Marriage Under Siege (9 page)

In a formal gesture of
chivalry he took her hand, bowed low over it, then raised her fingers with
courtly grace to his lips. She tightened her hold in recognition of his
acceptance of the gift and, as he glanced up, he saw her face relax into a
smile. It gave her a fragile beauty that touched his heart, causing the
faintest brush of desire across the surface of his skin.

'Your gift is as handsome
as your presence, lady.'

He drew her towards him
then, his arm encircling her waist. Before she could resist or retreat, he
sealed the new vows that they had made, his mouth on hers. He felt the nerves
under her skin flutter, so kept it light and unthreatening, the merest promise
of possession. But, unlike the salute in church her lips were now warm and
softened under his caress. When he released her she remained standing within
his arms, lips parted, an expression of surprised pleasure in her face. He
brushed his fingers over her hair where it curled at her temple, satisfied with
the outcome.

'Go up,' he said softly. 'I
will come to you.'

Later he opened the door
that connected his bedchamber with hers, entered and closed it quietly behind
him. She was sitting in bed against a bank of pillows, waiting for him. A fire
still burned so the air was warm and fragrant with the distinctive scent of
apple wood and a candle flickered at her elbow. She held a book, open, before
her on the coverlet, yet he had the distinct impression that she had not been
reading.

Her fine ringlets had been
brushed out so that her hair curled against her neck and on to the white linen
of her shift, gleaming more gold than brown in the candlelight. Her face was
drained of colour again and she clutched the leather binding with rigid
fingers. He drew in a breath. She looked anything but at ease, but then what
did he expect? Things should improve between them as they came to know each
other better. And he had sufficient confidence in his lovemaking to believe
that he could indulge her with a degree of pleasure and contentment. He smiled
a little. His expertise had never been questioned in the past. If only she did
not watch him with such frightened eyes, as a terrified mouse would wait for
the descent of a circling falcon.

Making no move further into
the room, he remained with his back to the door, trying for lightness to
diffuse the nerve-searing tension. 'Where is she?'

'My lord?' The voice from
the bed was a whisper of nerves.

'Morrighan! If she is under
the bed, you spend the night without me. I value my life.'

'She...she is in the
kitchens. Master Foxton took her. And the puppy.' Honoria's lips felt stiff and
bloodless. She could not have smiled, no matter what the enticement.

Mansell saw this with a
touch of unease. Because there was nothing to be gained in prolonging the agony
for her, he strode to the bed, and in a succession of swift movements doused
the candle, shrugged out of his robe and turned back the bed covers.

He is nothing like his
cousin, she told herself, reassured herself, as the firelight played over the
planes and angles of his body. Such broad shoulders, firm flesh, smoothly
muscled. She closed her eyes briefly in an anguish of anticipation. Do not think
of Edward now! Surely it will not be the same. Don't think of his cruel words.
His unwashed, greasy hands, grasping and demanding. His soft, grey flesh. Don't
think of...

She felt the bed give with
Mansell's weight and then the warm proximity of his body as he stretched beside
her, steeling herself to remain still, to resist flinching at his touch.

'Honoria?'

'Yes.'

'It will not be so bad, you
know.' He felt the hideous tension surround them in a thick cloud, suffocating
with her fear. She trembled with the force of it as his naked arm, hard and
corded with sinew, made contact with hers in the slightest of movements.

'I know,' she managed to
croak. But she didn't!

He immediately took the
initiative and smoothed his fingers through her hair, pushing it back from her
temples. With gentle fingers he touched her face, a fleeting caress of the
skin, then following their path from temple to jaw with his lips. Her mouth was
soft when he kissed her, the lightest of brushes, mouth against mouth. But then
he felt her pulse begin to beat in her throat when he kissed his way along the
line from jaw to delicate shoulder, when he paused to press his lips to the
very spot where her blood pounded. She lay beneath his touch as if, apart from
that one pulse, turned to stone.

She was not a virgin, he
thought. She had shared a marriage bed. So why was she so tense? He had hardly
touched her.

He persisted as slowly and
carefully as he could. It was merely a matter of familiarity. He let his hands
smooth down over her body to push away her linen chemise to expose her
shoulders to his touch. When his palm closed over a firm breast, lightly
moulding so as not to startle her, he felt her gasp and hold her breath.

He continued, gently,
stroking, touching, caressing, exploring the curve of her breast to the
delicacy of her ribcage and the flowing indentation of her waist. She was
lovely. Her skin was as pleasurable to the touch as the most costly satin. He
felt his blood begin to heat with arousal and his body hardened in anticipation.
It might be true that he did not know her, but he had no difficulty in
responding to her pure femininity. But he must go slowly. He gritted his teeth.
When he allowed his fingers to trail across the soft skin of her belly and
smooth over the roundness of her hip, he felt her catch her breath again,
almost on a sob.

His mouth returned to hers,
this time with possessive demand, encouraging her lips to part to allow his
tongue to slide over the soft inner flesh of her lips, as soft and smooth as
silk. She stiffened, every muscle in her body tensed, silently resisting, as he
teased a nipple between his fingers.

And he realised that her
flesh had chilled, her skin had become clammy as her blood drained, her
responses withdrawn from what she saw as a violation. He could no longer
pretend that she saw it in any other way. But why? He had deliberately gentled
and slowed his desire to take her. By no stretch of the imagination had he
attempted to ravish her or treat her with less than utmost consideration for a
new bride.

On a deep breath, he
stopped, lifted his hands and raised his head to look down at her face below
him in the shadows. He could not be other than stunned at what he saw, at the
stark fear momentarily in her wide eyes. She was not fighting him, not physically
resisting, but she feared him and her whole body was rigid, totally
unresponsive to his attempts to arouse and seduce.

He rolled away from her to
sit up in concern and some exasperation. He kept his voice low, but she could
not mistake the edge in it. 'I have never, to my knowledge, been guilty of
forcing a woman against her will. I do not relish the prospect of starting with
my wife!'

This time there was
definitely a sob in response to his words.

'And I thought I had some
skill in bringing pleasure to a woman.'

At that she covered her
face with her hands. Panic choked her, filled her lungs like smoke. Her
breathing became shallow and difficult. To her horror, against all her hopes,
she had to accept the truth of it, that Lord Edward had been right after all.
She was incapable of attracting a man and an abject failure at bringing
pleasure to him as a wife should. It was all her fault. And her new lord was
about to reject her as assuredly as Edward had done. He would not be as cruel
as Edward, could not be, but he certainly showed no inclination to pursue the
consummation of their marriage in the face of her own frozen despair.

Mansell cast aside the
covers and stood beside the bed, hands on hips, to survey her with a frown.
Whatever the problem, she was clearly terrified. Acting on instinct, he seized
the coverlet and stripped it away. 'Honoria...'

A whimper issued from the
bed. If it was not all so distressing, he would have laughed at this extreme
reaction to his lovemaking. But there was nothing amusing here; he could
neither force her nor ignore her distress and walk away.

He leaned over the bed,
picked her up in his strong arms as if she weighed nothing, wrapped her in the
coverlet with deft movements
as
if she were a child, and
carried her to the settle by the fire. She was too surprised to protest other
than a squeak of shock. He placed her there while he stirred the flames and
recovered his own robe. Then he returned and sat beside her, sensing the
tiniest of movements
as
she would have pulled away
from him. She was watching him, aware of his every movement, every gesture,
eyes dry and strained. He
knew
that
if she had been able, she would have fled the room.

He ran his hands through
his hair in frustration, a gesture that she had come to recognise. She flinched
again. 'This is no good!'

Without warning he scooped
her up again and settled her on his lap, imprisoning her within the circle of
his arms as, with gentle fingers, he pushed her head down to rest upon his
shoulder.

'There.' He stroked her
hair a little. 'There is nothing to concern you now. I shall not do anything
you do not wish.'

Silence settled, except for
the crackle of the fire, as he continued to smooth his hand over her hair. He
was aware of her fingers clutching at the satin collar of his robe in a
vice-like grip, but he made no comment. Simply sat and held and waited.
Gradually her breathing calmed and she relaxed, sufficient for her to release
her grasp and rest against him.

'Now.' He kept his voice
low. 'Talk to me, Honoria. Will you tell me why you are so distressed? Do you
trust me enough to tell me?'

She said nothing, but he
felt the merest nod of her head against his throat.

'Did my cousin...did Edward
rape you?'

'No.' The answer was
immediate. It came as a wail of anguish.

'Then what happened? Things
can never be so bad that they cannot be put right. Talk to me, Honoria.'

Without thought he turned
his face against her hair in an unconscious caress and pressed his lips to her
temple in the softest of kisses. Yet it was her undoing. All the tears, all the
anxieties and self-doubt, the horror, the sleepless nights, dammed up over the
past weeks, overflowed and washed through her in response to that one innocent
gesture of kindness. Her breath caught again and again and she could do
nothing to prevent the harsh sobs that shook her frame, tears streaming down
her face. In the end she gave up trying to control them and simply wept.

All he could do was hold
her. She was beyond any comforting words—and he did not know what to say to
ease such emotion. So he held her. He murmured foolish words for their sound
rather than their content and continued to stroke her hair, her arms, her back,
whilst the emotion tore her in two. His heart ached for her. Who would have
believed that her outward composure could hide such pain and anguish?

Minutes ticked by.
Gradually her sobs lessened. A hiccup, a sniffle. She lay exhausted and drained
against his chest and he was content to allow it to be so for a little while.
When he was finally sure that her tears were gone, he used the corner of the
coverlet to wipe her eyes. She resisted at first, turning her face against his
shoulder, intent on hiding the worst of the ravages from his scrutiny. What
would he think of her? But he would not allow it and, with a hand under her
chin, lifted her face to the light.

'Talk to me, Honoria.'

But she did not know where
to begin.

'Then I will ask the
questions and you try to answer. Let us see how far we can get.' He had no
intention of allowing her to hide from him. 'You said that Edward did not force
you.' A flash of warning, of illumination, struck him here. 'Did Edward...was
he able to consummate the marriage?'

She shook her head, hiding
her face.

'Are you still virgin?'

She heard the amazement in
his voice and was ashamed. 'Yes,' she whispered.

'Did he not try? Was it his
ill health that prevented him?'

'He tried!' The words now
poured out, as had the tears. 'Every night.' She shuddered with disgust and
fear as the memories rushed back. 'Again and again.'

'My poor child,' he
murmured.

'I am not a child!' Anger
and despair mingled in a deadly mix. 'He wanted an heir, he said. Before he
died. That was the only reason for our marriage...for his spending so much
money. He tried so often but he was unable... I could not bear it. I know that
marriage means obedience to one's husband...but I could not bear it. He was
so...' She could not find the words.

'I understand.'

'Do you? How could you?'
Now she found that she could not stop, even when she would have pressed her
fingers against her mouth to hold back the expression of her worst memories.
'He was so gross, so fat and unwashed. His body was covered with thick hair.
And...his hands were damp and...slimy, with blackened fingernails. And he
touched me...' She pressed her hand to her stomach to ward off the wave of
nausea. 'He prodded and groped, squeezing and pinching. I hated it. How could I
be expected to find any wifely pleasure in that? How could I ever accept such
indignities?'