Patricia Ryan - [Fairfax Family 01] (27 page)

It was a strange, dark sorcery he worked with his hand and his mouth. It was like making fire by rubbing two sticks together, the friction coaxing a red-hot glow from what had always been cool, generating a spark of excruciating pleasure that flickered breathlessly on the edge of flame...

Delirious with need, deafened by the blood pounding in her ears, she clutched at his hair. “Please...”

He withdrew his finger, gently kissed her aching sex, and eased his large body down onto hers. She opened herself to him, holding him close. Then he shifted and reached between them. She knew what was coming and welcomed it, yet when he pressed into her, stretching her open, she tensed, her heart racing in panic.

Now he would own her. Now he would consume her.

He took her face in his hands and she looked up into his eyes, so close, so endlessly blue. He whispered things she could barely hear over the roar in her ears... endearments, promises...

In the depths of his eyes she saw reassurance, as well as a deep and profound hunger. On their glassy surface she saw her own reflection, and her own hunger, as great as his. Their coming together had been inevitable. She had known it from the moment she first saw him on the dock at Bulverhythe Harbor.

She could just make out his words. “...but if you want me to stop—”

She chuckled and shook her head. How could he think she would want him to stop?

He took her mouth in a kiss of thanks and fierce longing. The kiss muffled her gasp as he moved within her again, pushing with slow, deliberate care. The muscles in his arms and shoulders were as tight as bowstrings, and Martine knew that he was holding back for her.

He paused. Half sheathed within her, he reached down to caress her again where their bodies joined. That wondrous spark ignited once more within her, and she lifted her hips, seeking his touch, pleading this time not with her voice, but with her body.
Please, please... oh, please...

In the heart-stopping moment before the spark flamed, she gripped his shoulders, crying his name. White heat consumed her, a flash fire that crackled along her veins, rocking her with its force. Dimly she felt his hands lift her hips and heard his groan of effort as he drove in hard. In a single, rending stroke, he buried himself completely within her, then gathered her in his arms and held her tight and still as her quaking subsided.

“Are you all right?” he asked softly.

She took a deep breath and nodded. So great had been her pleasure that it had overwhelmed the pain. She had barely been aware of it. No doubt it was as he had intended. He trailed his fingers through her wet hair, and she closed her eyes.

He filled her, possessed her. She felt impossibly hot and stretched, and knew that he’d torn her inside. She wondered if she would be sore tomorrow
, then remembered that tomorrow she would be back at Harford Castle, preparing to wed Sir Edmond.

She opened her eyes. “We must be mad.”

He pressed a thoughtful kiss to her forehead. “I lived among madmen once, in a hole in the ground in the Levant. All but your brother and I eventually lost their senses. They were the lucky ones. They forgot about the chains that bound their feet and the prison walls that surrounded them. Some of them were even happy.”

He trailed a finger down her forehead and along her nose. When he pressed it to her lips, she tasted it with the tip of her tongue.

“If we’re mad,” he murmured, his mouth descending toward hers, “so be it.”

His lips barely grazed hers. The kiss—the kisses, for there were many—were soft and worshipful, as if bestowed upon a precious thing, a sacred object. He worshiped her mouth, her cheeks, her eyelids, ears, and throat.

She became aware of an almost imperceptible movement of his hips, the thrusts excruciatingly slow, achingly gentle.

“Does this hurt?” he whispered hoarsely.

She wrapped her arms around him. “Nay.” Through her breast, she felt his heart pounding in his chest.
He has seen to my pleasure
, she thought.
Now he will see to his own
.

Her pleasure had been a surprise to her, and she hadn’t thought it could be repeated. Yet, as he moved within her, his strokes exquisitely measured, she felt that hot little spark rekindle at the juncture of their bodies. Flames of desire licked and teased her; he stoked them with thrusts that grew ever faster, more urgent, more intense. She matched his rhythm, straining unthinkingly toward release, insensible to anything except the rising flood of heat that consumed her. When the firestorm swept through her, it tore sobs from her throat.

He arched over her, rigid and quivering, his hair hanging in sweat-dampened tendrils. When her climax subsided, he swiftly drew himself out and fell on her, crushing her hard into the blanket of moss, his trembling hands fisted in her hair. The gorge echoed with his low, shuddering groans as he pumped against her. She felt his seed pulse hotly over her belly, and then he collapsed, slick with sweat, riding out the tremors that coursed through him.

He breathed an Anglo-Saxon exclamation that she recognized as the English equivalent of “
Mon Dieu
.” She held him tight, stroking his head as it rested on her shoulder, savoring the feel of him on top of her—his size, his strength, his warmth. She knew enough of reproduction to understand why he had withdrawn, and to be grateful that he’d done so, but she couldn’t help wishing he was still inside her, still connected in that amazingly intimate way.

Presently he brought his mouth to hers for a sweet, languid kiss, then shifted so he could kiss her breasts as well. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmured. “Perfect.”

Kneeling over her, he carefully touched the stinging flesh of her sex. “You’re bleeding,” he said, and leaned down to soothe this place of pain and ecstasy with soft kisses and healing licks.

The mist had thinned, and soft dawn sunlight glittered through the trees. Taking her hand, Throne led her off the mossy bank and back into the river. There they remained for some time, holding each other in silence until long after the cold, clear water had washed away all of his seed and the last traces of her virgin’s blood.

*   *   *

The ride back seemed interminable to Martine. She and Thorne exchanged nothing more than innocuous pleasantries, conscious always of Rainulf’s presence. By the time they arrived at Harford that evening, she felt completely exhausted, not just physically, but emotionally.

What have I done?
she thought over and over again as she washed and changed out of her dusty traveling clothes.
And where do I go from here?

Thorne was waiting for her in the stairwell when she came down for supper. She gasped as he wrapped his big arms around her, pressing her back against the curved stone wall, his mouth seeking hers for a hard, urgent kiss.

“Come to me tonight,” he rasped. His eyes pleaded with her, his hands hungrily exploring her hips, her waist, her breasts.

“Thorne...” She moaned as he found a taut nipple through two layers of wool and tugged. “We have to...” He crushed his hips to hers, and he was so hard, so ready. “Oh, God...”

He bit her earlobe. “Come to me.”

“We have to talk,” she managed, as her arms encircled him.

“God, I need you so much. We’ll talk. Just come to—”

Footsteps
. Thorne released her quickly as Bernard came into view from below.

“My lady,” Bernard said silkily, nodding toward Martine. “Woodsman,” he added, glancing back and forth between them. “Supper is on the table, if you two can be troubled to join us.”

*   *   *

“Enough of that damned Neville,” Godfrey bellowed, rising unsteadily at the head of the supper table. “‘Twould please me if I never heard the bastard’s name again!”

‘Twould please me, as well
, thought Martine. All conversation that evening had centered around the murderous baron, who had disappeared from Sussex, along with most of his men, on the day of the betrothal ceremony. His wife had sought and received sanctuary at a small local nunnery, but Neville had not been heard from since. There were rumors that he had fled to the Continent, but several more reliable sources claimed he had journeyed north in order to amass an army of hired soldiers. Not knowing his intent, Olivier had instructed his barons to prepare for battle.

“Everyone shut up!” Godfrey commanded. “You—Thorne. Stand up!” The Saxon, looking slightly wary, rose to his feet. “I have something to say.”

Dear God
, thought Martine.
Bernard saw us. He told Lord Godfrey. Thorne is ruined.
I’m
ruined
.

Conversation ceased. Everyone lowered their tankards and knives except Edmond, who continued to eat. The only sound in the hall was the pop and hiss of logs as they settled in the fire pit.

The baron fixed his unfocused gaze on Thorne, standing across the table from Martine. “For ten years you’ve served me, Thorne Falconer, and served me well. You’ve been a valiant soldier, without equal, but everyone who knows me knows that it’s your skill with the birds, even more than with the bow, that has made you so indispensable to me.”

“Hear, hear!” chorused Peter and Guy.

“Too indispensable,” admitted Godfrey, a little sadly. “Aye, I’ll admit it. What I do tonight, I’d have done years ago, but for my greed. I wanted you here, at Harford Castle, training
my
birds, not miles away at your own manor, training yours.”

He sighed. “But the time has come. In betrothing my boy Edmond to the lovely Martine of Rouen—” he nodded toward Martine, who nodded back, relieved at the turn things were taking, “you have united my family with that of Queen Eleanor. ‘Tis a service I find I cannot let pass without reward.”

He gestured to a waiting manservant, who handed Thorne something long wrapped in purple silk. “Unwrap it!” the baron urged. Thorne did so, revealing a sheathed sword. He withdrew the weapon, a shimmering broadsword with a jewel-encrusted hilt.

Over the excited murmurings of the diners, Godfrey said, “Sealed within that hilt is a shred of the swaddling clothes of our Lord Jesus Christ!” The murmurs became exclamations, then cheers. Through it all, Thorne’s carefully schooled expression never wavered.

“And now for your land.” Silence enveloped the hall. Everyone, Martine included, stared at Thorne, who patiently waited for the baron to get on with it. Were it not for the white-knuckled grip with which he held the sword, one might have thought him disinterested in the proceedings.

Come to me
, he had begged, his body rigid with desire. She remembered the feel of him inside her, the ache, the heat, and felt warm all over. Despite the rawness between her legs, which had pained her considerably during the long ride back, she wanted more than anything to take him into her once again, to close around him, to be united with him. She remembered how he had looked, arching over her, trembling, shaking with his need, groaning as he drove into her... Could this man who stood before her now, accepting his reward for betrothing her to another, be the same man?

“As soon as is practical after the wedding,” Godfrey continued, “‘tis my intention to deed to you a manor to hold in fief of me, specifically those thirty-seven measures of land bounded on the south and west by Harford River, on the east by the stone wall enclosing the property of...” Loud cheers and hurrahs from Thorne’s men drowned out the rest of Godfrey’s description, the holding in question obviously familiar to them.

Thorne, appearing stunned, glanced briefly in Martine’s direction. “‘Tis exceptionally generous, my lord,” he said quietly, taking his seat.

“‘Tis no more than you’re due,” said Godfrey. “And now, if my lady Estrude will stand...”

A smiling Estrude rose and smoothed her gown.

“My second announcement is also happy, and I daresay long in coming. Fourteen years in coming, to be exact. Friends and family, it is my great pleasure to announce that Lady Estrude of Flanders, my daughter by marriage, is, at long last, with child.”

A roar of approval filled the great hall. Estrude beamed. Bernard endured a volley of backslaps from his men. “A baby! A baby!” squealed Ailith from her mother’s lap. Curiously, Clare did not appear to share in her mistress’s joy. Red-faced, her chin trembling, she surreptitiously wiped the tears that welled in her eyes as she stole anguished glances at Bernard.

Rainulf, sitting beside Martine, gasped. “
Thorne!
”

All heads turned toward the Saxon. He sat perfectly still, the sword in his right hand, his left resting on the table next to his trencher, the palm sliced cleanly open. He cupped his hand as it filled with blood. “Clumsy of me,” he said tightly.

“Oh!” Martine started to rise, but Felda, rushing toward Thorne as she swiftly untied her apron, motioned for her to sit.

“Hold still, Sir Thorne,” Felda insisted as he rose to his feet, his face ashen.

“I’m fine,” he ground out.

Martine tried to meet his eyes, but he looked away, quite deliberately, it seemed.

Felda wrapped the apron around his hand, then ran after him as he strode toward the stairwell. “Let me bandage—”

“I’ll be fine. Let me be.”

“Thorne, just let me—”

He whirled around. “
Let me be!
” His anger drew a sharp exclamation from Felda. He briefly closed his eyes, the muscles jumping in his jaw. Raising both hands in a placating gesture, he said quietly, “Just let me be. Please.”