Marriage Under Siege. Anne O'Brien

lifted the sword and made a practice lunge, before examining the quality of the steel, the balance of hilt and blade. ‘It is splendid. I could not expect anything so fine.’ She watched as he ran his fingers, skilled and knowledgeable, over the engraving, the lethal edges.

      ‘Does it please you? It was always my intention to give it to my husband.’

      ‘Yet you did not give it to Lord Edward?’ His voice made it just a question rather than a statement.

      ‘No. I did not.’ She made no effort to excuse or explain but watched him, wary as a young deer.

      ‘Then I am doubly honoured. Without doubt it pleases me. It will be my pleasure to wear it, my lady.’ Silently he hoped that he would not be called upon to use it, in either hot or cold blood—that Josh’s previous words held no element of premonition.

      In a formal gesture of chivalry he took her hand, bowed low over it, then raised her fingers with courtly grace to his lips. She tightened her hold in recognition of his acceptance of the gift and, as he glanced up, he saw her face relax into a smile. It gave her a fragile beauty that touched his heart, causing the faintest brush of desire across the surface of his skin.

      ‘Your gift is as handsome as your presence, lady.’

      He drew her towards him then, his arm encircling her waist. Before she could resist or retreat, he sealed the new vows that they had made, his mouth on hers. He felt the nerves under her skin flutter, so kept it light and unthreatening, the merest promise of possession. But, unlike the salute in church her lips were now warm and softened under his caress. When he released her she remained standing within his arms, lips parted, an expression of surprised pleasure in her face. He brushed his fingers over her hair where it curled at her temple, satisfied with the outcome.

      ‘Go up,’ he said softly. ‘I will come to you.’

      Later he opened the door that connected his bedchamber with hers, entered and closed it quietly behind him. She was sitting in bed against a bank of pillows, waiting for him. A fire still burned so the air was warm and fragrant with the distinctive scent of apple wood and a candle flickered at her elbow. She held a book, open, before her on the coverlet, yet he had the distinct impression that she had not been reading.

      Her fine ringlets had been brushed out so that her hair curled against her neck and on to the white linen of her shift, gleaming more gold than brown in the candlelight. Her face was drained of colour again and she clutched the leather binding with rigid fingers. He drew in a breath. She looked anything but at ease, but then what did he expect? Things should improve between them as they came to know each other better. And he had sufficient confidence in his lovemaking to believe that he could indulge her with a degree of pleasure and contentment. He smiled a little. His expertise had never been questioned in the past. If only she did not watch him with such frightened eyes, as a terrified mouse would wait for the descent of a circling falcon.

      Making no move further into the room, he remained with his back to the door, trying for lightness to diffuse the nerve-searing tension. ‘Where is she?’

      ‘My lord?’ The voice from the bed was a whisper of nerves.

      ‘Morrighan! If she is under the bed, you spend the night without me. I value my life.’

      ‘She … she is in the kitchens. Master Foxton took her. And the puppy.’ Honoria’s lips felt stiff and bloodless. She could not have smiled, no matter what the enticement.

      Mansell saw this with a touch of unease. Because there was nothing to be gained in prolonging the agony for her, he strode to the bed, and in a succession of swift movements doused the candle, shrugged out of his robe and turned back the bed covers.

      He is nothing like his cousin, she told herself, reassured herself, as the firelight played over the planes and angles of his body. Such broad shoulders, firm flesh, smoothly muscled. She closed her eyes briefly in an anguish of anticipation. Do not think of Edward now! Surely it will not be the same. Don’t think of his cruel words. His unwashed, greasy hands, grasping and demanding. His soft, grey flesh. Don’t think of …

      She felt the bed give with Mansell’s weight and then the warm proximity of his body as he stretched beside her, steeling herself to remain still, to resist flinching at his touch.

      ‘Honoria?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘It will not be so bad, you know.’ He felt the hideous tension surround them in a thick cloud, suffocating with her fear. She trembled with the force of it as his naked arm, hard and corded with sinew, made contact with hers in the slightest of movements.

      ‘I know,’ she managed to croak. But she didn’t!

      He immediately took the initiative and smoothed his fingers through her hair, pushing it back from her temples. With gentle fingers he touched her face, a fleeting caress of the skin, then following their path from temple to jaw with his lips. Her mouth was soft when he kissed her, the lightest of brushes, mouth against mouth. But then he felt her pulse begin to beat in her throat when he kissed his way along the line from jaw to delicate shoulder, when he paused to press his lips to the very spot where her blood pounded. She lay beneath his touch as if, apart from that one pulse, turned to stone.

      She was not a virgin, he thought. She had shared a marriage bed. So why was she so tense? He had hardly touched her.

      He persisted as slowly and carefully as he could. It was merely a matter of familiarity. He let his hands smooth down over her body to push away her linen chemise to expose her shoulders to his touch. When his palm closed over a firm breast, lightly moulding so as not to startle her, he felt her gasp and hold her breath.

      He continued, gently, stroking, touching, caressing, exploring the curve of her breast to the delicacy of her ribcage and the flowing indentation of her waist. She was lovely. Her skin was as pleasurable to the touch as the most costly satin. He felt his blood begin to heat with arousal and his body hardened in anticipation. It might be true that he did not know her, but he had no difficulty in responding to her pure femininity. But he must go slowly. He gritted his teeth. When he allowed his fingers to trail across the soft skin of her belly and smooth over the roundness of her hip, he felt her catch her breath again, almost on a sob.

      His mouth returned to hers, this time with possessive demand, encouraging her lips to part to allow his tongue to slide over the soft inner flesh of her lips, as soft and smooth as silk. She stiffened, every muscle in her body tensed, silently resisting, as he teased a nipple between his fingers.

      And he realised that her flesh had chilled, her skin had become clammy as her blood drained, her responses withdrawn from what she saw as a violation. He could no longer pretend that she saw it in any other way. But why? He had deliberately gentled and slowed his desire to take her. By no stretch of the imagination had he attempted to ravish her or treat her with less than utmost consideration for a new bride.

      On a deep breath, he stopped, lifted his hands and raised his head to look down at her face below him in the shadows. He could not be other than stunned at what he saw, at the stark fear momentarily in her wide eyes. She was not fighting him, not physically resisting, but she feared him and her whole body was rigid, totally unresponsive to his attempts to arouse and seduce.

      He rolled away from her to sit up in concern and some exasperation. He kept his voice low, but she could not mistake the edge in it. ‘I have never, to my knowledge, been guilty of forcing a woman against her will. I do not relish the prospect of starting with my wife!’

      This time there was definitely a sob in response to his words.

      ‘And I thought I had some skill in bringing pleasure to a woman.’

      At that she covered her face with her hands. Panic choked her, filled her lungs like smoke. Her breathing became shallow and difficult. To her horror, against all her hopes, she had to accept the truth of it, that Lord Edward had been right after all. She was incapable of attracting a man and an abject failure at bringing pleasure to him as a wife should. It was all her fault. And her new lord was about to reject her as assuredly as Edward had done. He would