Page 40 of Hers To Command
She could get with child.
For a moment, she felt that same dread that she had lived with for days after Roald had fled, waiting and fearing and hoping for her menses. She would not, could not, go through that again. But to embrace? To kiss?
Why not?
She gently pulled her hands away, then put them on his upper arms and leaned toward him. His hands slid around her waist. Her breathing quickened, but not with fear or panic.
“I want to kiss you, Mathilde,” he whispered, his breath warm on her cheek. “May I?”
Her answer was a sigh. “Yes.”
Although need and desire raged through Henry like tinder bursting into flame, he held himself back as he brought his lips to hers. He must not hurry this; he must let Mathilde lead the way. She must be the one to decide how much and how far, lest he kindle fear and panic instead of yearning.
But oh, it was not easy when she relaxed into him and moved her lips over his. It wasn’t a simple thing to ignore the growing urgency within his own body.
Never, ever, in his life, had he craved a woman as he did Mathilde, and not to simply satisfy the needs of his body. He wanted to love her as she should be loved, with tenderness and compassion as well as desire. To give his body to her, not take hers with rough and selfish lust.
She drew back and her voice held hurt when she softly said, “I thought you wanted to kiss me.”
He nearly groaned out loud. “I did. I do—very much, but I don’t want you to fear that I’ll go too far. I want you to feel safe with me.”
He held his breath as she cupped his face in her hands. “I have never felt safer, or more happy,” she murmured, brushing her mouth across his—and nearly driving him mad with desire.
Thrilled, delighted, relieved and eager, he gathered her into his arms and revealed more of his need, kissing her deeply, letting some of his pent-up passion free, although he was still tender and cautious. When she parted her lips yet more in response, he dared yet more, gently thrusting his tongue into the moist warmth, until he touched her teeth.
Still she did not pull away. He insinuated his hands beneath her cloak and gathered her into his arms, warm and welcome. He could feel her hips against his, arousing his manhood, so he focused on their kiss. The softness of her lips. The taste of ale lingering there. Her body molding itself to his.
She arched her back and instinctively, his hands moved lower, toward her buttocks.
His mind commanded him to take care. To be careful, lest he inadvertently alarm her.
His body would not listen and he shifted, bringing more of her into contact with him. Even through the layers of clothing between them, his flesh responded as if they were naked.
She broke the kiss and put her hands on his chest as if to hold him back. “Stop. I can’t—” Her voice caught as if her very heart were broken.
Then she burst into tears, great rasping sobs, her shoulders shaking.
“Oh, God, Mathilde!” he cried softly, feeling helpless, even cruel, although he had meant to be anything but. He shouldn’t have touched her. He should have been stronger, waited longer. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—!”
“It’s not your fault. I am not angry or afraid. I’m sorry. I wish…if only I…”
The realization that she was trying not to cry, to be brave once more, nearly shattered him. He didn’t know what to do or what to say. He felt completely, utterly powerless. He yearned to put his arms around her and hold her close, to offer her some comfort, yet that might only upset her more.
But he couldn’t simply stand here and do nothing, listening to her anguished weeping, so he very gently, very slowly, eased his arms around her. If she’d made the slightest move in protest, he would have stopped at once, but she didn’t. Nor did she shy away when he stroked her back. She leaned her cheek against his chest and continued to cry, the sound a torment to hear.
How long she wept, he couldn’t say, but he would have stayed there all night rather than leave her alone and in such pain.
Finally, she wiped her face with her hand and drew in a shuddering breath. She pulled away and he let her go.
“Forgive me,” she said, wiping another tear as it slipped down her cheek. “I have not cried like that since…”
He expected her to say since Roald had attacked her.
“Since I found out I was not with child,” she confessed. “I was so relieved, I burst into tears and fell to my knees and thanked God over and over again.”
He had no words, could think of none, except curses to heap on Roald de Sayres’s head. If God was just, that man would burn in hell for all eternity.
“I suppose it was like a wounded man being told he would live and not die,” she said. She looked up at him then, shy and so very vulnerable. “Or like that girl when you came to her aid. She was very lucky to have such a champion and so are we.”
