He nodded and turned to Athelstan, and began discussing the breeding of a wolfhound.
glance constantly flitting to where he sat. He had the presence of royalty—the powerful presence of royalty. Seeing him reminded her that by now her brothers were awaiting information. Albie had told her to send Feldric again as soon as she had worthy news to impart. Of course she had no news; she had not become his mistress and was unable to gain his trust and his ear. She found it difficult to remember, now, why she had so furiously decided never to become his leman. She felt no anger toward him, none at all. As if sensing her regard, he shot her a look.
Their glances held and burned.
Ceidre tore her gaze away and continued to eat. Worry raised itself frankly now. She had been so involved with her own problems, with being married to Guy, with being taken on her wedding night by the Norman, with being imprisoned in the dungeon, she had forgotten the very serious predicament she was in. Her brothers were planning a rebellion by the end of August. They were intending to overthrow Rolfe, and, she assumed, to drive William the Conqueror south, and out of Mercia. They were expecting her to provide them with information. She knew they had other spies, but none so well placed here at Aelfgar. She had promised them she would become the Norman’s mistress and obtain information. They were depending upon her. They knew her nature, and knew she would not fail them.
Which, of course, she could not.
Now that she was no longer angry, she could think clearly, logically, and knew she had to fulfill her duties to her brothers first and foremost. She eyed the Norman. She was a terrible seductress, this was proven. She had tried to seduce him and he had married her to his vassal. Even now she felt the pinpricking of hurt. Yet it was nothing compared to what she had felt before. She was not sure, in truth, if he still wanted her, as he had on her wedding night, and even if she did attempt a seduction, would he forget his loyalty to Guy? On the other hand, he was their liege lord, and if he really wanted her, he would be arrogant enough to take her and justify it because of his overlordship.
Her stomach was in knots. Now that her own problems had faded into insignificance, she felt the great weight of responsibility that her brothers had placed upon her. Gazing upon the Norman, she knew to do nothing was to fail. She must, at least, try something.
He looked at her again, his gaze sharp.
For a brief instant, Ceidre was mesmerized by those smoking eyes. Glancing away, she knew what she must do.
Because he had not been able to sleep the past night, tossing and turning, his mind filled with the horror of finding Ceidre in the dungeons, crazed with fear, he should have been tired. No, Rolfe thought, he was tired, bone weary, but he doubted he would be able to sleep on this eve as well. Why had she kept looking at him during supper?
He was in the great hall, wine in hand, gazing into the hearth. He was loath to go upstairs. Most of his men were already asleep, their snores strangely soothing. Other than the dying fire, the hall was cast in shadows of the night.
He tried to turn his thoughts away from her, and failed. She had seemed fine at supper, as fine as ever— as radiant as ever. Thank God the ordeal she had endured had been brief—he wished it had been briefer, if not nonexistent. He hoped Guy would not take her this night, that he would allow her to rest. Such speculation brought an instant stiffening to his spine, a tightening to his gut. Yes, he decided, Athelstan was right, he would send them both to Dumstanbrough. He was a fool if he did not.
He drained his cup, left it on the table, and trudged up the stairs: He took an oil lamp from a wall sconce and pushed open the door to his chamber. He set the light down, moved his hands to the clasp of his sword belt. His gaze raced to the bed, which was cast in dark shadows. Nevertheless, there was no mistaking that it was occupied.
He was not angry, he was disgusted. “Get yourself out of my bed, Lady Alice, and hie yourself to your own. I have no wish to consort with you tonight. And you push me greatly, to defy my orders. You are still confined to your chamber, and now I will think twice before lifting your punishment.”
Ceidre sat up, the covers dropping to her waist. She was magnificently naked, her full breasts gleaming ivory, her long bronze tresses swirling about them, yet parting for her erect nipples. Rolfe thought he was dreaming. “What are you doing?” he croaked.
Her breasts shimmered, rising and falling too rapidly. “I want you,” she said simply, her violet eyes holding his. And Ceidre realized she had spoken the truth.
Rolfe stared into her gaze and saw everything he wished to see there. He was at her side, her arms were open. He came into her embrace like a ship finding its safe harbor. She held him. He moaned again and lifted his face from her neck to find her mouth with his.
There were no thoughts in his head other than her name, her being, her presence, her willing gift of herself to him, of what was about to pass. He pushed her down, kissing her hard, and she opened, responding as fiercely, clutching his hair so hard it hurt his scalp. He did not care. With his knee he spread her thighs, rocked his thick penis into her groin, lifted his head and nipped her throat, then caught her nipple to bite it gently. She whimpered and arched, wrapping her long legs around his hips, pressing her plump, wet flesh against his rock hardness. Rolfe captured her mouth again and thrust his tongue deep into her. He was aware of her hands wildly stroking his back, urging him on, then grabbing his hard buttocks. “Ceidre,” he cried. Her tongue entwined frantically with his, pulling him furiously deeper, and any further words were cut off.
He gasped when her hands moved from his backside to his groin, one palm closing around his massive length, hard. He bucked, rearing; she ripped his hose off his hips. “Yes,” he cried as she jerked him roughly to her entrance. Clasping her bottom, he thrust deeply into her.
They moved together, hard and fast, panting, gasping, moaning. Her nails tore his back, his hands bruised her buttocks. He knew he was about to erupt, about to spill his seed into her. “Ceidre,” he cried, shaking violently as he paused, trying to restrain himself.
“Do not stop!” She caught his face and kissed him, urging him with her hips. He was lost, he plunged into her, again and again, and then she grabbed his arms, as if he were an anchor, and she keened, head flung back, arching convulsively. He saw her face, dark and strained with passion, and miraculously thrust again, bringing her to another orgasm, watching her, relishing his power, and again and again. She was sobbing now from the pleasure he had given her. Like a ripe plum, he burst within her.
Sanity returned.
Rolfe’s heart was thudding thickly. He was still on top of Ceidre, and within her, and he had her wrapped tightly in her arms—as if to hold on to her forever. He could barely believe what had happened. She had come to him. She had wanted him. She had responded to his passion as fiercely as he had given it. Ceidre— Guy’s wife.
He rolled off her, grim now, and stared up at the ceiling. He felt her touch, a soft caress on his bicep, and he jerked his head to her. Anger—at himself, at the both of them—faded, to be instantly replaced with warmth. She was radiant and gorgeous, and mostly it was her eyes that held his, shining with pleasure—with joy.
He looked at her hand on his arm. Naturally, she stroked him, as if enjoying the feel of his skin, his flesh, his muscle and bone. Unbelievably, he could feel his desire renewing itself. He stopped her hand abruptly.
“Where is Guy?”
She met him steadily. “He is out wenching. Have no fear, he will not miss me this night.”
The words came out before he could stop them. “He is a fool.”
She said nothing.
He moved closer to her so that he was looking down upon her, into her eyes. “Did I hurt you, Ceidre?” His tone was thick. He still held her hand.
