“Perhaps I should try to make you moan,” she whispered.
His smile flashed. “Temptress,” he accused and Anna was emboldened.
She teased him then, moving slowly and then quickly, setting a rhythm then breaking it. His eyes opened and she liked how they glittered, how he studied her as if she were a marvel, as if she were his lady, as if they were the only two souls in all the world.
He smiled at her and she cast off her chemise and shook out her hair. She displayed herself to him, liking that his admiration was so clear, proud of her femininity as she never had been. She rode him hard, drawing him deeper with each thrust, and was surprised to find her own desire rising anew.
She knew from his sudden smile that he had more torment in store for her. She gasped when his fingertip slid between them and touched her in that most tender spot. He grinned at her gasp of delight, teasing her with that fingertip even as she rode him harder and faster.
Anna braced her hands on Bartholomew’s chest, her hair spilling all around them, and smiled down at him. She saw the fire in his gaze, felt the spark within herself and moaned in truth when they found exultation together.
She tumbled into his arms then and he flicked the fur-lined cloak over them, his arms locking around her even as he kissed her temple. His fingers were in her hair, and she was both safe and warm, snared in the embrace of the finest man she had ever known.
What a gift he had given her this night, in teaching her not only to moan but to find pleasure in such intimacy.
To her own astonishment, Anna fell asleep, nude and atop Bartholomew.
Truly, in all of Christendom, there was no better place to be.
Monday, January 18, 1188
Feast Day of Saint Volusian of Tours
Chapter Nine
Fergus dreamed.
He was chilled to his very marrow, curled up in his cloak as Yves took the watch, but he dreamed of Jerusalem. He recalled the heat of the sun, the dust, the flies, the smell of good horses, and manure. In his mind’s eye, he strolled into the stables of the Templars.
He found Bartholomew arguing with a young boy in the stall of Gaston’s destrier. He had seen the young boy in the stables before and knew him to be a Saracen as well as a friend of Bartholomew’s.
Fergus eavesdropped, for they were unaware of his presence. To his surprise, the young boy was in fact a girl, and one determined to leave Jerusalem.
Leila.
Fergus awakened suddenly with a strong sense of doom. His thoughts were so filled with his memories of the Templar stables that he was surprised to find himself in the forest in the snow. He could not smell straw or hear the horses, the swish of their tails and the sound of their hooves on the stone floor. He rolled over immediately and saw that Leila slept, wrapped tightly in her cloak. Why had she been so determined to leave? He was glad to see that she was safe this night, for that had been his first concern after the dream. His fellows were asleep, the horses dozing where they were tethered. The sky was pale, but the sun had not risen as yet. The forest was quiet, save for the call of birds.
Why had he dreamed of Jerusalem?
Or had he dreamed of Bartholomew?
A man newly knighted, with a strong moral code. A man they were to meet at the next new moon, in twelve days’ time.
A man who must be in peril, or soon to be so, just as Leila had been.
They had ridden far to the north of Haynesdale to evade Royce’s men and had intended to ride farther to ensure they were not detected. But Fergus’ dream was a warning.
They would ride back to Haynesdale this very day and hope that they arrived in time.
Or that his dream was wrong. Fergus could not shake the sense that much was amiss, though, and knew he would sleep no longer this night.
He rose and began to pack his belongings.
* * *
Anna awakened to darkness and the sound of a dog snoring.
For a moment, she was startled that she could see so little, but then she recalled where she was. The cavern was dark, and Bartholomew was curled behind her, one arm cast around her waist. The dog was at their feet.
Bartholomew’s breathing was steady and his body cast a welcome heat. It was not unpleasant to be caught in such an embrace. Anna lay in the darkness and thought of all she knew of this man, this knight who challenged her expectations so much. She did not believe for a moment that he had declined his friend’s offer of a place in his household with no clear plan of where to find his fortune. Indeed, she knew he was one to think far ahead.
Then what was his scheme? He must have a destination.
How curious that Bartholomew had been the one to guide their party to Haynesdale. Why?
Anna recalled that odd mark on his flesh, the one she had glimpsed in the bedchamber in Royce’s hall. That Bartholomew had turned away and covered it so quickly convinced her that it was important.
It could not be.
Surely, her suspicion must be wrong.
There was but one way to be certain.
Anna eased away from Bartholomew, listening with care to his breathing. To her relief, it did not change.
She eased from the warmth of their bed, finding her chemise and drawing it on once again. Bartholomew dropped a hand to space she had vacated. To her dismay, he stirred. “Something amiss?” he asked, his tone so sleepy that she did not think he was truly awake.
“I must relieve myself,” she whispered and he exhaled. He rolled to his back and his breathing deepened again.
Anna stood there and watched him for long moments, her heart thundering. She found the candle again, and the tinder. She turned her back upon him to strike the flint, wishing the sound was not so loud. She lit the candle and pivoted, pleased to see that he still slept.
Perhaps she had exhausted him with their lovemaking.
That might have made her smile if she had not been so intent on proving her suspicion right or wrong.
Anna cupped her hand around the flame and eased closer. Cenric lifted his head to give her an annoyed look, then yawned and burrowed his snout beneath his paws. He groaned a little, stretched, and began to snore again.
The candlelight played over Bartholomew as Anna drew nearer. He was on his back, his hair tousled, one hand flung out to the space she had abandoned. She smiled that his confidence was evident in his posture even when he slept. Even his lips had a slight curve, as if his dreams were merry. She could have simply stood and stared at him in the light of the candle, for he was a most alluring man.
But she wished to know.
She needed to know.
The tie of his chemise was yet undone and a generous expanse of golden flesh bare to view. Anna could see the pucker she had noted earlier. It was right over his heart, and her memory stirred with an old tale entrusted to her years before.
Surely it was but coincidence. Knights must have many scars, and surely any opponent of sense would strike at the heart. It must be a common location for a scar.
Still, her mouth was dry. Anna leaned closer, so the light played over him. Bartholomew did not stir. The mark was about the size of the last phalanx of her thumb and roughly oval. It was an old wound, to be sure, for it was not red and the hair on his chest had grown around it. She bent low and peered at the wound.
When she discerned the familiar wyvern rampant burned into his flesh, Anna was so shocked that she nearly dropped the candle.
She gasped and turned her back upon him. She tugged the lace that hung around her neck and in the candlelight, studied the token that she carried there. The same wyvern rampant graced the signet ring, save that it was the mirror image of the one impressed in Bartholomew’s flesh.
He could not be the lost son returned.
But he was.
She glanced over her shoulder at him, awe flooding through her as she surveyed him anew. The rightful heir was returned to Haynesdale.
And she had been so bold as to bed him.
Anna’s own audacity made her c
heeks heat.
What should she say to him? What should she do?
Naught, she realized, feeling flustered as she had not been just moments before.
As much as she wished to run from the cavern and shout the truth to any who would listen, Anna knew the secret was not hers to share. She extinguished the candle and eased back into the space beside Bartholomew, a curious pleasure stealing through her when he gathered her close against his side.
She must hold his secret fast, just as she held all the others, and wait for his decision. The rightful baron must choose the path.
But she would do whatever he requested to see his rightful legacy restored. She closed her eyes and felt a tear on her cheek, relieved beyond all that the ordeal they had endured was soon to be ended.
The seed of Nicholas was returned and he was as valiant and just a man as they had all hoped he would be.
* * *
Bartholomew awakened to find Anna nestled on his one side and Cenric on the other. It was an improvement over their sleeping arrangements at Haynesdale keep, in his view, for he liked having Anna close.
But he knew what he had to do.
The dog wagged its tail as soon as Bartholomew sat up, and he rose carefully from the nest he and Anna had made for themselves. She must have been exhausted for she did not stir, even as he dressed. He cast the hauberk over one shoulder, knowing he would have to find some soul to assist him in donning it.
He watched her sleep, not wanting to leave. His urge to take her with him was folly, though. Doubtless they could have no future together and she would only be endangered in his company this day. He had no holding as yet, and thus no right to claim a woman’s hand, and if he did manage to secure Haynesdale, it would be his destiny to make a strategic alliance. Indeed, the king might demand to make the match, as part of his agreement to bestow the holding upon Bartholomew. He thought of Lady Ysmaine’s conviction that marriages were not based upon love, or even attraction, but good sense alone. Bartholomew reminded himself of all of this, and yet, he wished to linger with Anna.
He knew that if he awakened her to say farewell, he might lose himself in her charms once more.
What if she conceived his child? The notion made his chest clench, although he knew it was unlikely after just one night together. The possibility gave him more impetus to leave soon, for he could not be tempted to seduce her again. He would have to leave coin with someone who could be trusted to grant it to Anna in a way that she would not find insulting.
Bartholomew smiled, for that would be a feat.
He felt torn, but it was time to save Duncan, and thence to seek a way to earn the king’s favor. Bartholomew would not achieve either by spending a day abed with Anna. He turned to leave, knowing what must be done.
Perhaps he had changed her view of knights. Perhaps he had achieved something of merit in this short interval in her company.
Perhaps it should be enough.
He left her wrapped in his cloak, tucking it around her so she would be warm. He took the crossbow and laid it on the cloak beside her.
He had promised its return when their paths parted.
He wished it had not been so soon.
Bartholomew paused at the opening of the cavern to watch Anna for another moment. It was likely he would not see her again. He was glad that she slept, for he doubted she would willingly be left behind, and he did not want their last words to be contentious.
He had to free Duncan, and he had to do it alone.
Bartholomew kissed his fingertips in silent salute, then strode into the forest with new purpose. It was snowing, fat flakes cascading from a pewter sky, and the dog loped along beside him. He smelled a fire before he saw the smoke and headed toward the villagers to request assistance. Percy appeared and smiled, then beckoned Bartholomew to join them. He led Bartholomew to Esme, who muttered over a pot set on the logs.
“Anna took you to the cavern, did she not?” the boy asked.
“Aye, she did. She sleeps this morn.”
Esme nodded sagely. “’Twas the visit to the child’s grave that did it.” She exchanged a knowing glance with Bartholomew, then glanced pointedly at Percy.
“Percy, would you aid me with my hauberk?” Bartholomew asked. “Then I wish you would ensure Anna’s safety while she sleeps.”
The boy stood taller at the combination of these requests. He laced the back of Bartholomew’s aketon with speed and enthusiasm, heeding the knight’s quiet instruction. He faltered visibly under the weight of the hauberk, but doubtless recalled that Timothy was not much taller than he. He valiantly held it so Bartholomew could tug it over his head, and when it tumbled over the knight, the boy laced the back.
After Bartholomew donned his tabard, Percy buckled Bartholomew’s belt for him, his fingers brushing the hilts of Bartholomew’s blades with a kind of reverence. “I would be a knight,” he murmured and Bartholomew thought it would be cruel to remind him that such a role was not his birthright.
“Then you must defend widows and orphans and treat all you know with honor.”
“Even villains?”
“Especially villains. The mark of an honorable man is the respect he shows to all, whether they are worthy of his esteem or not.”
Percy considered this. “But villains must be brought to justice.”
“Which means they must come to a court, where judgment is made after consideration.”
“That does not happen in Haynesdale’s court.”
“But once it did,” Esme interjected.
“And once it may again,” Bartholomew said. “Do not blame the court for the merit of the judge.” He smiled at the boy, who was clearly thinking about this. “Now, go to Anna, please. Take Cenric with you, please.”
Percy turned and ran through the forest. The dog hesitated, looking between knight and boy, until Bartholomew patted it and pointed. Cenric bounded after Percy then, and Bartholomew watched them go with satisfaction.
And a measure of regret. Would he return here after Duncan was free? He did not imagine as much. His own words haunted him, for claiming Haynesdale with violence was not the proper choice. He must appeal to the king for the restoration of his family holding, and might well be declined for lack of coin to pay an escheat. He would have liked to have kept the dog, but could not risk the creature’s companionship when he ventured into Haynesdale for Duncan.
“There is porridge if you would have it,” Esme said. “It is not fine, but it is warm.”
“I would welcome it, thank you,” Bartholomew said and sat on a log beside her. She served him a large portion of the porridge and gave him a wooden spoon. True to her word, steam rose from the contents of the wooden bowl. “You are generous,” he noted. “Will this cheat another of their due?”
“You have greater need of it this day,” she replied. “Unless I miss my guess.”
He smiled. “You do indeed see much, Esme.”
“It is the dreams,” she said mildly. “I dreamed last night as I have not done in years.”
“What did you dream about?” he asked, simply to be polite. He blew on a spoonful of porridge.
Esme sighed. “A fine lady. I had almost forgotten how fine she was, and kind.”
“Had she a name?”
“Lady Gabriella of Haynesdale.”
Bartholomew’s heart skipped at the mention of his mother’s name.
“She came to me when my youngest, Edgar, was born. Oswald played with her own son, a handsome dark-haired boy, right on the floor of the mill. They were of an age.” She chuckled. “Amidst the grist, if you can imagine. The baron’s own son.”
“I can,” Bartholomew admitted softly, remembering the very day.
Esme cast grain at her chickens, which pecked the earth around them with enthusiasm. “I was yet abed after the birthing and felt it disrespectful to remain thus when the lady herself came to visit, but she insisted that I rest. She fetched the child and admired him greatly.” Esme shook her head. “It was
Father Ignatius blessing Oswald, his wife and son yesterday that put such old memories in my thoughts, to be sure.”
“To be sure,” Bartholomew agreed, wondering whether there was more to it than that.
“And now you are away, perhaps not to return,” she said.
“Again, you surprise me, Esme.”
“You dismissed both boy and dog, and you must know they both would follow you to Hell itself. What do you mean to do this day?”
“My comrade is yet imprisoned inside Haynesdale. If I am right, the baron’s men are yet in pursuit of my fellows. The keep may be as lightly defended as it will be in the foreseeable future.”
“Yet your course is not without peril,” Esme said. “So, you would go alone.”
Bartholomew smiled into his porridge, not feeling it was necessary to agree. They sat in silence for a few moments and the porridge warmed his belly as he ate it. The chickens continued to peck the earth and Esme continued to cast them grain.
“How do you have grain?” Bartholomew asked.
Esme smiled. “I took all that was mine from the mill when we fled. The flour is gone, and there is little seed left but the birds must eat. We cannot till the seed, but we can eat the eggs.”
Her words made Bartholomew think of how much labor would be required to rebuild the village and the prosperity of the holding. Where would he find so much coin?
“Did she tell you of the child?”
There was no doubt who Esme meant, and Bartholomew chose to be as direct as Anna. “Only that she felt responsible for Kendra’s demise, for she believed the infant consigned to the forest because of her deeds.”
Esme snorted. “And there is but a part of the tale, to be sure. Not even half, by my measure.”
Bartholomew was intrigued. “How so?”
“Did she tell you of Kendra’s father?”
He shook his head before he recalled her blindness. “Nay.”
Esme sighed anew. “He was a boy of an age with Anna. I call him a boy, although of course, he grew to manhood and it was a man’s deed that put that babe in Anna’s belly. They were as thick as thieves, they two, always together, always in mischief as children, always daring each other to new feats. They fairly ran wild, but their hearts were good. He was the eldest of Wallace the plowman and his wife, Erna.”
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