To Love Again - Bertrice Small [53]
Cailin was content with her life. She had an attractive husband who was kind and regularly made passionate love to her. It seemed to be enough, particularly as she quickly found herself with child. She realized that her parents had had a different sort of relationship than she had with Wulf Ironfist, but she did not understand what that relationship had been.
Cailin’s swelling belly pleased her husband. Here was proof of his virility for the Dobunni. Berikos was not pleased. Now he would never get rid of the Saxon. If Ceara and Maeve were determined that he and Cailin stay before this, they would be implacable now. Berikos sighed to himself. What difference would one damned Saxon make anyway? And there was always the chance Wulf would be killed in battle.
Cailin enjoyed the long, dark winter nights spent in Wulf’s arms. Once she divulged her condition to him, he was more careful of her, but no less vigorous a lover. He liked cuddling her spoon-fashion, his big roughened hands cupping her round, little breasts, which were swelling now with her condition. Her nipples, always sensitive, became even more so with each passing day.
“What a little wanton you have become,” he said to her one night as he sheathed his great weapon gently in her passage from behind so that his weight would not harm the child. He fondled her bosom, wickedly teasing the hard buds of her nipples. He then slipped his hands down, grasping her about the hips, drawing her firmly against his belly. He sunk his teeth into the flesh of her neck, nuzzled at the marks, and then placed a kiss on the flesh.
Cailin squirmed against him. “Are wives not allowed to be wanton, my husband? Ohhhhh,” she squealed softly as he probed her more deeply, and her hips began to rotate just slightly against him.
Wulf groaned. He had never known any woman to have the effect on him that Cailin did. She roused him quicker, and brought him on quicker. He wasn’t certain that he liked it, but he certainly did not dislike it. Unable to help himself, he began to pump her, her little staccato cries of pleasure only increasing his own.
Cailin thought dizzily that she should be used to him by now, but each time he took her, the excitement built and built until she could scarcely bear it, it was so achingly sweet. He seemed to grow and swell within her until finally they would both burst with pleasure, and yet the afterglow was delicious as well. Even now when the child moved within her she enjoyed his attentions. “Ahhhhhhh!” she sighed at last.
“Soon we must cease this,” he told her reluctantly.
“Why?” she asked him.
“I fear I might hurt the child,” he replied.
“Will you take another woman?” she asked, and he heard the edge of jealousy in her voice, which pleased him inordinately.
He was silent a long moment. “Would you mind if I did?” he asked, affecting a nonchalant air.
Now it was Cailin’s turn to be silent for a time. Would she mind? And if she did, why would she mind? “Yes,” she finally answered him. “I would mind it if you took another woman to your bed. But do not ask me why, because I do not understand it. I just would!”
“Then I will not,” he told her. “If I cannot keep my desires in check like a man, then I am no better than a green boy. Besides, I have seen the difficulties your grandfather has with more than one wife. I think I should just as soon avoid such difficulties, although I do not promise I will always feel so, lambkin.”
Cailin found herself smiling at his words. There would be no other wives if she could help it. One wife was more than enough for any man, even a magnificent, marvelous man like Wulf Ironfist. She would always be more than enough woman for him. Then a thought struck her. Why did it matter to her? Was it possible she cared for him? Was his thoughtfulness a sign he might care for her? Cailin slid into a contented slumber, her last waking memory that of her husband’s deep sleepy breath humming against her ear. It was a comfortable feeling.
Several days later, on a bright April morning, Wulf Ironfist put