Dark Champion #2

Chapter 14

L ate that afternoon, FitzRoger strode across the monastery courtyard to the infirmary, running his leather hawking gauntlets through his hands. This hadn’t been one of his better days.

He’d had to handle Henry’s irritation about the lack of bloody sheets to wave in front of Lancaster, knowing all the while that his unpredictable bride could expose the situation with a word, knowing too that he shouldn’t have left her alone all day with the earl. She’d shown distinct preference for the sleek, older man. Doubtless he reminded her of her beloved father.

FitzRoger had no great opinion of fathers.

He’d had to wonder at the way he was handling this situation. Why hadn’t he simply taken the girl’s virginity and put an end to this? Doubtless many gently bred brides wept and fought at the crucial moment, but soon recovered from the experience. Perhaps many of them tightened so that force was required.

He knew in the same situation, he would do the same thing.

It worried him.

Thank God Henry didn’t suspect the truth or he’d mate them at swordpoint, or claim droit de seigneur and do it himself. Henry was capable of anything in pursuit of his goals.

The king had been justified, however, in his irritation that FitzRoger had not artificially stained the sheets. That omission worried FitzRoger deeply. Imogen of Carrisford seemed to have stolen his wits.

And what in the name of the chalice was she up to now?

He and Henry had returned from an unsatisfactory and acrimonious day’s hunting to receive a message that Imogen was staying at the monastery. Henry had been brief and forceful on the subject. The marriage must stand, and he wanted Imogen back at Carrisford acting the proper wife to be sure of it.

Her actions made no sense. If she were seeking refuge, surely she wouldn’t come to the monastery, nor would they allow her to stay, even though Carrisford was their patron. Their rule forbade the presence of women overnight.

The porter had said Imogen was in the infirmary, but had assured him she was not ill or injured. FitzRoger was going there to find her, and if necessary to drag her home by her long beautiful hair. He was very inclined to beat her.

Halfway across the garden courtyard, music stopped him in his tracks.

It was compline, and the soothing sound of the monks’ voices swept over the herbs and flowers. The flowing chant blended sweetly with the hum of insects and the joyous singing of birds. In this world of order and tranquility, he became discordantly aware of the stink of blood on his clothes, memento of their one kill of the day.

Perhaps he should have taken time to bathe.

The brothers sang of their fear of the night, and their fear of a sinful death—the everlasting night. They begged God’s loving protection against the shadows of darkness.

FitzRoger had spent a brief time in a monastery as a boy. His mother’s family had sent him to a monastery in England, though, and Roger of Cleeve had heard. He had compelled the monastery to throw him out.

That was when he’d gone to Cleeve, and his present life—for better or worse—had begun.

Roger of Cleeve had ordered his unwanted son thrown in the oubliette with the appropriate intention of forgetting all about him. In that hellhole a terrified child had tried to use the prayers of compline to drive away the dark and the monsters it held.

To no avail.

That time of horror still lingered in the one weakness he had never truly conquered: the fear of tight, dark spaces.

By tooth and claw he had made a place for himself in the light, but now he had this new darkness in his life, centered on a troubling girl whom he could break but could not compel to his mold, and who could beat him at chess.

Which reminded him of his purpose. He strode on.

Brother Miles was not in the chapel, but just coming into the infirmary from a corridor. “Good evening, my lord.”

“Good evening, Brother. I believe my wife is here.”

They both spoke softly in the presence of the dozing patients.

The monk’s expression became wary, doubtless a response to FitzRoger’s tone. “Indeed, Lord Cleeve. She sits with Bert of Twitcham.”

“Why?”

“I believe she feels some responsibility.”

“By the cross, if I sat by every man I sent to his death, I’d have blisters.”

“Yet you have visited every day, my lord.”

The men’s eyes locked—one strong in body and war skills, the other in the spirit and in knowledge of human frailty.

FitzRoger spoke first. “You look as if you’re guarding that corridor from me, Brother Miles.”

“I doubt I could stop you did you care to overwhelm me, but if you intend to beat your wife, Lord Cleeve, I ask that you do so elsewhere.”

“Why should I beat her?”

“Why indeed, and yet your expression speaks of it.”

FitzRoger consciously relaxed. “I merely intend to escort her home. The king cannot be ignored in this way.”

Brother Miles stood aside.

FitzRoger went forward and heard his wife’s soft voice. Soft and a little hoarse. What on earth was she doing?

Imogen had long since exhausted recent events, but if she stopped talking Bert’s hand would make that feeble movement that seemed to urge her to continue. He was noticeably worse, and fever was being replaced by a clammy sweat. Brother Miles had come and worked a little of a soothing draft into the man’s mouth. He had indicated that Imogen’s presence and talk might be easing the man’s last hours.

Bert’s breathing was now even more labored and sometimes she thought it had stopped, but then, with excruciating effort, it would take up again like an old creaking bellows. The noise, she had realized, came not from his throat but from the air whistling in and out of the hole in his chest. She found herself praying for him to die—for his sake, not hers. But she kept talking.

“I had a puppy when I was little. Such a roly-poly creature, and golden brown. I called him Honeycake, which was very silly when he grew, but he would answer to nothing else. He was a fine bird dog and a dear friend. I last had his daughters, and they were good dogs, but not like their father. Warbrick must have killed or stolen them. My father’s hounds too...” Her voice faltered as unwelcome memories seeped back.

So much death, though she had seen little of it. But here it was in front of her.

Something alerted her and she looked up to see FitzRoger leaning in the doorway, watching her. The sun was setting and the high window was small so that she could hardly make out his still features. Perhaps it was just an emanation that sent a shiver of unease through her. Even so, she put a finger to her lips.

A movement of his head commanded that she step outside to speak with him, but as soon as she tried to move her tired hand, Bert’s closed on it with surprising strength. She looked helplessly at FitzRoger and saw the tightness of his jaw.

“Bert,” she said. “I must go away for a moment. I will be back very soon, I promise.”

Reluctantly his hand released her and she stepped into the corridor, her heart hammering. She waited for her husband to speak.

“What are you doing here?” His voice was quiet, but she could not miss the anger in him. She could not remember ever having been the focus of such anger before.

She didn’t know why he was so angry. “I’m visiting the wounded men.”

“You’ve never done so before.”

“My father would not permit it, and so I did not think...”

“Perhaps I should not permit it.”

“Why not?”

She realized for the first time that he was in his hunting leathers, well stained with blood and mud. She could not help but wrinkle her nose.

“I offend you?” he asked dryly. The menace was distinctly less.

“You’d be the better for a bath.”

“And had intended to take one had my wife been where she should be and ready to wash my back.”

Imogen colored, as much at memory as anything. “I’m sorry. I would have been back for your return if it hadn’t been for Bert.”

His eyes snapped to hers. “You did not intend to stay here?”

“I doubt they’d let me, and why... ? You thought I had run away here?”

“The idea did cross my mind. Your message spoke of staying, and said nothing of returning.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I did not intend that.” That he might think she would run away startled her.

Silence fell, woven through with the distant ebb and flow of the chant and the closer rasping breaths of the dying man.

“I must go back,” she said.

But when she moved he caught her arm. “I cannot let you go to Lancaster, Imogen.”

She had thought on this and wondered whether she should not allow Lancaster to weave his plans. This marriage, consummated or not, put FitzRoger in grave danger. “The king promised the earl another rich bride,” she said. “He could do as much for you.”

“But not one with lands so convenient to mine.”

Imogen tried to find something other than blunt practicality in the words, and failed. Well, they’d laid out the terms of their bargain days ago. He was strong and she was rich.

She spoke in a whisper. “He could find you a bride who would not fight you in bed.”

He released her arm and his fingers traced the turbulent vein in her neck. “I don’t mind the fighting. It’s the terror that unmans me.”

Imogen closed her eyes in shame. “I’m sorry.”

“So am I.” His hand slid around to raise her chin. “Look at me.”

Imogen obeyed, wondering at his troubled expression.

“I have to take back my word, Imogen. I will try to give you time, but if it comes to it, I’ll tie you down and rape you before I allow Lancaster to have the marriage contested.”

Though her innards knotted with fear, for she knew he would do it, she said, “I hope you do. I... I...” Now it came to the time, putting her sin into words choked her.

All uncertainty fled and he grasped her shoulders. “You what?”

Impaled by his green eyes, Imogen forced the words out. “I swore on the cross that we were... that it was done!”

“Hush.” His hand covered her lips. His eyes gleamed in the dim light, and for the first time he smiled. “Did you indeed?”

She jerked free. “Don’t gloat, FitzRoger. I decided I didn’t trust Lancaster’s loyalty, and I’ve no mind to link Carrisford with a traitor. You can tell Beauclerk if you want that the earl seems very inclined to favor Duke Robert.”

“We know that.” He captured her again in his arms, and though she stood stiff she knew better than to fight.

“The monks will throw us out for lewdness,” she said.

He touched his lips to hers. “We’re leaving anyway.”

Then she did struggle, fruitlessly. “No we’re not! Or at least, I’m not. I promised Bert.”

“Imogen, have sense. He’s unconscious. The king wants you in Carrisford, and he’s impatiently awaiting his meal and entertainment.”

“Then you go and entertain him. I gave Bert my word.”

He slung her over his shoulder and carried her out of the building.

After the first moment Imogen didn’t struggle, for she knew she couldn’t win a physical fight. When they reached the stables he put her down, watching her.

“You realize I am right?” he asked warily.

She straightened her skirts angrily. “By your lights, I’m sure you are. I didn’t fight you, my lord husband, because I know that I cannot match you in strength. But I intend to return to Bert’s side at the first opportunity, starting now.” She began to walk away. He seized her arm and turned her back.

They stood frozen there as the music stopped and the monks began to emerge from the chapel.

“And I suppose if I take you back to Carrisford you will return as soon as I turn my back.”

“Yes.” Her heart was pounding, but this was one battle she could not turn from.

“I could tie you to the bedposts,” he said.

“Yes.”

His jaw tightened with impatience. “He’ll be dead within hours.”

“All the more reason.”

He suddenly released his grip. “Imogen. If you don’t bend, I may break you.”

“I’ve been doing a lot of bending, my lord husband. Perhaps it’s time you learned how.” There was something in his eyes, and she honestly couldn’t tell if it was anger or not, but she knew that for all she had been willing to bend to survive, to preserve her home, and to protect her people, she couldn’t bend on this. In the infirmary a man was dying because of her, and he seemed to find solace in her presence and her voice.

“I am going back, now,” she said. “If you want to stop me it will have to be with force, and if he dies while I’m gone I am not sure I will ever forgive you.”

FitzRoger’s hand flexed with abrupt impatience and Imogen flinched.

“You don’t know him. He was no saint. He was too fond of drink, and lazy.”

She made herself meet his eyes. “Do you think that matters?”

His hand moved to grasp her, then stilled. He lowered it. “Very well. Stay. I will return as soon as I can. Don’t leave here until I return. I don’t want you abroad in the dark with only a handful of men. I’ll leave my escort as well as yours. This place could be easily taken.”

It had never occurred to her that she might be in danger this close to Carrisford. “But who... ?”

“Warbrick,” he said tersely, then spun on his heel and left her.

Imogen stood for a moment, staring after him, reaction dizzying her. A few short days ago she would not have believed herself capable of defying FitzRoger in such a matter, never mind prevailing.

And now, though she knew she was morally right to insist on staying with Bert, she was not sure this enterprise was entirely wise. She had never considered that she might still be in danger. FitzRoger had re-created her security to such good effect that she’d almost wiped away what had happened, but she was still a treasure to be seized. Moreover, she was still a virgin, and thus vulnerable if anyone found out.

So many reasons to rid herself of this silly burden. Once the marriage was consummated she would be irrevocably bound to FitzRoger so that no examination, no oaths no matter how terrible, could change it. She would be able to confess her false oath and receive forgiveness. Being tied up and raped almost had its appeal.

As she hurried back to Bert, she shuddered at the thought of being asked to swear an oath on a relic, or on the host. No, she didn’t think she could swear a false oath on the host. In fact, she didn’t think she could swear a false oath of any kind again. Some fears, once faced, disappeared, but there were some experiences that were worse once known. This state of sin was such a pain on her soul that she would remember it all her days.

Brother Miles was in Bert’s room, and seemed surprised to see her. Bert was very restless. “I do believe he missed you, Lady Imogen, but he is very weak.”

Imogen took her seat again and put her hand in Bert’s, using the other to soothe his brow. “I’m back,” she said. “That was Lord FitzRoger, but he’s had to go back to Carrisford because of the king. Kings are a lot of bother to my mind. Did I tell you this one’s brought loose women into the castle? I wasn’t having any of that...”

Bert settled, and Imogen thought she saw Brother Miles’s lips twitch as he went to see to his other patients.

Things rapidly grew worse. Bert’s face seemed to swell and when Brother Miles came by he said it was fluid under the skin. There was nothing they could do. The man became more restless and didn’t seem to hear Imogen anymore, though he clung to her hand. If he’d more strength he would have broken her fingers.

He broke out in a cold sweat, and his pulse became rapid and weak.

Imogen ceased her chatter and fell to her knees beside the bed to pray earnestly for his release. She only realized she was crying when she saw her tears bouncing off his swollen hand. She tried to stop them, but couldn’t.

Brother Miles came in and stayed, also praying quietly, prayers for the dying. “ Si ambulem in medio umbrae mortis ...”

Though I walk in the shadow of death, I will have no fear, for you, Lord, are by my side.

It was full dark, and just one small lamp glowed.

The end came suddenly. Bert gave one final, gasping exhalation and went on to a more peaceful place.

“Sweet Jesus be praised,” breathed Imogen, resting her head on the man’s limp, puffy hand.

Someone raised her and led her away. She only slowly realized it was FitzRoger. “Where... ?” she asked dazedly.

“Hush, I’ve been here for a while, doing vigil in my own way. After all, it was my fault, too. I should have realized Bert would be soft wax in your hands.”

Imogen burst into tears. She was swept up and carried away. She expected to be taken to the horses, and though she had no idea how she would ride, she had learned that a person was capable of extraordinary things.

Instead, she was laid on a bed.

She looked around at a small room lit by candles. “Where are we?”

“A guest room. Normally women are obliged to sleep in the special house outside the walls. I convinced the good brothers that your safety required that you be inside. The fact that you pay for nearly everything here might explain why an exception to the rule has been made. There are two conditions, however. One is that I stay with you to control your Eve-like outbursts of ungovernable lust. The other is that we don’t indulge in carnal union on holy ground. I don’t think we should have trouble with either of those conditions, should we?”

His tone was brittle, but she suspected that for once it was being used as a shield, and rather transparently. She didn’t know why she thought that. If there was warmth in him, only a sixth sense could detect it.

Imogen eased into a sitting position, feeling drained. “No, I don’t suppose we will have trouble with those conditions.”

He picked up a wooden platter and beaker from a table. “Just bread, cheese, and meat,” he said, passing them to her.

“That sounds wonderful.” She began to eat. “What about the king? Is he very angry?”

“On being assured that you have not run away, he chooses to see you as a noble vision of womanly tenderness. At the moment he’s not likely to take serious offense at anything we do as long as it doesn’t affect matters of loyalty or cast doubt on the validity of the marriage. His mind is largely absorbed by matters military. Warbrick’s reply has come, and it is defiance.”

“The king will march against him?”

“He has already sent word to move on Warbrick Castle. Once that is secured, we will move on Belleme.”

“Will you go?”

“Of course. I would have thought it might be a relief to you.”

Imogen ducked that one. “What of Lancaster? I don’t want to be left with him.”

“Don’t worry. When I leave, I’ll be sure the earl and his men leave with me.”

“I suppose he’s no danger anymore, now that I’ve lied to him.”

“I’m not sure. He is down but not defeated. He seems to have spent time with Father Wulfgan and grown encouraged.”

There was a question behind it, and Imogen answered it. “I haven’t told Father Wulfgan that I am still a virgin.”

“So I would hope. But might he have guessed?”

Imogen knew that once the answer would have been yes, but she thought her mask was better now. “I don’t know.”

“Need I remind you,” he asked coldly, “that you were to dismiss the priest?”

She looked down. “I meant to. Then I came here.” And in part, she knew, she had been running away from just that task. Sometimes she despaired of ever finding the depth of courage she needed.

FitzRoger dropped onto the one bench and lounged there, drinking from his own cup and eyeing her. Imogen’s nerves shivered. “I meant what I said earlier,” he said.

“I know. I meant it too. If it comes to that point, take me by force. I don’t want to end up married to Lancaster. There probably is someone in England I’d rather be married to than you, but my chances of finding him seem slim.”

He raised his brows and she supposed it did sound blunt and ill-mannered, but no more ill-mannered than things he had said to her. His only response, however, was, “Just so long as you don’t find him later and try to act on it.”

Imogen faced him. “I will be true to my vows, my lord. When I lied to Lancaster, that was the first false oath I have sworn in my life, and it will be the last.”

His lips twisted. “Whereas I can only try to be true to my word. I do, however, try.”

“I know,” said Imogen softly. “That’s why I trust you.”

His look was direct and unreadable. “Do you? You should be in bed. There’s a privy just outside the door, but few other amenities.”

Imogen used the privy and returned to eye the narrow bed. “It won’t be easy for two to sleep there.”

“I’ll sleep on the floor. I’m not unaccustomed to such hardship, and we wouldn’t want to be tempted to carnal union, would we?” There was a bitterly sarcastic edge to the comment and Imogen knew that for some reason her husband was in a terrible mood.

Frustrated lust?

She eyed the hard, narrow bed, wanting quite desperately to have it over with. She thought perhaps here, away from Carrisford and its memories, it might go better. But she couldn’t be sure.

She stripped off her tunic and jewels and slipped into the bed in her shift. She watched as he placed his sword carefully to hand. For the first time, she noticed his chain mail, helmet, and shield lying neatly in a corner. This second time, he had come fully armed.

“Do you really think we’re in danger here?” she asked.

“There’s danger everywhere these days. That’s one of many reasons I serve Henry. England needs a firm hand so that people can sleep safe in their beds.”

“And you think he can be that hand?”

“Oh yes. Henry is nothing if not firm.”

“Sometimes you don’t sound as if you like him very much.”

He flashed her a look. “Sometimes I don’t like myself very much. Henry, like me, has the ability to do what has to be done, and if given a choice, will do what’s right. There is considerable virtue in efficiency.”

“It would be pleasant to have peace in the land.”

“We will.”

“What of Warbrick and his ilk?”

“They will be crushed, and soon.”

“And then you will hold this part of the country in orderly security.”

“Yes.”

“And I am just a means to this end.”

There was a hesitation. “Yes.”

Imogen knew this was an unproductive conversation, but she couldn’t help but pursue it. “If I had been a foulmouthed hag, you’d have married me, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And bedded me?”

“Yes.”

Imogen had known the answers, and they were completely reasonable. She couldn’t think why they depressed her so. She reverted to the earlier point. “So you don’t think I’m in particular danger now?”

He sighed. “I’d rather you were behind castle walls, Imogen, but I have twenty men out there, so this place is well guarded. Warbrick would need an army to take us here, and if he has an army in this area, I’ll have my scouts gutted.”

She should have known he would have it all efficiently in hand. “Why would Warbrick want to take me now? He can’t know...”

“Partly spite. None of that family can bear to be bested. But more than your luscious body, he and Belleme want the Carrisford Treasure to fund their rebellion, or if not that, to reestablish their power abroad. He’d bargain you for your wealth.”

“What it is,” said Imogen, “to be a walking treasure chest. And would you pay?”

The movement of his hand was sharp and revealing. “I’d not easily leave anyone in that family’s hands.”

Anyone. Not her in particular. She was just a means to an end to everyone. She cleared her throat. “I wouldn’t mind now.”

“Being captured by Warbrick?” he asked in surprise.

She knew she was red. “No. Carnal union.”

“Yes you would,” he said flatly.

“I’d like to try.”

“I’ve promised we wouldn’t do that, and I never break my word without great cause. Go to sleep.”

Imogen felt like weeping. “I know you must be sick to death of me, but I wish...”

He cursed softly and came over to stand by the bed. From Imogen’s perspective he looked tall and formidable, but she knew the stirring within her was desire, not fear. Surely it would be all right here, now.

“Why the sudden desperation?” he asked. “I assure you, I’m not going to disown you.”

“Of course not,” she said acidly. “I’m the Treasure of Carrisford.”

“Precisely. So?”

She looked down at the sheet and found she’d knotted it in her fingers. No wonder he wasn’t impressed by her willingness. “The oath,” she muttered. “I can’t confess because I would have to tell the truth. I can’t... I’d hoped the abbot would have some advice, but he’s not here....”

He leaned down to rescue the sheet and smooth it out. Imogen looked at his shadowed face, wishing she could read his thoughts, wondering what he was going to do, ferreting about in herself, trying to sense what her unreliable body and mind would do if he did take her up on her invitation.

He captured her hands and wove his fingers through hers. After a moment he spread her hands so she was vulnerable before him. Nerves jumped all through her body, but it wasn’t really fear, and she hoped he knew that.

Slowly he leaned down, pushing her hands back until they were on either side of her head and he was settling over her, the coarse sheet and blanket between them. His eyes were intensely watchful.

Imogen made herself relax and meet his eyes. Then his hands loosed hers and threaded sweetly into her hair. The warm weight of him pressed against her whole body in a most comforting manner. “Perhaps a little love-play without fear would help,” he said.

“What do you mean?” Imogen’s lips tingled from the nearness of his, only inches away.

“I’ve made a promise we won’t indulge in carnal union here, and I won’t break it. But there are many things other than carnal union.”

“Are there?” A tremor of excitement ran through her. He was going to kiss her, and there was no fear of the darker side in that.

His lips settled onto hers gently, teasingly. He played but refused to deepen it until she grabbed his head and pulled him down to her, kissing him fiercely. The sweet taste of him seemed something she had known all her life, and his shape on her fitted perfectly. It felt so right, so good, and she couldn’t believe that this time it would not work for them. At this moment, she couldn’t imagine rejecting him. Perhaps he could be brought to break his word....

He pulled back. “Remember,” he said softly, “we are absolutely not going to consummate our marriage here.”

“I... I think I could.”

“Even so, we will not. Remember that.”

Then he was between the blankets, side by side with her on the narrow bed. He gathered her into his arms and kissed her again. His hands played on her back, and so she did the same. One of his hands wandered up to find the delicious sensitivity of her nape, and so she copied it. His hair, she realized for the first time, was very silky, despite the curls which suggest a rougher texture. Just rubbing it between her fingers was delight.

He had bathed, for there was no longer a stink of blood, but instead a delicate aroma of the herbs in his rinsing water. Beneath that was a spicy scent that she already recognized as his, and which seemed able to fever her all on its own.

His mouth wandered from her lips to her neck and she instinctively stretched back to grant him access, staring at the beamed ceiling as she floated on warm sensuality. His lips ventured onto her chest, tracing the neckline of her shift. A tiny spark of anxiety flared, but she stamped it.

It wasn’t going to happen anyway. He’d given his word.

As if he sensed that fragment of tension, his hand soothed her, and he said, “Don’t forget, even if you plead and beg, I’m not taking your virginity here.”

That brought a gurgle of laughter from her and he blew softly against her face, smiling.

The hand that had been stroking her side slid up to stroke her breast, sending a shudder through her. She tested it carefully in her mind and decided it wasn’t fear. Growing bolder in her mind, she tentatively sought those terrible dark fears. They weren’t there, not even as distant clouds.

Was it possible that just knowing he wouldn’t do it could keep them away? Perhaps if he promised, and then... But it was because she believed in his promises that it was working....

He eased back her shift and his lips tugged softly at her nipple.

“Oh, why is that so sweet?” she whispered.

“God’s holy plan?”

“Don’t say such things!” But she didn’t want him to stop, not at all.

“Time to talk about Father Wulfgan’s warnings, Imogen,” he said against her tingling flesh. “Let’s get them out in the open. What does he say is so evil?”

“I don’t want to...”

“Tell me, Imogen.” His tongue touched her softly.

“What you’re doing,” she gasped. “That is evil. And tongue-kissing.” Once started, she let it all run out like a flood. “And hands almost anywhere. Anything but... you know. Putting it in me. And that’s only permissible because it is necessary to make more souls for God.”

He sighed. “The man is mad, you know.”

Imogen thought about it. “I think he is too,” she said at last, reluctantly, for it felt like heresy. “Yesterday, when he was talking to me, he seemed to be trying to force me tell him all we had done. He seemed... It sounds silly, but I thought he was growing... excited. Do you know what I mean?”

He eased away from her breast to look at her. “Yes. I suspected he might be like that. So, wife of mine, are you willing to let me tongue-kiss you, and touch you everywhere with hands and mouth, and pleasure you?”

Years of exhortations are not easily erased, but Imogen nodded.

“Remember,” he said, “we are not going to indulge in carnal union, but I can give you pleasure if you will let me. This is not a duty or a penance. If you don’t like it, or if you become frightened again, tell me. Yes?”

“Yes,” said Imogen, though she was determined not to stop him. “What are you going to do if you’re not going to... ?”

“This,” he said, and returned his attention to her right breast. He eased over a little so his fingers could play with her left.

Imogen shivered with pleasure. “What should I do?” she asked.

“Nothing. Just tell me if I hurt you, or if you don’t like it.” His teeth gently abraded the top of her nipple and her body startled her by arching like a bow.

“Good,” he murmured, reassuring her. “I like you to stretch and move for me. But remember, I’m not going to enter you, not even with my fingers.”

“Fingers?” she gasped.

“Don’t you remember? Devil hunting.”

Imogen had her eyes shut, but she sensed he was looking at her and opened them. He was deliberately bringing back memories of their wedding night. Watching her reaction.

“It’s all right, I think,” she said, wanting to beg him to carry on with what he had been doing.

He slid up to kiss her lips and she opened her mouth willingly to him. His shirt brushed against her tender nipples and she moved herself to intensify the sensation. A tremor passed through her.

He laughed softly into her mouth, then drew back. “Oh, my sweet wanton, you’ll be the death of me.”

She was guilt-stricken. “I’m sorry.”

He silenced her briefly with his lips. “Don’t be. I want to do this. I want to drive you wild with pleasure and watch you.”

“But won’t that be breaking our word?”

“I only promised we wouldn’t have carnal union.”

Imogen hadn’t been aware that she had opened her legs until his thigh slid between them to press against an ache there. She gripped him with her own thighs, then gazed at him, confused.

He read her aright. “Nothing we do here is wrong, Imogen. Nothing you do could possibly be stupid or wrong. Just show me how you feel.”

She gripped his thigh more tightly with hers and drew his head down for a kiss. She thought she heard him groan. His hands traveled her. She shivered when one traced the underside of her raised thigh and brushed along the edge of her buttocks. Then it traveled over to the front and in a move, replaced his thigh between her legs.

She tensed for a moment, gripping more in defense than desire, and he stayed perfectly still, waiting. Imogen could feel her flesh there pulse with the need to be touched, but it almost felt too sensitive for any kind of contact.

“I’m not sure,” she said.

“I’m just going to stroke you, very gently. I’ll stop if you want me to.”

She surrendered warily. “It seems a strange place to be stroking someone.”

His hand gently stroked, then circled, flirting with a place of exquisite sensitivity. “But perhaps not,” said Imogen, and released her resistance.

She closed her eyes so as to sink deeper into the heated sensations he was summoning. When his mouth returned to her breasts, she sucked in a deep breath. “Angels of heaven, aid me,” she whispered. “This is most peculiar.” A moment later she added, “Don’t stop.”

“I won’t.”

She wasn’t even holding him. She had spread her arms and was gripping the edges of the bed as if her life depended on it. “Should I hold you?” she gasped.

“It’s all right.”

The pressure of his hand became slowly stronger and she lifted to it, stretching to it. She dimly heard an encouraging murmur and that liberated her to move, to writhe.

Teeth. He’d said something once about biting... She felt his teeth press at her nipple. “You’re biting me!”

He stopped.

“It... I didn’t mind.”

He laughed and she felt his teeth again.

“I never would have believed this,” she muttered. Then: “I don’t know what to do.” Her heart was pounding so that she could hear nothing but that thunder, and yet she heard his voice softly in the distance.

“That’s it, Ginger. Let it happen. This is how it’s supposed to be.”

“What? Tell me what to do!” Her protests turned into a cry, and he caught it in his mouth. She kissed him desperately, wondering if she could survive this, begging into his mouth for release.

It came.

It was as well he still covered her mouth with his, for she screamed as her body convulsed. He moved to press her down even as his hand continued its circling. Her body fought him and that battle seemed to cause an explosion of ecstasy.

He was still touching her, but swansdown soft. His weight was still on her, but unconfining now. His mouth slowly released hers, and Imogen sucked in an enormous breath through bruised lips.

“Sweet heaven,” she said softly, and stared at him.

“Yes, isn’t it?” His expression was enigmatic, but she thought, she hoped, that there was warmth in the depths of his shadowed eyes.

A part of him moved against her hip and she realized he was hard and ready for a woman. Guilt invaded her delight. “But shouldn’t it have been like that for you, too?”

“Sometimes. Not every time. I’m not feeling deprived. Well,” he said dryly, “not very much.” He drew her lazily to lie on his chest.

“Can’t I do the same for you?” she asked.

“No.”

“It’s not possible?”

“It’s not appropriate.”

He was relaxed and yet his tone was austere again. She tangled a finger in the open neck of his shirt. “That doesn’t seem very fair.”

“It’s fair. I enjoyed doing that to you.”

“Then wouldn’t I enjoy doing it to you?”

He pulled her up so they were eye to eye. “No, Imogen.”

“No, I wouldn’t enjoy it?”

“Just no.”

Since he was taking her weight, she rested her elbows on his chest and put her chin in her hands. “Not even if I pout?”

“Pout? I’m supposed to be moved by a pout?” There was a distinct glimmer of amusement in his eyes that looked like a victory banner to Imogen.

“Cry then,” she said. “Not even if I cry?”

“If you ever use tears to sway me, I’ll rosy your behind.” Despite the words, his expression was no threat to her posterior.

Imogen was aware of a glowing happiness almost as wonderful as that passion he had summoned. She was glimpsing the warm, relaxed side again, the one few people ever saw.

What would it be like when he abandoned all barriers and joined her in rapture? She wanted that, more than rapture of her own. She knew what he had meant when he said he had enjoyed watching her pleasure. She would enjoy watching his if she knew how to achieve it.

She realized with frustration that Father Wulfgan’s warnings had not included enough about wicked things a woman could do to a man.

There was that business of the mouth... No, surely not.

She became aware of his hardness beneath her hips and moved, but gently. Such hard, engorged flesh must be very tender and she was afraid of hurting him. He caught his breath and seized her hips.

“No, Imogen.”

She studied his face and didn’t think it was pain she saw there. Despite his hold she managed tiny little movements.

He swatted her behind quite stingingly, rolled her off, and escaped from the bed.

Imogen sat up grinning, perfectly aware that her shift was off her breasts. “Aren’t you going to share the bed?”

“I said I’d sleep on the floor. I’m supposed to defend the monks against your outbursts of ungovernable lust, and it looks as if it could be a mighty battle.”

There was no hint of a smile on his face when he blew out the candle, but Imogen laughed as she slid down under the blankets. She had tasted the power of her womanhood when it was unencumbered by guilt and fear, and it was delicious.

Silence fell, and she gently explored her body beneath the sheet. It felt the same, and she supposed it was. She was still a virgin after all. But it was not the same. It was awakened. It was hungry. She really didn’t feel there would be a problem with consummation the next time they tried.

That sweet ecstasy had nothing to do with the rape she had witnessed.

“I wish you’d done that before,” she said into the dark.

“I tried, as I remember.”

“It would have helped if you hadn’t gone on about devils.”

“It seemed an amusing device at the time. I underestimated Wulfgan’s effect on your mind.”

“I had been raised to view him as a saint. Not a comfortable person. A thorny conscience, but right.” Some doubts lingered, and she knew they were in her voice.

“And yet your father begat three bastard children. I’m sure Wulfgan didn’t approve.”

Imogen sighed and her hands touched her newly alive body wonderingly. “I’m sure he didn’t.”

“Imogen,” said FitzRoger into the dark. “I think your father, like many loving fathers, was uneasy at the thought of his daughter in a man’s bed. Father Wulfgan was part of his defense, along with the sort of men he put forward for you. Older men that he knew would wait.”

“You have waited,” she said softly.

“But not for much longer. You want me now, don’t you?”

Her hand found the hot moistness he had touched, and she moved restlessly. “Yes.”

“Then tomorrow night we will put an end to the beginning.”

Imogen wanted to beg him to do it now, when it was right and her body still hummed with need, but he was a man of his word, and he had given his word.

Tomorrow she would truly be his.