Montbryce Next Generation 03 - Dance of Love (15 page)

“Izzy,” she panted breathlessly, “I—”

~~~

Basking in a maelstrom of incredible sensation, Izzy caught the scent of female arousal. Farah was wet for him. He wanted to plunge his fingers into her, caress her inner folds, arouse her diamond of desire to a fever pitch, then withdraw, and lick her juices from his hands. But if she recoiled at his touch in that most intimate place—

He lifted her and carried her to the bed. “You know what will happen this night, Farah?”

Eyes wide, she nodded.

“I need to be inside you soon, or I will spill my seed.”

Again she nodded, apprehension plainly written on her face.

“You will feel pain, at first.”

He turned her on to her side easing her
derrière
to the edge of the bed. He put his hand on her bottom and opened her. The promise hidden in the dark wetness made his erection buck again. He pressed his legs against the bed and put the tip of his shaft inside her. She arched her back, bracing herself.

She was afraid. If he had pleasured her with his fingers she would be more ready. But his need was too great now. “I love you, Farah,” he ground out as he gripped her hip and plunged in, feeling the membrane of her maidenhead rupture.

Her body went rigid. She clenched on him. He stroked her back, slowly pulling part way out. It was sweet torture. She was hot, and tight. “I have to move, Farah. I cannot be still.”

She turned her face into the linens, shoulders hunched. He splayed his hand on her hip, pushing in and pulling out slowly, willing her to relax.

Gradually he felt the tension leave her body. She clenched him again, then released, then clenched again. Soon she matched his rhythm, keening a high pitched cry of need, and he was lost. He slammed into her over and over until the white heat of his seed spurted from his body into her womb and euphoria stole his wits completely. Still standing, embedded in her wet warmth, he swayed as the room tilted around him, trembling with the force of what had happened. He became aware in his half stupor that he had left the imprint of his hand on her bottom. It looked like an ordinary, normal hand. He stared at his deformity, unable to reconcile the two images.

~~~

Farah’s frantic breathing was slowing down when she heard and felt a sigh shudder through Izzy. Had she not pleased him? She wrestled with the worry gnawing at her heart.

Joining her body with Izzy’s had rocked her to the core. Despite the gossipy titters of the women in the harem, the reality of the monumental sense of fulfilment that the dance of love would bring had never occurred to her. The dizzying bliss of feeling her husband’s manpart thicken inside her had left her heart throbbing. His guttural yell of completion when his hot seed erupted into her womb had reverberated through her bones.

There had been pain, but other intense sensations had quickly rendered it insignificant.

It was not the momentary discomfort of losing her maidenhead that bothered her, but a fear something had been missing. She held her tongue, not knowing what to say. Her husband had lain with other women. Had he found her lacking?

Izzy scooped her up and moved her further onto the bed, then curled his big body into her back, his arms tight around her, one leg wrapped around hers. She felt his heartbeat. He nuzzled her neck. “You are mine now, Farah. You belong to me.”

She chewed her bottom lip, hesitant to say anything. “Does that please you?”

He sat bolt upright and turned her to face him. “Please me?
Dieu
, woman, that was the most incredible—”

A tear trickled down her cheek. She wiped it away quickly, but he had seen it. He frowned. “Why do you weep, Farah?”

She turned away from his intense gaze. “You seem displeased.”

Izzy let out a long breath and gathered her into his arms. “Farah, I am a coward. I could have given you much more pleasure, but I was afraid.”

She nestled her head against his chest. “I don’t understand. Afraid of what?”

He put his palm on the curls at her mons. “Of touching you here.”

She gasped, feeling her face redden. Dare she speak of her longing? “I wanted you to touch me there, Izzy. My body cried out for it.”

“I could not have borne it if you had recoiled at my touch.”

She pulled her head away and braced both hands on his chest. “Do you not yet trust me? No part of you is abhorrent to me, Izzy.”

Driven by a need building in her loins, she brushed her thumbs over his dark male nipples and opened her legs. “Touch me now.”

His body warmed and his manhood grew before her eyes. He kissed her, nibbled her neck, then kissed her again as his fingers moved to the wet folds of her womanhood.

Arrows of desire shot through her body as he traced smaller and smaller circles, closer and closer to the part of her that screamed to be played with. She kissed him urgently, placing her hand over his.

He growled, leapt off the bed, turned her onto her back and pulled her to the edge. He took hold of her feet. “Spread your legs, wide.”

She obeyed, her heart hammering in her chest, nipples tingling unbearably.

Izzy knelt beside the bed and used his thumbs to open her inner folds. The love in his reverent touch took her breath away. He gazed at a part of her body she had never seen, but the awestruck look on his face eased her fears. Suddenly, his tongue was there, licking, sucking, teasing. She screamed out her pleasure. He pulled away. She rose up on her elbows. “Don’t stop,” she pleaded, grinding her heels into the mattress.

He grinned. “Lay back. Put your hands on your breasts. Squeeze those magnificent nipples.”

Her mouth fell open. Icy heat raced up and down her spine, but she obeyed, the cravings becoming uncontrollable. There was something more—something she had wanted before, but what was it?

His rough thumb brushed the throbbing nub and she knew. Then his tongue took the place of his thumb. A thousand shooting stars danced behind her eyes as she fell from the sky into bliss. Someone was screaming Izzy’s name over and over.

His finger slid into her, sending another jolt of molten pleasure straight into her womb. He pushed in and out, in and out, then slid another finger inside. It was not the same as his manhood, but it was heaven. She wanted to beg him to enter her, “Come—” but the words stuck in her passion-constricted throat.

He needed no words. His thick manhood plunged in, thrusting hard. He drew her legs around his hips and she locked her ankles behind his back. He cupped his hands under her bottom and lifted her hips. She trailed her fingertips up and down his muscled thighs, behind his knees.

He groaned, panting hard as his need and his manhood grew. “Hold on, Farah. This is going to be a wild ride.”

If their first coupling had rocked her, the second was cataclysmic. She matched his frenetic rhythm stroke for stroke, the delicious heat building inside until she convulsed in a frenzy of ecstasy. She clenched on his shaft and felt his release shudder through him as he cried out her name.

Izzy drifted back to the world, his eyelids heavy. Someone was stroking his hair. He peeled open one eye. He was lying on top of Farah, drooling!

He rose up on his elbows. She smiled. “I’m sorry, Farah. I’m too heavy to put my full weight on you.”

She shook her head, twirling her finger in his hair. “I can bear your weight, Izzy de Montbryce.”

Her voice seemed even sultrier now she had been well bedded. He traced his finger along her bottom lip, elated at the memory of sliding his blighted fingers inside her. She had loved it!

“What do you want me to call you now, wife?” he asked lazily. “Are you María Sancha, or Farah?”

She frowned. “I have been thinking on that. My whole life I have been Farah. Only my mother, and now my brother, has called me María Sancha. It is name that honours my father and the royal house of Jiménez.”

He stroked her nose. “Mayhap I should call you
princesa
?”

She tickled his neck and he cringed. “Stop, I’m ticklish. It was a jest.”

She pressed a forefinger to her lips. “Hmm! I’ll have to remember that!”

He took her hand and kissed it. “Seriously, to me you’ll always be Farah, the exciting, exotic creature I fell in love with as soon as I laid eyes on her.”

She smiled, sending ripples of pleasure down his spine. Then she grew serious. “But when Georges de Giroux arranged for me to be baptized after we were freed, it was in the name my mother chose—María Sancha.”

“I have a suggestion,” he said. “You will be known as María Sancha de Montbryce, but in bed, when we make love, you are Farah.”

She laughed. “I like the sound of that.”

He lay back, staring at the elaborate ceiling, his hands behind his head, feeling more peaceful and content than—well, than ever before!

Farah sat up beside him. Her eyes fell on the salver. “Oh, the scroll. I suppose we should see what my brother has granted for my dowry.”

She reached to grasp it, waving it under his nose. “Who knows, you may be a rich man!”

He snatched it from her with a grin. “I am already rich. I have you.”

He unfurled the parchment and held it over his head, angling it to catch the dawn’s early light. He frowned. “It’s in Aragonese.”

She tried to take it from him, but he resisted. “Just a minute. I’ll figure it out. Let’s see…“
By the Glory of God…in the year of Our Lord One Thousand One Hundred and Seven…in the third year of the reign of Alfonso, King of Aragón…blah…blah…
”

He read on a further, not sure he had understood the meaning of the words that followed. His heart lurched. He read it again, crumpled the scroll angrily and thrust it in her face. “Did you know about this?”

Her look of horrified incomprehension assured him she had not been part of Alfonso’s scheme. He dropped the scroll in her lap and climbed off the bed. “Read it.”

~~~

With trembling hands, heart-sick at the sudden change in Izzy’s demeanour, Farah smoothed out the parchment.
“…of the reign of …I, Alfonso, King of Aragón, do hereby grant to my half-sister, Princesa María Sancha Tarazona…”

She looked up at Izzy pacing the chamber, terrifyingly splendid, a naked, angry warrior. Her heart stopped.

“Read on,
princesa,
” he insisted, glaring at her. “I want to make sure I have not misunderstood.”

The tears welling in her eyes made it difficult to read. She wiped them away and swallowed hard, concentrating.
“…ten thousand livres of gold, money of Paris—”

She gasped. It was a fortune.

Izzy left off pacing to poke a gnarled finger at the parchment. “Read on. What he gives with one hand he takes away with another.”

She stared at the words, but Izzy’s anger held her in its thrall. He tore the scroll from her grasp and continued reading.
“…of gold, to be held in dower for her marriage to Gerwint Isembart de Montbryce, Knight of Normandie…”

He glanced at her, his anger still evident. She struggled to comprehend. “I don’t—”

He held up his hand.
“…provided that said Knight accompanies his wife on a pilgrimage to the Shrine of Santiago de Compostela, for the purpose of seeking a miracle, that is the healing of the scar inflicted upon the face of la princesa María Sancha by an infidel dog.”

He threw the parchment onto the bed and stalked away, trying unsuccessfully to clench his rigid fingers.

She stared at the document that had suddenly torn away her happiness. She recognized it for the lie it was. The pilgrimage was not to seek a cure for her, but for Izzy. Alfonso had known he would never agree to go for his own sake.

Her husband was struggling into his clothes. “Does he think I am bothered by your scar? I am a better man than that. He insults me with his patronizing arrogance. Does he believe I have to be bribed with an outrageous sum to take my wife to a shrine to seek healing for her? Am I a pauper with no means of my own?”

She remained silent. If he guessed the truth he would think she had suggested the pilgrimage, repulsed by his affliction. She longed for him to be rid of his pain, but would he understand that was her only reason? He would judge her mad if she told him she had received a message from the spirit of her dead father.

~~~

Izzy stormed out of the chamber, his shirt loose over his breeches. Decorum be damned! He thrust open the outer doors, much to the surprise of the guards. “Where is his
Majesté
?” he demanded.

The soldiers looked at him open-mouthed, seemingly unsure if they should brandish their ceremonial halberds or not. One of them made a pointing gesture with his hand. “
Huesca, su Majestad. Anoche. Huesca.”

Izzy raked a hand through his hair. “Gone back to Huesca? Last night? Why am I not surprised?”

They shrugged, their incomprehension evident.

He strode back into the chamber. Farah still sat on their bridal bed, naked and trembling, her arms wrapped around her breasts. He was instantly contrite. Why had he taken his anger at Alfonso out on his beloved wife? He knelt on the bed and gathered the linens around her, cradling her to his chest. She seemed to be holding her breath, but then a long, ragged sob broke from her throat.

He rocked her. “Forgive me, Farah, my joy, I am not angry with you. My temper got the better of me. I am too proud. Beware a man whose pride is bruised.”

She wept softly for long minutes, then became strangely silent. Had she fallen asleep? He rested his chin atop her head, inhaling her fragrance. Spicy, satisfied.

What to do next? He had already been too long away from Giroux. The chances of becoming the
Seigneur
now seemed remote, but he had hoped to return there as quickly as possible. Completing the pilgrimage to Santiago would add weeks to their absence.

Ten thousand
livres
of gold was an enormous sum, not to be dismissed lightly. His pride smarted, but it would ensure comfort and ease for the remainder of their lives, whether or not he owned a piece of Normandie.

If he refused to complete the pilgrimage, would Farah believe he did not care about her being healed, or that he did not believe in the possibility of a miracle for her?

And if miracles were indeed possible, dare he hope for the healing of his affliction?
Non
! He would not fall into that trap. He refused to go to Compostela with hope in his heart only to be cruelly disappointed.
L’arthrite
was something he had learned to live with. That was that.

The decision was clear. They would return straightway to Giroux, forfeiting the dowry. He would prevail on Robert to give him another chance, and rely on his own strengths to provide for his wife. She would see the wisdom of not making the long and difficult journey on to Compostela. She knew he did not care a whit that she was scarred.

Farah stirred in his arms. He held her away and smoothed her hair back from her tear-streaked face. “I have given much consideration to this idea of a pilgrimage.”

She smiled weakly, averting her eyes. “We have to go.”

The snake that had lain coiled in his belly since he had read the scroll slithered to his bowels, then bit into his heart. “We will leave on the morrow.”