“Aye,” Genevieve agreed weakly, unable to fathom his insistence. Though Wolfram might well be certain the Templars were doomed to fade from this earth, she was not in the least convinced that they would fail to triumph again.
Yet if he insisted on seeing her safe in the interim, she supposed she had no cause for complaint. ‘Twas the least the man owed her, after all, though even that reasoning could not explain the curious way her stomach lurched when his gaze locked with hers. She stared up at him and fancied he smiled slightly. He opened the tavern door with a flourish she might have thought uncharacteristic, releasing a warm bevy of scents before ushering her into the tavern’s redolent shadows.
Until Metz, then, she would enjoy his protection. She still held a dream of returning home somehow or in some way, but undoubtedly Genevieve would return there alone. She pushed her doubts aside and stepped into the welcoming warmth of the tavern.
Until Metz.
* * *
‘Twas late that night afore Genevieve played, the tumblers having astounded the patrons, a mute conjurer having prompted chuckles from many a merry mouth and even Odo’s clear voice having been heard. The crowd had thinned when Genevieve lifted her lute into her lap and bent over it to play.
All night she had sat pressed against Wolfram, and for the first time since the loss of her grandparents a year past, Genevieve had not felt so alone. Warm he was, the rumble of his rare chuckle enough to produce her own smile. The past meant naught to her this night—they were but two amid a troupe of twenty, all bent upon the same path. Wolfram hurt, and Genevieve knew that she had consoled him.
What threat was there after all to consoling a man pledged to a monastic order? Naught had she to risk by following her impulse, for no ill-begotten ideas could such a man have of her intent. And no doubt had Genevieve that as soon as they gained Metz, both Wolfram and Odo would abandon this curious conviction that they were safer together.
She would be alone then, as she never had been alone before, for she would not even have the drunken companionship of Alzeu. On this night, Genevieve could not chastise herself for counting her blessings, such as they were.
The music she summoned from her lute, as always, bore evidence of all these thoughts and feelings. It swirled with a richness Genevieve had never yet found. Though she heard the patrons fall silent in wonder, she could do naught but savor the fruit of her own hands, even as she marveled at its beauty.
She closed her eyes and rocked with the rhythm, letting the music take the tune where it would, her fingers naught but a means for it to gain its voice. The tune was cajoling, it soothed and eased, it spoke of gentle compassion and understanding, it uplifted and induced each and every one present to savor the sweetness of this night.
‘Twas only after considerable time that Genevieve realized she played for Wolfram.
Her eyes opened and she looked to him before she could check her response, her fingers faltering not a whit on the strings. He gazed at her with a fixedness that made her heart skip a beat. In that enchanted moment, it seemed there was naught but the two of them in this smoky and crowded tavern.
The music surged forth as if to invite him closer, and his eyes blazed in the shadows with an intensity that made Genevieve shiver. Still she could not turn away. In some refuge of her mind, she knew this night would not pass without incident, yet she welcomed the revelation wholeheartedly. A glimmer there was within Wolfram’s eyes that he had not permitted her to see before. Indeed Genevieve wondered whether any had glimpsed this flicker of longing within him.
A heat she found in the silver she had long thought cold, and Genevieve knew that the tentative dawning she had sensed within him had blossomed yet further. Wolfram’s fettered heart had been unleashed, and with that knowledge, her own heart leapt in response.
Genevieve wanted to console him. She wanted there to be just the two of them this night. She wanted this moment when their gazes locked and all else faded to naught to endure as long as she could make it so.
Alone Genevieve would be within a matter of weeks. Pledged to his Order for life was Wolfram. And should their paths be destined to part, as Genevieve knew they must be, then she would have the passion of one more kiss to call her own.
She did not fool herself that Wolfram would ever abandon his vows for her, nor did she even expect him to return her regard. She but wanted to taste him again, to feel his lips pressed against hers, to feel the thump of his heart beneath her fingertips. So lost was she in the mists wrought by her own music that she did not think to question the fervor with which she wanted that kiss.
* * *
Wolfram was powerless against the allure of the lute that night.
Indeed, he had hoped Genevieve would not play, even as he wanted naught else, his emotions warring throughout the evening with unprecedented vigor. When Odo nodded and she picked up the lute lovingly, it had been almost a relief to have the matter resolved.
But then the sweetness had unfolded from her fingertips. The music made Wolfram ache as it never had before, but he could not even protest its invasion. Recollections were unleashed with an abandon he could not check.
‘Twas the shock of seeing a Temple desecrated that had undone him. Faith had Wolfram nurtured all the way from Paris, even after seeing his brethren arrested. Faith had he cultivated within himself that the Order would rise up and survive this miscarriage of justice. Certainty had he built within himself that the king’s misguided rule would be overturned, that the Pope would arrive triumphant and the Templars would ride again.
The burning of this Temple completely dismissed his conviction. Should both populace and king scorn the Order and the papacy not intervene, then the Order itself could not survive. The papacy’s silence would condemn even those Temples outside France to fade away, as well. Other kings would act similarly once they knew no repercussion would come from Rome. ‘Twas only a matter of time.
Everything to which Wolfram was pledged was gone. The conclusion was inescapable. It might well take some time for every structure to crumble, but no longer could he deny the truth before him.
No more Rule was there to guide Wolfram’s life. No longer was he beholden to the will of the Master. No longer was his obedience expected or required. No more boundaries and restrictions were there upon him. Yet no more security was there, either. No more had Wolfram the certainty of three meals a day and meat thrice a week. No longer could he be sure of garments to warm his back and a horse beneath him when required.
The shock of change was simultaneously invigorating and terrifying. Wolfram knew not what he would do, where he would go, how he would earn his own keep. Should he pledge himself to another Order? Should he stay within the comfort of this troupe? He knew not, and indeed, the possibilities were so endless as to be impossible to count.
And the music did naught to soothe his thinking. It roused yet more emotion and, as a man used to making decisions dispassionately, Wolfram found the influx to be near overwhelming. He closed his eyes to the sting of smoke and dared himself to look within. He heard the pulse of his own heart in the forefront of the lute’s siren’s call and felt the heat of the blood coursing through his veins.
Alive he was, despite all the storms he had weathered in this life. A survivor he was, unlike the unfortunate sergeant in this town and mayhap those he had left behind. Wolfram was alive and unfettered, and that realization sent a curious feckless joy coursing through him.
He was alive! Wolfram recalled with sudden fierceness the sweet splendor of Genevieve’s kiss. No more was the touch of a woman forbidden to him.
And something there was of this world he had not tasted. An act there was that was life-affirming beyond all else, and Wolfram had yet to claim that experience for his own. He burned for it now, as he never had before. Something there was that a man could not savor alone, and now, freed of his vows as he was and invigorated with the glory of life, Wolfram was free to sample of that feast.
He opened his eyes to fi
nd Genevieve’s gaze upon him. Her eyes were wide and his breath caught at the certainty that he saw that same desire reflected there. His pulse quickened with the promise of her eyes.
Aye, this night Wolfram would know the fullness of mating. He imagined how Genevieve would writhe beneath him and his body responded with a vigor fit to make him dizzy. Genevieve flushed, as though she guessed his very thoughts, but she did not look away. Wolfram grinned, despite himself.
Aye, this night would well be one to remember, and a fitting start to his new life.
Chapter Twelve
It seemed to Wolfram that the patrons would never leave.
He was restless, impatient with their dallying, even though he could well understand the appeal of Genevieve’s playing. The music of the lute bolstered his resolve and lifted his spirits, convincing him as he watched her delicate fingers dance across the strings that his choice was both right and good.
Genevieve would be his this night. The very thought thickened him beyond belief, and he fidgeted impatiently.
Then, finally, the last of them filtered out into the night. There was a slight fluster of activity as those members of the troupe who had not already dozed off before the hearth found places to sleep.
“A garret is there, as well, that none is using this night,” the keeper informed Odo. Clearly that man was well pleased with the benefit the troupe had brought his business on this wintry night. “‘Tis cold up there, yet welcome you are to its privacy.”
That word struck a welcome chord within Wolfram, and he fired a glance fraught with significance in Odo’s direction. Odo caught his gaze and lifted a brow, though he asked naught afore he accepted. He nodded almost imperceptibly, and Wolfram knew in that instant that the loft would be his alone.
His and Genevieve’s.
Wolfram turned to her again, watching hungrily as she loosened the lute’s taut strings, as was her habit. Her fingers danced over the instrument in a fleeting caress, and he imagined her small hands fluttering across his skin in much the same manner. Wolfram swallowed carefully just as Genevieve glanced up and their gazes collided.
He could not look away. Neither could he take a breath.
Genevieve appeared struck motionless, as well. Her lips parted slightly, her eyes widened in some measure of surprise, but she did not move away. Wolfram’s heart hammered in his ears and he dared to take a bold step forward.
Genevieve’s gaze never wavered.
Blind to those few still around him, Wolfram took another step, then another, each easier than the last, until he stood directly before her. Genevieve stared up at him mutely, the soft expression in her eyes enough to set his very flesh to burning.
Would she truly permit this familiarity? What if she spurned him? What if she turned aside? What if she had no desire to mate with him?
He recalled the sweet press of her lips on his, and an increasingly familiar ache was launched within him at the very promise of tasting her once more. Stunned by his own audacity and knowing he was on unfamiliar ground, Wolfram inhaled sharply and dared to offer Genevieve his hand.
To his complete astonishment, she smiled. Then she slipped her hand into his and rose to her feet so that they stood toe-to-toe. Wolfram did not dare to breathe. He froze in place, uncertain what she intended to do.
Genevieve stretched to her toes, laid her other hand flat on his chest and brushed her lips across his. Wolfram was certain his heart stopped. She pulled back slightly to eye his response, and he imagined she saw the wonder in his eyes, for she smiled affectionately.
Then she cupped his jaw in her delicate little hands, leaned against him so that he was certain he could feel her beaded nipples and kissed him full on the lips.
She agreed! The tavern spun giddily about Wolfram at the realization. He knew not how she had guessed his intent, but he cared naught.
Blood rushed in his ears, and he closed his eyes, his entire world focused on the tempting softness of Genevieve. Wolfram’s hands found the neat indent of her waist and he lifted her against him, willing her to understand that ‘twas no small thing he desired of her. He wanted her to feel his arousal and harbor no doubts of his intent.
Wolfram inclined his head slightly, that he might sample her more fully, and Genevieve opened her mouth to his in surrender. Her fingers tangled in his hair and she moaned gently beneath his embrace, the smothered sound making desire roar unchecked within him.
She desired him! Wolfram lifted Genevieve yet higher and cradled her against his chest as his kiss deepened. He wanted to sample every bit of her flesh, he wanted to know her body as well as he knew his own, he wanted to be intimate with her as he had never been with another being in his life. He wanted to share and be shared, he wanted to explore and be explored, and in that heady instant, he wanted to take a lifetime to discover all of her.
Wolfram nuzzled her neck, loving the way she gasped against his throat, everything masculine within him savoring how she strained against him. His woman she would be this night. He burrowed his nose beneath the neckline of her kirtle and smelled the intoxicatingly feminine scent of her skin, and his passion redoubled.
The fire crackled and Wolfram abruptly recalled their circumstances. He reluctantly lifted his lips from Genevieve’s, his heart thumping at the way she collapsed dreamily against him. Slowly she opened her eyes, and he caught his breath when she smiled up at him as though he was the only man in the world.
Privacy they needed in this moment of moments.
“The garret,” Wolfram whispered. She hesitated and he feared for a heartbeat that she would decline, but then she impaled him with that emerald regard. A thrill ran through him when Genevieve smiled a secretive smile and nodded hastily.
“Aye,” she breathed, and he could not believe that Dame Fortune would smile so upon him. Too much ‘twas that they should be of one accord in this matter. He took her hand, still disbelieving, but she took her lute in the other hand matter-of-factly and accompanied him without protest.
The weight of her hand in his filled Wolfram with a protective pride, an urge to see her safe and warm, to see her cherished this night that she might recall the memory with favor. This night he would leave Genevieve with naught to regret.
Though his ears burned at the teasing catcalls that followed them, Wolfram did not look back.
When they gained the second floor, naught but the slow breathing of the sleeping patrons filled Wolfram’s ears. The cool darkness enfolded them in its embrace, and he regretted not bringing a lantern. He found the second set of stairs with his hand, their span much narrower than those from the first floor, and led Genevieve to their sanctuary.
‘Twas cold in truth here, as the keeper had warned, for the shutters on the small windows at either end of the loft were poorly fitted. The ethereal light from the falling snow filtered around their edges and granted enough light to see shadows and silhouettes. The roof was steeply pitched, and the air was redolent with the scent of the fresh wooden casks stacked to either side.
Wolfram could smell the hops from the beer stored within them as his awareness of the woman behind him redoubled. Uncertainty assailed him now that they were alone once more. Only under the ridgepole itself could he stand, and he straightened there, turning to confront Genevieve.
She eyed him for a long moment, then her gaze flicked away and back. “Blankets there are here,” she murmured quietly as though fearing to awaken someone.
Her voice wavered slightly, that minuscule sign of her own uncertainty the only reassurance Wolfram needed. He could well enough be strong for her—in fact, he owed her naught less in this moment.
He reached down and lifted her lute from her grasp, surprised yet again at how readily she released it to him. Wolfram laid the instrument carefully aside atop the casks and tucked the warmth of Genevieve against his side.
She resisted not at all. One arm around her shoulders, he touched her chin with the fingertips of his other hand and tilted her face to his. She watched him
, the very sight of her trust flooding him with awe. Wolfram brushed one fingertip across the petal-softness of her lips, and Genevieve’s lashes fluttered closed even as she released a ragged little sigh.
She desired him. Wolfram needed naught else to restore his confidence.
“Come to bed, Genevieve,” he whispered. She opened her eyes languidly, and her unexpectedly intense green gaze locked with his once more.
“Aye, Wolfram,” she murmured, a heat burgeoning in her expression as she scanned his features and evidently found something she sought there. “If you will come with me.”
Wolfram smiled. “‘Tis too cold this night to leave a lady to sleep alone,” he answered. Genevieve smiled in return, her smile a curious mingling of shyness and audacity that made his heart pound in his ears.
“Well did I suspect you were a gentleman,” she breathed. Wolfram chuckled despite himself and pulled her closer.
“I would not disappoint, milady,” he promised against her lips.
“Nay.” Her hands slipped around his neck, their feather-light touch making Wolfram shiver deep inside.
He lifted her against his chest and kissed her gently, reassuringly, with all the wonder he felt for her and the possibility of this night. She responded with an ardor unexpected that fired his own desire anew. Naught could he think of but Genevieve.
Wolfram carried her to the blankets laid atop a pallet, his fingers urging her laces open before they even reached the wool. Genevieve confounded him by nibbling on his ear in a most disconcerting manner, her hands roving over him hungrily. Now that she had surrendered to the moment, well it seemed that she would embrace it with vigor. The very idea launched Wolfram’s desire yet higher.
The side laces on her kirtle gave way unexpectedly and he pushed the garment over her shoulders with ease. Her loose chemise followed suit with lightning speed, and the sight of her creamy flesh was enough to make him burst his chausses. Wolfram caught his breath as he hesitated and ran one hand cautiously over the warm satin of her shoulder. So soft she was, so delicate, and his resolve faltered slightly.
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