A Kingdom of Dreams by Judith McNaught
"You were doing what?" she breathed again.
"You heard me," he said shortly.
An awful, treacherous warmth was seeping through every pore of Jenny's body as she gazed into his mesmerizing eyes. "Why?" she whispered. "Why did you tell him you intended to marry me?"
"I was insane at the time," he said coldly.
"About me?" she whispered, so carried away with what her heart was telling her that she spoke without thinking.
"About your delectable body," he said crudely, but somewhere in her heart, Jenny was accepting something else… another explanation so exquisite that she was afraid to think it. It explained everything.
"I didn't know," she said simply. "I never imagined you would want to marry me."
"And I suppose if you had, you'd have sent your stepbrother off and stayed at Hardin with me?" he jeered.
It was the greatest risk Jenny had ever taken in her life, because she told him the truth: "If I—I'd known how I was going to feel after I left, I might have." She saw his jaw harden, and without thinking, she lifted her hand and touched her fingertips to his taut cheek. "Please don't look at me like this," she whispered, her eyes gazing deeply into his. "I am not lying to you."
Trying without complete success to ignore the tender innocence of her touch and to stifle the sudden memory of the way she had kissed his scars, Royce said flatly, "And I suppose you knew nothing about your father's plot?"
"I was not going to any cloister, I was leaving with you in the morn," she said simply. "I would never have done anything so… so low."
In sheer frustration at her endless deceit, Royce jerked her into his arms and kissed her, but instead of fighting the hard, punishing kiss, she leaned up on her toes and welcomed it, her hands sliding up his chest and twining around his neck. Her parted lips clung to his, moving tenderly, softly against his mouth, and to Royce's astonishment he realized she was gentling him. And even when he realized it, he couldn't stop it from happening. His hands no longer dug into her arms, they were shifting over her back in a restless, soothing caress, sliding up her nape and holding her lips closer to his hungry mouth.
And as his passion built, so did the awful, guilty premonition that he had been wrong. About everything. Tearing his mouth from hers, he held her clasped tightly to him, waiting for his breathing to even out. When he could finally trust himself to speak, he moved her slightly away and reached down to lift her chin, needing—wanting—to see into her eyes when he asked her. "Look at me, Jennifer," he said gently.
The eyes she raised to his were innocent of guile and strangely trusting. It was not a question, it was a statement: "You didn't know anything about your father's plot, did you?"
"There was no plot," she said simply.
Royce leaned his head back and he closed his eyes, trying to shut out the obvious truth: After forcing her to stand in her own home and endure the barbs of his people, he had dragged her out of bed, forced her to marry him, hauled her across England, and to finish it all off nicely, he had, within the hour, graciously offered to "forgive" her and "let bygones be bygones."
Faced with the choice of shattering her illusions about her father or letting her go on thinking he was a callous madman, Royce chose the former. He was not in a mood to be gallant—not at the expense of his marriage.
Stroking her silken hair, he tipped his chin down and stared into those trusting eyes, wondering why he consistently lost his reason where she was concerned. "Jennifer," he said quietly, "I am not quite the monster you've had good reason to think I am. There was a plot. Will you at least listen to my explanation?"
She nodded, but the smile she gave him told him she thought he was fanciful beyond belief.
"When I went to Merrick keep, I fully expected either your father or one of the clans to try to violate the pact that guaranteed my safety while in Scotland for our marriage. I put men on the roads leading to Merrick and left them with orders not to let any group pass without making inquiries."
"And they didn't find anyone trying to violate the pact," she said with quiet assurance.
"No," Royce admitted. "But what they did discover was a caravan of one abbess with an escort of twelve, making what seemed to be undue haste toward Merrick. Contrary to what you have reason to believe," he added with a wry smile, "my men and I are not in the habit of harassing clerics. On the other hand, following my instructions, they made inquiries of the party—by the expedient measure of letting the abbess believe they were there to give her escort. She, in turn, happily confided that she was coming for you."
Jenny's finely arched brows drew together in a puzzled frown, and Royce almost regretted telling her the truth. "Go on," she said.
"The abbess and her party had been delayed by all the rain in the north—which was, by the by, why your father and your 'pious' Friar Benedict dreamt up that nonsensical explanation about the good friar being very temporarily too ill to perform the ceremony. According to the abbess, it seemed that one Lady Jennifer Merrick had decided to cloister herself as the result of an unwanted marriage. The 'husband,' she understood, was determined to stand in the way of the lady's decision to pledge her life to God, and so she had come to assist Lady Jennifer by helping her father get her out of Merrick—and out of her husband's godless clutches—in secret.
"Your father had hit upon the perfect revenge: since our marriage had already been consummated before the fact, an annulment would have been out of the question for me. So of course would divorce have been. Without the opportunity to remarry, I couldn't sire a legitimate heir, and so all of this—Claymore and all I have—would have reverted to the king on my death."
"I—I don't believe you," Jenny said flatly, and then with heartbreaking fairness, she amended, "I believe you believe this. But the simple truth is that my father would never have locked me away for the rest of my life without at least giving me a choice first."
"He would, and he intended to."
She shook her head, shook it so hard and so emphatically that Royce suddenly realized she couldn't bear to believe it. "My father… loves me. He wouldn't do that. Not even to avenge himself on you."
Royce winced, feeling like the Barbarian he'd been called for trying to shatter her illusions. "You're quite right. I—it was a mistake."
She nodded. "A mistake." She smiled at him, a soft, sweet smile that made his heart pick up its tempo because it was not like any other smile she'd given him. It was filled with trust and approval and something else he couldn't quite identify.
Turning, Jenny walked over to the window, staring out at the starlit night. Torches were lit on the battlements and the silhouette of a guard patrolling the wall was clearly outlined against the orange light. Her mind, however, was not on stars or guards, or even her father; it was on the tall, black-haired man standing behind her. He had wanted to marry her, and the knowledge filled her with an emotion so poignant, so consuming that she could scarcely contain it. It was so overpowering that feelings like patriotism and revenge became paltry.
She reached out, idly following the handsome tracings on the cold glass with a fingertip, remembering all those sleepless nights at Merrick keep when she could not tear him out of her mind, when her body felt empty and overheated and cried out for his. Behind her, she heard him start toward her, and she knew what was going to happen between them as surely as she knew she loved him. God forgive her, she loved her family's enemy. She had known it at Hardin, but she had been stronger then—and afraid. Afraid of what would happen to her if she let herself love a man who seemed to regard her as nothing more than a temporary amusement. But as surely as Jenny knew she loved him, she knew he loved her, too. It explained everything—his anger, his laughter, his patience… his speech in the bailey.
She felt his presence like a tangible thing even before he slowly slid his arm around her from behind, drawing her back against his body. In the windowpane their eyes met, and Jenny gazed into his as she asked him for the one promise that would free her from all guil
His answer was an aching whisper. "Yes."
Shattering tenderness swept through her, and she closed her eyes, leaning back against him in complete surrender. He bent his head, brushing his mouth against her temple, his hand slowly sliding upward to caress the fullness of her breast. His mouth trailed a hot path down her cheek to her ear, his tongue exploring each fold as his hand slipped inside her gown, cupping her breast, his thumb rubbing over her hardening nipple.
Awash in a sea of pure sensation, Jenny made no protest when he covered her lips with his, turning her into his arms. She felt no shame or guilt when her gown slid down around her hips or when he came to her in bed, his bare, muscled shoulders gleaming like bronze in the candlelight as he leaned over her, skillfully parting her lips with his tongue. With a silent moan of surrender, she slipped her hand around his neck, her fingers sliding into the curling hair at his nape, holding his mouth pressed fiercely to hers as she welcomed his tongue and gave him hers. Her innocent ardor was more than Royce's ravenous body could withstand. Wrapping his arm around her hips he pulled her into vibrant contact with his straining thighs, molding her body to the rigid contours of his. His other hand cupped the back of her head as he drove his tongue into her mouth again and again, forcing her to give him back the sensual urgency he was offering her.
When she tore her mouth from his, he almost groaned with disappointment, thinking he had frightened her with his unbridled passion—but when he opened his eyes, what he saw on her face was neither fright or revulsion, it was wonder. A knot of tenderness swelling in his chest, he held perfectly still, watching her as Jenny took his face between her hands, her trembling fingertips reverently caressing his eyes, his cheekbones and jaw, and then she leaned up and kissed him with an ardor that nearly matched his own. Turning into his arms, pressing him back into the pillows, her hair spilling across them like a satin veil, she kissed his eyes, his nose, his ear, and when her lips closed over his nipple, Royce lost control. "Jenny," he groaned, his hands rushing over her back and thighs and buttocks. His fingers dug into her hair, pulling her lips back to his fevered mouth. "Jenny," he whispered hoarsely, his tongue plunging into her mouth, tangling with hers as he rolled her onto her back and covered her body with his. "Jenny," he murmured hotly as he hungrily devoured her breasts and stomach and thighs with his mouth. He could not stop saying her name. It played like a melody in his heart when her arms went around him and she lifted her hips, willingly molding herself to his engorged manhood; it sang in his veins as she welcomed the first fierce thrust of his body into hers; it rang through every fiber of his being as she matched his fierce, driving thrusts; and it exploded in a crescendo as she cried out, "I love you," her nails biting into his back, her body racked with wave after wave of ecstasy.
His body straining, desperate for release, Royce dragged his lips from hers and leaned up on his forearms, waiting for her tremors to subside as he gazed down into her beautiful, shadowy face. And then, because he could hold back no longer, he drove into her one last time, gasping her name. His body jerked convulsively again and again and again as he spilled his life into her, holding her hips to his hips and her mouth to his mouth.
Lying on his back, his wife cradled tightly against his side, he waited for the thundering beat of his heart to subside, his hand roving over her satiny skin, his mind still dazed by the explosion of his body. In all his years of aimless sexual encounters and torrid dalliances, nothing had ever approached the shattering ecstasy he'd just experienced.
Beside him, Jenny raised her head, and he tipped his chin down, looking into her eyes. In their slumberous blue depths he saw the same wonder and confusion he felt. "What are you thinking?" he asked with a tender smile at her upturned face.
An answering smile touched her lips as her fingers splayed across his hair-roughened chest.
Only two thoughts had crossed Jenny's mind and, rather than admit that she'd been longing to hear him say he loved her, she confessed to the other thought. "I was thinking," she whispered ruefully, "that if it had been like this… at Hardin… I don't think I'd have left with William."
"If it had been like this," Royce countered, his smile widening to a wicked grin, "I'd have come after you."
Unaware that she could so easily stir his desire, Jenny trailed her fingers down the flat planes of his hard stomach. "Why didn't you?"
"I was under arrest at the time," he replied dryly, then he caught her wandering hand in his, flattening it beneath his palm to prevent it from straying lower, "for refusing to turn you over to Graverley," he added, releasing her hand.
His breath caught as her hand slid down the side of his thigh. "Jenny," he warned hoarsely, but it was already too late, desire was pouring through him, making him rigid. With a smothered laugh at her startled expression, he caught her hips and lifted her, settling her gently but firmly atop his swollen shaft. "Take as long as you like, little one," he teased huskily, "I'm entirely at your service." His laughter faded, however, as his wife leaned down, straddling him, and sweetly covered his mouth with hers.
Chapter Twenty-One
A smile drifted across Jenny's face as she stood at the window of the solar, looking out into the bailey, her heart filled with the memory of last night. It was mid-morning, judging from the angle of the sun, and she'd only arisen less than an hour ago—later than she'd ever slept in her life.
Royce had made love to her long and lingeringly this morning, this time with an exquisite, restrained gentleness that even now made Jenny's pulses race. He had not told her that he loved her, but he did love her—as inexperienced as she was with love, she was certain of that. Why else would he have made such a pledge to her? Or taken such care with her when she was in his bed?
So lost was she in her reflections that Jenny didn't notice when Agnes entered the room. The smile still in her eyes, Jenny turned to the maid who was holding out another hastily remade gown to her, this one of soft cream cashmere. Despite the servant's stern, foreboding expression, Jenny was absolutely determined to break through the barriers and befriend her serfs as well. Surely if she could gentle a wolf, it could not be nearly as difficult to befriend his servants.
Searching for something to say to the maid, she accepted the gown and then noticed the tub in the alcove. Seizing on that as a safe topic, she said, "That tub is large enough to hold four or five people. At home, we either bathe in the lake, or else make do with a little wooden tub that holds only enough water to cover you to the waist."
"This is England, my lady," Agnes replied as she picked up the gown Jenny had worn last night. Jenny shot a startled glance at her, uncertain whether her tone had been laced with superiority or not.
"Do all the big homes in England have such enormous tubs and real fireplaces and—" she lifted her arm and made a sweeping gesture that included the luxurious chamber with its velvet draperies and thick mats scattered across the floor, "and things like all this—?"
"No, my lady. But you're at Claymore, and Sir Albert—the master's steward and steward to the old lord, too—is under orders to keep Claymore like a castle fit for a king. The silver is polished every week, and no dust is allowed to get into the tapestries, nor on the floors, neither. And if something gets ruint', 'tis given away and replaced."
"It must require a great deal of work to keep it so perfect," Jenny observed.
"Aye, but then the new master has told Sir Albert what he's to do, and Sir Albert, hard, proud man though he is, will do what he's told—no matter how he feels inside about he what's tellin' him to do it."
That last startling remark was so laced with bitterness and resentment that Jenny couldn't believe she'd heard correctly. Her brows drew together as she twisted around fully to look at the maid. "Agnes, what do you mean?"
Agnes obviously realized she'd said too much, because the woman turned white and stiffe
"Agnes," Jenny said gently, "you needn't be afraid of me. I won't betray your confidences. What do you mean by 'what he did'?"
The poor woman was shaking so hard that when Royce opened the door and poked his head inside to remind Jennifer to join him downstairs for the midday meal, Agnes dropped the velvet gown. Snatching it up, she fled from the room. But as she pulled open the heavy oaken door, she glanced back at Royce, and this time Jennifer distinctly saw her cross herself again.
The cashmere gown forgotten in her hand, Jenny stared at the closing door, her forehead furrowed in a thoughtful frown.
The great hall showed few signs of last night's merrymaking; the trestle tables that had filled the room had been taken down and removed. In fact, the only remnants of the night's revelry were the dozen or so knights who were still asleep on benches along the walls, their snores rising and falling sonorously. Despite the air of bustling efficiency, Jenny noticed with sympathy that the serfs' movements were sluggish, and that more than one was unable to dodge a halfhearted kick from an irate knight on the bench who did not want his slumber disturbed.
Royce looked up as Jennifer came to the table and rose to his feet with that easy, catlike grace that she'd always admired. "Good morning," he said in a low, intimate voice, "I trust you slept well?"
"Very well," Jenny said in a voice that was an embarrassed little whisper, but her eyes were bright and sparkling as she sat down beside him.