Authors: The Knight of Rosecliffe
Rexanne Becnel (14 page)
She wanted him. He could not force her if she wanted this as fiercely as did he. And she did. She welcomed the onslaught of desire—the physical need and the emotional hunger—and she welcomed him.
His braies held his arousal in check, but when he thrust his thickened manhood against her damp center, she groaned and bucked against him. Then he pushed her skirts aside and one of his hands found the bare skin of her thigh.
Their mouths clung in an endless kiss, one kiss after another, while his hand moved between them, up her thigh, until he found the place between her legs that ached most. His thumb brushed the damp curls and she gasped. But she could not close her legs and he would not end the kiss.
“Let me ease that fire.” He murmured the words against her lips. “It must burn out completely if you are ever to find peace.”
Again he brushed the curls, and caught her moans with his mouth. Again and again, but each time the touch was stronger and more determined.
Rhonwen thought she would die from the exquisite torture. Then his thumb pressed deeper, right up into her, and she erupted.
“That’s right. That’s right,” he murmured over and over, never ceasing the little rhythmic thrusts. And all the while she gasped and bucked and squeezed her legs around him.
Would it never end? Would she burn to cinders like the Welsh maiden of legend, consumed in the dragon’s fire? She knew the childhood tale. Now she knew a woman’s reality.
Only when she was limp and collapsed around him did he cease the wondrous movements of his hand. For a moment he rested heavily against her. She heard his labored breathing and for the first time considered his desire. Was he sated?
Was she?
She did not know, but in a moment she found out. As if her weight were inconsequential, he lifted her off his thigh
and in a moment sat down on the bed, with her still in his arms. Though her mind still spun from what had just happened, she was nonetheless aware that she sat on his painfully rigid manhood. He was not finished. Not yet, she realized.
and in a moment sat down on the bed, with her still in his arms. Though her mind still spun from what had just happened, she was nonetheless aware that she sat on his painfully rigid manhood. He was not finished. Not yet, she realized.
Without words, he swiftly removed her kirtle and chemise. Then he laid her back on the bed, peeled off his boots, hose, and braies, and in a moment stood naked and proud before her.
Rhonwen stared. She couldn’t help it. She’d never before seen a naked man—at least not a young, virile one. She’d certainly never seen one fully aroused.
Sudden awareness of her own nakedness made her shy. She rolled to her side, but he stopped her. “You are mine now. Mine to look at. Mine to touch. Mine to make love to.”
As if to prove his claim, he covered her body with his, letting his weight come fully upon her. It was a strange feeling, and yet it felt natural and right. He was so much taller than she and yet they somehow complemented one another. He was hard where she was soft, coarse with hair where she was smooth. He braced himself on his elbows and stared down into her eyes. “I will make you forget him.”
Forget who? Then she remembered. He thought Rhys was her lover. Pain unaccountably stabbed at her heart, pain and sorrow. Was that what this was about? He must possess what he thought his enemy possessed?
Unwilling to be a pawn in their struggle, she shoved at him, nearly toppling him over. “Get off me.”
But he easily overpowered her, trapping her wrists and pressing her down into the moss mattress. “We’re not finished here.”
“I’m finished,” she swore, staring up at him.
He grinned. “If you think you are finished, your previous lover must have been a selfish bastard, or else inept. No, Rhonwen. There’s much more to come, starting with this.”
He slid down her body and, despite her renewed attempts to buck him off, in a moment he was nuzzling her breasts. When his lips tugged at one nipple, she twisted away. But that brought her other nipple into harm’s path and he took full
advantage. He licked her nipples, then blew across the wet surface. He kissed spirals around her breasts, torturing her into wanting him to satisfy the aching peaks. He made her pant for him, to press her belly up in blind longing. He made her submit once more.
advantage. He licked her nipples, then blew across the wet surface. He kissed spirals around her breasts, torturing her into wanting him to satisfy the aching peaks. He made her pant for him, to press her belly up in blind longing. He made her submit once more.
“Sweet Rhonwen,” he whispered, as short of breath as she. “God, but I want to devour you.”
And she wanted him to. Was she mad to feel so? She feared she was. “Do it.” She breathed the words. “Do it.”
At once he pulled one nipple fully into his mouth, biting and tugging until she thought she would again erupt. She writhed beneath him and of their own volition her legs looped around his waist. Like a wanton, she pressed desperately up against him.
He responded with a groan and slid up her body. She felt the prod of his manhood. It should have terrified her, but passion had long ago burned away her fear. She needed him in her. She knew that, if she knew nothing else. So she lifted her hips and he heeded her request. He positioned himself and, with a low growl of satisfaction, sheathed himself fully inside her.
She gasped and jerked.
He cursed and froze.
“God’s blood! You’re a virgin?” he asked in a cracked, disbelieving voice. “An untried maiden?”
Like cold water, she was rudely doused with reality. They were pinned together, his manhood buried deep inside her, but the thrill of desire had vanished. Though her voice trembled, Rhonwen refused to let him see her sudden pain. “I
was
an untried maiden,” she muttered. “I’m not so any longer.”
was
an untried maiden,” she muttered. “I’m not so any longer.”
Jasper made the best of it. He was in bed with a beautiful woman, a passionate lover. That she’d been a virgin was a shock. But she was a virgin no longer. He could not undo what had just occurred between them.
But though his flagging desire revived quickly enough as, with little effort, did hers, there remained a pall over their joining. He kissed her and worked hard to rebuild her passion, and only when she returned his kisses did he begin to move within her.
He went slowly this time, easing in and out until she rose to meet his thrusts. Her little cries of pleasure and discovery urged him on. Her hands clutched his shoulders, she writhed in passion, and he felt the coming explosion.
But the blind madness that had gripped him was no more. At the last moment he pulled out, not willing to risk getting her with child. She was his hostage, he reminded himself. She could never be more than that.
Still, as he lay beside her in his bed, catching his breath, feeling the prickle of his skin cooling in the evening air, he felt a hollowness foreign to him. This was when he should tuck her close. A laugh, a tickle, then he would pull the coverlet over them both and fall into sated, untroubled sleep.
That’s how it had been with all the women in his past. But he was unable to behave thus with Rhonwen.
That’s how it had been with all the women in his past. But he was unable to behave thus with Rhonwen.
“God’s bones,” he muttered. He flung himself off the bed and, by the light of the single lantern, cleaned himself. Then he donned his braies and hose, and his wrinkled chainse.
He heard her shift upon the bed. She was awake. What was he to do with her now? He’d thought to exhaust his frustrations upon her, but if anything, he was more frustrated than ever.
Damn her for being the most troublesome wench he’d ever known. How could she have been a virgin?
He turned to her, frowning. “This changes nothing.”
She was sitting up with the coverlet pulled up to her chin. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips reddened from his kisses, and her inky black hair spilled, wild and silken, over her shoulders.
She was the very image of a woman rising from her lover’s bed—save for the wary expression in her eyes.
“I did not think it had,” she answered in a low voice. “What happens now?”
Jasper ran one hand through his hair. Bedamned, but he did not know. He bent to draw his boots on, muttering, “Wait here. I’ve matters to oversee.”
Then he snatched up his tunic, girdle, and sword, and quit the room. He bolted the door from the outside this time, then paused, staring at the plain boards.
A hundred women he’d lain with. A hundred women, maybe more. Some experienced—some whores. A few virgins, but all of them willing. As she had been willing, he reminded himself. Yet he felt neither sated nor content. He wanted her again—only not like this.
But what other way was there to have her?
He struck the door with his fist, rattling it on its iron hinges. Then he stalked away.
Inside the locked room, Rhonwen jerked at the sound, then cringed when she heard Jasper’s retreating footsteps. She’d been miserable already, but the finality of his departure broke through the last of her resolve. One tear leaked out, then another,
then two more, until she gave up the fight and her tears flowed in earnest.
then two more, until she gave up the fight and her tears flowed in earnest.
She had done it. She’d succumbed to the passions of the body and now, just as the priests had warned, she was paying for her sins. She rolled over, burying her face in the luxurious down-filled pillow, and sobbed. She’d never been so miserable in her entire life. She felt as if she’d given away a part of herself, the most valuable part of herself, and now had nothing to show for it.
But as she lay there, wallowing in her misery, she feared it was not her lost virginity she mourned. That part had not been so bad. In truth, that part had been wonderful. But why had he withdrawn at the end? Why had he withheld his seed from her?
The answer was as painful as it was obvious. She might have been innocent of a man’s touch, but she knew how babes were made—and how they were prevented. He’d withdrawn from her because he did not want to get a child of his upon her. She was nothing to him but a casual tumble. A moment of pleasure. He did this all the time.
But she didn’t.
She’d given him her virginity, but more importantly—more pitifully—somewhere along the way she’d given him entrance to her heart. How she could be so foolish she did not know. She’d hardly known him long enough to feel any emotion for him. Added to that, he was English and her mortal enemy.
But sadly, reason had no part in her emotions. When he’d pulled out of her it had felt like the cruelest sort of rejection. He’d rolled away from her, eager to be gone from her side. Like a meal, he’d sated his hunger upon her, then forgotten her. Now he was off tending castle business and she had no place in his mind whatsoever.
She pulled the covers over her head, then curled into a ball, feeling a twinge in muscles unaccustomed to her recent erotic activities. What was she to do now? How was she ever to face him—or anyone at Rosecliffe? Rhys and the others were certain to learn of her shame also.
A fresh wave of misery burst over her. They would think her a traitor. She
was
a traitor.
was
a traitor.
For a long while she lay there in the bed that smelled of him—of them. Her sobs subsided to hiccups, and then to slow, unhappy breaths. She had to pull herself together, to gather what little was left of her pride. Eventually Jasper would return to his quarters. He would either demand the further use of her body or be done with her and send her to the dungeon.
As she sat up in his bed, she hoped it would be the latter. She could suffer imprisonment. She could bear the misery of confinement, and feel a certain pride in enduring it. But if he pleasured her again …
The pure joy to be had in his arms, then the terrible letdown of rejection—That was what she could not bear. That would be the cruelest punishment of all.
That was what she feared more than anything.
Jasper came late to the dinner table. From cook to page to serving wench, one and all congratulated him on the safe return of young Isolde. He accepted their accolades reluctantly, though he made the appropriate responses. But with every slap on the back and every bow and curtsy of respect, he felt more and more an impostor.
What had he done to deserve a hero’s praise? He’d allowed Rhonwen to escape the castle with Isolde. Then, although he’d found Rhys and captured him, he’d relinquished the outlaw to get Rhonwen back. Any fool could have done that. He should have held firm. He should have kept Rhys in the dungeon and hunted Rhonwen down, and returned Isolde to her mother’s arms.
To make matters worse, now that he had Rhonwen he was caught, like a madman, between wanting her and hating her. He vented his anger at Rhys by holding her captive, and vented his anger at her by forcing his attentions on her. When she’d accepted him willingly in her arms he’d felt justified in seducing her. But when she’d proven to be a virgin, his anger had risen to new heights. He’d seduced an untried maiden! How in God’s name could
she
be a virgin?
she
be a virgin?
Yet he could not ignore his intense relief to find she’d not been Rhys’s lover. He’d kill the man for having boasted that she was!
Meanwhile, what was he to do about her?
When Isolde spied him entering the hall, she scurried to his side. She’d bathed and washed her hair and donned a fresh gown. Considering her ordeal, she did not look much the worse for wear. She grabbed his hand and tugged him toward the high table. “Sit with me, Uncle Jasper. I would do you honor, for you have saved my life this day.”
As he made his way behind her across the hall, Josselyn signaled one of the pages to bring him a trencher and wine. Then she pulled out the lord’s chair and bade him sit. “Rand would want it,” she said.
Jasper grunted and sat, with Isolde on one side and Josselyn on the other. Gavin intercepted the page and delivered Jasper’s food himself, while little Gwen carried an ewer of wine to him.
“I am in your debt,” the boy solemnly pronounced. “You have saved a member of my family and—”
“She’s my family too,” Jasper interrupted. “You owe me no debt.”
“’Tis I who owes the debt,” Isolde said, leaning against his shoulder.
“Me too,” Gwendolyn piped up as she precariously set the ewer on the table. Jasper grabbed it before it could topple over.
“’Twas nothing, I say. Nothing.” He snatched up the pewter goblet Isolde filled and drained it in one long pull. When he lowered it and wiped his mouth, Josselyn was studying him with a curious gaze. He knew that look, and knew it meant trouble.
God’s bones, would this hideous day never end?
When Josselyn said, “Leave us now, children,” he knew he could not escape. “I would converse awhile with your uncle. In private,” she added when Isolde began to protest.
The trio went off grudgingly, while Josselyn waved away any servants who thought to approach. Only when they were completely alone did she lean forward.
“Eat,” she urged him. “Eat, Jasper, for I know you have built up a mighty appetite this day. Or mayhap,” she added in a knowing tone, “you have assuaged one portion of that appetite already.”
He glanced sharply at her, then looked away, uneasy. Any desire he had for food disappeared. As for his other hunger … He gritted his teeth. “Be plain with your queries and I will answer them plainly, though I do not owe you any explanations.”
“No? You bring in a woman—my friend—as your captive, then drag her away to your private quarters.” She paused. “I do not condone rape, Jasper.”
“I did not rape her,” he bit out. “Besides, why should you care about the well-being of the woman who kidnapped your own daughter?”
“Because I am not certain she did kidnap her.”
“What? Oh, come, now, Josselyn. She had Isolde—”
“She had her, yes. But she did not kidnap her. I questioned Isolde closely, and she revealed that she was the one to follow Rhonwen. She left the castle through the postern gate without telling anyone. She followed Rhonwen, and when Rhys appeared, it was he and his men who took her captive.”
“But Rhonwen is a part of his band of outlaws.”
Josselyn pursed her lips. “To be a Welsh loyalist is not the same as being an outlaw.”
“Damnation! Do you truly mean to excuse her role in this?”
“No. No, I do not excuse it, but I do understand it. And I am grateful that it was a woman who stayed with Isolde.”
He reached for the ewer and refilled his wine cup, then drank. He did not want to hear any of this—or believe it. Frowning, he said, “Why would Isolde follow Rhonwen? It makes no sense. She must have somehow lured the child to her.”
Josselyn shrugged. “Isolde was evasive on that point, but I have my suspicions. But that is neither here nor there. The point is, I will not have Rhonwen mistreated. I will not allow you to force her—”
“I did not force her,” he swore. “And if you believed I would do such a thing, why did you not intercede sooner on her behalf?”
Josselyn smiled at him, as if he’d revealed some secret to her. “I did not believe my intercession necessary.”
“Then why do you harangue me now?”
“Because you appear here without Rhonwen,” she snapped right back. “Why have you not brought her to dinner? Is it your plan to starve her as punishment for her crimes?”
Jasper stared at the grilled haddock and gravy heaped on the trencher of white bread set before him. “Send her food, then,” he muttered.
“To your quarters? Humph,” she snorted. “And confirm to everyone that she is your leman now? I will not. Tell me, Jasper. What shall you do when your men-at-arms emulate your behavior with the women they encounter—especially Welshwomen who do not appreciate the English presence on Welsh lands? Shall you punish your men or applaud them when they force their unwanted attentions on—”
“I did not force her!” He jerked to his feet, bumping the table and toppling the ewer. The wine spilled, spreading a blood-red stain over the table linen. In the ensuing silence, the wine dripped to the stone floor in slow, audible splats.
Josselyn stared up at him, neither afraid nor enraged by his temper. “I will grant that you have not. But I am not convinced others will make the distinction. There is only one way to undo the damage you have wrought,” she added.
“The damage I have wrought?” He ran his hands through his hair, almost as frustrated by Josselyn as he was by Rhonwen. But he controlled his temper, for a part of him knew she was right. If he appeared unable to restrain himself with women, the men under his command could not be expected to do any better.
“God’s bones!” he swore. “What is it you want of me, woman? Say it now—all of it—so that I may eat my dinner in peace.”
She gave him a faint, unperturbed smile. “Bring her to me. She shall be a guest at Rosecliffe and—”
“A guest? Are you mad?”
“And you shall treat her with every courtesy,” she continued. “You will treat her as well as you would a fine English lady come to visit us from London town.”
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