Marriage Under Siege (19 page)

Honoria froze instantly at
his clear intent, unable to prevent the chill in her blood, the flutter of her
heartbeat. Her fingers closed on his arm in a rigid grip. She pressed her
forehead into his pillow so that he might not see her face.

'What?' he asked softly.

'Can I tell you?' Her
response was muffled but the emotion was clear. 'I fear it.'

'Don't fear it, Honoria.'
He tucked a hand underneath her chin to turn her face to his. 'Trust me to give
you some pleasure. It is my wish to scour your memories of Edward's clumsy
gropings
.'

'I don't suppose
you
are ever clumsy.'

'Rarely.' The glint in his
eye, in spite of the arrogance, was one of amusement, softer than she was used
to from him.

'I fear that I shall be.'

'Impossible. You are all
grace and elegance. You do not have a clumsy bone in your body. I want to kiss
you. Touch you.' His hand moved to stroke her shoulder, to sweep down her arm
to her wrist, finely boned and fragile beneath the linen sleeve. 'Taste you,'
he continued, his lips feathering kisses on her forehead.

He pulled her on to her
side to face him, bending his head towards hers with slow deliberation,
fulfilling the unspoken promise as she did not draw away. His mouth fit over
hers perfectly. Lips against lips, gently but firmly, with enough pressure to
give her some guidance. Then he moved to her throat. Down its graceful curve to
the tender hollow where her pulse beat, a rapid flutter beneath the skin.

'Touch me.'

Honoria blinked and obeyed
before she could think what he had asked. Her hands smoothed over his
shoulders, careful of his injury, then down the ridges of firm muscle on his
back to rest against his hips. He heard the tiny sound of pleasure in her
throat and was delighted that she could still remain warm and pliant in his
arms.

At the same time his own
hand moved to cup her breast through the fine
linen
.
To simply hold and stroke. 'Does that feel good?' he asked softly as she gasped
and held her breath. He lowered his lips to brush over the soft swell, first
one breast then the other.

He was hard and ready,
quivering with need for her, but reined back to prolong his caresses. To smooth
over the dip of her waist, the swell of her hips. To draw up the skirt of her
chemise so that he could experience the long satin slide of his hand on her
thigh.

She trembled. But wound her
fingers into his hair.

'Clumsy groping?'

'Oh, no.' It was a mere
sigh against his chest. 'Not clumsy at all.' She reached up to press her lips
to his in an innocently provocative gesture that had him reacting immediately,
deepening the kiss. Persuading her lips to part, her tongue to respond to the
blatant invitation from his.

She might be shy, he
realised, but with confidence she responded quickly. Her tongue flirted with
his as she let her fingers drift over the muscles of his flat belly. And his
control snapped, the tension too great to withstand the allure of her naive but
damnably effective caresses. All he wanted was to feel her beneath him, to
hold her there, to be taken into her silken heat. Instinctively he rolled to
pin her to the bed with his body, took his weight on his elbows so that he
might look down at her and watch the play of emotion on her face.

And gasped aloud as the
pain slashed through his body with a sharp edge, his shoulder pierced with a
fiery sword.

'My lord! Francis!'

He remained motionless for
a moment, allowed his head to fall back, teeth bared in a grimace of pain.

'This is no good. You
should not... You have probably started the bleeding again.' She tried to
extricate herself from beneath him, to move him into a less agonising position
without making the situation worse. And at the same time had to admit to the
need to push away the keen edge of her own disappointment.

'Lie still!' He was in
control once more, although she was aware of the quickened uneven beat of his
heart under her palms. He shifted carefully on to his right side. 'You will not
leave this bed until I have made you my wife.'

'But—'

'But nothing. I will not
let you escape again. At this rate we shall be married twenty years and well
into advanced age before our marriage is consummated. I do not want a
forty-year-old virgin as my wife. I would rather risk it now.'

He surprised a chuckle from
her at the absurdity. Before she could recover, he rolled on to his back,
taking her with him, lifting her above him and then lowering her so that she
could straddle his hips.

Her chuckle was instantly
transformed into' a shocked intake of breath. 'Francis! What...? I cannot...I
do not know what to do!'

'I agree that this is not
perhaps the best way to initiate a virgin, but we should manage very well.'

'I am afraid again.' Her
hands clenched into fists, resting on his chest in an agony of indecision.

'How can you be? You have
me at your mercy, lady. Now...'

'Francis...'

He shook his head. 'Hush,
lady.' He pushed her chemise further up her thighs, enjoying the silk of her
skin as he did so, and then lifted her a little so that she was positioned
above him more comfortably. His lips curled a little at the confusion expressed
in the darkened depths of her eyes, more green than gold. Perhaps it was the
best he could have done for her, to present her mind with a problem to solve.

'Is it well with you?'

'Y...yes,' she stammered in
confusion.

Using his right hand he
pulled on the laces that fastened the neckline of her chemise in a neat bow.
It came free in his hand. The linen slid down, over her shoulders, to rest in soft
folds at her elbow. With one finger he followed the drape, to softly trace the
curve of her exposed breast, to touch her delicate nipple, which sprang to life
in response.

'I would kiss you if I
could reach without fear of agonising death!'

She smiled down at him.
Actually smiled, lips curved, eyes alight, and leaned down to touch her mouth
to his. And then stretched over him, arching her back in delicious invitation
as he brought his lips to her breast. A shudder ran through her, into him, of
delight.

She was aware of every
touch to her skin. Every caress. His fingers. His lips. The length of his body
as she leaned against him. And the hard swell of his erection, which pushed
inexorably against her parted thighs. No. He was not incapable. Or clumsy. There
was no shame or humiliation here, rather an intoxicating heat that pulsed
through every inch of her body. She had never experienced the like, could
hardly believe the pleasure that his hands, his mouth, could bring her.

He could wait no longer.
'You will have to do all the work, lady. Lift your hips. Now. Slowly.' He
positioned himself for her and with one hand lowered her slowly, slowly, until
he entered her.

She tensed—but not too
much. Would have pulled away—but not too far. He pushed further with exquisite
control until he felt the barrier of her maidenhead. And then thrust upwards,
hard and sure. And was still.

She cried out, her eyes
wide, expressive brows arched, searching his face for reassurance, but more in
shock than pain, too concerned with her unexpected role than with her physical
reactions.
How can I be doing this? After being totally
passive and inert with Edward?
She closed her eyes at the
prospect, not wanting Mansell to read her inner turmoil.

'Am I...am I doing this
right?'

'Perfectly.' He gritted his
teeth as he strove to remain motionless to allow her to become accustomed to
his size and strength. She was so tight, so accommodating, the velvet heat so
seductive. He dragged a deep breath into his lungs. 'You could even open your
eyes and look at me.'

She did so and blinked at
him in consternation.

'I do not suppose that
Edward ever told you that you are quite beautiful.' He swept his hand along her
arm, her shoulder, to
cup
the back of her neck and
pull her mouth a little closer to his. 'Especially when your chemise is more
off than on.'

She blushed to the roots of
her hair, but her laugh and her words held a cynical edge.

'I do not think that Edward
ever looked at me at all! And certainly not without a chemise!' Shock continued
to grip her. Was she really having a conversation in this intimate position?
She was immediately intensely aware of him, filling her, claiming her with such
thorough possession. And there was no discomfort. Indeed, there was a such a
feeling of pleasure... His hands were now firmly on her waist, hers clasping
his forearms. He saw the amazement on her face. And showed his teeth in a quick
flash of a smile.

'So you still think that it
was your fault that Edward was unable to give you any satisfaction?'

'It does not seem so, my
lord.' She turned her eyes from his in shy confusion.

'Now I will show you how
easy it is.'

He slid his hands once more
to her hips and began to move beneath her. Still gently, thrusting and
withdrawing. The pressure from his hands encouraged her to move with him, to
mirror his slow rhythm. Then more strongly and urgently.

'Hold on to me! Do you
hear? Hold on.'

And she did. Accepting.
Enfolding. Taking him deeply into her body. She could not believe the delicious
sensation of closeness and...and, yes, satisfaction. With Edward she had
flinched from his fumbling fingers. Had felt degraded and humiliated. With
Francis— how could she explain the sheer splendour of it? Her mind struggled to
accept the riot of sensation that was surging through her blood, tinting her
cheeks the colour of a blush rose.

Francis's thrusts became
more forceful, deep within her, until he shuddered to a climax, teeth clenched,
gripping her hips with hard fingers to keep her welded to him. For a time he
remained motionless within her, then sighed, relaxing the straining muscles in
his damaged shoulder.

She picked up the wash of
pain within him immediately as she spread her hands wide on his chest for
balance.

'You should not have done
it. Your wound is too recent.' She searched his face with anxious eyes, picking
up the tell-tale signs.

'Do you truly wish I had
not?'

She shook her head. 'I am
much relieved, my lord.'

'I have been given more
fulsome compliments.' The sardonic
twist
to
his lips was not unkind, but flustered her.

'I did not mean...'

He shook his head and
smiled. 'I know what you meant.' And lifted her to draw her down, close against
him so that he could kiss her hair, her face.

'There, lady. The deed is
done. With, forgive me, very little finesse on my part.'

'And none on mine!' But the
sense of well-being wrapped her round, infusing every cell. All she wanted was
to sink into his arm and rest there.

'Not necessary. You have
all the grace and beauty any man could desire. We did pretty well between us,
your innocence matched against my incapacity. Did I hurt you?' Francis
discovered within himself a sudden need for her to trust and be comfortable
with him.

'No!'

'Good. And we will
doubtless improve. Especially if you can resist putting another bullet in me.'
He kissed her, tenderly, lingeringly, not a little surprised by the simple
pleasure of taking his wife to bed. And with a certain pride that she had not
found the experience distasteful.

'Francis?'

'Mmm?'

'I have just thought of
something.'

'Not Edward, I hope!' He
felt her laugh against his throat and smiled in sheer masculine satisfaction.

She shook her head. 'Not
Edward! But Master Drayton. Do you think he will have already been and gone—and
taken our gunpowder with him to sell at some outrageous profit?'

Francis groaned and turned
his face into the pillow once more. If Master Drayton had indeed done so, it
might prove to be a high price to pay for marital relations!

Chapter Eight

'Forgive me for intruding.'
Honoria hesitated in the doorway. 'You should read this, my lord—brought by the
carrier from Leominster this morning. It explains much, I think.' Honoria had
tracked her lord to the panelled room and held out the folded document.

'Anything to distract me
from medieval legal agreements is welcome!' Mansell turned the letter in his
hands to read the direction. 'Who is it from?'

'Lady Scudamore. Another
family connection in the county. We have a...correspondence.' She took a seat
opposite with calm grace.

'You appear to me to have a
correspondence with any number of people.' His tone was dry, the merest
question in it, but he smiled at the picture she made, deep blue gown glowing
against the dark wood.

'But it is so useful.' Her
eyes met his directly.

'Some would say...' he
tapped the heavy paper thoughtfully against his fingers '...that you have the
makings of a spy ring here, of which even
Walsingham
,
Queen Elizabeth's fox-like spy master of blessed memory, would have approved.
Circulating sensitive information round the county with no one being the
wiser.'

'Why, no, my lord. How
could you think it?' She ignored his knowing smile at her demure reply. 'I
merely write to the ladies of my acquaintance in county circles. And only
include local gossip that any interested lady might indulge herself in.'

'Did I not see a letter
dispatched to Colonel Massey in Gloucester— in your hand?'

'Perhaps. He should know
how we fare, after all. He has the only

Parliamentarian force that
could possibly come to our aid in event of an attack.'

Mansell noted the faintest
flush on her cheekbones. 'Next you will tell me that you have no expectation of
receiving a letter from my mother, which might just include her views on the
recent happenings in London.'

The colour in her cheeks
deepened but the expression in her eyes remained guileless. 'It is always
possible.'
Why had she not thought
of
that?

'Hmm. I see that you will
admit to nothing.
Walsingham
would indeed have been
proud of you.'

Mansell opened the letter
and began to read. A preoccupation that allowed Honoria the opportunity to
regain her composure—he was far too astute!—and the luxury of studying her lord
in an unguarded moment. Setting her thoughts free to wander, she caught her lip
between her teeth.

The short time since
Mansell's return had been a time of waiting, of tension and preparation. Mary
and Josh had returned to Ludlow, to Honoria's regret. Samuel More had also left
for his home in Bishop's Castle. But Dr Wright and his wife Dorothy remained
and settled into the castle's routine. Dorothy was pleasant and amiable enough,
but not given to gossip and chatter. She was only willing to give an opinion
when addressed directly and her opinions were never forthright. Honoria sighed
in frustration. She missed Mary, perhaps the first friend she had ever had,
more than she had believed possible.

The gunpowder had arrived
safely, delivered with much complaint by Master Drayton. Honoria had made
herself scarce, hiding a smile of relief, abandoning Mansell to the full force
of the carrier's bitter complaints. Captain Davies, quickly an essential part
of their household, had overseen the order of muskets. If only they would
arrive before the besieging force.

Wednesday morning had seen
the return of Master Thorpe, unkempt and weary, but with remarkably little to
say about his experiences in Hereford Castle. No, he had not been told why he
had been suspected of spying. Who would he be spying on? After all, a body kept
his own counsel and did not need to go snooping into the affairs of others.
And, no, he had not been informed as to why his sudden release. And, no, he had
not been tortured—trust Sim to want such gruesome detail!—unless it was the
diet of stale bread and sour stew that was dished up once a day. But a coin had
been passed to him to get a lift with a carrier. No, he did not know who from.
And now, if his lordship would allow it, he must go and see what mess her
ladyship had made of the kitchen garden in his absence. Women should keep out
of kitchen gardens. It was high time that planting was under way, so Sim had
better roll up his sleeves, instead of standing gawking like a scarecrow.

Honoria had taken herself
off to the still-room before Master Thorpe could investigate further.

The rents were as bad as
Mansell had envisioned. No wonder Edward's coffers had been inherited in a
parlous state. So his lordship paid a number of local visits. A mixture of
charm and implied force, with Captain Davies at his side and a handful of
soldiers at his back, managed to wring a little of the dues owed from past
years from his reluctant tenants.

With time and patience on
his owner's part, and clever fingers that discovered every blissfully sensitive
spot, Setanta lost his foolish heart to Mansell.

So did Honoria. And much
less willingly. The memory of the night in his arms would not leave her. Or his
gentleness when he had finally claimed her body. She would, if the truth be
told, like to repeat the experience.

But by day he was
preoccupied and impatient, a storm of problems demanding his attention. And at
night he made no attempt to return to her bed, even though his shoulder had
healed well and gave him no inconvenience other than a sharp twinge if he moved
or stretched awkwardly. Honoria had to presume that she had disappointed him.
Well, of course she had! She had no knowledge,' no skills to attract him, no
feminine wiles. The fact that her memories could bring blood rushing to her
cheeks was irrelevant. His past experience of her was that she either froze in
horror at his touch or drenched him in uncontrollable tears. Even when he had
finally taken her, his physical pleasure had been impaired by a raging torrent
in his shoulder. Not something that a man would be driven to repeat.

So Honoria withdrew, hiding
once more behind the impassive exterior that had helped her so frequently in
the past when unhappiness or lack of confidence had threatened to overwhelm
her. She turned her attention to the affairs of the castle and the increasing
household, submerging her personal thoughts under daily routine. Always conscientious,
always competent, she made no demands on him.

And, concerned with her own
duties, how could she have been aware that her lord had taken the time to dig
the bullet from the panelling, and now kept the evidence in his pocket. Unsure
why he had done something so out of character, so sentimental even, he deliberately
did not question his motives. But occasionally his fingers smoothed its surface
and his lips curled in a wry smile, even when he found his wife to be even more
distant and unapproachable than usual. She certainly showed no inclination to
repeat her experiences in his bed. He could only presume that she had found it
more distasteful than he had thought when he had forced the issue. Perhaps if
she were away from Brampton Percy, he mused, with its dark and emotional
memories, she would be able to forget the past and welcome him as lover.

'So.' He finished reading
at last and raised his eyes to hers. 'Lady Scudamore had a most informative
style. I should congratulate you. Now we know why the threatened siege has not
materialised. And probably will not for some weeks.'

'But it also tells us how
determined Governor Coningsby is to crush us.' Honoria frowned a little.

'Very true. We nearly had
the trained bands of Radnorshire on our doorstep. Not something I would wish on
anyone! A vicious crew with no respect for authority.' His face lightened in a
quick smile. Thank God they refused to cross the county border into Herefordshire.'

'And, thank God, our local
Royalist Commander Lord Herbert took himself and his troops to attack
Gloucester instead.' Honoria nodded in agreement as she took the extended
document back from Mansell. 'Only to be defeated at
Highnam
.'

'So we are safe for a
little time.'

Mansell leaned his elbows
on the table amongst the documents and regarded her with a speculative light in
his intense gaze.

'Well, my lord?'

'Since we have been granted
this reprieve with Lord Herbert and all other Royalists otherwise engaged, I
would go to Wigmore. Will you accompany me?'

'Why, yes, if you wish it.
Is there a reason?'

'I have a...a decision to
make. And not a comfortable one.' He proceeded to gather up the papers and put
them in order, the line deepening between his brows.

'And you want my opinion,
Francis?'

He laughed, the frown
clearing, at the unconcealed astonishment in her voice. 'Is it so surprising? I
think that I do. I certainly need you to understand what I am planning.'

'Shall I like it?'

'I doubt it. But you will,
I am sure, leave me in no doubt of your feelings when the time comes. We leave
tomorrow.'

The castle of Wigmore rose
up before them, impressive and dominating as it straddled the ridge to defend
the wide valley at its feet. Massive walls, two metres thick, flanked by round
bastions, enclosed the octagonal tower that reared from the motte. Smaller than
Brampton Percy it might be, but it had a welcoming serenity that touched Honoria's
heart. They reined in their horses before the strongly protected gatehouse
where Captain Davies set about the disposition of his troops.

It had been an easy journey,
the road through
Adforton
quiet, the surprisingly
mild spring weather and glinting sunshine after lowering clouds giving the
journey the air of holiday. A show of force under the command of Captain Davies
gave security to the small party with their horses and two light baggage
wagons. Honoria's spirits lifted. The surrounding hills were warm and mellow,
the pasture beginning to show the green of spring grass. Buzzards circled
overhead, their plaintive mewing demanding attention. How good it felt to leave
Brampton Percy, if only for a little time. Francis had said no more to her
about the purpose of the visit. She glanced across to where he was in deep
discussion about routes and defences with the Captain, riding with ease and
elegantly controlled power, his hands resting loosely on his horse's neck. He
would doubtless tell her on their arrival. So until then she closed her mind to
it and set herself to enjoy the day. And his presence.

They crossed the deep, wide
ditch, passed beneath the portcullis, emerging into a pleasant and sun-warmed
courtyard. Well drained, Mansell remarked sourly, free of the standing water
that plagued Brampton. And there they dismounted, to be welcomed by
Wigmore's
Steward, Master
Yatton
,
a young man, honoured by the sudden descent of his lord and lady, who was
pleased to usher Honoria to the private apartments.

She smiled to herself with
instant pleasure. Some long-dead Mortimer had wisely abandoned the original
keep itself as living accommodation—too mean, too inconvenient and
uncomfortable, too cold— and had constructed a range of palatial living
apartments on a square platform to the south of the motte. They were everything
that Brampton Percy was not. Pleasant rooms, open and light, built to catch the
sun, but sufficiently low-ceilinged to retain warmth. Blessed with fireplaces,
and wide window embrasures where one could sit at leisure. Above was a single
room, very like her solar, but larger and more airy, now furnished as the main
bedchamber. Furniture and hangings in all the rooms were sparse, but they were
well maintained, and there was a comfortable air of good housekeeping. Honoria
felt at ease.

'Well, my lady?' Mansell
had followed her, noting her smile as she toured the rooms and touched the
bright hangings.

'I like it here.' She
leaned to look down from the window to where a small herb garden had been
planted in a sunny corner.

'Did you never visit?'

'No. Edward disliked
Wigmore. He never came here unless he had to.'

'I could hope that you will
enjoy your stay here.' Honoria glanced round sharply. She did not quite
understand the flatness in his voice, nor the shadow of unease in his eyes. She
shrugged a little. Perhaps it was merely a trick of the light.

'Why, yes. I am sure I
shall. There is no memory here, you see She coloured slightly at her
unintentional admission and turned away to deal with the unpacking of their
baggage.

Mansell had noted it, but
let it lie.

'Well, Priam. We have spent
considerable time weighing up the options. Are you in agreement with me or have
you a more comfort able suggestion?'

Lord and Lady Mansell,
Master
Yatton
and Captain Davies stood on the
battlement walk as shadows began to lengthen to cast the court yard below them
into deep gloom. The sun had still to sink below the horizon, however, so that
they were bathed in its final glow. It touched the castle and its surroundings
with an idyllic but misleading sense of peace and well-being. It had already
struck Honoria that, if she allowed full rein to her imagination, their meeting
had the air of a council of war. She looked from one to the other, seeing only
disquiet, a difficult decision reluctantly made.