Prisoner of My Desire (5 page)

“So now you know,” Rowena said dejectedly, having finished telling Mildred the whole sordid tale of her husband’s death and her meeting with his substitute. “And Gilbert meant it, stated it plainly this time. Either I get myself with child, or he will kill my mother.”

“Aye, I doubt not that he meant it. He is the devil’s own son, that one. ’Tis fortunate he does not want to stand there and watch. Your husband would have, if he gave you to his own man, that John.” Mildred sighed. “I suppose you must see it done, then.”

Rowena wrung her hands. “I know, but—how?”

Mildred’s eyes flared, closed briefly, then opened again, clearly filled with self-disgust. “I am that stupid, I am. How can you know how? Your husband would have taken what he
wanted, with your having to do naught but lie there. But now you have to do it all on your own, and that lad in there not able to even direct you, with a gag in his mouth. And he is on his back, you say?”

“Flat on his back, and I doubt he can move at all, the chains are so tight.”

Mildred sighed again. “I am trying to see it in my mind—I have never ridden a man, you understand. ’Tis not natural.”

“Gilbert must think ’twill not be difficult, for he has left him bound so.”

“I did not say it could not be done,” Mildred said disagreeably.

This was a subject for kitchen wenches, not for her lady. Her cheeks were now as pink as Rowena’s were pale. But that wretched d’Ambray would no doubt be back with the dawn to see for himself that the deed was done, so there was no help for it.

“Aye, all right, I have it now,” she continued. “And I will speak plainly to get the telling over with quickly. You must straddle his hips, get his rod inside you, and then you ride it. There will be pain until your maidenhead breaks, but then it should not hurt so much. Just imagine yourself astride your palfrey at a canter. You bounce—nay, do not blush—you will likely adjust to this method as soon as you are seated. Just remember, that rod of his needs the movement to give up its seed, and you must provide that movement if he cannot. Just sitting on him once he is fully sheathed in you will not do it. Think you
can do it now? Is there aught more that needs explaining?”

“Nay, I—nay.”

Mildred hugged her then. “Treat this as any other chore, my sweet one. I would have other advice for you, easier to stomach, were he not a stranger and to remain a stranger. But remember that is all he is, that you will never have to see him again once the babe is well planted, so he does not merit your embarrassment.”

But he had it, Rowena thought as she returned to the small room across the way, and the heat did not leave her cheeks again. His eyes were on her the second she opened the door, and he watched her approach the bed. Mere interest was all he showed this time, and she revealed nothing of her own turbulent thoughts.

A chore, like any other? Very well, she told herself. Just get it done.

She dropped her gaze to the bed, loath to watch him while she explained the horrid facts to him. “I must have a child, and it must be conceived immediately. You were chosen to aid me because your hair and eyes are the same as my husband’s, for the child needs have the look of him. So we must copulate this night, and the next, and the next, until your seed bears fruit. I like this no better than you, but I have no choice—and neither do you.”

His chains rattled, but she would not look toward those expressive eyes of his. Briskly, she took hold of the thick sheet covering him and
flipped it to the end of the bed, where it slithered to the floor. She did not watch it fall. With a will of their own, her eyes were drawn to his manroot, and widened to their full roundness. There, truly, was the monstrous weapon she had heard tales of. It lay soft and still in a bed of golden curls.

A growl came out of his throat, making her start, her eyes flying up to his face. Expressive eyes he had, so expressive, and now they promised grim retribution if she did not desist. She took a step back, suddenly afraid. So much fury in an expression.

She had not bargained on this. Most men would not mind what she had to do. They spread their bastards far and wide, so what was one more to them? Nay, that was the attitude of nobles, not serfs. But male serfs took their pleasure where they could, too—only they rarely knew if a babe was theirs or not, for the maids they cavorted with were not constant—and they tended to marry if they were caught.

Did he think he would have to marry her? Or did he object to the way they would have to copulate, with her on the top, with her in control? Mildred had called it unnatural, so mayhap he thought so, too. Well, she could not help that. She could not help any of this.

“I am sorry you object, but that changes naught,” she said now, her tone tinged with bitterness. “I still must do it. But I will be quick so you are not disturbed for long.”

His eyes flared at her, as if she had said some
thing incredibly stupid. She wished she could not read his thoughts so well. She wished he would make this easier for her, but why should he? He must feel as misused as she did. Well, she refused to look at him anymore. And she
would
get this done and over with.

So decided, she climbed up on the edge of the bed, but it suddenly shook so forcefully, she tumbled backward to land on the floor. She stared up at the ceiling, fighting for the breath that had been knocked out of her, wondering what had happened. But then she heard the chains settling down to silence and knew—and got mad.

Damn you!
she wanted to rail at him, but all she did was get back on her feet and glare down at him. “I
will
copulate with you. Do you understand? I have to!”

She got back on the bed, ready for his violent thrashing this time, but less prepared to actually watch it. He
was
violent, and the power behind his bucking and twisting and writhing was terrifying to behold. His body strained beyond limits, seemed to grow in size. The entire bed bounced and moved across the floor. She lost her balance again, started to topple, but bent toward him just in time, so that she was thrown across his loins instead of to the floor.

He stilled instantly. She worried then that she might have hurt him, and lifted herself up to look under her. But his manroot still looked the same, so she could not tell if her belly had harmed it or not. But from that position she saw
the blood coating his ankles. She glanced at his hands, and there, too, blood smeared over his wrists.

She hissed through her teeth at this evidence of his violence. “You stupid man. Why cause yourself pain over something you cannot prevent?”

He answered with another growl. But while he was still motionless, she swiftly threw her leg over his hips to straddle them and gave him a triumphant look. If he was going to buck now, it would be all to the good. But he did not. He just watched her with murder in his bright silver eyes.

Warrick had never been so furious in his life. She meant to steal a child from him,
his
child! If she succeeded he would kill her. Nay, that would be too quick. He would make her suffer the agonies of hell. But she could not succeed. What she intended enraged him, but it also left him cold, and the stupid wench did not even realize that, if that look of utter triumph she had given him was to be credited.

He watched her lift her shift just enough to bare her warmth and settle it against his loins. Perversely, it enraged him even more that she did not intend to remove her clothes. She could steal his child, but she would not show him her nakedness to do it. Well and good, she would learn soon enough that she was doomed to fail. To that end, he closed his eyes against the look of her, which was too lovely by half.

He fed on his anger. He seethed with it, his only desire to get his hands on her so he could
beat her senseless. That she would
dare
do this to him! He recalled the words he had thought a jest, that she needed no help to rape him. For that alone he despised her. For that alone he could kill her, but she meant to steal from him as well, flesh of his flesh. The mere intent sealed her fate.

But she was a stupid wench to think it was even possible to rape a man. Had she kept her mouth shut and merely offered herself to him, she could have had what she sought. His flesh would have responded instantly to the invitation, as it had nearly done at the mere sight of her. But now he did not even have to fight to remain unmoved beneath her, for his killing rage continued to leave him soft and uninterested in her warm flesh.

She did not just sit there atop him and expect miracles. He could feel her fingers handling him, yet in a way that he had never been caressed by a female before. But when he became aware that she was trying to stuff his soft flesh inside her, his eyes opened incredulously. He saw that hers were closed now. She was biting her lower lip, and concentrating so deeply on what she was about, her features were scrunched together. He flinched when one of her nails poked him, but he realized she was not even aware she had done it.

He wondered how long she would continue to attempt the impossible. Not long. She finally released a sob of frustration, and without meeting his eyes again, she gave up her seat and nearly ran from the room in defeat.

Warrick felt such fierce satisfaction, he wanted to shout with it. To have thwarted her so easily, with no effort on his part. He had won. She had failed.

But she returned.

He had not thought she would. And her face was now flame-bright, but also filled with such a look of determination, he felt his first stirrings of wariness, and rightly so. She slowly shrugged off her bedrobe and let it drop to the floor. When she reached for the hem of her shift, he closed his eyes tight.

Her voice came softly to him. “You can fight me, sirrah, but I have it on good authority ’twill do you no good.”

He would not have answered that even if he could, but he would like to cut the throat of whoever had just given her the courage to try again. He strained to hear if she approached. Her small hand lighting on his chest told him she had.

“You must have realized I am a virgin.”

He did not know it, but the word had the desired effect on him, even though he did not believe it. But so, too, did her hand, tracing a slow path down his chest to his belly. He expected his rage to distract him, but her voice continued to distract him instead.

“In my ignorance, I did not even know you were not ready for me—that you needed encouragement of a certain kind. I did not even know that this soft flesh of yours would change and grow to a hardness like the rest of you.” She touched him, there, as she said it. “I find it hard
to believe, for ’tis already large, yet did Mildred assure me ’tis so. I am eager to see this strange happening for myself.”

Did she know that what she was saying was as stimulating as her touch? Damn her and her advisor to perdition! Sweat broke out on his brow. He would
not
succumb to this seduction.

“I am to kiss you and—and lick you, everywhere, even as a last resort—there. Mildred said you would have to be dead do you not respond if I kiss you there.”

He was already responding. His mind screamed his rage, but his flesh was a betrayer of the worst sort, with a mind of its own, tantalized by her promise. He strained at his bonds. He went wild, trying to dislodge her hand. But she stood beside the bed, undisturbed by his thrashing, and her fingers closed around him, holding on tight. He stilled when he realized all he did was aid her.

“I would not have believed it did I not see it,” she gasped.

There was awe in her voice. And she was petting him now, giving that worthless piece of flesh praise for obeying her instead of him. She did not even know he had not reached his full size, that he still fought with every particle of his being.

“I suppose now I need not kiss you.”

Was that disappointment in her voice? Oh, God, he could not stand much more. What he had thought impossible was not. She
could
have what she wanted did she continue,
and he had no hope that she would not continue.

When she climbed onto the bed, he thrashed again, but she grabbed hold of his hips and hung on. And he could
feel
her nakedness now as she hugged him, her breasts pressing against his skin, nearly at his groin. This, too, merely aided her, forcing more blood to rush to that traitor, so he stilled again, hoping he was not hard enough to penetrate her, praying she
was
a virgin so she would not know the difference and would still fail.

She crawled up him, still holding on tightly in case he tried to throw her off again. Warrick groaned at this further stimulation. And then she was seated, and he was hard enough that she only had to nudge him in the right direction.

Heat. Scalding heat and moisture. Why could she not be dry? Why could she not…?

Her whimper went through him like a lance, even as he felt the cause of it. She was still trying to seat herself fully, but her maidenhead would not give, and she was progressing too slowly to do aught but cause herself pain. He felt a savage pleasure in that. So she was a virgin, and her own pain would defeat her where he could not.

To move now would truly aid her, so he remained deathly still. Yet she was so small and exquisitely tight, the urge was there, nigh overwhelming, to thrust deep into her. He killed it swiftly. He could not control that traitor, but he still controlled the rest of his body.

He heard another whimper, louder, and he opened his eyes to feed on her pain. Tears streaked her smooth cheeks. Her sapphire eyes, glassy with wetness, reflected that pain. But he had forgotten her nakedness.

She was a small woman, but she was generously formed, her breasts bountiful, her waist tiny. The spread of her hips over him, her splendid breasts bouncing with her soft panting, the feel of hot wetness squeezing only half of him—the sight of that part of him inside her…It was his undoing. He did not thrust. He did not have to. The blood rushed to swell him to his full, throbbing length, which pushed right through her maidenhead without either of them moving to help it.