A Warrior's Bride Page 12

  Aileas’s face flushed like the blushing bride she was. “I gather your acquaintance numbers in the hundreds, my lord. Surely the cost would be prohibitive!”

  “Who cares about the cost?” he replied, waving his goblet dismissively. “I would have all men envy me!”

  “But surely we could not afford it,” she demurred.

  “Let us ask Richard, shall we?”

  “Right now?”

  He gave her a quizzical look, until he felt her squeeze his thigh in an astonishingly bold gesture. “No, I suppose not. I fear I would not have the concentration to attend.”

  “Nor I, my lord,” his bride said gravely.

  “Perhaps later, when you go through the household accounts with Herbert, you will see that I can afford to have more than one or two feasts in a year.”

  Aileas moved her hand away. “Household accounts? With Herbert?”

  “Oh, I know, this is not the time to discuss such business. Come!” He grabbed her hand and pulled her to her feet. “Clear the floor!” he bellowed “My bride and I wish to dance!”

  “George, I—” Aileas began desperately as servants rushed to do his bidding. She didn’t know how to dance. She could ride as well as any man, shoot an arrow better than most, use a sword if need be, and a mace if she must, but she had never been taught to dance.

  Ignoring her, George tugged her around the table and to the center of the floor, where the tables had been taken down with the dispatch one might expect if they were suddenly attacked. At the moment, Aileas thought that would be preferable.

  “Musicians!” he called. “A carole. Something lively, for truly, my feet feel winged tonight!” Holding her hand aloft, George slowly walked in a circle. “It is true, gentlemen, that there is, unfortunately, a dearth of ladies. Still, join us and dance, for I must and shall have dancing on my wedding day!”

  “George, please!” Aileas protested, her grip tightening, but the leader of the musicians had already lifted the bow of his fithele.

  Perhaps no one will join us and I will be spared, Aileas thought desperately.

  Sir Richard quickly got to his feet and made a deep bow toward Lady Margot, who rose at once. As several other revelers came forward, Aileas wished the musicians would all suddenly drop down in a faint. Or maybe she could. “Sir George,” she said weakly, “I don’t think—”

  Before she could finish, however, the music for the carole began.

  Aileas never did know how she managed to keep on her feet for the entire dance. She felt as if she were being pulled this way, then that, then made to whirl around like some kind of demented madwoman. It was a wonder she didn’t faint, or get thrown aside like meat for the dogs, or trip and fall headlong into a table. When the dance finally ended, she had to hold on to George by the shoulders to keep steady.

  Panting, she looked up at him. He was regarding her with an expression she couldn’t quite read. “You’ve never done that before, have you?” he asked quietly as Sir Richard led an infuriatingly serene Lady Margot back to her place. The other dancers staggered over to the remaining tables and downed their wine or joined in companionable laughter.

  “No,” she confessed. “That was what I was trying to tell you.”

  “Do you know an estampie?”

  She let go of him. “No.”

  “A round dance?”

  “No.”

  “Well, no matter,” he said indulgently.

  As if she were an ignorant child.

  But she wasn’t. She simply didn’t know how to dance.

  She began to bristle, until he took hold of her hand, and all her annoyance fled at the touch of his lean, strong fingers. “Perhaps you would care to retire?”

  Her heart, already beating rapidly from the exercise of the dance, seemed to pound against her ribs. “As you wish, my lord,” she replied quietly.

  Her body throbbing, her heart racing, she managed to make her obeisance to her new husband. As calmly and regally as possible, she walked to the tower stairs with all the dignity she could command.

  But the moment she was out of sight of the company, Aileas gave a throaty chuckle, hoisted her skirt and took the stairs two at a time, knowing she was about to experience what her brothers and Rufus and all the other men in her father’s castle talked about almost constantly. What had dominated her thoughts this past fortnight, despite her best efforts, when she wasn’t worried about fitting into the life of Ravensloft Castle.

  Living in the countryside as she did, she had learned early the nature of breeding. Later, though, as she spent time in the company of her brothers and the soldiers, she had come to realize that there was much more to it than mere procreation, at least when it came to people. She had seen the secretive smiles, nudges and winks the men shared, as if they were all enjoying some truly marvelous jest. Once, she had asked what they were talking about, but they had grown suddenly and frustratingly silent and then commanded her to leave, as if she had committed a great sin.

  Therefore, she had learned to shrink back in the shadows when the talk turned to women, so that she was quite forgotten.

  Not that they described their activities in great detail. No. Just enough to let her guess the rest, including the notion that there seemed to be an astonishing number of variations and positions, and that the basic act was just that—basic. Like anything basic, be it a weapon or a piece of furniture, it could be improved upon with creativity.

  The one great given was that whatever they had been doing with women, each one of them had enjoyed it immensely and was equally certain that the women had. too. And certain women were held in high esteem—even awe—based upon their abilities in bed.

  Now, as she recalled those overheard conversations, a host of wild imaginings coursed through her brain, each one featuring her charming, handsome husband. She was very determined to be as enthusiastic and creative as any woman she had ever heard about.

  She reached the bedchamber and shoved open the door. Inside, Elma, who had obviously been awaiting her, gasped and jumped up from the stool upon which she had been sitting. “My lady!” she cried. “I thought you would be some time yet.”

  “Alas, I do not dance!” Aileas replied, twirling around as if to give the lie to her statement.

  Elma gave her an odd look. “Shall I help you with your gown?”

  “Yes. And fold it carefully, although Lord knows when I’ll ever have need of it again.” With some effort, she managed to stay still while Elma unlaced her and helped her from the gown, so that she stood clad only in her thin white shift.

  “It’s very warm in this room, isn’t it?” she demanded, going to the window and opening the linen shutter as Elma carefully folded the gown. “There is too much coal in the brazier.”

  “Forgive me, my lady.”

  “Of course I forgive you, Elma. It’s too late in the season for a brazier, anyway.”

  “I suppose Sir George didn’t want you getting cold, my lady.”

  “Or himself. Look at all the coverings on the bed—” Aileas glanced at the bed, blushed and hesitated. “Well, no matter. We’ll pack most of them up tomorrow.”

  “As you wish, my lady.”

  “And all these candles! So much light is not necessary, Elma.” Aileas quickly went to the candle stand nearest the bed and blew out each of the fine beeswax candles.

  “Shall I help you with your hair?”

  “No, thank you. I’m sure I can manage the rest by myself, Elma. Why don’t you join the other servants in the kitchen? I’m certain Sir George has arranged fine food and drink for all of you, too.”

  Elma nodded and went to the door with reluctant steps. “Good night, my lady.”

  “Good night, Elma.”

  When she was gone and the door closed, Aileas regarded the bed for a long moment before being overcome by an irresistible temptation, which she acted upon at once.

  She ran and jumped, falling back into the softness of the feather bed and giggling. “Such a sinful luxury,�
�� she said aloud, running her hands over the satiny coverlet.

  “I see nothing particularly sinful about luxury, as long as one also does one’s duty by the poor.”

  With a gasp, Aileas sat up and stared at her husband, who was leaning against the closed door with a goblet held lightly in his hand, as if he had somehow been magically transported there from the hall below. “I...I didn’t hear you enter!”

  “I can be as quiet as a cat when I wish to be, my lady,” he said, and to her, it was as if he could purr like a cat, too. He took a final sip from the silver goblet before setting it down on the nearest table. Then he sauntered toward the bed, removing his belt as he did so. “I’m afraid I was rather rude to our guests. By rights, I should still be below, acting the perfect host.”

  Aileas could think of no response beyond attempting to swallow, for her mouth was suddenly very dry. He slowly ran his gaze over her while he set his belt on a chair, and she instantly realized her shift was rather far up her legs. A modest maiden would have tugged it down at once.

  She didn’t, for she felt powerless to do anything except watch him as he began to undo the lacing at the throat of his tunic, his blue eyes continuing to regard her steadily, as inscrutable as a cat’s.

  “Do you like my castle?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “And this room? Does it meet with your approval?” he inquired before pulling his tunic over his head and tossing it aside, leaving him in a fine white shirt that hung to the middle of his powerful thighs, which were encased in tight breeches.

  The tunic landed on the floor with a muffled thump, and the sight of an expensive garment being treated in such a cavalier manner finally gave Aileas the impetus to move. She scrambled off the bed and picked it up, folding it over her arm, aware of its soft texture, and that it smelled of him.

  “Forgive me, my lady,” he said softly, with a little smile. “I wasn’t thinking.”

  Neither was she, exactly, she realized as she set it down on the closest of his chests. When she turned back, his shirt was neatly folded and laid on a table.

  He stood before her, half-naked, his chest gleaming in the glow from the brazier, his hair brushing his broad shoulders.

  He was marvelous, magnificent, with a look of purely primitive desire on his face. No longer was he the coolly charming, eloquent Sir George de Gramercie. He was a man yearning for a woman. For her.

  No matter how many women he might have had, she would make him feel as he never had before. She would show him that even if she could not dance, and if she had no knowledge of the proper way to eat a dish, there were other things she did know that would make those seem unimportant.

  She remembered everything she had heard and wanted to do it all, at once. With him. For him. She went toward him swiftly, not as a timid virgin, hesitant and modest, but as a woman equal in her urgent need. A desire that was as strong, as overwhelming and as primitive as anything she had ever felt in her life overwhelmed her.

  As if he sensed her wishes, they came together in mutual heat and passion. She pressed herself against him, kissing him with all the fiery hunger he inspired.

  And tonight, it was she who invaded his mouth with her eager tongue. Her hands that caressed and stroked and touched. For a moment, he was motionless—but only a moment, until he responded with equal fervor. With a growl, he grabbed her buttocks and ground against her, letting her feel his arousal.

  She knew of so many things to do. So many ways to give him pleasure. And that was what she wanted more than anything now, to give him pleasure.

  A low moan escaped his lips as her tongue flicked across one nipple, then the other. Then harder, using tongue and lips, while her hands continued to stroke and caress his back, his chest, his thighs. Teasing him. Cajoling him. Inflaming him.

  Pushing his breeches lower.

  She gripped him lightly, gently rubbing. Then she knelt.

  He gasped when she took him into her mouth. “What are you—” His words dissolved into a groan as she continued, feeling the tension in him increasing. He began to move inside her, thrusting and panting.

  Then he stopped and moved away, his eyes dark with desire as he swiftly yanked off his breeches and pulled her to her feet.

  Once again, he took her mouth, possessively, urgently, stripping the shift from her body before he picked her up and laid her, panting, on the bed. His body covered hers and he pressed another heated kiss to her lips.

  She was not remembering any overheard whispers now; she was acting for herself as she opened her legs for him, arching to meet him. He eased himself into her, and she bit her lip against the slight pain so that she would not cry out and interrupt this moment.

  For it was but a brief discomfort, soon forgotten. With a sure rhythm he moved inside her, tension building in her, too. Her body seemed strained with a sweet, unearthly tautness, increased by the play of his hands and mouth upon her.

  She wrapped her legs about him, urging him with half-muttered words and entreaties, hardly knowing what she was saying, crying out when tension finally broke like the clap of thunder heralding a storm. Then he, too, gave a strangled, guttural cry and fell against her, his breath hot on her breasts.

  Each satisfied and spent, they slept a pure, deep sleep, entwined together, the luxurious covers a crumpled tangle beneath them.

  George awoke with a long, slow, blissfully contented sigh. It was morning, of that he was sure, for his eyelids could not shield out the light completely.

  And yet he was in no hurry to get up. He let his mind drift lazily, remembering his wedding night.

  A slow smile spread over his face as he recalled with what haste and incredible desire he had made love to his bride. God’s wounds, he had never experienced making love with such passion and fervor and excitement and... shock.

  He had expected to take some time. To go slowly and gently. Instead, she had ambushed him right from the start, his control slipping away from the moment he entered the bedroom and saw her naked legs on the silken coverlet, her shift shoved up invitingly. It had taken a great effort then to sound calm and act composed.

  Indeed, his composure had lasted only a little time, for each move she made sent new waves of passionate desire coursing through his veins, whether bending to retrieve his clothing so that her breasts, visible through her thin shift, were silhouetted in the dim glow from the brazier, or stroking his tunic. It was as if he had never truly wanted a woman before.

  When she had come to him, meeting him boldly, he had been delighted. When she knelt, and then...well, of all the things he might have hoped his bride would do on their wedding night, he had never dared hope for that. At once he had been overwhelmed and completely without control.

  Without control.

  He stiffened instinctively. His father’s face appeared before him with that wondering, disappointed look.

  George opened his eyes and stared at the roof of his bed. This was different, he told himself. Last night he had felt love, not anger. Passion, not rage.

  He reached out to touch Aileas, to draw her to him, intending to make love with her again, only this time slowly and leisurely, to give her pleasure.

  Aileas wasn’t there. The bed was empty, save for himself. He sat up and surveyed the room. Her gown was not in sight, and his breeches were now folded and laid upon his largest clothing chest, along with his shirt and tunic.

  He might have known that Sir Thomas’s daughter would not act like most brides after their wedding night, and that a daughter of Sir Thomas’s would not allow herself the luxury of resting past dawn, even on this morning. The fact that she could rise and leave without disturbing him was something to be glad of, too, and not to wonder at.

  Whistling jauntily as he dressed, he congratulated himself on his considerate and wonderful bride.

  Chapter Ten

  George left the bedchamber and trotted down the stairs.

  Aileas wasn’t in the hall, directing the servants, as he had expected. In
deed, the hall still bore every sign one could expect of last night’s feasting. Several of his men slumbered, apparently right where they had been sitting until overcome by exhaustion, leaning back against the wall or spread out on the benches.

  Looking rather the worse for celebrating, a few servants made desultory attempts to clean up the remains of food that even the sated dogs had left. When they saw George, their movements quickened. Upon questioning, each was very clear that they acted on their own marvelous initiative; the new mistress of Ravensloft had left the hall without a word or order to anyone.

  Hungry and puzzled, George continued to the kitchen, which looked even worse than the hall. If the servants had gone berserk and rioted, the place would have been only slightly more unsightly. The pots were unscrubbed; the tables were covered with leftover pastries and scraps; the fires were out; and the only inhabitant was a loudly snoring Gaston, lying on the ground and clutching what appeared to be an empty wineskin to his plump chest.

  George grabbed the heel of a loaf of bread and wondered where the devil Aileas could have gone and what she could possibly be doing.

  Outside, a quick glance at the sun proved that it was already well beyond the time for mass, so he doubted Aileas would be in the chapel.

  His gaze lit upon the stables and he grinned with satisfaction. She had probably gone to see that horse of hers.

  He started across the courtyard, noting that only one man, whose helmet was sitting lopsided on his head, stood on duty at the gate. The fellow straightened so abruptly when he saw George that he let go of his spear. When trying to retrieve it, his helmet fell to the ground and rolled away. The guard lunged for it and nearly tripped over his weapon.

  “Not so much ale next time!” George called out cheerfully. “I’m glad to see you are in your place, at least.”

  The man grinned with sheepish camaraderie and saluted.

  Inwardly, however, his master was not nearly so pleased as he looked. Anybody could ride in, he thought grimly, if they had a mind to. It was a good thing Sir Thomas had already gone home, or he would have bent George’s ear, pointing out the lax behavior of his men.