Now he would think she spent her time nattering about him, like some lovesick fool.
“That you and she... that you were quite capable.”
“Humm.”
He tipped his head to one side, a faint smile curving his lips. “Is that all?”
“Yea.”
It wasn’t exactly a lie. Hilda had spoken of many things, most of which at this moment Isabeau could not recollect, other than Hilda had called him a wizard of the flesh, whatever that meant. That he preformed magic betwixt the sheets, she supposed, hopefully that meant he got down to business and accomplished it quick.
“Let’s hope our joining doesn’t produce the same effect,” he said with feeling. “I have an aversion to screaming.”
“What?” She cast him a fearful glance, her heart picking up speed. Hilda had said naught of that. If the act was painful, why had she been so determined to bed him again? Why had her gaze forever followed him about the hall? Why had she sent him such rapturous looks? It did not make any sense.
“’Twas a scream of pleasure,” he explained straight-faced, though the twitching of his lips suggested he found some humor in her inexperience.
“Ohh…” She had never heard of anyone screaming with pleasure—squealing mayhap. “You need not worry,” she said with a lift of her chin. “It won’t affect me that way.”
He chuckled. “You sound very certain of that.”
“Of course.
You’re my enemy. ‘Twould be impossible for me to gain pleasure from anything you do.”
‘Twas a lie of course.
But, now that he had said so, she would rather bite off her tongue than give him the satisfaction of making a sound.
A knowing smile spread over his lips.
Her heart gave a leap.
But before she could protest, he took a step closer, reached out his arms, and drew her close.
When he placed his smooth lips to hers, her fears took flight under the heat of his mouth. A strange fluttering in the pit of her belly traveled downward, drawing warmth to where her thighs met. The pelt she clutched slipped to the floor as her hands crept up to his shoulders, causing her to shiver, more with delight than with the cold crawling up her back.
The heat of his mouth stirred things inside her she had never felt, delicious sensations, swirling in her belly—dashing over her flesh. When he began lifting her chemise above her head, she barely murmured a protest. The assault on her senses was so great, the pleasure so unexpected, she could not even think.
When he scooped her up in his arms, she assumed he would carry her to the bed, but instead he strode with her to the pallet in front of the fire. Mayhap he did not wish to entertain enemies in his sacred nest.
‘Twas all for King and country.
Wasn’t that what he said?
“Why do you tremble?” he said, laying her gently atop the furs. “I’m not going to hurt you. Are you sure you want to do this?”
She nodded her head, too afraid to speak—to admit her own desire.
‘Twas not right to feel so drawn to him—the enemy who had captured her.
But she did. And she was not alone. Many women had come before her.
Strangely that was not a very comforting thought. But what did it matter? Giving herself to him was a means to and end—one enemy would keep her safe from another.
He trailed the back of his hand along the curve of her belly, sending little prickles leaping over her skin.
She held her breath.
A quick glance at his face told her he was enjoying this, a little too much for her liking. But soon she was too distracted to care as his gentle roving hands, touched every curve, and every hollow, making her skin tingle—her muscles grow taunt, until she wanted to cry out—be done with it man!
But his intense gaze held her silent.
Something in those blue orbs told her that was what he wanted—for her to beg.
But she was determined not give in.
When his hand grazed the golden curls between her legs, she bit her lip, praying it would be over soon—before she shamed herself. As he began to stroke the slick inner folds beneath, she closed her eyes, but could not block out the delicious sensations rushing within her—the sweet ecstasy she had never felt and doubted she would ever feel again.
Then, just as she thought she might lose the fight, he straddled her hips and thrust his manhood within her. A sharp searing pain stabbed through her. She opened her mouth to scream, but then remembered her pledge and clamped it shut. A faint groan slipped from her throat, past her gritted teeth.
Was this the pleasure Hilda spoke of? If so, she was not right in the head. Either Hilda was mad or Fortin was cheating her. Right now, she felt as though she was being torn apart.
He pressed his mouth to hers as he continued to move deep within her. Fortunately the distraction of his lips took her mind from the dull ache between her legs. The heat of his body, the taste of his tongue, sent all manner of strange and exquisite sensations rushing over her once again.
The pain began to ease, replaced by a sweet tug of pressure that built and built and built, like a bubble in a jug.
Then, just when she thought it might burst and she would lose her soul as well as her body, he gave one final thrust and collapsed.
‘Twas over, as quick as it had begun—his warm breath against her neck, sending tremors down her limbs, her heart pounding fast, and the magic in the bubble leaking slowly out, washing over her like liquid heat, leaving her to wonder what would have happened had it reached its full capacity and eventually burst.
He rolled off her and let out a long satisfied groan. A smile curled over his lips. “I should have taken you the moment I laid eyes on you in the woods,” he panted. “‘Twould have saved us both a great deal of trouble.”
Annoyance sparked in her breast at his contented tone. He spoke as though the whole event had been of no consequence—as though bedding her had been no more than an itch needing to be scratched. “I fail to see what trouble it has saved me,” she said dryly.
He turned to face her, running his fingers down her side, like a child stroking the silk of a milk-pod before shaking the seeds loose in the wind. Then he came to his feet. “’Twas painful in the beginning, I know, but you enjoyed it after.
And each time after ‘twill get better and better.”
“Enjoyed it?” she sat up to snatch a pelt to her naked body, forcing the lie to her lips. “You’re much mistaken if you think that.”
“Ha! I don’t remember you objecting even after your maidenhead
was
breached. Had you not gained any pleasure, you would have begged for me to stop.”
Her jaw hung slack.
He was right.
She should have stopped him—said something, pushed him off after the deed was done. But instead she had allowed herself to get caught up in his delicious game—not wanting it to end.
It pricked her pride that she had betrayed herself in such a way. “I fear your promise of pleasure was false,” she lied, hoping to dampen his satisfaction and wipe the smug look from his face. “’Tis clear, Hilda screamed in earnest—not with joy, as you’re so eager to have me believe.”
A scowl furrowed his brow, as he moved to toss another log on the fire. “I assure you, I did not imagine it.”
“Our minds can play tricks on us when we wish to believe something bad enough.”
He turned back around to pin her with his gaze. “She screamed like a berserker heading to war. I did not make it up.”
Thinking of Hilda making love to him made Isabeau’s belly churn. “Mayhap ‘twas your own screams you heard,” she said, wriggling down under the pelts and turning away from him.
His voice turned sharp. “For a maid who has just received a favor, your mockery smacks of ungratefulness, my lady.”
A hard slap on the backside made her suck in a sharp breath and sit upright. “‘Twas a gift to you, my lord, more than a favor to me I think.” She plunked down again on her side, with her back to him, pulling the furs up to her neck.
A long agonizing moment passed before the sound of his footfalls told her he had stalked to the bed.
Good.
She hoped he tossed and turned, lying awake for hours, wondering if the spark of his lovemaking had fizzled out. Better that, than he should know how he affected her—how the mere sight of him set her a quiver.
Hilda was right.
He was a wizard of the flesh.
***
Alec reclined in his chair, tankard of ale in one hand, legs stretched before the great hearth in the hall.
The bright sound of Isabeau’s laughter floated above the voices of his men drinking and dicing at the trestle tables, bringing an unbidden smile to his lips.
His gaze slid to Dominic and Isabeau sitting at a small table to the right of the hearth playing chess. Taking her should have quenched his desire; instead, he wanted her all over again, even more than he had before. He could not stop thinking of her.
But in her mind, apparently he’d worn out his purpose. Having played the stud, relieving her of her maidenhead, she had no need for his services again. Or so it seemed.
It rankled sorely to be used thus. Though why, he did not know. To enjoy a maid’s favors and be promptly excused of all obligations was a man’s dream. He wished no attachment.
If only he could put her out of his mind—set her aside as every other wench who had ever shared his bed. But like a traitor, his body would not let him forget. He grew restless at the very sight of her. The hall became brighter—his senses keener, whenever she was near. All trouble seemed to fade against the light in her dove colored eyes.
She, on the other hand, seemed quite content to ignore him, as though their bodies had never touched. If not for his insistence that she continue to entertain Dominic, she would no doubt closet herself in his bedchamber every eventide in order to avoid him.
A scuff against the flags, signaling Abigail’s familiar gait, brought Alec out of his musings.
She flounced down in the chair beside him, sending Dominic and Isabeau a scathing glance over her shoulder.
The scent of roses stuck in Alec’s nostrils like thick honey, smothering the glow of the evening, cutting off the fresh air in his throat.
“Your prisoner seems content.” Abigail’s voice rang as shrill as a wildcat.
It set his teeth on edge, turning his voice just as sharp. “That doesn’t surprise me. She’s winning.”
Abigail’s lips curled with distain. “Though ’tis easy to see why, with you and Dominic eager to satisfy her every whim.”
Alec lifted a brow at her shrewish tone. “She gets no special treatment, only food and a warm bed, both of which she works for.”
“’Tis surprising she has the fortitude to work, hopping from one bed to the other.”
“I have yet to find complaint with her,” he returned offhandedly, leaving Abigail to form her own conclusions. “You need not trouble yourself. My hall and my prisoner are none of your concern.”
She straightened her spine, bristling in her seat. “’Tis indecent I’m forced to share the same roof with the pair of you.”
He resisted the urge to laugh at her self-righteous tone. “With any luck you won’t have to. My father grows restless. He intends to depart after the hunt on the morrow.” No doubt that was the root of Abigail’s ill-temper. Time grew short, and thus far, she had failed to lure Dominic into her bed.
“There was a time you had an aversion to sharing your brother’s bedmates.” She cast him a sly look under the thick curl of her lashes. “Proof that life alters all righteous men.”