On that thought, Reynaud entered the room. Beatrice dismissed Quick with a soft word. She’d moved into the countess’s rooms, unused since Reynaud’s mother had occupied them. Uncle Reggie still had possession of the earl’s room, at least in name—he’d left the house for the night. Beatrice had half expected Reynaud to take advantage of her uncle’s absence to assume control of the master bedroom. But he hadn’t.
Once again he’d surprised her.
He strolled toward her now wearing only his breeches and shirt under a deep gold banyan. That, together with the earring swinging near his jaw and the tattoos of the flying birds, made him look like some exotic prince. One that might lounge on mountains of silken pillows while he was administered to by a harem of dark beauties. Beatrice shied at the thought. She was no harem beauty.
Perhaps that was why her voice seemed a little high as she said, “There’s some wine and biscuits and also some sweetmeats on the table there by the fire. Perhaps you’d like me to pour you a glass?”
“No.” He slowly shook his head as he advanced on her. “I’m not thirsty for wine.”
“Oh.” Oh, goodness. She should make some sophisticated comment, something that would make him think her more than a rather naive lady of not very much experience.
A corner of his mouth twitched up, and now he looked like a rather dangerous exotic prince. Beatrice backed up a step, and her bottom hit the bed.
“Nervous?” he asked, sounding as if he were trying to be innocent and failing abysmally.
“No,” she said, and then honesty compelled her to immediately amend her statement. “Well, yes. Yes, I am a bit nervous. I’m not really the seductive type.”
“No?”
“No,” she said almost tartly. “I’m practical and straightforward, and I’ve never had gentlemen crowding about me.”
He cocked an eyebrow, which, what with the tattoos and all, made him look positively diabolical. “No admiring swains, no lovers prostrate with despair?”
She winced. “I’m afraid not. I’m just an ordinary English girl.”
“Thank God,” he said, and he was suddenly so close to her that she could feel the heat of his body, even through her chemise and his banyan. “I’m glad no other man saw your sweet inner core. I think I might have to kill him if there was another man.”
He said it lightly, but Beatrice shivered at the dark undertone to his language. Was he merely seducing a new wife on their wedding night, or was he speaking some kind of truth?
Was he really attracted to her?
Oh, how she wished he was! To be wanted simply for herself and no other reason was a desperate desire within her. But she was distracted from the thought, for he’d bent his head, lowering it so that he could lay his lips just at the juncture of her shoulder and neck. The sensation was an odd one, part ticklish, part erotic. She actually felt the frisson spike from her shoulder to the juncture of her thighs. Dear God, if he could do this with only a kiss on her shoulder, for goodness’ sake, she had no hope. How could she be an equal in this marriage if his mere touch turned her into a puddle of yearning?
She couldn’t. She was going to have to take her ordinary English-girl ways in hand and turn them around somehow. She might not be able to tell him that she loved him, but she could certainly show him with her body.
With that thought in mind, she reached for her husband. Her hands slid along the silk of his banyan, feeling the heat of his body beneath. He’d ordered her to undress him that last time. This time she’d wait for no instructions. She peeled the banyan from his shoulders. He was still kissing her neck, but he made a small growling sound in his throat at her action.
She took that as encouragement.
Next she unbuttoned his shirt, glad to see again the expanse of his chest. He had a lovely chest, wide and muscled and still tanned a dark brown. She urged him to raise his arms and drew off the shirt. Perhaps it was because she was trying to go slow, to seduce, but this time she felt something on his back that she hadn’t the last time. She threw his shirt down next to his banyan and ran her hands around his sides to his back. There were bumps there. How odd. She frowned, exploring them with her fingers. It was almost as if—
He took her hands away from his back, holding them between their bodies as he kissed her passionately. His tongue invaded her mouth, and she pursed her lips about it, sucking. He let go of her hands, and she slid them over his chest, glorying in the feel of his skin. Her hands wandered lower and reached the waistband of his breeches. Blindly she began searching for the buttons, a job made harder when he began caressing her breasts with his hands.
She tore her mouth away from his, panting. “You’re distracting me, doing that.”
“What, this?” he asked innocently, and then pinched her nipples.
“Oh!” She got the first two buttons opened on the fall of his breeches and inserted her fingers inside, brushing against hard flesh.
Reynaud muttered under his breath, then abruptly let her go to shuck his breeches and smallclothes. “Let’s continue this on the bed.”
He backed to the bed, pulling her with him, and then lay against the pillows. She climbed in beside him, sitting on her knees. He stretched, his arms curving over his head. The hair under his arms was black and thick, and his upper arms bulged with the flex of his muscles. Beatrice felt her belly warm at the sight. She lowered her eyes. His penis was straight now but not yet fully erect. The last time they’d made love, he’d directed her explorations. Right now, though, she wanted to do only what she wished.
She leaned a little forward and stroked over his cock, and it bobbed in acknowledgment. She knew that he liked a firm touch—he’d shown her that before. She circled him, just under the swollen cap, measuring his width with her thumb and forefinger.
He shifted beneath her. “Come here.”
She crawled up him then, this big man who belonged to her now, and when she reached his face, she cupped him between her palms and kissed him. His experiences might’ve made him hard, cruel even on occasion, but she rejoiced in them if they brought him home alive.
So she kissed him, deeply, moving against him, and he arranged her as he liked, pulling her legs over his hips on either side and drawing them up until she nearly sat on him. She pulled back to look a question at him and he nodded.
“Ride me.”
She lifted herself up and drew off her chemise so that she might be as naked as he. This was the consummation of their marriage, and she wanted to meet him as an equal, bare before God. When she lowered herself, her wet folds met his hardness.
She looked at him. “You do it this time. Put it in me.”
He met her eyes and reached down between them, his hand right there, brushing against her.
“Like this?” he asked, and she felt that first push, that stretching and yielding as his head breeched her.
“Yes, like that,” she whispered, entirely enthralled by what he did.
His lips tightened.
She leaned a little forward, grasping his shoulders, and then he shoved up and suddenly was all the way in. They were joined together. Bound by their bodies and the vows they’d made. She trembled a little at the thought, and her eyes met his. Did he feel the importance of the occasion as well? She couldn’t be sure; his eyes were black and fathomless, impossible to read.
“Ride me,” he said again.
So she did. She rose up carefully, letting him slide from her depths and then shoved herself down, gasping as he refilled her. His eyes half lowered, his upper lip drawn back from his teeth. He palmed her breasts with his big hands, flicking over her nipples with his thumbs, and she fought the urge to close her eyes. This was important. This was an act of holy significance, and she wanted to be aware of every bit of it.
She leaned forward, grinding herself against him, and quickened her pace. It was coming soon now, that awful bliss. She could feel her body tightening as she rode toward her release. His cock was hard and slick, and she swiveled on it, grinding her folds against him, pleasuring herself even as she pleasured him. His head was arched back, his eyes slitted. She darted forward to lick his nipple and he moaned. She watched him as his clever black eyes unfocused. Watched him as he opened his mouth and shouted. He arched under her, his body a taut bow, and she clutched his shoulders to keep her seat even as she spasmed, sweet pleasure flooding her belly.
She fell against his heaving chest, openmouthed, and tasted the salt on his skin even as another wave hit her. She closed her eyes and buried her face against his strong neck.
It was almost perfect.
She lay against him, on him, and felt his chest rise and fall beneath her. She could stay here forever, lost in the blissful aftermath, but eventually the outer world would intrude. So she asked the question she’d been withholding since he took off his shirt.
“How did you get the scars on your back?”
HE SHOULD’VE REALIZED she’d seen through his prevarication, but her question came as a shock nonetheless. For a moment, he considered ignoring it or even pretending he didn’t know what she was asking about. But they were married now. She’d see it soon enough—and for many years to come, God willing.
So he braced himself and said, “I’ll tell you once, but I don’t ever want to speak of it again. Is that understood?”
He thought she might pout—or worse, be hurt by his curt tone—but she simply looked at him with those wide gray eyes. “Very well. May I see?”
He scowled, looking away, but then abruptly rolled so that his back was to her. She gasped and then was silent.
He closed his eyes, imagining what she saw. He knew from looking in the mirror—once and only once—that his back was a mass of scars. Thin white ones carved through the tan of his skin. Thicker, reddened scars, the ones she’d felt before, roped from midback to his right hip.
She asked, “How did this happen?”
He turned back to her, his eyes still closed. “It was the second winter I was with Gaho’s family.”
“Tell me,” she said simply, and he opened his eyes to see her watching him. Her face was unlined, pure and beautiful, her gold hair still pulled back. She’d covered her breasts with the sheets, but her white shoulders were still revealed.
“We had more food come spring.” He tilted his head to focus on the bed curtains. “The bears and deer might be thin from the winter, but they were easier to hunt. And the women gathered berries and vegetables from the woods and fields once the green things began to grow.”
“Things were better,” she said quietly. There was no impatience in her voice, though he was avoiding the reason for this tale.
“They were better, yes,” he said. “And I should’ve been, too. There was finally plenty to eat after a winter of starvation. But the summers can be very hot in that part of the world. Hot and damp and I think the combination crept into my lungs. I became very ill with fever and purging. Gaho and the other women of her family tended me, but there are days I don’t remember.”
“How horrible,” Beatrice said, lacing her fingers with his. “But you survived.”
“I survived, but I almost didn’t,” he said. “And then . . .” Odd, he could feel the sweat start at his back at just the memory. He breathed deeply, fighting down the nausea that climbed his throat. He was so ashamed of the event.
“What happened?”
He drew a breath. “Gaho left the camp to attend a ceremony. She took with her both daughters and their spouses and her husband. I was too ill to travel. Only I, a few old men, a female slave, and Sastaretsi stayed behind. He said he had had an argument with the chief of the tribe Gaho and her family were to visit, but I think he stayed behind solely to kill me.”
Beatrice was silent, but she squeezed his fingers.
Reynaud closed his eyes, trying to keep his voice steady, remembering the horror of being in another’s power. “My being alive deeply wounded Sastaretsi’s pride. He took it as a personal affront that I hadn’t been tortured to death for his greater glory. When we were so close to death that winter, I think he bided his time because the band needed another able-bodied hunter. But when I grew ill that summer, he saw his chance.”