Warrick’s blood was already raging for her. Her fear was exciting him, that was all. Not that becoming flush to her cheeks. Not her virginlike demeanor. Certainly not the small though exquisitely curved body he remembered, and which was about to be revealed to him again. He realized, with chagrin, that he could not continue to watch her, or he would not be able to do all that he had planned to do.
With a silent oath, he moved to the other side of the bed and picked up the chain. He had meant to make her stretch it out beneath the bed and position it as he directed, just to increase her trepidation, but he did it himself now for the distraction. Only it did not take long, not as long as it was taking her to disrobe.
Her red outer gown was on the floor, her long-sleeved chemise on top of it. But she still wore a thin linen shift, though her fingers were gripping the hem, had been in the process of lifting it over her head, when she finally noticed what he was doing.
“Please, no,” she pleaded, looking from the manacle still in his hand to his cold eyes. “I will not fight you. I swear it.”
He did not even hesitate in his implacable reply. “It will be the same, exactly the same.”
Rowena stared at the chains he had brought up on the outside of the posts at the end of the bed, positioned so the posts would prevent her from closing her legs. “That is not the same,” she said.
“Allowances must be made for the differences in the gender of the body chained. My legs had no need to be open. Yours do.”
She closed her eyes at the vivid mental picture his words evoked. Like for like. And she could not prevent it, could not even beg for mercy, for he had none. He was ruthlessly determined to do this to her, and it would be exactly as had been done to him.
“You are taking too long, wench,” he warned softly. “Do not try my patience more.”
She yanked the shift over her head and climbed swiftly to the center of the bed, anything to get this over with so this sick dread would leave her. She lay down before he ordered her to, but her body was as stiff as a board. She kept her eyes closed, tightly, only she could still hear him, and the sound of his steps took him to the bottom of the bed.
“Spread them.” She groaned inwardly, but she did not dare to defy him. “Wider,” he added, and she did that, too.
But she still gasped as his fingers went around her ankle to hold it until the cold iron was locked on. The manacle did not fit tightly as it had on him, the weight of the chain pulling it down to catch on her arch and heel. Her other foot was quickly done the same, but he uttered a curse when the chain did not extend far enough over the top of the bed to reach her wrists. It had been cut to his stretched length, which was much longer than hers.
“’Twould seem another allowance must be made.”
Disgruntlement was clear in his tone. Hope stirred, that he would now forgo the chains entirely. She should have known better, for he merely left her to come back with two strips of cloth that he bound to her wrists, then to the manacles. Like for like, so she had to hear the creak of the chain if she moved, as he had heard it; feel its weight dragging on her limbs as he had felt it.
She tested the bounds and experienced an overwhelming panic. My God, was this how he had felt? So helpless, so afraid? Nay, he had not felt fear, only rage. She wished she could bring that more powerful emotion forth to sustain her through this, but anger that he would do her thusly was the farthest thing from her mind just then. So it would not be exactly the same. She would not twist and fight to avoid his touch, would not try to smite him with her eyes or shake him from the bed. She could only hope these differences would not matter to him and make him angrier still.
Her eyes opened in surprise when the gag was shoved between her lips. She had forgotten about that, but he had not. He did not want to hear her entreaties any more than she had wanted to hear his, though their reasons were not the same. He was feeling no guilt, as she had felt. He was enacting vengeance. She had only tried to save her mother’s life.
Satisfaction at her helplessness blazed from his eyes. She wished she had not seen it, or that he had removed his clothes before he fetched the gag. The evidence of his readiness, however, gave her small relief. She need suffer onlyhisrape of her, then, not that enforced by many others while he watched. And she already knew what he would feel like inside her. She could bear it—she would have to.
“Are you virgin here, I wonder, as you were there?”
His hands came to her breasts to tell her of what he spoke, both hands, and his eyes went there, too, to watch what he did. Rowena stared only at his face so she could gauge the moment he finished toying with her. And that was all he was doing. There was no need to caress her and coax her to readiness as she had found it necessary to do to him. He was already in that condition. ’Twas unnecessary that she be. And she felt no more than the heat of his palms, and momentary surprise that his touch was gentle. She was simply too frightened to feel more than that.
He played long with her breasts, flicking at the soft nipples, squeezing and pulling on them by turns. But when he ended with a frown, Rowena thought she would die of fright. She did not know it was because he had been unable to make her nipples tighten in response to his caresses, not even a little, not even once. With that frown still terrifying her, he brought a hand between her legs and thrust his finger inside her.
She groaned at the sharp discomfort she felt. His frown got darker.
“So you would deny yourself the shame that was visited upon me? I think not, wench.”
Another threat, but she was lost in the dark this time, nor could she ask him to explain. She had no idea what had so displeased him, or what shame he thought she was denying herself that he wanted her to know. She would have done aught that he wanted her to at that point, just to get that terrifying scowl off his face. But there was naught that shecoulddo, chained to the bed.
She began to tremble, not as greatly as when she had thought she was about to die, but enough for him to notice and growl, “Close your eyes, damn you. You do well to fear me, but I will not have you reacting to my every frown, not now. I will do to you no more than you did to me, and you already know the way of it, so put your fear aside. I order it.”
He was mad to think she could do that, no matter what reassurance he gave her. He was mad anyway, for by his own words, he wanted her to fear him—but not now. What difference when, for God’s mercy? But he hadorderedit. Ah, God, how,howcould she comply?
She closed her eyes. He was right in that respect, that she was reacting to the dissatisfaction clearly written on his face. Not even the fear of being unable to anticipate what he would do next was as bad as seeing those scowls. And what he did next was as he had said, no more than she had done to him. He began caressing her, not just her breasts, but all over.
She stopped trying to reason why he was touching her when it was not necessary to his purpose. His hands were soothing, and she welcomed his touch as a means to appease him. Somehow, she began to relax. She began to feel things other than fear: the texture of his hands, callused yet gentle; his warm breath whenever he leaned close; gooseflesh when he neared a sensitive area.
She was so relaxed when his mouth came to her breast that she felt only a moment’s alarm that did not last. Heat engulfed her then, and a sharp tingling that shriveled her nipple and sent a strangeness to the pit of her belly. She did not mind the feeling. It reminded her of those not unpleasant things she had felt at times when she had caressed him. Had he felt them, too, at the time? Did he feel them now?
His caresses became slightly rougher now that he had drawn a response from her that he wanted. She did not mind that either. In fact, unknowingly, she was arching into his touch, on her breasts, over her belly, as if she suddenly craved it. But when his hand drifted back toward the juncture of her legs, she stiffened again. Only he did not attempt to thrust his fingers inside her this time. He merely continued his caresses there, softly now, and he was touching on something hidden in that area that produced the most deliriously languorous feeling. She relaxed more, forgot why she was being done so, forgot who was doing it. The sensations were exquisite, coursing and commingling into that secret core of her.
She was not even aware of him moving over her, but when she felt his thick manroot sliding slowly yet easily into her warmth, her eyes flew open in surprise—and met his above her, so filled with male triumph that she inwardly cringed. He was leaning over her with the full length of his arms extended, so that the only place he touched her was where he filled her. She did not look down at their joined bodies. She could not take her eyes off his.
