Chosen for the Marriage Bed by Anne O'Brien Page A

outline of his shoulders back-lit by the glow of fire. He filled her mind, her body, her whole vision. When, in her cold room at Bishop’s Pyon where her uncle had taken her to task, also in the fastness of Llanwardine when marriage to Richard Malinder had never been mooted, she had vowed that she would allow no man such power over her. She had been wrong. She had given herself over to this man’s demands in a haze of shattering need, with a complete lack of restraint. Even when he drove on to his own fulfilment, leaving her teased by delicious sensations that flooded her but yet remained tantalisingly out of reach. Slick with heat, her limbs pleasurably lax, Elizabeth turned her face against Richard’s throat in shock at this new self-awareness.
    ‘It is done, lady.’ Some time later, sense restored, heart beats evening, Richard lifted himself from her.
    And Elizabeth turned away. Was that all he could say? Would he leave her now? Would he not wish her to curl against this warmth and rest within his arms as was her inclination? Suddenly Elizabeth was horribly shy, yet forced herself to ask because she needed to know.
    ‘Was I…’ she swallowed ‘…what you hoped for?’ she finished in anagonised rush. Was I an unspeakable disaster compared with the in comparable Gwladys? She stared into the darkness, waiting.
    ‘Elizabeth Malinder.’ There was no condemnation here, only lazy humour in the use of her new name. ‘Have you so little courage? I did not think you a coward.’
    Was he laughing at her? ‘I am no coward! I did not dislike it!’ Elizabeth clutched the linen covers to her neck in sudden defence.
    ‘Thank God! An honest woman!’ Richard stretched out to push aside her hasty covering, and draw one long smooth caress from shoulder to wrist, finally capturing her hand and raising her palm to his mouth as he had once before. ‘It will improve, lady. Now come here.’
    He pulled her close again, holding firm when she would have struggled for her freedom. It was no contest. Elizabeth found herself pinned against that toned body she had so admired. And Richard felt all the tension drain from her, felt her smile against his chest.
    ‘What is it?’
    She hid her face. ‘It’s true. I did not dislike it.’
    ‘Faint praise!’ He laughed gently, her hair soft as matt velvet against his cheek. ‘I’ll try to do better. Later, lady.’ Perhaps not too much later. His loins stirred as she sighed in utmost sat is faction, and surprised him by turning her head to press her lips in the lightest of kisses all the way along his jaw.
    Warmth, a foolish little surge of triumph, sang through every inch of Elizabeth’s body, with an exhilarating sense of achievement that had nothing to do with her own finesse of which she acknowledged she had none—and all to do with his. More satisfying even than scrying. Jane Bringsty had never warned her of that. And she drifted into unconsciousness.
    Richard found himself far from sleep. His attention was thoroughly caught and his mind would not let his new knowledge go. Life had not been easy for her, as Lewis had intimated, and his hatred of John de Lacy deepened. Dispassionately, he considered his impressions of her. Yes, she was slender—thin, he supposed—but not unattractive. Her skin was firm yet soft. Not at first glance a figure to suggest that child bearing would be a simple matter for her, but she would bloom with the life he could give her. His thoughts snapped back to the present as she sighed in sleep, her hand splayed against his chest.
    So this was Elizabeth de Lacy. A complicated weave of inhibiting fears, fearsome honesty and driving emotions. He would wager his best stallion that her responses had not been influenced by duty or the careful teaching of her serving woman in the role of her mother. There was a fire here, or perhaps more apposite, a deep well of untapped passions. He could discover them. But then an uneasy premonition touched him as he rubbed