The Marriage Bed (The Medieval Knights Series) (17 page)

He lied. Did not Jesus say that if a man lusted in his heart, he had committed lust in fact?

He had lusted. He could not outrun his desires, and so he had done what was left to him; he had killed them. Desire was a memory he killed nightly, hacking and hewing with prayer what he could not touch with sword. Aye, he was a mighty warrior who battled daily, yet his enemy sprang up again and again, refusing to die.

Perhaps he did not have the will to truly kill his passion.

And facing Isabel now, her body his to take, what path was left him? Only one: to take no pleasure in their coupling. Mating without desire was the way; it would be duty fulfilled and desire thwarted. It was the only way he could succeed at this task. It was the only way he would not drown in lust. And lust built with every moment he was with her, breathing her scent, watching her hair tumble down around her, fighting the urge to fondle her softness, delighting in her delicacy. He had to take her soon. Now, before the fire within him burned him to ash and he was left with only his failure.

She looked at him now with eyes both sad and afraid; he did not want her to fear him, yet the strength of his passion frightened himself. He had been hard for hours, and each moment of delay only stoked his ardor. He needed to find release. The release of duty. Never the release of desire.

She came near him, her hands clasped in front of her, looking penitent and shy. She could not fear him, not now, now when had to take her and mark her as his. The sky was amassed with gathered clouds, gray and pink in the setting sun, flying to the east to escape the constraints of land and earth. The wind blew through the wind hole, setting her hair loose, moving it from her shoulders to blow about her with all the gentle movement of a mother's hand. He should not touch her. He would lose all control if he touched her.

He had been commanded by God to touch her.

He stood before her, naked to the waist. She still wore her undergown and bliaut, the azure dark and mysterious in the dim light, the silk threads throwing sparks of light.

He wanted her.

It was his shame.

"Forgive me," she said, and he was startled to hear her speak. He was lost in his battle, and her voice was sweetly urgent, calling to him through the blaze of desire. "I never meant to cause you shame." Her voice broke.

Yet he was the one broken.

She came near him, even though she had just confessed that she knew the source of his shame. He would not share it; it was not a battle for any eyes except God's.

She came near him, her scent wafting to him, her hair reaching out to him, blown by the wind at her back. He saw himself then, lifting her skirts, plunging into her where she stood, her legs useless, her arms clinging to his back, her black hair covering them both.

He saw it.

He felt it.

If she did not step away from him...

"Stand away from me!" he growled in command.

He had said much the same to her before and for the same cause. He burned for her.

He had said much the same to her before and she knew the cause. He hated her.

How could her dreams have ended here? How could her prayers have played her so false? She had only wanted to love him and to have her love returned. Instead, she had taught him to hate her by her shaming of him at Malton. He could not even accept her apology.

She tried again, trying to find the words to express her sorrow; she had not understood the delicacy of a young man's honor. She had seen nothing of honor. She had seen only him.

She tried to find the words, but the words froze within her at the look in his eyes. Almost, almost she was frightened.

He was desperate. He was desperate that he not enjoy their mating. He had to bed her, to get it behind him, duty performed, service rendered. It was what he did best. He did not run from his duty.

And Isabel? She knew nothing of duty. She knew only desire and fulfillment. She had him; it was all she had ever wanted. He had to lose his dream so that she would have hers. Anger flared within him, but it did not diminish the heat of his desire.

"Make yourself ready," he said, his voice a rumble, stripped of all emotion save urgency.

Was this the night she had dreamed of? Was this what it was to be Richard's wife? This cold, stern man making his desires known through blunt orders? This was not as she had envisioned Richard inviting her to the marriage bed. This was the man she had shared her heart with, the man who understood her better than any other, the man whom she had loved hopelessly for years. Could he not understand the sweetness of this moment, the sweetness of having her as wife? Looking at him now, his face hard and set, she knew. He could not.

She slowly slipped out of her bliaut and under-gown, the pale linen of her shift following. His eyes followed the shift to the floor. And then he surveyed his bride, his desire masked by grim purpose.

Her luminous eyes were like twin moons, wide and bright and shining.

Her legs were shapely and slender, her hips rounded, her belly soft. Her breasts were full and plump for so small a woman, and he could not but stare at the gentle pink of her nipples. She was all ivory and pink and black, only her eyes disturbing the harmony with their earthy green hue. She was like his succubus, his nightly tormentor.

She was his wife.

Looking, seeing what God had created to test him, made the battle more difficult. He blew out the taper near the door, leaving them in the mild darkness of early evening.

Duty required, service rendered. It would be nothing more, though he could feel desire wrap itself around him, robbing him of air so that his breathing was labored and loud in the still chamber. He could not want her, not Isabel. He could not lay hands to her or he would burn as he stood. He could not. He could not.

Yet God had left him no other path.

He pushed her backward, his hands light on her shoulders, ignoring the softness of her skin and the dark hue of his hand as he laid it upon her. She fell upon the bed, supine but not relaxed.

He throbbed with need and closed his eyes against the images assaulting him. So many ways to take her, so many ways to touch her, so many places his mouth begged to travel, but all that was required was his duty. He must do no more than his duty by her, ripping her maidenhead, drawing blood, claiming her, by God's command.

"Kiss me, Richard," she said, her voice atremble. "Please, kiss me like before."

Kiss her? He did not even want to be in the same room with her. She wanted the blind passion and raging need of their first and only kiss; she wanted to fall into desire's inferno. Never again.

Her mouth was soft and pink, even in the fading light of a rain-soaked day. He could not stop looking at her mouth.

"I do not want to kiss you," he said.

He stood on the edge of the bed, looking down at her, willing his eyes to close against the sight of her. His refused to obey his will. He laid his hands upon her thighs, pulling them apart, ignoring the fact that she fought to keep her legs together, ignoring her hands upon his wrists, ignoring the violent desperation with which he touched her.

He leaned down, against his will, and kissed her throat. Her blood surged and she turned her head, exposing her throat to his mouth, submissive. Afraid.

Her fear did not stop him. Nothing could stop him from fulfilling his divine duty.

He trailed the fingers of his right hand up the inside of her thigh; she was soft and warm and trembling. He touched her dark curls and felt of her; she was dry, unready.

"I do not want to touch you," he whispered in her ear.

He slid his hand up her, skimming over hip and belly to cup her breast. It was heavy in his hand, the nipple rising instantly. He did not want to hurt her. He did not want to take her unready.

It mattered not. He was not going to stop. Such was the depth of his sin, his carnality. He was past redemption to take her as she was, frightened and reluctant. Even beyond redemption's reach, he touched her.

"I do not want to feel your breasts, their softness, their weight."

He caressed her, his hand learning the feel of her, though he fought against the knowledge. Her nipple found his fingertips and compelled him, against his will, to fondle her. He rubbed against her, fighting the picture of what he was doing to her in his mind. He was failing. There was too much passion in this, though he knew she felt none of it.

She felt only wounded. Isabel held herself still, uncertain and afraid. Each terse declaration was a blow that killed as surely as a lance. These were not words of love and desire. This was not as she imagined.

He did not want her.

He did not love her.

The dream she had of him, of them, shattered, and only she seemed to realize it. Could he not hear it breaking?

"Then do not," she cried, backing away from him and from his hands. She was glad of the darkness of both cloud and night; it hid her nakedness. Her absolute nakedness. He felt nothing for her; it was displayed in every touch and every word.

"Do not?" he asked, glad of the darkness so that she could not see the depth of his sin. His hunger for her, despite his battle against it, was burning him to ash. "I must. I must do my duty as your husband. You know the truth of that, Isabel."

He lied, to himself and to her, he touched her because he had not the will to stop. He would take her because he was an animal who could not turn from sin and desire, though the woman was Isabel. And now Isabel would see him for what he was. Even the knowledge of that could not stop him. He had to have her, to feel himself in her, to wrap himself around her, he was cast so far and wide from God's grace that damnation would have been a softer penance than the one which raged within his soul. To use Isabel in such a way and to blame her for his lust... even he had not known how far a man could fail into depravity.

She heard his words as a reproach because she had been the one to use duty to force him upon the marriage bed. But she had not expected this. He acted as if he hated her.

She had to ask his pardon. Perhaps all would be well if he understood her repentance and granted her pardon.

"Forgive me, Richard," she said over her fear. "I did not understand until I saw Aelis what it was I did to you."

She crept backward over the bed, holding his wrist, trying to catch his other hand and pull it from her breast. She could not have him touch her this way. Yet he seemed everywhere; she could not escape him, not on so small a spot of earth as the lord's bed.

"I shamed you, I know. Forgive me. I only wanted so much to be yours. I did not mean to pray for Hubert's death; it was only that I wanted you to be Lord of Warefeld in his place. I did not think what it would mean... that he would die."

He released her breast, and she thought the worst was over. For a moment she thought so. His hands gripped her thighs and pulled them apart. She felt the cold air of the chamber, pushed by the night wind, in her most private parts.

"Forgive me. Because of my prayer you were taken from abbey life, a life you chose because of me. Because of what I did. Because of what we did. Because of our kiss," she cried.

She had come to the end of the bed. He pulled her back, her legs hanging down from her bent knees. She could not stop the tears from falling and she could not stop fighting him. This night was no part of her dream. But she had prayed irresponsibly, selfishly; this was her penance. He held her there, his hands hard upon her, as she cried out her guilt.

"Hold, Isabel, that we may accomplish the task God has set for us," he said, his voice colder than the night wind. She asked for forgiveness when he was poised above her to take her in violence and lust? She knew not the quality of the man to whom she was mated. But, nay, perhaps now she did.

He slid down his braes; she could hear the cloth against his skin, but she could not see. Her eyes were swollen with tears. "Please," she sobbed.

"'Tis a task I did not seek for myself on a path I did not choose to tread," he said, his body a black shape in the shadowed room. He loomed over her. Never had she found his size so formidable, so frightening.

"I do not want to bury myself in you." he grunted. He wanted the words to be the truth. He did not want to be the sort of man to take a woman like this. Yet he could not stop. He was lost, lost in sin, in lust, in carnal desire. And Isabel was caged with him, trapped within his sin as he longed to be trapped within her tight heat.

All he had known of himself was proven true, the truth hammered out upon Isabel's unwilling body.

Holding her hips within his grasp, he plunged into her. She knew she was called to submit, but she could not stop scrambling across the bed on her back, trying to be free of him. It was pain, only pain, within and without. It was her penance, and she could hardly stand against it.

"I do not want to want you," he whispered as his seed was released within her heat. Isabel could not hear him over her tears. Once more, he was glad of the darkness.

Chapter 16

"Forgive me. Forgive me. Forgive me," she repeated through her tears, her chest heaving with her sorrow.