My Lord Raven (Knights of the Royal Household)

Chapter Fourteen

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

She straddled him, as she would ride astride her palfrey. Her knees and her inner thighs pressed against the sable mantle that covered his hips, gently chafing her skin. ’Twas an odd sensation—the softness of the fur coupled with the hardness of his hipbones—and it produced a dangerous excitement and an aching awareness within her womanly place.

Catrin forced aside those alarming feelings, concentrating instead on her brother’s small, but sharp dagger she gripped firmly in her hand. She pointed the blade at the base of his throat, nicking his flesh and drawing a spot of blood.

“Your lack of trust, my lady, becomes you not.” He spoke with anger, the muscles in his jaw firming, his lashes masking his eyes. “I did not kill the young earl.”

“How can I trust the word of a mercenary?”

“And how can I trust my wedded helpmate when she points a dagger against my neck?”

In the blink of an eye, the knight sent the knife soaring across the bed. One quick movement more, and Catrin found herself rolled in the sable, wrapped up to her chin and trapped beneath the hot, suffocating weight of her former captive. Her chest heaving, she struggled for breath. She squirmed, only making her predicament worse. Fear clouded her vision.

“Let me go!”

His hands pressed the bed on either side of her head as his breath seared her face. “Lie still.”

“Let me go!” She fought tears of fury and frustration.

Earlier in her alcohol-induced stupor, she had awakened to find him in bed with her, his breath brushing her cheek as he slept. To make matters worse, she had burrowed near his shoulder, cuddling close to his warm body in her sleep. Very unnerved, she’d first feared he had already taken her, but her body felt unchanged. Her psyche did not. Why had she turned to him in her sleep? Why did she feel an odd solace when she snuggled next to him?

Catrin had stiffened, outraged by her traitorous mental and physical response, and then devised a plan, hoping to take him unaware. If he admitted killing her brother, ’twould be fitting to take her revenge. To kill him fast as she might a bug.

“How quickly you forget your holy vows.” His eyes flashed and his face now seemed cruel in the gloom. “I had a mind to be charitable, considering your maidenhood and obvious concern I had for you, but now I’ll not wait. I will take what is mine.”

His mouth seized hers, descending as swiftly as a viper and consuming her. What a fool she had been to imagine she was physically a match for the King’s Raven. He was too big. Too overpowering.

On instinct, she fought, moving her head left and right until his hands captured the sides of her face, stilling her movement. His whole weight rested on her. She couldn’t breathe. Panic engulfed her.

He must have sensed her terror, for he released her face. Placing his hands again by her head, he lifted his bulk from her chest, leaning on his arms but still pinioning her body with his. The fury with which his lips ravished hers continued unabated, devouring her with a kiss so long, so filled with anger, she had no time to feel anything but the weight of him.

She had never been kissed as this man now kissed her. In her youth, there had been only chaste pecks on her cheek, stolen along drafty corridors while she ran errands for the queen. Game-like kisses, flirtatious, never meant to be serious. Nothing like this. Nothing like this kiss that filled her whole being.

Soon, the tenor of his assault changed, lessening, relenting. His breathing became labored, and she felt his arousal—hard against the soft fur that even now covered her. He lifted his mouth, and she gasped for air. He seemed unconcerned, just staring down at her with dark eyes full of passion.

Bran lowered his lashes, seeming to know he had revealed too much. “I would know all of you.” As if to imprint her on his mind, he grabbed a fistful of her hair, entwining his fingers in the blond strands, lifting it to inhale its fragrance. “Your scent. Your taste. Your maidenhood.”

Trapped as she was in the fur cocoon, she could do nothing but glare up at his lowered face, and feel the rise and fall of his chest and the press of his man part.

“How will you punish me?” She hated the pleading note in her voice.

“What is my right as your husband? ”

Her fate was sealed, yet she rebelled against it, not wanting to be his bounty. “You will force me.”

“Nay. I will court you.”

As he slipped off her body, Catrin looked away. Strands of his black hair tickled her cheeks. A sudden desire goaded her. Perversely, she longed to slide her fingers through his hair as he was doing to hers. She longed to pull his mouth toward her once more and feel his savage passion.

Bran flipped the heavy fur back from her body. Cool air washed her heated skin, scant relief, as he continued to woo her. Relaxing on his side, his thigh trapped her against the soft sable. She refused to look his way. Yet, she felt his hard manhood against her naked thigh and heard his harsh breath. She knew he was watching her.

Gently, he caressed her eyebrows and face, drawing her chin toward him so that she was compelled to look at him. The black depth of his gaze immobilized her as surely as his muscular limb. A tight ache clogged her throat, even as, tenderly, he let the fingers of one hand trail down her neck, resting briefly at her pulse point.

Then he moved his fingers lightly across her chest until he cupped her right breast completely in his strong grip. He circled the tip with a thumb. She sucked in her breath as he recited the words of the boy troubadour. “When I glimpsed her breasts / I want to cup them in my hands / Play with each nipple in turn.”

He dropped his mouth to the other nipple, circling it with his tongue, wet and warm. Chills rippled through her, seeming to burst into fluid heat in the part of her where she kept her virginity. Her body writhed uncontrollably.

They both were breathing heavily now. She was long past denying him, and she knew it. Part of her mind resisted, but her body betrayed her. Flush with excitement, she concentrated only on his tongue, his fingertips, the rocklike promise pushed against her thigh.

“Desire urged me to kiss her mouth,” Bran said, continuing the troubadour’s song, but with no tune, no music. Yet somehow they made their own. “To kiss her, to kiss her, to kiss her mouth,” he repeated, each time tempting her now swollen lips with his.

Someone whimpered. Catrin recognized her own sound. Her body was spinning, free-falling, wanting. She tried to quiet her trembling, outraged by her out-of-control body. She tried to remember the final words of the ballad. The boy had sung them, almost defiantly, as any man would. “Delighting to mark her as my own,” the troubadour had trilled.

Bran planned to mark her. She tried to remember he had that right as Olwen’s husband. And she was simply playing a dangerous sport full of heavy consequence.

He straddled her now, his form covering hers, his hard flesh pressing against her. Unceasing, he kissed her again and again, not long angry kisses, but tiny ones, filled with a pent-up yearning, the prelude to the ultimate finality. Somehow it seemed right. Her hot, swollen, aching body complied.

She felt his hands touching, coaxing, and opening her. Strangely, they did not seem to violate. She was his, wasn’t she? As Olwen, she belonged to him.

Suddenly, he pushed into her with his arousal. Surprising pain engulfed her. She cried out. He thrust again and again, entering her deeper with each stroke until she was surrounding him. Resting a moment, as if to let her catch a lungful of air or perchance to recoup his own wind, he stared down at her with such raw emotion in his eyes she thought she would weep.

She returned his gaze, wide-eyed. He throbbed within her. She was joined with him. Linked together in the primal dance of life. She was his. Not Olwen, but Catrin. She had been foiled by her own plans.

Tears seeped from the corners of her eyes. What had she done? She couldn’t think. Swept up in the moment of his lovemaking, her woman place ached for something she could hardly fathom. She needed relief.

“Myn Duw!” he cried. “I cannot wait.”

As he drove into her repeatedly, she circled his neck with her arms, hoping to hang on. An unbidden impulse caused Catrin to lift her legs locking them around his hips. She drew him nearer and nearer and arched to meet him. All thought fled. She was awash in the rhythm of the moment—hot and frenzied—until finally his body jerked.

Bran threw back his head and roared the primeval cry of conquest. He shuddered, relaxed, and collapsed upon her. His pulse thudded against her breast. His manhood still inside, he stroked the curve of her cheek, murmuring sweet endearments.

Having accompanied Bran on his wild ride, Catrin held on to him for dear life. Strange sensations enveloped her. What was that dull ache? That feeling of disappointment? She longed for something more, a final release.

Had she been the one to give him that something she longed to find? That something she lacked, but he had gotten from her.

Had the King’s Raven been so easily tamed?

Bran had marked her. Her blood had spotted the sable. Now Catrin cringed when he called Father Ellis at first light and presented the fur mantle to him.

“Take this, good father, as proof that Bran ap Madog, the king’s faithful servant, has fulfilled his marriage vow with Olwen de Belleme, who as all can witness, was a virgin.”

The new Lord of Northbridge preened himself as if he were his treasured raven.

The Augustine monk blushed scarlet, but received the fur, holding it away from himself so as not to taint his holy robes. “I accept this as proof, my lord, and will vouchsafe its authenticity to anyone who inquires.”

Father Ellis sent a cautious gaze toward Catrin, who remained in bed, her hair in tangles over her shoulders and the sheets pulled up around her neck to protect her modesty—or what was left of it. At his glance, she flushed warm with shame, crossing her arms over her scantly covered breasts. Had she diminished the good Father’s fears? She had done her duty. Yet, there was a beleaguered quality about him, as if he regretted the part he had played.

Remorse trickled through her. She jutted out her jaw and returned Father’s look. He would not sway her from her mission. She had done what she must do to protect Olwen and search for the truth.

“Will you be at Mass?” Father Ellis asked.

“Nay, let us forego chapel today,” Bran said, pressing a coin into the priest’s palm. “For the poor in honor of our wedding.”

Father Ellis fisted the offering. “Thank you, my lord.” And then bowing his head, he backed out of the room.

“That man acts as if I’m about to take off his head,” Bran complained and crossed the room to stand before her .

He wore only his braies, something Catrin was used to seeing, for she had brothers, but not brothers with such a broad, muscled chest. His look of smugness filled her with ire. She ached where her maidenhood had been and her temples pounded. Moreover, Catrin’s grumbling stomach told her she needed to break her fast.

“Your reputation precedes you, my lord,” Catrin rejoined, lifting her chin, not in the mood for his possessive stance.

He lifted a black eyebrow, considering her. “And yours, my lady, does you no justice.”

What did he mean? He confused her, just as much as he angered her. She had watched him with furtive glances as, earlier, he had padded naked around the room, acting as if they had been married for years. He was a magnificent male. She would grant him that.

In a pout, she turned away from Bran’s troublesome gaze. How she hated the feeling of hot and cold that coursed through her body. She reviled her weakness. Why hadn’t she been born a man? Her whole life she had chafed at her ill fortune. If all had been different, she would have been in control, not controlled. She would have found release, instead of throbbing from frustration, longing for something she did not understand, because she’d ne’er experienced it.

Catrin whipped her head around to glare at him. How could Olwen have survived such brutish behavior? She’d barely endured it herself.

“’Tis a shame that in your service to the king, you never learned courtly love,” she said, and lifted a fingertip to still the pulse beating in her temple.

“What?” He did not seem dismayed by her impudence. “ Did I not offer you sweets and provide diversion for you? Tumblers and a troubadour from France?”

The boy’s naughty song echoed in her ears. “You know what I mean.”

Did she have to spell it out for him? He should have been courting his wife as Tristan had courted Isolde.

Bran took a step nearer, his physical presence overpowering her in a way she had never thought to experience. His muscular forearms, the strength and the gentleness of his hands, the feel of his lips consuming hers—all of this she remembered from last night. When she saw the flicker of lust in his eyes, she lifted her chin a notch.

“ Cariad , I know what you mean,” he acknowledged softly. “In my anger and my rush, I failed to satisfy you.”

Looking down to hide a frantic flush, Catrin fought bewilderment and annoyance. She did not want to admit he had not satisfied her in the way he spoke. She knew only that she was not pleased. Not only had he forced her, but also in the offing, she had failed to learn the truth about Gilbert.

“Nay, I am not satisfied by the king’s command,” she said, purposely ignoring the true intent of his remark. She lifted a shoulder to shrug. “Yet I will obey with my body as any loyal servant.”

She left the implication lingering between them. She may give her body to the king’s mercenary, but no one could make her give her heart.

“The battle is joined.” His lips twisted into a slight smile. “So be it, cariad .”

“I told you to not call me that!”

He stood his ground. “Olwen, then.”

“Nay!” Her stomach swayed. “ My lady will do for you, sir . ”

The pettiness did not become her. Yet she could not stop herself from sniping at him. She had but one-way now to fight her enemy. Words, sharp barbs to prick his manhood, letting him know she would ne’er succumb to his charm. For e’en now, he lured her with the look he gave her—the challenge in his eyes, the cocky tilt of his head, and the bulge in his braies seeming to grow as she watched in horror.

She had done her duty. Their marriage could no longer be called into question unless she chose to reveal her true identity. Until then, she had one more task to complete now that Olwen was safely in hiding. She must discover the murderer.

A wave of inspiration struck her. Mayhap if she denied yon randy knight who stood in front of her poised like a ready stallion, she could persuade him to reveal the truth she sought. Forcing him had certainly not worked. A little feminine blackmail, perchance? She was not above such action.

“ My lady it is.” He executed a deep, mocking bow that looked comical, naked as he was above his waist.

Catrin hugged herself fiercely, angry at the insult, as he intended. Her breasts tingled in response to his heated gaze. Nay! She was stronger than her wayward body. She would never again let him do to her what he had done last night.

He must have read her defiance for he stepped nearer, suddenly solemn.

“My lady, we have a long life ahead.” He reached across the bed and caressed her cheek, sending sparks of awareness whizzing through her. His voice lowered. “I care not if you fight me, but I will have my rights as your husband.”

She shook her head to rid herself of his hand. “I cannot stop what you take by force, my lord. ”

He would not be gainsaid, but caught her chin in his firm grip. “’Tis your choice,” he said with a nonchalance. “’Twould be easier on you if you accepted what fate has bestowed.”

“I will ne’er accept my fate.”

The tips of his fingers bit into her flesh. “Then you tempt fate, if that is your will.”

“You know not how I tempt it,” she murmured, staring up at him.

They stayed that way a moment, locked in silent combat until the sound of strident anger drifted up the stairs from below. Catrin recognized the shrill voice of Meg and the lower, lyrical lilt of Rhys. The two servants burst into the room together. They had evidently butted heads though the day was only hours old. Bran dropped his hand from her face, then turned away from her.

As he walked toward the intruding pair, Catrin could not stop her gaze from skimming the muscles of his shoulders and traveling down his back to his trim buttocks and strong thighs. She swallowed and ripped her gaze away, trying to attend to the linen bed hangings, the hunger pangs in her stomach, the brightening day—anything but the dull throb between her thighs.

Meg came immediately to the bed carrying a tray that she sat aside. “That foreigner Rhys is an ignorant buffoon,” she growled. “He dares question my authority here.”

“’Tis best to accommodate our new master.” Catrin tried to be diplomatic. “As you know, things have changed.”

“Faith, I know it,” Meg said with a lift of an eyebrow. She busied herself by filling a laver with water so Catrin could wash her hands.

Across the room, Bran’s back was turned as Rhys dressed him, attending to his morning needs just as Meg tended hers. Glad for the respite, Catrin dipped her hands into the tepid water. How she longed for another bath, her second in as many days.

“Father Ellis said you were not coming to Mass, so I thought you would want to break your fast.” Meg gave her a towel and then offered a chunk of bread slathered with butter.

“Bless you, Meg, for I am starved.” Catrin dried her hands and accepted the warm bread. She tore off a portion, chewing it slowly so she savored each bite.

“Father also brought down the fur mantle.”

Catrin caught her maid’s understanding gaze and felt herself flush again. The entire castle knew the deed was done. “Mistress Olwen” was a virgin no longer, and control of Northbridge had officially changed by king’s decree. Wiping her fingers on the towel, Catrin lifted her hand to her temple where the affects of too much drink still pounded sharply behind her eyes.

“I knew you would have a headache.” Meg pursed her lips. “If I were your mother, I’d say you are rightly served.”

Catrin smiled. “If I had a mother, I wager I would not be in this position.”

She glanced at her husband, now fully clad in his customary black. Troubling warmth surged through her at the thought of the real “position” she had found herself in, smothered beneath that fur coverlet with him riding atop her.

“Even so, my lady,” Meg continued. “I brought you willow bark tea for pain relief.”

“Thank you, Meg.” Catrin accepted the cup of tea. “Olwen is lucky for such a faithful maid. ”

She sipped the hot tea, remembering her own maid Gwendolyn. No greater sacrifice was there to give than one’s life. Along with the tea, Catrin swallowed her sorrow, knowing she could not allow herself to give into such sadness. ’Twould not honor Gwendolyn. Only catching the maid’s murderer would do that. Silently, she renewed her hatred and her resolve.

Meg glanced over her shoulder to see if they were being watched and then turned quickly back. She whispered, “How was it?”

Vexed, Catrin did not know how to answer Meg truthfully. She parried the question. “I’m afraid I don’t remember much of it.”

Meg accepted her answer and went away clucking about the evils of too much drink.

Catrin shifted under the sheets, suddenly tired of remaining in bed. Alas, she remembered last night all too well. How was it indeed? Frightening. Amazing. Frustrating.

She had been a fool to think herself a match for the King's Raven. Perchance she may have gentled him for a moment, but she had not tamed him. How quickly she had forgotten her purpose under his demanding touch.

She would have to be more wary now, on guard at all times lest she lose more than her virginity to this warrior, the man the kingdom now thought of as her husband.