Juliana Garnett (13 page)

With great reluctance, Ceara left the wolf and walked to the tent, her feet dragging. The hem of her cloak hung at an odd angle, and the pretty blue kirtle she wore was wet and stained, torn in two places. Even her boots were ruined.

Once inside, Ceara moved swiftly to the far wall and turned to glare at him, grim and wide-eyed with apprehension. Her arms were crossed over her chest, and her chin was lifted in a gesture he’d come to recognize, while her mouth was set in a taut, stubborn line.

He did not delay. “You have tried to play me for a fool, my lady. That does not set well with me.”

“My lord—”

He put up a hand to forestall her excuses. “Do not bother concocting another wild tale. It is not me that you will have to tell. But you had best invent another, more plausible tale for the king, for he will not so easily swallow such a lie.”

“It is no lie. You never asked if I was married.”

Caught between incredulity and anger, Luc stared at her. “Perhaps you have told so many lies you’ve forgotten this one, but you said plainly that you were virgin. Normally, a damsel does not remain virgin after marriage, unless Saxons have found a new way to circumvent that.”

“No, my lord, but—”

Anger overrode restraint, and Luc was in front of her in two strides, grabbing her by the upper arms to give her a vicious shake. “If you dare tell me some ridiculous tale of virginity after bedding, I will not be responsible for what I do.”

His rough handling had whipped the hair into her eyes, and the look she gave him through the bright tangled strands was dark with defiance. “It’s true.”

“
Jésu!
” Because he was so near to losing control, he released her with a shove, sending her stumbling backward. “Tell me this—how long were you wed before he died?”

“That is not the point, my lord, for you see—”

“How long, my lady?”

At the menace in his tone, she snapped, “Three years.”

“Three years.” He repeated the words slowly, clasping his hands behind his back to keep from wrapping them around her deceitful neck. “Yet you expect me to believe that he did not bed you.”

“I did not say we did not share a bed, only that—”

“By all the saints, if you finish that sentence I will make you sorry.” He inhaled deeply, but the rage that had been building up in him since she had blurted out her husband’s name did
not fade. “This, of course, explains many things that puzzled me,” he said when he could speak calmly. “Few untried maids are so casual about a man’s body as you were. Or as casual about their own. I should not have been surprised by your offer or—”

He broke off, raking her mutinous face with a slow, assessing gaze before saying softly, “But perhaps I have misjudged. Since you were so willing before, my lady, I see no reason to delay. I intended to avail myself of the favors of
une putain
when I reached York, but why wait? After all, you are here and it has been a long time.”

Clad only in his chausses, boots, and linen sherte, it would not take him long to disrobe, and he eyed her startled face with bleak satisfaction. “What? No coy pretense? No bold acceptance? Which are you, Ceara of Wulfridge, whore or maid?”

She watched him uncertainly, her eyes moving to his bare chest as he tossed aside his linen sherte, then back to his face when his hands dropped to the cross-garters that held up his chausses.

“You would not dare—”

“Oh, yes, Ceara, I would most certainly dare.” Holding her gaze, he untied his chausses and let them drop to the floor, then kicked free of his boots. “Come along, wench. Disrobe for me, as you did last time. I wish to see what I have bartered for.”

“Bartered!” The word came out in an explosive rasp. “I am no bread loaf to be haggled over!”

“True. But neither are you the virgin you pretended to be. One more man can hardly make a difference to you, and since ’tis you who began this game, I shall be the one to end it. Now remove your clothing.”

She flung up a hand when he tucked his thumbs into the waist of his loincloth, her mouth trembling a little. “Do not pursue this further, my lord. There is something I must explain—”

“No. No more lies.” In a swift motion, he removed his loincloth and cast it aside to stand boldly before her. Ceara stood
as if frozen. He had been such a fool, refusing to take her because she was an untried maid. How she must have laughed at him. But she would not laugh now. Now, he intended to humble her. Her shame would be small penance for the trouble she had caused him, for the past two nights when he had lain awake and restless, his body afire with need for her, the memory of her unclad curves and sultry promise scalding him.

“Well?” he demanded. “Do you not wish to disrobe for me? Please, go slowly,
ma biche
, as I wish to savor the moment. Ofttimes, the anticipation will enhance the act, much as fine wine is best when it has aged.”

“Do not speak of me as if I am a course for your table.”

“Ah, but are you not? Come. Begin, my lady, for I am growing impatient.”

With trembling fingers, she at last began to draw up her skirts. His gaze shifted to the long expanse of her bare leg as the hem rose higher and higher above the tops of her boots. She bent slightly from the waist, hair falling forward in a tangled curtain that momentarily blocked his view, and when she straightened, he saw the dagger in her fist. Not just any dagger—but his dagger, the one he had not been able to find before leaving Wulfridge. Alain had wasted much time searching for it before admitting that it was lost. Luc grew still, his voice harsh.

“Do not be foolish, Ceara.”

“It is you who are foolish if you think I intend to undress and spread myself at your demand, Norman.” The dagger quivered slightly in her grip. “What I do of my own accord is my affair, but I will not be told I must allow you to … to—” She drew in a sharp breath. “I will not be used like a common whore.”

“That is your choice, my lady. I also have a choice.” He calmly crossed his arms over his chest, and lifted a brow with studied indifference. “Poor Sheba. It would be a shame to have to kill the wolf because of your lies, do you not think?”

Not even the rosy glow of the lamp could add color to her
suddenly bloodless face, and she made a small, choked sound. “Nay … you would not.”

He shrugged. “That is your choice.”

“You will not harm her if I yield?”

“When I give my word, ’tis kept. Unlike even those few Saxons who profess honesty.”

The dagger wavered, and with a sound of defeat, she threw it hard across the tent. It struck the far wall and clattered atop a small wooden chest. “Curse you. Curse you.…” The final word ended on a strangled note as she began to unfasten the pin at her throat.

Then the red cloak crumpled to a puddle at her feet. Luc waited. Defiantly, she tugged fiercely at the side laces of her kirtle, tossing it atop the cloak when it came free. Clad now in her undergarment, the longer gunna that reached to her ankles—she faced him with obvious contempt. It should have affected him, but it did not. She had already proven herself to be a liar. And he did not want to examine his motives too closely. Her trespass had surely freed him from the strictures that bade him not to persecute a captive.

“Does it not matter to you that I am unwilling?” Ceara flung at him as she shrugged out of the gunna, her words muffled by a length of linen.

Luc did not reply. Clad now only in lamplight and her boots, Ceara briefly held the gunna to her breast, then with slow deliberation, let it slide the length of her body to join her other garments. She was more lovely than even his fevered dreams recalled. The high, proud thrust of her breasts was firmly round, crowned with taut peaks of deep rose hue. Slender waist, gently curved hips, and a softly mounded belly tapered to slim thighs and shapely calves that disappeared into the tops of her cuffed leather boots.

Luc forgot his intention to humble her. He could not have resisted the urge to move to her, trace the rosy peaks of her
breasts with his finger, then weigh the fullness in his palm. She drew in a sharp breath and closed her eyes, quivering.

“You are afraid,
ma belle
? You have nothing to fear from me. I do not want a quaking maiden, but a woman well versed in love.” He raked his thumb across her nipple and she shivered. “See, it is not so bad to yield, even if only for the moment.”

At that her lashes lifted and she shot him an accusing glance that spoke volumes. “I have not yielded. I am being forced.”

“No, it is your choice.”

“Yea, if I would lose my beloved pet, I could refuse. You know I will not.”

“Then see? ’tis your choice, as I said.” Before she could protest again, he bent his head to her breast, tasting skin that smelled of lavender and smoke. Against the cushioned swell of her breast, he murmured, “You have much to learn about bartering one thing against the other,
ma belle
.”

She was soft and smooth beneath his palms as he slid his hands over the ribbed expanse and down to her waist, to cup her hips and pull her against him. A soft moan vibrated in the back of her throat, an echo of the wolf’s earlier cry. A curling tendril of blond hair slithered over her shoulder to tickle his cheek, and he lifted his head to gaze down at her. The throbbing ache in his loins grew more intense as she put the heels of her hands against his chest to lean back and away, her hips pushing into him as she sought his gaze.

“You mistake the moment if you think I barter, my lord.” Her naked flesh pressed seductively against his, and his body responded.

“Then this is a surrender?” Half suspecting a trick and unwilling to face further struggle, his arms tightened around her unresisting body.

“Nay … a tactical retreat, perhaps.”

The blood thundered through his veins as she traced an imaginary path over his chest with her fingertip, then blew softly on his skin. Luc could wait no longer. He pushed her back
toward the narrow cot, half carrying her when she suddenly went boneless. Her long lithe form draped gracefully from his arms, an enticing blend of erotic sensation and intriguing resistance.

“Your battle is lost,
ma chérie
,” he breathed against the sweet curve of her throat and shoulder, and felt her shuddering sigh.

“Is it?” Her arms had curled around his neck when he lifted her, reflexively he’d thought, but now they tightened. He bent his head back to look down at her. A provocative smile curved her mouth, and the sweep of her lashes lowered, teasing. In her soft, husky voice, she murmured, “Beware of claiming victory too soon, my lord, for you may yet wonder who has won after all.”

Driven by both need and determination, Luc dismissed her words as another bluff. She was as full of them as a forest was trees, one coming right after the other in an unending litany. Yet nothing mattered now except the moment and the woman, the urgency of his desire and her sudden capitulation.

Aflame now, he took her down to the cot with his weight, his hungry mouth covering her parted lips with a fervor he had never known could exist. This was no detached lust, but an encompassing, mindless need that smothered everything but the burning desire to make her his.

Kissing her closed eyes, her moist mouth, and the arch of her throat, he wedged his knees between her thighs and moved them apart, urgency riding him so hard he could think only of release. Rose petal-soft skin lured him to caress her everywhere—the enticing curve of her breasts and dip of her belly, the pale glossy threads on her woman’s mound, and the arousing, damp heat between her thighs.

Ceara moaned. Her breath came in harsh pants, and she twisted restlessly beneath him as he lavished attention on her lush curves. When his mouth closed over the tight peak of her nipple she cried out, grasping him by the upper arms to hold tightly. With his hand stroking her soft mound and his mouth
moving from one breast to the other, he paused to lave the scented valley between with his tongue, and she responded with urgent little noises that spurred his own desire.

Murmuring French endearments in a thick, rasping voice, Luc lowered his body on hers to sheathe himself in her warmth, his weight resting on his bent arms. She arched upward, hips meeting his slow thrust even while a soft cry escaped her and her fingers dragged down his bare arms.

Ah, she was so tight and hot, so exquisite that for a moment he did not comprehend the message behind her sudden, sharp cry of pain. Yet even as he drove into her again, he realized the significance, and immediately went still. With his head down, the muscles in his arms shaking with reaction and strain, he tried to speak and couldn’t.

Slowly, he pushed himself up and lifted his head to stare down at her pale face incredulously. So it was true. She had not lied about this, at least.

His voice a muffled croak, he finally rasped, “Damn you—you are a virgin.”

“Nay, my lord, I
was
a virgin.…”

L
UC LAY ON
his back with his forearm thrown across his brow, staring up at the tent’s ceiling. His jaw was set, and his dark eyes were carefully blank. “Tell me,” he said coldly, “why a wife wed three years would still be virgin.”