The Frangipanes eventually understood why we preferred no swan be served.
On the final day we’ll be fed chicken cooked in rosewater, a whole roast suckling pig, roast peacock with artichokes, and sweets of quinces cooked with cinnamon.
Bear in mind this is Yuletide, a time of year Italians seem to celebrate to excess.
However, Bronson and I both have an appetite for something other than food this night.
Rodrick de M.
Was He Mad?
As Swan and the women of the Frangipane family assisted in the removal of her velvet wedding gown, Grace was suddenly filled with misgivings. She was so preoccupied with dreadful memories of her first wedding night, her arms became stuck in the tight long sleeves.
Oddone’s wife smiled at her stuttered apologies. “A bride is forgiven for being nervous on her wedding night.”
How to tell the dignified Italian woman of the shame of Victor’s rejection?
Would Bronson be disappointed? Would he also turn away?
She fumbled with the laces at the neck of the elegant silk nightgown the women pulled over her head. This time Cencio’s wife came to her rescue with an indulgent smile. “Tutto bene.”
Grace prayed fervently all would indeed be well.
Male voices emanated from the other side of the screen where Oddone and his brother and Rodrick were stripping Bronson. The raucous laughter was something she didn’t recall from the night Victor’s steward had prepared him for bed. When she thought back to that night, she wasn’t sure where Godefroy had got to either.
She’d lain on her back beside Victor, staring into blackness, afraid, assuming he would take the lead. Instead, he’d snored loudly for a while, then got up and left in the middle of the night.
Her reverie was interrupted when Richalda Frangipane took her hand, led her out from behind the screen and helped her climb into bed. She kept her eyes averted from the rambunctious men.
Swan pecked a kiss on her cheek. “Good night, sister,” she said with a wink. “Don’t be afraid to confide in Bronson.”
She looked at her sister-by-marriage in alarm. “Confide what?”
Swan opened her mouth, but Rodrick came to claim her. “Good night, sister dear. I would stay and taunt Bronson further, but I have more pressing things to do.”
He scooped up his giggling bride and carried her from the chamber.
The Frangipane brothers linked arms with Bronson and led him to the end of the bed. “Here is your groom, bella,” Oddone declared. “Now we go to prepare Rodrick and his bride.”
The exuberant Italians left, the skirts of the women swishing on the pink marble tiles.
Deafened by the beating of her heart, Grace looked up at her husband. Her eyes barely had time to travel from his hair, still bound in a queue, to his grin, to the silk nightshirt before it was pulled over his head and a naked Bronson was prowling across the bed towards her like a hungry lynx.
Taken unawares, she scrambled backwards away from him, unable to take her eyes off the evidence of his arousal.
The smile left his face. He knelt in front of her, arms held open. “What’s wrong, Grace? Do you not like what you see?”
She stared at the scar meandering across his chest. It reminded her sharply of the despair she’d known when she believed him dead.
But, how to tell him she had never seen a man completely naked? She grabbed the bolster and clasped it to her breast.
Bronson furrowed his brow. “Did Victor hurt you? Is that why you’re afraid?” He glanced down at his male part. “I know I am big, but—”
Grace shook her head vigorously. Swan was right, but she hoped what she had to say didn’t disgust him. “I’ve never seen a man naked,” she blurted out, fearful of looking him in the eye. “Victor didn’t find me pleasing.”
Bronson’s eyes widened. “You never saw your husband naked? For the love of God, Grace, if I’d known I wouldn’t have stripped so quickly. I didn’t mean to startle you.” He rubbed his chin. “What do you mean he didn’t find you pleasing? Was he mad?”
Despite her best efforts, a tear trickled down her cheek, then another. Words died in her constricted throat.
The truth struck Bronson like a bolt of lightning. He sat back on his haunches and carefully eased the bolster out of his wife’s arms, holding it across his thighs. He’d assumed Grace was a woman with experience of intimate relations. If he’d known, he’d have shown more finesse. “Look at me, Grace. Are you trying to say your first husband never made love to you?”
She shook her head, still refusing to look at him.
“You’re telling me you are still a virgin.”
In the silent seconds before she responded, confusion reigned in his heart. That his new bride might be a maiden elated him, but it would mean a completely different kind of lovemaking than what he’d had in mind.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”
Sorry?
He wanted to fall to his knees in thanksgiving for this unexpected gift—one for which his still covered shaft was showing its appreciation. Then it came to him he was already on his knees. Here he was, a man twice married, afraid to reveal his manhood in case he alarmed the skittish woman in his bed—a desirable creature who’d been married to a fool. He had a growing suspicion what Victor’s problem had been.
The urge to laugh bubbled up in his throat, but that wouldn’t help matters. “Look at me.”
He waited until she raised her eyes.
“I am the one who should be sorry. Ever since we met, I’ve been preoccupied with memories of my past marriages, and never given a thought to what you might have endured. After tangling with Godefroy, I should have deduced what kind of man his father was. Forgive me. I never want you to be hurt in any way, Grace. I love you.”
She stopped fiddling with the laces of her nightgown. “I love you, Bronson, but my marriage to Victor was a dismal failure. I don’t know how to please a man.”
Thank you, God.
He prayed he would do this right as he moved the bolster aside, rising up on his knees. “It will be my great honor to show you.”
Grace had often felt Bronson’s arousal pressed against her, and during his illness when he’d lain naked beneath the linens, she’d had wicked notions of cupping him in her hands, of feeling the weight, the warmth.
However, none of her imaginings of his male part came close to the reality of the proud lance jutting from its nest of chestnut curls.
She clenched her inner muscles, filled with a sudden inexplicable urge to have the hard flesh thrust into her fevered body, knowing instinctively nothing else would assuage the throbbing need pulsing inside. She ached to be a woman.
Bronson took hold of her hands. “You do like what you see.”
She licked her lips, dragging her eyes to his. His teasing smile made her giddy. “I do,” she purred, astonished at the wantonness in her voice.
He leaned towards her. “Then let me help you remove your lovely nightrail.”
She came up on her knees, raised her arms and arched her back, wanting Bronson to see her breasts and yet nervously shy.
He peeled the garment over her head and stared. “You are exquisite,” he rasped. “Any man who finds you unattractive isn’t interested in women.”
An inkling of understanding permeated her desire-fogged brain.
Of course! The odious steward!
The bonds of guilt slipped away. Without a second thought she reached for Bronson’s shaft, tracing a fingertip from base to swollen tip.
He lifted his chin, stretching the muscles of his neck, and growled. “Believe me, Grace, your touch is more than pleasing.”
He kissed her then, swirling his tongue around and around the inside of her lips, sucking her tongue into his mouth, gently, seductively. She loved it.
He ran his hands across the top of her shoulders, then cupped the sides of her breasts, pushing them together. When he brushed his thumbs across her nipples she had to
break the kiss, gasping for breath, consumed by the fire of desire building in her lower belly.
He leaned back slightly to look at her, still caressing the hardened nipples. “Beautiful,” he breathed. “I want to suckle.”
Their eyes locked for a moment. Her longing for him to put his mouth on her must have been evident. His smile sent winged creatures fluttering in her belly. He bent his head and suckled, drawing hard on the nipple. She wove the fingertips of one hand into his hair, and cupped her breast closer to his mouth with the other. Her existence suddenly had meaning. It was for this man she’d been born. She purred her contentment. The wait had been worth it.
The smoothness of Grace’s skin, her scent, her taste, everything about her intoxicated Bronson. He swirled his tongue around the rigid nipple then moved to the other breast, savoring her purring moans. He’d never been a man to take his pleasure and leave his wives wanting, but he was consumed with a need to bring Grace to ecstasy. However, if he didn’t slow down he’d be spilling his seed like a green lad with his first tumble.
He eased away from her, and braced one foot on the floor. “Turn over,” he whispered. “On your belly.”
She frowned momentarily, then did as he bade, one arm dangling over the edge of the bed. He bared her nape and kissed her there, once, twice. She scrunched her neck, giggling into the linens. “I’m ticklish.”
He traced a fingertip down her spine, but his eyes were on her derrière. At her waist he spread his hands and stroked her hips.
Child-bearing hips.
He kneaded her cheeks, spreading them apart with his thumbs, the breath catching in his throat at first sight of her perfect pink rosette.
His tarse bucked when she moaned. He sent his thumbs deeper, opening her more to his gaze, caressing her outer lips, hoping he wasn’t going too fast.
She pushed out her bottom when he opened her legs wider. Taking it as a good omen, he slid a finger inside. She was ready.
She ran her dangling fingers up the side of his leg then gripped his ankle, squealing with surprise when he grasped her hips, flipped her over, and planted his mouth firmly on the intimate place he had to taste.
He rejoiced in the touch of her fingers in his hair, the deep longing in her voice when she whispered his name, the moans of pleasure.
He savored the taste and scent of her arousal. Her skin was sheened with sweat, her cleft hot and wet. He gripped her quivering hips as she dug her heels into the mattress. He licked and suckled and licked again the hardening nub of her arousal, faster and faster until she screamed loudly, her words strangled by breathless ecstasy, but he understood, and it humbled him.
Never before had a woman’s pleasure ignited him to such a degree. He had to be inside her. He clamped his mouth on hers, positioned his shaft at her opening, and plunged, breathing for her when she stopped.
Her inner muscles pulsated on his rigid flesh and soon he joined her in a euphoric fall into the abyss, pumping his essence into her body, determined to give her a child.
Blinded By The Light
Rodrick and Swan lay side by side in the bed, only their fingertips touching, the linens tucked up to their necks. He hoped his bride would contain her giggles until the Frangipanes had exited their chamber, but as the ornately carved door clicked shut, she took him completely by surprise.
In the blink of an eye, she was out of bed, and out of the nightgown. The fancy creation flew through the air like the dove freed from the Ark.
If the touch of her fingertips had roused the interest of his shaft, the sight of her ripe breasts and perfect body sent desire roaring through him like a herd of rutting boar.
“I want to see your body, Rodrick,” she teased, frustrating his attempts to make his suddenly clumsy hands grasp the fabric of his long nightshirt from beneath him. At last, he got it off over his head and tossed it in the same general direction she’d thrown hers.
“Minx,” he shouted, lunging at her as she leapt from the bed and backed away from him, beckoning.
By the time he caught her only minutes later, they were both giddy with laughter. He ensnared her in his arms, feeling her breasts rise and fall against his chest as she tried to regain her breath. “I can feel your nipples,” he rasped, looking down at the enticing cleavage pressed against him. “Let me see them.”
She thrust back her head. Her nipples peeked at him. “I love your breasts,” he growled. He licked her long neck then bent to suckle, drawing the rigid flesh into his mouth.
Home.
She kneaded her fingertips into his shoulders. “I’ve longed for you to do this,” she said hoarsely.
He took his mouth off her nipple long enough to grunt his agreement and grin at her, then moved to the other nipple.
A tremor shivered through her body.
“You’re cold,” he said, scooping her up.
“I’m on fire,” she replied, shaking her head, but he carried her to the bed anyway and laid her on her back.
She spread her legs and stared at him seductively through half closed eyelids. “Lick me there again.”
He didn’t need to be asked twice. Kneeling between her bent legs, he curled his arms around her thighs and buried his face in her juices, relishing her scent, her taste, her heat.
An image of their first meeting rose up behind his eyes—Suannoch FitzRam in a nun’s habit, warming her backside in front of the fire. He’d an urge to laugh out loud. Who would have thought what lay beneath that habit?
Soon he would plunge his rampant cock into the wet warmth of her sheath. He’d an urge to beat his chest and give vent to the savage maleness surging through his veins.
But Swan had turned out to be more than a beautiful female who excited him beyond measure. She was intelligent, courageous—and she loved him!
He looked up from his task. “I love you, my Swan,” roared up from the center of his being.
She parted her lips as her eyes rolled back. She keened out her release, calling his name over and over.
Swan stopped breathing, willing time to stand still so the intensely pleasurable sensations pulsing through her body would go on and on and on. Though a single candle cast its meager glow in the chamber, sunlight shone behind her eyes.
A thought intruded that there should be more. “I need—”
But Rodrick knew her needs. His hard male member penetrated her body, heightening the euphoria as he thrust in and out, in and out.
“I—love—you, Rodrick,” she stammered as he took possession of her body and her soul, filling her with contentment and love.
To think, I didn’t like him when we first met.
Having pumped the last drop of his essence into Swan, Rodrick collapsed on top of her, blinded by the light of the most intense sexual experience he’d ever had. Possessing Swan had exceeded expectations, and they’d been considerable.
He lay still, willing his softening cock to remain in the warmth of her newly breached sheath as long as possible.
She was panting as hard as he was. Perhaps he was too heavy, but he didn’t want to move, didn’t have the strength to move.
Gradually, his happy shaft curled up in the sticky warmth at her opening. He tried to summon his arms to lift his weight.
“Don’t move,” she murmured.
But a little voice in his head urged him to seek the evidence of his conquest on the linens. “They’ll come early for the sheets,” he rasped, filled with satisfaction at the sight of blood on his tarse and on the linens.
“Sheets?” she said hoarsely, lifting up on her elbows.
The sight of her ripe breasts, the still hard nipples pouting provocatively, stirred renewed interest in his couilles. “They’ll want to run the bloodied sheets up the flagpole.”
She covered a yawn with the back of her hand. “They’ll need two poles.”
He looked at the sheets again. “Two?”
She collapsed back onto the mattress. “Two marriages, two wedding nights, two sets of sheets.”
> Rodrick furrowed his brow. Evidently, her first intimate experience had stolen his wife’s wits. “No. You don’t get my meaning. It’s the bloodied sheets. To prove the bride was—”
She raised up on her elbows again and stared at him with those big amber eyes, and the truth hit him as hard as Titus had punched him in the nose. “Grace?”
She said nothing.
Anger surged into his throat. “You mean Victor—Grace—their marriage—”
He came to his feet, filled at once with fury for his sister’s torment that he’d failed miserably to even guess, and elation for Bronson. He raked a hand through his hair. “If Victor wasn’t already dead, I’d kill him myself. Did she tell you of this?”
“No, but I’ve suspected for a while. Things she said, and a reluctance to venture into topics young women who are about to be wed usually discuss. She evaded my curious questions.”
His male pride reasserted itself. He lay back down, gathering her warm body into his arms. “And have I answered the questions to your satisfaction?”
She sighed deeply, snuggling into him, pulling the top sheet over them. “I am more than satisfied. But I have a feeling there is still a lot to learn.”
She reached down to cup him in her hand. “For example, Grace wouldn’t say whether women are allowed to put their mouths on a man.” She pulled back to look at him, a wicked glint in her eye. “Oh! It got bigger!”
“We’ll have to change your name, milady Swan,” he growled. “Saucy Wench is more appropriate.”
Epilogue
April 1155AD, Ellesmere, Salop, England
“The babe in my belly seems determined to make me cast up my accounts this morning,” Swan lamented. “However, I am just as resolved not to retch over our new king.”
Standing beside her in the bailey as they anxiously awaited King Henry’s cavalcade, Grace patted her hand reassuringly. “You’ll be fine.”
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