Fire Song

Quickly he raised the delicate barrier of her night rail up and over her head. Her hands came back to him immediately, and he leaned his own head back as he slid along her body feeling her cool flesh next to his. Roland lifted her for a moment, feeling the surprisingly small but womanly form against the length of his own heated skin before he laid her back against the pillows.

She sighed as his hands again found her breasts, which were so full and aching from his touch. Unable to stop herself, she whispered insistently, “Please, oh please, help me. I do not know what to do.”

Roland knew he need wait no more. He murmured softly, “I do.”

Gently he reached to again part her thighs. She offered no resistance, only sobbing with an urgency of her own. He took a long deep breath as he positioned himself over her, meaning to go slowly, to take her with tender care. But as the tip of his manhood prodded against the moist honeyed sweetness of her, she rose to meet him and he was once again buried deeply in that golden warmth.

He ground his teeth together, lying stiffly above her, his arms supporting his weight as he fought for control. For Roland again found himself drowning in the sensations she awakened in him with her own unbridled reactions. Never had he suspected the depth of pleasure he would find in this woman.

When she began to writhe beneath him, her soft hands reaching out to grasp his hips, Roland released the rein on the passion burning in his belly.

Meredyth felt the sensations build inside her to a fine point of unfathomable sweetness. It seemed as if all of her consciousness was centered on that one area at the joining of their bodies. Her head fell back and her breath came between dry lips as she found the rhythm that made that pleasure so intense. And then, just when it seemed there could be no more—there was. The pleasure burst inside her, closing over her, encompassing everything that was Meredyth. In that moment she was whole, mind, body and soul, all the parts of her brought together in white-hot perfection.

As the pulsing eased, Meredyth sighed. She had been so worried and tense and was now completely limp from utter fulfillment. Her eyes slipped closed.

Slowly Meredyth roused from a deep sleep, opening her lids almost reluctantly when the light probed them.

Instantly her gaze grew wide with shock. From scant inches above her a pair of startlingly cobalt-blue eyes, surrounded by a thick fringe of black lashes, regarded her speculatively. Those orbs seemed to see right into her, to hold her captive in their unfathmonable depths.

St. Sebastian. Her husband.

For a moment she was held immobile as she finally saw him for the first time—saw him with wondrous amazement. He was much more handsome than anything she had imagined from Celeste’s description. She had in fact given little more thought to his appearance in the midst of the events of yestereve. Meredyth had been too caught up in the passion she had known in his arms to think about such things. Now, with growing dismay, she let her gaze trace a perfectly formed lean jaw, high sculpted cheekbones and sensuous lower lip. He was surely too handsome for any mortal man, too much the fantasy of every young maid who dreamed of fairy tales and legends coming true.

Meredyth felt an unreasonable thrill course through her blood at the intensity of his blue gaze. Her eyes went back to those lips as a brilliant flash of them pulling hungrily on her right nipple filled her mind.

A gasp escaped her as a whole flood of memories raced though her and with them a hot flush that traveled from her head to her toes. The things they had done!

He continued to watch her with speculation and some other unnamable expression that made heat spread over her anew. His deep voice startled her as he said, “And who might you be?”

Meredyth started to sit up, her own bare breasts coming into direct contact with the hard wall of his chest. She jerked backward as a bolt of heat pierced her belly, and she raised her hands to shield her bosom. Desperately she said, gasping, “Please, allow me to rise.”

St. Sebastian reached out and briefly lifted a red curl from the back of one of the hands covering her breast and she shivered with awareness at the glazing touch. She was grateful that he seemed completely oblivious to her reaction when he shook his head deliberately.

As he replied there was a cool ruthless quality to his tone that made her think she would not wish to fall on the hard side of this man. “Not until you explain who you are and what you are doing in my marriage bed.” His gaze raked her from the top of her tousled head to the tip of her slight form that lay beneath the bedcover. “You are not the lovely Celeste Chalmers.”

She stiffened, stung by the harsh comment, though she knew it was foolish, having been unfavorably compared to her sister her whole life. But she was not about to let him see that he had wounded her. She raised her chin. “I am Meredyth Chalmers. Her sister.”

His hand slid beneath her protectively crossed arms and closed over her breast deftly. Meredyth’s heart thudded as it swelled beneath the weight of his hand in spite of the anxiety she felt at facing him—at having to tell him the truth. He leaned closer, his breath brushing her mouth. “Is it the custom of the Chalmerses then to send the sister of the bride to the bridal bed? Very interesting, if so.”

Meredyth gasped and pushed at him with all her might. To her surprise he gave way immediately. She did not wait to question this but slipped from beneath him, dragging the cover with her as she moved to stand at the foot of the enormous bed.

Desperately she clutched the blanket against her bosom, realizing that she had to think clearly, to somehow find the words to explain what had happened. It was actually quite understandable that the man would be angry, searching for an explanation.

Meredyth glanced toward him where he waited, now sitting with his back against the carved headboard, his wide, bronze chest bare. He raised a hand to rake it through his ink-black hair and the muscle in his forearm flexed and hardened. She was assaulted by images of how his strong arms had lifted her against him, as if her weight were nothing to his strength.

Heat suffused her and she had to look away. She took a deep breath. You must think clearly, she told herself.

“Well,” he prompted “I am sorely in need of an explanation here. Enlighten me, Meredyth Chalmers, as to why you are here and my bride is not.”

She forced herself to face him. Would he ever now believe that she had meant only to wait and tell him the truth. Judging by his expression it seemed doubtful. “I am not here in your bride’s place. Well, not in the way you have imagined.” Her pleading gaze met his as she hoped for his understanding. Surely after what had passed between them he might…well she could hope. “You see, I am your bride. It was I who married you, not my sister.”

His shock was nearly comic, his blue eyes rounding to the point of amazement. But Meredyth did not laugh as he said, “What is this nonsense you spout? King John himself ordered the marriage to Celeste Chalmers. It is well-known that your father is a stalwart supporter of John. Why would he disobey him?”

She stiffened, stung from her concerns of the moment by his obvious implied criticism of her parent. “My father has not disobeyed the king, as he should not. John was rightfully named heir by King Richard himself.” She had heard her father say that the rumors of John’s disloyalty to his brother were false, and felt the very fact of King Richard’s naming him as heir was proof of that.

When he folded his arms and stared at her with condescendingly raised brows, she decided to let that matter rest. “I must make you understand what has happened.” She turned away from the condemnation she saw in that blue gaze. “I married you in Celeste’s stead. I meant to tell you last night, but you came late and I had fallen asleep and we…”

“God’s blood,” he shouted as realization clearly dawned, tossing the remaining cover back and leaping from the bed. Meredyth’s mouth dropped open and she swung away, but not before she had a thoroughly thought-provoking view of the very same weapon that had so pleasured her during the night.

Roland St. Sebastian appeared not to notice her interest as he bent to gather his clothing from the floor. As he drew on his garments he spoke with cold disdain. “I shall see justice done. I will not be duped by your father into taking less than was promised to me by the king himself.”

Meredyth felt the words slash into her like a dull blade. To continue to compare her so brutally to the woman he had thought to have, after the things he had done and said to her in this very bed, seemed churlish.

But she would not let him see her pain. Dragging the edges of her shattered emotions about her like a shield, she faced him. Meredyth was not going to take his insults in silence. Rage rose to cover her hurt. “How dare you! You…you knave.” One hand went to her slender hip, the other continuing to hold the coverlet over her nakedness as he swung around to face her, seeming little moved by her outrage if his implacable expression was anything to go by. Yet she went on. “My father knew nothing of this. My sister and I acted alone.”

One moment he was standing next to the fireplace, his arms folded across his wide chest, the next he was bending over her, having crossed the room too quickly, too gracefully for such a big man. Her palms grew damp as she glared up into his angry face, which was still distractingly handsome despite his fury. Annoyed with herself for thinking such a thing, Meredyth also realized that the top of her head did not reach his shoulder. If she stared up at him this way for long she would soon have more than a slight discomfort in her neck. But she did not look away—would not.

Meredyth did her utmost to hide any reaction as he spoke, his blue eyes hard. “Do you expect me to believe that?”

She answered defiantly. “I do, because it is truth and nothing less.”

His face remained hard, and she could tell that he did not expect her to say anything that would convince him, even as he asked, “Tell me then, Meredyth Chalmers, why you and your sister have done this.”

Meredyth frowned, caught off guard by the question, though she knew she should not have been. “I…that is something I cannot tell you.” She could not betray Celeste by telling her secrets. It would gain her nothing to do so now and might cause Celeste great harm.

His tone was calm, too calm, as he replied. “And with those words as explanation you expect me to believe that you and your sister have, for some reasons of your own, decided to defy King John. And without your father’s knowledge. Oh, of a surety, then all is most well, and I should be content.”

Clamping her jaw in reaction to his sarcasm, Meredyth replied with forced aplomb. “Your contentment, or lack of such, is not my concern, my lord.”

Chapter Three (#ulink_a8386fa6-868f-58b3-b5bb-c55113d3634b)

Roland felt the muscles in his jaw flex with nearpainful intensity as he worked to control his anger. How dare the defiant minx speak so to him after what she had done? And did she actually expect him to believe her extremely suspect assurances that her father had not known?

If the outraged honor in her jade-green eyes was any indication, that was exactly what she did expect.

His gaze raked her from the top of her tousled red head to the soles of her incredibly small bare feet. How could he have been foolish enough to believe her to be Celeste Chalmers? She was tiny and delicate where her sister was taller and lithe. His gaze was caught momentarily as he took in the tangle of scarlet curls that tumbled about her. When she turned her back to him and began to pace the oaken floor in agitation, still clutching the bedcover to her bosom, he saw that the flame cascade reached to her knees in back.

He was suddenly struck by an image of that hair draped across his chest as she kissed him with all the fervor of an experienced woman. But he reminded himself that she had not been. There was no mistaking the fact that he and he alone had breached the barrier of her womanhood. Even as he looked at her, the evidence of this stained the edge of the covering she used to shield herself from him.

Why? Why, if her father had not been trying to outwit him in some way, had they done this thing? He would soon be past caring how much rage showed in his voice, if he did not receive an explanation. “If you did not do this at your father’s urging, why have you done it…Meredyth?” Her name felt somewhat strange to his lips, though he had to admit, however reluctantly, that he liked the soft hard sound of it.

He brushed the thought aside. The woman’s name was of no consequence, nor were the memories of how she had returned his passion with an enthusiasm that had surprised and pleased him. Traces of an extremely unpleasant supposition were forming in his mind. Could it be perhaps that Hugh Penacre had thought to somehow cheat him of the heavy dower that had come with his eldest daughter?

Roland was determined that this was not going to happen. He glared at the woman before him through narrowed eyes as he tried not to see that she was quite beautiful, with her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright with animosity. Certainly, he admitted, not in the way of her sister, but in a way all her own. She reminded him of an angry ginger kitten, all eyes and flashing claws.

She tapped one tiny bare foot as she said, “I cannot tell you the answer to that question. Suffice it to say that the secret is not mine to reveal. You must simply trust that I am telling you the truth.”

He threw up his hands in disbelief at her continued pose of outraged dignity. “Again you ask me to believe you, woman. You who have married me under false pretenses.”