Warrior's Song (Medieval Song 1)

Chandra rose to her tiptoes, and Jerval, his arms now tight around her back, let his hands fall to her hips. The feel of her through the gown and her shift—he wanted to strip her wedding gown off her, have her naked and beneath him in the next moment, but he couldn’t. He had to go slowly. He wanted to curse, but since he was kissing her, it wasn’t possible.

And so he did go slowly, and tried to ignore the prodding and the urgency that gnawed in his gut. He was gentle, patient, and he was rewarded by a very worried look from his bride when a small sound came from deep in her throat.

“I want that gown off you,” he said then, and set her away from him. He didn’t want to, but he knew if he didn’t, he would rip the gown off her, and then what would she think of him? He could see the effects of the wine falling off her, leaving her cold and ready to fight him to the death.

But she didn’t fight him. Indeed, she stood there, saying nothing, not helping him, but not shrinking away from him either. “Lift your arms.” She did, felt the smooth silk slide against her cheek, then the linen shift, not as smooth as the silk, but soft, nearly like Leah the goat’s butter. She was naked then. Standing in front of him, her arms at her sides. Naked, completely and utterly naked.

“Ah.” It was all he could say. Unlike his wife, he couldn’t keep himself still. He grabbed her to him, lifted her and carried her to the bed, and laid her among several rose leaves thrown on the counterpane.

He was panting hard, staring down at her, sprawled on her back, her legs spread slightly, the blond hair between her legs—no, there was a touch of gold in her woman’s hair—and he wanted desperately to touch her, to kiss her, to breathe in the scent of her. Instead, he began pulling off his own clothes. He saw that her hands were fists now, and said, “It will be all right, sweeting. I will take good care of you. You are not to be afraid.”

“I do not know about this, Jerval.”

Was that her voice, that small reedy sound that was high and female and frightened?

“You do not have to know anything. All you have to do is trust me.”

“My father told me to lie still, not to fight you. He said you would know what to do—at least he hoped you would know what to do. He is worried that since you are very young, you will be uncaring, mayhap rough, a clod.”

A clod? He murmured ironic thanks to Lord Richard, wishing he had the man’s neck between his hands. “He is right and he is wrong. I would sooner take an ax to my own neck than hurt you. I am not a clod.” He was naked now, and she was staring at him, focused on his sex, harder than the stone beneath his feet.

She said, never looking away from his sex, “I really do not wish to do this, Jerval.”

He’d left her alone too long, and that brain of hers was working again, probably yelling at her that since he was a man and that was surely a bad thing, he would surely try to subjugate her and force her to do his bidding. He eased down beside her even though he wanted to part her legs and lay his full length upon her. He had to give her time, and so he kissed her and stroked those white breasts of hers until she was making those small sounds in her throat again.

It was difficult.

He stretched out beside her, knowing she felt him hard against her leg, but he merely smiled into her eyes and lightly laid his palm over her heart, pushing her breast upward as he did so. Her heart beat smoothly, slow and steady.

“Do not worry about anything. It is just the two of us now, Chandra, and we are man and wife and all of this is exactly right.”

“I really didn’t want to marry you, but Mary was right.”

That stopped him cold. “Not want to marry me?”

“Oh, no. Croyland is my home and all I know and love is here.”

“What was Mary right about?”

“She asked if I could imagine living here at Croyland with John as the master. I could not. She said I must have my own keep, my own family, loyal only to me.”

Jerval knew then that he would hold Mary dear for the rest of his life. “Aye,” he said only.

“Can you imagine the sort of lady that John will marry?”

“It fair curdles my gut to think about it.”

She laughed, and the sound warmed him to his toes.

He kissed her again and yet again, then a slow kiss, not forcing her mouth to open, but she finally did open her mouth to him after some prodding, and he realized she didn’t know what she should do. Now she did know, and he thought he would spill his seed at the feel of her, the warmth, her taste. It was he who groaned into her mouth. She jumped, then kissed him back, more at ease now.

He continued to caress her breasts, soft as the silk of her wedding gown, and he wanted . . . He pulled away, smiled down at her, but said nothing, merely lowered his head again to nuzzle her breasts. When he closed his mouth over her, she moaned. He thought hard about a horse race he’d lost in a tourney at York and it steadied him.

She was breathing hard, and he smiled against her flesh, tugging with his lips, licking her, suckling her, and he could feel her heart now, fast, pounding hard.

He let his hand stroke over her belly, touching her thighs, lightly pushing her legs apart, coming closer and closer, but still not touching her where a woman’s need was greatest, and to his delight, she jerked her hips. He was young, Lord Richard was right about that, but he wasn’t a clod, as Lord Richard believed he would be, curse the man.

No, he wasn’t a clod, but he wondered if he would be able to hold himself back long enough to give her pleasure before he brought her pain, as he knew he must for she was a virgin. He also knew he must give her pleasure or he just might send her scurrying away, cursing him for a man who gave a woman only pain, a man who didn’t care. He would cut off his own arm before he let that happen.