, tips hard with lust, breasts heavy and full, perfect for his hands.
The fabric trapped hers, not allowing Sancha to cover herself.
Enrique doubted she would, though she did seem a trifle daunted by his scrutiny. Good. He wanted her to feel his heated gaze before experiencing his touch as her husband.
He came up behind her, one arm around her waist, his hand skimming her breasts, lips on her throat.
She moaned, modesty forgotten, pleasure assured.
Her scent filled him, the light rose fragrance already surpassed by her musk, her excitement for her new husband.
He closed his eyes and restrained himself from pulling her to the floor, mounting and thrusting as his shaft demanded. The slightest brush of fabric against his crown was torturous, desire barreling through him, every part of his being demanding relief in her sweet, warm body.
In time.
She belonged to him now. No matter his oppressive desires, he wouldn’t rush.
At a leisurely pace, he ran his hand down her torso and circled her navel as she’d so often done with him. He travelled lower, brushing his fingers over her belly.
Her muscles quivered. She made a gentle, yielding sound and pressed her buttocks into his thickened shaft. Shuddering, he forced himself to maintain control, at least for a few more seconds.
He released her to work on the rest of the buttons and laces. After freeing the last, he removed her garments and shoes, tossing the things over his shoulder, not caring where they landed.
She smiled.
He leaned down to her, their mouths almost touching. “Rest your arms on your head, present yourself to me.”
Her cheeks flushed.
He liked her maidenly modesty, especially since there was a woman of deep passion beneath, one he had intimate knowledge of. “Do it now.”
She lifted her eyebrows but did obey, arms on her head, breasts displayed, nipples raised to his mouth.
Not yet enough.
“Part your legs. I want to see what belongs to me.”
Her blush deepened. Again, she submitted.
He padded around her. She turned, watching.
“Eyes to the front.” He gestured, showing her what he wanted. “No moving at all.”
“Can I breathe?”
He suppressed a smile. “Only if you do so gently.”
She pulled in a huge breath and held the air.
He studied the dimples above her delectable buttocks, her sleek thighs and calves.
She exhaled finally.
He padded to the front, entranced by the lovely slope of her breasts, a mole near her left nipple. Her reddish thatch held him in thrall, plump folds peeking past the curly veil of hair, her flesh moist with desire.
He cupped her mound, slipped two fingers inside her sheath, and rested his thumb on her nub.
Moaning, she pushed into his hand, telling him what she wanted.
He gave her everything she required. Soon, her head lolled on her shoulders, her expression glassy, body and mind surrendering to release.
Denying her for the moment, he removed his hand. Her sex was drenched, ready for his shaft, not his fingers or mouth. Before she could protest at how he’d paused, he swept her into his arms, had her on the mattress, and knelt between her legs.
“At last.” She pulled her knees back.
“I have a better idea.” He grabbed her ankles and placed them on his shoulders, spreading her.
Sancha’s face, throat, and chest turned as red as her hair, all of her suddenly one color.
He wasn’t certain if he’d simply embarrassed or disgusted her. Possibly both. “Too much?”
She regarded his shaft, her mound, their positions. “No.” Her eyes brightened. “Fill me, husband.”
“With pleasure, wife.”
They both grinned.
He drove his shaft into her yielding sheath, burying himself as far as a man could go, his mouth on hers, tongue inside, filling Sancha completely, claiming her, deepening their love.
* * * *
She suckled his tongue and hooked her feet behind his head, stunned at her wantonness. Even Isabella hadn’t spoken of sharing anything like this with Fernando.
How Sancha adored this position and craved Enrique.
She cupped his face with one hand and ran her fingertips through his chest hair with the other, feeling his smile against her lips. His happiness was the greatest gift he could give her. She had to take care not to bring him pain.
How foolish she’d been in the dining hall, speaking of establishing a hospital, then nearly blurting that children died for lack of proper healing. He’d barely saved her from a confession with Dominico when she’d managed to bring attention to herself again and again, forcing Enrique to change the subject repeatedly, sparing her the priest’s odd stare and questions that might lead to her work.
What was the matter with her? She’d always been reserved in the past and seemed to be making up for her prior modesty by speaking out of turn to his friend and brothers.
He stroked her nub, coordinating those movements with his exquisite thrusts.
Needing a full breath, she pulled her mouth free of his. The air didn’t help. The room still lurched. She relaxed as much as she could and submitted to release, unable to deny herself any longer.
Unwieldy pleasure swept her away on a wave of brash lust. She was vaguely aware of squealing and crying out her release. Enrique’s proud roar signaled his. Their fight for air afterward sounded as though they were both dying.
Finally, they filled the room with their shared laughter, her giggles tired. “Do you think we should take this more seriously?”
He howled with laughter. “I think we have the matter well in hand.”
They did. No one could convince her that another husband and wife enjoyed each other more. Not even Isabella with her fantastic tales of delight with Fernando. He was a brave warrior and quite handsome, but he’d never be Enrique.
He held her during slumber, though rest didn’t last long. There was so much to share. He stirred first, waking her with hungry kisses.
After he’d positioned her this time, she looked over her shoulder at him. “You are wicked.”
“You are far too demure. Come now, arch your back to lift your buttocks.”
She was on her hands and knees, legs parted, presenting her sex to him, her skin burning. Again, not from embarrassment but anticipation. “I thought you asked me not to move.”
“I told you not to question. You have a habit of doing so.”
“When?”
His shoulders bobbed with his struggle not to laugh. “The longer we speak, the longer you wait for me to fill you.”
As far as she was concerned, converse was at an end. She blew him a kiss, did as he’d requested, then rested her forehead on the mattress and awaited his plunder and possession.
He mounted her easily, the bold position allowing his shaft to stroke her nub, each thrust reducing the world to the sounds of their passion, scents, and needs.
He rode her well, hands on her hips, bodies joined. They accepted release together, perfectly in tune, voices and breaths mingled.
Happy in the world they’d created for each other.
Chapter 11
If one could consider days golden when clouds blanketed the sun or when night cast the world into darkness, then Sancha’s first weeks with Enrique satisfied the notion.
She found each moment precious.
They rode across the estate. He pointed out improvements he’d made to the vineyards, groves, wheat, and pasturage. His agricultural knowledge surprised her. She’d known he was a learned man, able to speak and read numerous languages as she did, but his understanding of how men could best use the soil and animals was a revelation. They talked for hours, him teaching, her absorbing facts she never knew existed.
Proudly, he showed her the great score of cattle, pigs, goats, and other animals on his land that she hadn’t asked about before. She’d been too intent on study and protecting her heart, trying not to fall in love with him.
She’d never be so foolish again.
They rode through an area with hundreds of chickens. The creatures squawked and flapped their wings to get away from the horses. Enrique brought his gelding up short and stared at something to the left.
Several dead fowl lay amongst the others. He called a worker over.
“Patrón.” The man inclined his head.
Enrique gestured to the fallen chickens, their bodies plump, feathers intact, blood absent. However, their wattles and heads were darker than normal. “What happened here?”
“The birds had trouble breathing a short time ago. I have no idea why. I gave them the same care as the others. Before I knew what to do about their trouble, they died.”
Enrique studied the ground. “Remove the bodies and burn them. Move the rest of the fowl to another area. Clean this one thoroughly.”
“Sí, patrón.” The man hurried to the carcasses.
“Does this happen often?” Sancha asked.
“No. And it rarely lasts. Moving the creatures and cleaning the area has always stemmed the problem.”
“Do you know what makes the birds ill?”
“The trouble seems to come from nowhere. A foolish thing to say, I know. The water and food we give the chickens is never tainted and has no ill effect on the other fowl that show no signs of distress. The source has to be something else.”
She said no more until they rode past the workers who might overhear. “Have you ever considered animals might suffer similar illnesses to those afflicting people?”
“Are you saying the answer might be found in your books?”
“I have yet to read them all. When I experiment on my mice with potions I discovered in the volumes, the vermin respond as a human should. Not every time, of course, or with every mixture, though enough to tell me what may help us could help them.”
“You mean to heal my animals now?”
“I thought you might enjoy learning what I know, the same as I savor everything you tell me about your land.”
He squeezed her hand. “I would.”
That day he joined Sancha in her study room and explored the volumes as she did for symptoms similar to what the chickens encountered. They discussed how she might duplicate the problem in her mice and what treatment might save them.
Whenever a method worked, he grew as excited as a child who’d mastered a new task. Laughing gaily, he’d swing her in his arms, then kiss her until neither of them could breathe. More often than not, his excitement and hers turned to passion. They forgot the books to indulge in carnal pleasures rather than knowledge.
An almost perfect time if not for her increasing impatience regarding the rumors. Since the wedding, there were no new claims against her, the previous ones dying down. Although she was grateful and relieved, she still craved visits to the villages to offer her skills if needed.
Already she’d seemed to have waited an endless amount of time.
Nearly two months into her marriage a missive from Isabella arrived, giving her hope she’d soon be free to move about undetected as she had earlier.
I am now speaking with more zeal than Tomás ever had when I relate news of your and Enrique’s rides across his estate, you taking command of the house servants as a noble wife should, and how you continue to capture Enrique’s heart as you had the first moment he saw you.
Everyone is quite weary of the way I go on about your great romance, the men especially, who would rather speak of war, Moors, the taking of Granada.
I hardly care what they think or want, relating instead what you write in your missives, adding the many smiles you and Enrique must surely share. No different from my beloved Fernando and me.
I have promised those we know that you and I will give birth within months of each other. You must make certain this happens. I know our sons will be great friends, both having dark hair like
our husbands.
Happiness will never forsake you again, dear Sancha. Only good will follow you now.
Your devoted sister,
Isabella
Her letter cheered Sancha to the point that she kept the missive with her at all times, using Isabella’s words as a sort of charm. All she had to do was act.
After troubling for days, she finally found the right time. She and Enrique lay in bed, sated from their love. “When?”
He snuggled closer, arm across her waist, face to her neck. “Give me a few moments. When my vigor returns, I shall have you again.”
Smiling, she ruffled his hair. “Of course you will.”
He yawned.
She sucked her lip, uncertain whether to ruin their wonderful moment with talk of healing but told herself to go on. In order for their marriage to succeed, they had to be open and honest, neither of them keeping worry or problems from each other. “When will matters be safe enough for me to heal again?”
He stopped running his thumb over her belly. Propped on his elbow, he looked down at her, eyes and forelock sparkling in the moonlight streaming across the bed. “Has someone requested your skill?”
“No. Though they will eventually. People harm themselves in all sorts of ways or grow ill like your fowl with no known cause. Women have trouble giving birth, endangering their lives and the infants’.”
“None of this has happened yet. Be grateful everyone is well.”
“And when they no longer are, what then? Do I still need to fear the rumors and remain confined here?”
“Confined? You make marriage to me sound like prison.”
“Forgive me.” She gathered him to her, running her fingers through his hair. “I have never been happier, but I cannot let others suffer when I have so much, especially the means to help them.”
He sighed. “The rumors might have quieted, but we have no idea how long they may persist, smoldering like coals ready to burst back into flame, destroying everything in their path. You need to take care. Especially now. You could be carrying my son.”
Her heart sank. Months ago, she would have resented his words, thinking he wanted to control her as husbands did with wives. She knew better now. His only concern was for her safety. “I would never do anything to harm our child or you. But I do need to know how long I must wait until I can return to healing as I once did.”
