Defiant Angel (33 page)

A sense of discomfort brought Tiffany slowly awake. She felt clammy, chilled, and crampy in the region of her belly. She stirred, feeling a moistness between her legs. Sitting up, she tossed aside the quilt that someone had covered her with. Slowly she became aware of the source of her discomfort--her monthly flux.

She padded slowly to the privacy chamber, quickly cleansing herself, and donning her black velvet robe for warmth, lying the belt about her small waist, she stood near the blazing fire, holding out her hands against its warmth, trying to stop the shudders that coursed through her. She felt a cramp grip at her belly and instinctively wrapped her arms about her waist, bending forward as the contraction took hold.

At that moment, Clinton walked into the room and, seeing her thus, moved quickly to her side, drawing her about. A look of fear crossed his face. "Are you not well, Tiffany?" He saw the paleness of her face and felt her cold hands.

When the cramp passed, she moved toward the warmth of his body, shivering as she stood within the circle of his arms.

Clinton held her against him, feeling her tremors. Concern was in his voice. "What plagues, you, Tiffany? Something you ate?"

"I . . . I am indisposed." She stammered with embarrassment, keeping her head lowered from his prying eyes.

"That is evident, Princess," he retorted, angry that something should cause her pain. Placing a warm hand against her brow, he stated, "You have no fever."

"Just let me be, Clinton," she snapped, and tried to pull from him.

"Let you be! What kind of man do you take me for?" he replied, a bit too harshly.

Wanting nothing more than to be left alone with her pain and discomfort, and certainly not wishing to discuss this most intimate of intimacies with him, she pulled away and snapped, "A ruthless one!" Tiffany turned to face the fire.

Clinton ran his hand through his hair, a disgruntled look etched across his face. He said, "Not that again! Cease with this argument that wearies me and gets us nowhere."

"Go away," she moaned as another cramp seized her and she bent forward again.

"Oh, I shall go away and return with the doctor." He headed toward the door with long, purposeful strides, only to be stopped by her plea.

"No, I tell you 'tis not necessary."

Opening the door, he turned and stated, "And I tell you it is."

"Please," she implored. She looked at him, stains of scarlet appearing becomingly on her cheeks. Closing her eyes tightly against his questing look, she whispered, "Please."

He smiled as realization swept over him, just as her words pierced the silence. "Must you know every intimacy? Can you not let it suffice, I am not truly ill?"

Closing the door behind him and walking toward her, he grinned, relieved. "Forgive me, Princess; as your husband, I should have realized your womanly inconveniences. After all, we are so intimate." He reached for her, but she stepped away, glaring at him, but refusing to be drawn, having neither the will or means at the moment to refute him. Clinton added two more logs to the fire, creating a blaze that licked high against the back of the hearth and quickly filled the room with warmth. Clinton turned and scooped her up, causing her to squeal. Placing her in a chair near the blazing hearth, he grabbed a quilt, covering her and tucking her bare toes beneath it.

"I shall return in a moment. I'll have our supper brought up." He left, leaving her snug as a bug in the chamber which grew warm with the blazing fire.

Tiffany sniffed the liquid in the glass, wrinkling her nose.

"Drink it, Princess. It will warm you and sooth your cramps." Tiffany looked up at him, a question in her eyes.

" 'Tis only brandy, Princess. Trust me it will do the trick." Although it was stated quite cordially, she did not miss the note of command that etched his voice. Knowing he would persist if she protested, she complied, sipping the amber liquid. Clinton moved to change his clothes. As she finished the draft and laid her glass down, she stared into the flames. She felt the brandy course through her veins, warming her, and thought it was indeed quite effective since she felt a lessening in her belly.

Clinton watched her as he tied his robe and walked over to refill her glass and pour a draft for himself. He joined her at the fire, sitting in the chair across from her. A soft knock interrupted the companionable silence and Clinton called, "Enter."

A servant brought in their dinner, serving them from the covered dishes. "We will not require your services for the rest of the evening," Clinton informed the butler, who quietly left the couple alone.

Tiffany's appetite, which at the best of times was finicky, now was almost nonexistent. She merely tasted the poached salmon and pushed the broiled trout about her plate. Instead she choose to drink the heavy wine provided with dinner.

Clinton ate as usual, enjoying the cuisine, but noted Tiffany's untouched plate. "The meal does not please you?" he asked over the rim of his glass.

"Nay ... uh ... I have little appetite, my lord," she stammered.

With understanding, he replied, "I see." Refilling her wineglass, he continued nonchalantly, "Is that normal during this time of the month?"

A blush accompanied her nod. So great was her embar-i.issment, she was unable to speak and wished fervently he would change the subject. Lifting the goblet, she finished her wine. "Do you become weepy and teary as well?" he asked as he handed her a cup of tea, liberally I.iced with rum.

"I ... I guess so," she almost shouted, and than ran on, "Why all these questions? Can you not leave something to me? Must you pry even about this!" She spoke the last with anger.

Clinton smiled, understanding her mercurial moods of today were partially due to her flux. "Princess, I only wish to understand."

"Understand what?" She sipped her tea, frowning at the unusual, but pleasant taste.

"Why, your behavior today. Certainly out of character with past weeks, 'tis all."

Feeling a bit fuzzy, she put her empty cup down, which Clinton immediately refilled. "Sir, it has nothing to do with this ... I mean that," she spat, coloring brightly.

Clinton watched her drink the tea, seeing a pink tinge color her previously pale cheeks.

Tiffany was feeling the effects of the alcohol she had consumed and was warm all over. Her discomfort became a thing of the past and she became lightheaded and relaxed. "I'll ask again, Princess." He waved his hand before her face.

Tiffany focused on him, confusion clearly etched on her face. "I'm sorry, what did you ask?"

Clinton smiled, thinking the brandy, wine, and rum were doing their job quite nicely. ' 'I asked if your condition has nothing to do with your behavior. Pray tell, what brought it on?"

"Why,
you, of
course," she answered as if it were obvious.

"Moi?"
he asked with mock innocence. The alcohol had loosened her tongue and Tiffany ran on, sipping her tea between outbursts.

"It's always you . . . wanting more than I would give . . . demanding it in your highhanded manner . . . making me do and feel things I don't wish . . . It's
you!"
Tiffany raised her cup, nearling spilling its contents, and downed the remaining portion, thrusting it toward Clinton. Smiling, she asked sweetly, "Would you mind?"

Returning her smile, he replied, "Don't you think you've had enough?"

Steadying her head and focusing her eyes upon him, she replied, "Of you, most certainly ... of the tea, hardly."

Clinton rose out of his chair and lifted her, heading toward the bed, saying, "Of me, you'll never have enough ... Of the tea, you've had your fill."

Tiffany wrapped her arms around his neck, balancing herself against the spinning room. She spoke out against his highhandedness. "And just what are you doing?"

"Putting us to bed."

Pushing against him, uselessly, she protested, "No! You cannot mean to lie with me."

"And where do you think I shall lie?"

"Anywhere but with me . . . It is not right. Not when. . ." She could not bring herself to finish and turned her face in to his shoulder. When he laid her down on the bed and saw her struggle to rise, he stated, "I intend to lie with you, my body wrapped about yours, warming you to your precious toes."

"Nay!" she protested. "I will not lie naked next to you."

Clinton walked to his dresser, pulling a shirt from the drawer. "You shall wear this tonight and every night of your condition, but, lady, know this--I intend to sleep with my body entwined about yours." Tiffany shook her head adamantly. "Whether you wear my shirt or not," he added with a note of finality.

"You beast!"

"I told you your womanly inconveniences would not interfere with our pleasures." He smiled at the wide blue eyes which reflected her disbelief. "Relax, Princess, not tonight ... but perhaps another night."

"Never!"

He laughed and promised, "I am sure after a night or

two of abstinence, your body will crave my touch." He smiled knowingly and added, "I trust I shall survive the drought, but will you?"

Snatching the shirt from his hand, she jumped off the bed, weaving her way to the privacy chamber, hearing his laughter echo as she slammed the door.

Clinton woke slowly, his body responding to the feel of warm, silky skin pressed intimately against him. He instinctively reached out, pulling Tiffany closer with the intention of slowly arousing her. His hand moved slowly over her breast, feeling its weight. His thumb moved over the nipple, which rose proudly. Tiffany snuggled against the warmth, rubbing her derriere against the source of heat--Clinton's groin. She turned, still asleep, in his arms, so she faced him, her head resting in the crook of his shoulder. She sighed, nestling against him.

Clinton became aware of his surroundings as he awakened. He stilled his roving hand, remembering her condition. "You randy goat," he whispered to himself as he lay there, trying to push down his body's urge to toss her on her back and relieve the burning ache in his groin which now rose hard and proud. He smiled thinking in time her inconvenience would not be an obstacle to their pleasure, but for the moment--well, hell, he wouldn't think about it. Tiffany moved, her arm coming to rest intimately against his groin, her fingers inches from his rising manhood. He took a sharp breath. Her leg casually moved so it lay between his. Clinton suppressed the urge to run his hand along the smooth skin of her thigh, up over her rounded buttocks. He groaned, fighting the desires of his flesh by occupying his mind with computations of figures. Failing miserably and believing discretion being the better part of valor, he slowly unwrapped her clinging form, and rose.

He stood on the stone floor, welcoming the cooling effect it had on his body. The fire in the hearth had burned down to only embers, but he welcomed its lack of warmth, for his body was a raging inferno. Taking a deep breath, he saw his breath in the chilled air as he slowly exhaled. Finally, when he was in control, he donned his robe, walking to the table, where he poured a liberal draft of brandy.

He sat down in the chair before the hearth, laying his head back, closing his eyes, concentrating on the brandy coursing through his veins, soothing his taut body. He remained as such, a slight smile lifting the corners of his mouth, wondering if he would indeed survive the drought which could last from five to seven days.

Shaking his head, he thought he could never get enough of her. Since they'd been married, he had her every night, every morning, and still he craved her. He smiled broadly thinking he'd probably die wrapped about her body. Soon he'd have to show her how her condition would in no way prevent them from their pleasures.

Suddenly his thoughts turned to a more serious course. He began to note the date and quickly compute the days in his head. He groaned when the realization hit him--if he continued making love to her as he had, there was no doubt a child would quickly result. While he would love a child of their making, to see Tiffany swell with his heir, he selfishly wanted more time alone with her. Sipping his brandy, he reasoned honestly, while his motives were selfish and self-serving, she, more so than he, needed time; time to adjust and accustom herself to him, time to grow, time to learn and know herself and her feelings. Nodding his head in agreement with his thoughts, he would decide what was best for her in this instance, and when the time was right, he would give her a child, but now was not the time for her to conceive.

With this conviction made, he planned the best course to take. Sighing deeply, he knew what it would cost them. Seven to ten days of abstinence to avoid the inevitable. He groaned, but then smiled broadly, thinking the abstinence might well serve another purpose as well--if he was right, and he seldom was not--Tiffany, his proud and very passionate wife, would no doubt revel in her newfound fortune. He smiled wickedly as his thoughts continued. But he had no doubt her passion, of which he had just scratched the surface, would feel the effects of the abstinence. He might just prolong it a day or two more till she had an itch only he could scratch. Yes, he leered, she would come to him in her need, and that is exactly what he wanted, for where her body led, her heart would follow.