His Lady Bride (Brothers in Arms) (12 page)

Holding her breath, Gwenyth waited as Aric leaned in and lifted the stunning amulet above her head. The moment she bowed her head, he placed it around her neck. The cool silver settled on her skin and nestled just above the valley between her breasts, exposed now by the low, square neckline of her gown. The red of the stone and the red of the gown were nearly identical, as if they had been made for one another. Shock nearly silenced her.

“’Tis most beautiful, Aric,” she vowed, raising her gaze to him. “I scarce know what to say. Thank you.”

His smile softened his angled warrior’s face. “If it pleases you, you need say nothing.”

“Indeed! I shall want to wear it every day.”

No one since her parents had given her a gift of any kind, for any reason. Aye, Nellwyn had given her cast-off clothing and trinkets, but never anything that was all hers—and never anything so valuable.

Whence did Aric come by such a costly item? She frowned. Had he stolen it from someone at the Mayday festival? Nay. No one there would own such an expensive trinket except Nellwyn or Aunt Welsa, and neither owned such. She would know.

So where had Aric found such an item? And why had he chosen to give it to her now?

Lost in her ruminations, it took Gwenyth a moment to realize Aric had paused, his brow furrowed, his expression seeking.

“My mother wore it nearly each day as well,” he said, as if knowing her questions. “After God took her back into His keeping, I carried it with me always.”

Gwenyth stared at him, again in shock. This costly pendant had been his mother’s. Was such possible?

Allowing her gaze to roam his face for any sign of falsehood, Gwenyth could not help but remember other contradictions about her hermit husband. The well-spoken English, his air of quiet but unyielding command, the combat scars coupled with his admission of receiving some battle training. Had he perhaps been trained as a knight? Mayhap come from such a family, who had since lost castle or fortune? ’Twas certainly possible.

“Your mother must have received great joy from such an item,” Gwenyth fished, hoping Aric would reveal more.

Again, he paused. Gwenyth’s heart leaped, for he always paused before revealing anything of import.

“This pendant was her favorite,” he said slowly. “Though I know not if ’twas because she found it lovely or because my father gave it to her.”

His father. Gwenyth nodded, her mind racing. Perhaps his father had once been an important knight or lord. Had Aric’s mother the man’s leman? ’Twould explain more of Aric’s circumstances and the appearance of such a gift. Still, curiosity ate at her. She wanted to know more about her husband. But she also knew she must word her questions with care, else Aric would not answer.

“Why did your father give your mother this gift?”

His gaze wandered to someplace far away, and a frown settled over his features. “I know not. My mother told me he gave it to her so she might know what time each day to meet him for their trysts.”

Aye, Gwenyth decided, Aric’s mother had been a nobleman’s leman. But whose? And for how long? Had Aric known his father well? The questions gnawed at Gwenyth, piling her frustration into a mountain of inquisitiveness.

“Did your mother and father love well?” she asked carefully.

Would he answer or refuse her questions? Gwenyth bit her lip as she waited through long moments of silence.

“Aye. After my mother’s death, even after he took a young wife, my father spoke often of her with fondness.”

The strong tones of his voice gentled as he spoke of his parents’ love for one another. Gwenyth felt tears sting her eyes. She wanted such a love for herself. Did Aric seek that kind of bond, too?

Placing her palm over the warm ruby, Gwenyth regarded Aric with a mixture of hope and fear she could not quite understand. “Why did you give such a gift to me?”

Aric scowled. “Do you not like it?”

“I like it,” she assured. “Never have I seen anything so lovely. ’Tis simply that…well, the pendant was your mother’s, of import to her—and of import to you. Why share it with me?”

His lips curling upward, Aric reached for her and placed his hand at the back of her neck. His warm fingers settled against her skin, attuning her senses to his scent, his heartbeat. The pad of his thumb caressed her cheek and left tingles in its wake.

“You are my wife, and I vowed to share all I have with you when we wed.”

Gwenyth’s heart warmed. Though Aric had little of value to give her, he had gifted her with one of his most precious possessions. That fact lay in his eyes.

“Thank you,” she said again, feeling suddenly warmed.

He nodded. Then his smile turned mischievous. “And if you would like to remember what time to meet me for a tryst or two, I would have no complaints.”

“Aric…” Heat spiked within her. Her warning sounded more like a breathy plea.

His intimate whisper became a breath as he bent closer, closer, until his mouth was a moment away from hers. Gwenyth’s hands shook as she raised them to his shoulders, whether to ward him off or pull him closer, she wasn’t sure.

She did neither. Time passed in moments registered by her unsteady heartbeat. As he loomed above her, Aric’s eyes darkened, seeming without beginning and without end. Her world became a swirl of misty, mesmerizing gray.

Then he inched closer again, and his lips covered hers, a mere shimmer of breaths. Beguiled by his touch, her lashes fluttered shut as his mouth slid across hers, nibbled and teased, warmed as he sampled her slowly, as if he were a man with infinite patience. Gwenyth swayed against the solid breadth of his chest, her limbs suddenly heavy, her thoughts receding.

Again, his mouth covered hers, sensitizing her to the feel of his touch, to his rich scent surrounding her. His other hand joined the first at the back of her neck until he cupped her jaw and gently brought her lips more firmly beneath his.

Her pulse skipped a beat as he made her mouth his gentle captive again. Gwenyth strained closer, utterly willing. Some distant part of her warned she could not remain here with Aric, but another insisted on allowing the indulgence of his exploring lips as he parted hers and eased his way inside.

The small fire his touch had started flickered and fanned into something stronger as his tongue circled about her own, then drifted away to leave a warm, damp trail to the base of her throat.

He murmured something—what, she knew not. Sighing her answer, Gwenyth reached out to him and pulled him closer, reeling with a surprising need to feel his kiss again. Aric obliged her, feathering his silky mouth over hers once more as he eased her down to sit upon his narrow bed. For a moment, she thought to protest. An endless, needy kiss quelled anything she had been about to say.

Fluid pleasure filled her when his hands left her face to skim her shoulders and the curve of her waist, his thumb barely brushing her breast on its descent.

Tingles spread across her skin, dug deep into her bones. She gasped at the sensations, uncertain of this new magic he gave her. As she looped her arms about his neck and arched toward him, Aric met her hungrily, his mouth angling over hers once more for another drugging kiss that left her feeling limp and enlivened at once.

When he lowered her to the mattress, she wallowed in the feel of him, so substantial and strong, above her. At that moment, he seemed her entire world, her very own champion. She felt dizzied by his unwavering mouth, hazed by his warmth and need. To him, she gave all his kiss sought, eager to please.

Moments later, she felt his hand at her back while he nipped his way down her jaw. Suddenly, the cool air hit her shoulders and the swells of her breasts. Gwenyth opened her eyes in time to see Aric tug the gown down to her waist and his mouth envelop the hardened peak of her breast. A jolt of pure pleasure pulsed within her at the feel of his lips and tongue teasing her nipple through her thin chemise. She moaned, grabbing his shoulders more tightly.

With his hand beneath her back, Aric encouraged her to arch into him. As she did, he turned his attentions to her other breast, even as she felt his hands at her waist, her hips.

She could not think, could scarce breathe, for the feel of his mouth over her breast, laving, suckling, gently demanding. Her groan became a moan.

’Twas something of a shock to feel cool air upon her bare calves and thighs moments later. As if looking through fog, Gwenyth saw Aric’s large bronzed hands raising her chemise to her hips, felt his firm, callused hands skimming her flesh. At his feet lay her silken red dress. How had he undressed her without her awareness?

Before she could sort through her muddled thoughts or find a protest, Aric ran a light, teasing finger from the inside of her knee up toward the joining of her legs. She gasped as his touch climbed higher, then stopped a mere inch before the apex. But her pleasure kept peaking, and she realized with a wild rush that some part of her wanted his touch there.

Then his thumb slid over her, a mere brush. Her hips lurched off the bed at the unaccustomed touch, the spiraling delight. The gentle feel of his mouth on her bare stomach, a whisper below her navel, sent her need soaring higher.

Threading her hands through his thick, golden hair, Gwenyth pulled Aric closer, wanting these feelings to go on, for they were like bright colors, vivid and undeniable. Aye, she had seen Penhurst’s servants mating deep in the night on the floor of the great hall. Always she had thought their grunting gyrations crude and suffocating. She had not considered the wanting, the slow rush of desire that wound through the veins like the headiest of mulled wines.

When Aric’s impatient fingers pushed aside her chemise, she welcomed the sensations of cool air and his hot gaze upon her. Then the damp heat of his mouth closed over her bare breast. She gasped. As the silken tip of Aric’s tongue flicked over the hard peak of her nipple, her eyes flew open at riotous sensations pounding within her.

Her gaze locked with the seemingly uncomprehending depths of Dog’s eyes. The animal sat a mere foot away at the side of Aric’s small bed, watching intently and flapping his tail against the cottage’s dirt floor. She stiffened, realizing that engaging in this lovemaking with Aric was not only unwise, but, with their canine audience, it was discomfiting.

“Aric,” she whispered.

His answer was an unintelligible moan as he lifted his mouth from her breast and started toward the other. Gwenyth stopped him with a hearty push at his shoulders.

“What?” he scowled.

“The dog,” she said simply.

With a laugh, Aric sat up beside her. “So I have a modest little dragon, eh? I can put Dog out.”

“Nay. ’Tis more than Dog. We simply…cannot.”

Aric sighed, then curled a tender hand about her shoulder. “We can, Gwenyth. You are my wife. ’Tis time we sealed our union, as God intended.”

“But we… I…” she stuttered, hopelessly mired in a tangle of desire, regret, and apprehension. Why should her flesh desire a man who could not provide the future her heart needed? “We cannot.”

Anger hardened his features as he stood beside the bed and tossed her red gown over her meagerly clad body. “As you wish. But someday you must accept marriage to me, hermit or not. The law, the church, and the world already have.”

Before Gwenyth could protest that she had not meant to hurt him, Aric whistled to Dog, who followed him out the door. As she watched from the window while the mutt and his master disappeared into the ancient, shadowed forest, tears stung Gwenyth’s eyes.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Nearly a week had passed, largely wordless, between Aric and Gwenyth. In that week, he had tried to forget the feel of her beneath him, the taste of her skin, the beauty of her form by candlelight, the snap of her intelligent mind, as well as the sharp wit of her tongue. ’Twas impossible, he knew now, for he thought of little else.

Until the summons came.

From his chair beneath the eaves, Aric watched a man on horseback approach. The gentle rain falling across the misty green land obscured his vision. But as the rider drew closer, Aric caught sight of a crest on the man’s tunic. The Neville crest.

He closed his eyes in cold dread, one realization swirling in his head: Someone had sent for him.

God’s blood! Aric clutched the wooden carving of his naked wife in his suddenly damp palms and rose with a whispered curse. ’Twas no mistaking the other man’s demeanor, for his carriage was straight with purpose as he approached the cottage.

Despite the cool winds, sweat broke out across Aric’s chest and back, on his neck and face. He gripped the wooden carving between suddenly unsteady hands. Fear combined with anger and apprehension. What in hell’s realm did this herald want? And what of Gwenyth?

With a glance over his shoulder, Aric had his worst fear confirmed. She had heard the approaching horse and even now stared out the window, her expressive face rife with puzzlement. Lord help him. How would he explain the reason Northwell’s herald sought him?

“Stay inside, Gwenyth,” he instructed her softly.

“But who—”

“Inside,” he repeated with quiet force, then turned his attention back to the rider, now mere feet away.

Rather than invite the man into the cottage’s shelter, Aric went out into the soft rain, the chill of it drenching him. Surely only that caused him to shiver.

As Aric met the rider, he grabbed the horse’s bridle. “Halt. What business have you here?”

The rider dismounted and bowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously beneath his oily young face. “My lord, I have a missive for you from your esteemed brother.”

Stephen. Aric sighed, raking tense fingers through his damp hair. The whelp had always sought power at Northwell. Certainly he would not wish the return of the elder brother who could take that away from him. He breathed a sigh of relief.

“Where is this missive?” Aric asked finally.

The herald patted his dusty, damp tunic. “’Tis safe in here.”

“Let me see it.”

“But, my lord, the rain will destroy—”

“Let me see it,” he demanded, his patience short.