His Lady Bride (Brothers in Arms) (21 page)

He nearly came up off the bed.

“Gwenyth, love?” He sounded strained, as if he’d been training all day.

She smiled. “Aye, my husband.”

“It seems an eternity I have waited for you. Mayhap you should not do that now.”

Frowning, Gwenyth was reluctant to give up her exploration, but acknowledged that in matters of the marriage bed, he would know more.

“Later?”

“I shall look forward to it,” he said, removing her hand from his length and kissing her fingertips.

The feel of his mouth on her hand made her heart race. When he leaned for her and covered her, a jolt of anticipation charged her stomach. His next words made her nearly faint.

“I want to be inside you. Open your legs for me.”

Working to catch her next breath, Gwenyth parted her shaking appendages.

“Wider.” As she moved to obey, he coaxed further with a voice of pure velvet. “Wider. More.”

Suddenly he wrapped his hands around her thighs, taking control of the matter. His fingers curled into her, and she felt boneless, melting to her core.

Aric spread her wider then she might have thought possible, then finally settled his hips in the crook of her legs. Against the seam of her womanhood, she felt him, hard and unyielding, and not demanding—yet. Then he raised her legs up to his hips.

Leaning forward on his elbows, he took possession of her mouth again. Lower, she felt his probe. He quickly found her, and at the sensation of his mere tip within her, her desire returned with the force of a storm against a sea wall, tempestuous and unforgiving. He slid farther inside her as his tongue sought hers, swirling, engaging. Inundated by needs plaguing both ends of her body, she groaned.

His rough, hot breath fanned against her cheek as he eased his lance farther still within her. Then he stilled. ’Twas as if she could feel his heartbeat in the throbbing of his manhood.
Boom, boom.
The sensation made her draw in a ragged breath of anticipation.

Suddenly, Aric cursed. Before she could question him, he surged forward, severing her maidenhead. Gwenyth felt a tearing, then a sting as he settled himself more deeply within her. Then the pain was gone, replaced by the sensations of fullness and liquid pleasure.

He pushed forward, forward. More. Stopping to breathe, stopping to take in her expression with those eyes of magic silver. Then with a grunt and a final surge, he sheathed himself to the hilt within her.

Gwenyth gasped at the sensation. She felt filled in every way, somehow necessary and complete. ’Twas wondrous!

Then Aric began moving. Slowly at first, the length of him caressed her inside. Sensation gathered, like a weight pressing low into her belly.

He quickly gathered speed, each long, slow stroke a glide, a nudge, a subtle demand for more. Her own need urged her to meet his thrusts, one after the other, then again. A low moan tore from his throat that vibrated deep within her.

Yet still, she needed more.

Fingernails seeping into the skin of his shoulders, she dragged them down the length of his back, low, into his hips, as if she could take him entirely within her. A foolish wish, but somehow she needed it. She cried out.

He lifted his mouth from the damp crook of her neck. “You make it hard to be gentle.”

At any other time, she would have smiled at his breathlessness. Now she ached too badly. “Don’t.”

His gaze flashed across her face for a single heart-stopping moment.

Then he ignited.

In long, powerful strokes, he claimed her. A continuous stream of fast surges, frictioned withdrawals, then the heat of his return, filling her, filling her—seeming to make her whole.

The clenching in her belly intensified until she lost her breath—her very mind—and shattered in his arms for a second time this night. As before, liquid satisfaction made a wondrous curl through her veins, only heightening when he cried out her name and, incredibly, stiffened further within her before finding his own pleasure.

Finally, Aric looked at her, eyes lazily half-closed, breathing still deep and hard. Her heart caught in her chest. She felt him still within her, smaller now but still warm, still a comfort.

“Damnation, little dragon.”

Despite the curse, he seemed well pleased. The thought warmed her down to her toes. This part of the wifely role she would definitely relish in the nights to come.

Sweat dotted his brow, and she pushed away the tawny hair laying there, opening his flushed face up for her gaze.

He dropped a quick kiss on her mouth in return. “I should have known.”

“Known?” Had she misread him? Had he not been pleased?

“Aye, that you would be a demanding minx.” Then he smiled.

“And this is cause for complaint?” she asked saucily.

He laughed, then rolled to his side, taking her with him. “Never.”

* * * *

Aric woke to sunlight bright in the chamber. He stretched and groaned, scenting Gwenyth’s soft fragrance and the mingled smells of their passion. By the saints, he could scarce remember a night in which he had slept better. Peaceful dreamless sleep, too.

He had his wife to thank for that.

With a smile, he rolled over to find her in the bed. Aric found himself alone instead. He frowned. Aye, ’twas late, but certainly she didn’t have so many duties that she must be up with the dawn.

Damnation! He wanted to possess her lush body again. Indeed, he had meant to during the night’s small hours, but so sound had been his sleep, he had not awakened to take her in his arms again. Regret doured his mood. His sigh became a smile when he realized that Gwenyth was his to nibble, savor, or devour at will. No more nights of aching hell as he had endured back at the cottage, no more wondering if he would ever persuade her to warm his bed. Now that she had finally consented to become his wife in the most intimate of ways, well…

And why had she suddenly done that?

Why indeed? What had changed from their days together at the cottage?

Aric sat up in bed and stared at the tapestry-covered wall, as if it could provide the answers he sought. Well, Gwenyth had said she’d missed him.

Again, why? She had never wanted him when they first wed, and ’twasn’t as if she had been afflicted by some notion of love inspired by song or poem. Even if he would engage in either of those activities, he had not been here to do so. Until last night, she had fought their marriage and denied him husbandly rights.

Would that being here troubled you not, my husband,
his memory heard her say once more.

Suddenly, Aric felt certain he knew why.

Northwell and an earldom. Wealth, status, land. Those things she had sought from marriage. Aye, she had not wanted to share his sheets when she believed him a hermit and a sorcerer. Now that she knew he was a man of consequence, a man with ample funds and ties to the throne… Now she was willing to lay with him and cloud his mind with her sensuality. Gwenyth would likely have offered herself to him sooner if she had not been so angry with him for keeping his title and his past with Rowena from her.

It seemed so clear now.

Damn her for lying and for making him crave the very essence of her.

Pressing his hand to the dull ache in his head, Aric cursed. He could not deny that women everywhere bedded down with men for power and protection. They had few other options. And though it made little sense, the realization Gwenyth had done the same pleased him not.

Rowena, at least, had childhood hunger and the starvation of her mother to account for her behavior. And he had been more relieved than angered when she had wed his father.

Gwenyth’s mercenary ways and deception stabbed him like a knife in the gut. Why, he could not say, except that he had somehow expected more of her. Or mayhap his gnawing ache for her simply wanted more satisfaction. ’Twas all foolish. After all, Gwenyth knew that continuing to refuse him his rights as a husband made her position as his wife a weak one, even in the eyes of the Church.

Aric eased back the sheets and stood. He grabbed his hose from the chair beside his bed and donned them, nearly tripping over a sleeping Dog in the process. Gwenyth’s reasons were common enough, and his foolish displeasure was of no consequence. If Gwenyth wanted to whore herself out to secure her position as his wife, why should he not oblige her? Often.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Gwenyth gasped in shock as Aric rolled her to her stomach in their big bed and covered her body with his. The breadth of his chest seared her shoulders, her back. The insistent length of his manhood glided down her buttocks, to her womanly portal. Did he mean to take her like this? Did he mean to take her yet again this night?

“Tilt up to me, Gwenyth.” His instruction came in a low voice, raspy against her neck.

Despite the shock, anticipation slid through her. Three times he had taken her during the night, each time wringing such pleasurable completion from her that she nearly cried.

Still, this night seemed different than the last, when they had first shared this bed and their bodies. Last night there had been tenderness, even a bit of laughter. Tonight she sensed something different. He seemed remote and unyielding, as if a part of him were not there with her. Though his scent and voice remained the same, something in his touch, in his gaze bespoke an emotion that put her ill at ease. Displeasure? Nay, he had also found completion, and she could not mistake his groans and the passionate desperation in his hands. Anger? Gwenyth frowned. Aye, perhaps that. Aric was tight-lipped and more disinclined than normal to talk. Warmth seemed absent from his deliberate stare.

And he had yet to kiss her tonight.

Without a word, Aric fit his hand beneath her belly and tilted her up to him. An instant later, she felt his fingers clasp her pleasure center as he buried his length inside her.

Again, she gasped, this time in a wash of desire.

How could a mating that seemed something like a stallion and his mare excite her? Yet it did, his breath upon her neck, fanning her cheek. The tips of his fingers toying with the stiff bud of her need. And the thick length filling every bit of space within her until she felt near bursting.

But the desire filled more than her body. It seemed to reach somewhere into her heart, and she responded to him with all the joy in it, hoping he would let the warmth soothe him.

Then he began thrusting, sweeping her up into a mating dark and needy, strong and ravenous. Within minutes, she felt the crest breaking upon her, building, building.

“Aric…” she moaned, then cried out in satisfaction. “Aric!”

As she pulsed within, he, too, found release with a last hard thrust and a groan.

Suddenly, he was gone from her body. Gone from their bed. Startled, she rolled over and watched as he turned his back to her and quietly dressed.

Again, she frowned. What could be so wrong? Nay, he did not want to live here. And aye, he and Stephen had fought again yesterday over Northwell’s raising of an army for King Richard. But whatever disturbed Aric tonight, whether displeasure or anger, seemed directed at her alone.

She covered herself with the sheet. “Aric, is all well?”

“Well enough,” he said as he threw a tunic over his head and marched out of the chamber.

As he closed the door with a quiet click, Gwenyth frowned, then settled back against the bed. Had he really gone? Had he really taken her body so briskly, then left without a word?

Indeed.

Was such normal?

Uneasy, Gwenyth rose herself and dressed for the day. The sound of surf against the rocks outside Northwell’s walls was a fine accompaniment to her uncertain mood.

What did you expect?
she asked herself. Aric behaved much as Aunt Welsa had described a man would. Yet last night was the first time he had done so. Never once since their marriage had he seemed so unwilling to speak with her, so unwilling to share anything. Except flesh.

Still, she wanted more—his embrace, his tender gaze, his concern and laughter. Where had they all gone?

Gwenyth crossed her arms over her chest, as if she could hold back the wistful ache that flooded her. It was impossible. She wanted the warmth in Aric’s eyes once more, longed for their conversation. She needed to believe he shared a bed with her because he desired
her
. Last night, he had been a thorough lover, but somehow he left her with the feeling she might have been anyone, her identity of no consequence to him.

While a foolish part of her wanted to claim his heart.

Once, back at his cottage, he had eased her distress over her family’s desertion, over Nellwyn’s superior life. Now he caused her torment.

Aye, but those first days of their marriage were gone, replaced by politics, family, and daily duties. As an important earl, he had little time to spend at her side during the day. Such significance was a good part of what she had wanted in a husband, what she had wished of Aric when they wed. Indeed, Nellwyn had been much impressed by Aric’s titles and holdings, based on the letter she had received that very morn. So why did she feel a sense of wretched melancholy?

Sighing, Gwenyth fled the chamber—and their rumpled bed—to break her fast. She felt no surprise to learn that her husband had left the castle to ride out for the day. He did that frequently enough.

She sat in the great hall, assuming her place in the chair beside Aric’s empty one. Few milled about the fine room, Aric having taken several of the men with him. The others remained behind for training, led by Lord Stephen.

Without enthusiasm, she bit into a hunk of bread just delivered by a kitchen maid and washed it down with a thin wine.

The great hall pleased her. Warmed from the morning’s chill by resplendent tapestries and the crackling roar of an orange-hot fire, Gwenyth settled into her chair and wished she knew what troubled Aric.

An instant later, Rowena sauntered into the room, looking deceptively waifish in a dress of delicate pink. Gwenyth would have ignored the other woman, who still played the mistress’s role in the castle, but Rowena settled beside her. When Gwenyth made to leave, the other woman placed a hand over her arm to stay her.