‘Sweet Brianna,’ he murmured, collapsing on top of her, his body replete, satiated and completely possessed.
Chapter Fifteen
One arm bracing his head, Giseux stared upwards, his expression bleak, ravaged, tracing the looping whorls in the low, planked ceiling. He had woken early, the throbbing pain at the base of his skull dragging him relentlessly from deep, languorous sleep. That, and the slobbery tongue of the dog washing his face as it had slunk its way inside out of the cold; he had pushed the animal away, and now it lay, head resting across its paws with one eye open, regarding him balefully. The odd, haunting whiteness of the light within the hut, the curious muffling of sound, had confused him momentarily, until he spotted the shallow drift of white blown in at the doorway. It had snowed in the night; now, the morning sun bounced off the crisp white flakes, sending a shaft of scintillating light through the open door, the pallid warmth touching his bare feet.
Beneath his thick woollen cloak, drawn over their cooling, naked bodies in the hushed, stunned aftermath of their lovemaking, Brianna lay, tucked into his side, the slope of her breast crushed into his chest, her creamy, polished flank to his stomach. Silky calves wrapped around his rough, hairy legs; her thighs were soft and smooth. One shining coppery tendril of her beautiful hair snaked over his ribs. He wanted to stay there for eternity, listening to the steady beat of her heart against his own, tasting the sweetness of her breath, luxuriating in the tethered heat of their flesh. She snuggled against him; the fractional movement catapulting desire through his body, unbidden, and he gritted his teeth, attempting to dampen the sensation.
Desolation churned in his gut. How, in Heaven’s name, could he have done such a thing? He had behaved like a brute, coercing her into coupling with him, breaching her virginity without mercy, without any thought or consideration for her naïvety, her innocence. Blind, foolish passion had gripped him by the scruff of his neck, driving him on with relentless force, the shackles of self-control dropping away without trace. It was if he had been a callow youth, in the first awakening throes of manhood. He had wanted to help Brianna, protect her, but now he had violated the very trust he had asked her to place in him. This was the thanks she received for finding him, for tending to his wound, for the tears she had wept over him: an assault on her womanhood. He was no better than all the rest of them, no better than Walter, or her brother.
Brianna snuffled against him, her bottom lip relaxed, pouting slightly in sleep. He cringed at the rawness around her mouth, the red scrapes left by the short stubble of his beard, gripped by a dawning revelation. His relationship with Nadia had been comfortable, enjoyable, a place of solace, of sensual release, in that hard, desolate land, but it had not been love. This time with Brianna had shown him that much: never before had he experienced such a sense of completeness, such wholeness; never before had he reached a point where he had forgotten himself, utterly. It scared him, but even as he acknowledged the flick of fear, the wild craving in his body screamed out for more. Self-loathing smacked him in the face; his black heart didn’t deserve her, didn’t deserve her care, or her beauty…or her love. The thick weight of leaden guilt that pulled down on his heart would be with him for ever. He would drag her down with him, sullying her spirit, her vivacity, corroding her goodness.
Mumbling softly in her sleep, Brianna’s fingers splayed out across his chest, scuffing the mat of light hair that hazed over his burnished skin. The simple caress jolted shudders of delight direct to his heart; his body, already inflamed by her nearness, threatened to tip him down the same disastrous route as before. Very, very carefully, he extracted his arm from behind her, the silken curtain of her hair slipping over his shoulder, as he rested her head on the bundle of her tunic. Her eyelids flickered, long dark lashes quivering on her flushed cheeks, but she did not wake.
Jamming his legs into his discarded braies, his feet into his leather boots, he yanked his chemise, then his tunic, over his head. Hitching on his sword belt, fingers unusually clumsy as he fastened the buckle, he dived outside, gulping in the fresh, chilly air. His boots sank into the snow, a deadened, squeaking sound as the ice crystals compressed under his substantial frame. A layer of white coated everything, thickly, as if every dark, bare branch had been adorned with a trim of white fluffy ermine in the night, delineating every angle of the knotted ash, the silvery birch. Snow had blasted against the ribbed trunks, a net of sparkling white splattered across the brown, soaked bark. And beneath the trees, a disgruntled horse, whinnying gently as Giseux approached. The animal had escaped the worst of the weather by sheltering beneath the dense pack of trees; now, it blew warm draughts of air from widened nostrils over Giseux’s hands, as he reached forwards to stroke his neck.
* * *
The squirrel fur on the inside of Giseux’s cloak tickling her chin, Brianna rose, deliciously, gently, back to consciousness. She stretched out her legs, wiggling her toes to release a slight cramp, delighting at the sensual, replete sensation suffusing her flesh. How could she have known? How could she have known how completely wonderful, how precious, such lovemaking could be? She would cherish it for ever, the precious memory wedged close to her heart, fine details etched in vivid definition. Every muscle, every nerve ending in her body thrummed with the memory of his feverish touch, the heated imprint of his honed masculinity moulding to her curves, the scorch of his mouth on her mouth. Desire flared anew and she twisted her head on the makeshift pillow. The hut was empty.
Gathering the voluminous cloak around her, she staggered clumsily to her feet, bare feet tingling as they encountered the errant snow dusting the threshold. The big, molten eyes of the dog followed her movements, leaping to its feet and pushing a cold, wet nose into her palm. Brianna jumped, startled; she had forgotten about the dog, but now she smiled down at it, patting its square-shaped head. Scanning her surroundings, she narrowed her eyes against the low-lying morning sun, a huge flaming ball out to the east, shafting a blaze of light through the thin, pinkish trunks of the silver birch.
‘Put some clothes on. It’s freezing.’ Giseux’s husky voice, brusque and clipped, broke from the shadow of the trees. Raising her hand, she shielded her face, gradually discerning the dark outline of his broad shoulders, his tall frame, as he moved out to stand in the open.
‘It’s so beautiful!’ Brianna smiled around at the sparkling snow, the cold spreading a rosy glow across her cheeks; she hopped up and down on the threshold to keep her toes from turning into ice blocks. The snow reflected the brilliance of her eyes, transforming them to jewelled chips of pale aquamarine. Her mouth tilted up to him, shyly, that single, heart-stopping glance holding all the secrets of their night together.
Giseux’s heart flipped at her expression, the promise within her gaze reminding him only of his selfish, hedonistic self-gratification. He strode forwards, his mouth set in a rigid line, unsmiling. ‘I said, “put some clothes on”.’ Flakes of snow melted on his tunic, dampened his springy hair.
Uncertainty began to spiral, slowly, deep in her belly. The pressure of joy in her heart lessened, sank. Please don’t do this, she wanted to shout at him, please don’t spoil what we had together, destroy such a precious memory. She spun on her heel, hot tears threatening as she barged back into the dim sanctuary of the hut, dragging on the stable boy’s chausses, the chemise and the tunic. Her boots had been flung in the corner, chucked back in the shadows, dragged by Giseux from her shapely ankles, his gaze hungry and wild, desiring her, wanting her. Judging by his mood this morning, he obviously believed he had made a huge mistake. She wanted to crawl into the corner and hide, flashes of her behaviour from the night before, once so exciting, so sensual, returning to humiliate her. Dressed, she stood hesitating, self-confidence shrivelled, unwilling to go out and face his contempt, his indisputable distaste towards what had happened. He had found her lacking, disappointing. Obviously she was no match for Nadia, the woman who haunted his mind.
Suddenly, he filled the doorway, arms braced upwar
ds against the sagging wooden lintel. Ice crystals spangled the tousled fronds of his hair. ‘What are you doing in here? Walter and your brother will send out a search party before long. We need to go.’
She turned wide, limpid eyes up towards him, needled by his bullying tone. ‘Why are you being like this?’
His eyes narrowed, piercing gimlets. ‘We tarry too long here. It makes us vulnerable.’ The hardness of his voice bit into her, unforgiving.
‘Why do you not speak of what happened?’ she whispered. ‘Was it so terrible?’ Timid beneath the glare of his pewter gaze, her voice faltered, but she had to know. How would it be between them now?
‘Terrible?’ he scowled, dropping his arms to fold them across his chest. ‘Nay, never that. But what I did—it was unforgivable.’
She sucked in her breath, heart flowering. ‘There is nothing to forgive, Giseux. It was the most beautiful thing I have ever known.’ Reaching down to sweep the short cloak from the uneven floor, she drew herself up to her full height, head tilted to one side.
His eyes widened, amazed at her simple declaration; his arms itched to wrap her to him, to enfold her, but he kept them firmly crossed, resistant, shaking his head. ‘Brianna, you don’t know what you are saying. I was selfish, greedy, took something that was not mine to take—’
‘I wanted you to,’ she blurted out. I wanted you to have my innocence, she thought, no one else. There would be no one else.
‘You should have stopped me.’ His bright eyes appraised her, silver bonds reaching out to her, tangling her senses. ‘I’ve ruined you.’
‘For whom?’ she retorted. ‘I’ve told you before, I never want to marry again.’
Not even to me? The question fired through his brain, unexpected, shocking. Within the tight fold of his arms, his hands trembled. ‘Marriage would bring you protection,’ he stated, carefully, the pieces of an insane idea slotting rapidly into place in his mind.
‘I—’
He held up one hand, stopping her words. ‘Spare me the speech about being able to protect yourself. Under the laws of this land, your brother has complete control over you. He is your guardian.’
‘I don’t want to marry. I want to be free.’
He gripped her shoulders. ‘Don’t you understand? With your brother around, you will never be free. And if he dies, then your guardianship will revert to King Richard, and he or his statesmen will decide whom you will marry.’
‘I could hide myself away.’ But even she heard the doubt stringing her words.
‘And live your life in fear, hoping they will never catch up with you? What a waste.’ Giseux’s fingers skimmed her cheek, then jerked away. He took a deep breath. ‘Brianna, I have a suggestion.’
Her eyes clung to his.
‘Marry me.’
Shock, a huge boot planted firmly in her solar plexus, forced her stumbling backwards. Her hands fluttered upwards, grasping at air, trying to find solidity within his bewildering words.
At the horrified look on her face, he laughed, a dry, withering bark. ‘It would be a purely practical arrangement. We are the same, Brianna, you and I, two people battling the demons of the past. You must realise that I can offer you nothing else but the protection of my name, a place to live, security. Nothing else.’
His curt words rained down over her, icy hailstones gouging her heart. Nothing else—no love, no kisses, no shared pleasures. But he had pointed out her options with a stark finality: this was the only course of action open to her if she wanted to be safe from her brother. And even if she didn’t have his love, she would be close to him. It was a choice she was prepared to take.
* * *
‘Are you telling me you have no idea where my nephew is?’ Queen Eleanor demanded, elevating one finely arched eyebrow. Wrinkles formed across the thin, parchment-like skin of her forehead. Perched in the carved oak armchair opposite Lady Mary, every vertebra in her spine stretched rigidly upwards, she plucked unnecessarily, fractiously, at the gold embroidery on her skirts. Her hair, faded auburn streaked with silver, was exquisitely arranged beneath a diaphanous silk veil, a fashionable silver circlet studded with twinkling gems holding the material in place atop her head. At seventy winters, the Queen was still a beauty, Mary thought, even if her high-handed, imperious manner rankled with some. But, to be fair, the older woman had much to deal with at the moment; with her son, Richard, a prisoner, the affairs of state had fallen back to Eleanor, drawing her out of a quiet retirement in southern France.
‘That is precisely what I am saying, my lady,’ Mary replied, respectfully, hoping that Jocelin would appear at the door of the women’s solar very soon and take his agitated older sister away. ‘Giseux is old enough to look after himself.’
‘Sending Robert de Lacey in his stead to Germany, when I specifically asked for Giseux! Fortunately for him, Robert seems to be making some progress, although the ransom demanded by the German Emperor is extreme.’ With gnarled fingers, Eleanor untied, then re-tied, the knot in her girdle. The trailing ends were finished with silver tags; the heavy metal swung against her voluminous skirts, bumping gently.
‘I have no idea about any change to Giseux’s plans,’ Mary explained patiently. ‘We watched him leave here and I assumed he was headed for the coast.’
‘It appears that he never reached Southay. Why have we heard nothing?’ Eleanor’s voice notched upwards, a plaintive whine. She levered herself out of her seat, a dignified figure, sweeping elegantly towards the window. Despite the frigid air of winter outside, at this time of day, the solar grew warm, absorbing every scrap of noonday sun. ‘That boy had a direct order from me—from me, the Queen!’ She scratched her nails absent-mindedly across the planed wood of the windowsill.
Mary twisted around in her chair, studying the svelte form of her sister-in-law silhouetted in the streaming light through the glass. She prayed that Giseux had not been taken prisoner himself, but the thought was fleeting; her youngest son was renowned for extricating himself from the most problematic of situations.
Scrubbing at the misted window pane, her enormous sapphire ring clicking against the glass, Eleanor peered out at the pattern of small fields beyond the castle walls. Snow dusted the ground, white over muddy green, each section of pasture land bounded by scruffy hawthorn hedges. She shivered—what a Godforsaken country! Why Jocelin wanted to live here was beyond her. Despite being her illegitimate half-brother, she had a good relationship with him, felt a certain responsibility towards him. He wasn’t to blame for their father’s waywardness. She had given him the choice of two estates, Sambourne, or a smaller one nearer to her, in Poitiers. But when the cool beauty of Lady Mary drew him again and again to the English shore, she knew which estate he would choose.
A grittiness scraped the inside of her eyelids; she blinked, then rubbed at her eyes, trying to relieve the soreness. She hadn’t slept well, the damp leaching from the thick stone walls of her bedchamber, seeping into her old bones, making her stiff, unyielding. Compared with her luxurious château in France, this place seemed dark, inhospitable. The food—quel horreur—the food was leaden, too much pastry for her liking, sitting heavily in her stomach. And this morning, porridge again! Great vats of it, steaming lumpily, a grey mess, in the wooden bowls. Hopefully she wouldn’t be here for too long, but the need to raise the ransom to secure Richard’s release had forced her hand.
She rubbed at the glass again, a slick of condensation obscuring her vision. Something…nay, someone, moved across the field: a horse and rider, a stark outline, picking their way across a white field. She peered closer, eyes watering as she tried to focus; nay, she was mistaken, she could see two figures on the back of the horse, a man and a young boy sitting before him.
Mary joined her at the window, her willowy figure matching Eleanor’s tall, slim build. ‘Giseux would have followed Richard straight to Germany, if it hadn’t been for Hugh of Sefanoc.’ Mary felt the need to explain her son’s behaviour. ‘The knight was so sick, Giseux brought
him back to England. It delayed him.’
‘An errand of mercy.’ Eleanor frowned. ‘Such a noble act after—’ She stopped suddenly, her face set in apologetic lines.
‘You mean…after what happened in Narsuf?’ Mary broached the subject that Eleanor failed to speak. ‘He is still capable of caring for people, you know.’ Her words ended in a flick of anger. Why should everyone make such damning judgements about her son?
‘Please, don’t upset yourself. I haven’t seen the boy, since it happened, and you have. I only base my judgements on what I have heard.’
‘Then wait until you see him again, please. He doesn’t deserve your harsh words.’ But Mary’s heart wilted. She knew her son had changed; she has seen it in his face on that first morning back at Sambourne, his wish to have died with his men, that it was all his fault.
Her Battle-Scarred Knight Page 20
