Rose of rapture (27 page)

"Oh, God," she moaned again.

In that moment, despite himself, Warrick's heart ached for her, for he knew the desperate hope, the torment, and the agony she was feeling. Had he not felt as much when Brangwen had laughed in his face?

"'Sabelle," he said and held out one hand to her; but she ignored him and, picking up her skirts, ran blindly across the wild moors toward Grasmere.

Woodenly, the two men watched her go, neither making any effort to detain her flight. Then slowly, Lionel turned back to the Earl.

"Ye whoreson Welsh bastard." The heir of St. Saviour spoke lowly, his blue eyes glittering with hate. One hand went instinctively for his sword. "I shall slay ye for what ye have done."

Warrick only laughed, and the sound was not pleasant.

"Fool! Think ye I would sully my steel by engaging ye?" he asked. "A whip is good enough for the likes of ye"—the Earl indicated the riding crop he held in one hand—"and I shall be sore tempted to use it if ye do not leave Grasmere at once. Ye may be Gloucester's man," Warrick continued silkily when Lionel made no move to depart, "but I am the King's. Ye would be wise not to press me further," he warned.

Briefly, Lionel's fingers tightened on the hilt of his blade, but he did not draw the weapon after all. Reason had begun to set

in, cooling his rage slightly. To draw steel on one of Edward's favorites would indeed be the act of a fool. There would be another time, another place; and perhaps then, Lord Hawkhurst would not rank so high at Court. The King was notoriously fickle.

"We shall meet again, my lord," Lionel promised the Earl vehemently, both men understanding the duel had only been postponed.

"And on that day, I shall kill ye," Warrick vowed softly. "Till then, remember that the Lady Isabella is mine."

Chapter Nineteen

THE LAST OF THE SMALL, DRUNKEN WEDDING PARTY had gone, closing the chamber door firmly behind them. Isabella was alone at last—alone, with her husband. She lay quite still beside him in the massive canopy bed they occupied, clutching the fine, white linen sheet to her naked body desperately, as though it might offer some protection against him. Earlier, she had consumed a great deal of wine to give herself courage for this night; but though the liquor had been warm, she still felt cold inside. She tried to tell herself there was naught to fear, that surely; the man who had married her would not abuse her now that he had her at his utter mercy; but still, she was afraid. As much as she had attempted to overcome the feeling, she could not bear for him to touch her, even though she owed him her very existence. Her reluctance to give what was legally his seemed poor payment indeed for the saving of her life, but Isabella could not help it. If he touched her, took her, she would belong to him for all time, be bound to him forever by more than just the vows they had spoken. And yet, how could she refuse him? Surely, her body was little enough to offer in exchange for her life. Nevertheless, she trembled a little, tears glistening on her cheeks, as she awaited the assault that was her husband's right.

Slowly, Warrick rolled over on his side, propping himself up on one elbow to study his bride. She was so hauntingly beautiful in the candlelight that it almost took his breath away. Her wide grey-green eyes were like seas before a storm, with their mysterious depths. Her long black lashes made dark, crescent smudges upon her cheeks when she closed the orbs to avoid his gaze. The Earl longed to trace the line of her straight, finely chiseled nose, to follow it down to her full pink lips, which quivered slightly, soft and inviting, yielding, exciting. He could almost taste them now, feel the tiny pulse beating at the hollow of her throat, kiss the pale breasts that swelled above the sheet she held so tightly to her chest. God, how he wanted her. But Isabella did not want him, Warrick knew.

She married me in a daze, he thought, because she was bitter and hurt and didn't care what happened to her. It is only now, in my bed, that the shock of Lord Lionel's perfidy has receded in her mind, and the full import of what it means to be wed to me has dawned on her. Now, she cares what becomes of her. She doesn't want me to touch her. Though I saved her life, she hates me: for I am also the man who exposed her lover for what he really was, breaking her heart with the knowledge. I am the man who is now her husband, not he.

The Earl stretched out one hand and caught the girl's jaw, gently turning her face toward him. Blindly, through the blur of her tears, she stared up at him, her eyes dark and shadowed with pain. For a moment, her fear stirred him to pity. She had borne so much. He could wait a few days before making her his. Then he recalled the sight of her nakedness when her maids had disrobed her, and his loins quickened once more. Isabella was his wife, by God. She had no right to say him nay, and Warrick would not let her deny him in any event. He would take her by force if necessary, for sooner or later, he intended to have her. Aye, 'twould be better if he took her now, despite her fright. To wait would only prolong her agonized suspense.

'"Sabelle."

She stiffened at the word and attempted to turn away, but he compelled her to go on looking at him.

"'Sabelle..." He bent to kiss her.

She inhaled raggedly.

"Warrick, don't. Please. Please don't touch me."

"I saved your life," he reminded her sharply, drawing back a little, his eyes narrowing slightly. "And ye are my wife besides."

"Well, I wish ye had not. I wish I were not."

"Do ye? Dost truly think ye wouldst be better off dead? Dost truly believe he would have loved ye any better?" The Earl's amber eyes flashed with anger as he thought of Lord Lionel Valeureux.

Isabella bit her lip.

"Perhaps not, but at least he would not have despised me."

"I do not despise ye, 'Sabelle," Warrick told her.

"Don't ye?"

"Nay."

"Oh, God," the girl breathed with anguish. "Let us at least have honesty between us—if nothing else. Ye never wished to marry me."

"'Twas nothing against ye, 'Sabelle. I had no desire to wed any wench. But as the King commanded me to marry, I would as lief have wed ye as any other. At least I wanted ye... still want ye—" His voice trailed off meaningfully as he moved to take her in his arms once more.

"Wouldst rape an unwilling maid?" Isabella suddenly cried out in protest against him.

He must not touch her; he must not! She would be lost, she thought again, lost to him forever. Somehow, deep in her heart, she knew it was true. He would waken that dark side of her, set it aflame with desire, and she would never be free of him, not as long as she lived.

He laid his hand upon her throat, his eyes glittering strangely.

"Willing or nay, have ye I shall," he vowed with fierce intent.

Afterward, Isabella never remembered just exactly how it had happened; but somehow, suddenly, Warrick was kissing her, kissing her as she had never been kissed before in her life, draining her very soul from her being, then pouring it back in again, filling her to overflowing, blinding her to everything but him. Her heart pounded jerkily in her breast with a hope she feared to feel and something akin to pain that came with it: for the promise of a love that would last for always was on his lips, and she knew it was but a lie. No man loved like that. Lionel had not loved her like that. Warrick did not love her like that, would never love her like that; so why was his mouth kissing her like this, as though he were giving every part of himself to her and asking for every part of her in return? Oh, why did he want her heart when he did not love her? Wasn't it enough that Lionel had hurt her deeply? Must Warrick tear her apart inside too?

"Nay, oh, nay," she whimpered, trying to free herself from his all-enveloping embrace, but his arms only closed about her more tightly, holding her near, pressing her to him.

Oh, Christ, sweet Christ, what had she done to him? He had meant only to take her, as he had taken countless other wenches; but from the moment he had kissed her, Warrick had been swept away by something stronger than lust, deeper than desire. It was as though Isabella had been made for him, for she fit against him perfectly, her gentle curves just right for the length of his hard, muscular body. The rose scent of her perfume invaded his flaring nostrils, engulfmg him with its sultry, enticing fragrance. He felt as though he were drowning in it—and he did not care. The taste of her lips was sweeter than the wine he had drunk earlier. How was such possible? Surely, the girl had bewitched him in some manner, drugged his liquor with some potion. Why else would his head be spinning in this fashion? Why else would his flesh feel as though it were on fire where it pressed against her yielding softness? Why else would he be filled with this strange, all-consuming presentiment that his destiny for all time lay in Isabella's arms? The idea was ridiculous! She was only a wench, like any other. But still, he could not halt the tide of overwhelming passion that rushed through him, making him long to take her savagely and make her his, daring her to deny that she belonged to him—and him alone. He wanted her—all of her—not just her body, but her heart and soul as well; and yet, if someone had asked him why, he could not have replied. He knew only that the night was suddenly filled with magic, and he yearned for Isabella as he had never desired another woman in his life.

"'Sabelle, 'Sabelle," he moaned hoarsely against her mouth.

He kissed the tremblmg comers of her lips, thrilled by the manner in which they quivered beneath his mouth. Then he teased them gently with his tongue, tracing the outlme of her lips as though he were memorizing every curve, every detail, of their so sweetly vulnerable shape. Though she tried to resist him, still, he parted her mouth, forced it open with his tongue, ravaged it tenderly, at first, caressingly, tasting every drop of the nectar within, savoring it lingeringly until the fever in his blood drove him to be more demanding. He ground his lips down on hers hard, almost savagely, so she was compelled to kiss him back, did not even realize she was doing so. Her mind was a blank, a heady swirl of dizzying sensations that flooded her being like a maelstrom, sweeping all thought away. Her mouth grew warm, tingling inside, where his tongue pillaged it, devoured it, as

though he could not get enough of her. And like a piece of driftwood, she was carried away by the tide of emotions he was unleashing inside of her. Oh, God. What was he doing to her?

'Tis the wine, she thought. Aye, 'tis the wine. Surely, 'tis only the wine.

But she knew, in her heart, it was not.

"Warrick... Warrick," she murmured his name aloud, a sigh of wanting that fell plaintively in the silence, and she did not even hear it. She was melting inside, her bones turning to liquid ore as unconsciously she molded herself against him, her hands reaching up to entwine themselves in the rich tobacco-brown waves of his hair.

Impatiently, roughly, he yanked away the sheet to bare her nakedness to his raking gaze, but she did not care. She did not even see how his eyes darkened with hot hunger at the sight of her creamy flesh. She knew only that his hands were moving on her body, stroking her lightly: her throat, her breasts, her belly, her thighs. His fingers were like feathers everywhere upon her skin; she was shivering all over from his touch, shuddering with the delight and desire he was arousing in her.

He was so gentle with her; why had she ever feared him? Truly, no maid had ever had a more tender initiation into the rites of lovemaking. How strange that it should be so. He did not love her. He had married her only to fulfill the King's command. Why, then, was Warrick taking her as though she were a beloved bride? And why was she responding so wantonly to his kisses, his caresses? It was Lionel she loved—wasn't it?

Warrick's heart raced as he explored her body. He marveled at the softness of her skin, like velvet beneath his hands, and the smallness of her frame, so very fragile, she seemed almost like a will'o-the-wisp in his arms. He was so strong and powerful; he could have conquered her easily, without effort. But her willing surrender had become important to him. Warrick wanted her to want him as much as he desired her.

His palms cupped her breasts, tightened gently upon the full ripe mounds that filled his hands. Lightly, he brushed her nipples, over and over, until they were hard little peaks of excitement, aching for his caresses, his kisses. His fingers slid slowly over the rosy crests; his thumbs flicked at the tiny buds. He took one small firm button in his mouth. Languidly, he sucked it until Isabella felt a strange yearning begin to grow inside of her. His teeth closed gingeriy about the pink tip, nuzzled it, nibbled it. His tongue teased it moistiy, licking it, swirling about it in the

most delicious manner, sending ripples of ecstasy radiating from it in all directions. He could feel Isabella trembling and saw her fling her head back in exultation as the quicksilver waves washed through her body. She felt as though she were floating, floating like spindrift upon a sea of rapture. Oh, sweet Jesu. How she wanted him!

His lips closed over her other nipple, stimulating it as he had done its mate, then traveled deliberately down the length of her to her belly. His hands slipped down her legs, fingers trailing along the insides of her thighs, then back up, then down again, taunting her.

A tormenting ache started deep in the secret place of Isabella's womanhood and spread through her blood like wildfire. She bumed for Warrick to quench the heat of urgency within her, the blaze that scorched her so tempestuously, craving release. Instinctively, she arched against him, whimpering a little.

In response, his hand sought her there at last, found the downy curls and pliant folds of the valley wherein no man before had ever trod. His fingers caressed her rhythmically, tantalizingly, until she was warm and wet, pulsating with the mounting beat of frantic desire that thrummed in her veins. Slowly, sensing her need, he eased the ache, filling her inside, stroking the depths of her with tiny, fluttering movements of his fingers that wakened her passion to its fullest, roused it to a feverish pitch that was almost unbearable.