Rose Bride (17 page)

Virgil struggled against the urge to reach up and kiss her mouth too. What was wrong with him? He had never felt such powerful emotion for a woman before, not even when he was younger and found himself taken with a lady of the court who never so much as glanced in his direction. And this, by her own admission, was no lady but a wanton. To feel tenderly towards her was nothing short of madness.

At last it was over, his body shuddering with passion, and he reluctantly forced himself to withdraw.

His eyes closed, he lay sprawled across her, panting, his heart thundering out of control, uneasily aware that this had been no ordinary coupling. He shifted after another few moments, pushing to his feet. If he remained there much longer, he might give in to that dangerous impulse and kiss her on the mouth.

Her thighs were still parted, damp now, the slender inner curves glimmering in the firelight. His seed, he realised, staring down at the evidence of his weakness. Tenderness fled on a wave of guilt, and suddenly he felt nothing but remorse for having lost control so completely that he had risked engendering a child on a courtesan.

For a second, he wondered if she would be angry with him. He ought to have withdrawn, and he knew it. Then he looked up at her drowsy, hot-cheeked face and guessed that Margerie was perfectly satisfied with what he had done, that she in fact had known the same driving urge as him. To mate and to be mated. Whatever the consequences.

No, that could not be. She was a courtesan. And no courtesan wished to end up with child after an encounter of this nature.

Margerie Croft shifted, sighing luxuriously as she yawned, and her small breasts lifted, her throat and chest still rosy from the pleasure she had experienced. He watched her body stretch, her thighs pulling up provocatively to reveal the beauty of her
mons Veneris
between, and remembered how it had felt to ride there, enjoying the tightness of her body.

Now she was watching him as though remembering too, narrow-eyed and unsmiling, her unbound hair spilling across her shoulders in a soft red cloud.

A second wave of desire possessed him. But it was too soon to act upon it. His body was soft and relaxed, his heart rate slowing.

Or was it?

‘Virgil,’ she whispered, and their eyes locked.

He wanted her again, he realised, and indeed was already hardening. She was the most feminine woman he had ever known. Her soft generous mouth invited him to probe it with his tongue, her emerald eyes spoke of the delights of a few hours alone with her in a bedchamber, and the way she moved . . .

Small wonder the king had wished to make Margerie his mistress. She was a delicacy few men could pass by untouched. And indeed she had taken other courtiers to her bed since the scandalous affair with a youthful Wolf. Yet here she was, in a mere court physician’s chamber, mutely offering herself to him a second time as though he was worth more to her than King Henry himself.

She left him feeling taller just by smiling. More virile, more powerful, more of a man.

Perhaps it was time to test just how much of a man he was.

He moved to the alcove and found two cups. These he partly filled with wine, then turned to his cupboard, his hands still a little unsteady, and hunted through the medicaments for the special preparation he had set aside. Finding it, he unstoppered the bottle and carefully measured out three drops into his wine cup, then replaced the bottle in the cupboard. After a brief hesitation, he drained the cup. The taste was slightly bitter, and he shuddered, dragging a hand across his lips afterwards. It was done.

‘Here,’ he murmured, holding out the other cup to her. ‘Drink deep. It will fortify you.’

‘Do I need to be fortified?’

His smile was slow as he bent over her. ‘Put your arms about my neck and let us find out.’ Lifting her half-naked body against his chest, Virgil carried his new mistress easily to the bed. It was only a few steps, yet he found himself drowning in her heady scent, reminiscent of the Damask rose, her body warm and softly feminine in his arms. And she watched him every step of the way, green eyes fixed on his face, her lips already parted as though in anticipation of his kiss.

Unable to resist, he lay her carefully on the bed, then arched over her and took her mouth. His tongue slipped between her lips, teasing and playing, and she responded at once, making a keening noise in her throat when his hands cupped her breasts.

‘Why are you called Virgil?’ she whispered against his mouth.

‘My father’s whim.’ He smiled. ‘Virgil was a Roman poet whose verses my father much admired. I told you of one of his poems . . . the story of the Trojan Aeneas, who fell in love with Queen Dido.’

A fascinated expression in her eyes, she lifted a hand to his cheek. ‘You do look Roman. That nose . . .’

‘And you look Celtic,’ he replied sharply. He tangled his fingers in her dishevelled mass of red hair and tugged, dragging her head back so he could kiss her exposed throat. ‘My very own Boadicea.’

‘Oh, I am no queen.’

Virgil looked up at her bitter tone, searching her face carefully. ‘My slave girl, then.’

Her slow smile made him harden in anticipation. ‘Yes,’ she murmured, slipping her hand down to his shoulder, then over his body, stroking him at hip and thigh. ‘I like that better. I cannot rule but I know well how to serve.’

Virgil soon grew rigid again. He stroked the loose strands of hair back from her face, admiring this green-eyed beauty and wishing she was in truth his slave girl. He kissed her deeply while she touched him in return, enjoying the provocative slide of her tongue against his, her hands exploring his body.

A faint scent of roses always hung about her. Yet when he kissed her, she tasted of cherries and wine, rich and sweet, leaving him half-drunk with desire. He was breathing hard when he finally relinquished her lips, his eyes closed, his body tingling with a strange, unfamiliar sensation.

Unfamiliar it might be, yet he knew what it was, and told himself not to be such a green fool. She was a wanton, and a skilled one at that, acting the untouched innocent to perfection, her body tight as any virgin’s, her every moan and caress designed to make a man lose his wits over her.

And his wits might already be lost. God’s blood, he was in serious danger of falling in love with a courtesan.

Margerie woke with a start in the doctor’s bed, and was horrified to see the soft flush of dawn light through his shutters.

Fear consumed her at once. The palace would be awake soon, and she could hardly expect to remain here. She would be missed by the other women when they rose to wash and dress, and how to explain such a lengthy absence? It was one thing to spend the night in a high-ranking nobleman’s chamber, for such arrangements were tacitly accepted at court when the woman was not herself of noble blood. But if it was discovered that she had been with Master Elton rather than his lordship . . .

Even if she left now, the chances of being seen were high, and all she had to preserve her dignity was her night shift, lying crumpled on the floor after last night’s passion.

She swung her legs out of bed, careful not to disturb the man sleeping next to her, and winced as she stood up. He had not forced her, but their love-making had been rough, especially later in the night, when she had thought he would go gentler. Instead Virgil had hammered at her with long, powerful strokes that had left her gasping and clawing at his chest and shoulders, desperate for release. Taking his own satisfaction first, he had then crawled between her legs, licking and sucking her to a violent, much-needed climax.

Her sleep afterwards had been so heavy she had no memory of anything beyond that last blinding moment of pleasure. But now her body ached in unfamiliar places, and Margerie was ashamed to remember how she had cried his name and clung to him, begging for more. What must Master Elton think of her now?

She sighed, wriggling into her night shift and dragging it down over her hips. That question was easily answered. Virgil thought her a whore, and why should he not? She had chosen not to give him an explanation for her precarious reputation at court, nor for her curious arrangement with Lord Munro. That was her business, not his. And she had hardly come to him a virgin, after all.

It had been a night of intense pleasure and all-too-brief pockets of rest, during which Virgil’s strength had renewed itself almost miraculously. She had not thought any man could remain aroused for so long, nor return to full hardness with such speed. Even Wolf, at the height of his youth, had not shown such virility.

She glanced back at him. He lay in exhausted sleep, one strong forearm flung across his eyes, his body gloriously nude and male. He was so handsome. Margerie examined him through narrowed eyes, and felt an aching throb between her thighs that no amount of love-making could assuage.

Lean-flanked, his hips angular, his belly flat, thighs long and muscular, Virgil Elton seemed more like a Roman statue of manly prowess than a mere mortal. The thought terrified her. He was a man, that was all. No noble lord, it was true, but a man like Wolf all the same, and he would seek to own her too, to stamp his seal upon her. Though she could not blame him for that either, for at the height of their passion last night she had begged him more than once to control her, to possess and dominate her. And he had obliged, his hands rough, his kisses demanding.

She tried not to keep staring, but her gaze was drawn inexorably back to his cock, lying thick and relaxed against his thigh.

Her mouth grew dry. In all the long night, during which he had repeatedly teased her back to arousal with his tongue, she had never once tasted
him
.

Daringly, Margerie knelt on the bed.

She took his cock in one hand, trying not to rouse him from sleep, then bent her head slowly. She was breathing hard before he was even at her mouth, and gave a little moan when she found his broad crest too large to fit without her lips parting more widely.

Her tongue flicked out, tasting the moist slit, and again she moaned. Her legs trembled and her belly tightened with need. Then she wet her lips and sucked him inside. First the smooth head, then the full thick length of him.

Sleepily, Virgil groaned.

Suddenly he was awake, his body tensing beneath hers, and she thought he would push her away. But instead his hand tangled in her hair, tugging her down as he parted his thighs. Nothing loath, she lowered herself still further, her shoulders bowed, until she lay between his legs like a whore. He made a rough noise under his breath, then his shaft began to swell and fill her mouth, hardening as though in response to her obedience.

Instinctively tilting her throat, Margerie took in as much of him as she could manage.

Dear Lord, she had never tasted anything so delicious!

She let him slip out again before drawing his shaft back inside, working her tongue over him at the same time, loving the way his flesh hardened, learning the veins and sturdy length of his cock.

After a few moments of this lascivious treatment, she felt his hips arch upwards, then heard him hiss out his breath. He tugged on her hair. ‘Suck on me hard, woman,’ Virgil said throatily. ‘Pleasure me.’

Once she would have fought against such authority, hating any man who sought to enslave her. Yet now the note of command in his voice sent her wild. Margerie moaned in the back of her throat, her face aflame with a heady mix of excitement and humiliation. So she obeyed his command, not sure why but wanting to please him all the same, to show Virgil how eager she was to play the wanton.

The flesh between her thighs grew slippery with need, aching for him inside her. But she ignored the demands of her own body. This moment was for Virgil, she told herself sternly. Not for her.

She might be inexperienced in the ways of pleasuring a man but she was determined to learn swiftly. Listening to his every gasp and whisper, she responded to the subtle shifts and peaks of his body, guessing what pleased him most by the way he reacted to her touch. Virgil grew rigid under her ministrations, despite having already spent himself several times during the night. When Margerie glanced up, she saw his face tense and dark, his eyes fixed on her, his lips drawn back from his teeth as though silently growling.

‘You . . . are so skilled,’ he muttered, his voice tortured. ‘I would not have believed . . . this possible . . . but I am almost ready again.’

Master Virgil Elton.

She imagined him as a Roman lord in a British bath house and herself as his Celtic slave girl, performing her daily duty of pleasuring him. Perhaps she might even have been lightly whipped beforehand, to soften her spirit and make her more willing to obey her overlord . . .

Her inner core moistened and tautened at such a barbaric pretence. It was a seductive image, both exciting and dangerous. Yet she could not seem to shake it.

Her jaws ached as she served the man beneath her, acting the powerless slave girl because it aroused her to do so. Using only her mouth and hands, she closed her eyes, her head sliding up and down, urging him on to complete satisfaction. And she was rewarded for her hard work. After another moment of strong sucking, her lips clamped about his swollen shaft, Virgil exploded with a shout.

Gasping, he thrust hard and his shaft leapt in her mouth, pulsing his creamy seed down her throat. ‘Margerie!’ Virgil jerked her head against his groin, groaning, ‘Yes, take me with your mouth. Swallow it.’