The Bridegroom (2 page)

I flush to the tips of me toes. I know what
bauble he refers to—his penis thrusting so proudly before him.

My breath grows labored. The flesh where his
fingers touch my cheek sizzles. I must resist him, for my
honor.

His gaze entrances me, pulling me in,
mesmerizing me. Swaying, a deep stupor engulfs me. When he bends
his head to kiss me, I let him, drowning in the soft pressure of
his lips.

He breaks off with an audible sound of
regret. “The water cools.”

He leaves me. I teeter, licking my dry lips.
He climbs over the edge of the tub and sinks into the steaming
water. Too tall to fit comfortably, he bends his knees so they peep
out of the water.

Glancing back, he raises an eyebrow. “I am
waiting.”

Snapped out of my trance, I rebel. “I am no
serving wench.” Leisurely I bundle my hair by tying it once into a
loose knot, thereby getting it out of the way.

Expensive lavender soap from London and a
linen rag lie beside the tub. He reaches over the side, picks them
up off the floor, and extends his hand, offering them to me. “My
servant usually adds woodruff to the water,” he says as if we have
lived this way for many years.

Well, let the servant tend you!
But I
dare not speak this bit of boldness. ’Twill serve him right to
smell like lavender flowers.

His gaze collides with mine, almost as if he
hears my thoughts. I tip up my chin and firm my jaw, hesitating. My
knees feel weak, but as happened last night, something enthralls
me, melting my reluctance and moving me toward him step by
step.

Taking the soap and rag from his hand, I
kneel at the side of the tub and dip the rag into the water,
wetting it, soaping it, and working up a rich lather. Slowly,
afraid to touch him, I catch his long hair with my left hand,
lifting it from his shoulders.

“I thought Crusaders wear short hair because
of the clime,” I say, faulting him for going against fashion.

“‘Twas short at the time,” he replies.

I pat his back with the rag. Trembling
slightly, I rub his muscled shoulders, made strong from the
wielding of his longsword, leaving the sweet-smelling lather
covering his skin. Then I follow his spine until I reach the
water.

I suppress the need to gulp. “Why not
now?”

“It suits my purpose.”

“Extend your arm, if it suits your purpose,”
I direct, releasing his black locks so they fall against his wet
neck.

He complies, and I run the soapy cloth from
his shoulder down the length of his left arm until a ragged red
scar near his elbow stops me suddenly.

“A Saracen almost severed my arm,” he tells
me. Smiling slightly and lifting an eyebrow, he asks, “Do you care
about me?”

I jerk back. “As much as I care for anyone in
my household.”

He catches my wrist, his fingers burning mine
to the bone. “You don’t disappoint, do you, Sweetheart?”

I shoot him a look. He doesn’t mind my
reluctance, but simply draws my hand toward the curly, black hairs
on his chest. “You are not finished.”

Helplessly, I touch the rag to his chest. He
drops my wrist and rests his arms on the side of the tub, settling
back. I scrub the place between his breast bones and then move up
to his throat. Going down again, I pass over his nipples that
hardened at my slight touch. Seeing them tighten, I feel warm shock
waves wash through my womanly place. Why does he stir me?

My throat aches. I feel out of my skin—cold
and hot, flushed with a fiery lust I cannot hope to control.
Washing the hard planes of his stomach, I am aware of the heat in
my face and in his even hotter gaze that lands possessively on the
thin fabric covering my breasts.

When I come to the water once more, I
stop.

“Tend to it all,” he orders, his voice rough
with what I take to be desire.

His penis is fully erect in the water, hiding
just beneath the surface, taunting me.

I spring to my feet and slam the rag into the
tub, splashing water into his face. “Do it yourself!”

I run from him, as far as the confines of the
solar will allow. I am barefoot and practically naked in my damp
shift.

My heart beats hard. I turn and see him rise
from the tub. He steps over the rim onto the stone floor and comes
toward me, slow and menacing. He is in control of himself. I fear
he takes pleasure in the game of cat and mouse. After all, what man
does not enjoy conquest?

“You are my wife,” he says, crossing the
floor to where I cower at the window seat, my hair now loosened and
falling around me face.

My fingers curl into fists, my nails biting
the pads of my palms. What have I done? By my simple act of
defiance, I am giving him cause to take me as his right.

“You bring out the worst in me,” I snap.

“And you bring out the best in me.”

Without more ado, he catches me by my
shoulders and snarling, drags me to him. He crushes me to his wet
body, suffocating me with a kiss that devours my lips and invades
my mouth. I resist only briefly before the same hard-breathing
desire explodes within me. I kiss him back, seeking satisfaction,
exploring his mouth and hating myself for my own insatiable
hunger.

He breaks away, panting, and as I breathe
quickly, he lowers his head once more, raking his lips down the
tender flesh of my throat. Angered by the thrill that trails
through me when he finds sensitive targets, I have half a mind to
resist again. Instead, I bring my trembling hands up to his chest
to brace myself, and gasp aloud when his mouth finds my nipples
beneath the ineffective chemise.

“My lady!” he groans.

I feel like groaning too, my hands clawing at
his solid chest. I ache and throb. On instinct, I seek release,
pressing my hips toward his penis. Only it can give me what I
suddenly cannot do without.

He drops his hands to my buttocks, pulling me
toward him. Breathing fast, he forces me back against the chilled
window seat.

“You make me a mad man,” he admits with a
growl.

I am mad, too. Mad with a desire I never
thought to feel for a man I have reason to hate.

My bridegroom takes me then—up against the
drafty window, thrusting hard. My virgin knot breaks. But I do not
care. I ride him, my chemise pulled up around my stomach, my legs
wrapped around his waist.

“Sweetheart!” he shouts, grabbing a frantic
breath before he jerks once, twice, and then shudders like a
sobbing child as he spreads his seed within me.

I cling to him, feeling limp and incomplete.
I long for my world to be different: for this black knight to have
been dressed in white, for this man who brought me to the height of
desire to be my lover—the man who can give me what I cannot even
begin to know I need.

We have been married two months, and it is
the twelve days of Christmas feasting. We celebrate as a
household.

I am changing. I delight at the chance to be
with him. To laugh with him. Sing with him. Dance with him. Yet I
feel unsatisfied.

A carol-dance forms in the great hall where
the tables are pushed aside. He hands me down from the dais. I
smile. The household claps for us.

We join four other couples. I stand on his
right. He grasps my right hand with his right and my left hand with
his left so that our arms cross.

His nearness and the warmth of his hands
send shivers through me. I chance a glance upward and find him
looking down at me, his gaze bathing me with almost a worshipful
light. I choke back my uneasiness and shift my gaze away.

The leader begins singing acapella the
French carol
Angelus ad Virginem
, and the others join in.
The angel, coming secretly to the Virgin calming the Virgin’s
fear, said: ‘Hail! Hail, Queen of Virgins!

The five couples circle clockwise eight
steps and then open out facing in, all ten dancers joining hands.
With eight more steps, we converge on the center and then retire,
facing our partners once more. The happy notes pour over me. At the
first clapping sequence, the strength of his hands against mine and
the pleasure in his eyes magnify my delight.

And then we are parted, chaining our way
around the circle to finish with a new partner, ready to repeat the
steps to the words of a new stanza. When the carol ends after five
stanzas, we reunite. The rightness of the reunion saturates my
whole being.

My bridegroom captures my hand, lacing his
fingers through mine. Heat blasts through me. Tension pops. With
our fingers clasped together, we are bound as surely as if our
union is truly blessed.

I seek out his eyes, black and glittering,
full of challenge. My heart trembles with fear and a sudden
excitement. I dare not glance away. His hair, so long and black,
falls to his shoulders.

I press my lips together, gazing up at him,
my nerves alive with longing. Finally, I murmur, “I would be your
wife.”

He stands without moving, almost as if he
does not believe my words, for he knows full well the meaning of
them. I am offering my body willingly for once, not simply my duty
as a wife. For a reason I do not want to explore, I need to be more
than dutiful tonight. I want to give of myself.

With a low sound, he releases a breath. He
allows me to see his eyes, revealing a poignancy that further
pierces my heart. Silently, he lifts my left hand and kisses the
back of it, his lips brushing over the engraved wedding ring that
gleams in the faint light. My body shudders at his touch.

“I cannot accept your gift here, Sweetheart,
but I will accept it where it is fitting. Upstairs. In the master’s
bed.”

“I am yours, my lord.”

My words of surrender propel him into
action. In a swift move, he scoops me into his arms, strides
through the great hall and climbs the spiral stairs. The castle
folk hoot and holler at our leaving. We do not speak. His
countenance mirrors that of a Crusading warrior, intent with
purpose.

I press my face into the folds of his
surcoat, smelling his musky man smell and the faint scent of
woodruff clinging to his clothes. I feel his muscles rippling
beneath. Wickedly, I take pleasure at being the cause of his
forceful action. Can I tame the wild beast? Waves of alarming
delight pulse through me, wiping away all reason. That I now want
to torment him in this feminine way defies all logic.

My face against the rough fabric, I smile. I
have nothing to lose. Fate holds me in its grip. I will play out my
destiny with wondering abandon.

I know his body needs what I give. He will
take it, my generous offering, as is his right as my bridegroom, my
husband. Later he will wonder why my mood changes toward him.

The firelight flickers faintly in the solar.
The serving woman is dozing by the fire. When he kicks open the
door, she startles and jumps to her feet.

“Place another log on the fire and get
out!”

“Aye, my lord.”

He shoves the door shut and with me in his
arms, turns toward the symbol of his authority, the marital
bed.

“I will make you warm,” he says, staring
down into my eyes.

Quickly, he strips from my head the
flat-topped cap and confining barbette that bands my chin. “How I
hate to see your beauty hidden by these things.”

“‘Tis the fashion, my lord.”

“Then I hate fashion!” Skillfully he removes
the silver crespine, revealing the mass of my black hair, bundled
at the nape of my neck. He makes quick work with the hair pins,
tossing them aside as if he has done this many times before.

He loosens the bulk of my hair letting it
fall heavily onto my shoulders and down my back. He catches the
silken strands, gently brushing them away from my eyes, and
smoothing them so they make their own headdress around my face.
Devouring my eyes and lips with his ravenous gaze, he disrobes me.
And I stand before him, naked, my female body taut in the buttocks
and legs from riding, my breasts—half-hidden by my hair—full and
enticing.

He draws a long breath as I shiver in the
cold.

Seeing this, he rips his surcoat and tunic
over his head and bends to pull off his boots. Finally, standing in
only his braies, he glances at me.

I stare at his codpiece that covers what I
long for, feeling the wonder of the moment. He fumbles to untie the
strings at his waist.

“Let me help you,” I say.

He trembles at my touch. Unclothed, he
reaches for me, but I step back a pace.

“No,” I whisper. “I will comfort you.”

Without his consent, I lay my palms on his
chest. Shyly, like the maiden I was once, I fondle him with my
fingertips. He shakes under my gentle stroking. My hands are like
soft silk threads, thrilling his skin in the places where I touch.
And then I lift up on my tiptoes and touch me tongue to a nipple,
flicking it.

“Sweetheart,” he moans.

He rocks back on his heels. I put my hands
on his waist to steady him. The touch only magnifies the way he
trembles for me. I can see him fight for control. Does he want me
to have my way with him?

When I knell and take his hips between my
hands and touch his sword with my tongue, he groans like one
dying.

“This is mine,” I bury my face into his hard
abdomen and stroke his man part with my warm, moist tongue.

“I fear I cannot stand much longer,
Sweetheart.”

He raises me up and captures me in his arms
in a swift motion. Tossing back the fur coverlets, he places me
gently on the bed as if I am a precious jewel. I look up at him
from the white linen sheets. He cries out, making a little
whimpering sound in his throat, and lowers himself beside me,
resting on his side so he can watch me.

I do not remain inactive, but push myself up
on an elbow and trace the ragged red scar on his arm, letting my
hair drape over his shoulder, its sweet scent filling our
nostrils.