Her head was buried in her arms. She was embarrassed, but not so embarrassed that she wanted him to stop.
“Come into me, Severin. Now. Please.”
It took no more than that, just those few simple words and he was above her, pushing into her, feeling her pull him deeper, feeling her delight in him and what he was doing. It was too much. He did try. He thought he’d die. He only yelled once, surely not such a loud yell, but it was a yell, and his lady mother jerked upright on her narrow cot and said, “By the Devil’s cloven foot, are we under attack? Where is my husband? Where are my sons?”
Severin was throbbing deep inside her, his seed still spilling into her. He tried desperately to get a hold on himself, but he could barely breathe, much less talk.
Hastings said, her voice surprisingly even, “My lady, we are not
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under attack. It was simply your son, held for a brief moment in a dream. He will be all right shortly. He usually is.”
“Ah, that is a relief.” Lady Moraine fell back again, and in but a moment she was breathing low and even in sleep.
Severin pushed into her again, he couldn’t help himself. He stayed within her, looking at himself joined into her. He leaned over to fondle her breasts, to knead her belly.
He had given her no pleasure. But he would. He was regaining his manly vigor. He pushed again, slowly, and was pleased that he was hard again. He withdrew, pulled her onto her back, and came over her again. He lay flat on top of her, his hands cupping her face, gently smoothing her hair from her forehead and eyes.
“I wish I could see you clearly. Do you want to hollow out my guts again with your fist? Do you believe me selfish? Do you believe Alice would find me unworthy?”
“Nay,” she said, and brought his mouth down to hers. She felt his hngers smoothing over her belly, felt those fingers of his become damp with her as they stroked her. When she would have cried out in her pleasure, no thought of her mother-in-law twelve feet away from her, Severin covered her month with his and took her cries deep into him.
“You have a beautiful bottom, Hastings,” he said on the edge of
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sleep. ‘ I will fix Langthorne on the outside if you will fix it on the inside.” “Aye, I will do that,” she said, bit his shoulder, kissed the salty flesh
she had bitten, and curled tightly against him. She said against his chest,
“Haven’t I brought you to heel very well, my lord?”
But Severin was asleep, at least she thought he was, at first. But was
not that snore a bit too loud? Perhaps a bit contrived? Was his hand
squeezing her buttock a bit hard?
He was a man she could get very used to having close by, she thought,
and settled even closer. Her palm was splayed wide on his belly.
The following morning when Severin awoke, Hastings was gone. He saw that his mother still slept. It worried him until he lightly touched his fingertips to her throat. The beat was strong.
When he entered the great hall, his chair was seated at the trestle table, there was white linen covering the wood, and a pewter plate set in front of the chair. The hall was filled with men. There were at least four women serving dozens of loaves of bread, the smell rich and yeasty. There was butter and flagons of ale. There was even cold capon for him. He had told her to fix the inside of Langthorne. Evidently she had. But this quickly? Was she a witch? Where was she?
He ate, Gwent and Thurston on each side of him. Sir Roger sat beside Thurston, his look determined. Severin said nothing. He saw Glenda serving the men. She did not look happy but she was moving quickly, her movements graceful and efficient.