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He glanced up again. “I want that too,” he admitted tersely. “But not enough to pull out and fetch a knife. You can touch me afterward.”

“Oh. Really?” She looked so happy at this small concession that he almost lost his rhythm. He loosed one hip and reached down to pull the silk tight across her generous breasts, then leaned down to capture one nipple between his lips and suck it into his mouth. Aimee jerked and let out a suppressed moan.

The noises bursting from her lips told him he was on the right track. He gave the other breast the same treatment before lifting his head. “You going to reach it for me, Aimee?” Possibly that term meant nothing to her, for she did not answer, only gave another gasp. “Your peak?” he persisted, lowering his voice to a growl.

“I can tell you’re climbing now, wife, and once you reach the top, I want you to fling yourself right off, you hear me?” She gave a whimper. “And I want to hear it, you understand? I want you to let me know you’ve gone over the edge.”

Truth was, he was drawing pretty close to the summit himself. He shut his eyes fast against the enticing picture she made beneath him. The bounce of her full breasts may have disappeared from view, but he could still feel the jiggle of her soft flesh jostling back against him. The slide of the shredded silk, the tight, wet clasp of her wrapped around him, getting tighter and tighter still. He drew a sharp breath. It was too good. At this rate, he was going to power right past her.

He reached down between them, parting her petals and seeking out that fleshy pearl hiding between them. Aimee gave a muffled shriek. “There?” he demanded. “Like that?”

She arched right up into him and exploded. He just about held things together until she finally stopped writhing and lay panting beneath him. He would just wait a minute, he vowed, tensing his jaw, remaining where he was, planted deep. Then he would drive back into her in a steady pursuit of his own pleasure.

“Ohhh, Lord Kentigern,” she moaned breathily against his ear, and just like that, he tipped right over the edge with a lusty curse word.

16

When Aimee woke the next morn, Lord Kentigern was gone and so was all trace of her shredded gown. She checked under the bed and behind the bed curtains, but there was no sign of it. With dawning embarrassment, Aimee hoped that Golda had not come across it and taken it for the rag bag or even worse, for mending. It was quite beyond repair, she was sure, but the thought of anyone else laying hands on it was mortifying, especially when she thought about the places the garment had – well – been.

When her maid brought her hot water half an hour later, no mention was made of the ill-treated garment, and Aimee decided against enquiring after it. Instead, she washed thoroughly and dressed in a sage green gown. She arranged her dark hair with great care, adding a small veil with pretty edging to cover the pinned braids.

In her mind was the idea that if she took the time over her appearance now, then she could appear below looking a picture of decorum and dignity in direct contrast with how she had behaved the previous day. Her cheeks flamed hot when she thought of how she had conducted herself, and she clapped her hands to them, gazing unseeingly into her looking glass. For a moment, when her husband had flung back the bedchamber door revealing the remains of that wretched gown, she had thought she would die of mortification on the spot.

She let her hands drop from her face and frowned. Certainly, Lord Kentigern had not reacted to her act of passionate vandalism at all how she had expected. She relived the moment now in her mind’s eye and marveled at the strange culmination to her day. She had been publicly disgraced, been shown great royal favor, had committed an act of blatant destruction, and been ravished by her own husband all in the space of one day! In the aftermath of their spent passion, he had even given her an explanation of sorts.

No sooner had he freed her from the shredded gown, then he had rolled onto his back and drawn her down on top of him. Aimee had needed no prompting to run her hands over his magnificent chest, and he had lain passive while she had run her palms all over the mighty muscles in his upper arms and shoulders.

“I should probably explain about the tourney crown,” he had said at last in a voice that cracked slightly.

Aimee made no reply, just waited. She was too sated and exhausted to make any gesture of resistance by this point, so she remained slumped over his chest as he gave his justification.

“I always give it where it will cause the most strife,” he had admitted bluntly.

She had lifted her head at that. “What do you mean?” she had croaked.

He had looked irritated at having to spell it out, perhaps even guilty. “Such as awarding it to my competitor’s spouse.”

She regarded him doubtfully. “You mean … like a poisoned chalice?”

“I’m not the only one that does it,” he had said defensively. When she had made no reply, he had asked “What?” in a testy manner.

“Oh, ’tis nothing,” she had managed. “It’s just … Well, I thought that it meant something else. When a knight awarded it to a lady, I mean.” When he didn’t speak, she had quickly added awkwardly, “I daresay you know much more about it than I.”

He had made no rejoinder to this, though he had lifted a large and hesitant hand to press her head back into his chest. Not long after that, Aimee had fallen fast asleep. She told herself it did not matter how long he had tarried before leaving her bed.

Before, when she still foolishly thought herself in love with her husband, she would have cared about such things. Not now though. Now, she took an entirely practical approach to her marriage.

She drifted downstairs and found Magnatrude and Freda both stood before the fireplace in some low-voiced conversation. They turned and greeted her hastily. “Were you waiting for me?” she murmured, taking her seat at the table. “I apologize. I was dallying this morning.”

For some reason, her words seemed to freeze the words on their tongues. They both gazed at her in seeming dismay. Aimee leaned forward to help herself to a piece of bread and could not help but wince in discomfort. Her muscles were stiff this morning, particularly her thigh muscles which burned. Her husband’s lovemaking had been extremely vigorous, and in truth, she was not sure you could call it love-making at all. She wished her own reaction to it had not been so … enthusiastic.

“Oh dear,” said Freda with a muffled sob. “Was he very brutal?”

Aimee nearly dropped her cup of ale.

“Freda!” Magnatrude upbraided her. “It is not our place to –”

“Oh, really, Trude?” Freda rounded on her. “It was not I who jumped out of my seat and begged dear Konrad not to beat his own wife!”