"Leave us," he ordered. Kendra sank a little further down into the water. Her eyes no longer burned with arrogance, he saw, but with a kind of fear, and apprehension. It made him feel, at last, that he had the upper hand—that this woman who had made him feel so completely out of control, could be made to feel the same way. It gave him a sense of power. Perhaps, after all, the way to be free of her was to prove to himself, and to her, that in spite of her spells, Navarre de Galliard remained his own man, a man who would not be controlled by a woman's wiles or a witch's spell.
The old woman hurried out without a backward glance. Navarre stood and began to tug at the cord holding his braes about his waist.
"What do you think you're doing?" Kendra asked.
"I have been giving it much thought," Navarre said as he matter-of-factly untied his braes and slid the dusty black material over his hips and down his legs before kicking them aside. He noted that Kendra kept her gaze stubbornly fixed upon his face in spite of his nakedness, and he almost chuckled aloud.
"This fire you have ignited inside of me burns most uncomfortably," he went on, "and I have decided that the only way to conquer it is to quench the flame." He stepped down into the water and felt an intense satisfaction at the real panic he saw leap into her eyes. The water felt wonderful on his weary body and he silently thanked Garrick for being such a sensualist.
"Don't come any closer," she said, in her curious dialect.
"Ah, but you have drawn me closer." He moved slowly through the waist-high water until he stood only inches away from her. He cocked one dark brow. "It is you who have cast a spell upon me. But if you think that by causing me to lie with you, you may control me, I bid you think again. My strength is greater than you know."
Her blue eyes flashed as Navarre lifted his hand and brushed his fingertips across her bare, wet arm.
"You didn't think so in the crag," Kendra said, shivering against his touch.
"True." His fingers traced a droplet of water across her collarbone and down the creamy expanse below. He felt her stiffen beneath his touch. "However, the fear I now see in your eyes convinces me that I may have been hasty in pronouncing you a witch, in which case, there is no reason not to avail myself of your abundant charms."
The woman stiffened as he brushed his fingers across her collarbone, up to one shoulder and then down her arm. His lips followed the path he had just traced and then moved from her arm to the center of her breastbone where his tongue painted a new pattern upward. He glanced up and saw she had her eyes closed, her lips pressed tightly together. She was trembling and the knowledge quickened his desire to possess her fully. Instead, Navarre brought his mouth to hers, pressing a burning kiss to her cold lips as he slid his hands lightly across her breasts, barely touching them as he continued to move upward, moving his fingers gently up either side of her neck and plunging them into her hair. She winced as his fingers met with a matted tangle.
"My lady is in need of a good brushing it seems," Navarre said softly. Kendra started to speak and he laid one finger against her lips. "I will play lady's maid." Slowly he began to unwind the long, matted braid she had fashioned during her night in the dungeon. His fingers hit another snag and Kendra reached up reflexively to grab his wrist.
"That hurts."
"I will be gentle," he promised, gazing down into her eyes, "in many ways." Again, her lips parted with words she did not utter, then she pressed them together and looked up at him.
Navarre drew his fingers through her hair, his gaze locked with hers as he separated tangled strands. Inch by inch he worked his way through the lush jungle of red and gold, forcing himself to ignore the way her breath came more quickly at his touch and the fact that her bare breasts, taut and aroused, grazed his chest. He ignored his own arousal even as he savored the feel of his rigid skin against her soft belly. Gradually he worked the tangles out of her hair, then turned and picked up one of the special soaps Garrick insisted the tub be supplied with, and began working up a lather between his hands.
"Lavender," Kendra said, her voice husky.
Navarre glanced up from the froth in his palms and smiled. "Stolen," he whispered, "from Madagascar pirates."
Her face was flushed as Navarre moved toward her again, his lathered hands extended slightly in front of him. Kendra blinked, then took a step back. There was nowhere to go. She stretched out both hands to either side of the wooden pool for support. Navarre froze at her motion and drew in a long, shuddering sigh.
Kendra stood, arms apart, creamy breasts exposed for his view, his touch, her sweet lips lifted to him for his kiss. He could see surrender in her eyes, in the very tremble of her breath. Forcing himself to advance slowly, Navarre moved until his chest was barely touching hers, then, lifting his lathered hands, he eased them into her auburn hair and lowered his mouth to hers.
She cried out against his lips and he longed to echo her utterance. The sweetness of her mouth was as he had remembered, and as his hands caressed her luxurious mane of hair, his tongue caressed her mouth and made its own sweet plunge into the depths of the fire that was Kendra. He was possessor, he was possessed.
Navarre lowered his hands to her shoulders and massaged the gentle lavender froth into her skin, then slid his fingers down to caress her breasts. Closing his eyes, he allowed himself to think only of the way she felt, the weight of the peach-tipped jewels he held in each hand. He bent his lips to pay homage to each and was rewarded by Kendra's quick intake of breath.
"Navarre," she whispered, sliding her hands around his waist.
He pulled her away from the side of the tub and leaned her down into the water, one hand supporting her back as he used the other to spill the warm liquid over her hair. Kendra closed her eyes with a sigh as the warmth cascaded over her hair and trailed between her breasts. With a touch more gentle than he knew he possessed, Navarre massaged her scalp, again drawing his fingers through the tresses until every knot and crimp had melted into flowing silken threads.
Navarre lifted her head and Kendra opened her eyes. He saw surprise mirrored there and something akin to trust. It was the trust that stirred something long dormant inside of him as Navarre lowered his lips to the hollow of her throat. He did not stop to examine the new emotion. The sudden realization that her arms were around his neck sent a wave of delight shuddering through him as Navarre drew her firmly against him and closed his eyes.
This is a mistake. The knowledge came to him with swift and brutal intensity. This time he could not blame her, this time he alone was responsible for the seduction. Why had he believed he could make love to this enchantress and still preserve his own soul? He could not. He knew now that if he availed himself of her sweet warmth as he longed to do, he would lose himself forever, for he would never be able to give her up—not for Garrick, not for England. And yet, the inferno raging inside of him could no longer be denied. The fire in his loins cried out to meld with the molten lava that was woman—this woman. Navarre groaned aloud. He must feel his seed burn inside of her or be devoured by his own flame.
"Sweet sorceress," he whispered against her hair, the scent of lavender encompassing him. "I must make love to you or die."
"Death is so final," she said softly, "and I think I would miss you sorely."
Her arms tightened around his neck and Navarre cradled her face between his hands, his gaze searching hers.
"Now that is a scene more befitting my old friend Navarre than I have seen for quite some time." A deep voice filled with amusement echoed around the enclosure.
Instantly alert, Navarre turned, blocking Kendra from the intruder's view. Nay, he thought as a sense of panic threatened to overwhelm him. 'Twas not fair. He needed more time—time to discern if Kendra was witch or merely desirable woman. Time to quench this terrible fire.
"Garrick," he said, trying to disguise his frustration. "You have returned."
"Aye," the voice said from the shadows. "Do introduce me to your friend."
Navarre felt Ke
ndra's hand suddenly against his back—in warning? In fear? He felt her shiver, and for some unfathomable reason, a cold tremble of premonition shivered through him too.
"Kendra," he said reluctantly, "may I present the Sheriff of Nottingham."
Back in his chamber, Navarre hurried to change his clothing. He donned a split-sided sleeveless tunic the color of a lion's mane over a black undertunic that had long, full sleeves. The black matched his braes and soft leather boots, as well as the lion that danced in miniature repetition across the golden tunic. Navarre lifted his hand absently to touch one small beast. Bastard son of a Norman nobleman, Navarre de Galliard had become a wealthy mercenary in his twenties but had no title, no future, until he heard King Richard was raffling off nobility, titles, and estates for enough gold to enable him to wage war on Outremer, the Holy Land.
Richard had befriended Navarre, as well as Garrick, Navarre's childhood friend, whose mother had also borne a nobleman's child out of wedlock. Richard soon assigned Navarre to ride at his side in battle and the knight became the king's bodyguard, protecting him on the field and off. Richard was a courageous warrior, called the Lionheart, and soon Navarre, because of his dark hair, golden eyes, and fierce demeanor, came to be known as Richard's shadow, the Black Lion.
In a small but solemn ceremony one bright April morning near Jerusalem, Richard had paid Navarre honor by declaring him knight, this time by merit, not by coin. At that time Richard had signed over several small estates to his protégé, much to the distress of his advisors. The next day a messenger delivered a golden tunic with the handsome silhouette of a black lion rampart upon it, a gift from Richard.
Navarre lowered his hand from the material, and reached down for the sword he always wore at his side. Another life, he thought idly. Another Richard—a man I loved like a brother—who no longer existed.
He ran one hand through his hair, then picked up the saddlebag that contained the witch's strange weapon. It was time to face John and Garrick, time to tell them that the woman who held his heart in her hands was most likely a witch, sent there to destroy them all.
Kendra took a deep breath and tried to slow her racing pulse. When the man Garrick appeared in the bathhouse, inadvertently saving her from her own folly, Navarre had fled from her side like a fox being pursued by a thousand hounds. He had thrown on his clothing and hurried his friend to the door, but before the two men left, Garrick had turned back, his gaze sweeping over her naked form appreciatively. He had laughed as she quickly covered herself with her arms, then with a dramatic sweep of his black cape, followed Navarre out of the bathhouse.
In a matter of moments, the old woman had returned, her arms laden with clothing. Kendra had spent the next hour being dressed, primped and prodded by the woman whose lips might as well have been made out of stone, for all the information she was able to pry out of her.
Now she stood before three men who were seated at the huge trestle table in the great hall, muttering to one another in French. She was terrified. All of her reporter's skills, her investigative calm, and her bravery, seemed to have disappeared in the midst of this impossible scenario. Where was her courage, she wondered, the kind of courage that had seen her through two hostage situations, a fire and an earthquake?
She smoothed her sweating palms against the unfamiliar garment hugging her tense body. She was clean at least, and her hair was—no, better not to think about her hair, for if she did she would think of Navarre's hands and the incredibly sensual shampoo he had given her, and that would cause her to remember his mouth on hers, hot with passion, and that would make her remember the width of his shoulders and chest and the way his body felt pressed against hers.
Enough. She tossed the long neat braid behind her shoulder, aghast at her reaction to her captor. Granted, the sexual attraction between herself and Navarre was incredible, but that was no reason to cast aside every ounce of morality or pride that she had for a chance to tumble him in the tub.
Kendra took another deep breath and glanced at Navarre. He sat behind the table speaking to a tall, blond man whom she recognized as Garrick, the man from the bathhouse, the sheriff of Nottingham. She smoothed her hands against her gown again. Dressed now in the fashion of the day, coupled with the events of the last few hours, Kendra felt a dizzy, terrifying sense of unreality sweeping over her.
The woman had given her a long dress to wear made from a slightly coarse material, brownish in color and quite unattractive; nevertheless, it fit the contours of her bodice and waist snugly before widening at the hips and falling freely to her ankles. The sleeves were long and tight and ended in points at the wrists. Over the gown she had been given a sleeveless, open-sided tunic, called a surcoat, that was really rather lovely, soft, and forest green, one of her best colors. Over that went a girdle or "kittle," which amounted to a kind of sash worn low on the hips and knotted on the lower part of her belly. She had dressed, marveling in one part of her mind that she was truly experiencing the phenomenon of wearing medieval clothing, while another section of her brain screamed for someone to wake her out of the nightmare.
She had been brought to a huge room called the great hall. A gigantic fireplace adorned one of the longest walls and long, narrow tables filled the room, benches on either side. It was a room capable of hosting a large contingency of guests, however, this night it was empty, save for the three men and herself. The table where Navarre and the other two men sat was placed on a level of stone that was slightly higher than the others. Platters of food were being placed on the table by servants, and Kendra began to tremble as the two strangers smiled at her, as if relishing what was about to take place.
"Now, Navarre," said a young, dark-haired man seated in the only high-backed chair behind the table. "We shall speak in English as you requested, but please do tell us about this wench. You have my curiosity quite aroused, as well as other parts of me."
Kendra nervously shifted her attention back to Navarre. He was seated on one side of the short man, whom she assumed to be the infamous John Lackland, the king's brother. The Sheriff of Nottingham sat on his other side, smiling at her in a manner she found disturbing. For some reason the man frightened her more than all the other dangers she had encountered. Navarre looked up at her, and suddenly Kendra found herself lost in the depths of his golden eyes.
He stood slowly, his gaze locked with hers, and Kendra shivered as she felt the electricity—the magic—flow between them. She saw an answering tension in his face as he left his place and moved to stand beside her.
"There is not that much to tell, actually," Navarre said, resting one hand on the hilt of his sword. "Acting on a report from one of our spies in the village, I followed Robin of Locksley to the hut of Magda." The knight paused and glanced at Kendra.
"Yes, yes, the strange woman who talks to trees," John said in a tolerant voice. "Go on."
"She read the runes—"
"The what?" John interrupted, his brows knit together in confusion.
"Runes—stones with strange symbols upon them," Navarre said impatiently. "Long ago it was said the druids used them to reveal the future."
"Then this woman, Magda, is a witch!" John plunked his goblet down indignantly. "You have always said that she was not, that she was only a madwoman."
"And so she is, my lord," the knight agreed. "However, she is also one of the last druid priestesses in the land and is greatly revered by the Saxons. She is not a witch; she does not cast spells or wish evil on others. She simply believes that she can tell the future."
"And can she?" Garrick asked, nonchalantly flicking a bit of food from the front of his perfect teeth.
"The Saxons think she can. In any case, Robin was at Magda's hut and I overheard her tell him of a prophecy."
"Prophecy?" John lifted his goblet once again and took a deep draught from it. "This sounds most sorcerous to me, Sir Navarre."
"She told Locksley that great danger awaited Richard, and that in a fortnight Richard's salvation would appe
ar on the plains of Abury."
"And what did she mean by that—Richard's salvation?"
"I do not know. At first I dismissed it as nonsense, as a madwoman's ravings, but then I began to think perhaps it was a way to cleverly pass on information under the guise of her babbling."
"If so, an excellent ruse," the sheriff said, popping a plump piece of meat into his mouth, never taking his gaze from Kendra. Indeed, his attention had been riveted on her from the moment she had been escorted into the room by Navarre. Kendra shifted her position uneasily, wishing they would at least let her sit down before they burned her at the stake.
"A fortnight later I managed to create a diversion that kept Locksley from arriving at Abury on time," Navarre went on, his brows knit together. "I hid myself, expecting perhaps an assassin sent to destroy John. While I waited, a storm blew up, but unlike any storm I have ever seen. It whirled with such intensity, and it seemed I could almost see some kind of light in its center."
"Light? Like a torch?" John said, leaning forward. "How curious."
Kendra waited for Navarre to describe the light, knowing full well the sighting of a blue light would brand the incident as something highly unusual, surely magical. When he continued his tale without alluding to the blue lights, Kendra felt both relieved and puzzled.
"Aye, it was that, but then the storm blew away and I found this woman."
"Odd." Garrick's gray eyes were no longer languid and casual, Kendra noted, but clear and cold. He rose and circled around the table to Navarre's side. Kendra shivered again as the sheriff stopped directly in front of her and let his gaze sweep over her with calculated ease.
The sheriff was a handsome man, she decided, as she made her own appraisal. Not as ruggedly attractive as Navarre, but very handsome. Garrick was the epitome of the pretty boy, she thought, lifting her chin slightly to meet his challenging eyes. She saw little character, but she bet he had lots of charm when he wanted to use it.
Tess Mallory - Circles in Time Page 10
