Rose Bride (37 page)

He had stopped spanking her.

Now his hand rubbed over her burning skin, and she cried out, her nerves stretched raw, her body trembling and ready for his. His hand slipped lower, between her thighs. ‘Margerie,’ he growled. It was a demand. ‘Open for me.’

She bent further forward and her legs parted naturally. She was wet, dripping for him, and he knew it now. Brazenly aroused by his spanking. She had known how it would be, that an act like this would be the only way to break through the ice he had erected around his heart. And all these nights, lying alone and longing for Virgil to kiss her, hold her . . .

All that pain would be at an end if the ice shattered.

He pushed a long finger inside her, and she writhed, her mouth open, panting for him. Wanton, indeed. But only for him. It had only ever been for him.

He raised his hand again, then brought it down on her bottom. Then his hand dipped between her legs again, cleverly stroking, driving her mad with desire.

‘Yes,’ she gasped.

Virgil tumbled her off his lap and she lay on the hard floor, eyes closed, her knees drawn up, one hand between her legs, rubbing greedily at her wetness.

He stood above her, watching. ‘On your hands and knees,’ he ordered her, and the curt note was gone.

She opened her eyes, looking up at him.

He stood, legs apart, his erect cock in his hand. His dark eyes were heavy-lidded, his sensual lips parted, one hand stroking up and down his shaft with a lazy rhythm.

‘Obey me,’ he insisted, his voice liquid.

She rolled over onto her hands and knees, parting her legs instinctively, bowing her forehead to the floor so that her bare arse was presented to him.

He dropped to his knees behind her. His fingers played the taut knot of pleasure at the entrance to her body, rubbing and teasing, his fingers stroking in and out. Then he paused, and she felt his mouth on her there, his tongue entering, pressing inside, then his lips sucking on her wet bud, squeezing, tormenting her. And as he sucked, his fingers twisted back inside, opening out to stretch her wide, then pumped, hard and fast, almost to the wrist.

Suddenly she was there, and falling hard. Margerie tensed, her mouth twisted in a grimace, then gave a high-pitched cry, almost a scream, rocking back against him as pleasure burst through her.

‘I love you,’ she moaned. ‘Oh, Virgil, I love you.’

A few seconds later he was kneeling up, pressing his hard thighs against hers, and she felt the blunt head of his cock enter her, stretching her further. He plunged deep and she groaned, dropping her forehead to the floor again, urging him deep.

He understood her need, slipping his long cock in to the hilt. He was so thick, so rigid, she could not bear it.

She scratched and tore at the floorboards, almost out of her mind with passion. ‘Harder, harder . . . God’s blood, fuck me!’

He growled and dragged her hips against him, pinning her to him while he fucked, thrusting with rapid, powerful strokes. She was nude, completely at his mercy.

‘You are the most beautiful woman on this earth, Margerie. Fate favoured me when it put such a precious jewel in my path.’

She mewed at his praise, thinking it could never be more perfect than this moment, his cock deep inside her, so huge and demanding, and her body responding with instinctive submission, wet and open.

‘Are you still angry, Virgil?’ she asked, fearing that he might retreat behind that ice again, but needing to know. ‘Can you forgive me?’

‘I am the one who needs forgiveness. I was never angry with you. Only with myself.’ His hand slipped beneath her belly, pausing to caress the smooth hard bulge of her baby, then finding her taut bud again. ‘Come for me, Margerie. Give me your pleasure. Give me that gift. Forgive me, I beg you . . .’ His breath came in gasps now, his fingers still working her as he thrust raggedly. ‘Forgive me for hurting you . . . Forgive . . . Forgive . . .’

He gasped, suddenly slamming deep inside her, and she felt the wet heat of his release. Yet still his fingers rubbed, and his cock, not even soft, continued to thrust even after he had finished pumping his seed into her.

She moaned, lost in ecstasy, scarcely able to breathe for pleasure, and felt his other hand stroke her buttocks, still aching where he had spanked her, soothing the hot skin.

Being spanked tonight, bending for him, taking the strict chastisement of his hand, all that had stripped her of defences. Removed her last shred of resistance to the love she had been harbouring inside her heart. She did not want him to hurt her. No, she wanted to be bare before him, dignity lost, to kneel and serve, and know he would do the same for her.

Give me your pleasure. Give me that gift.

Listening to him again in her head, like a refrain of music echoing on the air, she suddenly understood what he meant. His words were not merely those of a man urging his lover to climax, but deeply significant. The pleasure they felt with each other’s bodies, the pleasure this beautiful intimacy gave them, it was a precious gift. Not to be shared with anyone else, but experienced together, tasted on each other’s lips and skin.

This love was an elixir of their own mixing, and to drink it would heal them forever.

‘Can you forgive
me
, Margerie?’ he whispered, his voice tortured, leaning over her, his lips on her back. ‘I have treated you so badly this past month. I have hurt and neglected you, too bound up in my own personal hell to see what I was doing.’ He hesitated, and his words became bleak. ‘I will understand if you say you cannot forgive me. I have not been the husband you deserve.’

‘I forgive you, Virgil,’ she sobbed, and as his fingers rubbed between her legs, finally allowed herself to arch into pleasure. ‘I love you and forgive you.’

She came repeatedly, her body rigid as climax after climax swept over her, clamping down on his organ inside her, her cries only fading to silence when his teasing fingers dropped away.

He held her tight then, kissing her, whispering her name, stroking the skin where his hand had fallen so firmly.

He had not said he loved her, Margerie only realised later, cradled in his arms before the fire. The ice about his heart was still in place. But she had distinctly heard it crack tonight. That was something.

With a man whose heart was so closely guarded, that might be the best she could hope for.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Margerie was exhausted, shielding her eyes against the brilliant August sunshine. The hill had been steep, but worth the climb. Now she could see right across the valley to where the road to London snaked between trees and vanished beyond the river bend. She sighed and rubbed a hand absentmindedly across her swollen belly. Her gown was tight again, and would need to be let out another few inches. Another month, the midwife had said, and clucked her tongue at the empty nursery, with so much still needing to be done.

There would be a crib made for the nursery. But the babe would sleep in her own bed for the first few months, Margerie was determined. And she would not employ a wet nurse, regardless of Mistress Hayes’s disapproval. The housekeeper seemed to hold her in awe, perhaps for having lived at court so long, or being one whose grandfather had served the king with distinction.

‘A lady should not feed her own babe,’ Mistress Hayes had insisted one morning after breakfast, then mentioned the names of several women in the village who would be proud to act as wet nurse to Mistress Elton.

But Margerie had refused. She cared nothing for the niceties of rank, only that she should not be separated from her child when he – or she – finally arrived. Not even for a few hours.

‘I am no lady,’ she told Mistress Hayes firmly. ‘I shall do well enough without a wet nurse.’

‘And will Mistress Tulkey be returning to oversee your confinement? For there must be someone to give me my orders while you are . . . indisposed.’

Mistress Hayes looked at her with bright, insistent eyes. She was an inveterate meddler, who was clearly intent on bringing the two women together, despite Virgil’s stern injunction that Margerie was not to visit his mother or Christina while he was at court.

‘Perhaps you could invite her to supper one evening, mistress,’ Mistress Haynes pondered, clearing away the breakfast tray. ‘I have birthed no children myself, but Mistress Tulkey will know what is to be done.’

‘Mistress Hayes, I cannot go against my husband’s wishes even in his absence. He is master in this house, or had you forgotten? When I am indisposed, you may order the household to your own satisfaction. The rest will take care of itself. And I do not need Mistress Tulkey to hold my hand.’ She had been adamant on that score. ‘Goodness, I am not the only woman who has had to face giving birth alone. My husband is at court and cannot be spared. That is an end to the matter.’

But in truth Margerie was a little nervous about her impending confinement. Another month . . .

Soon she would have to restrict her movements to the house alone, then to her stuffy bedchamber with the shutters closed to keep out the light. It would be expected, and to flout tradition would bring down yet more censure on her head. She knew there had been whispers about her in the village, for she had heard Master Hayes telling his wife only the other day what the villagers were saying of their new mistress.

So no more playing in the gardens with Virgil’s two dogs. No more climbing hills in the hot sunshine. No more wandering the grounds with one of Virgil’s letters in her hand, whiling away the interminable days until the babe arrived.

But oh, this view! She loved the countryside, it was so restful on the eye. And although she missed the bustle and grandeur of the royal court, she was not afraid to live in this quiet spot. There were none here who would pursue and torment her for their sport, nor did she have to lie and conceal the truth at every turn. Here amongst Kent’s green hills, she was able to live and speak freely, without fear of intrigue.

Virgil wrote to her every few weeks – long leisurely letters describing the antics and latest gossip at court, the progress of Queen Jane’s pregnancy, which was almost keeping pace with her own, and always ending with a coded promise of what he would do to her once they were together again.

His latest letter had made her cry as she came to the end, wishing Virgil was there in person to hold and kiss her. For as her belly grew larger, so did her heart, swelling with emotion at the slightest thing.

I miss you more than words can say, my dearest wife, and would be with you at Applegate if I could. But duty keeps me here until autumn at least, when the queen should be brought to bed with her royal child. Master Greene has said he will give me leave to go if your own confinement comes early, but he cannot make a promise of it.

Be sure that when I do see you again, it will be with such passion, nothing on this earth could keep our lips from meeting.

Ever your servant, as much as your husband, V.

She had laughed at that, pressing the letter to her lips and wishing it was his mouth she kissed.

Her servant! He was her master rather, and her world.

And this was his child in her belly. If only he could be brought to believe that, she thought, and stared wistfully across the valley.

‘Ho there!’ a deep male voice greeted her cheerfully as she began to descend the hill again, and she turned, staring at the rather swarthy-looking man who had emerged from the clump of trees at the top of the hill.

He was dragging a pale-skinned, fair-haired woman behind him, and Margerie realised with a shock that this must be Christina, Virgil’s former betrothed.

Which meant that this young man . . .

He bowed before her, grinning. ‘I should not have yelled like that. But I did not want to miss speaking with you. You must be Mistress Elton. My name is Delacour, and this is my wife, Christina.’

She curtseyed. ‘I know who you are, sir,’ she said shyly. ‘I can see the manor house from the upper windows at Applegate. I am glad to meet you both at last.’

‘You must forgive me for never having ridden over to introduce myself, Mistress Elton. But my wife does not enjoy the best of health, and her care is my constant concern.’

She liked his smile, both friendly and a little saucy at the same time. He was a straightforward young man, she thought, if somewhat rough around the edges, and not at all what she had expected from Virgil’s description of Christina’s lusty and uncouth suitor.

Christina did indeed look sick though. Her large eyes were red-rimmed as though she had not been sleeping, with dark bruise-like shadows beneath, and although her skin was delicately pale, she had a flush in each cheek, as though touched by the heat.

She glanced now at her husband, a flash of irritation in her face, then nodded reluctantly to Margerie. No doubt she thought it beneath her station to curtsey to a woman of Margerie’s reputation, even if her husband had no complaint with her.

‘Mistress
Elton
,’ Christina said with heavy emphasis, then lowered her gaze to Margerie’s swollen belly. She was oddly breathless, though she did not appear to have been exerting herself. ‘I am surprised to see you out of doors, let alone up a hill. Your confinement must be due soon, surely?’