But there might not be a better time soon. Emma had mentioned gossip of Chester leaving Wallingford, and that some were questioning the earl’s loyalty to the king. Her sister had no notion, of course, of Alberic and Chester’s relationship, and how interested Alberic had been in the gossip.
Perhaps because the day was Beltane, or because after reading Emma’s letter the thought had crossed her mind that only King Arthur could force King Stephen and Empress Maud to settle their differences civilly, receiving a third letter had seemed a bad omen.
Alberic came into the room carrying their ale. “How does Nicole?”
Gwendolyn thought to say nothing of her suspicions, but if she couldn’t talk about them to Alberic, with whom could she share them?
“Something is wrong.”
He put the ale down and picked up the letter. After a few moments he shrugged a shoulder and returned the letter to beside Emma’s. “To me it seems as though she has made peace with the place.”
“To me it sounds like another person wrote it.”
“Do you recognize the handwriting?”
“Aye, but I fully expected a plea for someone to come get her, not this.”
“Perhaps the experience has been good for her.”
“Maybe. Still, I have half a notion to visit and see what demon has possessed her.”
“Leave it be, for now. Likely Nicole wished to put a good face on it so you would not worry.”
That would certainly explain the oddity; Nicole could be considerate when she wanted to be. Except Nicole rarely wanted to be considerate.
Gwendolyn placed her sisters’ letters in her trunk, then glanced at the window. The light was beginning to fade.
“’Tis nearly time for you to light the bonfire.”
“Nearly. What say we put the time before it to good use.”
She didn’t have to ask what he considered “good use.”
“Every time we try during daylight we are interrupted.” She tossed her arms around his neck, giving him access to the surcoat’s side ties, which he immediately tugged. “Here I was so sure you would wish to wait until later this eve and drag me off into the woods.”
“We can do that, too, but given the choice between a soft bed and the hard ground, I prefer the soft bed.”
“I gather you know all about hard ground.”
He chuckled. “’Twas Beltane, and the wench was more than willing and I am a weak man.”
No, he wasn’t. He might be vulnerable, which made him human, but never weak, not of body or of will.
Her surcoat loosened, she tugged open the ties of his tunic to expose his throat, planting a kiss at the hollow, eliciting a moan.
“Are you saying she seduced you?”
“With a saucy mouth and the thrust of her hip.”
“For me Beltane always ended with the lighting of the bonfire. Then I was hurried off to my bed before I could participate in the debauchery. ’Tis not fair that I have had no other lover so cannot compare.”
“Do I pleasure you?”
Silly question. Apparently he’d learned much from saucy-mouthed wenches. While Gwendolyn refused to thank his previous lovers, she could hardly be too upset because she benefited from his experience.
“You know you pleasure me.”
“Then there is naught to compare.”
She pulled on his tunic until it came off over his head. “Not all men are put together the same, or so I hear.”
“Nor are all women.” He removed her surcoat and chemise as one, and the desire darkening his eyes thrilled her to her core. “Were I to search the entire kingdom, I would find no woman I prefer to take to my bed over my wife. God’s truth, Gwendolyn, you have ruined me for all others.”
Sweet mercy, he’d turned her into a wanton, lusty wench, so hungry for the coupling she nearly broke the ties on his breeches.
With a flurry of hands they divested each other of remaining clothing, eager to make good use of the soft bed, or so Gwendolyn thought. But once in bed, lying skin to skin and limbs entwined, Alberic seemed content to lie still and merely hold her.
After long moments, she had to ask, “Is aught amiss?”
“Nay. I was merely thinking how well we fit together, how well suited we are. I fear to ask for more, but I cannot help hope our union will be blessed with a child or two.”
Every man needed his heirs, and ’twas a wife’s duty to provide them, a duty she’d given little thought to except in regard to the legacy. She, too, needed an heir. A daughter to whom she someday would entrust the scroll and pendant if she didn’t invoke the spell herself.
She’d had her woman’s time once since the wedding, coming on a few hours after Thomas hauled an unconscious Alberic in from the village, and lasting its usual five days. Considering her other upsets, she’d not given the weeping of her womb much thought.
With an inward grin she thought it utterly perfect if Alberic could get her with child on Beltane.
Gwen pressed hard against the source of life-producing seed. “Then you must plant often and deeply. Do you foresee a problem with that, my lord?”
“None at all,” he said with enthusiasm, and proceeded to prepare her to receive him.
’Struth, she needed little preparation. She’d become wet during their disrobing, her yearning for the coupling becoming more acute with each garment tossed aside. But she didn’t stop him when he insisted upon fondling her breasts, the nipples hardening under the skillful brush of his thumb. Nor did she object when his fingers slid up her thighs, seeking a particularly sensitive spot that when stroked drove her nearly senseless.
Greedy wench that she was, she allowed him to kiss and pet and fondle wherever he wished for as long as he wanted, until, on the verge of bliss, she gave him a shove to roll him on his back.
He didn’t object, obeying her high-handed command instantly. He tucked his hands under his head and closed his eyes, giving her the same open and complete access to his body as she’d given him. With hands and mouth she roamed the wide plane of his chest, and smiled when his stomach quivered at her light touch.
She didn’t linger there overlong, however. Though she might be a novice at bed play, she’d become aware of Alberic’s preferences and discovered what he liked most. Kneeling between his widespread legs, Gwendolyn grasped his already hard penis and with slow, firm strokes made him harder.
The first time she’d done so, she’d been amazed and delighted at the rush of power she’d felt. Then later, some evil imp inside her had taken over and she leaned down to kiss the tip. He’d nearly come up off the mattress. Now she braced on both arms and, with the tip of her tongue, licked his hard, proud sex from base to tip.
He hissed. So she did it again. His inhale was hard and deep in an effort to maintain control. Her third long stroke was all he could take. He grabbed her upper arms and hauled her up to lay atop him.
“Have mercy, Gwen. Any more and I shall be done before I am started.”
She squirmed against him. “Do I pleasure you, my lord?”
“You know damn well you do.”
“Then might I suggest ’tis your turn again.”
He didn’t need to be told twice. He flipped her over, entered her, filled her. With slow strokes he took her to the brink of a precipice, and with swift thrusts tossed her over the edge.
In the midst of her fall she felt him throb within her, the planting complete and deep. ’Twould be weeks before she knew if the seed took root. If not, well, they would simply have to try again . . . and again. Not an unpleasant prospect.
He nuzzled her neck. “Now are you not glad I chose the bed over hard ground? You have no twigs tangled in your hair or rocks poking your back.”
She smiled, running her hands over his broad shoulders. “Then I shall have to trust you will find us a patch of long, soft grass for our tryst.”
He lifted his head. “You truly want to tryst in the woods?”
“’Tis Beltane, so we should participate fully in the spring rites. What better than to honor a long-standing tradition?”
“Not for the lord and lady.”
“Especially for the lord and lady. Who better to beckon the blessings of the gods and goddesses of fertility?”
He tossed back his head and laughed. “Then so be it. If my lady wishes to cavort in the grass, I will not say her nay.”
Still smiling, still joined with her, he shook his head. “I swear, Gwendolyn, I never dreamed marriage would suit me so well. ’Tis far more than I expected, and I thank you for making it so.”
His kiss was soft and gentle, a peace-filled expression of contentment. Then he rolled over, relieving her of his weight, taking her with him to enjoy the aftermath of their exertions.
She, too, had found more in this marriage than she expected, the joys of the marriage bed merely one of them.
Never would she have expected to fall in love with Alberic. She loved the man who hadn’t been carefully selected for her, whom she truly should dislike for coming into her life through violence and misery. Whom she married because she’d seen no way out of it.
She’d given up examining her unexplainable feelings and berating her heart for succumbing so easily. Still, she’d been raised to expect the man she married would love her in return. If Alberic never came to see her as more than a suitable wife, could she live with the lack?
’Twas disheartening to know in that, too, she had no choice. The king had ordered Alberic to marry one of Hugh de Leon’s daughters, and Alberic had done his duty, choosing her because of her age and health. Affection played no part in his decision, just as emotion wasn’t a consideration in most noble marriage bargains. Many husbands never came to love their wives. One couldn’t bind a heart that didn’t want to be bound.
But if the heart already held caring and affection, as did Alberic’s, perhaps love could bloom. With a bit of a nudge, love might grow.
Snug against Alberic’s side, Gwendolyn wondered if she dared try to provide that nudge—with magic.
A
LBERIC WASN’T SURE
why he felt the need to seek out Gwendolyn. Maybe because she’d been so quiet this morning. Or perhaps because she’d taken a furtive glance around the hall before heading up the stairs, as if ensuring everyone was occupied so they wouldn’t miss her.
Come to think on it, she’d been rather preoccupied since their tryst in the woods on the night before last, which Alberic could hardly believe had happened. Imagine the lady of the castle dragging the lord out into the woods for Beltane debauchery. He’d felt lecherous and lusty, and had found that soft patch of long grass she’d expected him to provide.
He smiled, remembering how she’d lost a bit of her daring, unable to bring herself to disrobe. She’d lifted her skirts and he’d lowered his breeches, then they’d rutted like the beasts of the forest—secretly and silently with little finesse and all heady sensation. A fine, lusty way to celebrate the rites of spring.
Why she’d wanted to make love that way, he couldn’t say. Perhaps merely because, as she’d said, she’d never had the opportunity to sneak off into the woods with a male before and wanted to satisfy her curiosity. Fine with him. Whatever curiosities she wanted satisfying, he’d be most willing to satisfy.
But right now his own curiosity nudged him toward the stairs and up to where he’d thought she’d gone. The bedchamber.
She stood near the trunks, her gaze rising from her clenched hand at his entrance. Chagrined, she glanced back at her hand, and the hair on the back of his neck itched. He knew what she held before she opened her hand to reveal the trefoil pendant.
“I shall have to be more careful next time,” she said.
Tempted to rip the pendant from her hand, he closed the door and leaned against it. “Why do you have that out? I thought we agreed you should put it away and leave it be.”
“Had I better control over my thoughts, you would not have known I took it out.” She picked up the chain, allowing the pendant to dangle, the rainbows to fly around the room. “It appears I need no candles to unleash its powers.”
Not sure if he truly wanted to know what she meant, he asked, “What powers?”
“I called you to me.”
“Not that I heard.”
“All the same, I did so.”
“Nonsense!”
She arched an eyebrow. “Is it? My thoughts were of you, and so you came, as you did the other night. I thought I needed to light candles or say your name aloud. I was wrong.”
Her belief in magic was deeper than he’d thought. Not only did she believe the two of them could summon King Arthur back from the dead, she now believed she could call him to her side by merely wishing on the pendant.
The very thought of the possibility that magic could exist bothered him. The notion of someone controlling his actions with a mere wish was terrifying. No such magic existed, of course. Unfortunately, Gwendolyn was not only convinced magic existed but that she could use it. He worried for her sanity, and that someone would learn of this silliness and brand her a witch.
Something had to be done, quickly and firmly.
“You did not call me, Gwendolyn. I noticed how furtively you left the hall and became curious over what you were about, that is all.”
“But it has happened twice, now and the other night, just before the fire in the village. I called out your name and within moments you came upstairs!”
It took him a moment to realize what she was talking about. He’d been on the verge of a tumble with Gwendolyn when a guard interrupted them to announce ap Idwal’s menace. Before that, he’d been down in the hall with Roger and Thomas.
He remembered the feeling of something being amiss, of his instincts urging him to find Gwendolyn. But at no time had he heard her call out to him.
“Coincidence. We were done discussing the preparations for the siege and I wished to spend some time with you in the hours before dawn. I heard no call that night, either.”
He started toward her. She grasped the pendant tightly and, childishly, hid her fist behind her back, as if he couldn’t take it from her if he didn’t see it. She held out her other hand, palm outward, as if that would stop him.
“But I did call you!” she protested. “I wore the pendant for several hours the other day—”