Juliana Garnett (26 page)

“And I am your own.” Her mouth twisted with wry sarcasm, and he lifted his brows.

“Yea, you are my own, Ceara de Wulfridge. The day you swore your vows to me, you became mine. Never again will you know want while I live, nor even when I am gone. If it costs me my life, you will be safe.”

She stared at him, her eyes growing wide and dark with shadows. Her lips trembled slightly, and when she lifted an arm to brush the hair from her eyes, her hand shook.

“Be wary, my lord, or I shall think you mean that.”

“I mean it.” His voice hardened. “I mean it most heartily. I keep what is mine, and none shall take it from me, nor abuse what I cherish.”

A long silence stretched between them. The wolf lay down at Ceara’s feet and put her great head between splayed paws. The candle flame flickered in a sudden draft of wind.

Finally Ceara moved, and there was an odd note to her voice when she said, “Long has Wulfridge needed a man of your strength.” She lifted the goblet of wine in one hand, and held it out to him. Over the brimming cup she said softly, “If my land had to be won by Normans, it is well that you are the one to take it.”

It was the closest she had ever come to an honest admission of defeat and offer of genuine goodwill, and he took the cup, curling his fingers around her hand to hold her. He lifted the wine to his lips, holding Ceara’s hand around the stem, feeling suddenly awkward, almost tongue-tied.

Looking deep into her eyes, feeling as if he were drowning in their blue depths, he drank the wine without really tasting it. There was a new intimacy between them now, a bond that had not been there before, but he had no notion how it had happened. It was unplanned, and so fragile he wasn’t certain it wouldn’t shatter at the first sign of trouble. But it was there. And to his surprise, he found himself hoping nothing would destroy it.

This woman, this warrior maiden with the turbulent nature and honest eyes, had somehow wormed into the small part of his heart that was still vulnerable. Because even as he was vowing to protect her, the fear that he might fail near paralyzed him with apprehension. Never before had he felt so about a woman, as if he would dare anything to keep her.

It was a new and most illuminating discovery about himself.

T
REMBLING WITH UNCERTAINTY
and raw hope, Ceara allowed Luc to pour wine for her. She sipped it from the cup as if they were truly lovers instead of strangers who shared a bed and intimacies. He surprised her, this man who was her husband. And frightened her, for she knew he truly meant what he said. He would allow no man to take away her home again. There was an inner strength in him that was more daunting than even his physical strength, and it was that virtue that would keep them all safe.

Yet it was all still novel and unfamiliar, and as fragile as a new-laid egg. So she trod cautiously, hopeful but not yet completely believing.

Luc smiled at her over the rim of the goblet, his dark eyes luminous with some secret concern. She managed a faint smile in return, though it felt wobbly. How did she react to him when all her previous responses were so different to what she felt now? Suddenly she was so unsure of herself, of him, of what he was and what he wanted.

“My lord …” The words came out too soft, too husky, an
invitation more than a question, and Luc took the wine from her and set it atop the table.

This response she recognized, for she had seen it often since their wedding, the quick flare in his eyes, the heat that radiated from him when he touched her. She started to retreat, but he grabbed her by the hand and pulled her toward the door to their chamber, not giving her a chance to speak as his mouth found hers in a hot, fierce kiss that left her in no doubt as to his mood or intentions.

The wide bed was still strewn with new garments she had unpacked from the trunk, and Luc shoved them carelessly aside as he lifted her to the bed, using his weight to pin her to the mattress. Excitement flared in her as he pulled roughly at her tunic, shoving up the hem to her waist, his hands impatient with the short garment.

Half leaning on her, half on the bed, Luc kissed her mouth, her cheek, the sensitive spot below her ear, his lips searing a fiery trail over her skin. There was the sound of rending material, and she jerked her mouth from his to protest the ruin of her tunic, but it was too late. Cool air whisked over her, and he rose to his knees, gazing down at her with satisfaction.

“You are very beautiful, my beauty,” he said in husky French, and glancing up at her face, repeated it in English. She lay still while he touched her, his hands skimming over her bare breasts, belly, and lower, and then she closed her eyes.

Her breath came more swiftly now as he stroked her hot, moist center with his fingers, teasing her, summoning little moans that she could not hold back. Nor could she halt the arch of her hips into his hand, her fists pressing into the mattress, her heels pushing mounds into the thick coverlet spread over the bed.

Luc bent over her again, capturing her lips, his tongue mimicking the sex act with heated thrusts inside her open mouth while his hand coaxed a shivering response from her. She
was quivering, excitement growing higher and hotter, sweeping her toward the brink of fulfillment.

Then he stopped, and she caught at his hand, pulling it back toward her, whimpering for him to continue. “Easy, beauty,” he muttered thickly, and draped her legs on each side of his waist. He wrenched off his sherte and sat back with his legs folded beneath him to tug at the straps that held up his linen leggings.

With his dark head bent, she saw only the fall of his black hair and width of his bare shoulders until he looked up at her again. The open, naked need in his eyes was as arousing as his touch, and she caught her breath at the force of it.

Then he was leaning over her, the light furring of hair on his chest scraping erotically over her bare breasts as he stretched his length atop her, catching her hands in his and pulling them up to press into the mattress on each side of her head. A faint smile curved his mouth.

“Do you want me,
chérie
?”

“Ye—yes, Luc.”

Her stammered whisper lingered in the air between them, soft and husky and filled with the longing she found so hard to articulate. But it was not going to be enough this night, for he pressed her for more.

“Tell me,
ma chérie
, tell me just how you want me. Tell me you want me as I want you.…”

Biting her lower lip between her teeth, she arched up into him in a silent effort to bring him closer. He laughed softly, and bent to lavish kisses along her throat and down to her breasts, teasing her with his tongue until she was panting for breath.

“Tell me,” he murmured against her skin, his tongue circling her nipple in erotic strokes, “tell me.…”

“Luc … please.…”

Propping his weight on his hands, his fingers still laced with hers in a light clasp, he arched his hips forward to drag his swollen length over the arching center of her, creating a fiery sensation. Pressing forward, he moved in teasing strokes up and
down between her thighs, until she writhed beneath him with urgent moans. He did not enter her yet, but slid over skin damp with anticipation, his every stroke sparking her, making her shiver.

Curving into his dragging strokes, her back arched and her thighs spread wider to receive him, to take him into her aching entrance. Yet still he held back, moving faster but not penetrating. Dazed with passion and filled with a rampant hunger for him, Ceara tilted her hips sharply, and his next stroke slid just inside her.

Luc’s breath came in tortured pants. His arms were unsteady, and he lifted his head to look into her eyes, his lashes half lowered, his face sharp with desire.

“Tell me,
chérie
.…”

“Luc, I need you inside me … please.…” She turned her head, kissed his forearm, tasted the salt of him on her tongue, and whispered again, “Please, Luc … I want you … I want you inside me.…”

With a groan, his next stroke slid deep inside her, filling her, creating a new, sharp sensation that made her cry out. Urgency filled both of them with exquisite pleasure, his thrusts deep and hard inside her until she was holding him, half sobbing, her nails raking down his shoulders and back as the tension tightened almost unbearably. And then the pressure snapped, exploding into a shower of sparks that overwhelmed her, dragged her under into a dark tide of spinning release that left her weak and clinging to him, her cheeks wet with tears.

Slowly, Luc’s taut body relaxed, and he shifted to one side, still holding her, still inside her, nipping lightly at the skin of her shoulder and throat with his teeth.

In that moment, with him drowsily holding her against his chest, his arms a warm shelter around her, she felt safer than she had ever felt in her life. It was as welcome as it was unexpected, and she prayed that it would never end.

She must have fallen asleep, for she was jerked awake by
Sheba’s growl, and lifted her head. Then she flushed with embarrassment, for standing in the open door of the chamber and looking frozen with panic was Luc’s squire.

“My lord,” Alain said, his quavering voice soft and terrified, “is this the tame wolf?”

Luc had already sat up, one hand on his dagger and his eyes alert. “Yes. What do you here, Alain?”

“I brought the food you requested. Do I leave it in the antechamber for you?”

Shifting, Luc dragged the coverlet up over her, while Ceara nestled beneath it quickly. He flung her an amused glance, and tucked the coverlet around her before he rose from the bed and reached casually for his linen leggings.

“Leave the food in there, Alain. And if you wish to make a friend, toss the mutton joint to the wolf.”

Alain made an inarticulate sound, then squeaked in alarm as Sheba caught the huge mutton joint in her jaws with a growl of satisfaction. Trotting past the squire, she came back into the chamber to curl up by the bed and gnaw her supper. Luc watched curiously, then glanced back at Alain with a grin as he laced his leggings around his waist.

“She would make a brave man quail, I think.”

“Yes, my lord.” Alain swallowed hard. His grin was weak. “I would not want to face the wolf without a weapon.”

Ceara held back the tart words on the tip of her tongue. Soon, she would tell Luc that she could speak his language, and truthfully, she was not sure why she had not yet done so. Caution, perhaps, that bade her wait until she was certain she could trust him. A laugh caught in her throat. Foolish, to not trust him enough to speak his tongue, but allow him access to her body and her emotions.

When Alain left, she rose from the bed and followed Luc into the antechamber, the coverlet wrapped around her body and dragging along the floor. He eyed her with a lifted brow but did not comment except to say there was food and wine.

Warm meat and a round of cheese lay next to a trencher of white bread, and she picked at the bread, tearing off tiny portions to chew slowly while she poured wine. It was new wine, sweet and not heavy, tasting of summer grapes from across the Channel. A musty flavor filled her mouth as she drank, and she watched Luc over the rim of her goblet while he used his dagger to slice off generous slabs of boiled beef.

His bare chest gleamed in the lamplight, a rich golden sheen that made her think of summer days when the sun would darken her skin so that she had to wear long sleeves to keep from being as brown as a peasant. Yet on Luc, the bronze burnish of his muscled skin was attractive.

Ceara perched atop a stool. Her heart clutched at the knowledge that he had become much too important to her. Why had she allowed herself to care about him? To think about him at odd moments during the day, becoming as dreamy-eyed as a serving wench over a stable lad?

Never had she thought to lose herself this way. Not even with Wulfric had she been so moon-eyed, watching for him around every corner and waiting for the sound of his voice. Somehow their physical closeness had bound her to Luc. It had to be that. There was no other reason for her powerless slide into this ridiculous fascination. It left her uneasy, and she frowned as she wondered if he regretted leaving behind the Lady Amélie. Did he think of his lost love often? Did he wish that it was Amélie he had wed instead of her?

It was a question that tormented her at unexpected moments. Never had he indicated his loss, yet she could not forget that scene at York, when he had expressed regret for being forced to wed another, and held the lady so tenderly in his arms.
Amélie
. She hated even the name, resented being a substitute for another woman.

Glancing up at Luc, Ceara fought an odd sense of betrayal. Had he forgotten Lady Amélie?

She stuffed a wedge of cheese into her mouth, and realized
that she was starving. The day had been long and the journey rough, for Luc had pushed them hard to reach Wulfridge before dark and cold overtook them. But at least now they were here, and Sheba was safe, and away from danger. It would never have done to leave her in the stables, for though Paul seemed kind, his new Saxon assistant was Hardred, who had never liked Ceara or the wolf. She was grateful Luc had relented.