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He wanted her love, but only if he claimed all of her, could he learn to love himself. It was obvious now, three weeks into their betrothal, that he wished to understand more of her nature, what heated her sex and brought on the changes she needed to accommodate the rough wooing of her body. The gyrfalcon was a promising clue to how he saw his future wife’s status—protected in his arms. Yet, there was no mention of love in his analogy.
“Fly away?” he said dryly. “My dear, if you do, I shall find you. Have no fear, I would not let anything happen to you. And if you fly to Geoffrey, it will be a breach of our contract.”
“A contract is all you care about?” she said haughtily. “I am a ware, like the merchant brings home, traded back and forth for your pleasure.”
He stepped closer to her, lowered his head and spoke into her ear. “And yours too. Or are you afraid to admit that?”
She clutched her goblet to her beating breast. “No, my lord. I can’t possibly lie about that, can I.”
Her body betrayed her every night, and he witnessed her climaxes with delight impressed upon his features.
“Wicked girl, you are, knowing full well that you welcome your nightly excursions, and yet have the gall to stand here before me and try to imply otherwise. Our contract has gifted you all that you need.” He raked his gloved fingers through her hair, tugging her head back, forcing her to look up into his marine eyes.
“Has it?” she said, her lips trembling. “I believe you have not shown me love, sir.”
He cocked his head to one side. “That will come,” he said.
“You are arrogant and bold.” She tried to twist her head to one side, but she could not avoid his descending mouth. He pressed firmly on her lips, persuading her to open and embrace the kiss with one of her own.
The servants had discreetly shrunk into the shadows. The goblet slipped out of her hand onto the grass and she reached up to grasp his leather tunic. She clung to it, as he continued to kiss her, allowing her only the briefest of respites to gasp for air. She melted beneath him, the heat of the day supplanted by his fiery passion.
Abruptly, he released her, and she staggered backwards. Her throat had constricted, preventing her from talking. He aimed his sharp gaze at the rapid rise and fall of her breasts. The hunger in the striated pupils was acute.
“That was a reminder that my arrogance will conquer you, my lady. What else you need, I am still determining. I will not have my heart stolen from me. It will be given freely and when I am ready. As will yours.”
She found her voice, strained though it was. “What else do I need? Is there more you think you can show me? Have I not surrendered myself sufficiently for you?”
“No,” he said simply. “I have only just begun.” He bowed, and started to walk away.
There was more? How could he possibly arouse her senses any further than what he had so far achieved? “My lord. I... I... would have you show me more.” She picked at his sleeve and he halted.
He searched her face. “Truly? Are you able, do you think, to withstand my most ardent passions?”
She pushed back her shoulders and shook out her hair. “Yes.”
He smiled. “Then, tonight, you will be tested. I have guests for dinner. Men from distant lands, friends from my days as a soldier. These men are rough, worldly, and have a taste for foreign ways.”
What awaited her? Her hope was to force him to see that love was the only way forward, that only that steadfast feeling would break her bond with Geoffrey, but now it seemed she had baited Gervais to test her beyond her abilities.
He strolled up to her and tipped up her chin. “You’ll need to be like Artemis—quiet, elegant, and on display. I shall bring something to your chamber before we dine.” With a brazen grin, he walked off and summoned his horse and hawk.
Matilda was left watching him hunt, wondering what she had done to excite him so much.
Chapter Sixteen
She was ensconced in her chamber when the men arrived. The only sounds to reach her through the thick walls of the keep were dogs barking.
“Do you think they can be trusted?” Sara asked, her gaze on the door.
“Of one thing I can be assured, Sara; Lord Baliol will not let another man lay a finger on me.” Matilda wrapped the towel around her body and stepped out of the bathtub. Bathing had become a necessarily frequent feature of her life at Baliol Castle.
The rap on the door heralded Gervais’s arrival, as he had warned her on the meadow. In his finest shirt, silk hose, calf boots, and sleeveless velvet robe of crimson, he exuded wealth and nobility. He’d trimmed his golden beard, combed his hair, and decorated his fingers with sapphires and rubies. His splendidness was heart-stopping. The towel nearly slipped out of Matilda’s hand. She snatched it to her chest and attempted a curtsy.
He carried in his hands a strange contraption of leather straps and protrusions.
“What’s that?” she said warily.
He approached, swinging the item in front of him. “A harness.”
