Chapter Fourteen

 

Ethelred of Rievaulx’s sonorant voice ranged far from the steps of Helmsley’s chapel with dulcet words of everlasting commitment, honor, and fidelity. The doors behind him stood open and soon the wedding party would enter the vaulted chapel for prayers and Mass.

A crisp, October breeze stirred the tendrils of hair escaping the circlet on Merry’s head, but she scarcely took note of the blue sky, nor the enticing aromas wafting from the kitchen where preparations for a wedding feast were under way. Luke’s warm fingers captivated her full attention as they curled gently around hers, trembling oh so slightly.

“Do you, Luke d’Aubigny, son of James, grandson of Lord Arundel, William d’Aubigny, Earl of Arundel, Lincoln, and Sussex, swear by your honor and your sword to uphold Lady Merry, born of Lord Edward du Boise of Heathersgill, to nurture her, to love and cherish her, so long as ye twain shall live?”

Searching Luke’s remote expression, Merry wondered if he still felt weak from his ordeal, or was this moment as terrible and wonderful to him as it was to her? If he would return her gaze, perhaps she would know, but he’d fixed his attention on Ethelred and had yet to really look at her.

The awful suspicion that he’d been coerced into this marriage had kept her roiling stomach unsettled. After all, he’d written her that letter, bidding her adieu. He’d been well on his way to leaving, so why the change of heart?

According to Clarisse, who had informed her of Luke’s proposal, he had realized he owed her a debt for saving his life. Her sister swore the commander had expressed tender feelings for Merry, but what if Clarisse had exaggerated in order to ease Merry’s fears?

She ought to have asked him herself, two nights earlier, when they’d been seated side by side at the high table. Luke’s handsome, unblemished visage had assured her at least that he hadn’t been physically coerced by a sound pummeling.

A hint of dull color had crept into his cheeks when their eyes met. He’d greeted her cordially but then scarcely looked at her again. Assailed by uncertainty, she had just mustered the courage to ask about his change of heart when a trencher of tender, flakey plaice slid onto the table between them. One whiff of even that mild fish had threatened to upend Merry’s stomach. She’d fled the great hall to avoid disgracing herself, nor had she been able to return.

The following morn had marked her younger sister’s arrival at Helmsley, which had kept her again from talking privately to Luke. Delighted to be reunited after more than five years, Merry and Clarisse had passed the entire day with Katherine, who had slipped through the rowdies at the gate escorted by her loyal servant, Hugh.

The sight of her baby sister fully grown reminded Merry that the years were passing and their lives moving on from their sad upbringing. Katherine’s hair was still a lustrous coppery-tinted blond; her dimples still deep with mischief. Yet the striking change in both her height and body shape proved she was a child no more.

Sent away to escape the memories of a shattered family and the unpredictability of her oft-unstable mother, Katherine was flourishing in her cousin’s household. Living with the powerful de Bulmer family, the head of which was Bertram, Sheriff of York, Katherine was exposed to many people she would never have encountered while hidden away in Heathersgill, including visiting barons and young counts from the continent. Merry was pleased to discover that neither the formidable sheriff nor his polished wife had altered her younger sister’s propensity for merriment.

With an innate talent for jesting that had both elder sisters laughing until tears streamed down their faces, Katherine regaled them with her imitations of the imperious barons she’d met and their oft ridiculous wives. Storytelling had by necessity given way to fittings and final adjustments as a wedding gown and trousseau were being sewn in record time, with four seamstresses working through the previous three nights to complete it.

Standing on a stool with her sisters offering words of encouragement, Merry had caught herself believing that her life was taking a turn for the better. The Phoenix, powerful, accomplished, wealthy—and handsome—had asked for her hand in gratitude for saving his life. Her days of persecution were nearly over, for he would whisk her away to his fortress in the south, and she would begin life anew as Lady d’Aubigny, where no one had ever heard of Merry, the witch of Heathersgill.

Wanting to maintain the dream, be it illusion or real, she had taken the coward’s way by not demanding a private moment with her husband-to-be the night before. Now it was too late, the priest was already speaking, and the opportunity lost.

She’d awakened early that morn to be scrubbed and buffed, oiled and perfumed. They’d brushed the tangles from her hair and woven it into two braids that would be undone right before she joined Luke on the chapel steps. Her hair would hang in gentle waves to her waist with no head covering. Clarisse and Katherine had begged her to eat while she paced in her chambers, but she’d kept nothing down save broth.

After the rest of the castle had consumed a midday meal, she’d been draped in her gown of verdant silk, as green as the natural world she loved. Wearing a silver girdle of precious amber links, with a matching circlet atop her head, she had scarcely recognized her reflection in the long polished shield newly placed within her chamber.

Seeing herself so transformed, it had been easy enough to cling to the belief that Luke had had a change of heart. Even she could admit her face and figure were fair enough to warrant her being his consort? With the silver circlet on her head, fashioned with three amber stones, she looked nearly as regal as a queen—nothing like a witch at all.

Yet . . . what if her family had managed to manipulate even the powerful Phoenix in the hopes of safeguarding her future?

After all, why would Luke breech his betrothal contract with the king’s own cousin?

Her heart beat a tattoo of uncertainty as she probed his closed-off expression. Dressed in a purple silken tunic so swiftly sewn there’d been no time to recreate his famous emblem, he nonetheless exuded power befitting his station. His hair had been trimmed an inch or two and was tied back with a black leather strip. His black booted feet and the jeweled dagger hanging from his belt lent him a formal air, as did his remote countenance, the same soldier’s mask he had worn when they departed Heathersgill.

Only the tremor in his hands indicated his nerves might be as overwrought as hers.

Did he dread every word coming out of his own mouth? Was he as terrified of the future as she?

Hearing her name called, Merry recalled herself to the present. In a voice as insubstantial as air, she repeated the vows as Ethelred said them, while beneath the bolts of silk from which her gown was sewn, her knees jittered uncontrollably at the likelihood that she might suddenly sink onto the flagstone floor and vomit on Luke’s boots.

Then he squeezed her hands, slowly, reassuringly, and locked his gaze with hers, at last, imparting strength and calmness to her. The uncertainty and the nausea passed. Grateful for his encouragement, her words grew stronger, and she concluded her portion of the wedding vows on a confident note.

Luke then announced his intent to forego any dowry, saying that her gift of his life was enough for any man. Her heart thudded with hope. Were the words true or merely an empty gesture, one that caused all those within earshot to murmur with approval, their volume rising as he handed her a purse of coins to disperse as she wished.

Next, came the exchanging of rings. Feeling Clarisse thrust into her palm a ring for her groom, Merry wondered where Luke had procured one for her? Had he another one back at Arundel that he’d intended for Amalie?

The Slayer, giving Luke the ring for Merry, thumped him soundly on the shoulder, upsetting his balance. Luke staggered, and Merry reached for him automatically, lending her support as he straightened with a grimace of pain. His gaze met hers at last, and there was no mistaking the frustration simmering in their depths.

St. Anne’s blood! He must have been coerced!

At her gasp of dismay, his expression softened and a hint of a smile curved his lips.

She stared up at him, confused.

Wait! She turned toward Ethelred to ask him to suspend the sacrament, but the abbot spoke first, requesting that they exchange their rings. Luke slid a cool band of filigree gold, inlaid with a winking emerald onto Merry’s finger, locking the breath in her lungs. Still reeling, Merry likewise worked a ring over Luke’s knuckle and pushed it snugly into place.

Then it was over, and too late to discuss their options. Merry removed the sack of coins from her wrist and upended it onto her palm before flinging the coins into the small group of onlookers, all servants from the castle, who’d been forewarned not to mention the marriage and particularly the bride to anyone outside the keep.

As the small wedding party of Clarisse, Christian, Katherine and the wedded couple entered the chapel, Merry’s attention was captured by the mullioned glass in the crossloop glittering with afternoon light. Filled with a sense of awe, standing in the echoing space, surrounded by clouds of incense, Merry dared to believe her union with Luke was blessed not only by Ethelred but by Almighty God.

Together, they prayed. Peeking up at Luke’s profile as he knelt beside her, she wondered what he prayed for. For a long and happy union, or for immediate reprieve from a situation he found both oppressive and intolerable?

Plagued by her doubts, charged with nervous excitement, she longed to go back to her bed as exhaustion tugged at her. However, there was still the Mass, their first as husband and wife, to endure. After that, as they left the chapel, no doubt some well-meaning onlooker would keep with tradition and shove a baby into her arms, break cake over her head, or toss some ripe grains at her, unnecessarily wishing the blessing of fertility upon them.

At last, the abbot gave Luke the kiss of peace and enjoined him to pass it along to Merry—a kiss that would seal their union forever.

Merry’s heart began to thud for Luke hadn’t kissed her since their night together at Iversly, the memory of that night at such odds with the sanctity of this moment.

He turned toward her and their gazes met again. She read no anger this time, nor resentment. What was it he was feeling—resignation?

Lifting a hand, he laid his thumb against her cheek. The tenderness of his touch quieted her inward panic. He lowered his head, and her lashes fluttered shut.

The taste of his lips on hers and the heat of them were so familiar, so dear, that her eyes stung with sharp relief. He deepened the kiss, pressing his mouth to hers with a sweetness that brought a lump to her throat. He must truly care for her!

Then he lifted his head, and a strangely knowing look had entered his eyes.

“You are beautiful, wife,” he said, his gaze seeming to undress her as it lowered to take in her adorned figure.

Wife! Her heart leaped at the unaccustomed word. The chapel walls went into a slow spin as the light-headedness that had come with not keeping food down for two days stormed her senses. Merry grasped the material of her new husband’s tunic to steady herself. It was too late. With a strangled warning, Merry fainted dead away.

 

“How do you feel?” Luke asked, as her eyes opened.

Finding herself in her bed in her own room, Merry pushed herself up against the goose-down pillows and accepted the drink he thrust into her hands.

“Well enough,” she replied, giving the goblet a sniff and recognizing the sweet, cloying scent of elderberry wine. Knowing it dangerous for a woman with child, she thanked him and only pretended to take a sip.

Luke stood there, practically hovering like a nursemaid. Still in his purple tunic, the strange look that had lit his eyes earlier was gone, replaced by an expression of concern.

“Sister.” Clarisse sidled suddenly into view, forcing Luke back a step. “Wasn’t a hasty wedding enough drama? Did you have to faint away as if poisoned immediately upon completion of the Mass?”

Merry cracked a smile at her sister’s attempt to make light of the situation. “Sorry.”

“No, matter.” Clarisse patted her hand. “I shall go and deliver the news that you are back with us.” Removing the silver and amber circlet that had gone askew from Merry’s head, she placed it aside and asked, “Is there aught that I can bring you?"

Merry longed for an infusion that would settle her stomach. Dare she ask without revealing her condition?

“Yes,” Merry said, choosing her words carefully. “I am parched. Do you have any ginger root? Could you ask your cook to steep the ginger in some chamomile tea—or if none, then in plain water?”

Her sister’s eyes widened. “Cook is preparing a wedding feast, dear one, but I’ll see what can be done without getting a pan thrown at my head.”

Merry nodded. “Anything will do.”

Except the elderberry wine, which must have been left in their room for their first supposed night together. The realization that that hour was fast approaching crackled through her like lightning, sharpening her awareness of Luke as Clarisse closed the door and disappeared.

Luke asked her again, “Are you well?”

Considering him self-consciously, Merry wondered when to tell him about the babe—if ever. Perhaps she should lead the world, including Luke, to believe their child had been conceived within the bounds of holy matrimony—on their wedding night . . . that very night.

“Aye,” she insisted. Seeing a slight flush to his face that hadn’t been there earlier, she realized that he might not be. “Perhaps you should sit down.” She’d been thinking only of herself. “It must pain your leg to stand so long.”

With a grunt of acknowledgment, he settled rather stiffly on the edge of the mattress. An awkward silence fell between them.

“You gave me quite a scare, lady,” he finally stated.

At his probing look, she broke eye contact.

“’Twas my own fault.” She drew a tight breath and expelled it again. “I was nervous, and I didn’t eat much yesterday and nothing but broth today.”

Her confession of nervousness drew no comment. At last he said, “Will you recover in time for the meal and festivities?”

The prospect of sitting down in the Slayer’s great hall, assailed by the varied scents of the many courses, dismayed her. How would she manage to remain seated at the high table on the dais without retching in front of everyone?

And why was this baby attempting to starve her?

He leaned forward to catch her eye. “If you don’t feel up to it, Merry, your sisters can celebrate without us, and you and I will remain in seclusion. Let them think of us what they may.”

Mixed feelings assailed her at his offer. On the one hand, nothing was more likely to offend her eldest sister than for her to shirk the festivities, after all the effort Clarisse had put into them. Though on a small scale and with only one feast, still preparations had been going on for days, albeit contained to the castle and under penalty of servants being dismissed should they speak of them.

On the other hand, Merry longed to avoid the feasting and the revelry. Doing so would not only avoid her being ill in public, it would give her time alone with Luke to talk.

They were already alone, she reminded herself, and she was squandering the time dreading the unavoidable feast and dreaming of chamomile tea. If only she could form the question that had plagued her for days.

She must do so or go mad wondering.

“Why did you marry me?” There, the words were out. Plain and simple. All at once, her heart began to throw itself against her ribs for she wasn’t altogether certain she would care for his answer.

Sure enough, he severed their gazes, glancing down at the goblet she gripped. “There were several reasons,” he prevaricated.

Ever the diplomat. However, Merry would not put up with his elusiveness.

“Name them,” she requested.

He glanced up into her eyes then down at the cup again. “Foremost, there is the matter that you saved my life,” he answered on a reasonable note. “If not for your remarkable skills as a healer, I would be dead right now. I am remiss for not apologizing to you earlier.”

He met her gaze again, his expression the picture of sincerity. “Thank you, Merry, for saving my life.”

Her throat tightened at the formality of his words. “You saved me from burning alive,” she pointed out. “A life for a life. I fail to understand why you thought you owed me anything. So, is that why you wed me, out of gratitude?”

He avoided her gaze, looking down at the bedcover. “In part.”

Luke’s admission settled over her like a lacey veil of sadness.

She nodded. “The other part?”

Still, he hesitated.

Trying to keep the impatience from her voice, she challenged, “Luke, I have not forgotten that you wrote me a letter of farewell. Did you reconsider and decide it best to have a wife with my skills?”

Stupidly, she still hoped for a declaration of tenderness. After all, his kiss after the Mass had not been a kiss of gratitude. Her heart thudded heavily as she awaited his answer.

Luke’s gaze dropped to the bodice of her lovely green gown. Could he see the pulse leaping beneath her breast bone?

Without warning, he stretched out a hand, placing it on the plane between her hips, before looking her straight in the eye. Startled, she nearly upset the contents of her goblet.

With his free hand, he took it from her, placed it on the table beside the bed, next to her silver circlet, and scooted closer.

“Your sister says you carry my child. I would hear the truth from you.”

Merry turned hot then cold. “My sister? How could she know? I never told her. I never expected you to . . .” Unable to finish, she peeled his hand off her belly.

He stiffened and drew back. “Never expected me to what?”

“To wed me, of course!”

Her answer drove him to his feet. Grimacing in pain, he loomed over her. “You would have let me leave without knowledge of my own child and never suffered a moment’s remorse?” Cords of muscle bulged from his neck betraying sudden anger.

Dismay twisted through her. “That was not my reasoning,” she insisted. “I didn’t wish to be a burden to you—”

“A child is not a burden,” he declared, turning away to limp across the chamber. He stopped to stare into the empty brazier.

With rising dismay, Merry eyed Luke’s rigid back while acknowledging the sobering truth—he’d wed her out of a sense of obligation and for the sake of their child. Nothing more.

“Of course not.” She forced herself to think with her head and not her heart, which ached with every beat and which she feared it was far too late to protect.

“How do you know I wouldn’t have sent word to Arundel as you instructed?” Though she would never have done so for fear he would take her baby from her.

As if guessing her thoughts, he turned slowly and said, “A child should remain with his mother.” The rays of the descending sun slashed across his face. “Yet also with his father. Do you not agree?”

She hesitated, causing his handsome mouth to flatten.

“In an ideal world, aye,” she answered. “We both know this is not such a world. What will the king say?” she added, probing Luke’s motives further.

His expression grew instantly guarded. “That is for me to deal with,” he said, glancing at her belly again. “You shouldn’t worry in your state. Are you certain you feel well?”

Taking note of his evasiveness, she resolved to bring the matter up another time, for the king’s reaction to their marriage would surely affect their future together.

“Ask me that again and I am sure to worsen,” she said, tartly. To herself only, she acknowledged that she wasn’t well but rather sick at heart. How could she have let Clarisse convince her that Luke had wed her out of love?

He’d done it for the babe and, perhaps, so they could swive again with the Church’s blessing for he had enjoyed their intimacy at Iversly—of that she was certain. Sadly, instead of anticipating their wedding night to come, she balked at the idea of lying with him again. His unnecessary gratitude and his obsession with their unborn child had taken something from her, something she had no name for.

The belief that he’d loved her enough to defy his king and to forget his betrothed had proven a hollow illusion. How could she have thought that she, of all women, should have that kind of effect on the mighty Phoenix?

A brief tap on the door prevented further discussion. Two steps into the room and Clarisse hesitated, perhaps sensing the tension between the newly wedded couple. Still, she gave a broad smile to them both and raised a large pewter mug.

“Ginger and chamomile,” she said in triumph. “Precisely as Lady d’Aubigny requested.

Merry flinched. Good God. From nearly burning at the stake to a future earl’s wife. What had she done? No, this did not bode well with King Henry. She simply knew it.

Offering Clarisse a grateful smile in return, Merry took the mug and sipped gratefully. The concoction was an instantly healing warmth. She took another drink and sighed.

“Thank you. I truly needed it.”

“Hm,” Clarisse said thoughtfully. “I wish I’d known of such a soothing remedy when I was . . . in your condition.”

Heat suffused Merry’s face. To think that everyone had known her secret when she herself had said naught!

“How long have you known?” she asked.

Clarisse smirked and shrugged. “Longer than you, most likely. I’ve had enough pregnancies to know the signs. The nausea, thank God, won’t last forever. I promise you that. Now, drink up.”

Dividing an astute look between the new husband and wife, Clarisse backed toward the door again. “I hope that sets you to rights, dear sister. The guests will expect to see you both in the great hall shortly. Lord Luke,” she added pausing at the door, “kindly see to your wife’s headpiece and re-tie her gown for her. ’Twould not be amiss for you to comb her hair first, too.”

Directing a sweet smile at his discomfited expression, she shut the door and disappeared.

Luke tore his gaze from the door to look at Merry. “Has she always been so bossy?”

“Aye, infernally so. You’ll get used to it.”

He took a step in her direction. “Are you well enough to dine? If you cannot do this, I shall face that dragon and tell her the festivities must needs happen without us.”

In spite of the sorrow still weighing on her, Merry smiled at Luke’s attempt to lighten the mood. The infusion would settle her stomach and ease her tension.

“Nay, I cannot let you face such a threat,” she assured, playing along, “for I would only be called to tend your wounds once more.”

He chuckled. “I would put my life in your hands again, without hesitation,” he vowed.

She sobered at the notion. Dear St. Anne, she prayed. Let him never need of my services in such manner again. For as his moral reasons for marrying her proved, he was above all a decent man. While he had not married her for love, he would treat her well—she had no fear on that account. Clinging to her sorrow would accomplish little. She drained the cup and set it aside, determined to enjoy this evening with Luke and her sisters.

“Help me up, husband,” she requested, resolved to fulfill her duty. “It appears that you’ve become my lady’s maid,” she added, extending a hand to him, “so work quickly, as the guests await.”

“Yes, my lady,” he lisped in a maidenly voice, sketching a curtsey before pulling her to her feet.

He held her hand a moment longer, as well as her gaze. Certes, looking into his tawny eyes and feeling his warm touch, she must indeed guard her heart against the foolish notion that he cared for her beyond merely wanting his babe. Though her hope was not entirely extinguished after all, she feared it was a dangerous thing, and she almost wished it was.

 

Much later, Luke watched Merry dancing with her sisters in a carol dance, their hands joined, their voices raised in song. Sitting back in his chair, for his thigh did not allow for dancing, he eyed their fiery heads—all varying shades of red—with appreciation. Merry, he noted, looked happier than she had during their discussion earlier.

His smile faded.

She had asked him bluntly why he’d married her. He had answered as honestly as he could. Yet, he hadn’t been completely forthcoming, for to explain her effect on him defied even his facile way with words. She had enchanted him from the moment he’d first wiped soot from her face and noted her beauty.

Something had stopped him from confessing an attachment for her—fear, most likely.

Aye, he feared what might yet come to pass when Henry learned of his unsanctioned marriage. Not only that, but he feared Merry’s power over him, should she know how often he thought of her and in what way. Why, merely watching her laughing and singing, in a voice loud and off-key, he couldn’t wait to feel her writhing under him, her body rising to his touch, her glorious hair spilling across their wedding bed.

He could not wait to relive the passion they had shared at Iversly. The hour was late. As the bride groom, he shouldn’t have to wait any longer.

Lowering his cup deliberately to the table, he stood, drawing expectant gazes as he made his way off the dais and into the dancing crowd.

Lady Clarisse saw him coming first, drew to a halt, and with a knowing look, turned her sister around to face him.

Merry’s sparkling gaze met his, but then her mouth parted in a gasp and she took a small but telling step backward.

Luke hid a frown. His wife, apparently, was not as keen to lie with him as he was with her.

Determination emboldened him to march up to her, concealing his limp as best he could. The wedding guests cheered as he scooped her off her feet, holding her high against him. Her hands flew to his shoulders as he turned and started for the stairs.

She squirmed to free herself. “Put me down at once, Luke! You’ll reinjure yourself.”

“I’ll not,” he countered, aware that his thigh protested mightily but his spirit was willing beyond measure. He meant to make a public statement, one that she would do well to notice. He was her lord and husband now. His will ought, then, to be hers.

Yet the stairs proved too much with even her slight added weight. With a grimace, he set her onto her feet while keeping firm hold of her wrist lest she flee and return to her sisters.

“Stubborn fool,” she said, casting him a glowering look. “You’ll be lucky if that doesn’t set you back a week.” Then, lifting her skirts, she joined him in climbing Helmsley’s winding staircase, her shoulders squared, a look of resignation on her face.

Subdued by the betrayal of his healing body, Luke regarded her sidelong. Shouldn’t she be as eager as he to reignite the passion they had shared before? Why the sharp tongue and cold shoulder?

By God, he had done everything her family had asked him—conveyed her well out of his way to Helmsley, nearly getting killed whilst defending her from bounty hunters. He’d wed her in defiance of his king to make an honest woman of her.

Was she not even one whit grateful for his sacrifices?

Sweeping open their chamber door, she marched into the room ahead of him, took one look at the dozens of candles and the bed buried in rose petals, and put her hands to her face as though overcome.

Concern edged aside Luke’s resentment. “Merry?” He rounded her to see her better. “What ails you? Are you unwell?”

Her shoulders rose in a visible breath, then she slowly lowered her hands to her sides. For a long moment, she merely looked at him, her expression impossible to read. Her gaze touched upon his face, his shoulders, then slid lower as if she were thinking of the hours to come.

“I am well enough,” she informed him.

What did that mean? He had remarked her eating very little, but at least, she had kept her meal down.

“Good,” he said, taking an uncertain step in her direction. “Are you troubled?” he queried, while telling himself her state of mind was not his problem. After all, ’twas her family that had asked for this; nay, demanded their union. She, certainly, could not have done any better for herself in a marriage alliance.

Even so, he did not relish the notion of taking an unwilling woman to his bed.

Merry cocked her head at the question. “Why should I be troubled?” She asked herself the question as much as him. “I have gained a handsome and powerful husband, who promises to protect me from the evils of my past.”

His eyes narrowed, and she bit her lower lip, praying he wouldn’t pick up on her cynicism. “You think me handsome?” he said, instead.

“Of course.” She tossed her hair over her shoulders. “Doesn’t every woman?”

His eyebrows quirked as though he thought she exaggerated grossly. “Nay, for they favor men with fairer skin. I have been called the “Black Knight” for my swarthiness.”

“Hm. Well, your swarthiness pleases me well enough.” She could admit to finding him attractive. Passion would not be lacking in their marriage—only mutual love.

Her honesty drew a quizzical smile from him. “Your coloration pleases me, as well,” he said, reaching for a skein of her hair and drawing it slowly through his fingers.

The caress shortened her breath for she knew what came next, and she was not averse to it. While her heart rebelled, her body craved him. If he did not love her, so be it. She would accept his ardor and take her pleasure from him and be satisfied.

Lifting her chin, she presented him her back. “Untie me, husband,” she invited, showing him the silken ties he had laced for her mere hours earlier. Her knees trembled at her temerity.

To her relief, without comment, he stepped closer and gathered the length of her hair in his hands, draping it over one of her shoulders.

Her heart beat harder as she waited. Rather than immediately untie her, however, he spanned her waist with his hands, bent his head and kissed the exposed column of her neck with open-mouthed kisses that sent gooseflesh rippling over her.

Luke! She weakened, leaning back against his hard form, thrilled at the feel of his arousal pressed so formidably against her bottom. Knowing its power to wring pleasure from her and not pain, she reached back boldly, caressing him through his breeches.

Luke growled low in his throat then responded by reaching around her and capturing her tender breasts. He squeezed her newfound fullness lightly, drawing his thumbs over the sensitive peaks and sending pleasure arcing lower. Helplessly arching her head back against his shoulder, she reveled in his touch.

Continuing his caress, he removed one hand to tug at her laces, undoing them, one by one, with such deliberate slowness that the anticipation built until she was nearly desperate to feel the gown, along with its floor-length sleeves, ease away from her.

At last, her wedding gown hung loosely on her narrow shoulders, and she shrugged it off, letting it become a silken green puddle covering her ankles and feet. Her back to her husband, she stood in only a chemise of finest lawn. Even its soft fabric seemed almost scratchy against the heightened sensitivity of her skin.

In a quick motion, she slipped the shift from her shoulders and let it drop. Then she started to turn, ready to be enfolded in Luke’s arm.

“Hold,” he said, his hands going to her waist and keeping her still. “What is that?”

She felt his finger touch her right buttock, and she groaned inwardly, searing shame piercing her heart. She must confess to him what she’d been told at the priory.

“’Tis the Devil’s mark. I was born with it.”

Unexpectedly, he swore savagely. “You will never say such words again,” he warned her, his tone angry. “’Tis an idiotic notion. How could the Devil mark you in your mother’s womb? In West Sussex, no one will think of you as a witch, not even yourself. Is that clear?”

He caressed the flat mark with the pad of his thumb. “It looks like a heart,” he added more gently, “or like a strawberry. I think it becomes you well.”

His words bathed her clean, washing away her humiliation.

She turned to face him, aware that her nipples now thrust against the cool night air. He issued a groan of appreciation, and she let him look a moment before pulling his head down to crush her lips to his, spearing her tongue into his mouth to make demands from him.

If passion was all they had, then by God’s eye, she would take that gift and give it back to him in return tenfold. She would make his body ache for her, make sure he dreamed of no other.

As he gathered her to him, she could feel his heart pounding hard and fast in his broad chest. Cupping her buttocks, he lifted her off the floor sliding the bulge at the front of his hose firmly into the warm hollow at the juncture of her thighs.

“I want you, wife,” he declared in a voice thick with desire. Turning toward the bed, he grimaced, no doubt feeling the tug of his wound, as he spilled her across the many rose petals strewn there.

Garlands of lilies and roses hung over her head, spilling their sweet perfume on her, and she nearly laughed at the fay quality of her sister’s decorating sensibilities. She would remember to thank her for the perfect marriage bed.

She looked at the perfect man who went along with it. A ruddy stain sat upon Luke’s cheekbones as he drew back to haul his tunic over his head, along with his undershirt. The sight of his powerful chest, so tan, sleekly shaped with firm, hardened muscles made her arch with longing. Touching her tongue to her upper lip, she parted her legs in silent message of desire, and was rewarded by a stab of naughty anticipation.

“Sprite,” Luke breathed, and the mere word reminded her of how glorious it had been between them and would be that night. A tiny portion of her sorrow eased. Aye, she would make him desire her forever.

Through her lashes, she watched as he divested his boots and hose. In the next second, he stood before her so relentlessly male, so blatantly aroused that her mouth went dry. She did not dwell on the healing red scar with her neatly threaded stitches. Nay, all she could do was hold her hands out to him.

He crawled over her, flinching only once on account of his injury. Hovering a moment, he gazed down at her with so many fleeting expressions that she could not read them all—desire, wonder, possessiveness, frustration, resentment.

The latter pierced her with sudden doubt.

Then his hands were upon her naked body, thrilling her. She melted back against the bed, her body singing with want, deliciously vulnerable, certain of her allure.

He gazed down at her. “You are even lovelier undressed.” Then he lowered his head to lap his warm tongue over her stiffened nipples.

With a hum of approval, she held his mouth in place while wrenching his leather tie out of his hair and sifting her fingers through the crisp lengths of his dark hair.

When his head moved lower, she murmured her approval, her hips rising of their own accord to meet the scalding heat of his skilled mouth.

Had she known when she first dreamed of him kissing her body in a field of buttercups that it would become a ritual she delighted in? Spreading her thighs to him, she dropped her head back and surrendered to his sweet ministrations.

What would she do if he were taken from her? The paralyzing thought nearly robbed her of her pleasure, but then he slipped a finger into her already damp opening and then another. Stroking her, he lapped at her aroused core, and she forgot her worries as rapture claimed her.

“Luke!” She cried out his name with the realization that she loved him—would always love him, regardless of his feeling for her. How could she not?

No sooner did her climax ebb than he lifted himself over her, hooked one of her knees beneath his elbow and slid into her, claiming her in one deep possessive stroke.

“Merry,” he whispered her name, his eyes burning with desire.

Crushing his lips to hers, he began to pump himself with rhythmic vigor into her slick sheath. Merry gasped, not in pain but in fundamental animalistic delight. She wanted everything that he could give her—and more.

Digging her nails into his shoulders, she urged him deeper, faster. Their lips and tongues joined into the dance of plunge and retreat.

She cried out her burgeoning pleasure into his mouth.

He instantly went still. “Did I hurt you?”

She tightened her hold on him, desperate to achieve what she knew was coming next. “Nay. Don’t stop,” she begged.

He rolled over suddenly, taking her with him without breaking contact, so that Merry found herself straddling him, his manhood buried inside her.

“This way, I won’t hurt you,” he explained. “Ride me, wife,” he added with a wicked grin.

Prompted by the boiling need inside her, she moved tentatively over him, up and down, finding a motion that seemed to please them both.

Luke watched her through his lashes. A small smile hovered at the corners of his sensual mouth as he gently but firmly squeezed her breasts. As her movements quickened, he moved one hand to her fiery curls below, seeking and finding the pleasure-stiffened nubbin. One stroke and she cried out in delight.

A sheen of sweat coated Merry. Her thighs tightened about him as she drove herself against his fingers. He strained upward, filling her to repletion.

Without warning, she came undone, shuddering and crying out in ecstasy, aware as she did that he, too, was experiencing his release. As she drifted back from what seemed to be a point as high as the stars, he pulled her replete body over his own, wrapping his arms around her. She trembled and felt his answering shudder.

With her nose pressed to his warm neck, she inhaled the blended scents of male—and sex—as well as the subtle, unnamed fragrance that was Luke’s alone.

He might never return the love she had for him, but she would do her best to ensure his passion for her remained high. Yes, she was beginning to think, that would be enough.