Julie Garwood - [3 Book Box Set] (24 page)

“You will do nothing,” Geoffrey commanded. He came to his feet in one bound and grabbed her by her shoulders. “I will have your word. Leave this business to me.” He was yelling again, infuriated for the second time in the space of one morning’s time. It was more than any man should tolerate, he decided. She would know her place in this matter.

“I will not give it.” Her defiance was like a piece of dry wood thrown on top of his sparks of fury, and an explosion was the only possible outcome.

“You will,” he bellowed, “and you will not see food or water until you realize that fact.” The way she stood, facing him with her defiance, her small hands balled
into tight fists and resting on her hips, both amazed and incensed him. The top of her head barely reached his shoulders, yet she thought she could glare him into her way of thinking.

He pulled her roughly into his arms and all but threw her on top of her mare.

Elizabeth struggled to right herself, and when she was done, she stared straight ahead. “Then you will soon be a widower, my lord,” she yelled. Her voice trembled with conviction. “I will starve to death before I give a promise I cannot keep.
My
word is my honor.”

“You have the audacity to imply that mine is not?” Geoffrey demanded in another roar that made her mare prance with fright.

He will soon go hoarse if he continues to scream and yell at me, she thought, and then decided that that was not so very terrible at all. It would do him good to lose his voice as penance, and give her ringing ears some quiet.

“I would challenge a man for such foolish words.”

“Then challenge me,” Elizabeth snapped.

“Enough! Do not speak to me,” he said. “And do not raise your voice to me
ever
again!”

Do not do this, do not do that . . . always he orders, and I am truly sick of it. He has no understanding, no sympathy for my feelings. No, she thought with despair, he cannot see my torment, else he would not demand that I wait.

Geoffrey slapped the back of her horse and then followed behind her. Elizabeth never looked back during the ride to the manor. There must be something I can do, she thought, trying to think of a plan. Something . . . someone I can turn to . . .

E
VERYONE TRIED TO INTERFERE.
E
VEN THE SERVANTS,
Geoffrey thought with exasperation. He should have been angry over their disregard for his orders, but found that he was not.

Two grim weeks had passed, and Geoffrey was ready to call a truce—yes, he admitted without shame, even to concede defeat. He would welcome it just to glimpse one small smile from his wife.

His every thought concerned her, he realized as he walked into the great hall. There were several servants busy cleaning the area, and two of his loyal knights sat, drinking from cups at the table. He walked over and sat in the chair he had used when he assumed the role of judge, placed next to the hearth, and waited. He was conditioned to what was happening around him, and sat there without expression until one and all had fled
the room on missions they just then remembered. Aye, even my knights desert me, Geoffrey thought. But he was smiling; he knew the reason for their vanishing act. They feared him. It was true, and it did not displease him overly. It was a fact that he had been known to blow his temper on occasion . . . but what man, pushed to his limit of endurance, would not? he asked himself.

It did not matter, he told himself. He was used to being alone. It was his way . . . as a child raised among the battle-hardened warriors and now as his own ruler—save William as his overlord, of course.

Yet he was not alone, not even now, in the emptiness of the silent hall. She was always with him. She haunts me, Geoffrey muttered with disgust.

He could not understand it, this hold she locked him within. As a small boy he had learned to harden himself against the need for food or water; as a squire he had braved the frigid winter nights, all for short periods but long enough to learn the discipline of body. But how to discipline himself against Elizabeth? he found himself asking. What form of exercise could he call upon to accomplish that?

He braced his hand against his brow and closed his eyes. He was weary of the fighting with his wife, though they had barely exchanged a word since their argument in the forest. Except at night, when their bodies came together, only then did they speak. He remembered that first night after their argument with both arrogant pride and a little shame. He had not forced her, knew that he could never force her, yet he was not gentle with her either.

The sight of her had inflamed him when he had finally sought his bed. He had indulged in perhaps one too many cups of ale, but his head was still clear. She had thought him drunk, and he did not tell her otherwise.

She was standing in the center of the room, but once
she read the intent in his eyes, she began to slowly back up, until she could not take another step. “You stalk me like a panther,” she had whispered, “and I do not like it.”

“So now I am compared to a panther, when only this morning I was your lion,” Geoffrey had drawled as he began to strip his clothes from his body. “You have a fixation for animals, wife,” he said. His gaze never left her mouth, for, God’s truth, he was fascinated by the pouting lips, remembered the magic of their touch.

Elizabeth wet her lower lip with the tip of her tongue. She was nervous, clutching her robe together like a shield against his raking gaze.

“I do not want you to touch me,” she said, trying to sound forceful and knowing she failed miserably. Every pore in her body was beginning to tingle with anticipation of his touch, but there was no way that he could know, was there? “I do not—”

“I do not care what you want,” Geoffrey muttered. He stood just inches from her, completely nude, his hands resting on his hips. “Take your clothes off, wife, or I will tear them from your body.
I
want you.”

Elizabeth thought about refusing him, but from the intent look in his eyes, she knew it would be futile. She was his wife, she reminded herself as she began to remove the robe. It was her duty. Duty, yes, she thought, but there will be little pleasure in the deed, she promised him.

She let the robe fall to the floor and matched his stance, her hands on her hips, her head tilted back defiantly. “You are an arrogant, unreasonable brute, but you are my husband and I will not deny you. Be warned, Geoffrey, you will get little pleasure from the marriage act this night, for I absolutely refuse to respond to your touch. Is that understood?” she asked. Her breasts were heaving from her nervous speech and his grim expression.

He surprised her by throwing his head back and laughing until tears filled his eyes. He was surely drunk, she thought with disgust. How could she teach him a lesson if he was too drunk to care? “I believe you are right, wife. There will be little pleasure, indeed. When I touch you, ‘little’ is the last word I would use to define both of our reactions.” He did not give her time to react to his words, but hauled her up against him, felt her gasp at the intimate contact, and laughed again. “So you will not respond to me this eve?” he asked with a challenge in his voice.

“I will not,” Elizabeth whispered in a shaky voice as her husband trailed wet kisses down the side of her neck. She found she had to clutch his arms, thick with sinewy strength, to stay on her feet. His tongue, stroking against the sensitive area at the base of her neck, was already forcing moans from her throat. She was able to continue to stand quite rigid in his embrace, until his hands slid down her back and began to massage her bottom. When she began to melt like butter against him, he pulled her roughly up against his hard desire, kneading her softness against his body.

“You will beg me to take you,” he whispered, jerking her head up for his kiss. His mouth silenced her protests, his tongue invading and seeking hers.

Elizabeth instinctively began to suck and pull on his tongue, and was pleased when she heard him groan.

He lifted her high in his arms and carried her to the bed, where he forced her on her stomach, coming down on top of her. She thought she would suffocate before he lifted himself and began to kiss her, all the way down her back. By the time he reached the base of her spine, Elizabeth was clutching the covers with both of her hands and moaning her need. Geoffrey slipped one hand between her legs and began to stroke the fire building inside Elizabeth.

“Tell me you want me,” he demanded. His fingers
were relentless and Elizabeth would have told him anything to stop the sweet torment he caused.

“Yes, Geoffrey,” she gasped when his fingers invaded her warmth, “I want you.” She groaned. She tried to roll over, to take him into her arms and body, but Geoffrey stayed her actions. He knelt between her legs and lifted her hips.

“Say it again,” he demanded, his voice harsh.

“I want you,” Elizabeth cried. “Please, Geoffrey,” she begged, beyond caring that she was indeed begging him.

Geoffrey growled his satisfaction and entered her swiftly, filling her completely. Elizabeth began to sob with pleasure, her eyes closed in building rapture. She was reaching the peak when Geoffrey stopped, turned her, and pulled her up into his arms. He kissed her deeply, hungrily before falling to the bed with her in his arms. He stretched out on his back and pulled her on top of him. Elizabeth clung to his mouth, moaning against him when he once again entered her. She leaned back, moving slowly at first and then increasing her speed until the explosion of mind and senses caused her to sob his name. He answered her call, arching against her with a force that penetrated her soul. He held her securely against him with his hands on her hips while the tremors of release enveloped both of them. Their gazes found and locked with each other’s, and there was no victory in Geoffrey’s expression, no submission in Elizabeth’s; no, there was only shared wonder by both.

Elizabeth slowly closed her eyes and collapsed against his chest, rose and fell with his labored breathing, and tried to gather her wits. It was a difficult task she set for herself. Everything continued to be heightened. Her senses were still finely tuned, yet flooded with stimuli. The musky scent of their lovemaking permeated her body, making it difficult to do more than sigh with acceptance. Even the candle, casting a golden
glow on their glistening bodies, seemed an erotic happening.

Please, Geoffrey, do not gloat or laugh at me, she silently begged. She realized she was stroking the hairs on his chest and stopped. “Each time is like the first,” she whispered against his skin, and then wished she had kept her thoughts to herself. His breathing had slowed and there was the possibility that he would soon fall asleep. Perhaps he would not remind her of his challenge and his obvious victory.

“No, love, each time is always better,” he said in a husky voice. His hand began to leisurely stroke and caress her thigh. “Look at me, Elizabeth,” he commanded, “I would know if I hurt you.”

Elizabeth propped her head up on her hands and gazed into his eyes. She fought the urge to lean forward and kiss him once again. “You did not hurt me,” she said in a soft voice.

His hands smoothed her hair away from her face before cupping the sides of her cheeks with such excruciating tenderness that tears filled Elizabeth’s eyes. He leaned forward and placed a warm, gentle kiss on her parted lips. “What we have . . . this thing between us, it would be blasphemy to use it as a weapon to hurt the other. Never will you try to hold back what is mine,” he said. His voice held no anger, only a sweet caress as he continued, “And never will I hold back what belongs to you.”

“But, Geoffrey,” Elizabeth whispered in return, “how can—”

“The battle between us stops at the bedroom door, wife.”

“And resumes in the light of each new day?” she asked, unable to keep the sadness out of her voice.

“If you wish it,” Geoffrey acknowledged.

Elizabeth did not have an answer for him. She closed her eyes and leaned her cheek against his chest. His words confused her. Perhaps, she thought with a yawn,
perhaps in the light of day she would be able to sort it all out.

Geoffrey had been so sure that the following morning, after he had demanded that neither hold back from the other in the privacy of their bedroom, that his docile wife would give him the apology he had demanded. Docile! Ha, Geoffrey snorted aloud, that was certainly not the word to describe his new wife. Why she had had the temerity to ignore his request for an apology. He shook his head as he remembered how she had boldly walked over to the window and pointed to the sun. Oh, how she angered him! And at first that anger kept him unaffected. He locked Elizabeth in their room and commanded that she was to receive neither food nor water . . . nor visitors. And everyone seemed inclined to let him have his way, he thought, smiling to himself, most probably reasoning that the spat between husband and wife would be settled by nightfall.

But it was not, of course, and the interference began the next day, subtle at first, and then more obvious to the most ignorant of men. Geoffrey would go to the bedroom and find the door unlocked. Food would mysteriously appear in their room on trays no one remembered carrying. But his wife did not take a bite or a sip. By the third day, it was Geoffrey himself trying to entice her. And by the end of the fourth day, he commanded it. “I will not have you dead at my feet,” he remembered telling her. And when she had raised one eyebrow in question, he had muttered something about becoming fond of her grandfather and her little brother and not wishing to distress either of them.

It was then that he devised another plan to pull her back in line, and had actually thought it would work. And with other women, it might have, he told himself. But not Elizabeth. She was like no other! The bolts of fine material went unnoticed and the seamstress had to ask him to command her into being fitted for new
gowns. He, of course, had done it, more furious with himself than with her. Know your opponent! How often had that statement been drummed into his head. The problem here, Geoffrey admitted, was that he did not know Elizabeth’s mind as well as he might; and in truth, he did not want her to be his opponent.