Bride for a Knight. Margaret Moore
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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 to stroke her hair. “I won’t hurt you, Mavis,” he crooned in the 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