Chapter Eight

Margaret leaned forward on her bed and squinted. She was trying to make out the individual stitches of the tapestry on the opposite wall through the dim light. And drinking an immodest amount of wine.

She had decided it was the only way to calm herself enough for what would soon happen, any moment, when her husband arrived to take his place in this bed. Thinking of it only made her more nervous, so she turned her mind to the wall hanging instead.

The tapestry depicted Saint Michael the Archangel battling his dragon. She had always been taught that the beast was meant to represent all the evil of the world, to be vanquished during the great battle at the end of time. It was therefore strange that the pose chosen here was not a triumphant one – not the final thrust, nor the slain dragon beneath the angel's feet. Instead it showed the full pitch of battle, a moment in which the angel looked mortal and the dragon looked like it might win. Stranger still was the rumor she had heard once: that the former Lady of Ruardean, her husband's mother, had altered the tapestry years ago. She had stitched over it with scarlet thread to make it a red dragon, muscular and fierce, poised to strike down its foe.

For the first time, she thought of asking her husband if this tale was true – and if so, why the tapestry was here. His mother had been born Welsh. The red dragon was a symbol of Wales. Had the tapestry been moved to this chamber so that few would see it? Or did he not want this reminder of his Welsh blood, and so hid it in a place he rarely came, and only in the dark?

She swallowed her wine and tried to imagine asking him such a thing. Pious Lady Margaret would couch the question in talk about good and evil and the Lord's triumph at the end of times. Plain, ordinary Margaret was only curious to hear his thoughts.

The silver and gold threads that took up one side of the tapestry, forming rays of heavenly light, drew her eye. She stared at them a long time without seeing. Some corner of her mind was very carefully beginning to examine the way he had touched her the last time they were in this bed. He would do it again. There would be no avoiding it, and she now knew she could only react in one of two ways: either she must feign a great delight, or she must not pretend at all. After her talk with Johanna, Margaret was forced to accept that there was too much risk in attempting to fool him. Not in this matter. He knew far better than she exactly how a pleasured lover behaved.

So she must let him do…whatever he would do, and she must welcome it. She dare not shut herself off from it, or from him.

This was what truly worried her – that she would open more than just her legs. That she must show some true part of herself to him. Only for an hour. In faith, much less than an hour, in the usual way of things.

She drank more wine and let the warmth of it course through her, already feeling softer, less cautious. That was good, so long as she kept her wits enough to remember she was meant to be praying for his immortal soul while he moved atop her.

Precisely at the appointed hour, his step sounded at the door. She lowered her eyes as he entered, as meek and uncertain now as she had so often pretended to be in the past. She could only watch the hem of his heavy robe as it moved across the floor towards her. He did not greet her as he would normally do, so she too stayed silent, a mutual acknowledgement that tonight would not be like the other nights.

It was only because she had drunk so much wine that she did not recoil when the bed sank beneath his weight. Everything about him was intimidating. His very presence was a declaration of dominance, from his large and muscle-bound frame to his air of omniscience. She had always used her pretense as a shield against it. But now she must lower that defense, and even an excess of wine did not make it easier.

Well. They must begin somewhere. She set the cup on the bedside table and reached to snuff out the lamp there.

"Nay." His hand came to her wrist, strong fingers curling around the delicate bones. "I would have the light."

He pulled her hand slowly away from the lamp, not releasing it until it crossed her breast. His fingers brushed along her throat. She kept her eyes lowered, fixed on the sight of the dim light moving across the damask silk of his robe.

Six years they had been married. Six years of laying together. And she was suddenly more shy than the first time.

"My lord, I cannot –" She stopped. It was her own voice, not the breathy and apologetic tones of Lady Margaret. "I think me I would like the dark."

He leaned closer. Her nose filled with the smell of him as he put his mouth to her ear and murmured, "Then close your eyes, fair lady."

His voice sent an unexpected thrill through her, caused her to close her eyes and shut out the sight of him as gooseflesh tingled all along her arms. It was, she had to admit, a little exciting not to know exactly what would happen next. Within the confines of the bedchamber, he had always been unfailingly courteous and blessedly predictable. Tonight there was no such comforting familiarity.

It would frighten her more, did she not remember his command that she must tell him to stop if he displeased her in any way. Without fear, he had said – and she had sworn she would.

That thought permitted her to sit with eyes closed as his hands began to move over her. His warm breath fanned across her collarbone as his palms smoothed up and down her sides, gently rubbing her linen shift against her skin. It felt almost innocent, almost like the reassuring stroke of a mother's hand on a child. But as it went on, as his touch passed over the sides of her breasts, as his heat surrounded her and her breath grew heavy, she had no more thoughts of innocence.

His movements were so slow and gradual that she did not know how she came to be leaned back against the cushions, nor could she discern when his mouth had begun to move over her skin. But now his lips were brushing along her throat and a hand was very gradually raising her shift, and she could find no reason to protest it. Because she liked this.

No, she loved it. She could admit that to herself silently, hazily. Already she hoped it would never stop. All she had known for years were the fleeting and decorous touches of servants and strangers, Constance's warm grasp of her hand and her husband's rare and efficient contact with her body. Nothing like this prolonged embrace, this luxurious caress. She had never considered the simple pleasure of feeling another person's skin directly against her own. It was like sunlight to a flower. She unfurled herself, turning and turning to follow the source of warmth, seeking more.

It was when he had bared so much of her body, her shift bunched up above her breasts and her skin tingling as his hands passed over her, that she had to fight against the urge to put her hands on him. She wanted to clutch him closer, to smooth her hands over his flesh in the same way. Meek Lady Margaret would never do such a thing, she forcibly reminded herself. She must never actively participate in the sin of pleasure.

Even when she felt the trickle of the oil – the rich scent, the lascivious slide of his palms over her curves – she kept her hands curled into fists. She had put the oil at the bedside, as instructed by the physician many years ago, though she had never seen the need for it to be at hand after she had already anointed herself in preparation.

But now. Now she understood the uses it might be put to. It felt as though her bones had melted away and something new had come alive in their place, a lithe and slinking thing that she had not known lived in her. His hands seemed to know it, to have command of it. They moved over her with a smooth certainty, large and warm and sure.

With her eyes closed, she might almost have forgotten it was him. Almost. But the way he slipped her linen entirely off without her notice, the way his fingers were leisurely, teasingly brushing against the join of her legs before she had even realized his hand had drifted down her body – this was what he did so well. It was what made him a dangerous foe, a valued ally. He maneuvered unsuspecting opponents into a corner, manipulated them in ways they never suspected, until they wanted what he wanted.

She did want what he wanted. She could not pretend to herself that she didn't. His tongue moved across her skin, throat to belly to breast, and she pulled her hands above her head to keep herself from touching him. Her thighs seemed to drift apart, and his fingers moved to the slick flesh there. Oh God, how they moved.

It was not like the last time. Now she wanted it never to end. Now it was a revelation.

Nothing she had read about this, from the ribald jests to the mystical writings of saints, had prepared her. It was more than simple pleasure. It seized all her senses and dictated her every breath. It was a power, and he knew well how to wield it. His hands and mouth drove her on, fingers pressing harder on that inch of her flesh that was a mystery to her, a sweet friction that built a fire in her as he sucked at her breast.

The excitement gathered fast – this was supposed to happen, she knew that much, but it did not seem to matter that he was not inside her. She was certain he should be, yet she did not care and he did not stop or even pause, his fingers moving faster as she panted like an animal. She heard his moan – or it was hers, there was no way to tell as the pleasure seized her utterly, her body straining upward against his hand to demand more and more, greedy beyond her control or care.

It left her wits scattered to oblivion, no sense of who or what she was. She could hear herself heaving great gusts of air, feel her body humming with satisfaction, and that was all there was in the world for a long, long moment.

When her mind began to function again, it seemed to want to present her with a thousand thoughts about sin and lust and nature and what it all meant. But for the first time that she could remember, she simply folded the thoughts away. Leave such considerations for later. For now she wanted only to be in this body, to feel the cool air on her hot skin, to not think at all as he lifted her to place one of the cushions beneath her hips. From the heat of him, the narrow press of his flesh on hers, she knew he settled a knee between her parted thighs.

She opened her eyes to find him looking at her – at the join of her legs, the wet and swollen flesh there. He was stroking himself, his face taut with excitement. He seemed a stranger between her legs. A fascinating, alluring stranger poised over a body that was new to her. The intensity of his look awoke something inside her, a heady sense of her own power.

She drew her knees up and let her legs fall wide, opened herself to his dark gaze. The sound he made, the hard grip on her thigh, the way his whole body jerked closer as though pulled by some invisible string – it sent a corresponding jolt of lust through her. When he lowered his head she thought he meant only to kiss her there, a brief press of the lips, a lover's gesture. But his mouth opened over her, and his tongue slid across her slick flesh, and she was lost.

A soft "Oh!" escaped her, surprise and delight. Then his tongue moved again, and again.

Pleasure was too small a word, too tame. She thought she might go mad with it, tear her hair and howl at the moon. Her hands gripped the bed, clawed at it in a frantic attempt to keep herself from reaching for him. He was driving her on, urging her as he had done with his fingers, and this time she knew where it led and reached for it too. His tongue found the spot that made sounds leap from her throat, uncontrollable little whimpers she had never dreamed lived inside her.

When he pulled away, she wanted to weep with frustration. But the soft warmth of his mouth was replaced with hard flesh, so hot it stole her breath as he pushed into her. Her body welcomed him greedily, craving the fullness inside her. She opened her eyes and looked down, over the oiled curves of breast and belly in the candlelight, suddenly eager to see him inside her. The bolster beneath her hips seemed to offer her up to him. He was on his knees, one arm curved around her thigh, his eyes fixed on the place they joined as he pressed forward.

She watched his cock slide in and out of her, inflamed by the indecency of the sight. The feel of him was so different from every time before that she almost could not believe it was the same act, the same man. He moved with a lascivious intent, and she let her head fall back as her body rose up, the excitement and pleasure overwhelming her again. She could feel it take him too, his deep thrust and heavy groan calling forth the response in her until she cried out, contracting around him, convulsing again.

For a long time, there was nothing but the feel of his weight on her, the sweat of their bodies mingling, and the sound of their heaving breaths. Dimly, the thought she had had so many times when he had bedded her – of Eve and the first sin at the dawn of time – came to her again. This time she did not think of foolish temptations and eternal burdens, of evil hissing at a woman's ankle and the weaknesses of men.

She thought instead of nakedness without modesty. She thought of how she knew now that this pleasure was not a forbidden fruit, but a sliver of Paradise itself that was meant for human consumption. The story had gotten twisted somewhere. It must have. That was the only explanation for calling this bliss a sin.

His hands were at her hair. She watched his face as his fingers pulled her hair free, combing through it, slowly spreading it out and arranging it around her in a halo of abundant curls. A faint smile curved his lips, wicked and knowing.

When his eyes came to hers, she did not shy away or hide. She seemed incapable of pretending anything at all.

"There you are," he said.

And then he left her alone in all her nakedness, her only companion a creeping chill where his body had been.