The Marriage Bed (The Medieval Knights Series) (27 page)

"You flew away," she said, her hair wet and sticky, molded to her skull. She looked like a new-hatched chick, fragile and damp. "You flew away and left me."

"I am here, Isabel," he said, wrapping his arms around her, lifting her into the bath.

"Now," she accused softly.

"Always," he promised.

The word caressed her, and she wanted to nest in its comfort. Would that it were so, but she knew that it was not. She was no fool. Richard was worried; he would say anything to give her rest. He would not stay. He could not be a Benedictine Brother in Dornei.

She allowed him to bathe her, his hands gentle and slow, the soap sweet and soothing. The heat of the bath penetrated her bones, forcing out the chill of Adam's touch and the cold terror of his attack.

Had she caused it?

The thought would not leave her.

Perhaps she was just like Aelis. Perhaps she drove men to violence. Perhaps she was responsible for his death.

Richard was thorough in his washing. Her arms and hands he touched, finger by finger, joint by joint. Her legs and feet he massaged with soapy water, the linen soft and slick. Her hair he washed, his hands tender as he rubbed her scalp, forcing the blood to relinquish its hold on her. All done as lovingly as a father to a child or a monk to a penitent. 'Twas no husband who washed her so.

He wanted her so badly that he fair shook with passion. Nay, 'twas more than passion, it was a tide of need, longing, and gratitude which washed over him as surely as water washed Isabel clean of all memory of Adam's foul attack. Isabel was whole and safe; 'twas all that mattered to him. He thanked God that he had sought and found her when he had. And he prayed to God that he would not harm his wife by showing his desire for her when she plainly did not want him, not as a man. She needed his strength and his protection; his desire for her was a burden she had shaken off last night on their marriage bed.

Lifting her from the tub like a child, he dried her with a length of linen. She stood still, unresisting, unresponsive. Docile, as Isabel surely never was.

Once dried, she hopped upon the bed and covered herself with furs. Yet still she trembled. It tore a hole in his heart to see his wild, bright Isabel so chained by fear.

He stripped off his own bloody garments and tossed them out the wind hole to land where they would. Isabel followed the action with her eyes, and then kept her eyes upon him as he sank into the water she had so recently vacated. 'Twas cooling, and he hurried about his task. He would be washed of all sign of his killing before he touched her again. A symbol only; he felt no remorse for killing Adam. And he felt no guilt for his lack of remorse. Protecting Isabel was his only goal, and he had succeeded, by bare moments. He had almost failed her.

Never again.

"We will have no clothing left if you keep throwing it out the wind hole," she said with a hesitant smile.

"Is not Dornei prosperous?" He smiled back.

"Yea, but only because we wear our clothing more than once." Her gaze dropped to her lap, and she said tonelessly, "That gown was once my mother's."

"I am sorry, Isabel," he said softly, his eyes searching hers. "My mother had many gowns which would please you. When we ride to Warefeld, they are yours."

She nodded her reply.

She could read the desire in his eyes, and her trembling increased. He had looked just so when he had kissed her that long-ago time. Perhaps that kiss, that one kiss, had not been a lie.

No matter. She did not want to want him, not as she had; it hurt too deeply when Richard changed his mind and changed his life.

She did not trust him. She did not dare. With her life, yea, and with the keeping of Dornei, possibly. But with her heart? Nay, she would not trust him with her heart.

He had looked at her once before as he was looking at her now, his blue eyes deep as dusk and as shining as the stars. His brows slashed low and dark, his lips full and tight against his teeth—it was the look of a man trapped in the chains of desire. Once before, she had seen such a look on Richard's face and she had believed what she would never believe again: that Richard loved her. Men could battle desire and lose without once touching love; Richard and Adam together had taught her that.

Richard rose from the water hard and ready, his body revealing the depth of his desire. His dark eyes were as hot with passion as she was certain hers were cold with caution. He walked to the bed without even drying himself, the water running from his hard body, rivulets that ran together to catch in the hair on his chest and belly and thighs. His eyes dominated the room, his cheekbones sharp on his face, and his mouth relaxed; he was coming for her, to her, wet and hard, dark and lean, no matter that she trembled on the bed.

He could not know that she trembled for him.

The sun was just setting, a gentle sunset of pink and yellow, the low-slung clouds purple-gray and hovering over the treetops. Even in so faint a light, she could read the ardor in his eyes. Always desire and never love. Guilt would follow hard on passion's heels, and then he would reject her. She had only to remember that single kiss to know what would happen between them tomorrow.

"Isabel," he said, leaning over her, his skin shining and moist, the scent of soap sweet and fresh. His hair was slicked back from his face, black and gleaming, the ends dripping onto his shoulders... and onto her. "I want you," he breathed, as if speaking it would make it so.

She could not speak. It was as if he had stolen all the air from the room and left her none. His body was so hot, she could feel waves of heat rolling off him, drying him more quickly than any cloth. She resisted the urge to touch him, to feel the coolness of water being burned away by his heat. He would burn her.

She could not look into his eyes. She would lose all if she stared into his heart. She looked instead at a slender thread of water making its hurried way down his furred chest, over his heartbeat, into the hair of his groin, where it was lost, consumed.

Never again.

She could not do this. Not for three years. Not for a night.

"I need you," he said, his voice hoarse with emotion.

Desire only. Not love. He needed her? Nay, he needed a woman. Tomorrow he would run from her, as he had before.

Yet what did she need? A child. She needed a child. For tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, she needed a child. Richard was the means. If she could only remember that, if she could do her duty in that, to give Dornei a child to feed its legacy, she would be free of this agony. She would be free of him.

"Take me," she said, closing her eyes against the sight of him.

She would submit to him; it was her marital duty, but she was not commanded to open her heart to the pain he would leave in passion's wake.

It would not be difficult; he would be quick and furtive, guilt goading him to hurry. She had tasted of his skill last night; she knew what to expect. Men and their mauling were so similar, so predictable.

With his first touch, she knew.

It was nothing like last night.

His hands stroked her face, fingertips exploring the shape and scope of her features. He traced a finger down her nose, around her lips, and to her throat; so gently, so tenderly did he touch her that she shuddered her response. He pulled her to the edge of the bed, just like last night.

Nothing like last night.

She could see the thudding of his heart beneath muscle, the water of his bath gone like morning mist. She closed her eyes and pressed them tight; she would starve her awakening desire by refusing sight of him.

His hands spanned her skull and he kissed her temple, his breath warm and sweet. Nothing like Adam's breath, nothing like Adam's smell. Richard smelled good to her, so good that she yearned to bury her face in his chest and breathe deeply of him. She did not. Her duty did not require it. This bedding was all of duty; she would make it so.

"You are well, Isabel?" he asked, and she could feel his scrutiny of her face through her closed eyes. "This mating will not... hurt you?"

He was asking her about Adam, this she understood. But Adam was a dim and fading memory, pushed away by Richard's hands and Richard's look and Richard's scent. All that was left of Adam was the guilt she felt. Richard was so much more than Adam.

Yet she would not admit it to him.

"Nay," she said, forcing herself to look at him, forcing herself to keep her eyes cold and her manner dignified. "You may proceed. I am ready."

Richard's eyes were so dark, so full of pain and passion, that she looked away quickly before she was undone.

"Nay," he breathed, "You are far from ready. Yet I will take you there."

Fear and anticipation rose within her in equal parts; she did not want to be taken, not in the way he meant the words. Why could he not simply part her legs and be done with it? What more did duty require?

But Richard was beyond duty.

She was so still, his Isabel, so still and quiet. She held herself in, like a hooded falcon on a tether, stiff and still and careful. The eagerness and hope she had displayed as a virgin on her marriage bed was gone, replaced by this cold woman who only wanted him to hurry. He had done this to her, he had transformed her.

He would heal her.

He wanted the Isabel she had been, before he had crushed her spirit.

She sat on a pelt of marten fur, her drying hair falling around her slender nudity. Never had she looked more fragile or more desirable. Never had she been so unreadable. Yet even in that, she spoke volumes; Isabel had barred the gate against him. Always she had been as open as the sky at midday, sparkling, sunny, warm. Now she was night—dark, cold, and mysterious.

Yea, he did not know how to read this Isabel, yet the night held its own pleasures, the night hosted the stars, familiar and bright. He would learn Isabel in all her moods, be they light or dark, and he would find his way. He would not lose her.

Not again.

Not any more than he already had.

She would not even look at him.

Very well, then he would reach her by touch and touch alone. God willing, he would succeed.

He ran a hand over the length of her hair, so dark and smooth, still damp from her bathing. He lifted the mass of her heavy hair from the base of her neck and fanned it out, letting it fall to her back, cloaking her nakedness. For a moment only, before he repeated the gesture, lifting, falling, lifting, falling; her body sheathed, then exposed, and again, to his eyes. It was an erotic dance he played upon her hair, teasing his eyes with the sight of her. "Your hair is wet," he said.

"As is yours," she answered, her eyes firmly closed against him.

"Nay, mine is almost dried. Touch and see," he said.

"Nay!" she snapped, clasping her hands together in her lap.

She would not touch him.

Yet he would touch her.

He pulled her hair forward, over her upthrust breasts, covering her. The ends pooled in her lap, curling, drying. He allowed his hands, his willful hands, to have their way, running down the length of her hair, feeling the fragility of her chest, the soft mounds of her breasts, the slenderness of her ribs... the hammering of her heart.

"Your hair," he said, playing with a curl that rested on her hip, absorbing the velvet texture of her skin; "your hair has called to me for season upon season, night unto day, year after year."

Her breath caught and she trembled. And kept her eyes closed against him.

"I would pray most diligently, most fervently, that you would bind your hair. Hide it beneath a wimple, tie it off in a plait, anything to keep it from my eyes. Yet you would not. How did you know that your hair was my undoing, Isabel? How did you know me so well?"

"I did not know," she said softly.

Richard smiled and followed the long trail of a curl with his fingertip. "You knew."

"Nay. I—"

"You knew how I wanted you, how every moment of my life at Malton and beyond was filled with the fight of refusing you. Refusing every look, every sidelong glance, every smile, every touch. Yea, you knew how I wanted you. You know me too well not to have known."

He curled his hands around her breasts, and she gasped, her nipples hard and hot beneath the cool weight of her hair.

"Your hair is almost dried," he said, fondling her.

Isabel dropped her chin to her chest and moaned softly.

This was nothing like the last time.

Richard was making no claim of performing against his will a duty he had no desire to perform. This was too close to her dreams, too much of what she had imagined coupling with Richard to be like. Even his words were designed to ignite a flame in her. Did she not long to hear that Richard had desired her for as long as she had wanted him? She could not stand long against this assault. She could barely stand against Richard and his allure when he was aloof; how well when he was as passionate and determined as only Richard of Warefeld could be?

She had to keep her heart safe, even as she allowed him into her body. If only he would hurry and be done. This seductive adventure would be her undoing, in spite of her refusal to behold him in his natural glory.

He was a man. No monk looked as he did, spoke as he did, touched as...

Richard's mouth was at her throat, his hand once more upon her breast, and the dual sensations tumbled her heart into her hips, where it continued to beat most urgently. She squirmed against the weight of desire as it settled between her she felt hot and full.

And empty.

His mouth moved up her throat, to her jaw and then her cheek. So gentle, so delicate were his kisses, like sun on skin after a long, cloudy day; so welcome. She sighed her satisfaction and could feel his smile as his hands spanned her waist, his thumbs resting beneath her breasts.

This would not do.

Would she never stop tumbling into Richard's arms if he did but smile at her?

But he was more than smiling now.

His mouth kissed the corner of hers, and she trembled before the tingle that surged through her body. When had Richard learned to be so tender? So gentle? The kiss they had shared in the stable had been nothing like this.