Anne Herries - Medieval Brides

He frowned. ‘We cannot change what’s done. If I had not accompanied Duke William I would never have come to Fulford, and you would still be in the convent.’

She heaved a sigh, her expression so woebegone that Adam heard himself say, ‘We could pretend, though, while we are here in our private room. In our bed. We can make believe matters are otherwise.’ He recaptured her wrist. ‘Come here, wife.’

‘I am here. Where else would I go?’

Where, indeed? There was nowhere he wanted her to be save here. She would have been wasted in the convent—wasted. Adam tilted her chin up and pressed his lips to hers, tasting the spicy sweetness of the mulled wine on her tongue. His heartbeat caught up with the pace of the drums, and he felt her body soften in a surrender that was more welcome than he had dared hope for. She reached up, found his shoulders and clung, and when his hands circled her waist she slid hers round his neck.

‘Adam,’ she murmured. ‘My husband.’

Amazement in her tone. And acceptance? Not yet—but one day, God willing. Planting a series of kisses across her cheek, he nipped gently at her ear. She was such an innocent. An innocent who nipped his neck. But an innocent who heated his blood and was wreaking such havoc with his senses that he almost forgot that very innocence and brought his hips more snugly against her. Her breathing changed. Her cheeks were pink.

‘Cecily?’

‘Mmm?’

‘Your lacings? May I?’

Her shy nod gave him permission, and then his fingers were at the ties on one side of her gown, teasing the garnet fabric open. Underneath the heavy damask her shift was light and silky to the touch, her body warm. He must touch her skin. He must…

Finding the lacings on the other side, he loosened them, and tugged impatiently at the material. Had he felt this desperate with Gwenn? Had he felt this needy? It had been too long. He was like a starving man. ‘Lift up your arms.’

Silently, silhouetted in the light of the braziers, cheeks dark with colour, she obeyed him.

The damask whispered and then she was free of it, standing before him like a white lily in a cream undergown with an eye-catching neckline. A white lily who was biting her pretty lips…

He smiled, fighting a losing battle to keep his clasp light as he took her wrist and led her to the bed. Flipping back the covers, he sank down on the mattress, drawing her with him.

‘Adam, m-my shoes.’

It was the work of a moment to tug them off and toss them into the corner along with his boots.

‘I see I have married a tidy man,’ she said with a smile.

‘Maurice despairs.’ Taking her shoulders, he leaned back into the pillows and she fell onto him, her hair, her glorious hair, flowing over his chest.

‘C-can we keep some of our clothes on?’

An objection rose to his lips, but he bit it back because she looked so adorably unsure of herself, gut-wrenchingly innocent—and anyway she was so near him that all he had to do was wind his hand into her hair and bring her head down to his. He did so, and enjoyed a long, long kiss that he never wanted to end. When it did end, he knew he was as flushed as she.

‘Gudrun said I had to be naked,’ she said, swallowing hard. ‘B-but…oh, Adam, I…I can’t.’

He stroked her cheek and looped a length of hair round her ear. ‘You’re shy…’

‘I…I’m sorry. Can we do it if I keep my shift on?’

‘Aye, but, sweetheart, I told you—if you’re not ready, we can wait. The last thing I want is your unwilling body.’

‘No, no—I’m not unwilling,’ she said, and small fingers skimmed over his mouth. ‘Don’t think that. It’s just that…’

‘The convent?’

‘Yes. Lying as we did in the Palace at Winchester, lying as we are now, it seems so…so…intimate. Mother Aethelflaeda…’

‘Is not here. And I will not allow that woman into our bedchamber. So, please, Cecily, leave her back at the convent.’

‘I’ll try.’

‘Good.’ Running his hand down her back and over her buttocks, he pulled up the hem of her shift and found her stockings. He ached to know her skin, every warm, seductive inch of it, could only think about losing himself in her body, but somehow he kept his voice cool. ‘What are these in English?’

‘Stockings.’

‘Stockings,’ he repeated. ‘They’re next. Of course you can keep some of your clothes on, but these will get in the way.’

‘Th-they will?’

‘They will.’ He slid his hand up her leg and dealt with the fastenings. Ignoring the gasp of breath as his fingers trailed over her stomach, he drew off her stockings. One. Two. ‘Me next,’ he said, clearing his throat. Taking her hand, he set it against the cross-gartering at his calves. Her lightest touch was a torment. Already he was hard and ready for her. Praying the eagerness of his body would not repel her, he swallowed and asked, ‘And the English word for this?’

‘Cross-gartering.’

‘Cross-gartering,’ he said, trying out the words. ‘Cecily?’

‘Mmm?’

‘We don’t need cross-gartering either.’

‘Oh.’ She moved to unwind his leg-bindings, and as she did so her breasts shifted to peep out of the low-cut shift. Adam groaned, and leaned forwards to press a swift kiss on the scented warmth of her breast. She made a small sound, part-gasp, part-sigh. Her fingers stumbled over his bindings, then resumed.

‘That’s it, Princess.’

‘Princess?’

Adam’s cheeks burned. ‘That’s what you look like out of your convent habit—a princess, a Saxon princess.’ Taking his leg-bindings from her, he dropped them onto the floor, and reached for her hips. ‘My princess.’

He kissed her nose and her mouth and her body melted into his. Pressing closer, he let her feel the desire his body felt for hers. She moaned. Innocent, yes, but not cold. A maid, but not an ice maiden.

Taking one small hand, he pushed it under his tunic to the ties of his hose. ‘Help me. We definitely don’t need my hose or my braies.’ Her cheeks went scarlet, but she tugged at the ties of his hose and pushed the fabric of both garments down.

Adam sat up and made a point of lifting the hem of his tunic.

‘W-we don’t need that?’

‘No. Too hot,’ he said. ‘It is a furnace in here.’ He held up his arms, and after a brief pause she hauled his tunic up and over his head.

She drew back, eyeing his shirt. It was now his only remaining garment, as the shift was hers. Wrapping her arms across her chest, she frowned at him. ‘Adam, you agreed we’d keep some clothes…’

With a grin, Adam turned away long enough to blow out the candle on the bedside coffer. ‘Blow out your candle, if you please.’

Still frowning, she pinched out her candle, and became at once a shadowy figure, vaguely outlined by the soft glow of the braziers. Her hair gleamed pale gold through the dark.

Adam swallowed down a lump, and guided her hands to his shirt. ‘Cecily, we really don’t need this…’

Her breath came out in a shuddering sigh, and there was another pause during which Adam could hear the drums below, could feel the blood pounding in his veins. His manhood ached.

She tugged off his shirt.

‘And now you,’ he whispered. ‘Let the darkness clothe you, Princess.’

Moving closer, he brought his head to hers, raining kisses on her forehead, her cheeks, her mouth, quickly, quickly, hoping that in her innocence she would be distracted and not notice how his hands were running down over her hips, nor how they were tugging at the silk undergown, lifting…

‘There,’ he said, a note of triumph in his voice, as finally the silk undergown joined his tunic and shirt on the rush matting. ‘That didn’t hurt, did it?’