Chapter Twenty-One
Mariel paced to her window, looking at much of nothing for the hundredth time. The sky grew dim, and though she had picked at her trencher brought up from the kitchens, she was too nervous to eat much. She couldn’t see the approach to the castle, which was good, because her father would spot her if he had a view to the old guard tower she was entombed within.
The tower was small and circular with arrow slits meant to protect the side wall of the castle. Still, Robert had gone to pains to make it comfortable. Only one candle had been provided to keep the light dim, but a rug, a chair and table, and a mountain of blankets upon a single pallet had been moved in so she might stay warm, since the tower had no hearth. She smiled, even if it was strained. It was clear Robert didn’t want her associating the old tower with the prison her father had used on her. After Alice had brought her dinner, the woman had clicked her tongue at Mariel and deposited a fur-lined cloak upon the pallet along with the same pink gown she had worn the night before, chemise, stockings, comb, and ribbons—things a lady might need for a special liaison—but had left promptly.
She sighed. It was clear Alice didn’t approve of Robert’s interest in her, and yet it was also clear the woman had resigned herself to her master’s whim. If Robert did, in fact, succeed in stealing her right out from underneath her father’s nose to marry her, she would have to learn to get on with the head servant, and it was clear the woman didn’t think a Scottish wildling was good enough for her earl.
She paced once more, fidgeting her fingers together, and returned to the pallet where she sat and shivered, pulling a blanket over her. Perhaps the gown would be the better garment right now, for it was thicker with its underskirts and she would be warmer. Her mind made up, she threw off the blankets once more and stripped out of her tunic, dropping the chemise over her head and trousers, then the gown, which she fastened up as far as she could go before the assistance of a maid would be needed. Letting her hair down, she combed it out, making two thin braids at each of her temples, which she then pulled back over her loose tresses. Mayhap the hair could also help to insulate her.
She stripped her trousers and pulled on the woolen stockings, pulling the trousers back over them and fastening everything beneath her skirts. Wind howled against the walls and shot through the arrow slits, and she returned to the bed, lying down, and pulling the pile of blankets up and around her head. At long last, the shivering subsided, and with the sky darkening and the single candle so dim, she yawned, fought the urge to sleep, and ultimately failed, drifting off, just as the door was pushed open.
Instinctively she darted upright, whipping loose a dagger she had placed within her skirt pocket.
“Easy, Mari.” Robert smiled, taking in her mussed hair and the quickness in which she rallied her arms. “’Tis only me.”
She relaxed. Lord help him if he ever startles me awake in our marriage bed. He might end up without an important appendage, and wouldn’t that be a shame? “I’ve been unable to see a thing from this horrible vantage up here. What a misplaced tower,” she grumbled. His smile grew. “I’ve been expecting Crawford to shove through my door for hours. What took so long?”
“He’s just now gone,” Robert said, coming to her pallet and retrieving her cloak, noting a pair of slippers as well as a pair of boots.
She pushed back the blankets and he turned. A pleased light twinkled in his eyes. “You donned your gown. I had Alice bring it to you, for alas, Bridget was unaccounted for, but I wasn’t sure you would want it…for tonight.”
Bridget was always about and ready to jump at her lord’s command.
“Well, I have it on account that you liked it, and I was bloody freezing—”
“You wore it because I liked it?” The revelation didn’t inflate his arrogance as she thought it might, but instead made him step back and look at her, taking her hand at arm’s length and holding it outward as if making an inspection as his eyes drifted up and down. “I cannot believe all of this will be mine.” He shook his head, taking up the ends of her hair to rub them with his thumb. “I’m a lucky man.”
“Well, here, future lord and master. Do me up, if you would. I haven’t a lady’s maid to tend to the hard to reach places.” She turned around and swept her hair over her shoulder, revealing her back and chemise exposed as the fastenings hung open partway down to her waist.
…
A wash of dirty thoughts tumbled through his mind. Do her up? Indeed. Up and down and up again, to all the hard to reach places she had. And yet the way she stood so comfortably requesting his assistance spoke of the trust he wanted from her. It was the trust a woman had for her man of many years, a simple, intimate, yet routine task that spoke of comfort many never achieved in their lifetime with their wives, but only with their mistresses.
Lord and master of Huntington? Slave and pawn was what he sensed he was becoming. Because aside from his king, the only other person he would willingly bow down to was this woman, right before he started kissing his way back up from those feet before reaching her lips, where he intended to plant kisses for the rest of his life until they were old, shriveled prunes of their former selves.
His hands came up to her shoulders, gently, sliding to the exposed skin on her back. He sensed her inhale and watched gooseflesh rise on her skin. His fingertips made tender circles at her nape, before he snapped out of it and began securing the delicate fastenings.
“We mustn’t dawdle,” he whispered beside her ear. “I decided to make your father an offer for your hand, but he has already given you to the Sheriff of Nottingham. As soon as they find you, Wendenal’s to take you to the nearest church by force.”
He took her shoulders once more and turned her around to see her stunned eyes.
“I’m sorry I won’t be able to give you a beautiful ceremony full of fanfare and entertainments…” he said, hesitating with the next part. “And in order for no annulment to be possible, I cannot waste time in…”
“In bedding me,” she finished for him.
He shook his head. “No, Mari. Whilst our marriage union might be in haste, with you…” He brushed her hair back, unable to look into her eyes, and instead taking in her hair and lips and cheeks, fighting to force the intimate words over his lips. “With you, it can only be loving, not bedding. But I’m sorry all the same that you’ll not have the perfect night you deserve.”
She reached up and cupped his cheeks. “You give up your freedom in order to protect me. How could I feel entitled to more? Even if you never touch me again, you will have given me protection under the law of the king and the law of God.”
“Make no mistake, woman, I’ll be touching. If we are to marry, we ought to make the most of it, no?” He teased, though he sensed her growing nerves.
“I can nay go to Nottingham. I can nay ever let my faither find me.”
He felt her shiver, heard the brogue she tried to mask reemerge in her nervousness.
He offered the crook of his elbow. “Then we leave without further delay. Come, future Lady Huntington. Father Tucker awaits.”
…
They rode separate horses through the forest, he on Goliath, she on a horse from his stables, taking deer paths that only a native to Huntington would know. They connected to other deer paths, crossing through trickles of streams. The wind was blocked deep in the forest, but it was still cold and Robert’s nose and ears stung.
He glanced back at Mariel, bundled in her fur cloak, gown, and boots, with a hood draped over her head. Nothing about her appearance denoted a wedding. There were no flowers, no maids-in-waiting to bathe her and dress her, no rosemary scattered at the church door. And yet, he felt…excited? Was he actually excited to marry her? What they were doing was forbidden, more rebellious than Mariel running away from home. What Mariel was doing was handing over her life to him, putting herself in his control. No doubt a part of her heart rebelled violently at the notion of having a new lord and master, making this gift from her all the more profound. If there was any part of her that still believed in a happy future, in spite of her dreadful past, he was resolved to make it reality, for Mariel’s sake and in his mother’s memory. Her threat was genuine, that much was certain. She would leave him if he ever hurt her.
…
They continued on for the better part of two hours, Robert’s eyes and ears open to every sound, every little movement. He refrained from looking back at her, but rather sensed her there and kept his words to himself. He might admit he was excited, but he was certainly nervous, too. She stopped suddenly.
He turned and looked over his shoulder at her halting. The foliage and undergrowth was so thick that turning his mount around to face her would be impossible.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, worried. “Don’t tell me you’ve decided not to go through with it.”
“Why? What if I have?”
“Dammit,” he cursed, his good nature gone. He swung his leg over, hopped down, and marched to her. He swung her down from her horse before she could register what was happening. “Why do you do this to me?” he demanded.
She flinched from him, only for a split second, but regained her composure quickly. He dropped his arms and took a step back, raking his hand through his hair. If he wasn’t careful, he would make her fear him, too. No words emerged from her lips.
“Mariel.” He breathed her name. “God, woman, you make me feel more irritated than I’ve ever felt. I’m sorry. I just, I can’t understand what I have ever done to make you wary of me. You’re on your way to marry me, of your own volition. Why do you keep bouncing back and forth?”
“It’s silly of me,” she said, then fell quiet.
“Speak to me,” he urged. “Have I done something?”
She shook her head, lowering her gaze in an uncharacteristically modest expression. “I’m just nervous. I wondered if you had regrets, and then my imagination ran away from me and I had a fleeting fear that you in sooth took me to my faither to exchange me, or gather a reward, or some such. It was nonsense,” she added, “but it still frightened me for a moment. I’m sorry I—”
“Mari, I’m pleading with you. Your father was an awful man to make you so wary,” he said, taking her arms once more and pulling her to him. “But don’t keep punishing me because of it. I have been good to you and will continue to be so. This I vow.”
She nodded and stepped out of his embrace, reaching up to her saddle once more. He wanted to hold her a moment longer, but there wasn’t time. He lifted her aloft, and she swung her leg over. Continuing in silence, they finally wove through a widening path that broke out onto a road toward a clearing. In the clearing, she realized a torch stood within an iron sconce on the door of what appeared to be not only a chapel, but also an abbey. The outer walls were stone, the roof timbered, and the location bucolic. Robert stopped, coming to her side to help her down, and this time, unlike all times before, she waited for him. He smiled but didn’t speak.
Placing one hand at his back, he held out his other to her, which she took. The two of them walked to the front door.
“Rob, are you sure you want to marry—”
Robert whipped a finger up and rested it on Mariel’s lips. “Hush, woman. Don’t make me regret this marriage before it’s even happened,” he teased, his eyes twinkling, “Or you’ll turn me into one of those crotchety men who does nothing but complain of bad weather and his wife’s peevish nagging.”
Mariel cracked a smile and turned to face the door. She squeezed his hands so hard he felt the need to twist his fingers to ease her grip. He lifted his other fist and rapped the door.
After some minutes, a metal latch began to clank and was lifted. A round-faced priest in a cassock held out a lantern to see their faces, his belly bulging and his chin hanging low. His face brightened.
“Ah, my Lord Huntington. I received your missive and have been waiting up for you. So you’ve finally settled on a woman to tie the proverbial knot with, eh?”
“I have indeed,” Robert replied, the cheer in his voice overdone, when in reality, his stomach was twisting nervously.
“And she is a beauty, I see,” the priest said, shifting the lantern to illuminate Mariel’s face. “Come inside, my children, and welcome to Creake Abbey, my lady. Mind not the bodies lying in the corridor. They’re weary travelers needing a roof under which to sleep. We’re an almshouse and sadly, business is booming. We ran out of pallets and blankets sennights ago, so they must sleep on the cold floor.”
He led the way toward the chapel through the humble entrance. The walls were not adorned with niches and fine woodwork, but were plastered and whitewashed, and only a few tallow candles burned in plain sconces. On either side of the entry, against the walls, lay people sleeping. Some had their own blankets or cloaks, most had naught. Snores and breathing of weary folk filled the void and yet succeeded at making the void emptier.
The priest opened another door, thick and wooden, rounded over the top. They entered a small chapel. The walls here were also plastered and plain. There were no gilded shrines to the Virgin Mary, Jesus, or any saints. No stations of the cross were inlaid into the floor or hanging upon the walls. Plain benches were aligned for travelers and holy men to hear mass, and to one side were four small prie-dieus for receiving communion. An altar of roughly hewn wood sat at the front flat on the floor with a goblet of earthenware and a clay platter, with a cut of bread upon it.
The only candles lighting the darkness sat perched in a candelabrum upon the altar.
“Remove your cloaks,” Father Tucker said, “and come stand before the altar.”
They did so. Robert took Mariel’s cloak, laying them both across a bench. He guided her to the front of the chapel, flashing her a smile, before Mariel’s face dropped.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” she exclaimed, hoisting up her bunches of skirts to reach into the pocket of her trousers.
“My lady!” exclaimed the priest, shielding his eyes.
“I nearly overlooked this.” She pulled out something. “Don’t worry, Faither, I’m wearing trousers. You’ll nay go to hell.”
Robert chuckled, folding his arms, and watched her with amusement. His Mariel was always a surprise and thankfully, it put his nerves at ease. Mariel reached over her head and dropped Robert’s necklace down so it settled upon her breast. The pink stone glittered in the candlelight, matching her flushed cheeks. With embarrassment? Or with nerves? Or mayhap excitement?
“I could nay forget my pendant. ’Tis the most meaningful item I’ve ever been given.”
His smile softened. Yes, he had made the right choice in Mariel. He just hoped he had cast his dice accurately regarding Crawford and Nottingham.
“Then you would honor me to wear it always, love,” he murmured, taking up her hand.
“I will.”
“Turn toward me, my lord and, eh, lady?” Father Tucker questioned, for certainly a lady would never rip her skirts up in a house of worship.
“That’s correct, Father Tucker. My lady,” Robert said.
“You said an expedited ceremony was required, and so I will cut to the necessary parts. Kneel, children of God,” the priest commanded, still red-faced. They did so. “A marriage is a sacred bond, made in the presence of God. It is a bond that cannot be broken except by death. The commitment to cherish and protect that you are about to make to this woman, Robert of Huntington, and the vows you are about to make to this man, eh…”
“Mariel Crawford,” she finished for him.
“Right, Lady Crawford. The vows you are about to make to this man, to be faithful in mind and body, and to be obedient and honor your husband and lord—”
Their eyes sliced sidelong to one another. Be obedient? Lord. This should be entertaining. Robert waggled his eyebrows at her.
“I will only obey if I agree upon whatever command has been leveled against me,” she interrupted.
“Eh, Lord Robert?” questioned Father Tucker nervously.
Robert began to chuckle. Then laugh. “Continue, good man of the cloth. No one can make her obey. But for the sake of the ceremony, my sweet, innocent rose, do be agreeable.”
“Right. Sorry,” she murmured and put her head down again.
“These vows,” continued the priest, shaking his head, “though conducted in haste, are words that cannot be lived out in haste. Are you certain that you make the right choice tonight?”
Robert nodded, confirming they both understood the ramifications of their actions, and was heartened when he saw her defer to him.
Father Tucker continued in Latin for some minutes when Robert realized she squeezed his hand too hard again. Except he was also squeezing hers. It hit him. They were about to be married. He was about to defy both her father and his king. He had much riding on this decision, as did she. And in that moment, he realized he had wanted to marry her all along. That night, by the fire in the woods when she had planned to go to London, his confusion on the matter was only because he’d known in his heart it was time to make a pledge to a woman.
…
Mariel steadied her thoughts as Father Tucker chanted. There was no fine veil to drop over their heads or scented garlands of woven foliage to ring around both their necks as they listened to their marital requirements. There were no guests in attendance. The banns had not been posted. There was no feast upon departure.
And yet there were also no bachelors squabbling for her clothing, stripping her bare for her marriage bed in hopes to bring luck to their search for a young and fertile wife, hooting and yelling beneath their bedchamber window as Robert made love to her for the first time. There were no guests to please and no endless lines of well-wishers. For Mariel, this was perfect. It was Robert and her, and she was about to be his wife.
“Rise, Robert. Lady Mariel, remain in supplication to your lord and repeat your vows.” Those words tore her out of her thoughts. “Do you vow to give yourself, body and heart, to Robert Huntington? To love him faithfully and let no other man come betwixt you?”
She had to agree, she realized. And of course she would never cuckold Robert, but saying so in a state of submission chafed. Still, she managed to nod once and state, “aye,” though she could not convince her eyes to look upward.
“To be obedient, his loyal servant, to deny him not, and uphold your duties as his wife?” he continued.
“So long as he continues to treat me kindly, aye.”
Father Tucker looked up to Robert shakily. “Eh, my lord—”
“I want it to be known before God.” She shrugged.
“Continue, Father,” Robert said.
Now Tucker rolled his eyes, but then looked back down at the open bible in his hands.
“Do you vow to honor and respect him, forsaking all others?”
She nodded and looked up at him. Their eyes locked. “Aye.”
He didn’t smile as he returned her gaze. But she could see his pulse racing at his neck. She had just placed her faith and trust in him. Pray he never abused it.
“Rise, my lady,” the priest said. “Lady” was spoken with a hint of doubt, but Mariel ignored it and did as he bade. “Lord Huntington, please kneel and take thy lady’s hand.”
Robert did, slowly lowering to one knee, and reached up to take her left hand. He held it in both hands, looking up at her, his fingers actually trembling.
“Do you, my lord, take this woman, to love and cherish, to provide for her living?”
One corner of his mouth tipped up, his eyes locked on her glittering green ones. “Aye,” he said, and she smiled at his Scottish affirmative.
Even now he jested, she realized, to cover up the discomfort of his own feelings.
“And to protect with thy sword and thy life, if needs be?”
Robert nodded again, still watching her. “I will protect her at all costs.”
She gazed at him, feeling the squeeze of his fingers around hers. A tear welled in her eye and rolled down her cheek, falling onto his hand. His eyes crinkled in concern, except she smiled at him and reached out, caressing his cheek. Those words, now spoken before God, bore more meaning than Robert would ever know.
“To love faithfully, in all matters of life’s hardships, and to deny her not?”
Robert nodded once more, still gazing at her. “I will love her faithfully until death parts us.”
“Have you a ring, my lord?” Father Tucker asked, closing his bible and setting it aside on the altar.
Robert nodded. “It might not fit entirely, but I will have it sized, if needs be.”
The priest nodded and continued. “In nomine patri, et filli, et spiritu sancti, amen.”
Robert pushed the ring over Mariel’s middle finger. She looked down at it, a band of gold with more of the same rose stones inlaid in it.
“Rise, Robert of Huntington. What God has joined together, let no man put asunder. It is final, and you are now man and wife. You may claim your woman with a kiss to seal the contract…”
Father Tucker’s words trailed away as Mariel gazed up at Robert, memorizing this moment. What she thought would be an eager joining of lips was nothing like she imagined. He hesitated. Nervous. In the span of only a few fleeting minutes, their relationship had changed. And she suddenly felt shy. He leaned down, placed his lips to hers, and pressed gently. But the chaste kiss he delivered began to evolve, and before she could tell what he was doing, he was pulling her tightly to him. Her back arched, as he leaned over her, taking what he would.
“Eh, judging by Lord Huntington’s enthusiasm, I suspect you will have much passion, in your, eh, marriage, Lady Huntington,” interrupted Father Tucker, his face red and his eyes averted.
Robert chuckled, throwing a devilish look at the priest. “To be certain. I hope Mariel can withstand it.”
The jesting remark made the priest’s portly face redden further. He reached into his cassock and withdrew a small flask, uncorking it, and imbibing a heavy swallow. Mariel tipped her head back and laughed.
“Rob, you embarrass the holy man.” She chastised him, patting his arm in punishment. “Faither Tucker, I believe Robert and I will manage quite nicely.”
Robert burst out into unexpected laughter, pulling her into a one-armed embrace against his heart.
“Lord above,” breathed the priest in honest prayer, crossing himself. “Come sign the register and be off with you before you force me to confession with what mine eyes and ears have witnessed this night.”
Robert held out his arm to her. She took it, and they followed the priest. He handed Robert a plain quill pen stripped of its feathers and watched as the Earl of Huntington, the famed bachelor no more, signed his name then inked the quill once more. He handed it to her.
“My lady, if you know not your letters, an X will suffice,” Tucker said.
She set the quill to parchment beneath Robert’s name and signed, Mariel Huntington, née Crawford.
“And in place of a marriage fee, Father, here’s another disbursement to your alms. I noticed that my last donation went to good foods for the weary, but as I see it now, you could use the purchase of some extra pallets, too.” Robert placed a heavy purse in Father Tucker’s hands, giving a warning finger shake and a wink. “Not a penny goes to spirits, man, except for the Holy Spirit, of course.”
Father Tucker chuckled and received the generous purse. His eyes widened. “You always give heartily, my lord. I wish you and your lady a long and happy life. And if anyone should come questioning about the woman?”
Robert leveled a knowing glance at Tucker, and she suspected the priest had known about her predicament since the beginning.
“Then you had no knowledge her father was hunting for her. All you knew was that the woman was neither married nor a murderess, and had not pledged herself to the convent. The marriage was legal, if not in haste, and because your abbey is ailing financially, you needed the marriage fee. Any hardship resulting from our elopement should be taken up with me.”
Father Tucker nodded. “I’m indebted once again for your generosity.”
Robert smiled and shook wrists with him. “’Tis a gift from, shall we say, those more fortunate than others.”
It was money stolen from Nottingham, Mariel realized. Robert had proven his honesty before, and was being honest again. He had been telling her the truth all along about everything. And in hindsight, she knew he had. And she had been so disagreeable it was a miracle he had never turned cold toward her.
A miracle. Mayhap they really did happen, she thought fondly, as Robert guided her out into the night.
She went to mount up when he stopped her. Saying nothing, he pulled her back to Goliath. He lifted her up into his saddle, taking the other horse’s reins in hand, and mounted behind her, leading the spare in tow. With her back pressed against his chest, he bundled her cloak around her more tightly, laying a hand upon her stomach as he nudged his horse into a walk.
Taking them down more deer paths, thick with darkness, with what she could assume was purely instinct guiding him, they said nothing. Her stomach tingled from where his hand rested, fluttered with butterflies from the knowledge of what was to come. Robert had never bedded her, despite his obvious wanting. Lord, but she had misjudged him. He was no philanderer. It had all just been an act, as was his cocky jesting.
The idea of what was to come was exciting, nerve-racking. Her emotions zinged about her mind, shooting through her blood, making her breath catch, her thoughts snag. Her cheeks were red. She felt shy, of all things, unable to do anything but look at the darkness in front of them. There was no reason to feel shy. She wasn’t an innocent maid. Yet this was different. This was her husband. Husband. Just the word rolling through her mind sounded profound.
He turned Goliath down another path, leading them to a small clearing where an abandoned hut sat. The roof sagged. Illuminated by moonlight, Mariel could see that much of it was missing.
“Your castle, my lady,” Robert finally spoke. She looked back at him. His gaze was fixed upon her, his mouth only inches from hers. His jest fell flat at his obvious disappointment in himself for not providing better. “I’m sorry that it’s not—”
“It’s perfect, Rob. ’Tis a secret place and only for you and me.” She placed her hand over his and squeezed. “Quite the tale to tell our grandchildren, nay?”
“I knew you were something special when I saw you in my archery tent, Mari. You have better character than all of Europe’s noblewomen to settle for this on your wedding night.”
She noted his disparaging tone and brought his hand up from her stomach, placing a kiss upon it. “I have it with you. And now, if you don’t mind, benevolent husband and lord, I’m bloody freezing.”
He laughed at her jest. “I assume the mocking titles you bestow upon me will be a regular occurrence?” She smiled, and he winked. “Then two can play. Come, lowly woman. Your husband demands his rights.”
She opened her mouth to launch an objection when she noted his naughty grin. He dismounted and helped her down in her cumbersome gown, withdrawing a candle and flint from his saddle packs and leading her inside. Moments later, he cracked the flint until a prearranged pile of kindling took hold in the center of the hut. He then placed a dry log within it and lit the candle from the flame.
She looked around. A fur had been laid out on the dirt and weeds. A decanter of wine and two goblets sat beside it, and a thick blanket sat folded in the middle. Clearly Robert had gone to pains to plan this on short notice, for it had only been a matter of hours since news of her father’s arrival had interrupted their practice.
“Would you care for wine?” he asked, though his gaze didn’t meet hers as he tended to the fire.
Was he, perchance, sheepish? Indeed. He was. Which was a far cry from the overconfident Earl of Huntington. He fidgeted with the candle and poked the growing fire unnecessarily.
“I’m happy to serve it, my laird,” she replied, a twinkle now lighting her eyes. He looked up at her now. “Your servant.” She curtsied in a graceful dip that proved she was a lady of breeding. “’Tis my role as your wife, is it nay? But do not get used to it,” she added gushingly, causing him to laugh.
She moved the few paces it took to reach the wine, dipped down and removed the cork, pouring the contents. Holding a goblet out to him, he took it, nodded his thanks, and threw back the contents with such speed Mariel no longer questioned if he was nervous. So was she. Since their ceremony, they had both been reserved.
She sipped at her wine, watching him play with the fire like a lad on his first overland trek. At long last, she came up behind him on her knees and draped her arms around his neck, resting her head on his shoulder to watch the flame. His hands shot up and gripped her forearms, clearly pleased with her advance. He turned so that he faced her and stood, pulling her up by the hands.
She stood as well. “Yes?”
He didn’t offer a reply, but guided her to the fur. He reached up to the buckle holding fast her cloak. He pulled it free, opening the cloak and pushing it from her shoulders. It fell to the fur beneath them. Standing before her, he did nothing, simply waited. She reached up with hesitant hands and did the same to him, her ring glittering in the firelight.
…
His cloak drifted down to meet hers and he breathed in, breathed out, sensing her doing the same.
It was really happening. This woman was going to receive him and seal their marriage. He was humbled. He took both her shoulders and turned her around so her back was to him. She complied, looking over one shoulder, her eyes downcast. It was a modest look, wholly unlike her, and it intrigued him.
He watched her profile in the shadows dancing upon her skin as he began to pop loose each fastening down her back, seeing more and more skin revealed as the gown slacked open. He then reached up to her shoulders once more, leaned in, and placed a gentle peck at the crux of her neck and shoulder. She still smelled of the rose water and scented oils that Charlotte and Alice had used on her. Sweeping her hair over her shoulder to drape down her breast past her waist, both hands pushed her gown down her arms.
Unaware of it and yet completely fixated on it, he knew he stood at full attention, hard as a castle tower. He had to have her with such sudden fervor it was all he could do to move slowly. She sighed as he placed kisses on her neck, her shoulders, as he pulled free the lacing of her corset. It too slackened until he had pulled it open completely, adding it to the cloaks and the gown lying in a puddle around her boots.
Her chemise now hung loose and with her back to him, he stepped against her, reaching around her shoulders to her front. Finding the laces of her chemise, his arms brushed against her breasts as his fingers pulled the bow open so the neck hole slackened, all the while his lips still placing kisses along her shoulders. Gooseflesh rose on her skin. He felt her tremble, heard a whispered moan in her throat, and knew he was going to enjoy this moment more than any moment in his life.
“Turn around, love,” he whispered in her ear.
She did so and looked at him. He waited before her, holding out his arms. She seemed to understand the give and take, and began opening the ties of his coat with shaking fingers, pushing the garment open and back, sliding it down his arms, letting it land atop her corset. The whole time, his eyes remained fixed on hers, no smile, no frown, as if all his concentration rested on this one task. His chest rose and fell beneath her hands as she untied his tunic, pulling open the neck.
Her hands shook, as if she had never undressed a man. His trousers needed untying next, as did his codpiece need to be unfastened. God, but as she slowly knelt in front of him, glancing up at him, he flexed painfully in anticipation. He stood still. Once at the proper level, she lifted hesitant hands to his hips where they rested, his codpiece and thus, maleness, before her eyes. He remained motionless, watching. Her hands slid around behind him, over his rear, and his muscles twitched and flexed of their own accord under her roving fingers. She fumbled with the clasp, glancing up at him as her cheeks reddened, but he didn’t wink, or grin, or tease in any way.
“I’m nervous,” she finally admitted.
Robert brushed a wisp of hair behind her ear. “So am I,” he confessed. “You’re doing fine.”
He didn’t move, allowing her explorations. With the garment finally unclasped, it fell to the ground with a heavy jingle, filled with his traveling money. Her eyes riveted to the plume of fine linen undergarments at the joining of his thighs where the legs of the trousers didn’t come together. And the column of fabric wasn’t simply loose linen bunched together between his legs. It was filled completely with the thick pillar of his endowment and bollocks straining against the material for freedom.
She inhaled, and he shuddered, knowing she was taking in his musk mixed with the smell of his soap. Her eyes fluttered closed, and he used his threads of restraint to keep from grabbing her head and drawing her to him. With her hands still unsteady, she brought them back around his hips and slid her hand over his shaft, then leaned forward, bracing each hip, and brought her cheek against him. She inhaled again, sliding the tip of her nose along his manhood until she reached his helm dampening the fabric as it pulsed.
He hissed, sucking in, and now his hands instinctively clasped each side of her head in the cradle of his palms, kneading her hair and ears as she trailed her cheek back down to his base.
“Mercy, Mari,” he whispered, his voice harsh as he fought for control. “’Twill be over before it’s begun if you stay this course…”
He pinched his eyes shut, his head tipped back, and his manhood jumped. His broad hands gripped her face to hold on for dear life. She caressed him once more with her nose. His eyes shot down to her in disbelief and appreciation. He was at her mercy,
Placing a gentle peck to his damp helm through his undergarments, she reached to his laces, pulling them loose until the two flaps of his trousers enclosing his waist laid open. And then she did the same to his undergarments. And as she pushed them down, they hung upon his shaft like a washrag thrown over a rod to dry. His hair, darker than that of his head, tufted out in coarse curls.
She pulled his tunic loose from his waist, standing back up, and lifted it so that it bunched beneath his armpits. He released his hold on her and raised his arms dutifully to allow her to drag it over his head, bending forward so she could pull it down his arms. She let the garment slip to the accumulating pile of clothing and looked at him.
“You’re beautiful,” she whispered.
She ran her hands across his pectorals. He shivered. Her fingers slid across tiny nicks and cuts that had accrued over time, and down his shoulders, down his arms toned from years of archery. He gazed at her hand lingering on the scabbed arrow wound, before it continued to his fingertips.
His chest swelled at the compliment, that he had impressed her so. He knew his physique was deemed desirable, but it still pleased him to hear the words from Mariel’s lips.
Her hands returned the way they had come, back up his arms to his chest. The air was chilly, but her hands blazed a trail down his stomach to brush around his waist to his rear. Her fingertips teased the sagging waistline of his trousers then roved back around to his front, where they skimmed his private hair, making him twitch with anticipation.
He heard her breath hitch, his thoughts growing predatory, attuned to her slightest body language. His eyes lingered on her chest. Though she still wore her chemise, the fabric sloped off the tips of her breasts and hung in the valley between them. He would know the peaks and valley well before the night ended.
“My turn. Again,” he said, and reached out to each of her shoulders where the chemise still hung, but instead of dragging the garment down to her elbows to reveal her breasts waiting for his lips, he slid his hands down her front, to her waist, watching as the tips of her breasts pushed against the chemise while his palms moved downward.
They slid over her hips and he knelt down on one knee as his hands continued over her thighs, then her knees, then her boots, to the hemline of the undergarment.
He slid his fingers beneath, feeling her shaking with nerves and excitement. His hands found the tops of one boot and he pulled free the laces, loosening them, then lifted her foot—she was like a skittish filly—and slid the leather free. The boots, he noted, as he set them aside one by one, were in poor repair, old, nearly worn through on the soles, much like her stockings had been. He made no outward expression, but his wife would have the finest of whatever she desired. Fine boots made of deerskin and lined with fleece, fine tunics and trousers of the best linens and wool, if she so chose to keep wearing them, fine adornments for her body, fine gauntlets for archery. He would never see her in poorly stitched clothing again.
Wife.
He tried the word on for size, and though it was new and awkward, it was also exciting. He had just eloped. He, whose king would have had to drag him to the altar kicking and screaming had he never met Mariel, had just pledged himself in marriage of his own volition.
Wife.
He liked it. His other half. He couldn’t delay knowing her body any longer.
His hands now slid up her legs, slowly, in part to draw out the torture and in part so as not to rush in, thrust madly, and turn her away from him at his animalistic rutting. Her breathing, he noted as he glanced up at her, still on bended knee, was uneven, shallow, her cheeks pink, her lips parted, and her eyes fluttering closed, then open again, then closed again as his hands crept upward over her thighs, taking hold of her hips.
He found her trouser lacings, wanting to chuckle at the humor of untying a man’s trousers other than his own for the first time in his life, and pulled them loose, working the knot until he had untethered it. Then using his thumbs and pointer fingers, he spanned each side of her waist and allowed them to slip beneath the garment, beneath the waist of her stockings, rolling the fabric downward. He dragged it lower still, feeling the warmth of her soft skin, his thumbs brushing against the curls nestled between her thighs. She jumped and her hands shot out to brace his shoulders. He grinned, knowing he was only beginning to exact his sweet revenge for her innocent, doe-eyed nuzzling of his shaft.
Still, he pulled the stockings and trousers down, lower, lower, until they stretched around her ankles and she stepped out of them. He added those to the pile as well. He felt her knees threatening to give out and her fingers clenched his shoulders, as he brushed his fingers back up over her skin, lifting her chemise with it, bending to at first kiss her calf, then her knee, then thigh, and then…
“Rob…” she whimpered, digging her nails into his flesh as he kissed her inner thigh, smelling the sweetness betwixt her legs, knowing she was more than ready for him.
Letting the chemise fall over his head, he kissed her center, a soft peck, feeling her jump again.
“Rob…Rob…” she crooned as he grazed the juncture of her thighs with his fingertips, over the arch of each rounded hip, back down again over the hair that shielded her, and leaned in once more.
Wrapping his hands around the backs of each thigh, he pulled them apart so that she widened her stance. Without giving her pause, he nestled his nose and lips between the tender folds and delved in for a taste of the honey that would ease his joining with her. But one taste was not enough. He licked his lips, tasting anticipation, pleasure, and went for a second helping more generously suckled than the first as her fingertips gouged mercilessly into him.
He swallowed, moaning at her heady potion, and withdrew his head from beneath her shift. He had to join with her. He wasn’t going to last and most certainly wouldn’t use the full hour a self-respecting man should take. This would take him only minutes to complete the deed. If she was to enjoy anything from him this night apart from the extravagant accommodations, he needed to act now. Pushing to his feet, he pulled the chemise free with less grace than he had been using before, swinging it around his arm to collect it, and dropped it on top of her stockings and boots, his tunic and coat, her corset and gown, and both their cloaks. He stepped back, his lips moist from her, and beheld what he had been imagining since he met her.
He paused, his chest rising and falling, his skin tingling, and saw all of her as she stared back at him with growing anticipation.
When he did nothing, her face dropped and she looked down. “I know I’m thin, Robert, but—”
“Perfect,” he whispered. “Beautiful.”
Reaching out, he lifted each breast in turn in his hands, squeezing the generous flesh, grazing his thumbs over each nipple, and leaned in, giving each one a liberal exploration with his lips. Her breath hitched again, her hands clasping his head to her breast. After finally releasing the second one with a tender kiss, he stood up straight. His eyes locked on hers as she released a strained moan at his bold inspection.
“So soft…your eyes, so deep, this body…Christ in heaven, woman, have you no idea? And this is mine?” He shook his head with disbelief, smiling. “How in the hell did I get so lucky?”
She blushed, and he lifted her chin, his thumb lingering there. “I want you looking at me. Remove my trousers, wife. I cannot wait any longer.”
She took a step to him, her blonde hair hanging about her like the fae folk, and began to pull down his remaining garments together so that they fell past his rear, still dragging his erect shaft with them until they slipped off the end and he bobbed clean past his navel to salute her. She froze, staring at him.
He sensed her pause. “Do I intimidate you?” he questioned, hoping his concern didn’t show.
She shook her head, still holding his trousers, and lowered down to his feet to help remove his boots. She looked up the ridged plane of his stomach to his face, her eyes shining with humor.
“Nay. You say you’re a lucky man, though I might add that I’m a most appreciative wife.”
His mouth split into a grin, allaying his concern. Once he was as naked as she was, she slid her hands up his legs, bracing them on either side of his shaft, and looked up once more with innocent eyes. Innocent indeed, as if he believed that. She knew what she was doing. His smile fell and he pulsed, his fists clenching and his fingers kneading his palms.
“Dammit, woman,” he ground out. “I’ll spill the moment you touch me. Our first…” She was drawing teasing circles around his inner thighs, brushing against his bollocks. He gave her no more time to tease and hauled her to her feet, pulling her to him, wrapping her in his embrace. “It has to be inside you,” he whispered in her ear.
Her arms tightened around him, her breasts pressed against his torso, and she nodded. Scooping her into a cradle, he laid her down on the fur, shoving their clothing aside, and shaking out the blanket. Whipping it over his back, he climbed on his hands and knees over her. He straddled her on all fours like a protector, like a wolf about to devour a feast, like a man who could think of no one else but her.
Gazing into her eyes, he waited for her to respond, and she complied with his silent request as if of one mind, opening her legs for him. She was exposed, vulnerable, and yet she seemed at complete ease with him, a sign of trust, he realized, and it made his ego swell to know of the things he wanted from her, trust was the most important. He moved his knees inside the gap she had created, lowered himself, and then spoke barely over a whisper, his eyes firm.
“Receive me woman, as I would like to be received.”
She nodded, their eyes still locked, and she folded her knees up as he took his manhood in hand and guided himself to her opening. He pushed as he nestled between her folds, groaning with sheer pleasure. She may have lain with other men before, but it had been a while, if his effort to seek entry was any indication, despite her readiness. He withdrew, easing out, and eased back in to the point of resistance once more, and urging himself farther, repeating the task again and again as he stretched her to accommodate him.
Looking down, he saw her eyes pinched closed, one arm clenching his neck.
“You’re supposed to be looking at me,” he said between pushes.
“I can’t help it, Rob—”
“Look at me,” he commanded. Her eyes opened. He smiled. “Good girl.”
She shook her head, then wrapped both arms tightly round his neck as she pulled him down in a silent plea to lower himself to her.
“Please. Rob. Do what you will, but I have to feel you against me. I have to…”
“You test my control,” he scolded, his eyes now pinching shut, too. “Mari, I’m trying to be careful. I don’t want to frighten you by being too rough.”
She grabbed the sides of his face, caressing her thumbs over the cut of his cheekbones. “Kiss me. If I were frightened, I wouldn’t be here. Please kiss me, I have to feel all of you—”
He snapped. He fell upon her with fervor, delving into her mouth with his tongue and plunging hard inside her, feeling her sheathe him to the hilt. She released a cry but remained open as he withdrew and drove again and again. They moaned in unison, her legs and arms instinctively cinching around him to brace herself. Their kissing became wild, his chest pressed to hers, his elbows resting beside her, his hands wrapped over her head, clenching her hair, feeling her breasts pressed to him, her hips rocking with his, cries falling from her lips that he swallowed with his own groans.
Her hands released him and raked down to his rear, clenching and releasing with each entrance and exit. “Woman…” He searched for words as his mind focused on the sensations racing through his loins, through his shaft, tightening his bollocks, skittering across his skin at her wanton gropes. “God, yes, woman. I’m dying…”
He listened to her breathing, her moans at each hard entry. His control was gone, shattered, vanished. He was ravaging her. He knew he should slow, but dammit, she kept encouraging him, clenching his rear, gripping his shoulders, scoring his back.
“I don’t want to hold back,” he begged, unable to find his self-control. Clenching his neck, she released a moan beside his ear as his pace increased, harder, faster, her hands holding on for dear life as if clinging to a runaway.
“Then don’t,” she whimpered. “Please, Rob…”
Please what? Please push her over the edge? Send her crashing into a sea of fervent euphoria? Please finish her? Finish himself? He was well on his way. No return. No annulment possible. He had tasted heaven, tasted summer and feasting, and indulging, and flowers, and velvet, and all things fine in life wrapped up into one single night with a woman who not only could handle him but was craving his very body, his very being.
He shoved upright, his knees splaying beneath her, and grabbed hold of her legs under her knees and around her thighs. He drove as hard and fast as he could, his skin slapping hers, her breasts bouncing with each force absorbed by her body.
“God, Mari,” he begged, his eyes clenched tightly. “I’m going to spill…I’m going to spill…come with me, love…”
She threw her hands above her head, her hair tangling around her in the most beautiful disarray he had ever seen, and gripped the edge of the fur, pulling on it, her cries no longer broken apart but in a drawn out moan.
And she shattered.
He felt the rush of warmth glide down his shaft with each thrust and let out a primal growl of release, satisfaction, and completion. Dropping his head back, his seed burst forth, shooting in spurts as he buried himself, each thrust still smacking her skin, until every drop was wrung from him and he collapsed upon her, sweating.
…
Mariel clung to him, her legs wrapped around his rear and her arms now holding his torso, hands resting on his back. She buried her face against his smooth chest, could feel his thin trail of hair rising up from below his waist, tickle her navel. She could feel his heartbeat in her ear, the rapid pace of it matching her own as it thumped in her neck, in her wrists, roared in her ears. She nuzzled him. This man was hers, and she belonged to him. She had just done the maddest thing by eloping.
Sakes, but she wanted to bask in this glow forever, lie tangled with the man she could never live without. By their first campfire, she had wanted this, in the tree in the forest, she had wanted this, in his solar, as he had begged her to be his wife, she had wanted this, but never had she thought she would feel such…completion.
Her father’s angry face flashed through her mind, his rage at her shooting him now taunting her as she imagined him discovering her elopement, and she squeezed Robert harder as if the realness of his body against hers might truly protect her.
“What’s wrong?” Robert asked, lifting his head from where he had been nuzzling her neck. “I can tell your mind wanders away.”
“Do you think Crawford will find us here?” she whispered. “Like this?”
Robert shook his head, prying up her left arm and pulling her hand into his so he could inspect her ring. He twisted it around her finger in a contemplative motion, inspecting the stones. This ring was symbolic of his vow to always protect her, with his sword and even his life, if needed. He would do whatever needed to be done to protect her from Crawford. She knew he would.
“We’re at risk once we leave the deer paths and join the main roads. We shouldn’t tarry, but he won’t find this hut. There are no roads leading here anymore. It was abandoned in my father’s youth and all the paths have been overtaken by forest. Only a deer trail leads through here.” She relaxed an increment and studied the ring as he twisted it around and around.
“Was this also your mither’s?”
He nodded but didn’t speak. She thought on his admission so many nights ago. His father had never protected his mother. His father had killed her. But the ring and the pendant were symbolic as much as they were beautiful. His mother had never been strong enough to stand up to his father, but she would try to do his memories of her proud by wearing these adornments and giving them new life.
She felt him softening, and slowly, he slid free of their coupling. It dismayed her to know it was over so soon, but God above, she would welcome his attentions time and again. In that frenzy of loving, they could have been anywhere, for she had lost all sense of everything around them as he had taken wildly from her and gave as much in return, allowing himself to peak within her.
A chill caused gooseflesh to rise on her arms. Robert groped down behind him and pulled the blanket back up that had wadded around his legs, rolling to one side and tucking it around them both.
“Mine,” he muttered, planting kisses along her ear as he propped himself on his elbow and pressed himself against her warmth. His hand snaked up to hold her breast. “All mine. I’d have had you the moment I saw you had I known what lay in wait for me. Won’t I be the envy of every man?”
“And I of every woman? Seriously. I shall have to watch closely for the women now vying to be your mistress.”
He looked into the fire as if sincerely considering something, continuing to fondle the breast in his palm, rolling the tip between his thumb and finger. She squirmed at the attention, her body not yet sated. “Aye, I’ll have my pick of the women, will I not? Mayhap you can select a fine mistress for me.”
Her mouth dropped open and she slapped at his hand taking liberties with her chest, but he laughed insufferably.
“Rob, that’s nay funny,” she bit out, but he captured her angry hand in his and brought it to his mouth, kissing it.
“Mari. You make it too easy for me to tease you. Holy hell, woman, have some faith in me. I’ve never had such fine loving in all my life. I knew from the moment I saw your body that you would be all I would need to be happily sated until I’m too old to have the stamina. I’ve been bloody fantasizing about this.” He made a point of giving her a searing perusal. “Since I met you. Why on earth would I jeopardize losing it? For I take you at your word. I know you’ll leave me, if you must, and I’ll give you no cause to do so.” His voice gentled and he looked at her lips, brushing his thumb over them. “And you do the same. No flirtations with other men, and I will insist that the ladies in my company remember that their place is not at my side. Agreed?”
She nodded at his declaration. “I won’t share, neither myself nor you.”
“A demanding wench to be certain,” he said, leaning down to nip at her lips.
She giggled. She felt such comfort lying with him, despite their newness to each other. Right now, she saw everything she liked about him. In time she would see his flaws, too, watch him fall ill from time to time, and see the dirty side of marriage, as he would do the same, which would only make them stronger.
“I was a fool about marriage,” he confessed. “I feared it. But I look forward to it now. Of watching you age into a beautiful matriarch, of watching your belly produce my succession, watching your hair gray—”
“Honestly,” she admonished him. “Gray?”
“Yes, gray.” He chuckled. “I can’t wait to see you march about Huntington in your trousers and tunic, never taking shite from me or anyone else. All will work out with your father. I have faith he’ll eventually bestow his blessing, or at the very least, concede defeat.”
He was wrong, yet in the moment, Mariel didn’t want to correct him, but wanted to believe the dream so much that she made it true.
“Well, then, my lord and husband,” she said, “we’ve not much more time to enjoy our wedding chamber. More wine? Or more of me? For I fear there may not be time for both.”
He wrapped his arm around her, using a leg to clamp both of hers and pulled her onto her side, facing him. His softened shaft resting across her thigh was inching to attention again with steady pulses as he nuzzled her. “Ah, my lady, I think the answer should be obvious…” He reached around her, groping outward for something, for their fire had died to orange embers and it was nearly impossible to see. “More wine, of course—”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Mariel exclaimed, rolling away and giving him her back.
He laughed. “Perfect, dearest.” Nestling himself against her rear, draping his arm over her, working his other arm underneath her head, his hand caressed down her stomach and rolled over her hip while he urged himself between her legs from behind. Her eyes fluttered shut. “More of you,” he whispered in her ear, joining with her gently this time, as her irritation subsided into a helpless sigh. “Always you. I shall spend a lifetime wanting more.” He kissed her neck. “And more…” He kissed her shoulder. “And more…”