Anne O'Brien - Marriage Under Siege

‘Honoria?’

‘Yes.’

‘It will not be so bad, you know.’ He felt the hideous tension surround them in a thick cloud, suffocating with her fear. She trembled with the force of it as his naked arm, hard and corded with sinew, made contact with hers in the slightest of movements.

‘I know,’ she managed to croak. But she didn’t!

He immediately took the initiative and smoothed his fingers through her hair, pushing it back from her temples. With gentle fingers he touched her face, a fleeting caress of the skin, then following their path from temple to jaw with his lips. Her mouth was soft when he kissed her, the lightest of brushes, mouth against mouth. But then he felt her pulse begin to beat in her throat when he kissed his way along the line from jaw to delicate shoulder, when he paused to press his lips to the very spot where her blood pounded. She lay beneath his touch as if, apart from that one pulse, turned to stone.

She was not a virgin, he thought. She had shared a marriage bed. So why was she so tense? He had hardly touched her.

He persisted as slowly and carefully as he could. It was merely a matter of familiarity. He let his hands smooth down over her body to push away her linen chemise to expose her shoulders to his touch. When his palm closed over a firm breast, lightly moulding so as not to startle her, he felt her gasp and hold her breath.

He continued, gently, stroking, touching, caressing, exploring the curve of her breast to the delicacy of her ribcage and the flowing indentation of her waist. She was lovely. Her skin was as pleasurable to the touch as the most costly satin. He felt his blood begin to heat with arousal and his body hardened in anticipation. It might be true that he did not know her, but he had no difficulty in responding to her pure femininity. But he must go slowly. He gritted his teeth. When he allowed his fingers to trail across the soft skin of her belly and smooth over the roundness of her hip, he felt her catch her breath again, almost on a sob.

His mouth returned to hers, this time with possessive demand, encouraging her lips to part to allow his tongue to slide over the soft inner flesh of her lips, as soft and smooth as silk. She stiffened, every muscle in her body tensed, silently resisting, as he teased a nipple between his fingers.

And he realised that her flesh had chilled, her skin had become clammy as her blood drained, her responses withdrawn from what she saw as a violation. He could no longer pretend that she saw it in any other way. But why? He had deliberately gentled and slowed his desire to take her. By no stretch of the imagination had he attempted to ravish her or treat her with less than utmost consideration for a new bride.

On a deep breath, he stopped, lifted his hands and raised his head to look down at her face below him in the shadows. He could not be other than stunned at what he saw, at the stark fear momentarily in her wide eyes. She was not fighting him, not physically resisting, but she feared him and her whole body was rigid, totally unresponsive to his attempts to arouse and seduce.

He rolled away from her to sit up in concern and some exasperation. He kept his voice low, but she could not mistake the edge in it. ‘I have never, to my knowledge, been guilty of forcing a woman against her will. I do not relish the prospect of starting with my wife!’

This time there was definitely a sob in response to his words.

‘And I thought I had some skill in bringing pleasure to a woman.’

At that she covered her face with her hands. Panic choked her, filled her lungs like smoke. Her breathing became shallow and difficult. To her horror, against all her hopes, she had to accept the truth of it, that Lord Edward had been right after all. She was incapable of attracting a man and an abject failure at bringing pleasure to him as a wife should. It was all her fault. And her new lord was about to reject her as assuredly as Edward had done. He would not be as cruel as Edward, could not be, but he certainly showed no inclination to pursue the consummation of their marriage in the face of her own frozen despair.

Mansell cast aside the covers and stood beside the bed, hands on hips, to survey her with a frown. Whatever the problem, she was clearly terrified. Acting on instinct, he seized the coverlet and stripped it away. ‘Honoria …’

A whimper issued from the bed. If it was not all so distressing, he would have laughed at this extreme reaction to his lovemaking. But there was nothing amusing here; he could neither force her nor ignore her distress and walk away.

He leaned over the bed, picked her up in his strong arms as if she weighed nothing, wrapped her in the coverlet with deft movements as if she were a child, and carried her to the settle by the fire. She was too surprised to protest other than a squeak of shock. He placed her there while he stirred the flames and recovered his own robe. Then he returned and sat beside her, sensing the tiniest of movements as she would have pulled away from him. She was watching him, aware of his every movement, every gesture, eyes dry and strained. He knew that if she had been able, she would have fled the room.

He ran his hands through his hair in frustration, a gesture that she had come to recognise. She flinched again. ‘This is no good!’

Without warning he scooped her up again and settled her on his lap, imprisoning her within the circle of his arms as, with gentle fingers, he pushed her head down to rest upon his shoulder.

‘There.’ He stroked her hair a little. ‘There is nothing to concern you now. I shall not do anything you do not wish.’

Silence settled, except for the crackle of the fire, as he continued to smooth his hand over her hair. He was aware of her fingers clutching at the satin collar of his robe in a vice-like grip, but he made no comment. Simply sat and held and waited. Gradually her breathing calmed and she relaxed, sufficient for her to release her grasp and rest against him.

‘Now.’ He kept his voice low. ‘Talk to me, Honoria. Will you tell me why you are so distressed? Do you trust me enough to tell me?’

She said nothing, but he felt the merest nod of her head against his throat.

‘Did my cousin … did Edward rape you?’

‘No.’ The answer was immediate. It came as a wail of anguish.

‘Then what happened? Things can never be so bad that they cannot be put right. Talk to me, Honoria.’

Without thought he turned his face against her hair in an unconscious caress and pressed his lips to her temple in the softest of kisses. Yet it was her undoing. All the tears, all the anxieties and self-doubt, the horror, the sleepless nights, dammed up over the past weeks, overflowed and washed through her in response to that one innocent gesture of kindness. Her breath caught again and again and she could do nothing to prevent the harsh sobs that shook her frame, tears streaming down her face. In the end she gave up trying to control them and simply wept.

All he could do was hold her. She was beyond any comforting words—and he did not know what to say to ease such emotion. So he held her. He murmured foolish words for their sound rather than their content and continued to stroke her hair, her arms, her back, whilst the emotion tore her in two. His heart ached for her. Who would have believed that her outward composure could hide such pain and anguish?

Minutes ticked by. Gradually her sobs lessened. A hiccup, a sniffle. She lay exhausted and drained against his chest and he was content to allow it to be so for a little while. When he was finally sure that her tears were gone, he used the corner of the coverlet to wipe her eyes. She resisted at first, turning her face against his shoulder, intent on hiding the worst of the ravages from his scrutiny. What would he think of her? But he would not allow it and, with a hand under her chin, lifted her face to the light.