The Crusader's Kiss

by Claire Delacroix

  Bartholomew did not reply. He seated Marie beside her husband, aware of the intensity of that man’s interest, then took his place beside Anna. She gave him a look that could have cracked a stone.

  Was she truly irked with him?

  Or did she feign as much, because she thought it appropriate?

  Bartholomew was surprised by how much he wanted to know. He drank his host’s health, then let the weight of his hand fall on the back of Anna’s waist. He could fairly hear her thinking and guessed that she wished to fling the weight of his hand aside. Her gaze flicked to his and sure enough, there was fire in her eyes.

  “Did you miss me, my lady?” he murmured, as if trying to improve her mood. He smiled at her in warning.

  “Of course, my lord,” Anna replied, her tone sweet. “You know I am fearful when we are parted.” She put her hand on his thigh just as he lifted the chalice to his lips. To his astonishment, Anna slid her hand over his chausses slowly.

  Seductively.

  Upward.

  Bartholomew nigh spilled his wine when she eased her hand beneath his tabard and tightened her grip on his thigh. He met the challenge in her gaze and smiled back at her, more than willing to best her in this game.

  “You have wine on your lip, my lady,” he murmured, then dragged his fingertip across her bottom lip slowly. Anna’s eyes widened in a most satisfactory way and Bartholomew liked how her cheeks flushed.

  This ruse might result in a most interesting night, indeed.

  * * *

  “You looked to have seen a ghost, lad, back in the forest,” Duncan said to Fergus in Gaelic when they two finally had a moment alone. They were in the hall of the baron, but to one side and with no listening ears in their vicinity. They gave every appearance of warming themselves before the fire and admiring the hall’s design. Duncan ensured that the many squires and men-at-arms were not sufficiently close to eavesdrop.

  By all that was holy, the keep was well-defended!

  The younger man seemed to deliberately avoid his gaze as he stared into the flames. “That is as good an explanation as any,” he murmured, responding in Gaelic.

  That Fergus did not pretend to be uncertain of the moment in question told Duncan he was right.

  “Or was she a vision come to life?” he asked, pressing the lad a little more.

  Fergus glanced up then. He appeared to be agitated, as seldom he was. “You know I never speak of it.”

  “I do. And it is curious, to my thinking,” Duncan acknowledged. “Most with such an ability would share much of what they perceived to lie ahead, if not all. Some would do it for coin.”

  Fergus shook his head with rare vehemence. “It is curse, not gift, Duncan. I seldom see what is good, only what peril lies ahead. And sometimes, it does not come to be. It is irksome how mysterious it all can be, although in hindsight, it makes perfect sense.”

  Duncan considered his charge, the son of the man to whom he owed the greatest debt of all. “Did you see peril for this Anna? For Bartholomew?”

  Fergus grimaced. “I have seen her, several times, but did not recognize her as the maiden in my visions until she had changed her garb. Indeed, I bought the crimson kirtle knowing full well that Isobel would never don it.” He sighed. “Her fate is bound to that of Bartholomew, this much I would swear upon my own life.”

  “That is why you ceded to his request that we take this road,” Duncan guessed.

  Fergus nodded. “I knew we should find her upon it. Bartholomew’s destiny.” Duncan saw the concern in the younger man’s eyes. “Whether she means him good or ill, though, is unclear.”

  “And is her fate bound to yours?”

  Fergus shook his head. “My heart is claimed, Duncan. You know that well. I had but a contribution to make to this tale, though whether it is good or ill has yet to be seen.”

  Duncan made a jest, endeavoring to lighten the other man’s mood. “Then I shall be certain not to mention the crimson kirtle to Lady Isobel, lest she believe your affection was tested.”

  Fergus forced a smile. “So speaks a man wise in the ways of women.”

  “Do you see your own fate?” Duncan had to ask, for he felt a bad portent for the future of Fergus and his betrothed Isobel.

  “Nay, that is the puzzle of it,” Fergus said. “My own life could end in a moment, and I would never have had a glimpse of it.” He shrugged and surveyed the hall. “I suppose I should be glad of that mercy.”

  Duncan smiled and gripped the knight’s shoulder. “It means you must use your own eyes to see what is close at hand, just like the rest of us,” he said with false cheer. “It is not such a handicap as that, lad.”

  * * *

  The man tormented her at the baron’s board.

  Anna was convinced that it was no accident. Bartholomew, it appeared, knew far more of amorous games than she—although his touch made her long to learn more. In the hall, amidst the company, she knew he could not take more than she offered. Such dark deeds happened in privacy, not in the bright light of a busy hall. She was safe, so long as they remained with the others, and that meant she could savor the sensations he kindled within her.

  She had been bold in her first gesture, wanting only to claim his attention and knowing no other way to do as much. It was clear she had ventured out of her own depth and that Bartholomew could play such games far better than she.

  She felt as if she had no defenses against his assault.

  If he thought she would be an easy conquest, though, he could reconsider the matter. If he thought to seduce her in truth, after abandoning her in the company of Royce, she would delight in showing him the truth. If he thought to take what she had vowed not to share, she would ensure he regretted it.

  Bartholomew was beyond attentive. He kept his thigh pressed against Anna’s own, his hand resting often on the small of her back. She was nigh in his embrace, right at the board! He leaned against her to speak to their host on her other side, ensuring she could not evade the heat of his body or the scent of his skin. His removal of that drop of wine was but the first caress. He fed her venison stew from his own fingertips like a besotted husband, granting her the most choice morsels. He ensured her cup was full and her every need satisfied.

  Except the fire he had lit within her belly.

  It was curious to be so aware of a man, and so desirous of more. Anna found herself thinking of the kiss he had tried to bestow upon her earlier, and her own inability to enjoy it. What if she trusted him? What if she had another chance? She resolved that she would welcome a kiss, if that was to be the sum of it, and if it was offered in such circumstance as this.

  Aye, Anna wanted a kiss from Bartholomew.

  Just to know what it could be like. Though her experience with intimacy had been one of violence and pain, she knew her parents had made merry together when they met abed. This man and his attention made her wonder if it were possible for her to enjoy the same pleasure with a man.

  The truth was that she wanted more than a kiss.

  It was unsettling, to feel her body at war with her reservations, even undermining them. Was this a kind of sorcery? Anna might have pulled away from Bartholomew, but guessed this was his means of disarming their host and hostess. Also, pulling away from Bartholomew would put her closer to Royce, which was not an enticing prospect.

  Did Bartholomew know how much he distracted her? It might not be kind, but Anna could not regret that the lady of the hall was so displeased by Bartholomew showing fascination with his wife.

  Had he only gone with Marie to learn the location of the stables and to check on his steed? They had been absent for a goodly amount of time, in her view, too long for such a venture. Or would any interval of time have felt like an eternity in Royce’s company?

  Perhaps Bartholomew had learned the location of both Percy and Duncan’s possessions.

  Perhaps he had paid the lady for that knowledge with a kiss.

  Or more.

  Why did she wish to know so
badly?

  Anna burned to ask him for the truth, but she could not do as much so long as they were at the board. Some event had made his manner more attentive and more amorous. She feared to think how the Lady Marie might have inspired such an inclination.

  Not that it should matter to Anna what amorous adventures Bartholomew might pursue, on this night or any other.

  Her thoughts and fears were as troubling as his persistent touch. She found her agitation growing and her voice growing higher. She was out of familiar circumstance and felt that her own reactions spiraled from her control.

  By the time they left the board, Anna was humming with a newfound need. She had consumed an unfamiliar quantity of wine, which made her feel both daring and warm. Bartholomew’s touch had left her desirous of more, and she was glad to take his hand and be escorted from the hall.

  They walked in silence to the chamber, and she noted how watchful he appeared to be. That drove the heat of the wine from her veins.

  It was only when the door to their chamber was closed behind them that Anna dared to take a full breath in her relief. “Praise be,” she whispered, but Bartholomew gave her a sharp glance. He rapidly touched his ear, then his eye, and glanced toward the wall that was common between their chamber and that of the Lady of Haynesdale.

  Anna felt her eyes widen even as she understood.

  There were knots aplenty in that wooden wall, and she could readily imagine that some of them were holes. The hair prickled on the back of her neck.

  Were they being observed?

  She amended her comment quickly by yawning with vigor. “As kind as you have been on our journey, husband, I am fair glad to see a plump mattress awaiting me this night.”

  “Are you then?” Bartholomew mused, a twinkle lighting his eyes.

  Emboldened by the knowledge that she was not truly alone with him, Anna laughed. “You, sir, will never be sated.”

  “Not soon, wife of mine, not soon.” He caught her up and spun her around, and Anna enjoyed the charade of being a happy couple. “Perhaps you will be warm enough this night that you will have no need of me in your bed,” he teased and she laughed again.

  “Oh, husband, how can you suggest such a possibility?” she murmured, pulling back to watch Bartholomew’s eyes darken. She caught her breath when his gaze fell to her lips and felt his fingers spread across her back as he gripped her more tightly. He held her above the floor but she dared not struggle, as willing a wife as any man might want.

  Her heart thundered with the possibility of another kiss.

  Even as a quiver began in her belly. She licked her lips and he watched her with a hunger that made her shiver.

  He bent and touched his lips to her ear, causing a most delicious sensation. “We must create no suspicion,” he murmured. “But I have given you my vow.”

  Not to touch her.

  Anna nodded as she looped her arms around his neck. She looked up at him, giving every sign of doting upon him. In truth, it was not that hard to pretend. “Is it true, husband, that some couples do not share a bed each night?”

  “I have heard it said,” Bartholomew acknowledged. He pulled her against his chest so that she caught her breath. “It seems wrong to me, I must admit.” His hand slid down her back, pressing her against him, even as he kissed the side of her neck. Anna felt shivers run over her skin and a warm thrum between her thighs.

  “I cannot imagine being without your warmth all the night long,” she agreed, trying to look flirtatious. Her heart was racing with the prospect of him lying beside her.

  Would she sleep?

  Would he?

  Did she dare to trust his sworn word? Anna thought she could.

  “I think it is more than my warmth you desire at night, wife,” Bartholomew murmured. He considered her, smiled a little, then lifted her to her toes. He held her gaze, his own gaze dropping to her lips for a moment.

  Anna understood. He was asking permission. She took a breath and nodded quickly, knowing that their ruse had to be maintained.

  Bartholomew did not give her the chance to change her thinking His mouth sealed over hers with such purpose that Anna was momentarily startled. She dared not pull away, though, so compelled herself to lean against him as if she truly were a submissive bride, and open her mouth to him. Bartholomew made a little growl in his throat, one that sent a thrill through Anna, and deepened his kiss.

  The mood changed between them in that moment, their kiss becoming heated as it had not been before. It did not matter then whether any soul watched them, for this was no feint. Bartholomew kissed Anna as if he truly desired her, and she could not resist the urge to respond in kind. Her fingers were locked in the thick waves of his hair, and he feasted upon her lips with ardor. She had never been kissed with such passion and found her body responded of its own accord. She closed her eyes and capitulated, surrendering to sensation.

  He scooped her up into his arms and made for the bed, and Anna clutched at him in uncertainty. It would look like passion to an observer, but her heart was racing. She was on her back on the bed, his weight pressing her into the mattress in a most terrifying way, when suddenly there was a rap at the portal.

  Bartholomew broke their kiss with obvious regret. He took a deep breath, as if he, too, had been affected by their embrace. He left the bed, pacing to the window as he composed himself. Anna sat up in haste, feeling guilty and disheveled.

  But they were believed to be wedded.

  Leila entered the chamber, carrying a bucket of steaming water. Anna thought that Bartholomew and Leila exchanged a quick glance. About what?

  Were they lovers?

  Another serving woman followed Leila with a brazier filled with coals. Leila gestured that it should not be lit as yet, so the woman put it down near the bed, then left. The dog from the hall was at the portal and the woman made to shoo it back down the stairs, but Bartholomew stepped forward.

  “What is the dog’s name?” he asked.

  The woman sneered. “Cenric, for he is a Saxon dog. Of course, all Saxons are dogs.” She laughed at her own jest, then made to kick the beast, even as Anna yearned to strike her. The creature was nimble and evaded her easily, much to Anna’s relief. “Come along, varmint,” the woman said to the dog. “Out to the stables with you.”

  “Leave him,” Bartholomew ordered and the servant eyed him with surprise. “I like a dog in the chamber. If this one has no place to sleep, he can remain here.”

  “If you so wish it, my lord,” the woman said with a curl of her lip. “I would not welcome the fleas, but the choice is yours.” She then bowed and left.

  Not a moment too soon, in Anna’s view.

  Saxon dog. Anna felt her lips tighten in disapproval. Bartholomew gave her a look, and she knew her thoughts were clear. She turned away from the common wall and fluffed the pillows so that no others noted her reaction.

  Cenric watched the woman depart, then eyed them warily. Bartholomew crouched down and put out his hand. The dog had clearly been kicked by others, for he sniffed at the air, before padding cautiously toward Bartholomew. He was a large dog, the kind of wolfhound that lords used for hunting, and his shaggy coat was a hundred shades of silver and grey. He seemed to have great eyebrows, like an old man, which gave him a friendly appearance. When he sniffed Bartholomew’s hand, his long tail began to wag like a ragged banner. When Bartholomew scratched his ears, he sat down beside the knight and leaned on his leg. That tail thumped against the floor.

  “I once knew a dog like you,” Bartholomew told him. “The most faithful creature in all of Christendom. I miss him heartily.”

  Leila turned to look at him. “When did you have a dog?” she asked, apparently surprised. At Bartholomew’s gesture, she recalled herself. “My lord,” she added. “I do not recall ever seeing you with one.”

  “Nor I,” added Anna, wanting to buttress the other woman’s words for any who eavesdropped. “Though we have only known you a few weeks, in truth.”


  Leila nodded. “That is true, my lady. The days have been so merry that I lost track of the time.”

  “It was when I was a boy,” Bartholomew admitted. “Indeed, I scarce recall it myself, but when I saw this Cenric, I remembered that hound so vividly.” His tone was thoughtful, even dreamy, and Anna wondered at his manner. “He was as friendly as this, though I think he might have been larger.”

  “Was this in France, my lord?” Anna asked.

  “Normandy or Anjou?” Leila added. “You said you had been to both.”

  “Before that,” Bartholomew said softly. “Long before that.” He straightened and surveyed the chamber, a new glint in his eyes that Anna could not explain. “I ask for your indulgence in this, my lady. I would not see a dog that looks so much like my former one dispatched to the cold.”

  “I have no argument with a dog in the chamber. We always had several—”

  “At the foundation,” Leila interjected.

  Anna nodded. “Though they were smaller than this one.”

  Bartholomew looked so pleased that she was surprised. He might have been a child on Christmas morn granted an unexpected gift. “He is too thin,” he mused, running his hands over the dog. “Particularly for one so young.”

  “Perhaps the baron has no use for him,” Anna suggested. “And could be persuaded to part with the creature on the morrow.”

  “He might sell the animal, if there are too many hounds in his stables,” Leila added.

  “It would be suitable for you to have a hunting dog, my lord,” Anna agreed.

  “Or even one to slumber in the hall,” Bartholomew agreed. He straightened from patting the dog, and Anna could not explain why he seemed to be more resolved than previously. He looked taller, even.

  Because of a dog?

  It made no sense.

  The hound made for the brazier, clearly aware of its purpose even though it was unlit as yet. It circled half a dozen times before lying down beside it to sleep. Leila struck a tinder and lit the coals, patted the dog cautiously herself when it lifted its shaggy head to watch her. Anna wished she had saved some meat from the board for the hound did look thin and the meat had been plentiful.