Colette Gale - Bound by Honor Страница 5

“Where are you taking me?” Marian demanded, trying to drag her arm away from Will’s grip.

His face appeared even more dark and forbidding than before. They’d come to a narrow flight of steps and he stopped at its base. “Your presence is requested by His Highness,” he said in a low, tight voice. “In his private solar.”

Marian’s belly fell to her knees. Oh God, already? “The prince?” Then she drew in a deep breath and straightened. It would do no good to show fear. Especially to one as formidable as the man before her.

Who was taking her to the prince.

“Nay, Will.” Her voice came out in a gust of breath. “Not tonight. Please.” She reached for him, her fingers tight.

Will looked down at her, standing so that his head blocked the merry flames of the sconce behind him. The details of his face were thus obscured by shadow, but she saw his jaw move, and his lips tighten into a line so thin it was probably white. “You must make your choice, Marian, for he will not be put off.” His voice was not so harsh as it had been in the hall.

“Choice?” she responded, tamping back the wail that threatened to erupt. By the holy cross, she was Lady Marian of Morlaix, and she would swallow her weakness. Even though she’d fairly begged a moment earlier.

By her own example, Eleanor of Aquitaine had instilled in Marian the responsibility of duty and honor. And if one did not have honor, one had nothing.

“I have no choice, according to you,” she said. “The prince wishes my presence and you are to deliver me to him.” Now it was her turn to clamp her lips tightly, for fear that he might see them tremble.

In truth, what was the worst that could happen? Prince John might wish to tup her, and, well, she was no virginal maid. She’d endured Harold’s attentions as his wife. ’T could be no worse under . . . dear God, under . . . the prince.

“Your choice is to submit either to the prince . . . or to me.”

Marian looked up at him, feeling her jaw sag slightly. It’s either him or me . . . and I won’t draw blood.

Now his rushed words made sense to her, words that she’d barely heard in the blast of anger and mortification that he should have used her the way he did in the hall.

Or leave bruises.

She felt the waves of tension rolling off him as if they were heat from a fireplace.

“I’ve already made my claim,” he said. The words came out sharp and hard. “But if you prefer the prince-”

“No,” she said. “No, Will.” She drew in a deep breath. She didn’t really know this man any more than she knew the prince, and if the rumors were correct, he was as brutal as the Angevin. But his stark promise seemed sincere. I won’t draw blood. Or leave bruises. “I do not prefer the prince.” She snatched in her breath and looked around, afraid that her words might have been overheard.

“Then you have made your choice,” he said after a moment frozen in silence.

“Make no mistake,” she said, stepping back from him. “I prefer to make no choice at all.”

“You haven’t that freedom, Marian,” he said. “Make no mistake: if you aren’t with me, you will be with John. He accepts nay from no one. Nor is he swayed from his desires. You will attend him tonight, as my guest.”

Marian looked up at him, trying to read his face. Shadowed, closed, he looked as frightening as John sounded. She swallowed back a little shiver and said, “So you will protect me from John?”

“Protect you?” He gave a short, edgy laugh. “That is a loose word for what will pass between us, but if you wish, you may consider it that.” Once again, his fingers curled around her arm. “Now, come, before I lose what little patience I have.”

“Drink this,” Will said, shoving a skin of wine at Marian as they stopped just outside the door to John’s solar. “And if the prince offers you anything to drink, take it.” It would make things easier.

She looked up at him, fury mingled with fear in her green eyes, and for a moment, he thought she meant to refuse. Then she snatched the skin from him and drank. She might loathe him-and if she didn’t now, she would soon-but Marian was no fool. She knew the wine would soften whatever would happen beyond the door.

Will turned away, feeling as though his entire body were a jousting staff. Stiff and stark. Immovable. Unfeeling.

But that was nothing new.

She didn’t hand him the wineskin; she slapped it at his gut.

“Aye, that’s it,” Will told her. “Show your fury. Fight me. ’Twill keep him entertained.” The skin was empty, leaving none for him-which was just as well. He couldn’t afford any indulgence.

Folding the skin and tucking it into the belt of his tunic, Will gave a sharp nod to the two guards, then opened the door and shoved her in, making sure she stumbled.

She didn’t just stumble; she fell in a heap of golden skirts and a bounce of glorious, intricately braided hair.

“Ah . . . already she is on her knees, I see, de Wendeval.” The prince chuckled deeply. “How efficient you are.”

One of the guards closed the door behind him and Will stepped farther into the chambers, trying not to breathe too deeply. The space smelled of indulgence: wine, food, sweat . . . and sex.

“As you requested, my lord,” Will said, bowing briefly.

“Rise, Lady Marian,” John said. “Allow me to welcome you to my private chambers. I do hope that you will visit oft, here, in my Court of Pleasure.”

The prince sat on a massive wooden chair too heavy for even Will to move alone. The well-cushioned seat was situated to the left of the door, near one end of the large, rectangular chamber. Tapestries stirred on the wall from the shift of the heavy door closing, and thick rugs covered the stone floor instead of herbs and rushes. A long low table lined the wall directly across from the door. It was covered with wine flagons, platters, and bowls of food, drink, oils, lotions, and other indulgences.

The prince’s chambers lacked for nothing in the realm of sensuality. He’d taken over this large, well-lit space that had been the ladies’ solar at Ludlow and made it into a den of hedonism. Candles flickered on the table, from wall sconces, and throughout the chamber. Along with the fires crackling at each end, the candlelight gave the space a warm, golden glow.

Will made no move to assist Marian as she rose to her feet and smoothed her tunic, though he stood nearby. He realized his fingers had closed tightly into his palms, and knew there was little he could do if John took it into his head to forget their agreement.

He didn’t need to look around to know that there were other women in the room-but not gentlewomen, not tonight. He could hear the faint whistle of breath, a little catch of a sob from a corner. A servingwoman or two, most likely, at the other end of the chamber.

“My lord,” Marian said as she rose to her feet, giving him a brief nod. Will caught the trace of insolence in her voice and wanted to strangle her. “I am honored by your gracious invitation, but as I’ve told Nottingham, I much prefer to seek my own chamber this night. ’Tis been a difficult day of travel and I am quite exhausted.” She said it in the same tone Queen Eleanor might have done: as if she expected him to care.

“Then I am most honored that you’ve attended me,” John replied in his smooth voice. His dark eyes missed little, scanning her with interest.

Marian bowed again, and her hair, which had loosened sometime since they’d left the hall-likely when Will had shoved his fingers into it during the kiss-sagged over one shoulder. “Then you will permit me to take my leave, my lord?”

“Most certainly,” John replied. Will felt Marian gather herself up to thank him. Before she could speak, the prince continued. “But you must stay for a bit. I should not want you to leave my private chambers”-he emphasized those words delicately-“without having been suitably entertained.”

The prince’s gesture directed Marian’s attention to the other side of the solar. She’d been facing John since entering the room, so Will knew it was the first time she’d looked there. Her breath caught audibly and she took a step back.

He didn’t have to look to know what she was seeing, and he caught at her arm from behind. His fingers closed around it tightly in warning, but that was all he dared do.

“Come, let us join them,” John said, rising from his chair.

Will tugged Marian back from the prince’s path as he moved to the other side of the chamber. She bumped into Will, and half turned. The expression on her pale face was no more than he’d expected: a combination of loathing and horror.

“Be glad you are my guest and not his,” he hissed into her ear, then directed her forward.

“Mayhap you would like to join me for a game of chess, my lady?” asked John, sweeping his hand to the side. “Or would you prefer to simply watch the entertainment?”

Will had become fairly inured to the sight of activities conducted in this chamber, but when he propelled Marian toward the cushions and chairs at the other side, he saw them from her point of view. Certainly she knew what passed between a man and a woman-she’d been married for three years, and Harold had not been an elderly man-but God help her if she didn’t.

Yet, John’s proclivities ranged far beyond what normally occurred in a bedchamber, and the sights that Marian would experience were unblemished examples of that. Although, surprisingly, this night the whips were out of sight, and the manacles and other restraints hung empty on the far wall.

The largest bed Will knew of stood before them, not obscured by its bed hangings or curtains-they were pulled wide, the better to view the activities within. The soft mattress currently boasted three naked women. One of them had red-tinged eyes and nose from crying, and was likely the cause of the snuffling Will had heard earlier. He recognized none of them, which confirmed the fact that they were serf women, a small blessing that meant that Marian wouldn’t-at least yet-be recognized by her peers.

“Chess, my lady?” John asked again when Marian remained silent. “Or mayhap you’d prefer to watch Nottingham and me play. He is quite good.”

She stood rigid and unmoving next to Will. He swore he could feel the sharp, hard pounding of her heart all the way through her body. When she looked over at the chess game, he felt her shock rise anew. The heavy wooden board rested on the back of a naked woman positioned on her hands and knees.

Will knew how that particular game was played, and he was in no mood to participate. “Mayhap Lady Marian would simply prefer to watch anight,” he said, giving her a little push toward a pile of cushioned seats far from the chess game and the bed.

“She does seem a bit shy,” John said easily, his eyes scoring over her yet again in a way that put Will on his guard. “I do hope you’ll relieve her of that propensity sooner rather than later.”

Shy, but not the tigress Will had described her as, which worried him anew. John might decide that it wouldn’t be much of an effort to tame her and renege on their agreement.

“You can be certain of it, my lord,” Will replied, settling onto a low, wide chair made specially for more than one. Because John expected it of him, he drew Marian onto his lap, more roughly than necessary, and made sure his hands moved crudely over her breasts before settling at her waist.

She stiffened but, other than trying to move his hands away, said nothing. Will persisted, sliding his palms up and over the sides of her torso and around to cup her breasts again. He felt her shuddering breaths, but she remained silent and still.

Wanting, needing, to get a rise out of her in order to support his excuses to John, Will moved roughly, sliding his fingers up into her hair and tipping her head to the side. He buried his face in the side of her warm neck, giving her a little bite just below the ear. It was a bite that turned into more of a nuzzling kiss. Her skin tasted like warm salt, smelled like violets, and was smooth. Unbelievably soft. Closing his eyes, he lifted his lips, keeping his hands strong and tight at her waist. When he opened them, he was relieved to see that John had found another distraction.

The prince had settled himself in the chair closest to the bed. One of the women-the sniffling one-knelt at his feet. She had removed one of his boots, and was unrolling the hose from that leg.

On the bed, the other two women had commenced with one version of the entertainment John enjoyed. Will couldn’t stop himself from watching as the two kissed full on the mouth, naked bodies aligned, breast to breast. They rolled to the side, hands shifting and legs sliding with soft scrapes. One bent to the other, her mouth wide, mauling an offered breast as her fingers slid down to cover the slick pink quim revealed by her splayed legs.

Marian was hardly breathing, and Will could tell that her shocked attention was fixed on the tableau in front of them. The soft whimpers and gasps from the two naked women filtered through the air, bringing their pleasure-real or feigned, Will was never quite certain-to surround their audience.

It was impossible not to watch-and even more impossible to close one’s ears to the sounds: the soft, wet suction of mouth to mouth and mouth to nipple, of fingers slipping in and around slick red nether lips, making their own wet, erotic sounds. The movement of flesh against flesh and fabric, the moans and gasps, and even the scrape of nail over the bed beneath . . . pleasure and sensuality permeated the room through sight, sound, and scent.

Will glanced over to see that the prince no longer seemed to care that he and Marian were present, and instead had focused his attention wholly on the large bed. His attendant had removed the other boot and hose, and had lifted his tunic to expose a purple-headed erection. Her activity produced more sounds: wet lips and tongue laced with the grunts of her own exertion as she knelt between John’s legs. The prince’s face was a mask of dark pleasure, his eyes fixed on the bed while his hand clamped over the top of the woman’s head, holding her there. Even from the distance, Will saw the whites of his knuckles as he pressed his fingers into the sides of her skull as if wordlessly directing her, driving her . . . as one signaled a bridled horse.

Closing his eyes, Will drew in a long, slow, silent breath, keeping his own fingers rigid and still at Marian’s waist. Impossible to look away, to ignore the sounds . . . and to keep one’s own body from responding.

The scent of violets, the silk of skin and lush red lips were his for the taking. She’d made her choice, chosen him. Her breathing had changed, become quick and shallow, and she moved slightly against him in short little jerks that matched its rhythm.

When he changed the angle of his head and watched Marian from the side and behind, he saw that her lips had parted and her eyes were still fastened on the women in front of them. He couldn’t read the expression on her face-was it horror or fascination?-but he no longer cared.

His hands moved of their own accord, no longer able to remain still at her hips. They slid up the sides of her torso, filled their palms with the weight of her breasts through the tunic and undertunic, and felt the hard points of nipples through the thin fabric. She made a soft noise, an erotic little gasp, and he rubbed his thumbs hard over the fabric, teasing over her jutting nipples, and felt her breath turn to little shudders as she squirmed.