The Virgin Proxy(27)
He reached for the jug of wine on the table beside him and poured some into a tall cup. “Here. This will warm you.”
He was fortunate she was damned cold or she would have held out longer, but in the cheery glow of candles that fur-laden couch looked too inviting, despite the arrogance of the man laid upon it. And, much to her chagrin, she’d missed his company, pining for something she knew was bad for her.
Snatching the full cup from his hand, she sat. He hitched onto his hip to make room for her. “Can you not wear clothes to talk?” she muttered, feeling his shaft twitch against her shift.
“I prefer to talk like this.” He paused, watching her face. “Why not take off your shift, Deorwynn, and then we can both be at our ease. And talk to our hearts content.”
She almost spat out her wine. Glaring at him over the rim of the cup she noted an additional twinkle in his eye. His words were slightly slurred. She’d simply assumed him to be half-asleep before, but now suspected he was slightly drunk.
“I prefer to remain clothed.”
“I could command that you sit naked beside me.”
“You could command,” she replied archly.
He seemed to consider whether or not he wanted to struggle with her tonight—or suffer another of her curses. Then he sipped his wine, still watching her above the rim of his goblet.
“What shall we talk about then? Since you had me dragged from my bed at this ungodly hour, it had better be a remarkable conversation.” Nerves and excitement colluded to make her put on this brave front. She hoped he would not see beyond it.
“Where do you come from, Deorwynn?”
This was the last subject she expected. “A place,” she snapped reluctantly.
The impatient storm clouds she anticipated did not gather in his eyes tonight; instead he was indulgent, waiting for more.
“It was a good place until the Normans came and despoiled it,” she added. “I suppose nothing grows there now. They probably slaughtered all the people and all the beasts.”
“And where is this good place?”
She raised her chin. “A hundred miles from here.”
“A hundred?”
“At least as far. I don’t know for sure. I don’t remember the distance, but it felt like a long journey to me then.”
“Then?”
“When I was six and sent to the convent.”
He reached over, swept a stray lock of hair from her cheek and wound it around his fingertip. The contact started a flame under her skin. “How long ago?”
“Fifteen years.”
“So you are one and twenty,” he muttered, releasing the lock of hair. “Five years younger than me.”
She was surprised—had thought him older. But that explained the boundless hubris and the occasional playful twinkle in his eye; the excess of vitality that spilled out of him as if he’d not yet learned to control his needs and feared something good might be taken away from him before he’d had his fill.
“You have no family?” he asked.
“Your countrymen murdered them all,” she replied curtly. “All but one. My brother Raedwulf is a prisoner of your king.”
“I see,” he murmured. “These things happen in war.”
Clearly Sybilia had not mentioned Raedwulf’s plight yet. Exhaling a deep sigh, Deorwynn wondered why that should surprise her. She sipped her wine.
“Men pay the price of war,” he added.
“Yet I suffer too and I have no say in it. I am not even allowed to fight because I’m a woman.”
He nodded as if he heard her, but he was staring at her lips again.
“How can that be fair or just?” she demanded.
He said nothing, not even to reprimand her for forgetting my lord.
Pushing her luck she said, “Well, I will not lie down and be walked over. I must have something good happen to me one day.”
His gaze sharpened; a smile tugged on his lips. It wasn’t an effortless, charming grin like Thierry Bonnenfant’s; it was wickedly knowing, urging her to misbehave. He set his empty goblet on the little table beside his couch. “You shall have a great deal of good happen, Deorwynn, if you obey me.”
He was ungodly handsome in the warm light. Tonight he surrounded his couch with a profusion of large candles and, sitting there beside him, she could have been enjoying a glorious sunny day in summer. He looked at her in a hopeful, boyish way. She must do something, say something to keep him away. “They say your bride wore you out last night.”
“Do I look worn out to you?”
No he did not. Not at all.
She sought desperately for another subject, but he raised his hand again, slid it under her hair to the nape of her neck and drew her face down to his. She almost spilled her wine. Their lips collided. His other hand was on her waist, firm, hot, the strong fingers spread. Her breasts ached, wanting his touch, her nipples already afire. Shameless. His tongue swept hers, gentle and cajoling, reminding her vividly of his skill in stealing unexpected responses from her body.