Crusader Captive. Merline Lovelace

need and slide his finger in, out, and in again.

      When he judged her ready, he kneed her legs farther apart and positioned himself between her thighs. He rested his weight on a bent arm. With his free hand, he guided his shaft to her hot, slick flesh.

      The tip probed, pushed, entered. She gasped again and wiggled frantically.

      “Wait, de Rhys! Wait! It’s too monstrous! You cannot…I cannot…”

      “Aye, sweeting, we can.”

      He canted his hips until the tip was well and truly lodged, then bent again to suckle. His teeth rasped the tight, hard nipple. His tongue soothed it. When she gave a hoarse moan and thrashed her head back and forth on the bolster, Simon knew she could take his full length. Straightening, he flexed his thighs and thrust home.

      Jocelyn gave a mewling cry and arched under him. The pain she’d been warned to expect came sharp and fast, but lasted only a few moments. With his second and third thrust, she began to feel something almost pleasurable.

      As the feeling gathered intensity, her breath grew short and hot. Her senses whirled. Blind instinct led her to hook her calves around his and lift her hips to meet his. But just when she thought the sensations gathering low in her belly would lead to something more, something that beckoned tantalizingly just beyond her reach, he lunged a final time.

      Grunting, he collapsed atop her and buried his face in her neck. She waited, scarce daring to breathe. Her heart hammered in her chest. Her nerves sizzled and spit like hot coals.

      Yet he made no further move. None at all. Except for the rise and fall of the chest mashing hers and a raspy rustle of his breath in her ear, she might have thought him dead.

      Slowly, so slowly, the fire in her blood subsided. Pressed into the mattress by de Rhys’s slack body, she became all too aware of his weight. The man was as heavy as an ox. Her nose wrinkled as she breathed in his sweat-drenched scent. And the odor of the sticky wetness that now trickled between her legs.

      So much for the sly grins and titillated laughter of her ladies, she thought in chagrin. This business of mating was all well and good enough in its way, but…

      Somehow Jocelyn had expected more. Oh, her body had heated everywhere de Rhys had stroked it. And she’d near come out of her skin when he’d tormented her breasts. Yet all this fuss and bother had left her wanting. Not to mention smelly and sweaty and thoroughly disgruntled.

      And now the dolt came close to smothering her. Scowling, she pushed at his shoulder. “De Rhys. You’re too heavy by half. Move yourself.”

      He made an inarticulate sound and rolled onto his back. “Sorry, sweeting.”

      That was another matter, she thought in mounting frustration. That casual endearment, as if she was some slattern he’d just taken out behind the stables. Who was he to address her with such familiarity?

      The irony of that thought didn’t strike her until she’d drawn the coverlet up to her chin. She’d yielded her maidenhead to this man, had committed the sin of fornication with him, yet she hadn’t so much as given him leave to address her by name.

      Ah, well. It was done. Now all she had to do was send him on his way. Clutching the coverlet, Jocelyn propped herself up on one elbow. He lay sprawled on his back beside her with his eyes closed and one knee bent. The gold hair dusting his chest glinted in the firelight.

      And, she saw with a gulp, the shaft that had so unnerved her with its jutting size now lay limp against his thigh.

      “De Rhys,” she said again, dragging her gaze from his nether parts. “Gather your garments and dress. You must leave my chamber.”

      He answered with a low grunt.

      “Heed me,” she commanded. “You’ve fulfilled your part of our bargain. Sir Hugh will see you outfitted as I promised. You are free to leave Fortemur on the morrow.”

      His chest rose and fell in a slow, soughing breath.

      “De Rhys! Do you hear me?”

      His eyes opened. They lacked their previous intensity, Jocelyn saw with some surprise. Dull, almost lackluster, they fixed on her face.

      “I hear you,” he muttered.

      Was this what coupling did to a man? Drain him of all strength and vitality? If so, it was no wonder knights refrained from lying with a woman before tourneys.

      “Then get you gone from my bed,” Jocelyn ordered. “And remember your pledge to say nothing of what happened here tonight.”

      “Why are you so worried that I will speak of what happened between us?” he asked as he slowly pushed himself up. “Do you fear no man will take you to wife if he knows you won’t bring him the gift of your maidenhead?”

      “I’ll bring him Fortemur,” she answered, shrugging. “With such a rich dowry, there will be men aplenty who’ll take me to wife.”

      Just not the man the king wanted to give her to. Or so Jocelyn prayed.

      “You must go,” she insisted. “I would not have my ladies find you in my chamber come morning.”

      His movements slow and lethargic, he threw aside the sheet. Jocelyn’s gaze went instantly to the red splotches on the linen. The stains brought home the full enormity of what she’d done.

      “By all the saints…” she murmured.

      Then she looked up and another, far more emphatic exclamation threatened to burst from her.

      “Holy Mother! What did they do to you?”

      The cuts crisscrossed his entire back, deeper and more vicious than any she’d ever seen. Unlike the scars on his chest, these were fresh. Some had scabbed over, some were barely crusted. Others oozed beneath the unguent she belatedly remembered Sir Hugh saying he’d had smeared on them.

      Jocelyn had put men to the whip before. Women, too, when their crime warranted. Not very often, thank the Lord, but enough times to know no ordinary leather thong would score the flesh like this.

      She scrambled up on her knees, still clutching the coverlet in tight fists. “What manner of lash did they use on you?”

      His shoulders rose in a shrug. “One barbed with lead tips.”

      “But why? And why so many strokes?”

      A dry note crept into his voice. “I’ve been told I have a somewhat stubborn nature.”

      Like hers, she acknowledged silently while he pushed off the bed with obvious effort. When he crossed to the clothing they’d left in a heap, Jocelyn couldn’t take her eyes from the horrific cuts. Thus she saw him stagger as he bent to pick up his breeks. He threw out a hand to steady himself, but found nothing to grasp.

      She leaped out of bed to rush to his aid. Before she could reach him, he toppled like a felled oak.

       Chapter Four

      “De Rhys! De Rhys, do you hear me?”

      Her tangled hair falling in her face, Jocelyn dropped to her knees and struggled to turn the man over. It was like pushing at rock.

      “De Rhys!”

      His only response was an inarticulate grunt.

      This was most assuredly not part of the plan.

      Cursing, Jocelyn threw on her torn bliaut and rushed to the tower door. A swift descent of the narrow, winding stairs brought her to the guardroom directly below her bedchamber. The three men rattling dice glanced up in surprise at her sudden appearance.

      Her disheveled state generated no little surprise. The two guardsmen gaped in astonishment. Sir Hugh kicked aside his three-legged stool and hurried to her side.

      “What’s amiss, lady?”

      “De Rhys.”