Chapter 12
The room looked very bare. The king’s possessions had already been carried out, and anything Paul and Celia had considered their own had gone with them. There were two chests, a desk, and the bed, its clean sheets folded back.
She heard the door latch fall and turned, to be grabbed by his strong left hand. “I have no intention of choosing you. I am going to marry Stephen,” he quoted bitterly. “Can you remember that, Madeleine de la Haute Vironge?”
“I remember many things perfectly,” she snapped, struggling. “Let go of me!”
“Aren’t you the sweet, dutiful wife?” he sneered, tightening his grip. Madeleine balled her fist and hammered his wounded hand. He winced but didn’t release her. “That’s been tried before, too.” He dragged her across the room and threw her on the bed.
Madeleine scrambled off the other side. “Don’t touch me!”
He stood, leaning against a bedpost. “What exactly did you expect when you picked a husband? Saintly King Edward? There aren’t many men who are willing to embrace celibacy in marriage, and anyway we have an impatient and irritable king awaiting news of your loss of virginity.”
“We can tell them it’s done,” she said desperately.
“Lie?” he queried. “That’s your way, isn’t it? It isn’t mine. Get on the bed or we’ll do it on the floor.”
Madeleine took a deep breath. “Touch me, Aimery de Gaillard, and I’ll tell the king you’re Golden Hart.”
She saw it hit him, but he recovered. “Madness must run in the family. Golden Hart is even now in Warwickshire.”
“Clever,” she acknowledged, watching him carefully. “Is it luck that others are borrowing your name or have you sent people to create just such a smoke screen?”
He appeared to be relaxed, but she could sense the tension in him. “What makes you think I’m a Saxon rebel? I’m a Norman knight.”
“Golden Hart speaks French.”
“So do many Englishmen. And,” he added with an unpleasant smile, “how do you know how Golden Hart speaks?”
“You know perfectly well that we met! And just after the last time, my aunt went completely mad and made my life a misery. At your instigation!”
“Knowing you, I doubt she needed encouragement. The king’s going to be interested to hear you’ve been meeting a rebel in the woods.”
Madeleine gasped. “Meeting you!”
“Did I fuck you then?” he asked with malignant curiosity.
“I am a virgin,” she retorted through gritted teeth.
His false smile was wiped away. “Then we’d better do something about it before the king comes in and holds us together like a couple of recalcitrant farm animals.”
Madeleine realized with horror that she’d thrown her mightiest weapon and achieved nothing. “I mean it,” she said desperately. “I’ll tell the king.”
“I’ll be interested to see his reaction.” Lightning-fast, he threw himself on the bed, rolled over, and then back. Madeleine found herself snared under him. She struggled but was utterly, terrifyingly helpless.
He had rescued her from Odo, but there was no one to rescue her now. Even if she screamed, all those men in the hall would laugh. She saw the fury in his eyes and frightened misery rippled through her. “Please don’t,” she whispered. “Don’t rape me.”
“A man can’t rape his wife, Lady Madeleine.” After a moment he sighed. “I feel very inclined to beat you, but I have no taste for rape. Can we be gentle about this?”
Defeated, she swallowed and nodded.
“Good.” Warily, he rolled off her. “Take off your outer clothing.”
Madeleine sat up and obeyed with trembling hands. Her teeth were chattering, and she didn’t dare look at him. She removed her tunic, then her kirtle, leaving her fine linen shift her only cover. “Should I take th-this off, too?”
“You’ll probably feel better with something on in bright daylight,” he said prosaically.
At that calm tone she dared a look. He no longer seemed angry, but neither was he as calm as he sounded.
There was a darkness in his eyes which reminded her of the way Edwald had looked at her that day by the stream.
And he was Edwald. Immediately her body recalled the way he’d made her feel that day, and a flicker of hope stirred in her.
“Lie down again.” His voice was a little hoarse.
She obeyed, and he sat beside her. He put a hand on her hip and stroked up until it rested on her breast. She caught her breath. He began to rub her nipple through the cloth. It was a mechanical act, yet similar to his actions when he’d desired her.
She looked at him in surprise. “What are you doing?”
“It’ll be easier for you if you’re prepared. Relax.”
Which was hard when he eased her shift down a little and put his mouth to her other breast. She remembered Sister Bridget. And to think they’d all laughed at her.
Was he sucking milk that was driving him wild? The process was doing strange things to her. She was breathing high and fast, and her body had a need to move on its own, for no earthly reason.
While he suckled her, his left hand slid under her kirtle to stroke her thigh.
It was such a gentle touch that her fear and wariness began to melt.
Then his hand moved to her private place, and she tensed.
Even she was not supposed to touch there except to wash.
But then she remembered a husband was allowed liberties.
A husband was allowed anything. When he pushed her thighs open she swallowed, but didn’t resist. She just lay there looking at the wood of the ceiling, face aflame, willing the magic to come and kill thought.
A finger slid to a special place which ached in a manner she remembered. She caught her breath. “How strange,” she said with a giggle, “that what was a sin is now a duty.”
He made no response. He did not echo her humor.
Madeleine closed her eyes and pulled her mind away from what he was doing. She deliberately recalled better times. That day with the faery prince—the soft voice murmuring, the gentle hand stroking, the brush of warm lips across her nape. The same golden path of warm delight opening before her.
The time with Edwald. His hungry hands and mouth. The fiery need which had been left painfully unfulfilled. Her body surged against his exploring hand.
“Good,” he said flatly. “You’re wet. You’re very responsive. If I find after all this that you’re not a virgin, I will beat you, and for any number of reasons.”
His brusque tone shattered the magic. Madeleine’s eyes flew open and she tensed with rejection even as he moved on top of her. He gave a sigh of exasperation and put his mouth to her breast again, rolled slightly away, and brought his hand between her thighs, rubbing gently.
She could feel his touch affect her, but the magic was gone. This was all manipulation, like pulling the tendons of a severed chicken leg. Pull this tendon and one claw shut. Pull the next and another . . .
But her breathing had fractured all the same, and her legs trembled and fell open. He rolled back on top of her, and she felt his member, hard against her. It slid into her, hard, long, finding places she had never known and yet which ached knowingly for it.
She gave a trembling moan; she rather thought it was grief.
But she was made for a man, for this man, and her body knew it. Her arms went around him, her thighs tensed to hold him. Then pain made her go rigid.
“Easy,” he murmured. “At least I don’t have to beat you today.”
She laughed nervously. She remembered his endurance under the needle and accepted him even as the pain stretched and burned. Then it broke and he settled deep in her, letting his breath out long and slow.
He was taking his weight on his arms, but his left hand brushed away a strand of hair which had drifted across her face.
It was a tender gesture which brought her close to him as she had never been close to anyone.
His face was only inches away, his body overlaid her like a blanket, and a part of him was deep inside, but it wasn’t that.
It was an intimacy quite different that came from his darkened eyes.
“What now?” she whispered. “Do we stop now?”
“And miss the good part?” he asked with a smile. He began to move, sliding almost out then deep inside, slowly, almost tenderly, again and again and again . . .
The rhythm took over her mind and soul, pulsing in her veins and driving her back into her dream world.
She recognized the path of faery delight and welcomed it.
She closed her eyes and let him sweep her along, glorying in the feel of him in her arms and between her thighs.
Even through his clothes she could sense the fluid muscles, the clean bones she had admired naked that day.
That beauty and strength were now hers, while deep inside, her body had found its match.
She cried out as the path dropped off into a deep, dark swirling pit where he found her and joined them mouth to mouth, hip to hip.
One.
Slowly they were cast back up to reality, dazed and trembling. Madeleine opened her eyes to smile at him, but his head was lowered to her shoulder, and she could only see his golden, sweat-dark hair. He was truly her husband.
How utterly extraordinary.
He took a deep breath, rolled to his feet, and adjusted his clothing. “Get dressed,” he said curtly.
Madeleine stared at his back.
He turned back. “Get dressed, unless you want to return to the hall like that.”
Trembling with icy shock, Madeleine scrambled for her clothes. She found them on the floor, dragged them over her head, hurried into their protection. How could he come back from that place and be so cold, so distant?
He ran his fingers through his hair before turning to survey her. He twitched her tunic into better folds. “There’s water and cloth over there. You may want to wash yourself.”
He turned to look out of the window as she did so. There was, of course, blood on the cloth. She looked and saw blood on the sheet. She felt as wounded as the blood would indicate, but her wounds were not physical.
She swallowed tears and spoke. “I’m ready.”