Her body throbbing and sore, Hermione rests her head back against the cramped, metal tub William had brought back from his overseas Crusade among his luggage, letting the camomile, breweswort, mallow, and brown fennel steeping in the warm water that the servants bring up and replenish every few minutes soothe her pains.
She tries to forget.
She closes her eyes to find peace, and instead remembers the way her lover rose above her a second and then a third time, every muscle under his sun-kissed skin tensing and releasing as he thrust into her o'er and o'er, the rhythm a pulsing heady sensation she cannot help but wish to repeat. She recalls his panting breath in her ear, as if he'd run a distance to catch her...desperate to give her something as powerful and elusive and as wild as he...
"Hermione... You are mine in body, if not in name," he tells her in a breathless voice as he surges into her, harder and deeper.
His proclamation has her head spinning. This man is magic in the weaving of physical pleasure. Hermione is a heathen in her need; she revels in the incredible arousal stirring in her womb, at the pain in her hips, at the stretch and the way her blood pounds as he takes her e'er closer to that sacred, joyful moment where all the world falls away and she becomes magic, too.
William's now-familiar tensing has her knees rising off the bed, her body recognising that something godly and amazing is about to happen once more. And then he shouts and tosses his head back upon his mighty shoulders and he stills. He throbs where they are joined, and she feels the release of his warm seed as his massive body shudders to completion.
Three times makes a thing so, she's always been told. This third time is surely the moment of conception. She should be overjoyed at the thought of her impending motherhood. Instead, all she feels is incredible sadness and guilt.
As if sensing her regret, William leans down and kisses her gently, almost affectionately as her tremors ease.
How could such beauty cause her such despair?
Her Lord is not the man she believed him to be. His words soothed, assuredly, but with the purpose to disarm. His touch enflamed, yes, but with the intent to ensnare. Deceit and lies poured from his honeyed lips and caressed her skin to arouse her wicked lust—and thus, so easily did he achieve his goal...
"I have bred you this night," he whispers as sweetly as the Devil in her ear, "and I will keep you."
Shocked and indignant, the protest rises easily to her lips. "My Lord, I am a married woman. You cannot–"
His grip on her jaw silences her. Gone is the tender lover; William's gaze is a soldier's as he looks into the heart of her and pronounces his will. "Know you this, Hermione: I will be the only man to know you. You are mine, and I am Lord here. You will obey."
He pulls away from her, seeking his discarded clothing from the night before and quickly redressing.
Hermione struggles to sit up, every muscle and bone aching. She covers her nudity with the bed's blanket. "'Tis a sin, this adultery we have committed," she reminds him. "Ancient tradition may have allowed for one eve given to my Lord's claim, but it cannot be repeated!"
Through narrowed lids, he gazes upon her, and with cold mouth, he levels upon her head her doom. "Did you know, mate, that your betrothal accords bear my written mark, but not my waxed signet? So eager was he to bring you news of acquiring a match with my family that your father o'er looked the detail. 'Tis a minor technicality, true, but an important one, for without my crest to bear my witness and consent to the marriage upon the legal documentation, the paper is useless."
"B-but you officiated the ceremony!" she protests.
"I also do not recall hearing a reading of your marriage banns prior to the ceremony."
"There were no banns," she reminds him. "The course was one taken under your advisement, my Lord, as Ronald and I were not to be wed in church, but by ancient rites, under the sky. 'Twas you who—"
She stops as hateful enlightenment rips the veil of naivety from her eyes.
"—you who advised us all."
"Did I?" he asks, slipping into his shirt and tying up his chauces, as casual as the morn' lark sings its greeting of the new day. "I cannot recall. Though 'twas lucky for me, for your desire for a pagan ritual sanctioned the claim for jus primae noctis. I could not have had you else."
Hermione feels an outrage she has ne'er felt before.
Tricked! O' evil, sly adversary! She, the innocent lamb, has been duped by the cunning wolf! She has been swindled by a master of the craft, a soldier of God who has fallen from grace to become a henchman of Satan!
"Deceiver!" she hisses at him.
He throws over his broad shoulders his tunic, then bends and laces his boots, ignoring her aspersion. "Know that before I arrived at your door yesternight, I was made aware by my man that our priest dispatched a missive to the Bishop of Exeter in protest of your pagan marriage ceremony. In such matters as inheritance within families of the realm, it is well known the church shall investigate all claims of legitimacy, and should they demand to be sent documents regarding the matter, I shall be forced to turn over the unsealed betrothal agreement. Once the Bishop sees no wax or ink-stained signet... Well, my heart's blood, I am afeared it is inevitable that your marriage will be declared false and invalidated." He turns to face her and his wicked smirk declares his dark triumph louder than any horn. "But you are despoiled and bred now, love. Who else will have you once your vows are severed, if not me?"
With that, he gathers up his belt and surcoat and leaves her chambers, heading for his own.
Hermione curls up like a wee girl in her bed and cries, realising she has not only been tricked, but has fallen under the protection and charms of King Satan, himself.
Another pitcher of hot water is poured into her bath, nearly filling the tub to overflowing, and Hermione shoos the servants away. They go, giggling as their eyes fall upon the rumpled bed and the blanket with the stain of her maidenhead clear upon its centre.
She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly as she lowers her hand from her throat...from covering over the wound William's bite has left upon her.
"The mark of our mating. Proof that you are one of mine, Hermione. My first consort, like an Ottoman harem."
If the servants see it, they will think a rabid dog has savaged her.
Savage…yes, it was wild, their love-making. All the eve and unto dawn they came together, untamed and shameless in their lust. He mounted her from above, filling her body with his need, and she had responded in kind, enthusiastic in her sinning.
"What have I done?" she laments, unbidden tears falling from her lashes.
Soft fingers stroke over the wound upon her throat, and a tingling magic crackles down her spine and into the heart of her once more. Hermione's body tenses, her fingers curl into the sides of the tub, and she bites her bottom lip to hold back the moan that threatens to escape her mouth.
"Beautiful," William whispers, tracing her shoulder with a languid caress. "You are a magnificent creature, my love, even in your misery."
She wants to move away, to distance her skin from his, but it seems nigh impossible a task. His hold on her is complete after last eve, even knowing what a false tongue and a wicked soul he has. He has woven an unholy magic around and through her bones, melting her desire for combat, turning her will to all manner of jellies. At the merest brush of his hand, she is enslaved to his lust once more, her body slickening with vile need.
He kneels at her side and possessively runs his fingers through the curls of her hair, massaging her scalp and she falls into his touch once more.
"You ache?"
"Y-yes, m'lord."
His calloused hands are strangely tender as they ease her discomforted muscles.
"I have need of you again," he admits.
She closes her eyes, wraps her arms about her thin frame and shakes her head, trying valiantly to fight his power. "Droit du seigneur is for one night. I do not have to— You said—"
"I said you were mine," he gently, but resolutely reminds her.
Hermione shivers into the side of the tub, pulling as far from William as possible. "I am still married! The Bishop may reject your plan. Last night's sin cannot be repeated!"
"'Twas no sin," he growls and makes his feet.
With great strength, he lifts her from the water and carries her to the bed, unconcerned for the deluge of water he trails behind them or her protests. He lays her face down upon the mattress and spreads her legs. His fingers find the evidence of her lingering heat and stoke it into an inferno, even as he loosens the tie upon his braies.
"We are mated. There can be no sin between us. This, you must learn."
Humiliated by the response of her traitorous body and heart, and terrified by what may come from her continued denials—for William holds the power of life and death over her family—Hermione has no choice but to submit to her lord's use again. He pulls at her hips and enters her sacred body, filling her with his thick flesh. A second forceful thrust and he is in to the hilt of his sword, as deep as a man can be within a woman. He makes her thighs quake as he holds her still with a firm grasp on her hips, impaled and awaiting his pleasure.
"You are mine, witch. Mine e'ermore! I will make you understand this!"
Pressing her tear-streaked cheek into the sheets, Hermione rides out the lovely storm once more, her mind and heart at war with her body the entire time.
TO BE CONTINUED...
Author's Notes:
Ah, you begin to see a darker side to Bill here, as well as Hermione's decent into wantonness, as promised. Just wait...it gets darker, my lovelies!
As always, please review, if you would be so kind! :)