same soft, gentle voice he had used the first time she had ever heard him, in the stable when he was talking to his horse. She had been fascinated by it then, and she was fascinated—and soothed—by it now. No man she’d met before had sounded like that, as if his throat was made of honey.
Relaxing, she lay still while his hand moved to her cheek, down her jaw and throat, to her shoulder, her arm, her hip, her thigh and back again, the motion teasing and as seductive as his voice, his fingertips barely grazing her warm skin.
She felt the urge to do the same with him, beginning with his hair that curled over his shoulders, to his strong jaw and throat, his powerful shoulders, muscular arm, slender waist and the length of his thigh.
He shifted ever so slightly closer. His hand brushed over her breast and across her belly. Lower. And lower still.
Biting her lip, she slid her hand across his chest, realizing with some surprise that his nipples, too, were taut. Perhaps her attention there could be just as arousing for him.
She lowered her head to flick her tongue across his chest and he moaned softly, proving that he enjoyed that, too. Eager to learn more, she pressed her whole body against him and kissed him deeply. Yes, he was as aroused as she.
He continued to kiss and caress her until she was so full of need, she was ready to beg him to take her.
She didn’t have to, for just when the excited anticipation became almost unbearable, he maneuvered her beneath him and then, with almost agonizing slowness, pushed inside her.
She had known there would be pain, and there was—a twinge, quickly forgotten, as he began to thrust inside her. Every motion increased her longing and excitement. Made her feel as if she was seeking some unknown realm of pleasure and passion...seeking...seeking...
Suddenly, abruptly, as surprising as falling from a cliff she hadn’t seen, she was there, a place where only sensation existed and all else fell away. She cried out, her body arching with throbbing release, a sensation so powerful that only when the pulsing ebbed and Roland laid his head upon her breasts did she recall that he had groaned at nearly the same moment.
Panting, he moved away from her and lay on his back while Mavis reached for the coverings that had been kicked or pushed away and drew them over their naked bodies. Amazed, delighted, relieved and happy, she lay still awhile, then wondered what was expected of her now. To speak? To remain silent and wait for him to say something? To roll over and go to sleep, or try to?
“Roland?” she said softly.
His only answer was his slow, even breathing. The groom had fallen asleep.
* * *
What was that sound? Roland vaguely wondered as he began to wake.
Opening his eyes, he realized at once that he was not at Dunborough. His chamber there was larger than this, and more barren. At home there were no candles on his bedside table, and no chests of clothing save the one...and no beautiful woman wrapped in a cloak standing at the window looking out at the dawn sky.
Mavis. His wife. The woman who had loved him with such passion, such excitement, although they had barely met. Who gave herself so freely, in spite of how this marriage had come about.
He had not come here expecting to find a bride. He had come here to tell Lord DeLac that any plans for an alliance between their two households had died with his father and brother. He’d been about to refuse DeLac’s proposal that he marry the man’s daughter instead.
And then Mavis had come into the solar.
The moment he had seen her, he had wanted to have her for his wife more than he’d wanted anything in his life, including his family’s estate.
Smiling, he was about to get out of bed when he caught that strange sound again, a sort of gasp. It was Mavis, and now he saw that her shoulders were shaking.
She was weeping.
The sudden sharp shock of realization was worse than a blow from a mace or sword. Worse than anything he had felt before. Worse than the beatings he had endured at his father’s and older brother’s hands. Worse than the worst of Gerrard’s mocking torment.
No woman will ever love you unless she’s paid. You have no wit, no charm, nothing to recommend you except our father’s wealth and title.
Wealth and title and an alliance that her father so clearly desired, now purchased with his daughter’s maidenhead?
He was a fool. A simpleton, like the most green country lad come to an unfamiliar town. Despite her blushes and smiles, she must have been forced to marry him, or why else would she be weeping? Shame and humiliation, hot, strong and agonizing, tore apart his joy and hope.
Long ago he had learned to hide his pain. To mask his shame. To pretend he felt nothing, that nothing could touch and wound him, and he would do so again. But first, he had to get away from her, as a wounded beast goes to ground to nurse its wounds in private.
Rising from the bed, he yanked on his breeches, then sat and tugged on his boots.
“Did you sleep well, Roland?” she asked.
He glanced up to see her watching him, her eyes red rimmed and puffy from crying, but a bright and bogus smile on her lips.
Even now, and despite the tears, he wanted to believe she had chosen him for himself alone.
Fool!
If she had been coerced or threatened, he hadn’t been aware of it, and it had been done without his consent. But the wedding was over and consummated. He and Mavis were bound to each other by the church and the law, and nothing could be done.
Their marriage still meant a valuable alliance and a considerable dowry, although his father-in-law was a drunken oaf who would likely never heed a call for help. And Mavis was also Simon DeLac’s only child, so he would gain more when the man died, while DeLac had the powerful ally in the north he wanted.
Roland reached for his shirt and drew it over his head. “I trust you can be ready to travel as soon as you’ve broken the fast,” he said, speaking as he would to any underling.
“Yes, I think so.”
“I expect so,” he replied. He put on his tunic and belted it around his waist with his sword belt.
She hadn’t moved, but when he raised his eyes again, he noticed that her feet were bare. So were her ankles.
Was she naked under that cloak?
Desire, hot and strong and vital, surged through him. Memories of the night they’d shared rose up, vivid and exciting.
He must not betray this weakness, for that would give her a hold over him and the power to shame and humiliate him. He had to ignore the feelings she aroused. He must put a distance between them. She must be ever and only just a woman who ran his household and sometimes shared his bed when the need grew too strong to ignore.
His hand on the latch, he spoke without looking back at her. “Since the necessary consummation has taken place, I shall leave it up to you, my lady, to invite me to your bed in future. Otherwise, I shall leave you in peace.”
