“Aye,” he said in her ear, his voice hoarse and tight. Will jerked against her again, then again, faster and harder . . . but his hand had settled between them. Covering her. Not penetrating.
Protecting her?
She looked up at him, at the tense, averted face, the perspiration that gathered at his temples and near his closed eyes. His brows knit together in an angry furrow and he gave one last thrust and sagged forward over her with a low, heartfelt groan that tugged deep at her belly.
His fingers loosened over her wrists and she pulled them away, aware that they were both out of breath.
“Will,” she began in a rough, bewildered voice.
“Stop it.” His voice sounded like a whip cracking. “I’ll not listen to your sobs.” He rolled away, tossing the blanket back over to cover her.
Marian gathered it over her hips and breasts and watched as he snatched up his boots and one of the empty buckets. “Do you not attempt to hide away in here tonight,” he said, half-turning back toward her. “You will be seen at dinner.”
From the distance, she saw that his eyes remained dark and flat. They swept over her briefly, but did not linger. And then he pivoted and slammed the door’s bolt from its moorings, leaving the chamber before she could speak again.
Marian heard the outer door close behind him, and she was alone on a bed damp from her own body . . . but not from Will, or his seed.
She lay there for a moment, bringing her trembling body under control, scarcely able to comprehend what had just occurred. Yet, she did-she realized what Will had done.
Or, more accurately . . . what he had not done.
One thing was certain: John had most definitely not been holding court this midday.
Will passed Marian’s sniffling maid, who’d loyally waited in the hall despite his orders to leave. She cowered back as he stalked by, but did not flee.
“See to your mistress,” he snarled, still carrying the bucket, folding his boots under his arm.
He made it down three steps of the shadowy side stairwell before he lost control and had to stop. Leaning against the wall, he emptied his stomach violently into the bucket, heaving until his belly ached.
Swiping the back of a hand over his mouth, he looked up to find Alys of Wentworth standing at the top of the stairs.
“Are you ill?” she asked, her blue eyes wide.
“ ’ Tis no concern of yours,” he snapped, standing upright with effort. Without a backward glance, he turned and made his way down the stairs, his fingers still trembling.
CHAPTER 7
J ohn the Angevin, Lord of Ireland, Earl of Gloucester, Count of Mortain, and current regent of England, was displeased.
He sat at the high table next to one of his most trusted cohorts, one who shared his ambition and confidences, as well as participated in his most private and vulgar of activities. A man so clever and determined John might have feared him if he hadn’t known that he was as determined as John to rid the country of its rapacious king. Richard’s foolish war had left England, lush, green, beautiful England, stripped to bare and bone. John could not abide by his brother’s vainglorious ways, his ignorance of the land he had the blessing to rule while he traipsed about far away in the Holy Lands.
He cast a sly, corner-of-the-eye glance at William de Wendeval. His performance this afternoon, though brief and-from the prince’s perspective-not nearly violent enough, had awakened John’s desire for the luscious Lady Marian.
Nay, “awakened” was too mild a word. “Emblazoned” was more appropriate. Emblazoned upon his heart-and his cock-the need to have her.
The sight of that glorious hair alone, strands of mingling gold and bronze and copper, streaming down the sides of the tub as her maid gathered it into a huge bundle to wash and rinse it, had sent frissons of lust through his body. He imagined it twining around him, thick, shiny, and heavy. But when Marian had been yanked from her bath, breasts jouncing and smooth hips shining with the cascade of water, that long glossy hair had plastered itself to her from shoulder to thigh like a well-fitting glove and set his cock to throbbing.
And Nottingham, knowing that his liege watched, had paused for a moment, holding her in clear view, so that John could admire the display of her long legs and creamy skin. From that moment, John knew he’d not be satisfied until he had Marian thusly garbed in his own chamber, at his own hands, beneath his own body.
He licked his lips, sliding his glance out over the occupants of the hall . . . then back to the dark, silent man sitting next to him.
Therein lay the problem, and the root of his displeasure.
The man had claimed the woman for himself, and John had foolishly agreed to allow him to have her. For a time.
