Dawn of Wolves (The Kingdom of Mercia) (12 page)

It took all Ermenilda’s will to swallow the food he offered without complaint, for her stomach had closed. Between bites, she reached for her cup of sloe wine, draining it quickly. She held it up for a passing slave to refill, hoping that the wine would dull her senses.

Wulfhere offered her a piece of bread studded with fruits and nuts. She wordlessly took it, and he responded with a wry smile.

“The only pleasant memory I have of my brother’s wedding was the handfasting feast,” he admitted. “He spent the evening feeding his bride morsels and attending to her every need. It was the only occasion I saw Paeda pay Alchflaed any attention.”

Surprised by his candor, Ermenilda gave Wulfhere her full attention.

“They were not happy together then?”

“Miserable,” he replied, “although any woman wedded to Paeda would have been.”

His words worried her. She wanted to ask more about his brother but was afraid that she would not like his answers. Instead, she looked down at her full trencher and forced herself to pick up a piece of venison.

Her second cup of wine emptied almost as fast as the first, and she held it out to be refilled. This time, Wulfhere put his hand over the brim, preventing the slave from obeying her.

“Bring my wife milk instead,” he told the girl.

Ermenilda glanced over at Wulfhere, affronted, only to find him smiling. He leaned in close to her, so that no one else at the table could hear him. His breath tickled her neck, causing a shiver of heat to pass through her.

“I don’t want your senses blunted tonight,” he murmured. “I want you to remember every detail.”

His words caused a wave of mortification, mixed with dizzying desire, to sweep over Ermenilda. Her breathing quickened, and she gripped the edge of the table to steady herself.

Without saying anything more, Wulfhere pulled away from her and resumed his meal. When Ermenilda had managed to master herself, she glanced at him. Her husband was now talking to his brother. He responded to something Aethelred had just said. Then, he laughed, and the expression transformed his face. The warmth of his laughter embraced her, as if she sat up to her neck in a heated bath.

God forgive her, she did not want to be this man’s wife. Everything he stood for offended her. Yet, the sound of his voice and the feel of his gaze upon her skin melted her from the inside out.

And there was nothing she could do about it.

Wulfhere and Ermenilda were the first to dance once the feasting ended. The king led his wife out onto the floor, and they faced each other. He released her hand, stepped back, and bowed to her.

Ermenilda curtsied, bowing her head as she had been taught. She then picked up her skirts with her left hand and placed her right on top of his. They circled each other, shoulder to shoulder, their gazes holding.

Around them, Wulfhere’s retainers cheered and clapped, caught up in the romance of the moment. Indeed, Ermenilda realized they made a striking couple—both blond and aloof.

It was just a dance, but the intensity of Wulfhere’s gaze upon hers drew Ermenilda into another world, causing her to forget about their surroundings. For once, she did not care who watched her or that she was the center of attention. She had not consumed more than two cups of wine earlier in the evening, yet her senses reeled and she felt lightheaded.

Wulfhere never took his gaze from hers, and she drowned in the cool depths of his eyes.

The musicians played a gentle, lilting tune that forced the couple into a slow rhythm. The dance was formal, each movement precise. It was the dance of a lord and lady, with every step measured. The restraint of it only served to draw Ermenilda’s attention to the heat that smoldered between her and Wulfhere. Her body’s reaction to him both frightened and intrigued her.

When the dance finally ended, Ermenilda was almost sorry. Wulfhere led her back to the high seat, where they sat in silence. The musicians struck up a lively tune, and other couples took to the floor.

As she had predicted, Ermenilda saw Elfhere approach Wynflaed for a dance. Her handmaid sat at one of the long tables that ran on either side of the two fire pits. To Ermenilda’s surprise, the young woman did not appear keen to dance.

Her face flushed pink, and she kept shaking her head. However, the handsome, blond warrior did not give up, and eventually Wynflaed allowed herself to be led out onto the floor. Ermenilda watched her maid curiously. Wynflaed was full of contradictions. During the journey here, she had appeared so confident and at ease with herself, yet she had clearly not wanted to dance.

As soon as the song ended, Ermenilda watched Wynflaed make a hurried excuse to Elfhere and hurry back to her place at the table.

The dancing went on for a while, and more mead and wine flowed. Still, Ermenilda and Wulfhere did not speak. She was aware of him seated next to her and the rumble of his voice as he conversed with Aethelred, but she deliberately did not look his way.

Eventually, the churning mixture of anxiety and excitement in the pit of her belly gave way to dread. It was now getting late, and the moment she had tried not to dwell upon approached.

When Wulfhere took her hand and rose to his feet, her mouth went dry.

“The queen and I will retire now,” he announced to his retainers.

Cheers and ribald shouts of encouragement from drunken men met Wulfhere’s words. Many of his warriors were now well into their cups, and some had drunk so much that they could barely stand.

Wulfhere ignored their shouts. Instead, he led Ermenilda off the high seat, and they crossed the floor together.

“Our quarters are in the ‘King’s Loft,’” he told her, motioning to the platform above. Ermenilda nodded dumbly, her heart thudding erratically against her ribs.

She climbed the wooden ladder, before Wulfhere, and was distraught to realize that her hands were slippery with sweat. By the time she reached the top of the ladder, she felt sick with nerves. Moments later, Wulfhere appeared, although the cheering and shouting from below continued.

“They’ll tire soon enough,” Wulfhere told her. “As soon as they open another barrel of mead, we shall be forgotten.”

Ermenilda nodded, her gaze shifting around the platform in an effort to avoid looking at him. In her panicked state, she was having trouble taking note of her surroundings, although she could see the loft was warm and comfortable.

She stood upon a thick fur. Plush tapestries covered the damp stone walls around them. There also appeared to be a privy, protected from view by a hanging. Leather trunks lined the far wall, and Ermenilda recognized her own belongings among them.

However, the pile of furs in the center of the platform drew her attention. This was where she and Wulfhere would spend their nights. As if reading her thoughts, her husband stepped close to her.

“Finally . . . ,” he murmured. “I thought I was a patient man, but this wait has tested me to my limits.”

Ermenilda looked down at her slippered feet and pretended she had not heard him.

“So fair,” he said, gently taking hold of her chin and tilting her face upward so that their gazes met, “yet not as cold nor as demure as you feign.”

“I—I don’t know what you mean,” she stuttered, trying to ignore how close he was standing.

He smiled at her weak denial and, reaching out, stroked her face. “You fascinate me, Ermenilda of Kent,” he said. “There are hidden depths to you that I look forward to discovering.”

He was stroking her hair now, tangling its fine strands in his fingers. “I’ve wanted to do this since the first day we met,” he told her. Ermenilda noticed his voice had roughened slightly, and she realized that she had stopped breathing.

Without another word, he leaned down and kissed her. It was gentle, his lips soft and warm upon hers. He pulled her into his arms and deepened the kiss. Ermenilda’s lips parted, an involuntary gasp escaping her as his tongue sought entry. A heartbeat later, he was exploring her mouth, with such exquisite gentleness that her limbs dissolved. Their bodies were pressed against each other. His body felt hard and strong, in contrast to the softness of his kiss.

When Wulfhere ended the kiss, he was breathing hard, and his eyes had turned the color of a stormy sky.

“Turn around,” he rasped, “so that I can unfasten your gown.”

Ermenilda obeyed, although her limbs were barely able to hold her up. She had started to tremble and tried to stop it, but with no success. Her breathing stilled as she felt her husband undo the ties down the center of her back. While he did so, she was vaguely aware that the music had restarted in the hall below; laughter and drunken singing echoed up into the rafters.

When Wulfhere had finished undoing her gown, he pushed it off her shoulders. Ermenilda exhaled as the silken material slid to her feet, pooling around her ankles. She wore a filmy, sleeveless tunic beneath her gown, although she felt as vulnerable as if she stood before Wulfhere naked.

Wulfhere whispered something she did not quite catch and pushed aside her curtain of hair so that he could kiss the back of her neck. Ermenilda’s gasp turned into a muffled groan.

Why does his touch do this to me?

His hands slid around her ribs to cup her breasts, and to her shame Ermenilda felt her nipples harden against his palms.

“Take off your tunic and turn to me,” he whispered in her ear.

Her hands were shaking so much it was difficult to obey him. She eventually managed, wriggling out of the sheer tunic. The night air, warm from the fires below, caressed her naked skin. She turned around and stifled a gasp when she saw that Wulfhere was undressing. He did so swiftly—already naked to the waist by the time she swiveled to face him.

His gaze met hers before it slid down the length of her naked body.

“Even more beautiful than I imagined,” he murmured.

Ermenilda watched him, transfixed as a moth circling too close to a naked flame. He was strong and broad shouldered, with a flat belly. Wulfhere was unlacing his breeches now, and he stripped them off to reveal a magnificent erection. His shaft lay swollen against his belly, and despite that she willed herself not to, Ermenilda could not take her gaze from it.

Seeing the direction of her gaze, Wulfhere smiled.

“No, certainly not as modest as I first thought.”

He stepped toward Ermenilda and without warning scooped her up in his arms, carrying her over to the furs. There, he laid her down, before moving across her so that their bodies were pressed together. Ermenilda felt his shaft pressing into her belly, and excitement arched up within her like a wild thing. The feel of his naked skin on hers, the smell of him, and his overwhelming presence all drowned her senses. A hunger, unlike anything she had ever experienced, rose within her.

Wulfhere began to kiss her again—deep, sensual kisses that made her gasp. She could not stop herself from touching him; her hands wandered along the hard planes of his chest. Her mind screamed at her to stop, but her body was traitorous.

After Wulfhere had kissed her for so long that her head was spinning, her mouth bee-stung, he moved down to her breasts. He suckled each peak until she began to make soft, wordless cries.

“What is it?” he asked, breathless.

“I want . . . ,” she gasped.

“What do you want?”

“I . . . I . . .”

Wulfhere gave a soft laugh before gently spreading her legs and stroking her between them.

“This?”

A shudder thrummed through her body, and an ache pulsed between her thighs.

What was he doing to her? She should have been mortified, yet all she could think about was the fact that he was now moving over her and had placed the head of his manhood at the entrance to her womb.

“I will try to be gentle,” he murmured, “but this may hurt you.”

Ermenilda had heard of the pain and blood that went along with a wedding night. Strangely, although those stories had frightened her in the past, she was not remotely afraid now.

All she wanted was to have him inside her. She felt as if she would die if he did not take her.

She whimpered as he slowly slid into her. She was tight, and had to stretch to accommodate him, but there was no pain—just an incredible fullness.

“Oh . . .”

“Aye,” Wulfhere groaned as he seated himself fully inside her. “We were made to go together, you and me.”

They stopped there for a moment, and Wulfhere stared down at her, his pupils dilated with pleasure. This time, Ermenilda held his gaze without shyness or embarrassment. The sensation of him inside her was exquisite. She could feel a slow pulse deep within her womb.

Wulfhere began to move inside her. The pleasure of his gentle movements tipped Ermenilda over the edge. She cried out—her fingernails digging into his back—hanging on as if she clung to a cliff’s edge. Pleasure came in deep, aching waves that threatened to consume her, and she writhed beneath him.

Wulfhere answered by covering her mouth with his and kissing her deeply, his tongue mimicking the slide of his shaft within her.

The last vestiges of Ermenilda’s self-restraint snapped, and she cried out. She arched her hips up against him and wrapped her legs around his hips. Wulfhere gave a strangled curse and began to move in slow, deep thrusts, as he too lost control.

By the time he spilled his seed within her, their cries echoing high in the rafters, both Ermenilda and Wulfhere were lost.

Ermenilda was the first to wake in the early dawn.

She stirred among the furs, her body languorous. A sense of well-being, unlike anything she had ever experienced, filled her. For a few blissful moments, she was at peace—nothing existed but the softness and warmth of the furs and the soft breathing of the man beside her.

There’s a man sleeping next to me.

Ermenilda’s eyes snapped open.

Slowly, wishing she was dreaming, she turned her head to the left. Her gaze settled upon Wulfhere’s face.

Asleep, he appeared a different man. The handsome yet austere lines of his face had softened in slumber, and he looked almost . . . vulnerable. Ermenilda inhaled slowly and reminded herself she was watching a sleeping predator. The moment those pale-blue eyes opened, there would not be anything remotely vulnerable about him.