way to the hall.
Together she and Roland entered the larger chamber decorated with white linen on the tables, fresh rushes on the floors and new candles in the stands and on the tables. Garlands of evergreen hung from the sconces—Tamsin’s doing, no doubt. Their scent filled the air, along with that of the food coming from the kitchen.
“Where’s the wine?” her father demanded.
A servant hurried forward with a goblet, and her father couldn’t even wait for Father Bryan to say grace before downing the contents in a gulp. His amen was more of a belch.
The rest of the guests, clearly not troubled by any thoughts other than the food, the company and the entertainment to come, ate and drank with gusto, tossing bones and bits of meat to the hounds wandering among the tables. The servants were kept busy bringing more ale and wine, along with soups, roasted meat, pottages and bread, pastries and sweetmeats. As miserly as her father could be, he spared no expense when it came to food and drink, or her dowry, either, to ensure the alliance he craved.
Sitting beside her as stiff as a soldier on parade, Roland ate sparingly and drank less. He barely touched the dainties she’d prepared with her own hands. Thankfully, his manners were impeccable—a pleasant surprise, for his father and older brother had been distinctly lacking in that regard.
Unfortunately, Roland rarely spoke. She had already learned he wasn’t a talkative man, but she wished he would say something more in response to her comments and queries than a simple yes or no, especially with Tamsin and Rheged looking on.
Because they were, and because other guests also occasionally glanced their way, she made no sign that she was at all disturbed. She kept up a string of observations about the guests, the harvest, trade, the weather—anything she could think of. She took comfort from the fact that if Roland didn’t answer, at least he didn’t silence her.
Her father paid no heed to her at all, his attention focused on the food, and especially the wine.
At last the meal was finished. At about the same time her father began to nod off in his chair, in spite of the presence of the guests and his new son-in-law. She glanced at her husband, but if he noticed her father’s state, he mercifully made no sign.
She surreptitiously gestured for Denly, one of the senior household servants, to draw near. “Have two of the men assist my father to his bedchamber,” she said quietly. “And it’s time for the entertainment, so the tables should be cleared and removed.”
Denly nodded and hurried to summon Arnhelm and Verdan, two soldiers who’d served in the household in one way or another since boyhood, while a minstrel with curly hair and a weak chin struck up a merry tune. Once an open space was cleared for dancing, several couples moved to take their places facing one another.
Mavis turned expectantly to her husband. “Will you dance with me, Roland?”
“I regret, my lady, that I do not dance,” he gravely replied, his expression inscrutable. “You may dance if you wish.”
“No, it’s all right,” she assured him, although her toe began to tap in time to the music. She had always enjoyed dancing, but she was a married woman now, with a husband to please, and please him she would, for if the feelings inspired by that kiss were anything to judge by, he would please her, too. “Perhaps you would rather retire, my lord?”
He turned to her with an expression in his dark eyes that made her heart race. “I would indeed,” he said as he rose and held out his hand to help her to her feet. The moment she grasped it, she could feel his strength. Excitement and anticipation began to surge within her.
Every head swiveled in their direction. Suddenly, without warning, without a word, he swept her into his arms and started toward the stairs as if she were one of the Sabines and he an ancient Roman warrior claiming her for his own.
Gasps, whispers and a few chuckles followed her, but she didn’t care. Nor was she afraid. She had seen the gentle man residing beneath that stern warrior’s visage, and all that she could think of was the night to come and the promise of the bedchamber.
So she wrapped her arms about his neck and laid her head upon his shoulder. Neither spoke, not even when he took the stairs two at a time, or shouldered open her chamber door and carried her across the threshold into the room dimly lit with a candle. He set her slowly down amid the boxes and chests ready for their journey tomorrow.
Still without speaking, he drew her into his arms and kissed her as if he’d waited long years to hold her in his arms and his ardor could no longer be restrained.
Her body seemed to melt with need and, leaning into him, she gave herself up to the yearning coursing through her.
His hand slid up her body toward her breast, cupping it gently, then kneading it, the action unfamiliar and surprisingly arousing, and oh, so different from those other fumbling hands that once or twice had tried to touch her there.
Her need increased yet more when he began to untie the knot of the lacing of her gown and, succeeding, slipped his hand into her bodice. The pads of his fingertips brushed across her taut nipple and a sudden flood of heated longing ran through her, and down, to where the blood began to throb.
She must do something, too. Breaking the kiss, she lifted his hand away and his expression turned to wonder as she kissed his fingertips one by one. Then she reached for the knot at the neck of his dark tunic, untying it swiftly so she could pull the tunic and the shirt beneath over his head to reveal his naked torso.
She ran her fingers over the raised ridges of several scars. “You’ve had so many wounds,” she murmured with awe, and pity, too. “Have you been in many battles?”
“Most were not the sort you mean,” he answered, his voice husky.
She bent to press her lips upon the scar nearest his shoulder. “Tournaments and training, too, I suppose.”
“Some,” he gasped, pushing her gown and the shift beneath lower, exposing her bare shoulders.
There were a hundred other things she wanted to ask, to learn about this man she’d married, but as his lips grazed the bare and rounded curve of her shoulder, she forgot them. All she wanted now was more of his lips and touch. With bold encouragement, she shoved her gown and shift lower, stepping out of them to stand before him as naked as Eve in the garden. She tugged the ribbons from her hair, letting it fall down around her.
She had never seen such a look in any man’s eyes as the one in Roland’s as he stared at her. It was more than admiration or lustful anticipation. Again she saw the expression that set him apart from every other man she had ever met—a yearning wistfulness that tugged at her heart.
Reaching out, she took his hand and led him toward the bed.
She was a virgin, and he was from a family not noted for gentleness, yet she still felt no fear when she climbed into the bed and held out her arms to him.
He swiftly tugged off his boots and now the wistfulness was gone, replaced with an ardent desire that matched her own.
She turned away when he began to take off his breeches. She had seen him half naked. To see him completely naked seemed...unseemly.
He put out the candle and the chamber went dark. Then the bed creaked as Roland got in beside her.
He began
