against her skin, yet she felt it as a weight that threatened to crush her. She could not draw a breath that she did not will into her lungs.
Her very heart was pressed and flattened by the weight of his presence in their shared bed. Why could he not find accommodations elsewhere? Why share a bed with her when there was naught he could do to fulfill their marriage contract?
Why? Because he was a man and he wanted to stay, tormenting her.
"Breathe, Elsbeth," he said, his mouth hovering over her ear. "Breathe. I will not hurt you. Nor will I leave you, no matter how still and quiet you keep yourself."
"Stay, then. I have said naught to encourage you to go."
"Nay, you have done all that a wife should do. None could fault you. But if you would only open your eyes?"
She would not. "Did you not say that it was the hour for sleep?" she said.
"I believe the word I used was rest," he said, trailing his hand over her breasts. Her nipples rose up in alarm, throbbing their outrage. "Let us each find our rest in our own ways, little wife. I have found mine." He leaned toward her again and said against her brow, "I could fondle you for an age and not weary of the task. Lie quiet and still for me, if it is your pleasure; I will not complain, not when I am so happily entertained."
She could not help it: One eye opened a slit, just enough to admit light and the vague outline of him in the shadowy chamber. "Am I your entertainment, my lord? Is that my function in your life?"
"Let us say instead that you are to be my pleasure," he said.
Aye, she could believe it. What man did not want a woman to share his bed and his body? What man would not want a woman to appease his lusts, satisfying his every base desire?
What woman would not welcome Hugh of Jerusalem into her bed, welcoming his lusts, base or lofty?
Here, in this bed, she was the woman. She did not want him, nor did she want him to want her.
"Will you not say it?" he said, cupping her breast with a single hand. His other hand supported his head, the muscle of his arm bulging in the dim light.
She really ought to close her eyes again, but she could not seem to turn from him. Both eyes were opened now, mere slits, but open. It was most difficult to tumble into darkness when such a golden presence was so near.
"Say what?"
"Say that you are my pleasure, fashioned by God's own hand for me. For by my troth, Elsbeth, you are everyman's dream of a woman."
"I am not."
"I will not argue it, but I will defend. You are my dream of woman. The Lord must have read every dream of my boyish heart to have fashioned you so perfectly."
"I am not perfect."
"You are for me," he said, rubbing his hand over her nipple.
The sensation was intense, painfully erotic, an inducement to continue, to seek more at his hands, to hear more sweet words from his lips. Yet she could do none of those. Her path was set, and it was only folly to continue on this course. How to stop him? He was her husband. He had the right to lay his hands on her. And what he would speak was his own affair. She could not stop him. She had not the right even to try. All that was left to her was to quietly resist. To let his words and his touch wash over her, a light wash of rain against her skin. She could not let him linger long enough to penetrate her heart. And she must never, ever respond.
"You are kind to say so. We both know I am far from perfect," she said, closing her eyes with difficulty.
He laughed and pulled her into an embrace. The scent of him was of woodsmoke and wine, his skin as hot as embers. She could feel his manhood pressing against the soft mound of her belly, and her joints softened in response.
Response? She must not respond.
"I am not kind," he said. "A night in this bed will prove it, little wife. I mean to torment, you see. A night of perfect torment we will share."
She pulled back and looked up at his face. His jaw and throat rose above her, large and covered in a light brown stubble that caught
Her very heart was pressed and flattened by the weight of his presence in their shared bed. Why could he not find accommodations elsewhere? Why share a bed with her when there was naught he could do to fulfill their marriage contract?
Why? Because he was a man and he wanted to stay, tormenting her.
"Breathe, Elsbeth," he said, his mouth hovering over her ear. "Breathe. I will not hurt you. Nor will I leave you, no matter how still and quiet you keep yourself."
"Stay, then. I have said naught to encourage you to go."
"Nay, you have done all that a wife should do. None could fault you. But if you would only open your eyes?"
She would not. "Did you not say that it was the hour for sleep?" she said.
"I believe the word I used was rest," he said, trailing his hand over her breasts. Her nipples rose up in alarm, throbbing their outrage. "Let us each find our rest in our own ways, little wife. I have found mine." He leaned toward her again and said against her brow, "I could fondle you for an age and not weary of the task. Lie quiet and still for me, if it is your pleasure; I will not complain, not when I am so happily entertained."
She could not help it: One eye opened a slit, just enough to admit light and the vague outline of him in the shadowy chamber. "Am I your entertainment, my lord? Is that my function in your life?"
"Let us say instead that you are to be my pleasure," he said.
Aye, she could believe it. What man did not want a woman to share his bed and his body? What man would not want a woman to appease his lusts, satisfying his every base desire?
What woman would not welcome Hugh of Jerusalem into her bed, welcoming his lusts, base or lofty?
Here, in this bed, she was the woman. She did not want him, nor did she want him to want her.
"Will you not say it?" he said, cupping her breast with a single hand. His other hand supported his head, the muscle of his arm bulging in the dim light.
She really ought to close her eyes again, but she could not seem to turn from him. Both eyes were opened now, mere slits, but open. It was most difficult to tumble into darkness when such a golden presence was so near.
"Say what?"
"Say that you are my pleasure, fashioned by God's own hand for me. For by my troth, Elsbeth, you are everyman's dream of a woman."
"I am not."
"I will not argue it, but I will defend. You are my dream of woman. The Lord must have read every dream of my boyish heart to have fashioned you so perfectly."
"I am not perfect."
"You are for me," he said, rubbing his hand over her nipple.
The sensation was intense, painfully erotic, an inducement to continue, to seek more at his hands, to hear more sweet words from his lips. Yet she could do none of those. Her path was set, and it was only folly to continue on this course. How to stop him? He was her husband. He had the right to lay his hands on her. And what he would speak was his own affair. She could not stop him. She had not the right even to try. All that was left to her was to quietly resist. To let his words and his touch wash over her, a light wash of rain against her skin. She could not let him linger long enough to penetrate her heart. And she must never, ever respond.
"You are kind to say so. We both know I am far from perfect," she said, closing her eyes with difficulty.
He laughed and pulled her into an embrace. The scent of him was of woodsmoke and wine, his skin as hot as embers. She could feel his manhood pressing against the soft mound of her belly, and her joints softened in response.
Response? She must not respond.
"I am not kind," he said. "A night in this bed will prove it, little wife. I mean to torment, you see. A night of perfect torment we will share."
She pulled back and looked up at his face. His jaw and throat rose above her, large and covered in a light brown stubble that caught
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