Dropping the reins, he yanked her closer, and the other hand reached up to close tightly over her chin. The expression on his face was dark and determined, and for the first time, Maris had a sense of real trepidation and she reflexively stepped back, twisting her face away.
“Oh, nay,” he whispered, jerking her close, his fingers tightening on her arm. “Do you not step away from me, wife. ”
“I am not your—”
Her words were stifled as he crushed his mouth to hers. At her involuntary gasp, his hand went to the back of her head, his fingers curling roughly into her hair, dragging down on it to hold her steady. He held her immobile as his lips and tongue brutally invaded her mouth. The hand on her wrist loosened to move around her waist and pull her close to his hips while the fingers of his other hand pressed into the back of her skull.
Maris fought the nausea that rose in her throat at his angry onslaught. Her eyes closed and she pushed against him fiercely. She should have known better than to anger him thus.
At last he pulled away from her mouth, breathing heavily, and looked down at her with eyes glazed with desire. “Aye, you’ll be a fine wife,” he breathed frost into her face, “once you have learned that I am to be obeyed in all things. ” As she stood frozen, he reached up to fumble with the ties of her cloak.
“What—”
“I told you to remain silent. ” His hand shot up to pinch her chin, and he gave it a vicious twist. “I would learn what other treasures I win along with the lands of Langumont. ” Before she could protest, her cloak fell to the snow in a pool of blue. With horror, she realized what he was about. Surely he did not mean to disrobe her…here.
“Nay,” she cried, clutching her overtunic to her neck.
He grabbed her wrists, forcing them behind her back, and settled his hand into a vee beneath her chin, holding her by the throat. Maris felt the rough bark of a tree behind her, rasping over her hands, as he forced his mouth onto hers. As the kiss deepened, his hand slipped from her chin to cover one of her breasts. She jolted in shock, pulling her mouth away with a desperate twist.
“Release me,” she demanded, her voice unsteady with shock. To her horror, she felt the warm trickle of a tear down her cheek.
Victor ignored her command, pressing his hips into hers. She felt the rise of his desire, hard and threatening against her thigh and Maris struggled to keep her breath steady. Surely he wouldn’t…here. Surely. Those thoughts were the only things that kept her from going mad with desperation.
Victor smiled with cold satisfaction as he kneaded her breast through three layers of wool, pinching and fondling her thoroughly. “’Tis well that you are not used to this kind of touch, else there might be other things you will learn. ” He pressed an almost tender kiss to her bruised lips.
Maris twisted away. “Release me,” she said again, trying to slip free.
“You are soon to be my wife,” he said, his voice hard, his hands tightening over her breast and around her wrists. “And I am d
etermined that we shall suit well, my lady. In fact, I shall ensure that we will suit. ”
This last was said conversationally as his fingers found and teased the nipple that had stiffened with cold. He pinched it enough to bring a gasp from her throat. Bending his knee, he pressed his groin into her thigh as he forced her mouth open once again with his teeth. A low moan escaped from him as he ground his throbbing erection into the joint between her torso and thigh.
He pulled back and looked down at her. Still holding her wrists, he used his other hand to comb through her loosened braid. “Beautiful,” he breathed with satisfaction. “When we are at court, you shall cover this with naught but a net of jewels. ” With a sudden twist of the wrist, he grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked hard enough to bend her head back so that she looked into his face.
Victor met her wide eyes. “You angered me, my lady. You angered me with your sharp tongue, and your disregard for your person—tearing across the fields as you did. Take care not to anger me in the future, Maris, and we shall do well together. ”
With that, he turned and clomped away through the snow. Gathering up the reins of his mount, he swung himself into the saddle, and, without a backward glance, urged the horse into a loping canter back toward the keep.
Shaken and numb, Maris stiffly gathered up her cloak. As she draped it around her trembling shoulders, she tried to hold back the tears. The Lady of Langumont would not cry. Turning to look about, she saw Hickory and whistled for her mare.
A heavy weight settled over her as she climbed into the saddle, her trembling hands fumbling with the reins. He would be her betrothed two days hence. As her wedded husband, he owned her—owned her—and could do as he wished. He could beat her, rape her, even kill her if he chose. Maris had met and cared for a young woman just a little more than a year ago, Lady Joanna, who had been beaten nearly to her death by her husband.
With a fearful, shuddering sigh, she urged Hickory into a slow trot. Tears stung the corners of her eyes as she held onto the reins so tightly that her nails bit into the palm of her hand.
Never in her life had Maris been subjected to violent anger such as Victor’s. Her father had never raised a hand to either her or Allegra—though the rage in his voice threatened to bring the timbers of the roof down upon them at times. Her heart was slowing its crazy pace, and now Maris began to get over her fright and become angry.
Much of the anger was directed at herself, for though she might be impulsive and headstrong, Maris knew that she owned faults enough to make a man mad.
She was furious with herself partly because she’d chosen to enrage a man before knowing his temper and disposition…but she was mostly disappointed in herself for submitting to his actions without fighting back more violently. She’d been stunned at Victor’s anger and the humiliating form it had taken…and had not had the presence of mind to bite the hand that held her chin, or raise her knee into his pulsing groin.
The memory of that hard length pressing into her thigh caused bitterness to well up into her throat, and she gagged, swallowing it back. How could she allow him to touch her again? How ever would she submit to his husbandly demands?
Michael d’Arcy stifled a belch and wiped his hand over his mouth, his gaze scanning the hall. ’Twas empty of all but a few serfs preparing for the evening meal, and he took this moment to savor the knowledge that it would all soon be his…his and his son’s.
Merle had agreed to the betrothal contract only that morning, and would make the anticipated announcement at dinner that evening. They would sign the contract after a ceremony two days hence, and all would be his.
Taking another gulp of ale, Michael fought to keep a complacent smile from curving his face as he contemplated the power that Langumont would bring him. His own lands weren’t nearly enough to give him leverage with the king, but with Langumont, Edena and Damona behind him, even Henry must listen to him.