Rolfe had to smile. “I await it—but I do not hold my breath.” Guy laughed. The problem was, Rolfe thought, that he liked Guy, he could not hate him, as jealous as he was.
Jealous—was he actually jealous?
“So,” Rolfe said, before he could stop himself, “how do you find married life? Tis blissful?”
Guy hesitated, and Rolfe saw it, with a shrinking feeling. As comrades-in-arms, they had wenched together profusely. Guy had bragged on many an occasion of a sweet tumble, had openly discussed the charms he had enjoyed—graphically, as men were wont to do. Rolfe himself had never been one to discuss his own experiences, for, until Ceidre, a toss in the hay was a toss in the hay, one barely distinguishable from another. Guy’s enthusiastic descriptions of this redhead and that blonde amused him; why, he could rarely recall the hair color of a wench he had bedded! Now, however, he was disappointed, for Guy was not eager to share the pleasure he had found in Ceidre’s arms. It was, Rolfe supposed grimly, because he felt respect for a wife that he did not feel for a dairymaid.
“’Tis agreeable,” Guy finally said, with some unease.
Rolfe felt himself flushing. He knew himself just how agreeable Ceidre was. He was positive, in that moment, that Guy would not share graphic details with him as he had used to because he was so smitten by the woman in question. Because he had tasted her passion, and was protective of it. Because it had been passion that had enthralled them last night—while he paced his chamber like a madman.
Rolfe urged his steed on ahead, his face dark, thunderous.
Alice was about to settle in front of the hearth in the hall after supper with her embroidery and her lap-dogs. She felt him approaching, and every fiber of her being tensed. Rolfe paused in front of her. His gaze was direct, although his voice was moderated so as not to be overheard. “Make yourself ready for me,” he said. “I will be awaiting you in my chamber.”
Alice’s eyes opened wide, but he had already turned and was going up the stairs. She started to tremble. Finally, finally this mockery of a marriage would be consummated. She was so nervous, and so afraid, her stomach hurt. She was keenly aware of his ugly mood these past few days—since he had bedded Ceidre on her wedding night. Unbidden, graphic images flashed —images that had been haunting Alice. Rolfe ripping off Ceidre’s gown and knocking her down, throwing himself upon her while she wept, impaling her with his huge manhood. Hurting her.
Alice shuddered. She had not been able to get this particular fantasy out of her mind, not since Mary had told her the gossip, even showing her Ceidre’s torn yellow gown. She wondered if he would take her that way. She shuddered again, breathless.
In his chamber, Rolfe sipped a cup of wine. His thoughts were not on his wife, about to come to him a virgin, but on another man’s wife—on Ceidre. At night his thoughts became intolerable, his mood equally so. He knew damn well Guy was with her now, touching her, fucking her. Anger and jealousy engulfed him, made him throb from his head to his toes. His pumping blood even filled his groin. He was so frustrated he felt he might jump out of his skin.
A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts, and grimly, realizing who it was, he called for his wife to enter. There would be no delaying, he thought resolutely, what should have been done a long time ago. Instead of dwelling upon another man’s house, he would put his own in order.
Alice saw that he was in the same grim mood, and that he was drinking, although apparently sober. Again, his gaze was level. “’Tis time to consummate this marriage.”
“I will not resist,” she told him, her voice frail. “I want your sons, you know this.”
“Then I will do my best to give them to you.” He gestured at the bed.
Alice climbed in, rigid with fear, with excitement. The room became utterly dark as he doused the lamps, and she heard him stripping off his tunic and hose. She recalled his big, ugly body, so powerful, strong enough to break a woman like her. He climbed in beside her and, for a moment, lay still, making no move toward her. Alice felt the first touch of disappointment. According to Mary, he had taken Ceidre on the floor—that was where her blood had been. He had ripped off her clothes, thrown her on the floor … She shifted uncomfortably.
He made a sound, almost of disgust, but surely she had heard it wrongly, and rolled toward her, shoving her gown up to her hips. His hand stroked over her thighs, then delved between her legs. Shock reared, and she tried to shift away.
“Be still,” he said. “I need to touch you or I will not be able to take you.”
Disappointment loomed. Alice was no fool, and she knew what he was saying. She could feel his sex organ against her outer thigh, and it was not rock-hard like a stud stallion’s. Not rock-hard as it had been when he had raped her sister. He was touching her to arouse himself, and to be touched so intimately was disgusting. He finished fingering her, then heaved himself on top of her. He reached down and positioned himself. Alice kept imagining how it had been with her sister. She could not believe this was the same man. He thrust into her.
The pain was overwhelming, and she screamed.
Rolfe stopped, not because of her cry, but because despite the power of his thrust, she was so small and narrow he was momentarily deterred. Rolfe impaled her again; again she screamed, as if he were ripping her apart. Having had many women, he knew she was unnaturally small and that he would hurt her until he finished, owing to his own uncommon largeness. There was no way to avoid it.
Alice knew he was killing her. “Stop,” she begged, weeping from the raw pain. “Stop, you’ll tear me in two! Please!”
He paused, still within her. “I am sorry,” he said indifferently. “You are too small for me, but ’twill get better, in time, I assure you.” And he began moving rhythmically, steadily, harshly.
Alice wept, the burning, tearing pain unbearable, trying to push him off with her fists. His movements did not cease. And then, just when she thought she would faint from the excruciating agony, she was swept into a violent series of tremors and contractions, crying out with pleasure, gasping into his neck.
Her orgasm surprised Rolfe. He had not even been completely aroused, not as he knew he could be, and because she was not made for a man like him, he was glad, otherwise he might, truly, kill her. He was surprised at her response because he had not been pleasuring her but hurting her. Her climax, however, brought his blood to the level he needed, and he began thrusting more rapidly, seeking release. She moaned, in pain, he knew, but he was almost finished, and he was determined to spill his seed in her.
She whimpered again.
Rolfe felt himself swelling further, hardening further, as he buried himself as deep as he could. She screamed. Her nails dug into his shoulders. “Harder,” she cried. “Oh, harder, yes!”
He came as she sobbed and keened beneath him.
He rolled off of her immediately, separating their bodies while still in the fog of his aftermath. His mind cleared instantly. He almost laughed in the night. His malicious little wife liked pain. He supposed it should have been a surprise, but somehow, it wasn’t.
“My lady, you must come at once.” Mary gasped, panting.
