His
fingers moved down her thighs, coming into contact with her thick woolen hose.
With a low growl that shook the very walls of the chamber, he suddenly pushed
himself off her and wedged himself between her legs, stripping off her
stockings with his teeth. Arissa watched him, her breathing coming in heavy
gasps and moaning softly when his lips blazed a scorching path from her ankles
to her groin.
In
spite of his furious pace, he slowed somewhat when his lips began to nibble
about her soft inner thigh. Arissa could feel his hot breath upon her most
private core as his mouth gently suckled on the thick lips, coaxing forth the
blooming flower to open and accept his worship.
She
watched him as he tenderly introduced her to the world of oral manipulation,
thinking it to be a most wonderful form of pleasure. She was not aware,
however, that he had barely scratched the surface; spreading her lips with
gentle fingers, his wicked tongue immediately found her taut womanly bud and
she nearly bolted from the bed when he began to work her furiously.
Richmond
grinned in spite of his own consuming lust, listening to her wild pants of
excitement. As she thrashed and cried, he inserted a finger into her private
passage and was not surprised to discover that she was as wet as the ground
outside. Slick moisture, laced with musk, cloaked his finger as he thrust in
and out of her in rhythm with his wicked tongue. When he felt her climactic
tremors approach, he rapidly ceased his orchestrations and raised himself up
onto her delicious body once more.
She
was nearly incoherent with need. He kissed her fully, delving into the sweet
depths, acquainting her with the taste of her own body. Arissa responded
recklessly, wrapping her arms about his neck and meeting his mouth with fevered
desire. Unable to wait any longer, Richmond grasped her buttocks and thrust
hard, driving himself to the hilt in one clean stroke.
Arissa
gasped with utter pleasure, wrapping her legs about him, clinging to him with
every ounce of strength she possessed. He rocked her with his thrusts, driving
to the hilt every time and then slowly, completely withdrawing. The effect was
rapturous; with every surge it was as if he were entering her anew, bringing
them more pleasure than they ever thought possible. Arissa felt herself
stretching to accommodate him, clasping him tightly as if to never let him go.
She would have been content to feel him, his power and sensuality, forever.
Her
release was close and she felt herself build to tremendous proportions as his
pace quickened. In an explosion of triumph, her loins convulsed with erotic
rhythm, demanding that Richmond spill forth his seed. He obeyed her, as always;
grunting through clenched teeth, he filled her full of his searing eruption.
Love, desire, life and death; they all combined into one powerful surge as they
descended together on a cloud of contentment.
Arissa
could hear his heart pounding rapidly in his chest, his skin damp against her
cheek. She could barely move, vaguely aware of her own pounding heart. The only
matter of import was the feel of Richmond against her, touching her, within
her. Her eyes closed, lulled into a dozen by the rhythmic sound of his
breathing.
Their
satisfaction went beyond words; in faith, Richmond did not trust himself to
speak. He could not imagine that verbal communication could enhance the
experience of their lovemaking any more than his tender caresses were
expressing against her flesh at the moment.
In
his arms, she slept soundly, dreamlessly. Richmond found himself clutching her
tightly, aware of the fact that he had neglected to use Mossy's pessaries. The
old man had been correct when he surmised that Richmond would protect Arissa's
life over the desire for an heir but, somehow, his lust had taken control of
his common sense and he had been helpless against it.
He
found himself praying that she had not conceived, cursing himself for his
stupidity and weakness. He knew better than to allow his physical demands to
overshadow his better judgment, but God help him, it would have taken the
strength of Samson to deny her heated little body in the heat of passion.
The
rain continued to pound outside the oil-clothed window as Richmond forced
himself to push aside all thoughts of the neglected pessaries; certainly, now
was not the time for those thoughts considering very shortly, he and Arissa
would be facing a separation of unknown length. He wanted to enjoy her while he
was able with little thought of anything else.
Pulling
her more closely against his heated body, he found himself wondering how in the
hell he was going to survive the painful division that faced them.
Already,
it was killing him.
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
Welsh
Border
One
week later
Sir
Charles de Worth sat motionlessly in the middle of the dimly lit tent of
cowhide, the walls reeking of burning dung and molding animal skins. The
cloying stink only served to fortify his mood; having ridden from Shrewsbury to
the Welsh border in a little over a day, he was understandably fatigued.
But
he had been compelled to obey the invitation cast by none other than Owen
Glendower, and even now he sat with restrained anticipation of their meeting.
Though the subject of their conference had not been mentioned in the missive
received three days prior, there was little doubt as to the topic.
Fortunately
for the aged knight, he was not kept waiting overlong. Owen Glendower, dark and
average in height, entered the tent surrounded by a host of supporters. De
Worth suddenly found himself encompassed by the core of the Welsh rebellion,
eyeing the dark, weary men around him with a certain amount of distrust. To his
right, Owen cast his hands over the dung-burning vizier in a vain attempt to
ward off the Welsh chill.
"Captain
de Worth," Owen said in perfect English. "Thank you for coming."
De
Worth eyed the infamous leader of the Welsh Resistance. "After the missive
I sent to you, 'twas my duty to heed your summons. How may I be of
service?"
Owen
rubbed his hands together before planting himself in a small collapsible chair
opposite the English knight. His dark eyes were sharp and appraising, his
manner calm as he studied the man before him. Since pleasantries were dispensed
and he had no desire to linger in incessant conversation, he moved directly to
the point.
"I
have certain questions regarding the missive you sent me pertaining to Henry's
bastard daughter," he glanced at David, standing to his left, before
continuing. "She was exactly where you said she would be. In fact, we very
nearly had her within our grasp but, unfortunately, our attempts were thwarted.
Tell me; why did you give me this information?"
De
Worth swallowed uncomfortably, shifting in his chair. "Does it truly
matter, my lord? The information was righteous."
"Indeed
it was, but I would know your motives just the same," he sat forward in
the chair, closer to the iron vizier. "What grudge do you hold against
Henry that you would jeopardize his daughter in such a fashion?"
The
English knight sat stiffly a moment before replying. "I believe I informed
you in my missive that my reasons were my own. Why should they matter? Have I
not provided you with accurate information?"
"Absolutely.
But I am troubled by the fact that there was a terrible attack the day we
attempted to abduct the princess and if I did not know better, I would think it
to have been an act of treason on your part," Owen's voice was soft.
"Are you somehow intent on manipulating Henry's opposition to your own
end?"
Charles'
brow furrowed. "Of course not. I had nothing to do with any attack."
"But
I lost a man, a very good man. Was it your intention to, mayhap, lure my men
into a trap with information regarding Henry's bastard, only to manipulate an
attack that would damage my cause?"
De
Worth drew in a long, heavy breath; he could see that the situation was rapidly
growing sour and sought to dispel Owen's accusations. "As I said, I gave
you the information regarding Henry's bastard to retaliate against Henry
himself. I hold no grudge against the Welsh rebellion. If I were any younger, I
would fight with you."
Owen
studied the man a moment before relaxing in his chair. His dark eyes glittered
with thought. Truthfully, he did not believe de Worth capable of the
substantial undertaking of damaging his rebellion. But he was curious as to the
man's motives; his cousin David had seen and spoken with Henry's bastard, a
woman of exquisite beauty who was apparently unaware of her royal relations.
Combined with the mysterious clues to her whereabouts from the man seated in
front of him, it was an intriguing mystery.
"Tell
me why you divulged her whereabouts. My patience wears thin."
De
Worth's ruddy cheeks flushed and he lowered his gaze. "As I said, my lord,
my reasons were my own."
Owen
stared at the man. "Tell me or I will kill you for subversion."
"Subversion?"
Charles repeated, outraged more than frightened. "I never..!"
"Kill
him," Owen issued calmly, rising from his chair as if their business was
concluded.
Hands
reached down to roughly yank de Worth from his chair. Struggling against the
Welsh resisters, Charles sought Owen's gaze in desperation.
"Why
is it necessary for you to know my purpose?" he demanded, a substantial
fear gripping him.
Owen
eyed him. "As I said, it would appear that you lured my men into an ambush
with tales of Henry's bastard daughter, who was amply protected. Explain your
motives for divulging her location and I may be merciful."
De
Worth's face was a sickly white, beads of perspiration on his brow. After a
moment, he swallowed hard, his resistance lessening. He knew, as he lived and
breathed, that he had no choice but to admit the humiliating truth.
He
swallowed again, nodding his head in resignation. "Very well, if that is
what you require to realize that I am not involved with any subversive activity."
Immediately, the hands that had grasped him so brutally fell away, leaving him
weak and disheveled. Charles groped for the chair, collapsing against the
leather seat. "I was captain of King Richard II's household guard for
almost ten years. My wife and I lived on the castle grounds, happy but for the
fact that we had no children. You see, I had an accident as a young man that
left me barely able to.... function. Although we thought, mayhap, we would be
blessed with a son someday, it became apparent that fortune was not with us.”
Owen
listened carefully. “Continue.”
Charles
sighed. "We ceased our physical relationship all together after several
years. We had not had marital relations in well over two years when I noticed
that my wife was beginning to put on a good deal of weight. I questioned her
about it, but she insisted it was nothing. She continued to grow and grow and I
paid little heed until one night she seemed to be most uncomfortable. I went
about my scheduled rounds and when I returned at dawn, she was exhausted and
pale and slept heavily until noon. It was not until days later that I realized...."
he paused, wiping at his sweaty face. "I realized that she had given
birth. Knowing the child was not mine, I set out to find the babe with a
vengeance. Until I discovered that the child was in protective custody."
Owen
was seated, listening intently. "Protective custody? I do not understand."
De
Worth met his gaze, his eyes glittering with an old pain. "Royal custody,
my lord. 'Twould seem that my wife had shared an affair with the Duke of Bolingbroke
and the child was his."
Owen's
eyes widened. "Henry!"
"Exactly,"
Charles nodded, his gesture slow and weary. Noting the varied expressions of
disbelief and understanding about him, he shrugged vaguely. "Now you
understand why I have taken such an interest in Henry's bastard. My vengeance
shall come when he least expects it."
"But
what of your wife? Did you kill her for her betrayal?" Owen asked quietly,
curiously.
De
Worth shook his head. "I never got the chance. Henry sent her away to
Whitby Abbey in Yorkshire and I have not seen her since."
A
peculiar gleam came to Owen's eye. Passing a glance at David, he noted the same
odd expression glazing his cousin's features, an expression that caused his own
uneasiness to increase with each successive moment. When he returned his
attention to the fatigued English knight, he realized his hands were beginning
to quake.
"Did
your wife have a name?"
"Ellyn,"
de Worth's voice was barely a whispered.
Owen's
breathing suddenly became a harsh, ragged gesture. He rose abruptly, toppling
his chair in the process and moving to right it with shaking hands. He couldn't
seem to control the violent tremors that had infected his movements and he
struggled to keep the same quiver from his voice. "Lloyd, show our English
friend a bit of food and ale. He’s free to leave when he’s rested."
The
silent Welsh soldier waited patiently for Charles to regain his composure, escorting
the man from the tent as the English knight rose to unsteady feet. With a
lingering glance at the Welsh prince, a silent gesture of shame and remorse,
Charles de Worth quit the tent in favor of a hot meal and a measure of
much-needed rest.