Her whimper went through him like a lance, even as he felt the cause of it. She was still trying to seat herself fully, but her maidenhead would not give, and she was progressing too slowly to do aught but cause herself pain. He felt a savage pleasure in that. So she was a virgin, and her own pain would defeat her where he could not.
To move now would truly aid her, so he remained deathly still. Yet she was so small and exquisitely tight, the urge was there, nigh overwhelming, to thrust deep into her. He killed it swiftly. He could not control that traitor, but he still controlled the rest of his body.
He heard another whimper, louder, and he opened his eyes to feed on her pain. Tears streaked her smooth cheeks. Her sapphire eyes, glassy with wetness, reflected that pain. But he had forgotten her nakedness.
She was a small woman, but she was generously formed, her breasts bountiful, her waist tiny. The spread of her hips over him, her splendid breasts bouncing with her soft panting, the feel of hot wetness squeezing only half of him—the sight of that part of him inside her…It was his undoing. He did not thrust. He did not have to. The blood rushed to swell him to his full, throbbing length, which pushed right through her maidenhead without either of them moving to help it.
She cried out as it happened, and her weight carried her down to sheathe him fully in her depths. Warrick ground his teeth against the gag in his mouth. His muscles strained, but he remained still otherwise. He fought now for impotence. He fought to ignore the powerful urges of his body. It was torture. He had never resisted anything so hard, never wanted anything so much that was so opposed to his will.
She moved on him, hesitantly at first, clumsily. She was still hurting, still crying, but still determined. Her breath, which was coming so hard, fanned his belly along with her hair, providing another caress, another torture. And he knew exactly when he lost the fight. He tried one last time to throw her off, welcoming the pain in his ankles and wrists, but she knew,knew, and she held fast to him. And then he no longer cared, was mindless in the throes of primal instinct, which took over completely to drain his seed with explosive, unbelievable relief. Damn her,damn her!
Chapter 9
I am glad ’twas you.
Warrick would never forget those words, nor would he forgive them. He recalled them again and again in those next days while he lay chained to that bed.
She had collapsed onto his chest when it was over, her tears wetting his skin. She had found no pleasure in their coupling, but she had gotten what she wanted. And before she left him, she had touched his cheek and whispered, “I am glad ’twas you,” and his hate had increased tenfold.
Her servant had come after that, to tend his wounds. The older woman had clucked her tongue over what he had done to himself, but she had also found the blood-encrusted lump on his head and cleaned that, too. He had let her. Devastated by his failure, he no longer cared just then what was done to him. Nor had it bothered him when the man came in still later to stare at the blood and seed still wet on his loins with an odd mixture of satisfaction and fury.
“She tells me you fought her. That is good, or I think I would kill you now for what you had of her.”
The man had turned about and left after that, nor had Warrick seen him again. But those few words had given him a wealth of information. He knew now that he was not meant to leave here alive. They wanted no ransom from him. They wanted only the babe he might already have planted in the wench’s belly. He also knew the man was jealous of him, that he would take pleasure in killing Warrick when his usefulness was at an end.
Still he did not care, not that next day, not about anything. He did not even feel the humiliation of having Mildred feed him, bathe him, and assist him to relieve himself right there in the bed. He did not even try to speak to her when his gag was removed for the feeding. His apathy was almost complete—until the wench came back.
Only then did he know it must be night again, for there were no windows in that small room to tell him of the passing hours. And only then did he come alive again, his fury driving him nigh mad. His thrashing loosed his bandages, embedding the iron manacles deeper into his still raw flesh.
But she was patient that second night. She did not try to touch him until he had worn himself out. And she avoided getting on the bed until he was nearly full ready for her.
Three times she visited him that second night, throughout the night, and three times the next, waking him if she needed to. Each time, perforce, took longer, with his body already sated, yet that did not stop her. She had him at her complete mercy. She examined him fully in the guise of caressing and stimulating him to readiness, everywhere, but mostly between his legs.
She was fascinated by his manroot, brought her face and breath close to it, yet never did she actually do as promised that first night, for ’twas unnecessary. The mere thought that she might affected him as if she had. And he could not prevent any of it, could not stop her, could not smite her with a look or put the fear back in her that she should feel. She used him, she drained him, she no longer displayed the least remorse. She had no mercy whatsoever.
Ah, God, how he wanted revenge on her. ’Twas all he thought about the third day, what he would do to her if he could just get his hands on her. And to think he had actually thought to give her a home when he had first seen her. Aye, he would give her a home, in his dungeon. But first he would pay her back in kind. Nay, first he must escape.
’Tell me her name.”
’Twas the first time he had spoken to Mildred. She eyed him warily as she brought another spoonful of thick mutton stew to his lips.
“I think not. You do not need to know.”
“My men will find me, Mistress. Do you want to live through the destruction I will wreck on this place, you will cooperate with me now.”
She had the gall to snort at him. “You were alone when taken.”
“Nay, I was with my squire Geoffrey. They killed him, did you know?”
Such coldness had entered his tone, Mildred was suddenly afraid of him, even though he was bound fast. Then she scoffed at herself and at him.
“A knight? Nay, they were sent for a villein. Think you they would not know the difference?”
He did not try to convince her otherwise. “My men were sent ahead. I was to join them the next morn. Thinkyouthey will just ride on without me?”
“Methinks you spin a fine tale, sirrah, but to what end?” she asked.
“Release me.”
