Dark Champion (29 page)

He pulled back. “Remember,” he said softly, “we are absolutely not going to consummate our marriage here.”

“I… I think I could.”

“Even so, we will not. Remember that.”

Then he was between the blankets, side by side with her on the narrow bed. He gathered her into his arms and kissed her again. His hands played on her back, and so she did the same. One of his hands wandered up to find the delicious sensitivity of her nape, and so she copied it. His hair, she realized for the first time, was very silky, despite the curls which suggest a rougher texture. Just rubbing it between her fingers was delight.

He had bathed, for there was no longer a stink of blood, but instead a delicate aroma of the herbs in his rinsing water. Beneath that was a spicy scent that she already recognized as his, and which seemed able to fever her all on its own.

His mouth wandered from her lips to her neck and she instinctively stretched back to grant him access, staring at the beamed ceiling as she floated on warm sensuality. His lips ventured onto her chest, tracing the neckline of her shift. A tiny spark of anxiety flared, but she stamped it.

It wasn’t going to happen anyway. He’d given his word.

As if he sensed that fragment of tension, his hand soothed her, and he said, “Don’t forget, even if you plead and beg, I’m not taking your virginity here.”

That brought a gurgle of laughter from her and he blew softly against her face, smiling.

The hand that had been stroking her side slid up to stroke her breast, sending a shudder through her. She tested it carefully in her mind and decided it wasn’t fear. Growing bolder in her mind, she tentatively sought those terrible dark fears. They weren’t there, not even as distant clouds.

Was it possible that just knowing he wouldn’t do it could keep them away? Perhaps if he promised, and then… But it was because she believed in his promises that it was working…

He eased back her shift and his lips tugged softly at her nipple.

“Oh, why is that so sweet?” she whispered.

“God’s holy plan?”

“Don’t say such things!” But she didn’t want him to stop, not at all.

“Time to talk about Father Wulfgan’s warnings, Imogen,” he said against her tingling flesh. “Let’s get them out in the open. What does he say is so evil?”

“I don’t want to…”

“Tell me, Imogen.” His tongue touched her softly.

“What you’re doing,” she gasped. “That is evil. And tongue-kissing.” Once started, she let it all run out like a flood. “And hands almost anywhere. Anything but… you know. Putting it in me. And that’s only permissible because it is necessary to make more souls for God.”

He sighed. “The man is mad, you know.”

Imogen thought about it. “I think he is too,” she said at last, reluctantly, for it felt like heresy. “Yesterday, when he was talking to me, he seemed to be trying to force me tell him all we had done. He seemed… It sounds silly, but I thought he was growing… excited. Do you know what I mean?”

He eased away from her breast to look at her. “Yes. I suspected he might be like that. So, wife of mine, are you willing to let me tongue-kiss you, and touch you everywhere with hands and mouth, and pleasure you?”

Years of exhortations are not easily erased, but Imogen nodded.

“Remember,” he said, “we are not going to indulge in carnal union, but I can give you pleasure if you will let me. This is not a duty or a penance. If you don’t like it, or if you become frightened again, tell me. Yes?”

“Yes,” said Imogen, though she was determined not to stop him. “What are you going to do if you’re not going to… ?”

“This,” he said, and returned his attention to her right breast. He eased over a little so his fingers could play with her left.

Imogen shivered with pleasure. “What should I do?” she asked.

“Nothing. Just tell me if I hurt you, or if you don’t like it.” His teeth gently abraded the top of her nipple and her body startled her by arching like a bow.

“Good,” he murmured, reassuring her. “I like you to stretch and move for me. But remember, I’m not going to enter you, not even with my fingers.”

“Fingers?” she gasped.

“Don’t you remember? Devil hunting.”

Imogen had her eyes shut, but she sensed he was looking at her and opened them. He was deliberately bringing back memories of their wedding night. Watching her reaction.

“It’s all right, I think,” she said, wanting to beg him to carry on with what he had been doing.

He slid up to kiss her lips and she opened her mouth willingly to him. His shirt brushed against her tender nipples and she moved herself to intensify the sensation. A tremor passed through her.

He laughed softly into her mouth, then drew back. “Oh, my sweet wanton, you’ll be the death of me.”

She was guilt-stricken. “I’m sorry.”

He silenced her briefly with his lips. “Don’t be. I want to do this. I want to drive you wild with pleasure and watch you.”

“But won’t that be breaking our word?”

“I only promised we wouldn’t have carnal union.”

Imogen hadn’t been aware that she had opened her legs until his thigh slid between them to press against an ache there. She gripped him with her own thighs, then gazed at him, confused.

He read her aright. “Nothing we do here is wrong, Imogen. Nothing you do could possibly be stupid or wrong. Just show me how you feel.”

She gripped his thigh more tightly with hers and drew his head down for a kiss. She thought she heard him groan. His hands traveled her. She shivered when one traced the underside of her raised thigh and brushed along the edge of her buttocks. Then it traveled over to the front and in a move, replaced his thigh between her legs.

She tensed for a moment, gripping more in defense than desire, and he stayed perfectly still, waiting. Imogen could feel her flesh there pulse with the need to be touched, but it almost felt too sensitive for any kind of contact.

“I’m not sure,” she said.

“I’m just going to stroke you, very gently. I’ll stop if you want me to.”

She surrendered warily. “It seems a strange place to be stroking someone.”

His hand gently stroked, then circled, flirting with a place of exquisite sensitivity. “But perhaps not,” said Imogen, and released her resistance.

She closed her eyes so as to sink deeper into the heated sensations he was summoning. When his mouth returned to her breasts, she sucked in a deep breath. “Angels of heaven, aid me,” she whispered. “This is most peculiar.” A moment later she added, “Don’t stop.”

“I won’t.”

She wasn’t even holding him. She had spread her arms and was gripping the edges of the bed as if her life depended on it. “Should I hold you?” she gasped.

“It’s all right.”

The pressure of his hand became slowly stronger and she lifted to it, stretching to it. She dimly heard an encouraging murmur and that liberated her to move, to writhe.

Teeth. He’d said something once about biting… She felt his teeth press at her nipple. “You’re biting me!”

He stopped.

“It… I didn’t mind.”

He laughed and she felt his teeth again.

“I never would have believed this,” she muttered. Then: “I don’t know what to do.” Her heart was pounding so that she could hear nothing but that thunder, and yet she heard his voice softly in the distance.

“That’s it, Ginger. Let it happen. This is how it’s supposed to be.”

“What? Tell me what to do!” Her protests turned into a cry, and he caught it in his mouth. She kissed him desperately, wondering if she could survive this, begging into his mouth for release.

It came.

It was as well he still covered her mouth with his, for she screamed as her body convulsed. He moved to press her down even as his hand continued its circling. Her body fought him and that battle seemed to cause an explosion of ecstasy.

He was still touching her, but swansdown soft. His weight was still on her, but unconfining now. His mouth slowly released hers, and Imogen sucked in an enormous breath through bruised lips.

“Sweet heaven,” she said softly, and stared at him.

“Yes, isn’t it?” His expression was enigmatic, but she thought, she hoped, that there was warmth in the depths of his shadowed eyes.

A part of him moved against her hip and she realized he was hard and ready for a woman. Guilt invaded her delight. “But shouldn’t it have been like that for you, too?”

“Sometimes. Not every time. I’m not feeling deprived. Well,” he said dryly, “not very much.” He drew her lazily to lie on his chest.

“Can’t I do the same for you?” she asked.

“No.”

“It’s not possible?”

“It’s not appropriate.”

He was relaxed and yet his tone was austere again. She tangled a finger in the open neck of his shirt. “That doesn’t seem very fair.”

“It’s fair. I enjoyed doing that to you.”

“Then wouldn’t I enjoy doing it to you?”

He pulled her up so they were eye to eye. “No, Imogen.”

“No, I wouldn’t enjoy it?”

“Just no.”

Since he was taking her weight, she rested her elbows on his chest and put her chin in her hands. “Not even if I pout?”

“Pout? I’m supposed to be moved by a pout?” There was a distinct glimmer of amusement in his eyes that looked like a victory banner to Imogen.

“Cry then,” she said. “Not even if I cry?”

“If you ever use tears to sway me, I’ll rosy your behind.” Despite the words, his expression was no threat to her posterior.

Imogen was aware of a glowing happiness almost as wonderful as that passion he had summoned. She was glimpsing the warm, relaxed side again, the one few people ever saw.

What would it be like when he abandoned all barriers and joined her in rapture? She wanted that, more than rapture of her own. She knew what he had meant when he said he had enjoyed watching her pleasure. She would enjoy watching his if she knew how to achieve it.

She realized with frustration that Father Wulfgan’s warnings had not included enough about wicked things a woman could do to a man.

There was that business of the mouth… No, surely not.

She became aware of his hardness beneath her hips and moved, but gently. Such hard, engorged flesh must be very tender and she was afraid of hurting him. He caught his breath and seized her hips.

“No, Imogen.”

She studied his face and didn’t think it was pain she saw there. Despite his hold she managed tiny little movements.

He swatted her behind quite stingingly, rolled her off, and escaped from the bed.

Imogen sat up grinning, perfectly aware that her shift was off her breasts. “Aren’t you going to share the bed?”

“I said I’d sleep on the floor. I’m supposed to defend the monks against your outbursts of ungovernable lust, and it looks as if it could be a mighty battle.”

There was no hint of a smile on his face when he blew out the candle, but Imogen laughed as she slid down under the blankets. She had tasted the power of her womanhood when it was unencumbered by guilt and fear, and it was delicious.

Silence fell, and she gently explored her body beneath the sheet. It felt the same, and she supposed it was. She was still a virgin after all. But it was not the same. It was awakened. It was hungry. She really didn’t feel there would be a problem with consummation the next time they tried.

That sweet ecstasy had nothing to do with the rape she had witnessed.

“I wish you’d done that before,” she said into the dark.

“I tried, as I remember.”

“It would have helped if you hadn’t gone on about devils.”

“It seemed an amusing device at the time. I underestimated Wulfgan’s effect on your mind.”

“I had been raised to view him as a saint. Not a comfortable person. A thorny conscience, but right.” Some doubts lingered, and she knew they were in her voice.

“And yet your father begat three bastard children. I’m sure Wulfgan didn’t approve.”

Imogen sighed and her hands touched her newly alive body wonderingly. “I’m sure he didn’t.”

“Imogen,” said FitzRoger into the dark. “I think your father, like many loving fathers, was uneasy at the thought of his daughter in a man’s bed. Father Wulfgan was part of his defense, along with the sort of men he put forward for you. Older men that he knew would wait.”

“You have waited,” she said softly.

“But not for much longer. You want me now, don’t you?”

Her hand found the hot moistness he had touched, and she moved restlessly. “Yes.”

“Then tomorrow night we will put an end to the beginning.”

Imogen wanted to beg him to do it now, when it was right and her body still hummed with need, but he was a man of his word, and he had given his word.

Tomorrow she would truly be his.

Imogen eyed him as she dressed. The night almost seemed a dream. But the memories of it would never leave her, for they changed everything. The horror of Janine and Warbrick was set apart in her mind—not forgotten, but apart along with death, disease, and war.

A man’s body close to hers, FitzRoger’s body close to hers, his touch, her needs, were something else entirely, and they lingered like the taste of honey on her lips and in her mind. Nor could she view these matters as evil. Spoken of crudely they could disgust, but shared with trust and care they were surely of the angels, not the devil.

The state she was in was not a state of sin.

FitzRoger had given her—generously, carefully—that explosion of the senses. Her body and mind were still sensitized, even to the cool water with which she washed, and the sliding touch of her own clothing.

And sensitized to him.

Even now, after sleep and the passage of hours, the lightest brush of his hand brought back quivering memories. The smell that was his alone lingered in the sheets and melted her. Now she knew why newly married people were so strange and were given time apart. They were adrift in this powerful new sensuality and unable to cope with everyday matters.

Was he?

As Imogen pulled on her stockings, she slid a look at him.

She sighed. Of course he wasn’t.

He was completely unaffected, and his mind was doubtless entirely taken up with practical concerns. As if to prove it, he looked over at her impatiently. Then his gaze stopped and lingered for one revealing, heated moment on her leg.

Imogen’s breathing caught and she lowered her head to hide a smile. She took rather longer than she needed to put on her stockings.

She remembered knowing, last night, that it was not easy for him to give her pleasure and take none for himself. Perhaps, behind the mask, he too was drowning in sensual torment. Her legs felt none too steady as she rose to join him by the door.

He stood aside so she could pass through.

Then he moved.

His mailed hand pinned her to the door jamb at the neck with precise control—not roughly, but not gently either.

He kissed her, and that too lacked control in its heat and its force.

A jolt of longing shot through Imogen and it came from him. He jerked his head back, eyes closed, as if shocked by his own actions. His very stillness spoke of need far deeper than she could understand.

For her? Or just for any woman. As far as she knew he’d had no woman for quite some time.

He raised heavy lids to expose darkened eyes. He moved his hand as if it were a stranger to him and looked at her neck with frowning concern. Imogen raised her hand to cover her neck, though she knew there was no mark.

Her lips felt bruised.

She waited for him to speak, but he touched her briefly and steered her out into the fresh day.

Would they even wait for tonight to resolve all this? There was nothing to stop them, as soon as they arrived back at Carrisford, from retreating to their room. There was no
need
to wait for night.

Imogen quivered with nervous longing. She was full of need, but the violence of that kiss frightened her. She had a dragon on a chain; he could warm her with his breath, and soar her high on his wings, but he might, almost absentmindedly, devour her.

When Imogen and FitzRoger emerged from the monastery, she found, as he had said, that twenty men had been on guard. She appreciated his care of her while thinking it excessive. The road from the monastery to Carrisford was well maintained and clear, and curved invitingly before her. The sun was burning away the last of the morning mist, slowly making invisible the lacy spiders’ webs strung between the grasses; birds sang cheerfully in the greenwood all about.

There was clearly no danger out here, and they would be home in a trice.

She heard a groan and turned.

At first there was no evidence of a problem, but then she noticed that one of the men was pale, though busily saddling his mount. Then he swayed slightly, grasping the pommel to keep his balance. FitzRoger had seen it too.

He moved forward. “You are sick?”

“A gripe, my lord, nothing more…” The man moved to mount, then doubled over and vomited.

In moments, most of the men were moaning or vomiting. Five were not, and Imogen realized that these all wore FitzRoger’s colors while the others wore Lancaster’s.

Danger after all.

FitzRoger beckoned one of the healthy men. “Gareth. What did they eat that you didn’t?”

The man looked uneasy. “Not eat. Drink, my lord. Lancaster’s men had a wineskin.”

“But you did not drink?”

“No, my lord.”

FitzRoger turned to Imogen. “You see why I flog men for drinking on duty.”

“But why do you have Lancaster’s men?” Fear was turning to terror. This was a plan, and the only purpose could be her undoing. She looked again at the road. Now it was as inviting as a beast’s lair.

“I couldn’t take all my men out of Carrisford,” he said almost absently, “but I wanted extra escort for you, so I brought some of the earl’s. From hindsight, a mistake.”

She began to retreat toward the monastery. “We’ll have to stay here…”

His hand on her arm halted her. His eyes traveled over the men, well and sick; over the ten-foot-high monastery walls; and over the road to Carrisford.

Imogen’s nerves settled a little. No matter what was happening, FitzRoger would protect her. He was her champion and supremely skillful at die job.

His voice was calm when he said, “The monastery offers little security from an enemy indifferent to God’s wrath, and there’s some plan afoot. If we act quickly we may forestall them. Can you ride?”

“Of course.”

“I mean, can you ride hard and fast?”

Her heart speeded, but more with readiness than fear. “Yes. I like to hunt, remember?”

It was a feeble attempt at humor, but he rewarded it with a smile. “Good.” He grabbed one of the smaller of Lancaster’s pitiful men and roughly divested him of his boiled leather jerkin and his conical helmet. “Put these on.”

Imogen bit back a protest and obeyed. The jerkin hung loosely, but the hardened leather would stop an arrow. She hated the thought that it might be needed. Until her father’s death no weapon had ever been turned against her. She was determined not to fail this test, though. She tossed away her circlet and jammed the helmet on over her veil.

FitzRoger picked up the gold band. “We can’t afford to waste this, wife,” he said, and the glint of amusement in his eyes steadied her nerves.

It was impossible that he not prevail.

She tucked the circlet up her tunic, held there by her girdle. Then she saw that one of the sick men had a bow and arrows. She took up the bow, strung it, and tested it. It was stronger than she was used to, but she thought she could manage it for a few shots. She slung the quiver over her shoulder.

FitzRoger turned from giving orders to his men. “Can you use that?”

“Yes.”

He made no further comment, but helped her into her saddle.

In moments, they were ready, just seven of them against who knows how many. But FitzRoger had said he was sure there couldn’t be an army nearby, and it was possible that their enemy, not knowing of FitzRoger’s strict standards, would expect all the guards to be sick.

Her husband rode alongside her and passed her a shield. “Put the strap over your shoulder and your left arm through the bands.” She did as she was told. It was a round one, smaller than his kite-shaped shield, but it was still heavy on her shoulder and her arm.

She felt rather ridiculous. Her arm would be aching just from the weight before they reached Carrisford, and she doubted she would be able to use the shield in any purposeful manner. It would certainly stop her from using the bow.

“They won’t want to harm me,” she protested.

“Who knows what they want?” His eyes searched ahead. “It is my task to protect you, Imogen, and I will do so. Ride by me and keep up. And obey any order instantly.”

“Or what?” she asked, trying for a bit more humor.

“Or I’ll beat you if we survive.”

She knew that this time he wasn’t teasing.

He drew his sword, surveyed his small troop, and gave a quiet command. They left at a gallop, two men ahead and three behind.

Imogen had told the truth when she said she could ride hard, but the too-large helmet kept slipping onto her face, and the heavy unwieldy shield bounced, bruising her leg and causing her horse to break pace and jib. She began to fall behind. FitzRoger slowed and leaned to grab her reins. Imogen didn’t contest it, but took a grip on the mane and concentrated on managing the shield and staying on.

She wished, though, she could have kept up on her own.

They thundered between the trees and there was no sign of any enemy.

Then arrows whined through the air. One of the front men and his horse went down in a screaming tumble of legs, blocking the road.

FitzRoger hauled to a halt. He and the remaining men swung efficiently into a protective circle around her.

Imogen looked in shock at an arrow driven well into her shield. It could have been in her body!

She saw FitzRoger wrench an arrow out of his chest. After an appalled moment she understood that it couldn’t have penetrated far. If it had cut into his mail at all, it must have been stopped by his padded haqueton. But it could have been in his heart.

More arrows hissed through the air, low and at the horses. It was luck that sent most through their legs. One horse screamed, but the rider controlled it. Imogen saw a scarlet gash on the beast’s belly. Not deep.

Sweet Savior, were they going to die here?

The man who’d been brought down stayed down. It was Gareth, the man who’d told them about the wine.

But she was no use to Warbrick dead, she thought wildly.

She was no use to anyone dead.

Except the king. If she died, Henry would have Carrisford.

Surely not…

The arrows ceased. It was an eerie moment of calm that seemed to last much longer than it possibly could.

Then ten armed men crashed out of the woods, hurtling against her defenders in a screaming, shrieking tumult. Above all other sounds was the broken-bell clanging of metal brought against metal in an attempt to hack into flesh and bone.

Imogen’s horse plunged and turned, spooked by the clamoring melee all around. She controlled it viciously, looking for any chance to be of use. Her bow fell from her arm, but she didn’t bother with it. It was no use in this kind of fighting.

She was bemused by how slow everything seemed. It was only moments since Gareth came down and yet it seemed an age. Everyone, friend or foe, seemed to move at dreamlike speed around her.

She saw an enemy wide open to attack, and yet a man of FitzRoger’s right there took no advantage. If she’d had any kind of blade, she could have spitted him. Her swinging horse showed her FitzRoger moving as slowly as a doddering ancient, but more efficiently.

His sword swung mightily against an exposed torso and Imogen could almost hear the ribs break before the man screamed and toppled off his horse. That was more like it! She let out an exultant cry of victory, as if the blow had been her own.

One of their men screamed and went down. The protective circle fractured.

Her joy soured. There were too many against them.

Imogen concentrated on preventing any attempt to seize her. She wished FitzRoger had given her a sword even as she knew she could never have managed it. Then she remembered her arrows. She whipped a handful out of the quiver, ready to stab with them if anyone tried to seize her.

The attackers were too busy to try for her yet, though. They seemed to concentrate on FitzRoger, as if they knew that downing him was the key to her. He was fighting three, calmly, efficiently, always able to block the blows.

Her heart leaped to her mouth as she saw a mace swing viciously at him from his blind side while he fought another man. She screamed a warning, but he was already moving to avoid, to react, as if he could see all sides at once.

In a split-second gap between blows he grinned at her as if this were an amusement.

She was amazed to realize she was grinning back. This was not amusing, and yet she had never felt so vibrantly alive. If she died here, it was better than many deaths.

But she would not be taken prisoner.

A sword whistled through the air at FitzRoger’s head. He blocked it with a fiery crash, turning his horse with his legs to face the attack again.

Another of FitzRoger’s men went down, but the enemy was losing more. FitzRoger had accounted for at least three. Imogen longed for someone to come in range so she could stab him. She screamed defiance, and exulted at each death.

Another of their men down.

An enemy rode straight at Imogen. She reared her horse to thwart him, and screamed a warning. FitzRoger was fighting two men, but he swung his horse back on itself to cover the new threat.