“I am not hungry,” she repeated. “But please do not beg off. You must eat.”
He gazed at her a moment before reluctantly lowering the cup. After a moment of debate whether or not he should force her, he finally lifted the cup to his own lips and drained the contents. He poured himself two more cups and drained them also before he devoured most of the bread, half the cheese, and all of the meat. Then he drained the rest of the wine.
Rhys could drink ale from sundown to sunrise and hardly feel a thing, but wine affected him strangely. It made him giddy, which is why he rarely drank it. But he drank it this night, wondering if it would ease the ache in his heart somehow. For a man perpetually in control of his emotions, he was ashamed that he needed something more to help him contain himself this night. Perhaps the wine would do it. Or perhaps it would just make things worse.
Elizabeau remained silent and still as she lay on the edge of the bed against the wall. Long after the wine was drained, Rhys sat and stared at her for the longest time. Though she was wrapped in Gwyneth’s old cloak, he stared at her as if he could see right through the fabric. He found himself remembering her tender white skin, the taste of her breasts against his tongue. The woman was sweet, humorous and intelligent, something he found more attractive almost than her beauty. He found himself wishing fervently he had met her under different circumstances, perhaps just a woman of nobility, a daughter of a friend, and he realized he would have wasted no time in marrying her. A wife such as her would have made him feel complete and he would have experienced good fortune as few men do. He would have experienced love.
The wine was magnifying his exhaustion and he realized how sleepy he was. Pulling off his boots, he moved across the small room and very carefully, quietly, lowered himself onto the dirty mattress. He made great effort not to jostle Elizabeau but the bed was barely big enough for a man his size much less two people. He should have slept on the floor but he did not want to. He wanted to feel her warm body next to him. But the very moment he stretched out next to her, Elizabeau rolled over and snuggled into him.
His left arm went around her instinctively, holding her into the curve of his torso. Waves of satisfaction and warmth rolled over him as he clutched her against him, feeling the rhythmic rise and fall of slumber. When she twitched in her sleep, he put his massive hand over her head, gently soothing her until she quieted. It was an amazingly wonderful and amazingly painful predicament, and he could feel himself warming to it. His common sense was dissolving. Rolling onto his left side, he wrapped both arms around her and pulled her fiercely against him.
Elizabeau was not asleep but she wanted Rhys to believe that she was. She was too depressed to sleep even though she was exhausted. As the night trickled on and she lay awake, she could hear every move that Rhys made. She heard him drink, and eat, and when he finally lay upon the bed, she had not been able to contain herself and she rolled into him. He had responded as she had hoped, with his arm around her and gentle touches. She had been content with that. But when he had rolled over and pulled her against his firm, warm body, it had been more than expected. His right leg wrapped around her legs, pulling her closer still.
She could feel his lips against her forehead, kissing her in the darkness because he thought she was asleep. They were gentle kisses, now and again, as if reminding himself that he could kiss her now that she was asleep. There would be no response from her and therefore no further temptation. But she was awake and after several such kisses, she suddenly snaked her arms up between them, put her hands on his face, and lifted her lips to meet his warm, gentle ones.
Rhys knew he was lost the moment she latched on to him with her soft mouth. He didn’t even try to pull away; he lost himself in her honeyed lips, his enormous hands entangled in her hair, her body, savoring every sound, every taste, every movement she made. He couldn’t even think, knowing he was a slave to her desires. He could not have resisted her in any case. Emotion finally overwhelmed him and he was lost.
He was more forceful in his kisses than ever before; perhaps it was the wine or perhaps it was simply because he could resist no longer. In any case, he rolled her onto her back and quickly removed the cloak. She was wearing the soft blue Perse fabric surcoat he had purchased for her at the Blond Gazelle and that, too, came off under his eager hands. Somehow his lips never left her mouth and before she realized it, Rhys had stripped her. Hot kisses rained down on her mouth, face and neck as he removed his own clothing and suddenly, they were both naked.
Rhys’ enormous body came down on her soft, slender one, enveloping her in power and heat. His mouth left her lips, devouring her neck as he moved down her body. He tasted every inch of flesh on her shoulders and arms, moving to her chest and depositing lustful kisses on her swell of her bosom. A big hand kneaded her breasts as his lips finally found her nipples, moving from one to the other hungrily. Beneath him, Elizabeau squirmed and gasped.