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  That was the most elaborate effort. The other three courses of the meal were more ordinary, but no one complained, particularly Aubery, who ate like a wolf, although he did manage to make the proper offerings of first choice to his wife before he fell on each dish. Aubery was indeed content, and not only with the food. The vague shadow of suspicion that had remained in his mind was allayed by the dramatic first three dishes and almost completely soothed away when, after each course, a most elegant subtlety did appear, the cook accompanying his creation.

  If these were not the towering structures of a state dinner, they were still well contrived, and the delight of their creators made Aubery lean across and press Alys’s hand in mute apology. Poor men, he thought, it would have been cruel indeed if those works of art of pastry and crystallized honey had not been presented or had been presented half-finished. And he thanked William again when he found his purse pressed into his hand so that he could give Fenice a silver coin to give to each cook.

  She was so surprised and delighted at his allowing her to distribute the largess that she kissed the hand that offered the coin. For that moment Aubery forgot that he had ever known any woman besides the gentle, grateful girl who was his bride, and he bent his head and laid his cheek against her headdress. Alys sniffed sentimentally, but the sigh that followed as her eyes moved from the newlyweds to the window was simply a sigh of relief that the long summer day was over at last. The supper, subtleties and all, had lasted as she had planned until full dark. A half-hour’s quiet talk after the tables were removed, and she could with decency suggest it was time for bed.

  There would be no bedding ceremony. William was quite willing to take Alys’s word that Fenice had no blemish serious enough to make her unsuitable as a wife, and Raymond knew Aubery to be normal. Perhaps he carried more battle scars now, but they obviously were not crippling. There was thus no reason to examine bride or groom. Moreover, since Fenice was a widow, she could not be expected to give evidence of a maidenhead. No more, then, was necessary than to walk with the bride and groom to the door and see that the room was all in order.

  William did embrace Aubery with some ferocity and growl at him, “Be happy, my son. It is right that you be happy.” He was more gentle with Fenice and only kissed her brow as did her father. But Alys hugged her stepdaughter hard, however, her whisper was somewhat less than proper. “Enjoy!” she urged. “This time you have a man.”

  Chapter Ten

  It was not until the door closed that Fenice and Aubery truly became aware of the fact that they were married. That they now belonged to each other had not felt real until they were alone facing the big bed in which they would consummate the priest’s blessing.

  Fenice reacted by immediately recalling Alys’s naughty remark, and she chuckled, completely unafraid and at ease. In a sexual sense, Delmar had been a very good husband. Unadept at war, her late husband had proven his virility as a lover instead. Fortunately for Fenice, he was naturally gentle and did not think of virility in animal terms, that is, of forcing a female into submission. His pleasure came from making Fenice crave coupling, and he had been very successful.

  That Aubery had failed with Matilda where Delmar had succeeded with Fenice was not completely his fault. He was not naturally gentle, but he had loved Matilda and did not wish to hurt or frighten her. That he had done both was partly owing to his own relative ignorance but largely the fault of her totally unrealistic attitudes and expectations. Aubery had, in fact, shown far more patience than could have been expected from his disposition because he associated his father with bestiality toward women and was determined not to repeat Mauger’s sins.

  Nonetheless, he simply had not sufficient skill or knowledge when he and Matilda were first married to overcome her religious prejudices and surprise her with the pleasure of physical love. She was never really ready, so coupling was always a little painful, and her prejudices only became more fixed. Matilda was too sweet-tempered and too simple ever to deny her husband’s demands, but it was all too clear that she only endured what she believed it was her duty to endure. And once she got with child and felt her duty to procreate was done, she had begun to lecture Aubery on his lustfulness, although she still did not refuse him. By that time, his advances were few and far between, and they remained so even after their daughter was born.

  It was thus with considerable surprise that Aubery heard Fenice’s little laugh. He did not expect a widow to scream and struggle as Matilda had on their wedding night, of course, but he was prepared for some apprehension until he had satisfied himself. Unless Fenice thought she could refuse him? At which point Aubery remembered the way her lips had parted under his when he had kissed her, and a thrill of expectation ran through him.

  As if she felt his sudden rush of need, Fenice turned and asked, “Shall I help you to undress, my lord?”

  He had grown accustomed to the rich music of her voice, but alone in this room, facing the bed in which they would mate, it struck him anew. He had to swallow hard before he could say, “No. Undress yourself. I will attend to my own needs.”

  Her hands went at once to her headdress. She removed it and shook out with total unselfconsciousness a mane of hair that fell to her hips. With equal aplomb, she shed her outer gown, her tunic, and her shift, then bent to slip off her shoes and roll off her stockings. She had turned half away so that Aubery had a view from the side, much obscured by the fall of hair. Fenice was not modest, but she had learned that the flicker of white flesh, hip, breast, nipple, through a veil was far more enticing than a flat presentation of a whole naked body. And what worked with Delmar seemed to be even more effective now. Once or twice she glanced sidelong at her new husband standing with his hands frozen on the pearl buttons of his surcoat. The fixed and glazed expression on his face made Fenice shiver several times but not with fear.

  When she was naked, she turned to face him, drawing her hair forward over her shoulders so that it framed her face and hid her breasts and belly, the irregular ends mingling with the curls on her mound of Venus. Had her hair been a solid sheet, Fenice would have been covered with decency. Unfortunately the strongly erect nipples on her full breasts parted the strands of hair with every movement and kept peeping through. Aubery swallowed again and shifted his hips. The cloth of his braies had seemed soft enough when he put them on, but now every thread scraped against the bared head of his rising shaft.

  “Did I make those buttonholes too tight?” Fenice asked softly. “I beg you to let me undo them.”

  About to order her to get into bed, Aubery remembered the buttons were pearls. He knew quite well that he was not going to be able to undo those buttons one by one, and to pull them loose and lose the jewels was insane. If she were closer, he would not be able to see her, either.

  “Your fingers are more nimble,” he said.

  He did not recognize his voice, but Fenice gave no evidence of surprise. He had to close his eyes as she advanced, but that was not much help, for her fragrance assaulted his senses, and her touch made him clench his teeth and fists to resist grabbing her and throwing himself atop her. But Fenice’s mind was as nimble as her fingers, and as soon as the buttons were undone, she retreated hastily. Now Aubery made quick work of removing his clothes and turned toward Fenice to tell her to get into bed, only to find she was back beside him.

  “You are a very beautiful man,” she murmured, running a hand over the broad muscles of his chest and down to the relatively narrow hip.

  Aubery was so astonished that he just stood and stared while Fenice leaned forward, nuzzled his chest, and put the tip of her tongue to his nipple. He jerked, uttering a choked sound of mingled excitement and protest, which made Fenice chuckle softly and murmur, “Did I tickle you? I am so sorry,” and press her lips more firmly to the area.

  “No,” Aubery gasped, having no idea what he meant, for she certainly had tickled him, and the sensation was spreading all over his body, intensifying rather than diminishing, though the warm touch of
her mouth was not tickling now.

  Whereupon Fenice lifted her head and pressed herself against him from thigh to breast, whispering against his lips just before she kissed him, “I will not tease you. You are too eager already.”

  Aubery was totally bewildered. Matilda had never invited foreplay. She had, in fact, rejected what little he had attempted. And even before he married, being mindful that every penny he spent came from his stepfather’s purse because his own father had ruined his estate, he had never been willing to pay the price of the type of whore who would take the trouble to play with a man and pretend she enjoyed her work. He had no experience at all with a woman who took pleasure in coupling, and Fenice’s actions were as startling as they were exciting.

  Confused as he was, there was nothing wrong with Aubery’s instincts. As Fenice’s soft, smooth belly came against his shaft, his arms went around her, his hands sliding down to her buttocks to draw her even more tightly to him. In response, her mouth opened, and her tongue came out and touched his lips. Never in his life had Aubery been as sexually aroused as he was then. The urge to satisfy his need was tremendous. On the other hand, to do so would end the new and exquisite sensations that were sweeping through him.

  When Fenice’s tongue retracted, Aubery’s lips parted, and he sought to regain what he had lost. The warm, wet inside of her mouth was so close an image of what he desired that a dangerous throbbing woke in his groin. He pulled Fenice still tighter, but instead of responding with increased pressure from the arms around his neck, she drew her head back and brought her hands forward to cup his face so that he could not follow her.

  “Come, let us lie down,” she whispered. “You are too tall for me to reach standing.”

  He had not even patience to wait for Fenice to walk the few steps to the bed, and he swept her into his arms, laid her down, and mounted her. Reaching to push her legs apart, which he had always had to do with Matilda, his hand met hers. He started to thrust her arm away, but she had already taken hold of him, and he caught his breath in surprise as she positioned him and then groaned with relief and pleasure as the burning sword was at last sheathed.

  There was an instant’s pause to savor the soothing that excited him still more, and in that instant Fenice’s legs crossed over his buttocks, and her body lifted under his. He groaned again, and she sighed, “Sweet, sweet, how you fill me. Go slow, my lord,” and then pulled his head down with one hand so that their lips met. The other hand caressed his neck and then slid down his back, the nails scraping gently along his spine. Aubery heaved, expecting to need to fight the pressure of the legs that gripped him, but they relaxed to give him room to move and then tightened, giving extra impetus to his thrust.

  In spite of every will to go slow and prolong a pleasure more intense than he had ever felt, Aubery could not. Desire drove him to plunge harder and faster, and the body under him, moving with him, raised him to a pitch of passion so violent that he did not hear himself crying out nor Fenice giving voice in the convulsion of her joy. It was impossible to contain so great an agony of pleasure. His climax burst in a series of thrusts so fierce that the pillows tumbled from the bed, and Fenice gasped with surprise.

  For several minutes, Aubery lay like a log, gathering his scattered wits. Fenice’s legs relaxed and fell away from him, but with one hand she stroked his shoulder and with the other pushed the sweat-wet hair gently off his forehead. She seemed in no hurry for him to leave her, unlike Matilda, who had complained she could not breathe when he rested. The thought made him feel ashamed. He should not criticize Matilda because Fenice was stronger and more sturdily built. But Fenice’s caresses were sweet. Guilt pricked him again, and he rolled away, reminding himself that Matilda had caressed him also, although never after coupling.

  Relieved of Aubery’s weight, Fenice stretched as sensuously as a cat. She, too, felt she had never been loved so completely, so exquisitely, or with such fulfillment, a natural result of the deprivation of months of widowhood after a very active sex life. But also she was pleased by Aubery’s near-silence. Delmar had been a talker and had required her to talk also, which had sometimes interrupted her concentration on the delightful sensations of her body.

  She turned her head and looked at her new husband. As they had not snuffed the candles, drawn the bedcurtains, or covered themselves in their haste, he was clearly visible. Aubery was lying flat on his back, his chest still heaving intermittently as he drew a deeper breath. He had a beautiful body, Fenice thought, even more magnificent than she had realized when she first saw it. She had been concentrating then on what would fulfill her craving, now she could appreciate the whole picture.

  His skin was white as milk, seemingly thinner than Delmar’s and thus more clearly delineating the heavy muscles of arm, chest, and thigh. She could even see the tight bands across the belly. Nor was the musculature obscured by a heavy growth of hair. There was a band of golden curls across the pectorals, thinning to nothing just below the nipples, the thick pubic bush, and a layer of fine hair on forearms and shins. There were scars, also. A brief internal shudder of fear ran through Fenice, but many of the scars were long healed, and the thick white tissue did not stand out against Aubery’s fair skin as it did on her father.

  Tempted to run her fingers along the fascinating curves of muscle, Fenice raised her eyes to Aubery’s face. If he was asleep, she must not touch him. But his eyes were not closed. He was staring at her with an expression she could not read.

  “What are you looking at?” he asked.

  Fenice smiled. “You, my lord. I said before you were beautiful. It is a pleasure to the eyes to see you.”

  “That is ridiculous.” Aubery flushed slightly, embarrassed and flattered at the same time. “Women are beautiful. You are beautiful. Men are made for work.”

  “Perhaps, my lord,” Fenice replied merrily, “so are horses, but one may be better made and more beautiful than another.”

  Aubery could not help laughing. It was always amusing to talk to Fenice. The laugh cut short as she hopped out of bed. “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “To pick up the pillows.” Fenice giggled. “Dear lord, you are so strong. I thought you would come up through my mouth.”

  “I am sorry if I hurt you,” Aubery said, but even as the words were spoken he knew them to be unnecessary. There had been admiration, not protest, in Fenice’s voice.

  She tossed the pillow she had picked up onto the bed, came around to his side, bent to pick up the second pillow, and then leaned over him and lightly kissed his lips. Despite his recent explosive climax, Aubery felt a faint stirring of desire. He raised a hand to stroke her hair, aware that its smooth, silken texture was very different from Matilda’s, which had been baby-fine. His arm felt heavy, and he allowed it to drop and rest on her shoulder. The fingers slipped through the thick strands to touch her skin, which was cool and somewhat moist and reminded him of his first impression that it would be good to taste.

  Without thinking, he pulled her down toward him. She came to him readily. There was no apprehensive stiffening of her muscles, and she changed the angle of her body somehow so that his lips fell on her breast. Her skin was as sweet as new cream, and her scent was intoxicating. Fenice sighed, slipped her hand behind his head and held it to her, her thumb running gently over the curve of his ear.

  “Are you ready so soon?” she murmured. “You are strong, my lord.”

  Aubery had not thought of coupling again. The faint urge he had felt had been pleasant, but he had been conditioned by Matilda to believe sexual congress was distasteful to women, and he would have allowed the impulse to die. However, Fenice’s remark, redolent as it was with amazed admiration, amounted almost to a challenge. Other men of his acquaintance had boasted to him of how eager their wives or mistresses were for their attentions. That was why in the beginning he had tried to teach Matilda to enjoy him. And to ease the bitterness of his failure, he had told himself that the boasters lied or deceived themselves.
r />   Now the gesture that encouraged him, the hand that held his head so that his mouth might more easily explore, the fingers that caressed his ear creating a sensation that somehow caused a wave of heat to flow across his loins, told him not only that the boasters had not lied but that he was as good as they. More than that, the recollection of the pleased surprise in Fenice’s voice hinted that he was better—at least better than her first husband.

  He pulled her down atop him, and she came willingly, but when he began to roll her on her back, she laughed and sat up.

  “You cannot be in such a hurry now,” Fenice said. “Let us linger in play awhile. Tell me what you desire.”

  “You,” Aubery replied.

  “Here I am,” she offered, pulling back her hair so that her body gleamed palely amber in the soft candlelight. “There is nothing I would willingly hide from your hands and lips. Sup as you desire. Will you rise to me, or shall I come down to you?”

  “Come here to me,” he said huskily, realizing that she was inviting him to touch her.

  He was restrained at first, stroking the soft, fragrant flesh, kissing only face and throat, but he could sense that he was giving pleasure, and he grew bolder, licking, biting, sucking, exploring a body that did not flinch away or curl in shame, a body that responded with touches and kisses and sighs and little cries of joy. And though the fingers that caressed him roused delightful sensations, it was Fenice’s powerful response to his manipulation, her gasps and moans, the way her nails raked his back when her climax came that drove his passion to a new height, so that he poured forth his seed with a force that wrung groans near screams from him.