Chapter Six #2
I froze instantly at the question, but I met his unrelenting stare with an approximation of the same.
The moment was upon me, when my husband would use my body as he pleased.
The inevitable consummation of this loveless marriage was about to commence.
Would he bind me to the bedposts? Beat me?
It took her several days to recover. My heart thumped frantically in my chest, but, in fact, I felt almost relieved.
At this point, I almost wanted him to do what he would do, to get it over and done with.
“Aye,” I said, and my voice had a fearful, breathless quality to it I took care to overcome.
“Take them off.”
I suppose I should have expected a harsh, overbearing approach.
My husband was a loutish devil, I had known this about him all along.
If I had ever harbored secret hopes that he might be a skilled, thoughtful, tender lover, I laid them decisively to rest now, and not without anger.
Insolently, and perhaps overly dramatically, I did as he asked.
I sat up and removed the thin cotton garment I wore under my shift and flung it to the edge of the bed.
Even so, my legs returned to their clasped-together state and I pulled the furs even farther over my body.
If he would force me, at least I had a few remaining barriers to comfort myself with. For a few moments longer.
Watching my eyes, Kade reached to draw the furs from where they lay, slowly exposing my lightly clad body and bare legs to the cool air.
I could read no emotion in his expression now and I wondered if I had imagined the brief flicker of compassion.
Distant: that’s what he was, as I had suspected all along.
A hint of lightness clung to his words. “I remember. I’m to expect insolence. We established that at the start.”
It had been our very first conversation.
“And I assured you then,” he continued, “that I might be able to persuade you to comply with my requests, as unreasonable as they may seem.”
“Which requests?” I asked.
“Open your legs,” he said.
I hesitated, defenseless in the face of his promised strength.
“Do it.” The quiet command riled me, and I decided then and there that anger might be more productive than fear. The man certainly lacked any hint of a bedside manner. Why couldn’t I at least have acquired a husband who wasn’t such a complete and utter bully?
“Nay,” I dared to whisper to him.
He wasn’t at all fazed by my impudence. Patiently, he said, “Do it now or I’ll do it for you.”
I clung desperately to my fury, but it was losing ground against the apprehension that seemed to dominate all my interaction with this belligerent, perplexing beast of a man.
“What do you mean to do?” It was an entirely daft question, aye. Of course I knew why he wanted me to expose myself to him: so he could ravage me and impregnate me and trap me irrevocably in this horrid marriage.
As it was, I was mildly shocked when he said, “I mean to make it appear as though this marriage has been consummated. There will be certain people who will inquire after the evidence. I would prefer not to be plagued by other people’s gossip on the matter.”
I realized my fists were digging little crescents into my palms and loosened my grip as I tried to absorb his meaning. What?
My voice sounded breathy and frightened even to myself when I asked hopefully, “Will we...not consummate this marriage now?”
“Good God, nay. ’Tis clear you believe otherwise, but I would never force a woman to bed me against her will, particularly not my own wife. Truth be told, as outrageously appealing as you are, you’re doing little to stoke my desire by continually looking at me that way.”
I was doing little to stoke his desire? Indignant, I said, “What way?”
“As though I’m about to string you up on a torture rack and flay you to death. ’Tis unnecessary. I’ll not force you, nor will I do anything at all that you don’t beg me to do.”
I was somewhat taken aback by his words. Relieved, to be sure, and also surprised. Could it be that my husband wasn’t quite as unfeeling as I’d first predicted?
Again, his severity became laced with an underlying thread of humor, which, at this moment and in my fragile state, I found more irritating than engaging. I thought it unlikely I’d ever beg my husband to do anything except leave.
Nevertheless, I was mildly intrigued. I couldn’t help asking, “What was it you imagine I would beg you to do, husband?”
He paused, and the intensity of his skewering gaze was enough to steal away any boldness I might have enjoyed only moments ago. “All manner of things, when the time is right,” was his quiet response. “Now open your legs.”
My heart thumped in my chest, and the overzealous pulse could be felt elsewhere, curiously, as I moved very slowly to obey him.
I moved my knees just slightly apart, thankful that my shift barely covered my most intimate places.
The light fabric didn’t feel like enough, though, and I placed my hands over myself in a last attempt at modesty.
But my husband would have none of it. “First, by covering yourself you are only succeeding in rousing my curiosity further. I’m more likely to seek out what you hide from me.
Remember that. Second, I am your husband, whom you are hereby obliged to obey at all times.
You will do well to also remember that. Now remove your hands, Stella.
I’ll not hurt you.” In truth, hearing my name spoken in the rasping tones of his warrior’s voice, then followed by his unexpectedly gentle assurance: it touched something in me.
It made me feel as if we were in this together somehow, this ruse.
Us, fooling them, taking our time, allowing me my hesitations.
It made me want to believe him, and obey him.
“At least not unless you want me to,” he added, to which I had no reply.
Unexpectedly, he pulled a knife from the scabbard strung to his belt.
I felt my eyes widen at the sight of it, but my husband wasn’t looking at me.
Instead, he ran the blade of the knife lightly along the skin of his tanned, hair-dusted forearm.
Then he turned his arm over and, to my astonishment, he pressed the blade deeper, drawing a small clean line along a single vein of the finer skin of his inner arm.
Blood began to flow freely and trickled from his arm, spilling a drop onto the stone floor.
He raised his eyes to me and he repeated his soft demand. “Now.” His tone left no room for argument.
I removed my hands and placed them by my sides and he watched me all the while, waiting for me until I did as he asked.
Then he touched his fingers to the pooling blood of his wound, and, very carefully, he reached those bloodied fingers to slide under the thin film of my shift.
His eyes were on my body and I thought I detected a slight quickening of his breath.
I gasped before he even touched my skin, at this bold and sudden intimacy, from the startling sensation of localized heat.
I felt his warm touch very lightly paint the blood to my skin of my upper thigh.
Shockingly, the hot silken glide of his fingers spread a sudden molten awareness through my veins, suffusing me with an unfamiliar sensation, which gathered warmly in the innermost regions of my body.
He withdrew his touch, reapplying his paint.
And then, when his fingertips sought my most secret place, I could not move or breathe.
I closed my eyes. His fingers stroked softly, prodding lightly, parting my intimate folds to stain me with his blood.
He carried out his task with tender, careful deliberation.
The smooth glide of his touch shocked me with its gentle potency.
His fingers were barely inside me, and his thumb rubbed against the sensitive hooded nub.
My mind went blank, overwhelmed by the rush of vibrant sensation and the complete vulnerability.
Involuntarily, my legs opened wider, causing my shift to rise.
I writhed slightly against him, not entirely sure whether I meant to move with him or away from him.
His thumb circled the little peak again, while an agile finger probed deeper, in a silky, languid rhythm, as though ensuring that he was making a proper job of the task at hand.
Vivid, collecting energy warmed me where his wicked fingers touched me, his movement unhurried and sure. I tried to keep quiet, but I couldn’t stop a small gasp from climbing in my throat.
And then his touch was removed.
My eyes opened, and my awareness returned to me.
My shift was raised and my legs were parted.
I thought of adjusting my position, and covering myself, but he was touching his fingers again to the blood on his arm.
I kept myself still. Waiting to see what he would do next.
My body was tense with a subdued anticipation.
My intimate flesh, revealed to him, was heated with a light throb.
Would he touch me again? I found that I was not averse to the thought.
Instead, my body seemed to pulse at the possibility.
I was afraid of him, aye, afraid of the dark, challenging glimmer in his shadowed eyes.
Yet my fear and a cautious expectancy bundled into a glowing ache that I could not name.
Watching my eyes, he reached instead to paint a light stain on the sheet between my legs. A ripple of amusement, which I was now becoming used to, played across his expression fleetingly. Then he pulled the hem of my shift down to cover me.