Authors: Rexanne Becnel
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical, #General, #Medieval
The Maiden Bride (11 page)
He did it fast, as he’d said he would. But it hurt just the same. It tore and bled and burned. She would not cry out, however. She refused to. She would not give up what little of her pride she yet retained. Any tears she shed were lost in her hair or in the black bearskin.
While she fought for breath and control, he began a rocking rhythm of penetration and withdrawal, of a stretching discomfort and a momentary reprieve.
When finally he looked into her face, Linnea at once turned away, clenching her teeth in determination. She would survive this, she told herself. She would survive.
And as his movements grew faster and his breathing more labored, she found with relief that the pain had begun to ease. He pulled almost all the way out, then broke his pace and eased more slowly into her.
“Oh,” she gasped, then immediately clamped her mouth closed. When he did the same thing again, instead of it feeling like a hot log ramming into her, it felt more like a stroke of hard, wet velvet.
“St. Jude,” she whispered, as a tremor of unwonted pleasure washed over her.
Axton slid all the way in, then out. “Is it St. Jude answering your prayers, wife? Or is it your husband?”
This time when he began to move faster, Linnea found herself unwillingly caught up in the frenzy of it. And when he began to thrust inside her at a furious pace, she could not hold back her own panting response.
Of a sudden he jerked against her as if he’d been struck. She felt the sweaty quiver of his thighs, and beneath her fingers his arms tensed almost to steel.
When had her hands begun to cling to him?
He thrust again, once, twice. Then the full weight of him came down upon her, and his only movement was the great heaving breaths he took.
Linnea did not know what to do. She pulled her hands from the slackened muscles of his arms, but that didn’t change the awkward, restless feeling that had come over her.
He’d aroused her—or he’d aroused that sinful part of her that she fought so hard to bury. Clearly he was finished—and he had not lied to her about what it would be like. Now, though, the feel of his warrior’s body bearing down on hers created the strangest feelings inside her, as if he’d begun something that was still not complete. But he was clearly finished.
So what was to happen now?
As his breathing came slowly back to normal, she began to think he might have fallen asleep. She shifted beneath him, or tried to. At once he moved, lifting up on one elbow to stare down at her.
“Well, wife. The worst of it is done with.”
Linnea looked up at him; there was no way to avoid it. The fact that they lay intertwined, with that male portion of him still resting inside her, was an act of such intimacy she could scarcely believe it. But to meet his astute gaze at the same time was almost unbearable. How could she hope to keep her secret from him now? He had but to look long enough into her eyes to see the truth.
Somehow she closed her eyes. She would have turned her face away too, but he caught her chin in his hand to prevent it.
“Look at me,” he demanded. His voice held neither amusement, nor even tolerance.
Linnea complied at once, for she recognized the anger implicit in his controlled tone, even though she did not understand its source. Hadn’t she done everything he’d demanded of her? But his eyes were hard as stone and narrowed into slits, and his body had gone tense.
“You will not turn away from me, Beatrix, or shut me out. Eighteen years has your family shut me and mine away from what was rightfully ours. But that has changed now and Maidenstone is mine again. I will not be shut out, not by your father nor by you. I will have my satisfaction from you, wife, here in this bed—”
So saying, he forced her legs wide and pushed himself deeper inside her. He’d become hard again, but though it did not hurt her this time, Linnea was even more frightened than before. He was angry this time. He did it now to punish her for her father’s transgressions. She knew little enough of the dealings between men and their wives, but she knew this was not the way it was supposed to be, a punishment.
“No! You can’t—Stop!” She twisted and flailed, then when that did not help, she struck out at him, hitting his arms and shoulders and finally his head.
But he was like a stone carving, impervious to her blows. That only made Linnea more desperate, though. Before it had been bad enough, but at least he’d not intended to be cruel. Now, though—
Her fist struck him hard on the ear. But with one hand he shrugged off the blow and her hand hit the headboard with bruising pain. In the midst of her panic, however, it reminded her of the dagger.
The dagger!
He began the same rhythm as before, but Linnea was too overwrought to succumb to the pleasure it could bring her. He did it to hurt her. That changed everything.
Her fingers clawed between the mattress and wood, searching frantically for the weapon. She would stab him with it. She would find it and make him stop.
Then she felt the cold metal and bone handle. She grabbed it with her left hand and struck out wildly. Anything to make him stop!
“God’s bones!” He jerked to the side almost before the blade struck. Almost. Before Linnea could react again, though, her wrist was caught in a merciless grip that forced both fist and dagger down into the fur.
“You bitch!” He glared down at her with murder in his eyes. Linnea knew she was dead. He would kill her for what she’d done. But he would make her suffer first, she feared. Heartless bastard that he was, he would make certain she suffered long and hard for daring to oppose him.
She tried to glare right back at him. But the sting of tears heralded her complete failure. Unwanted, they nonetheless welled up, blurring her vision even when she tried to blink them away.
“Tears hold no sway with me,” he growled. “They will no more save you from your punishment than did your puny weapon.”
“’Tis your weapon that is so puny,” she responded, not caring anymore if she angered him. All she knew was that she must contradict him. She was already doomed.
“My weapon? Puny?”
He sounded so outraged that Linnea goaded him further. “Yes. Puny. And you are a fool to leave it in your cupboard for me to find.”
He stared down at her. Then, without warning and for no reason she could discern, he began to laugh. First he chuckled, then it grew to a great shout of laughter that shook her and the entire bed.
“Puny weapon,” he kept repeating between the waves of guffaws. “Puny weapon!”
Was he mad? Had ever a man been so perverse as he? Linnea could only gape at him, not understanding, but relieved that he did not mean to strangle her—at least not right away.
When he calmed, however, not much had really changed. He still lay upon her, pinning her to the bed with his greater weight and strength. He still gripped her wrist and she still held the dagger. The only difference was that a streak of deep red blood trickled from his right shoulder, all the way down his arm to his elbow.
“What shall you do now?” Linnea asked, unable to bear the suspense any longer.
“Now? Now we will see how effective is my puny weapon.”
Linnea’s heart lurched. St. Jude, but her situation had never been more hopeless.
But when he rolled off of her—still holding tight to her wrist—it was only to pull her over and on top of him. He made her straddle him over his groin, so that his aroused male flesh lay just between them.
“Mount me,” he demanded. He pulled her hand closer to his face and kissed first her wrist and then her fingers that wrapped around the bone handle of his dagger. But his eyes remained locked with hers. “Do as I say, wife. Find your pleasure upon my puny weapon.”
He was a madman, Linnea decided. Then he flexed his manhood and comprehension struck her. His puny weapon?
That
immense thing?
That
immense thing?
He started to laugh again and pulled her upward just enough to allow him entrance to her. “If it is puny, ’tis only that of late it has had no exercise. But you will change all that, wife.”
So saying, he grabbed her waist and steadily forced her down until she sat fully upon him and he was sheathed within her. Then he began to kiss her wrist and hand again, bringing the dagger perilously close to his neck and the vein of life that pounded there.
Could she kill him? Linnea wondered. Could she move fast enough? Did she have the nerve to even try?
But he was moving inside her, up and down, and he was forcing her to a slow, bouncing rhythm that distracted her far too much to think about murder. He stroked her with the full length of his manly weapon while he played erotic patterns on her wrist with his lips and tongue. And his eyes stroked the rest of her, her breasts and belly and face.
Her hair fell over them both, half-shrouding them, half-revealing. It was like some dark, dangerous game they played together. They each had their weapons, and yet it was not pain or fear that held Linnea in its grip. He did not claim her body in anger any longer, but in a strange sort of testing manner. She was in control, after a fashion. She reared over him and she held a dagger very near his throat.
Even though she knew he could shift the balance of power at any moment, for the present their situation was not entirely unpleasant. Indeed, the fire that flared between them brought an undeniable wave of pleasure that grew every time she moved over him. As she began to move faster, she realized that she controlled this wonderful, terrible pleasure.
By the time he released her wrist and gripped her hips with both hands, she had forgotten the dagger. She leaned over him, urged to a frantic pace by his demanding grip. Faster and harder, until something broke inside her. Something burst and erupted and she cried out in helpless surrender to it.
But he didn’t stop. He forced her on and on, until the pleasure of it was very nearly a pain, until with a great cry of his own, he jerked over and over, spilling his warmth into her. Flooding her with his fire.
Linnea collapsed over him, gasping for breath. Beneath her his pulse pounded a mad race, and he labored for breath. It was not those details she noticed, however, but him. He was all she was aware of.
She was aware of his hand, rolling her onto the mattress. She was aware that they faced one another, that their legs were still locked together and their bellies still touched. She felt his breath on her skin and smelled the sharp scent of sex.
But she was unaware that she had let go of the dagger. She did not note its loss nor hear the thud of steel and bone on the wood plank floor. She did not notice the candles that guttered in their holders or the velvet darkness that enveloped the room.
Most certainly, as her eyes closed and her body relaxed in the exhausted sleep of fulfillment, she was unaware of the confused expression that clouded her new husband’s face.
A
xton came awake with a start. But his first instinct—to reach for his weapon—was quashed when he recognized the familiar surroundings. A bed. A woman.
xton came awake with a start. But his first instinct—to reach for his weapon—was quashed when he recognized the familiar surroundings. A bed. A woman.
He took a deep breath and slowly exhaled, willing himself to relax again. Then he recalled the rest of it. The bed was in the lord’s chamber of Maidenstone Castle. The woman was the daughter of Edgar de Valcourt.
And she was his wife.
He lay in the dim shadows of the false dawn, conscious of her sleeping form. One of her feet was tucked against his calf. Her derriere fitted against his hip and a strand of her hair was caught in the bend of his arm.
He should have punished her last night, he rebuked himself as he remembered everything that had happened between them. Something swift and harsh. He should have made it clear that to cross him was something she could never do again. And to draw his blood …
But instead he’d done just the opposite. He’d made love to her as if she were the only woman on earth and last night his one and only chance at her.
That she, a virgin, had found such a shuddering completion had astounded him. That he should care, bothered him more than a little.
That he wanted her now, all over again, made absolutely no sense at all.
But the insistent arousal between his legs silenced any mental arguments. She was his wife and he wanted her. There was no need for excuses or explanations. He could do as he pleased with her and no one would say him nay.
Least of all her, he thought with a smug certainty.
He shifted to his side and drew back the heavy pelt that covered them both. He’d meant to get his satisfaction from her, and he had—albeit not precisely in the manner he’d expected. He’d thought to exhaust his rage upon her and at the same time satisfy his sexual frustration.
But his rage had not lasted.
When she’d closed her eyes to him and tried to shut him out, he’d been furious. More than furious. And when she’d drawn that dagger and cut him, he could easily have murdered her.
But something—her courage, her tears, her ridiculous reference to his puny weapon—had turned his anger to passion.
His hand ran down the line of her back. Her alabaster skin prickled with goose bumps. He could feel them. She smelled of woman and mating, and he grew harder with each dark whiff of their joining.
His finger slid down to the cleft between her rounded buttocks. Two soft dimples marked the upper curves of the sweet, womanly flesh. If he wasn’t careful, he’d soon find her leading him around by his cods, so intense was the desire she roused in him.
Axton frowned and pulled his hand away. He must make her know who was her master. If not by fear, then he would do it with passion. After all, intimidation was intimidation. The secret to success in any battle was to recognize your foe’s weakness and attack him there. It had worked with her father; it would work with her. She was clearly a woman of intense passions, so it was there he would attack.
He pushed his hair back from his brow as the idea took hold in his mind. He would bind her to him with passion. With the raw power of sex. He would make her a slave to it so that she could not do the same to him. He would master her in the bed—and any other place where he might come upon her.
He grinned at that thought. Should he find her in the kitchen or the laundry—or even in the herb garden—he would send everyone away, and he would make free with her body. Let everyone in the entire castle know the pleasure he took of her—and the pleasure she received from him.
It would be the ultimate disloyalty to her father and would go far in giving Axton the satisfaction he craved. He would bind his reluctant wife to him. Mayhap he would even cause her to love him.
Awash with triumph already, Axton drew her onto her back and viewed the soft, sleeping form of his wife. Tangled hair like golden silk. Pale skin as flawless as pearl. Sweetly rounded she was, with a narrow waist and full breasts. He would begin with those breasts and their dusky rose peaks …
Linnea. came awake to sensations she could never put a name to. Like sunlight heating her from the inside out, though it was yet night. Like the juicy fullness of ripe peaches flooding sweetly through her. Like lightning, terrifying and exhilarating.
She arched up, more exhilarated than terrified, lifted as all the secret places of her body seemed to soar upward. Such a succulent feeling, as if
she
were that sweet, juicy peach.
she
were that sweet, juicy peach.
A hand moved down her body in a heated stroke, and Linnea felt the first quiver of alarm. But she was distracted with the wet tug on her nipple by a pair of very clever lips—
“Oh, no!” She lurched away. Or tried to. But an impossibly large form pressed her down into the bed. Not
her
bed. Certainly not
her
thick bear pelt.
her
bed. Certainly not
her
thick bear pelt.
Her eyes popped open and though the room was dark, she knew. Axton de la Manse. Her husband.
“St. Jude … St. Jude …” she murmured over and over when the exquisite caress of both her breasts continued. He wasn’t supposed to do this so often. She wasn’t supposed to succumb this easily.
But she was, and he knew it.
When he held both her breasts in his large hands, then moved his kiss back and forth between the two, she was lost. His kiss had started a fire in her belly; the tug of his teeth, the subtle threat of it, made her burn all over.
This was forbidden. It must be. But that didn’t change one thing about her reaction. When he slid his heavy arousal into her, she pressed up eagerly for it. When he caught her face between his hands, she had no choice but to stare up into this shadowed face. Their eyes met and held, and with every long, deliberate stroke, she felt her barriers crumbling to him.
The connection of their bodies was intimate beyond anything she’d ever imagined. But the connection of the eyes …
She felt it beginning, the hot, slow climb that had culminated in that strange, rippling explosion inside her. He fueled it with the leashed power in his warrior’s body and the clear purpose in his unblinking gaze.
Linnea closed her eyes, for his scrutiny was unbearable. But she knew he watched her still and that he saw everything. The hot flood of color in her face. The restless tossing. The panting that sped up as she came closer and closer.
Then the cessation of all breathing as she arched and cried out.
He reacted too, with a shudder and a muffled shout. Then he abruptly rolled off her.
They lay like that, occupying the same bed, but far apart despite it. They were both hot and sweaty, but a cold chasm separated them. From unbearable intimacy to this … this inexplicable loneliness. Linnea shivered and was suddenly ashamed of her nakedness.
“Wait,” he ordered when she moved away and sat up in the bed. He caught her by the wrist and rolled to his side and studied her. Though the room was dark and her heavy curtain of hair shielded her back and derriere from him, Linnea nonetheless felt completely exposed.
“I needs must visit the … the …” She could not say garderobe to him, for it was too personal a revelation. Surely he must know what she meant. To her relief he let go of her hand.
“Come back to bed afterward. I am not done with you.” She jerked her head around to look back at him. “Not done? But … but …”
But surely he must be done!
“But dawn approaches,” she whispered.
But surely he must be done!
“But dawn approaches,” she whispered.
He smirked. “’Tis even more pleasurable in the light of day. I’ll be better able to view my wife’s very pretty body.”
Linnea slid off the bed at that and snatched up her discarded kirtle. “I should think you would have had enough of … of
that
.”
that
.”
“A man never has enough of … of
that
,” he said, mimicking her. “Especially when his wife is as delectable in form as mine. You are perfectly made for a man’s touch, wife. Soft skin. Full breasts. Hair like silk, and though tight as a virgin should be, you have a fiery nature I would not have expected of a de Valcourt.”
that
,” he said, mimicking her. “Especially when his wife is as delectable in form as mine. You are perfectly made for a man’s touch, wife. Soft skin. Full breasts. Hair like silk, and though tight as a virgin should be, you have a fiery nature I would not have expected of a de Valcourt.”
Every part of her had responded to his appreciative words. Her skin tingled. Her breasts tightened. Even her hair seemed to move and writhe under his words of praise. Most certainly did the place between her legs vibrate in both remembrance and anticipation. But the reference to her family name doused all her other reactions like cold winter rain on an open fire.
Any other de Valcourt would not be so susceptible to him, so receptive and responsive. Most certainly Beatrix would never have succumbed so easily to his unholy wooing. But she was not really Beatrix. She was the second twin. The bad one. Had she known that this would happen, that she would respond to his overtures with such passion, she would never have suggested such an insane deception.
But it was far too late to back out now.
“I have other duties to attend to this day,” she managed to say as she slipped into her kirtle.
“Your duty is to me. To my needs. To my desires.”
“But … but someone must see to the kitchen.”
“Your grandmother can do it.”
“But … what of my brother? I should check his wounds.” She stared at him, desperate to be away from the influence of his steady gaze—and gloriously naked body. Even in the faint light that crept through the thick glass in the two windows of the lord’s chamber, she could make out more of his body than was proper. Broad chest with its streak of dark hair. Lean hips and powerfully muscled thighs. And that insatiable thing between his legs, that insistent … weapon, she thought, recalling last night.
Puny
was hardly the word she’d apply to it, for it was his most powerful weapon in his dealings with her.
Puny
was hardly the word she’d apply to it, for it was his most powerful weapon in his dealings with her.
When she realized where she was staring, she jerked her gaze back to his face. He was grinning now, as if he knew exactly what she’d been thinking.
“Well?” she demanded, hoping to steer their conversation elsewhere. “May I go see to my brother?”
He considered a moment. Then to her surprise, he nodded. “But hasten back to me, my lady wife. I have a hunger that I would assuage again e’er I break my fast in the hall.”
Hot color stung Linnea’s chest and face, but she somehow managed to cling to her wits. If he desired her so much, mayhap he would agree to moving Maynard to a better place. “If … if I may be so bold, Axton,” she added, hoping to please him with her agreeable nature. “Might I have my brother removed from the barracks?” She caught her breath as she awaited his response.
The smile disappeared from his face. “You may remove him from the barracks—and place him in the barn,” he finished coldly.
“Oh, please,” she blurted out. She crossed to the bed, wringing her hands together. “He needs a clean, quiet place where he might better heal.”
Axton sat up and swung his feet to the ground. He was plainly unconcerned by his lack of clothing as he studied her. “If you mean to convince me, I suggest you find a better inducement than that. Why should I care that he heals? Would suit me far better if he should die.”
At her look of horror, he gave her a calculated smile. “’Tis not my plan to kill him, Beatrix. Did I plan that, ’twould already be done.”
Linnea released a shaky breath. Thank God for that. But she still must get him to agree to move Maynard. She stared at him consideringly. He wanted her to convince him—or at least to try to.
What would Beatrix do?
Linnea forced what she hoped was a sweet and imploring expression onto her face. “I thank you most gratefully for allowing him to live.”
Though ’twas you who caused his terrible injuries.
“If you will grant me this one request on his behalf, I promise to you that I will be a good wife—”
Though ’twas you who caused his terrible injuries.
“If you will grant me this one request on his behalf, I promise to you that I will be a good wife—”
“You’ve already promised me that. Before God and the Church and every least soul at Maidenstone Castle you promised me that.”
Linnea had to set her teeth to stifle the sharp retort that rose to her lips. Instead she advanced a step toward him, her hands knotted nervously. “Please … husband. As a wedding gift to me?” she ventured, though she knew she took a chance with such a ploy.
“As a wedding gift.” He repeated her words and studied her a long, nerve-wracking moment. Then he smiled. “Now that we speak on it, I have a wedding gift for you. Come here.”
Linnea froze. A wedding gift? If this was some coarse male jest and he referred to his … that weapon thing of his …
To her surprise he reached down and retrieved his tunic from the floor. “Come here,” he repeated.
He held a small velvet pouch in his hand when he straightened up. Though Linnea was leery of approaching him lest he grab her and beguile her again with his mind-stealing caresses, she reluctantly complied. When she stood directly before him he loosened the pouch and spilled a delicate gold necklace into his palm.
It was exquisite. Even in the pale light of the solar Linnea could see that much. A gold chain of impossible delicacy, it was interspersed with fiery red jewels. And it was for her. She’d never possessed any jewelry of her own. Even Beatrix had not owned anything as fine as this.
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