by Ann Lawrence
She tried to pull away. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Are you coming?” Luke asked, holding the door for them.
“I’m not finished with you,” Simon said, and dropped her arm.
With her stomach tied in knots as tangled as her hair, she followed Luke, Simon a few steps behind, her cheeks hot from his foolish accusation.
In moments they stood in the hall before Durand. Aldwin stood at his right hand. Luke took Felice from her.
“This woman takes too much upon herself—” Aldwin began.
“I assure you, my lord—” Simon began.
But Lord Durand raised a hand, instantly silencing both men. “I have listened to you, Aldwin, but I watched Mistress le Gros minister to the fallen. She did what any good wife would, naught more. Now let us all see this wounded boy. Mayhap, Aldwin, you could give Mistress le Gros some advice on caring for the sick should you be unavailable, as you were today.”
The leech pursed his lips. “As you wish, my lord.” He bowed stiffly and led them all—Simon, Cristina, Durand, and Luke, Felice still in his arms—from the hall. They descended to the cooler levels of the castle storerooms, but heat prickled Cristina’s scalp.
After what seemed like ages to Cristina, the leech turned a key and entered a room lit with several torches.
Smoke blackened the ceiling from years of such illumination. The young man lay on a table, pale as death, naked, several leeches on his breast near a long wound shiny from cauterization. The stench of roasted meat filled the air. They ranged themselves about the table.
Simon cried out and fled down the corridor.
“Weakling,” Aldwin said, plucking off one leech and placing it in a shallow dish.
Cristina picked up the boy’s hand. It was icy, his nails blue. “Should he not be kept warm?” His nakedness offended her. A person should die with dignity, and death, she imagined, was not far off for the youth. Luke and Durand stepped to the foot of the table and considered him.
Her heart ached for the boy’s mother, wherever she was. Gently, and in defiance of Aldwin, she draped a blanket over the youth, then moved around the table and tucked the blanket close about his thin body. Aldwin sniffed derisively as she tended the boy.
“Does he not remind you of someone?” she asked the men.
Lord Durand nodded. “Aye. My son Adrian’s friends. What can you tell Mistress le Gros about your care of him so far, Aldwin?”
The man bristled, but finally his need to display his abilities outweighed his annoyance with her. “I have a very special paste of goose grease and pitch, cooked just so, stored in a stone crock—not earthenware, mind you. It must be stone.” He tapped the boy’s chest. “I’ll lay it on the wound, just so thick, and no thicker,” he splayed his thumb and index finger to indicate the amount, “then apply leeches to the swelling and pray to God, of course.”
With a glance at Lord Durand, she asked a tentative question. “Will you not feed him? Warm his hands and feet?”
“Nay! Food would merely purge itself and foul my herbarium.”
The herbarium was already foul, the rushes old and dirty. “What of some sweet water?”
“Water! You know nothing of healing.” Aldwin shook his head at her ignorance. With a curtsy, she left the room. The others, save Aldwin, followed her.
Luke shifted Felice from one shoulder to the other when he caught up with her. “Do you think the boy should be fed?”
“Aye, but I’m not the healer,” she said, conscious Lord Durand listened and not sure Aldwin did not eavesdrop at his door.
“Nonsense,” Luke said. “Even I know from the battlefield that a weak man is like to die.”
“Then you must make the point to Master Aldwin yourself.” She would not be bait between these men.
“Come.” Lord Durand took her arm. “I shall see the boy is fed and warmed. You shall bathe.”
They reached the hall and Simon met them. His face was white as new milk. “Forgive me, my lord. The smell of burning flesh…I am not used to…that is…”
Durand laid a hand on Simon’s shoulder. It quivered like a bowl of jelled eels beneath his hand. “Say no more. You’re my merchant, not one of my soldiers. Take your wife and see to her.”
When Durand glanced at Cristina, he saw Simon take her arm and lead her in the direction of the tower steps. He thought of what his emotions would be if the blood on her gown were her own.
He would need to kill the man who’d drawn it.
“Luke, find Penne,” he said, turning.
“What for?” Luke bent his head and kissed Felice’s cheek.
Luke. Lord of Skirts.
He thought of Marion’s affection for his brother, a man who laughed, who took pleasure in all things. A man who made love with little thought for consequences.
An arrow of pain shot through Durand’s middle. Was Luke the father of Marion’s child?
Chapter Nine
Durand went directly to Luke’s counting room. He ignored Oriel there by the fire, stitching a tunic for Penne. He threw open the coffer and began to search.
Outside, it began to rain gently. Not so gentle was the storm within him.
Why did he want to know the child’s parentage? To punish.
Could he punish his brother?
He tossed a score or more rolls onto the table. They dated back to Luke’s first assumption of the position as castellan at Ravenswood. Durand had thought the position beneath his brother, but Luke had begged for it, as he knew Ravenswood was meant to be his one day. Now Durand combed the rolls of parchment for some clue to Luke’s assumption of more than just charge of the castle.
“What is it you seek?” Oriel abandoned her mending, sat beside him, and took his hand, turning it over.
He shrugged.
Her fingers were gentle on his. “These blisters may fester. How came they?”
“I fought without gloves.”
“Men are fools. I’ll call for Mistress le Gros.”
“Don’t.” He jerked his hand from hers.
“Why ever not?” She rose and threw open the door before he could prevent it.
“Oriel—”
“Fetch Mistress le Gros with a salve for Lord Durand’s hands,” she ordered the sentry who stood there.
“I have no need of—” Durand began, but Oriel overrode him.
“Nonsense. You are just as Marion said. Stubborn.” She resumed her seat and picked up the tunic.
“What else did she say?” he asked, flexing his blistered hand, knowing that in moments Cristina would arrive.
“She said you made love like a warrior besieging a castle, and that she imagined my gentle Penne would have suited her better.”
Durand stared at her bent, fair head, her quick fingers on her needlework, his cheeks hot. “Penne would have suited her better?” He wanted to snatch the words back into his mouth.
When Oriel raised her eyes, they were flooded with tears. “We both know Penne wanted to wed Marion, but settled for me. And she wanted someone to fawn on her.”
“Oriel. Penne would never fawn on anyone, and he is with me more than away from me.”
“Not in this last year. We have been here, thanks to Philip. And you have scarce visited but twice in this last twelvemonth.”
Durand swallowed. “Penne is well contented with you. He has nothing of which to complain.”
“Save I am childless. With Marion, he would have had sons, a daughter.” A tear rolled down her cheek to stain the bodice of her scarlet gown.
A daughter?
Penne. Mon Dieu. Must he suspect his best friend too?
“My lord?” A sentry stood at his door.
“Aye?” Durand threw the roll he held to join its fellows among the rushes. He resisted the urge to pitch the entire pile into the flames.
“Mistress le Gros, my lord.” The sentry stepped back and she stood in his doorway.
“Excuse me, Cristina.” Oriel bolted through the door.
>
It was all Durand could do not to run after her and shake out of her whatever suspicions were in her mind. But he could not—ever.
“Enter.” He leaped to his feet and glanced about at the castle rolls. “Enter,” he repeated when Cristina merely remained in place.
“The sentry said you are wounded, that I was to come.”
Durand forced his face to hide his inner turmoil. “Lady Oriel is overly concerned.”
“I shall go then,” Cristina said, turning to the door.
“Nay. Stay,” he said before he could prevent the words. Her dark hair was plaited and wound with ivory ribbons. They matched her undergown. Her overgown was the color of ripe butter, unadorned. He needed her presence, whatever succor she offered—the peace that always surrounded her.
“You wounded your arm again?” Her gaze skimmed from his face to his hand. The glance was as tangible as any touch could be.
“Nay.” He held out his left hand, turning it to the light. “It is my hand this time.”
She hastened across the room, nodding at the sentry who remained at the door. He could not afford to dismiss the man.
“Blisters can fester, my lord. You should wear gloves.” She did not touch him, but glanced again at the guard. “I believe Master Aldwin would better serve your purpose.”
“Aldwin tends the wounded boy,” he returned.
“I cannot do this, my lord. Master Aldwin closely guards his place at Ravenswood,” she said, shaking her head. She placed a pot of salve on the table as if it were a serpent that might strike her. “He resents my every foray into his domain.”
“Master Aldwin holds his position at Ravenswood at my pleasure. He has not your touch.”
She remained unmoved.
“Sit.” He made it an order. When she sat, something tight and coiled loosened in his chest.
He lifted the lid on the small pot. “What’s in it, besides mint?” he asked as she dipped her fingers into the pale green goo.
“Dock, almond oil.” After only a moment of hesitation, she took his hand. A shiver of desire and molten need coursed through his body as her fingers smoothed the salve across his blistered palm. Her fingers were gentle, barely touching, yet still sending sensations, nearly unbearable, through his body.
I will never wear gloves again, he thought.
Is this what drove Marion? A touch of desire from someone forbidden?
With what he hoped was indifference, he watched the fire, not their hands, but soon turned to the scattered rolls when the fire in his blood matched that of the hearth. The rolls of parchment merely served to remind him of what he sought.
Luke. Penne. He must know who had sired Felice.
One of them might have betrayed him. Could he ride into battle with a man who was a betrayer? Was this what Old Owen had wanted to warn him about?
Cristina clasped his hand more firmly, stroking her thumbs in his palm. All thoughts of Penne, Luke, and Marion fled.
He felt her touch to the soles of his feet. He no longer resisted her, nor thought of betrayal.
Only her touch, her scent, her luminous skin held him… He frowned. “Where did you get the bruise?” he asked.
“Bruise?” she asked. “I-I didn’t know I had a bruise.”
He raised his free hand and touched her cheek just beneath her eye. “Were you struck by one of the brigands?”
The look on her face told him she was about to lie. Her gaze slid from his, to the torque about his throat. “I must have been, my lord.”
“I would kill the man for you if he were not already dead.”
Her face paled, but she said nothing. Then she bent her head and set herself to her work. She tortured him, skimming and smoothing the salve on his skin. Each touch seduced.
She would soon stop. He placed his other hand on the table.
Without looking up or saying a word, she dipped her fingers in the salve again and began the same torture on his right hand.
Of course…the bruise was the work of Simon. For forgetting her pouch? Or for angering Aldwin? Regardless, Simon would know before the sun set that if he laid a hand on her again, he would rue the day.
But thoughts of Simon also vanished as she drew her fingers down the center of his hand, from wrist to fingertips, gently, slowly. He imagined just such devoted attention to the rest of his body. His manhood filled at the thought, his heartbeat thundered in his chest.
She neatly rolled his shirt to his elbow. Every turn of the fabric stripped away his composure.
“Your wound healed nicely,” she said. Her fingertips wandered along the mark she had tended so recently, lingering on the sensitive new skin. She returned to his hand. There was no longer a need, but still, she again rubbed salve into his palm and fingers. Skimming, soothing, arousing. Every nerve of his body flashed to fire.
“Cristina,” he said.
She shot to her feet. Her body quivered.
“Go,” he ordered the sentry.
When the door closed behind the guard, her words tumbled out in gasping syllables. “My lord. I beg of you. Order me…home.”
He rose and shoved the table away so nothing stood between them. “Send you home? I’m not sure I could sleep at night thinking of you in his bed.”
Her pale face flooded with color. “Please, I beg of you. I have never broken my vows. Do not ask such a thing of me.”
“I would never ask such a thing. You misunderstand me,” he lied. “I have spent my life abiding by vows I have made—to my liege, my wife, God.” This, at least, was perfect truth. “But I do not want you within his reach.” He lifted her face to the light. “This is his work, is it not?”
Her eyes met his, but she said nothing.
“Many a husband has struck a wife, but I somehow… I will not send you home. I want you here. Felice needs you, and Marion would never have countenanced the child’s placement outside the keep.” Why had he fallen back on the child as an excuse? Why not speak the truth and damn the consequences?
She kept her intent gaze on his face.
Damn the consequences.
“I want you. But you need never fear I’ll ask you to break your vows,” he said and found he meant it. There was something gentle and sweet about her that guile would destroy.
He turned his hand over and held it out.
She stared down at it. Hers shook when she slipped it into his. “Would you take a vow on it, my lord?”
“Aye. I vow it.”
Chapter Ten
Cristina left Lord Durand’s chamber and walked slowly to the east tower. She was confused. Her lot lay with Simon, her chance for children and a home. Yet her mind turned again and again to Lord Durand. She had made him vow to her. Could she have so honestly vowed the same in his position?
Alice stopped her in the hall. “Mistress, may I go to the village? The midwife says Rose, in the village, be due ere dawn comes, and I may be needed there.”
“Of course you must go. I will pray for Rose.” She remembered the midwife who had tended her and Lady Marion—a gentle woman who had wept for her lady.
Alone in her chamber save for the sleeping Felice, Cristina dropped her gown over a bench, then wandered about clad only in her shift. In the alcove, she examined the bundles of flowers drying over the worktable.
The air was warm and the damp as it moved lazily through the flowers. She would lose some to rot if the weather did not turn.
She shoved the bed curtains open a bit before lying on the furs. She said her prayers, then closed her eyes as she rolled to her side and drew up her knees. In her mind’s eye she saw Lord Durand’s hands, palm up on the table. He had not the smooth, tended hands of Simon. Nay, Durand’s hands were calloused and blistered, in need of care.
Not her care.
Her heart tapped a bit rapidly at the thought of how she had touched him. Too long. Too intimately. She shifted uncomfortably on the soft mattress.
The sound of men carousing came to her through the stout door. Rai
n pattered on the stone walls in a soothing beat…
Metal scraped on metal as the door latch lifted. Alice must not be needed. Cristina remained still that Alice might settle on her pallet without engaging her in chatter.
A breeze curled mist through the open shutters. As she watched with eyes half-closed, the mist moved like a spirit toward her. With it came his scent. That indefinable forest scent. The scent that was only his. She breathed deeply.
Someone moved quietly across the chamber. Not Alice.
The mattress behind her sagged as someone settled there. Her heart tapped rapidly.
A hand touched her bare shoulder. The hand was callused, rough. His.
He stroked down her arm to her hand and entwined his fingers with hers. “I could not stay away,” he whispered at her ear, his breath warm on her bruised cheek.
The heat of his body warmed her, thrilled her, drove all conscience, all shame, away.
In answer, she drew their linked hands to her mouth. She rubbed the back of his fingers against her lips.
Vows no longer mattered.
Nothing mattered but his touch.
He cupped her face and turned her so she had no choice but to roll to her back. His mouth was hot, his tongue urgent to taste her. She welcomed him, wrapping her arms about his neck and lifting her body to his.
He was naked. Her shift was as negligible as a cobweb between them.
When he swept the shift up her hips and tugged, she lifted that she might feel all of him.
And she did.
His skin was hot, his body aroused.
He tossed her shift to the floor.
A moan escaped her lips, taken into his mouth in that instant as he kissed her. The kiss was gentle.
The kiss ended all doubts.
They lay completely still, his body covering hers. Every touch of his tongue, every brush of his lips, stoked a fire in her body. The fire smoldered, flamed, swept out of her control.
She ran her hands over the hard muscles of his back and cupped his buttocks. He shifted against her, moving his hips to rub the most sensitive parts of her with his own.
Thunder murmured. Rain sluiced down the stone walls outside and within her. Heat ran liquid in her loins.
