Passion in the Blood (21 page)

She’d never noticed before how the hinges creaked. As he entered Robert didn’t look at the bed where she sat propped up on the bolster, the linens up to her chin. He turned to close the door and she saw the tension in his shoulders. He wore a long night shirt. She knew he was still uncomfortable with his body, though he’d regained much of his weight and rebuilt most of the muscle he’d lost. She longed to see his body again.

He turned and hesitated. She held out her hand. “Come lie with me, husband,” she murmured. “We must talk.”

He nodded, walked to the bed and sat next to her, his knees bent. He drew the linens up over his chest, clamping them down with his arms. Why was he so nervous?

“You have never told me what it was like,” she whispered. Would he tell her, or would he continue to shut her out of his nightmare?

Still he didn’t look at her. “I cannot.”

She placed her hand over his. “Neither of us will find peace until you do.”

He gripped her hand and put it to his forehead. She barely heard his answer. “I know.”

He didn’t speak for long minutes, and then gradually he told her of his captivity. He talked long into the night. Sometimes the painful words came in a rush, sometimes he had to force them out. When he told the story of the kittens, he sat for a long while with his arms clasped to his chest. She wept for the suffering he’d endured.

Finally, he inhaled deeply. He seemed to be holding his breath. Then she heard the sobs emanating from deep with his chest. He shook his head.

She gathered him into her arms. “Let them out, Robert. Let them out.”

His head sagged onto her breast and he sobbed openly. “A man shouldn’t cry,” he lamented.

“A man who can’t cry isn’t a man,” she replied.

She held him until long after he’d quieted. She thought he’d fallen asleep, but when she tried to ease him onto the bolster, he looked up at her. He blinked and rubbed his eyes. “I feel better,” he said. “I’ve talked of nothing but myself. I’ve never asked about your ordeal.”

She put her finger on his lips. “Mine was nothing compared to yours.”

“The candles have all but burnt out. Lie down while I light new ones and you can tell me,” he suggested.

He walked over to light the new candles from the guttering remains of the old ones. Had some of the tension left him? He seemed more at ease as he wedged the new candles into the bases and then went to cleanse his hands at the basin.

He came back to bed, and she recounted the details of her ordeal as they lay side by side. He eased up on one elbow. “I knew you were in Caen.”

She edged nearer to him. “I wanted our son born there. I could feel you.”

Robert shook his head and smiled. “I had the same sense of nearness. I felt your presence.”

She leaned over, her heart beating wildly, and kissed him lovingly, pressing her tongue against his lips. She could tell he was aroused, but again he held himself in check. She drew back and looked at his face. “What’s wrong? Do you no longer find me desirable? I don’t blame you. If I hadn’t trusted Pierre—”

Robert looked away. “Dorianne, your trusting nature is one of the things I love most about you. I desire you more than I can tell you. I can’t understand why you still desire me. I’m not worthy of you.” He took a deep breath. “My desire for you during my incarceration is what led to my sin. I’m ashamed of myself.”

She didn’t understand. “You have nothing to be ashamed of. A lesser man wouldn’t have survived what you did.”

The sorrowful look Robert gave her was troubling. She felt unburdened that he didn’t blame her, but she needed to break through whatever still held him in its thrall. It was clear he didn’t want to say more. What sin could he mean? “What do you mean by
sin
?”

A heavy sigh shuddered through him. He sat up and stared at the bed. “I sinned. I sinned, over and over.”

She sat up next to him, put her hand on his shoulder, and whispered, “Then confess.”

He became impatient. “I’ve confessed again and again to the Bishop. It doesn’t help. It doesn’t cleanse me.”

“Confess to me then,” she whispered.

She’d startled him, but he looked into her eyes.

She moved to sit cross-legged in front of him and took his hands. He averted his eyes. They sat for long silent minutes, holding hands, listening to each other breathing. Then Robert spoke so softly she barely heard him. “Dorianne, a man has needs—strong needs—urges—desires.”

She raised his hands to her lips. “I know. I understand desire. You’ve shown me only too well that a woman can have these desires too. I’ve ached for you since your return. All the time you were gone—”

He pulled his hands away from her mouth, but she would not release her hold on him. Still he stared at the linens. “But when a man has strong desires—and there’s no woman—”

He wrenched his gaze from the bed and looked at her. Her belly roiled at the anguish in his eyes.

“Dorianne—I couldn’t help myself. The more I tried to stop, the more I brought myself relief. It’s a mortal sin, but I couldn’t help myself.”

Dorianne had led a sheltered life, her father’s prisoner. Other than occasional glimpses of bare male flesh during her spying adventures atop the battlements, and the intimate joys Robert had shown her, she was ignorant of the male body. However, she would never forget the long nights she’d lain awake in frustration longing to feel her husband’s manhood deep inside her, especially since his return, knowing he was so near. “You mean, when a man has desires, and—there’s no woman—he can—give pleasure to himself?”

“
Oui
,” he said softly, hanging his head.

She considered this new information. “Can a woman do the same for herself?” she asked. “I had needs too.”

Robert looked back at her. “
Oui,
Dorianne, a woman can pleasure herself if there’s no man to fill her needs, or even—”

His hands had become warmer, his skin redder and he was shifting his hips. She recognised the signs and it aroused her. “Robert, you probably worry I’m shocked by the idea of you—of your—but in truth I find it exciting,” she whispered, feeling the blush redden her cheeks.

He trembled as he drew her into his arms. “In truth, the vision in my head of your touching yourself excites me.”

She drew the chemise over her head and threw it to the floor. “Show me how,” she breathed. He crossed his arms, reached for the hem of the nightshirt and peeled it off his body.

He held her tightly and they were skin to skin for the first time since his rescue. She wanted to scream out her joy and relief. Could he feel her body trembling?

Robert laid her down, and bent to kiss and lick her nipples in turn, then rolled each one between a finger and thumb. “I’ve dreamt of your breasts,” he growled. “Dreamt of suckling and squeezing, of seeing the look on your face I see now.”

She gasped. “Robert—”

He put his forefinger to his lips, then took her hand, placed it on her breast and rolled one nipple with her fingers while he teased the pebbled tip of the other breast. “Squeeze your nipple, Dorianne,” he whispered. “Feel how hard it is.”

She thrust her head back. Molten sensations coursed through her. The passion he ignited burned deep in her belly. Her mouth fell open and she licked her lips. He responded to the open invitation of her tongue, sucking it into his mouth as he kissed her. He laid her other hand on her breast, removing his own. “Squeeze both now. Twice the pleasure.”

His fingers traced slowly down her body to stroke the intimate ache between her legs, stoking the fire. She squeezed her nipples harder, moaning as the heat of her need grew. He slid his fingers in, then out of her slippery wetness, over and over. Soon, soon the crescendo would wash over her. She was nearly there. It had been too long.

Robert took one of her hands from her breast and placed it lower, where his own had brought intense pleasure. He showed her how to caress her aching flesh with her fingers. He took his hand away and bent to suckle her. The intensity of her release made her light headed and she heard her own voice scream Robert’s name. The waves of pleasure went on and on, carrying her away.

When her breathing slowed, she opened her eyes. She lay with her legs open, one hand on her sex, the other still on her breast. Robert’s gaze was full of unshed tears. “Dorianne, that was beautiful,” he rasped. “I never beheld anything more lovely.”

Lazily, she reached for his erection, closed her hand around his rigid flesh and whispered, “Can it not be beautiful when a man pleasures himself?”

She moved to sit beside him, then took his hand and put it on his shaft, folding her hand over his. She stroked with him, then took her hand away and pleasured herself again. She never took her eyes off Robert’s manhood and watched it harden and darken as he clenched his fist tighter, his strokes firmer and faster, his breathing more laboured.

This is what happens to him when he’s inside me.

Robert watched her face. Suddenly he sprang up. “I have to stand up,” he growled, bracing his knees against the side of the bed. She turned to face him and felt the molten desire pool between her legs again as she stroked her ripening bud. It was arousing not to touch him, just to watch as he neared his release.

“I love you, Robert,” she whispered as he leaned forward, his seed gushing on to her belly like a torrent from a breached dam. He cried out his euphoria, panting hard. Sweat shone on his body. The grim mask that had long disfigured his handsome face was gone.

He shuddered and collapsed onto her. They lay together, breathing heavily. She felt no shame, but Robert—? Had she helped him with his demons? Or had she made things worse?

“
Merci
, Dorianne,” he whispered as he came to his knees and drew her up into his arms, pulling her tightly to him. “Your love has freed me from a worse bondage than my torment in Caen.”

Henry was king for nine and twenty years after his victory at Tinchebray. In the year of Our Lord One Thousand One Hundred and Twenty, he was devastated by a personal tragedy which would have far reaching effects on the people of Normandie and England.

Robert and Dorianne sired many more children, though only five survived to adulthood. It amused their parents that Catherine and Marguerite seemed to feel it their responsibility to rule their younger brothers, Alexandre, Laurent and Romain, even after the three became young men. Everyone placed the blame at Robert’s door because he had lavished so much love and attention on his girls.

When
François
de Giroux died, his estates devolved to his daughter, since he had no male heir. There had never been any trace found of the Crusader, Georges de Giroux. This seemed to bring to an end the bitter feud between the Giroux family and the Montbryces.

Robert’s cousin, Izzy de Montbryce was appointed master and took over governance of the castle Giroux for Robert and Dorianne. Izzy decided he would plant an apple orchard, as his father, Hugh had done at Domfort years before. He hoped in time to produce an apple brandy as fine, if not finer than that of Montbryce itself.

Izzy’s brother, Melton de Montbryce took over Domfort on the death of his father, Hugh. Adam de Montbryce succeeded his father, Antoine, as lord of Belisle.

The Montbryces held sway over vast tracts of land in Normandie and England.

Caedmon and Agneta raised their four children, Aidan, Blythe, Edwin and Ragna, spending part of the year in Northumbria at Kirkthwaite Hall, and the winter months in the gentler clime of Ruyton. Blythe became a lady-in-waiting to King Henry’s daughter, Princess Adelaide, who later married the Holy Roman Emperor, Heinrich.

Agneta’s Danish heritage surfaced in Ragna who became known as
The Wild Viking Princess
. From the age of two, she intimidated older cousins at family gatherings. Her parents despaired of her.

Curthose spent the rest of his life in prison—eight and twenty years. He attempted one escape, from Cardiff Castle. He would have succeeded had his horse not become mired in a bog. The episode infuriated Robert de Montbryce.

As for Baudoin and Carys, and the captive sons of Rhodri—those are other stories in the Montbryce Legacy.

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