“They are afraid,” Gilliane replied with the quiet of despair.
“Afraid of what?” Adam roared. “I will teach them to be afraid if I come again from a week in the field and find no welcome. Is there no one to unarm me? By Christ’s holy bones, am I to go hungry and thirsty?”
“Which do you desire first, my lord, to be unarmed or fed?” Gilliane asked, wondering if he would beat her to death when she came near enough to be struck.
“Oh, get this damned armor off me,” Adam said, still irritably but in a normal voice. “I have not been out of it for a week and I am galled to death by my own sweat.”
No matter how indifferent the spirit feels toward a bitter fate, the body shrinks instinctively from hurt. Gilliane had been approaching Adam with somewhat lagging steps, and when he spoke of food and drink, an unbidden hope rose in her. If she was sent to procure refreshment, she might yet escape injury. The demand to be unarmed killed that hope, and as it died Gilliane did not understand what else was said, although she heard. Hope gone, Gilliane now only desired to get her agony over with. She came forward more quickly and Adam swung around to face her. As he did, the bright wet smear of fresh blood caught her eye.
“My lord,” she gasped, “you bleed.”
All Adam’s rage came flooding back. “It is a miracle I am not dead and half the castlefolk with me,” he snapped, his face crimsoning. “If ever I saw a more idiotic woman than you, I cannot remember when. Do you not know enough not to run at a destrier’s head?”
Neither words nor tone made the slightest impression on Gilliane. She forgot rejection and pain. Everything was swallowed up in fear for Adam.
“Let me see,” she cried.
Appeased by Gilliane’s reaction, Adam said, “It is nothing. A prick. I cannot think why it is bleeding so much.”
She had undone the strap of his helmet and dropped it to the floor. Adam winced. “Have a care,” he began, but Gilliane pulled out the lacings and opened the ventail of the hood .
“Sit,” she ordered, hooking a stool forward with her foot.
Adam did as he was told. As his rage dissipated, his energy went with it and he felt tired, ordinary fatigue being increased by loss of blood. Gilliane pulled the hauberk over his head and dropped it unceremoniously on the floor.
“Gilliane!” Adam protested.
“Did I hurt you?” she cried.
“No, but first you drop my helmet, and now my hauberk. For a man like me, mail shirts do not come cheap. Besides, it was my father’s and…” But she was not listening. She was unfastening his tunic. He caught her frantic hands. “Gilliane,” he laughed, “are you going to undress me here? It is cold, and…and it is not polite to be naked in the hall.”
She struggled to get her hands free, repeating, “Let me see your hurt. Let me see!”
It was plain enough that Gilliane’s love was magnifying the importance of his injury, and Adam was filled with tenderness at the idea that her fondness could wipe out all her experience and turn her silly. He transferred both her hands to one of his, pulled her down close to him, laughed at her foolish fears and kissed her. Gilliane froze into immobility. The laughter, coupled with the kiss, pierced her like a knife. The strength of Adam’s hands and of his grip upon her told its own tale. He was hurt, yes, but not seriously. Sick with shame, Gilliane wrenched her mouth free.
“Let me go,” she begged.
Adam thought he understood. It was quite true that this was not the time or place. “Very well,” he conceded, “but only if you will be more sensible. If you are going to be so silly, I might as well be silly, too. I would much rather kiss you than have you use me for a sewing sampler, even if it is a foolish thing to do right now.”
He had been so angry, but now the voice was again the voice of Gilliane’s dreams, a deep, warm rumble, soft with amusement and affection. For the first time since he had returned, Gilliane dared look into Adam’s eyes. The expression in them confused her utterly, for there was no contempt or indifference. Surely the glow in them was lit by desire. Yet when she had run to greet him, he had thrown her aside and laughed at her. Why? The men! Gilliane shuddered and pulled away, and Adam let her go. She covered her face for a moment, swallowed, and raised her head.
“You were not expected, my lord,” she said. “There is no chamber warmed and ready for you. Will you come above to my room where there is a fire? Can you walk so far?”
Adam chuckled. “If you will let me lean on you, I will make shift to crawl up the stairs.”
He was delighted. To him the invitation into the women’s quarters was significant. It did not occur to Adam that the de Cercys had not accorded their womenfolk the courtesy of privacy. In his mother’s home, no man except Ian came abovestairs, except for a special reason. Thus, to Adam’s way of thinking, Gilliane’s invitation could only mean that her desire had triumphed over her fear. It was a common enough reaction to a man who had returned wounded. Still chuckling that Gilliane should one moment carelessly set him to wrestling with his maniac destrier and the next ask him if he were strong enough to walk up a flight of stairs, he slipped his arm around her waist. She did the same to him, taking a firm grip on his hip and sliding her shoulder under his armpit to afford him support. Adam bent his head to drop a kiss on her headdress. He had no idea that Gilliane had taken his jest about needing help seriously, and since he could not see her face he assumed she was returning his affectionate embrace, cuddling as close to his body as possible.
To Gilliane, the offer of her chamber had no meaning beyond the fact that it provided the greatest comfort. Should Saer or Osbert have demanded warmth and discovered there was a fire in her room that she had not mentioned, she would have been beaten for it. Gilliane did not give the matter another thought. Her mind was completely taken up by the fact that all Adam did was laugh at her. Gilliane could hardly breathe for her misery. She would far rather he had beaten her than shown his contempt so openly. Yet he did not look contemptuous or say cruel things. He only kissed her and laughed.
The maidservants, hearing steps, had clustered together, clinging and shivering with fright. However, the sight of their mistress in the lord’s embrace and of the good-humored smile on his face did much to restore them so that when Gilliane told one to bring water, another to fetch her chest of healing stuffs and a third to seek out clean garments, the group broke up easily to spread the word that the lord was now contented. Gilliane continued on into her own chamber, releasing her grip on Adam as they approached the chair set beside the fireplace. He was not so willing to let go, however, and swung her around in front of him.
“No!” Gilliane cried softly, bending her head so that Adam could not catch her lips.
“Why?” he pleaded, but he knew why.
She wished to treat his hurt and the maids would be in upon them any moment. Gilliane was wiser than he, Adam acknowledged with a sigh, and let himself sink down into the chair. Before he had got farther in his thoughts, Gilliane was beside him, carrying a wooden goblet. Adam sighed again with content as she handed him the warm spiced wine in silence. For a moment, he dared not look at her. No woman had ever been so perfect. She was perfectly beautiful; she did not scold and rage like his mother; she showed her love more openly than his reserved sister; she was as clever as either of those loving, shrewd women; and she also understood when a man needed to be served in silence.
When he looked up to thank her she had already turned away to take the casket of salves and powders from her maid. Adam grimaced and closed his eyes. He did not look forward to what came next, but it must be endured, and the sooner started, the sooner ended. He felt Gilliane standing near him and said, “Do what is needful.”
Then there were hands on his tunic. It was lifted, but the shirt came up with it and Adam grunted with pain. Both were firmly stuck with clotted blood to the torn place beneath. The pull relaxed at once.
“Pull it loose,” he said. “I understand it must be so. I will not be angry.” The assuranc
e was not unnecessary. It was common enough for a man to strike those who treated him because they caused him pain.
“I am afraid that would do more harm,” Gilliane said. “From what I can see, the skin is torn away from the flesh beneath, and to pull it would tear it further.”
“So that is why it bled so much,” Adam remarked in a rather satisfied voice, as he opened his eyes. “I knew the lance had barely touched me, and I could not for my life understand wherefrom came all that blood.”
“Are you still cold?” Gilliane asked. “If you could endure to soak in a tub, it would soon come free.”
It was strange to talk so easily about such ordinary things, she thought. Who could believe that this was the same man who had thrust her away contemptuously because she dared approach him in the presence of his men-at-arms? Why should he bother to be so cheerful and patient when she was not worth his enduring a grin from some common soldiers? She heard Adam agree with pleasure to a bath, laugh about the fact that he needed one sorely. She made some conventional reply and then hurried away to order that bath and water be brought up. Adam watched her go and smiled. She was a damned clever girl, far quicker of wit than he. She would accomplish all her purposes in one stroke—clean his wound, get him naked, and make him a sweeter-smelling lover—and all without a single hint of immodesty.
When Gilliane returned with a train of menservants lugging the bath and buckets of hot and cold water, Adam winked at her. When she knelt to undo his shoes and cross garters, he chuckled. When she took down his chausses, she looked aside, and Adam began to laugh aloud, which he continued to do—between gasps of pain—while Gilliane washed him, eased the clotted cloth free of his side, and sewed the ragged triangular flap of skin that had been pulled free back into position. Gilliane hardly spoke at all, even when Adam asked mischievous questions, and would not look at him, but her cheeks were flaming red. That made Adam laugh all the harder. Little witch that she was, she knew she had been found out. The whole sweet device delighted and amused him.
Right on cue, after having finished stitching him up, Gilliane asked, “Will you lie down and rest for a while on the bed, my lord? It is warmed and ready for you.”
Adam nearly choked. Gilliane certainly knew what she wanted and the most direct route to obtain it. He had wondered how, in the middle of the day, she would get him from the bath to the bed, but he had not thought of the very simple expedient of asking him outright if he wanted to rest.
“I will rest awhile,” he said huskily and very deliberately, and, not to be outdone in circumspection and cleverness, “if you will give me your support so far as the bed.”
Gilliane came forward at once, although she was quite sure that when Adam leaned on her she would fall to the ground. She was so hurt and embarrassed that her body was beginning to fail under her spirit’s perturbation. It was plain that she had betrayed herself, betrayed the fact that her lust outstripped both her pride and her shame. From the moment Adam had agreed to bathe, the fever of desire had raged so strong that her flesh tingled and her breasts were swollen, as if Adam had been handling them.
When she first spoke of soaking his wound free, there had been nothing in her mind beyond the wish to spare Adam as much hurt and pain as possible. However, when she went to order the bath, she had realized she could not set him into water with the shirt and tunic on him. They would soak up the wet and turn cold. It would be necessary to cut both off his body, except for the patches that were stuck. That had done it. The notion of Adam’s nakedness had set her afire. She had crushed the desire down, denied it—but Adam had known at once. His wink had acknowledged the lewdness of her lust, and he had been aware of every increase in her heat, aware that every time she touched him—to unlace his shoes, undo his cross garters—the touches had sent pulses of desire through her. How he had laughed when she turned aside from his engorged manhood, but even with that laughter ringing in her ears she had nearly fallen upon him then and there.
How could he be so cruel as to laugh? It was plain that he did not care for her, but he did have a desire for her. He must know it was not a thing that her will could command. As soon as Gilliane had sewn up Adam’s wound, she fled to the opposite side of the room. She had intended to go away altogether, but found she could not force herself out of the chamber. Pretending to choose clothing, she struggled to control herself but realized she could not bear to touch his naked body again. Thus, she said the first thing that came into her head that would delay the need for her to dress him. If Adam would only lie down and sleep for an hour or two, perhaps she could master the need that was consuming her. Two minutes, she told herself, as she came near to support him to the bed. If she could hold steady for two minutes, he would be abed and she could be free of him.
The arm Adam slid around Gilliane gave far more support than he received. As soon as he touched her, he became aware of her violent trembling and the laughter died in him. He would have comforted her, but his throat was suddenly constricted between desire and tenderness, and he led her into the bedchamber without a word, pausing to kick the door shut with his foot before turning to take Gilliane in his arms. The sound of the slamming door woke her to the enormity of what she had done, and she tried to pull away, to cry out a protest. It was too late for that.
In the brief time it had taken them to walk from the antechamber into the bedchamber, Adam had come to the decision that he would bed Gilliane now and marry her as soon as he could find and kill Osbert de Cercy. He was aware that Gilliane’s shaking might indicate as much fear as passion, but he assumed that the fear was the same as that which had caused her to beg him to save her from herself a week past. Adam had, however, no longer any reason to doubt himself. He knew quite well that Gilliane and he might have different ideas and purposes, and he knew that he might have painful doubts as to whether she loved him or merely wanted to use him. He knew also that it did not matter. He had to have her—not just physically, although he wanted that, too—he had to have this woman for a life companion.
Adam knew that the devices that delighted him now might break his heart in the future. He was aware that it might turn out that Gilliane had never cared for him but only used her body to try to bend him to her will. The difference was that Adam had come to understand this could hurt only him. It could not change the way he felt about Gilliane. As to his hurt—he had a right to risk his own future pain for his own present joy.
Although he felt the stiffening, the attempt to pull away, Adam did not heed it. Holding Gilliane with one arm, he pushed her face up with his free hand and kissed her. She struggled against him, one last convulsive effort to save herself, but it was hard to guess whether he even felt the pathetic attempt to salve her pride. His grip was inexorable, and the molding together of their lips and bodies was not affected in the least by Gilliane’s abortive struggle. He held her until he felt her melt against him, until her lips parted to welcome his tongue and hers followed his when he withdrew it, until the arms that had pushed at him came up around his neck to draw him closer.
Then was the time to break the first long embrace for little kisses on the eyes and nose, for nuzzling along Gilliane’s throat—an attempt impeded by her wimple which, naturally, was unceremoniously removed. The break in love play produced a sobbing, “Please…” from Gilliane, but Adam paid no mind, pulling the pins from her hair so that it cascaded down to her hips in shining chestnut waves, kissing the lobes of her ears when she turned her head and her nape when she tried to bury her face in his breast.
Fire coursed from his lips over Gilliane’s body. Dimly into her mind came the assurance that she had nothing more to lose. Adam already thought the worst of her. Nothing she did could lower her in his estimation. Why, then, should she struggle so with herself, trying to force herself to struggle against him? Why should she not take her pleasure, since she had already paid the price for it? She raised her head to meet his lips without needing urging from his hand, which was busy undoing her dress.
&nbs
p; Adam was pleased that Gilliane’s token resistance ended so quickly. He was accustomed to overcoming coquettish protests, which often continued much longer, but he had never thought of Gilliane playing that game. She had placed herself in his keeping, and it would be silly and affected to pretend reluctance when, in his mind, he had accepted the responsibility for her honor and her happiness. Adam had never found reluctance—even patently pretended reluctance—a stimulating form of love play. He wanted his woman to display the overt hunger that burned in his mother’s eyes when she looked upon her husband.
He got what he wanted, full measure and overflowing. It was Gilliane who tore off her garments, dropping them in a trail as they kissed and fondled on their way to the bed. At the last step, Adam lifted her in his arms and fastened his lips to her breast as he laid her down. Gilliane whimpered and clutched at his head, let it go to run her hands feverishly over his back and shoulders, pulling him urgently onto the bed to cover her with his body.
Now it was Adam who resisted. Subconsciously, he knew he was too tired to begin again once he was finished. Gilliane must be contented beyond desiring another coupling—at least until he had slept for a while. He did come into the bed, but beside her. His hands played over her belly, found their way between her parted thighs. She sought him blindly with her mouth but, to Adam’s delight, she did not seem to know how to handle a man to increase his passion. Obviously, in spite of being married and having coupled, Gilliane knew very little about the art of love.
“Slowly, beloved, slowly,” Adam whispered. “So we will find greater joy.”
Quick at everything, Gilliane was an apt pupil. She had opened her eyes when Adam spoke to her. She was afraid to look at his face, afraid what she saw there would contradict the shaking tenderness of his voice. Her eyes were drawn to his body, and she caught her breath at its magnificence—at the hard curve of the muscles that banded arms, chest, belly, and thighs, at the glint of white skin under the curling mat of black hair. Here and there a line of dull white marked a healed wound, but there was no sense of horror about those scars as there had been about Gilbert’s mutilations.
Gilliane (Roselynde Chronicles, Book Four) Page 19
