Margo Maguire (20 page)

He wanted her aching for him as badly as he throbbed for her.

He arched suddenly, then pressed his lips over her skin, skimming to her belly and below. When he kissed the heat of her, she gasped and opened to him.

“Mathieu…” Her voice was low and husky, and the sound of his name upon her lips burned a path to his heart.

“Aye. Say it again. My name.”

“Mathieu!”

She was hot and moist—ready for him.

He shifted his body, slipping between her sleek thighs as she clutched at his shoulders. He was huge and impatient, and wanted naught but to possess her. Placing his hands on either side of her head, he kissed her deeply as he eased into her, unwilling to cause more pain than necessary.

But she made a sudden move, and Mathieu found himself buried deep within her, sheathed so tightly he thought his heart would burst.

When she made a small sound, Mathieu released her lips. “Aelia…”

“More.” She sighed and wrapped her legs ’round his waist. Her gaze burned into his, searing him with her passion, her desire. Never had this act seemed so intimate, so intense. ’Twas as if she had become part of his body…and his soul.

Her hands framed his face and he closed his eyes, turning into her touch, kissing her palm. She let her hands slide back to his shoulders and chest, finding his nipples fully erect and anxious for her touch. Mathieu nearly came out of his skin when she brushed them with her fingertips.

He plunged deeply and Aelia arched beneath him, crying out as spasms of pleasure overcame her. He felt his own release, a fiercely pulsing completion that was incomparable.

Mathieu eased his weight off her, but did not withdraw. Kissing her, he rolled to his side, taking her with him.

She fit him as though she were made for him.

“Are you all right?”

“Aye,” she said, her voice barely more than a sigh.

’Twas good that
someone
here was all right, Mathieu thought. Because he certainly was not.

Aelia awoke sometime during the night to find there was no light coming in through the window and the fire had burned low. She did not know how long she’d slept.

Nor did she care.

She lay on her side with Mathieu curled against her back, her head pillowed upon his arm, her heart in his hands.

She had never wanted to care for him. More than anything, Aelia had wanted to hate Mathieu Fitz Autier for taking Ingelwald from her.

Instead, she had fallen in love with him.

He sighed, his breath ruffling the hair at her ear. She shivered, and he pulled her tightly against him, shifting his leg until it rested between her own. Then he whispered her name in sleep.

Naught in her life was certain, only what she felt for Mathieu.

He moved against her, his free hand cupping her breast, teasing the nipple. Aelia’s breath caught in her throat when he shifted his attention to the sensitive place where her legs joined.

“Mmm. So sweet,” he murmured in her ear.

He nuzzled her neck, then pushed her hair aside to press his lips down the exquisitely sensitive ridge of her spine.

Aelia turned to him. So many questions burned in her throat, but she could not bear to ask them now, not when he touched her this way.

He made love to her slowly and gently, each touch intended to give her more pleasure than his last. He kissed her and lingered wherever it seemed to please her most, and showed her how it felt to be cherished. With his eyes locked upon hers, he showed her a depth of intimacy with each thrust, with every caress.

“You were made for me,
ma belle.
”

And Aelia knew it was true.

When ’twas over, and he lay imbedded deep within her, her muscles still tense with the last shudders of her release, he kissed her with such tenderness that Aelia felt another kind of release. It could only be the ecstasy of their spirits fusing as one.

Yet she doubted the reality of what she felt when Mathieu suddenly left the bed. In the dim light, Aelia saw him jab his fingers through his hair before tossing another piece of wood on the fire. She felt at a loss, awkward and alone.

“While you slept, I had someone gather your belongings,” he said without turning to face her. “’Tis nearly dawn and we need to leave Rushton.”

The rose-colored kirtle that had been taken from her lay across a wooden bench, with her shoes placed neatly below it. When Mathieu began to clothe himself, Aelia arose from the bed and did the same, feeling cold and abandoned. He was no longer her attentive lover, but a warrior with an assignment.

“Will Osric and the men be ready?” she asked, pulling on her own chemise. The torn rag she’d been given was nowhere to be seen.

Mathieu sat on the bed and drew on his boots. “No. Raoul and the others will bring him and follow shortly. The sooner we leave here the better it will suit me.”

“Why? Has something—”

“No. No more than Roger’s lady sending his vassals to accost you.” He stood and strapped on his sword. “Or putting you in rags to serve his men.”

Aelia took a shuddering breath of relief when he turned her and pulled her kirtle over her head, pushing her hair aside to reach the laces. “Hurry. ’Tis almost dawn.”

’T
was surely a breach of courtesy to leave this way, but Mathieu thought it much less than the insult to Aelia.

He was partly to blame for what had happened to her. He had neglected to disabuse Roger and his wife of their mistaken impression that Aelia would be turned over to William’s men to be used as a slave. He had opened the door for their mistreatment.

Mathieu’s anger simmered just below the surface. He was determined to be the one to decide Aelia’s fate. Certainly ’twas not to be raped by three drunken soldiers in a dark and abandoned corner of Roger de Saye’s estate.

Sometime while Aelia slept, Mathieu had decided to leave Rushton before dawn. He’d left their bed and gone in search of Raoul, giving him instructions to gather Aelia’s clothes and the rest of their belongings so they’d be ready to depart before first light.

’Twas so early when Mathieu and Aelia rode through the gate that the only person they saw was the guard, who let them pass without question. Mathieu pulled
Aelia close to his chest as they headed toward the southern road.

She tipped her head slightly to the side and he leaned forward and kissed her ear. It would have been much preferable to spend these early morning hours in bed, but it seemed a far better course to get Aelia away from Hélène and Roger.

And he was not ready to make any explanations for his actions the night before.

The sun crept up over the horizon and brightened the day, though ’twas a chilly morn. The weather suited Mathieu’s purpose, though, giving him good reason to hold Aelia close. He inhaled her scent and felt her soft curves against his body, and wished they were closer to the end of their day’s ride rather than the beginning.

At midday, they stopped in a copse of trees to break their fast. Mathieu deemed the site safe, since there was no sign of any recent travelers in the area. He spread his blanket upon the ground, where they sat to take a short rest and consume a small meal.

Aelia was quiet, her eyes skittering away from his when he looked at her, and a delightful blush coloring her cheeks. Mathieu leaned toward her, taking a wisp of her hair between his fingers. “You are very beautiful.”

Aelia brushed his hand away. “You embarrass me, my lord.”

“’Twas not my intention to make you uncomfortable, Aelia,” he said. He did not understand this need to be so close to her, to touch her. He’d never required the companionship of women, but it was different with her.

“My brother has changed since we left Ingelwald,” she said, clearly anxious to switch the subject.

Mathieu nodded. “He needed discipline. I merely provided it.”

“We indulged him. After Godwin died, my father and I…mayhap we protected Osric too much. Allowed him too much freedom.” She looked toward some point in the distance as she spoke, her voice quiet. Mathieu could not change what had happened to her family. He did not even know if he could protect her now. “You were right about him.”

“Osric is still young. But now he understands there are consequences to his actions.”

They fell silent with those words. Osric was not the only one who had to live with the consequences of what he’d done.

Mathieu looked at Aelia. He wanted her. He could taste her, feel the soft slide of her skin against his, hear her cries of pleasure. Even now, after the hours he’d spent through the night making love to her, he still wanted her as he’d craved no other woman.

She’d lost none of her nobility in the days since Ingelwald’s defeat, not even when she’d been forced to wear rags and serve Rushton’s rowdy troops. William’s conquest had stolen nearly everything from her, and Mathieu had finished the task himself, taking her from her home and her people.

But he felt no guilt for his actions. He was a soldier in William’s service and had done as he’d been commanded, reaping the reward for his victory.

He leaned toward Aelia and touched his thumb to the corner of her mouth, just as her tongue darted out to catch a crumb of bread. A burst of heat shot through him at that slight contact and he cupped her face before touching his lips to hers.

He had to be out of his mind, continuing this liaison
when there was no future in it. He would return to Ingelwald without her, and there was no point in encouraging her affections…her hope.

Her expression of raw desire was shattered by confusion when he withdrew abruptly. It should not have mattered.

“’Tis time we were on our way,” he said, his voice harsh to his own ears. “I want to make camp before the rain comes.”

Aelia did not understand the distance Mathieu put between them. They continued riding south, but he did not hold her. His lips never touched her ear or the back of her neck, as they’d done all through the morn. ’Twas as if last night had never occurred. As if Aelia had not given herself—body and soul—to him.

She had to be mistaken. More likely, he was being vigilant as they traveled without an escort. Mayhap he’d seen something suspicious to make him more alert, as he’d been when Durand had followed them. She asked him.

“No. No sign of any other recent travelers.”

Aelia took a deep breath and tamped down the ache that had developed in the middle of her chest.

“I wonder if Osric and your men are far behind,” she said in an effort to counter the uncomfortable silence that had risen between them.

“At least a couple of hours, if not more.”

Aelia moistened her lips. “Will Osric be allowed to stay with me when we get to London?”

He said naught at first, and Aelia was about to ask again when he replied, “I do not know what William will decide.”

“But until he decides…what do you think—”

“Aelia, I am not privy to the king’s thoughts. I cannot say what will happen.”

She turned to look at him, to plead for a scrap of reassurance, but saw that his expression was hard and unyielding. “’Tis clear you have no siblings, else you would have more—”

“I have two brothers,” he replied. “Two who are legitimate, anyway.”

“There might be others?”

“I suppose so. My father availed himself of any woman in the household, willing or not.”

The bitterness in his tone took her aback, and Aelia wondered if his own mother had been one of those women, an unwilling one. ’Twas well known that Mathieu was a bastard…

And he clearly had little regard for the two brothers he’d mentioned.

“Your family was different from mine.”

“Aye. Without a doubt.” His voice was harsh, his expression tense.

“What of your mother? Does she await your return?”

“She’s dead.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No need for regrets. ’Twas a long time ago.”

“How old were you when you lost her?”

“Seven years.” There was no hesitation, no doubt in his voice. Yet it sounded to Aelia as though he recalled it as if it had happened yesterday.

“I remember when my mother died,” she said. “’Twas the same day Osric was born.”

Mathieu gave no reaction beyond the flexing of a muscle in his cheek.

“Was your father… What happened to you after your mother died?”

“I found myself in a great deal of trouble. Often. And when my father realized what a little warrior I was, he sent me away to Cartaret to be trained as a soldier.”

Aelia smiled. “You liked to fight?”

“My father’s sons—my brothers—enjoyed making my life a misery. And I enjoyed making them pay.”

’Twas no wonder he did not understand her allegiance to Osric.

“Turn ’round, Aelia, while we make this crossing.”

She did as she was told, and felt him slide his arms around her waist, holding her securely as they forded a shallow, but swiftly flowing river. It had a rocky bottom that was likely to be slick, and Aelia had to raise her feet to avoid having them soaked. But their mount was sure-footed, and they reached the other side safely.

All but Aelia’s heart.

Something had changed in Mathieu’s demeanor. He held her as a captor holds a prisoner—not the way a man holds his lover.

Aelia realized what she should have known from the beginning. She understood with sudden clarity why he’d ignored her plight at Rushton’s feast the previous night, and had only come for her when she had not returned to the great hall.

She was no special captive, en route to King William in London. She was merely Fitz Autier’s possession, a Saxon with no rights, no privileges. She was a fool to think her feelings for the Norman baron were returned beyond the man’s interest in bed play. There was no true tenderness in him.

They stopped before dusk, yet the rain was still far off.

“We’ll make camp here,” he said, dismounting, then
helping her down. They had barely spoken since the river crossing, which only reaffirmed Aelia’s new understanding of her situation.

She felt ill, and wished for the comfort and security of home…yet she had no home. She was in no better condition than Cuthbert and his family, wandering the countryside, uncertain of their future. She and Osric had no family, no friends.

And when Mathieu Fitz Autier turned her over to the king’s men in London, her isolation from all that was familiar would be complete. He would wed his Norman bride and return with her to Ingelwald, while Aelia…

“Take hold of this rope,” Fitz Autier said. He was hanging a leather tarpaulin like a roof over an open space, so that when the rain came, they would have a place to sit, and the fire would not die.

Aelia felt numb as she worked alongside him. Their conversation was sparse, consisting only of the instructions Mathieu gave her. There were no tender words or loving caresses between them.

’Twas as if she had imagined the intimacies of the previous night, and during their morning’s ride. Had he actually kissed her ear and nuzzled her neck as they rode? Had he not slid his arms ’round her, fondled her affectionately?

Choking on her misjudgment and all its consequences, Aelia left the site where Fitz Autier worked, stumbling away to gather her composure in private, unwilling to shed any tears for him.

Or at least, none for him to see.

She heard him call to her, but ignored his summons as she wandered some distance from their campsite. She came upon a pond surrounded by willow trees, with low
branches that dipped into the pool. There, she sat upon an old, weathered log and wept until she had no more tears to shed.

Mathieu gazed in the direction Aelia had gone and wondered if ’twas yet time to go and fetch her back. Standing with his hands perched upon his hips, he perceived no danger in the vicinity. She would be all right.

At least for now. He did not know how she would fare once they reached London.

He added a few sticks to the fire he’d started to ward off the chill of the early evening, and wondered when Raoul and the others would arrive. ’Twould be much better not to be alone with Aelia now, not while she was so clearly in need of reassurances he could not give.

Mathieu was not without influence with the king. Surely William would take Mathieu’s counsel and choose an apt husband for Aelia, rather than sending her to Rouen, or elsewhere, to serve in some distant household.

Now that so many Normans were in possession of modest estates here, one of them would make a suitable husband. And Mathieu intended to choose one for Aelia.

He started to rearrange the logs on the fire and suddenly dropped a burning ember he’d mistakenly picked up. Cursing viciously, he took his water skin from his saddle and poured the soothing liquid over the burn, but felt no relief. How could he, when he would soon be compelled to turn Aelia over to King William, who would give her to another man?

The blistering of his hand was echoed in his gut. The afternoon had been interminable. Aelia had almost succeeded in masking the pain he’d dealt her, but he knew her too well. His disregard had hurt her badly.

Mathieu tossed down the water skin and strode away from camp, in the direction Aelia had taken. He could not stand to see the confusion and hurt he’d put in her eyes.

Gesu.
She belonged to him, and Mathieu was not going to give her up to any other man. Aelia was his captive, and on that basis, he would argue that she should remain with him.

Her path was clearly visible through the tall grass. Mathieu followed it until he reached a large pond, where he found her sitting upon a thick log, with her face in her hands. She stood abruptly when she saw him, quickly turning her back to him. But he did not miss her quaking shoulders, or the sob that escaped her lips.

“Aelia.”

“Go away,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “I—I’ll return shortly.”

She started to walk on, but Mathieu caught up to her, placing his hands upon her shoulders and pulling her into his chest. “Don’t go.”

“Please, Mathieu… I—”

“Don’t go,” he repeated. He slipped his hands across her chest, above her breasts. Her head fit just under his chin, and he pulled her into his embrace. Still, he felt her shuddering breaths, her stiff posture against him.

“I understand what you must do….” she said. “I beg you to release me. Let me take Osric and—”

Swiftly, he changed positions, suddenly standing before her, clasping her body to his. He brought his head down and slanted his mouth against hers, marking her as his own.

He swept her into his arms and laid her down upon
a patch of soft moss, his heart beating violently as he swallowed her sob with his kiss. “Do not weep, Aelia,” he whispered, kissing away her tears. “You are mine. I will never let you go.”