Arucard (Brethren Origins Book 1) (16 page)

“I beg thy pardon?”  In her embarrassment, that was the only response Isolde could muster.

“My lady, thou art an uncommonly intelligent woman.”  Was it her imagination, or was he sweating?  “Pray, I must know if thou dost find pleasure when I stir thy waters?”

Convinced thither was something inferior about her, given she had not celebrated their coupling in the demonstrative fashion as had her knight; she knew not how to reply without shaming herself.  “Mayhap it is not the same for wives.”

“I knew it.”  Smacking his forehead, he groaned.  “This is all my fault.”

“What?”  Shock dispelled the tranquility of their interlude, as she digested his revelation.  “Thou dost think thou art to blame?”

“I am thy husband.”  Arucard pressed a fist to his chest.  “The responsibility for thy pleasure is mine, and I have failed thee.”

“Nay, thou hast made too much of it, and I must explain.”  Never had Isolde fathomed confessing such embarrassing details, but she had to make him understand.  Framing his jaw, she kissed him.  “Do not overstate the issue, as it is not so great as thou dost believe.  Yea, I cherish our intimacy, as thou dost inspire feelings I never knew existed, when we join our bodies.”  He rested his forehead to hers, and she drew strength to continue.  “I ache for thee, but the balm doth not quite ease my pain, and wherefore I know not.  Rather, it intensifies it, and I am left with a void I can scarcely bear.  But I would never refuse thee, because I crave thy touch.”

“Wherefore hast thou said naught?”  In that moment, he settled his palm to her hose-covered calf.

“My lord, I would not hurt thee or thy pride for anything in the world.”  She met his gaze.  “And I considered it my deficiency, as thou hast had no problem finding thy release.  Thither must be something wrong with me.”

“Well, thither is a way to find out, if thou art willing.”  With his fingers, he walked a path to the inside of her thigh, and she shuddered.  “Dost thou trust me?”

“Always.”

#

In a single tear, Arucard ripped the seam of Isolde’s cotehardie.  As she reclined on the blanket, with her eyes closed, he all but shredded her chemise and then spread her legs.  Once again summoning Pellier’s sage wisdom, he eased between her thighs and cupped her bottom with his hands.  Slowly, he bent his head and expelled his breath to her triangle of soft curls, and she bit her fingers and emitted a muffled sob.  That singular exhalation presented the greatest response he had ever garnered and did much to bolster his confidence, which he needed just then, so he trailed his tongue along her nether lips.

With an achingly sweet cry, his wife lauded his efforts, as he repeatedly spelled his name on her pliant folds, and he ventured further into her honey sheath, relishing the hint of lavender mingled with the tart essence that was uniquely hers.  When he located what Pellier had referred to as the pearl of her desire, Arucard fastened his mouth about the tiny bud and suckled hard, and his bride bucked and squirmed.  And with each successive murmur and wiggle, which he counted as a priceless treasure, he realized he had never felt more a man in his life.

“
Oh
.”  Yanking his hair, Isolde rolled her head from side to side and then arched her back.  “Prithee, Arucard.  I can take no more.”

Anchoring her firmly in his grasp, he licked and laved in a tempting rhythm, until his suddenly not-so-shy lady stretched her limbs, gazed at the sky, and heralded her release with an earsplitting shout of exultation, which echoed on the rocky cliffs.  Never had he glimpsed anything so bewitching as his wife in the throes of passion, and a powerful hunger built in his chest and scored a path straight to his crotch.

In seconds, Arucard doffed his belt, hitched his tunic, untied his leather breeches and linen braies, and entered her in a single potent thrust.  How he longed to savor her scorching wet heat, which branded him hers, but, as usual, he drove into her a mere five times before his seed burst forth deep within her.

Some day, he would linger and luxuriate in her body, but now was not that day.

Collapsing atop her, he reveled in her ready embrace, as she nestled close.  But when he discovered her crying, he propped on an elbow.

“What is wrong, Isolde?”  With care, he placed a kiss on the tip of her nose.  “Did I hurt thee?”

“Nay.”  Tears streamed her temples as she smiled.  “Never could I have imagined such sensations, and my emotions have run rampant, such that I cannot contain my joy.  If I could describe it to thee, I would, but words fail me.”

“Art thou trying to tell me I have, at last, pleasured thee?”  With the pad of his thumb, he caressed her cheek.  “And I did not frighten thee?”

“That is not possible.”  For a while, she stared at him.  Then she clutched his wrist and pressed his palm to her lips, and his gut clenched.  “At first, when I met thee outside the chapel in London, I pictured so many dreadful things, as thou art quite large and imposing.  And when I witnessed thee fight the bandits and de Cadby, thou didst behead a man, and I was terrified of thee, as I suspected I might suffer thy violence.  But despite thy incomparable size and strength, thou hast never harmed me.”  Then she drew him near and set her mouth to his.  “In fact, thou art a most gentle husband.”

Thither were many things Arucard wanted to tell his wife that afternoon, as she cradled him with her sumptuous thighs.  He pondered declarations of devotion and trust, but none seemed sufficient to convey the depth of his regard and commitment.  Instead, he took her again and said with his body what he could not voice.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Chichester Castle came
into view as Arucard steered his destrier to the south.  Given the pleasant afternoon spent in his wife’s company, his mood was light as he pondered the meeting with de Cadby and the locals.  And while he should have focused his attention on the impending gathering, a series of memorable feminine screams echoed in his brain, and he hugged Isolde close.

“I believe I have composed an appropriate pet name for thee.”  In play, he rubbed his nose to crest of her ear.  “And it is perfect, as art thou.”

“Oh?”  Wrapped in the blanket, because he had destroyed her cotehardie, and riding astride in his lap, she rested against his chest, turned her head, and lifted her chin in position to receive his kiss.  “How would thee address me in private, my champion?”

“Well, thou art sweeter than any confection, which begs a comparison to honey, and I should know, as I sampled thy nectar more than once today.”  And then he chuckled, as he revisited recent activities and developments, which had surpassed his expectations.  “And it is said that a woman blossoms when she surrenders her maidenhead, but I would argue otherwise.  I think ye blossomed when thee experienced thy first release, and I will endeavor to inspire thee in our bed, henceforth.  So, combining the two, thou art my honey flower.”

“Honey flower?”  She giggled and then cast him a charming smile.  “I like that.”

“Then it is settled.”  And he would carry that bit of information to his grave, as he could only imagine how his brothers would react to that revelation.  As he crossed the first drawbridge, he waved to the guards.  “And this eventide, when we retire, I shall spread thy petals and make thee sing, honey flower.”

“
Arucard
.”  Now she burrowed into his tunic.  “Thou art shocking.”

“What?”  As he navigated the barbican, he pinched her bottom through the thick cover, and she yelped.  “We art married, and the King demands I produce an heir, so I am but following orders.”  Then he whispered, “Mayhap I shall teach thee to pleasure my body as I satisfied thee.”

“Is that permissible?”  Was it wishful thinking, or did she seem interested as she peeked at him?  “Thou hast been very naughty.”

“My lady, what we do in our chambers is our affair.”  In his mind, he pictured her taking his man’s yard into her mouth, and the dragon woke.  “Wilt thou gainsay what thou hast not tried?”

“Dost thou truly wish it?”  She sat upright and met his stare.  “Thou would have me behave in such a manner, and thou dost encourage my adventurous nature?”

“Aye.”  As they entered the courtyard, he noted several horses tied neared the stable.  “I adore thy adventurous nature, and I have scarcely wanted anything more.”

“My lord.”  Pellier rushed forward.  “Young de Cadby and his supporters have arrived.  Margery hath installed them in the great hall.”

“I should see to thy refreshments.”  Clutching the blanket, Isolde scooted forward, as Arucard dismounted and then handed her down.  “But first I require a change of clothing in order to properly address our guests.”

“And I shall inquire after their comfort.”  Disappointment sank into his bones as she strolled toward their quarters.  But at the last second, she peered over her shoulder, and Arucard arched a brow in question.

“By thy command, I am at thy service.”  Then she stuck her tongue in her cheek.  “And at thy earliest convenience, I shall fulfill thy humble request.  Thou wilt be sure to let me know when that might be, as I would not wait too long.”

And so it was with a spring in his step and wicked thoughts swirling in his mind that Arucard ventured to greet his visitors.  When he strolled into the cavernous hall, Aeduuard stood from his chair, and Arucard extended his hand in friendship.  “De Cadby, welcome to Chichester Castle.”

“My lord.”  With an exaggerated bow, Aeduuard grinned and then rocked on his heels.  “Or should I call thee Sir Arucard, as thou hast so many titles?  Hast thou a preference?”

“I do not stand on formalities with friends, and I consider thee as much.”  Situated at a place of honor at the head of the table, Arucard paused to acknowledge the other wronged landowners.  “Good eventide, and thank ye for coming on such short notice.  As the new earl of Sussex, I am charged with dispensing His Majesty’s justice and overseeing the garrison in this region, and it is my responsibility to determine the validity of the burgage plots, as well as the perpetrator of the scheme.”

“I am Sewal Verley, my lord.”  An elderly figure with a regal bearing stood.  “For almost a hundred years, my family farmed the pilfered acres, but with a single stroke of his quill, Juraj de Mravec executed the King’s authority and stole our heritage.  We art now but tenants on what we once owned.”

“And I am in the same position,” another man added.  “Yet we were not compensated.”

“We were robbed of our legacy,” an unknown individual cried.

A murmur of concurrence built, slow at first, but erupted as an incoming tide.  Each injured party nodded agreement, with revelatory parchment to support their assertions, which Arucard collected as evidence.  As he perused the documents, he noted the Crown’s seal and frowned.  Naught made sense, given His Majesty had discussed his intentions and made no mention of the burgage plots.  His instincts told him all was not as it appeared.

“This is puzzling.”  Stacking the papers, Arucard glanced at Aeduuard.  “Wherefore didst the previous earl of Sussex not negotiate the deeds?”

“Mayhap because his head was rotting on a pike outside White Tower.”  De Cadby rubbed his chin.  “Dost thou doubt our grievances?”

“Perchance thou art involved in the thefts.”  Verley narrowed his stare.  “Wilt thou profit at our expense?  Wilt thou continue our oppression?”

“Do not question my honor, sirrah.”  Arucard pounded his fist on the table.  “The last man who doubted my sincerity met his demise at the rude end of my halberd.  However, as our acquaintance is new, I shall indulge thee.  But do not let it happen again.”

The great hall fell silent as a tomb, and the tension mounted.

“A pleasant eventide, good gentles.”  Gowned in rich burgundy velvet, with her raven hair plaited in her usual style, Isolde inclined her head and curtseyed.  “Am I interrupting anything of importance?”

In unison, the men stood and bowed.

“Allow me to present my wife, Lady Isolde, countess of Sussex.”  What perfect timing his bride possessed, as she had just diffused a rapidly deteriorating assemblage, and he considered her a heretofore-underutilized weapon in his arsenal.  “Wilt thou join us?”

“Thank ye, for the invitation.”  With grace and elegance of which he was immensely proud, she waved to Pellier, who carried a chair, which he perched beside Arucard.  “And permit me to offer refreshments, as supper will be served soon.”

Isolde clapped her hands twice, and maids conveyed armfuls of mugs to the table.  From a tray, his wife retrieved a pitcher and made the rounds, casting him shy glances and coy smiles, as if they shared a delicious secret.  And then it dawned on him that they did, indeed, harbor a bit of confidential but mutual enlightenment, the extent of which had fueled his afternoon games.  When he winked, he distracted her, and she spilt the ale.

“Oh, I am so sorry.”  Snatching a cloth from a passing servant, Isolde compressed her lips and then dried the unfortunate fellow’s sleeve.  “Margery, thou mayest deliver the meal.”

“Yea, my lady.”  The steward rushed to perform Isolde’s bidding.

Again and again, he shared furtive reflections with his lady, in unspoken summons, while she tended their guests, and in his brain he vowed to make his move in an altogether different direction, neglecting his chief duties, at the moment, if she issued another secretive invitation.  When she steadfastly avoided his gaze, disappointment sparked in his chest, and he sank in his seat.  Then he seized on an idea.

If his wife met his stare before he counted to ten, he would take her, thither and then.

As he advanced his cause, slow and steady, as he would not rush her, it occurred to him that the afternoon fostered new and enticing feelings he still could not quite comprehend, but one thing was certain—Arucard needed Isolde, and he needed no one.

Often the gentle curve of her swanlike neck held him spellbound, as he loved to suckle the shallow hallow just below her ear.  And his wife was ticklish, which he discovered when he nibbled the succulent flesh of her round bottom and nipped at the indention above her hip.

Just then, she returned the ewer to the tray and looked him in the eye, and he lurched upright.  Yea, she was his just as he was hers.