by Ann Lawrence
“Sweet heaven. Explain it to me then.”
“I must see to Felice,” she said, and broke out of his embrace. He caught her at the ladder.
He put himself between her and the way down. “She’ll make herself known; doubt it not. Now explain what you were doing.” He held out the vial.
Sorrow flitted across her face before she spoke. “I was resisting you.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
“What?” Durand dropped his hands to his sides. The vial slipped from his fingers to roll away. “You were resisting me?”
Cristina snatched up a length of linen, knelt, and wiped away the wet stain. “Aye, ‘tis a simple matter to make a resistance potion. Any good herbalist can do it.”
Durand shook his head and paced about the small sleeping space surrounded by stores and goods from cloth to casks of pickled herring. “You were resisting me. Mon Dieu. Would that you had made such a potion for me weeks ago.”
She sat back on her heels and dropped the cloth, her expression stricken.
“I can still do so, my lord.” The words were like thorns on her tongue.
“Nay, resistance is not what I desire.” He raked his hands through his hair. “I thought you had poison. That you wanted to end… What is the matter with me? You, of all women, do not lack courage.”
He extended his hand. Hers was cool and smooth in his. He pulled her to her feet. They stood there, hands clasped. “Do you truly wish to resist me?” he asked softly.
In answer she tugged her hand away and headed for the ladder. He followed her down. Felice lay nestled in her sheepskin, eyes closed, lips moving as if she suckled in her sleep.
“You have not answered me,” Durand said when Cristina took up her stick and stirred the laundry with great vigor. “Do you want to resist me?”
She sighed and looked at him over the rising steam. “Verily, you are not the smartest man in Christendom, are you?”
Her insult made him grin. “Lest I completely shame myself, let me guess why you felt a need to drink a resistance potion.”
All signs of amusement left his face. Cristina thought him the finest man she had ever seen. Every line of his face, from his stubborn jaw to his noble nose, reminded her that his birth and ancestors destined him for another, more worthy woman.
Durand pulled the paddle from her hand and cast it aside. “You took a resistance potion because you are as hopelessly bewitched by me as I am by you. But, in truth, you do not want to resist this thing between us any more than I.”
She shook her bowed head.
He folded her into his embrace. The back of her gown was damp beneath his hands. “The king has plans for me, else you would be mine, claimed this instant, part of my body and blood.”
How his words touched her with joy and equally with sorrow.
“I understand,” she said, the words barely making it past her tongue. “You must act for your sons, as all barons do.”
“I did not speak lightly when I said you’re to take Felice and go. Besides the king and queen there is someone here who aided Simon, and that person is still unknown. Until I return, I will not rest easy with you here unprotected. I shall have Father Laurentius will arrange everything that your days shall be filled with joy. Never will you want for anything from now until the day you die.”
He did not understand. There would be no joy without him. And that thought pierced the shield about her heart.
She squeezed his waist and rubbed her nose on his chest. “We will miss you.” How little the words meant when she wanted to cry out at the unfairness of it all.
He tipped up her chin. “I spoke to the king in hopes he might find Lady Nona another husband. He did not look kindly on my wish to be shed of her. In truth there are many who might make a fine match for her, but John will use this as a stick to beat me into submission. Should I refuse to wed Lady Nona, John will seize both her property and mine.”
Cristina went to the window and threw open the shutters. The rain had stopped, but the sky was still filled with clouds. The view was not the heady one from the high towers of Ravenswood, but still, it soothed her.
He had no choice but to wed Lady Nona. The fact that he had tried to slip from the king’s plans polished some of the raw edge off her pain.
She looked over her shoulder at Felice. She knew it was likely the babe would wake when it was least propitious, but she wanted this last moment with him.
He went to her and hugged her, but loosely. His heart beat with a slow thud against her cheek.
“We have said this before,” she began. “And if I had drunk the potion, I might not say it now, and yet each time I mean it.” Cristina leaned back to see his expression. Her heart raced. “I wish with all my heart that we might… That is…”
“Just once more,” he finished for her, then settled his lips on hers. Every fiber of his being flashed hot when she moved her body against his. He kissed down the damp line of her throat and chest, down her middle until he knelt before her.
He ran his hands up the backs of her legs to her hips as his mouth pressed to the apex of her thighs.
To do just this, on her skin, to breathe her essence, to rub his cheek against the smooth skin of her belly, would be paradise.
She crumpled to the floor, her skirts at her waist. He touched a kiss to the tender flesh on the inside of her knee.
“Durand.” His name was sweet on her lips. “Undress for me. I want to feel your body against mine.”
He did as bidden and watched her as she also disrobed. He spread his tunic on the floor.
“Now,” she whispered, and put out her hand.
But he shook his head in denial of her request. There was something raging within him, something so frantic that if he let it loose, he might harm her.
He took her hand and guided it to his hot flesh. “Touch me,” he said. She made a soft, breathy sound in her throat. Her fingers curled about him.
He whispered, conscious of his daughter who slumbered so close by. “What more can a man wish than to lay with the woman who is all he desires?”
The full, ripe shape of her body drew him with unmerciful need. Her hand was no longer gentle. She urged and inflamed.
“There is no resistance potion strong enough to combat this,” he said against the smooth skin of her shoulder. Shocks of sensation cascaded from his belly to his feet. He floated on the edge of madness, saved only when she let him go.
She fisted her hands in his hair and arched to the kiss he placed on her breast, then lower and lower to her inner thigh. Her body bloomed with the scent and heat of passion’s thrall.
When his lips moved to the core of her, she gave a sharp exclamation, bitten off before it escalated to more.
He breathed the heady scent of her and licked up the sweet essence that would envelop and ease his way.
“Durand.” She gasped when he moved up her body.
Her nails bit into his arms as he thrust into her heat. For several long moments he held himself still, gazing into her eyes, combing her hair from her brow, examining the precious face that would soon be seen only in his memories. “How can just once be enough?” he asked.
“You rule my heart, my lord,” she said. Tears slipped from her eyes. He lapped them with his tongue and then drew their moisture across her trembling lips.
Her heart raced against his hand when he placed his palm to her breast. “As much as I thought I knew of making love…” He gasped as her hips lifted beneath him. “Yet until you…I knew nothing of being loved,” he said.
With an iron will, he held himself in check against a quick end, knowing it would be their last. As slowly as if he measured precious gold, he slid in and then out of her. Her hands roamed his back, buttocks, hips, shoulders, and hair. She whispered his name again and again along with indistinguishable sounds of suppressed passion.
“Hold nothing from me, Cristina.”
He thought his heart might cease its beat when she pulled his head near and whi
spered. “I love you,” she said so softly he thought he might have dreamed it.
Then she gasped, her thighs tightening on his hips. She had found her pleasure. Still, he waited. He fought a need to move, to give in to it, until each pulse of her body had stilled.
When she settled beneath him, he rose over her. Outside the window, a thrum of raven’s wings beat time to the pulse of his ending.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Cristina woke to the inky shadows of early morn. Opening the shutters, she saw that stars filled the sky outside. It was clear. A fine day for sailing.
The open window allowed an eddy of air to sweep out the scent of boiled clothing. Returning to where Durand lay on their piled clothing, she placed Felice between them and fed her. He woke and smiled. Gently, he skimmed his fingertips across the babe’s cheek to her breast and back again.
She reached out and linked her fingers with his.
“Could you be a mistress?” he asked.
She knew why he asked. A noble woman ofttimes tolerated her husband’s concubines.
She shook her head. “I could never share you. When I was tied to Simon, I could pretend what I felt for you was just desire, though you filled my thoughts day and night, but now… Nay, I could never share you. I am possessive of my love. It pains me that you could so easily do so—”
He rose on his elbow and interrupted her. “Nothing about this is easy. Most especially this parting.” He then rubbed his hand over his face. “Neither of us would be content with such an arrangement, but I had to ask.”
Felice stirred between them at the rising voices over her.
“Is that what all men do when passion claws, Durand? Take a mistress?” She wished that she could see his face clearly.
“I have never taken a mistress, for in truth, I thought I had all I desired at Ravenswood.” He leaned over and kissed her. “Now I still have all I desire right here, yet out of reach.”
His kisses were gentle, but filled her with a longing she knew would go unfulfilled.
“I’m sorry, Cristina, that I made such a ruin of your life.”
She gripped his hand. “None of this is your fault!”
“Aye, I must admit that I brought you the Aelfric to tempt you. I may not have realized it when I fetched it, but the result was the same.”
She smoothed her fingers along his furrowed brows. “I was tempted ere you brought the book, and Simon, I fear, was tempted by riches and women long before we came to Ravenswood. He chose to steal the book. Please, do not leave me with regrets.”
He enfolded her in his arms, the babe between them, and kissed them both. “If I can regain Marion’s properties then I have no need to wed, and might yet convince the king of such.”
Cristina said nothing. She knew in her heart that even if he regained the properties, he would never be hers. If the king agreed to release him from marriage to Nona, still he would not then allow him to align himself to a penniless woman.
“Had I no children, I would give all I possess to Luke and have him marry Nona!”
The trees became outlined against the brightening sky. “You must go, Durand. Now. Ere your men seek you.”
Her words worked a devastating magic. He stood up. She could just distinguish the beautiful lines of his body as he drew on his clothing.
There were no words to capture what lay in her heart. And if there were, she did not know them. Instead, when he knelt by her and stroked his fingers along her cheek, she turned her head and kissed his palm.
“Bar the door when I leave and expect some of my men to arrive shortly; I’ll not have you here alone. And look for Father Laurentius—he’ll have charge of your care,” he reminded her.
Awkwardly he bent down and kissed the sleeping babe’s head, then cupped Cristina’s cheek. “I have desired you from the first moment I saw you, but I think I fell in love watching you care for Felice.”
Then he was gone.
As she lay there, the white-washed ceiling overhead blurred with her tears. Outside, his horse snorted and shook in a harsh jangle of harness when led from the stable. She hastily rose to her feet and ran to the window, Felice in her arms, to catch a final glimpse of him as he rode off.
Durand mounted and turned his horse to face the cottage. As if he could see her in the shadows, he lifted his gloved hand.
Low mist lay across the ground. Morning stars filled the sky. The wind was fresh and would blow the fog away. He would sail to Normandy, and she would never see him again.
“Go with God,” she whispered when he was lost in the dawn mist.
* * * * *
Durand shifted in the saddle as he pushed the horse to quicker pace. Every muscle of his body still ached from combat, exacerbated by a night on a hard wooden floor. He watched the dawn blush conceal the stars. How clear the day would be.
How clear everything seemed in such air.
He must somehow have Cristina as his wife. He wanted to watch her move about a chamber in the light of a fire. He wanted to call her to him and see her face light with pleasure.
He wanted to know that such a woman valued him.
There must be an answer to this coil. He had all of his time in Normandy to think of a way out of marriage to Nona. What if her father could be persuaded the match was an ill-conceived venture? He could don a reputation as a drunken lout so that no father would have him… Nay, many a father in search of a wealthy connection would give away a daughter no matter the man’s reputation.
When Durand reached the bailey, a man waved him down. His mews-master.
“My lord. The most strange thing has happened.” The man wrung his hands. “The ravens are gone. I swear to you, I did naught—”
Durand circled his mare about the man. “I have not time for this. They’re birds, they’ll be back.”
He cantered straight to the chapel. Dismounting, he threw open the door and stood there, hands on hips. He saw Father Laurentius, head close with Father Odo. With great impatience he waited for the two holy men to notice him.
Laurentius saw him first. “Thank God, my lord. The king was quite piqued to find you ‘missing’ last night. He wants you joined with Nona ere you leave for France.” The priest hurried toward him, his already austere features pinched with anxiety.
A fire ignited in Durand’s chest. “Now? What in all of God’s kingdom is served by that?”
“Your cooperation, I’m sure, my lord. Last night, John said he was sailing today whether William Marshall was back or not, and three barons balked over the decision. Now come. Let us wake the lady and see to the business. I do dearly wish to get back to Winchester.”
“I need a moment,” Durand said, extricating his arm from Laurentius’ sharp grip.
He walked to the fore of the chapel and sank to his knees. The two priests would never disturb a man at prayer. Clasping his hands, he set his mind to a scheme to prevent this hasty wedding.
When he finally arose, the two priests waved anxiously for him to go. “Come, come, we must see to the wedding,” Laurentius said.
Durand shook them off. “Delay in some way.” He strode to the chapel doors.
“But my lord! Where shall we say you are?” Father Odo called.
“Tallying up my bridal gifts,” he replied as he stepped from the chapel into the clear, fine day.
* * * * *
Nona’s delicate features were pinched with anxiety. She stood in the counting room, Luke by her side. Her hair was down, her rich blue gown in disarray. It was obvious she had been given as little time to compose herself before the wedding as he.
“Leave us, Luke,” Durand said. When would he ever look upon his brother without a cold anger coursing through him?
“Durand,” Luke began. “There is something I must tell you.”
“Luke, if you don’t leave within the next few moments, I’ll tear your head from your shoulders, spit it, and roast it.”
Lady Nona gasped. Her hand went to her throat. Luke said nothing. His
face flushed to the roots of his hair. “As you wish,” he finally said. He bowed to Nona and walked stiffly to the door.
“Set a guard,” Durand ordered.
“As you wish,” his brother repeated coldly, and left.
“Sit, my lady.” Durand gestured to the hearth bench. “Father Laurentius informs me the king wants our wedding to take place ere we sail today.”
She nodded. Her fingers were tightly woven together. “My lord, I—”
He interrupted her. “I don’t care what you think of what I’m about to say, but I ask simply that you hear me out.”
“I will hear you, my lord, but then I ask that you hear me.”
“Certainly.” He nodded. “You come from an illustrious family, and any man would be flattered to be aligned with it. But I find I have enough ancestors and alliances already, and, having so recently suffered the loss of a wife, I don’t yet wish to wed.”
“I beg your pardon?” Lady Nona’s mouth dropped open.
“However, as much as I do not wish to wed, the king has demanded the forfeiture of all you own, and all I own, should we refuse this match. ‘Tis my belief that he’ll care much less about it if he’s victorious in Normandy. Therefore I ask that you cooperate in a scheme to put off the wedding until we return.”
Durand watched Nona open her mouth and close it several times. She must feel like unwanted baggage.
“What scheme is that, my lord?” she finally managed. “I have no wish to be consigned to the king’s dungeons or a convent for reluctant brides.”
“This is not a time for levity,” Durand said sharply. “I ask that we postpone the wedding. Should John still insist when we return, then I’ll honor the bargain.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
Durand thought he detected a touch of vinegar in her tone. If she was insulted that he did not treasure the match, that was unfortunate, but unavoidable. “The scheme is this—you will become gravely ill, so ill you cannot possibly wed. Your illness will be a catching one, and you’ll remain ill until our return.”
An incredulous look overspread her face. “What if the campaign takes months?”
