The High Sheriff of Huntingdon by Anne Stuart Page A

hurting h er . Her breath came in shaken little pants, yet she arched off the bed to meet the slow, steady t h ru s t of his hips. H e r arms w e r e tight around his sweat-slippery back, clinging to him, and the little choking sounds she was making were o ne s of d e s ire as well a s pain.
    He said what he never t h o u g h t he’ d say. “I don’t want to hurt you.” The words were torn from him in an ag onized gasp as he tried to control the p o we r f u l urges of his body. His muscles were clenched in iron will, his forehead was beaded with sweat, and he d i d n’ t know how much longer he could stand the torment.
    “It’s all right,” she said in a whisper. “I’m your wife. Your destiny. Take me.” And she arched up against him, s e eking him.
    He lost control. For the first time in his l i f e, a w o ma n overpowered him. He thrust against her, breaking through the frail barrier of her maidenhead, s i n king d e e p into the glorious tightness of her. She cried out then, a s m a l l , soft sound, and he kissed her, his mouth coveri n g her face, drinking her tears, tasting her soft mouth.
    And then he noticed she was still clinging to him. Instead of turning cold, she was holding him tightly, and if her desire had faded with the pain, it hadn’t vanished entirely.
    He was at her mercy, yet there was one way he could still salvage his p r i d e. He reached between their bodies and touched he r, hearing her choked gasp with male satisfaction.
    He began to move then, thrusting slowly deep inside her, determined not to lose all control until she’d grown used to it. He half-expected a protest, but she was beyond speech, melting in his arms, meeting him in the eternal advance and retreat o f desire.
    And then he could no longer protect her. Red-hot pas sion ripped away the last of his epic self-control, and he surged into her, again and again. He barely heard her choked gasp, the tiny scream of fulfillment he’d managed to wring from her. And then he followed, thrusting into her tightly welcoming body, giving her his essence, his s ou l , his love.
    Giving her his son.
     
    Elspeth l ay on her back in the soft bed, Alistair spread-eagled over her. His long black hair was entwined with her silver-blonde strands. His arms and legs were wrapped around h er s . His body still rested within hers.
    The soft breeze dried the tears on her face. She hadn’t even realized she’d cried. Her breathing was taking for ever to return to normal, and her heart was still racing, shuddering inside her.
    Was it a w i t c h ’s curse? Or was it an act of God? It didn’t matter. She lay in her husband’s arms, and was content.
    It couldn’t be true. Surely she wasn’t content to lie beneath a dangerous madman. S h e was deliriously, wildly happy, alive for the first time in her life. It made no difference if he was everything they said he was. She must be fully as mad as he was purported to be. She loved him.
    Destiny, he’d c a l l e d it. A prophecy. She was too pragmatic to believe in such things. Too pragmatic to believe in falling in love with a dangerous man who happened to be her husband.
    But practicality didn’t alter things. She loved him. And she would let nothing short of death tear her from his arms. U n t i l he grew ti r e d of her.
    He would, of course. Helva and Gilles had been more t h a n happy to tell her stories about his legendary a pp e t it e for women and debauchery. An untutored nun would soon lose all appeal to a man of his sophisticated t a s t e s , and while she’d been willing to do anything he wanted, she doubted he’d have t h e inclination to t e a c h her more. For all she k n e w , this last hour might be all she’d ever have of him.
    The memory, a n d something else. The old woman had told him there’d be a son from this night’s work. Elspeth had no doubt about that whatsoever. Whether it made sense o r not, she knew. She carried his seed, his child, within her.
    She heard a