by Lara Adrian
“Y-you think we should?”
“At the very least, I reckon we should take this opportunity to make the queen aware of our recent trouble with Hugh de Wardeaux.”
“Then you will come?” Josette asked excitedly, oblivious of the cold undercurrent in Cabal's voice. She did not wait for confirmation before hurriedly instructing some of her servants to hasten ahead to Beaucourt with the news of her sister's arrival.
While Josette issued orders for chambers to be prepared and refreshments to be assembled, Emmalyn slid a guilty glance toward Cabal. His agitation had only increased with this development, and most of it seemed centered on her now.
“I'll send the cart around to pick up the garrison's supplies,” he said. “One of the guards will need to be dispatched to Fallonmour to deliver word of our delay.”
“Of course,” Emmalyn replied.
He handed her the coin purse and stalked away to make the necessary arrangements. Emmalyn watched him disappear into the street, troubled by his cool tone and brusque departure.
She nearly followed him to try to explain about Josette's letter and her want to avoid the queen after she had sent her appeal for help, but just then, from somewhere along the crowd loitering in the shadows of the abbey walls, a beggar rushed forth. He caught Emmalyn by the arm, startling her with the unexpected contact. “Spare a denier or two for a returned Crusader, milady?”
Josette gasped, one pale hand fluttering to her breast. Her men-at-arms advanced on the accoster but Emmalyn held them back with a quick shake of her head. “'Tis all right,” she said.
“Please, milady,” the beggar croaked, his breath reeking of ale and sorely neglected hygiene. “I've been out of work for some three months now--can't recall when I had my last meal...”
“Emmalyn, really, we must be on our way,” Josette called, looking utterly appalled at the filthy vagabond clutching her sister's arm.
The dark, ragged hand on her sleeve bothered Emmalyn beyond reason, perhaps because it reminded her how fortunate she was to be healthy and well-fed in a time when many were starving in England. Feeling generous because of her boon at the fleece market today--and guilty for her indulgence over her own purchases and those of her sister--Emmalyn dug through her purse and deposited half a sous in the beggar's hand.
“Thank ye kindly, milady. 'Tis most generous.” He grinned up at her as his fingers closed around her coins. “If it please ye, I should like to offer up a special prayer for ye this eve in chapel. Will ye tell me, madam, what be the name of God's own angel who delivered me from the pain of hunger today?”
“Emmalyn,” she answered somewhat uneasily, finding herself increasingly eager to be away from this man. “Lady Emmalyn of Fallonmour.”
It was difficult to see the subtle lift of his brows through the grime and unruly mop of hair that covered his face, but the reaction of surprise had not gone unnoticed. His eyes lit with a peculiar questioning light, the beggar bowed his head and began to back off into the crowd. “My thanks,” he said, offering her a queerly disturbing smile. “God be with ye...Lady Fallonmour.”
Chapter 22
In the day that had passed since the trade fair, Cabal had not been able to see Emmalyn alone, much less find a private moment in which to speak to her. From the time they had arrived at the expansive Beaucourt Castle, Lady Josette had managed to keep her sister occupied and never out of her reach. She had sequestered her all day in the ladies' chambers and then cocooned her at last night's meal within a circle of noble guests and attendants. Cabal, meanwhile, had been left alone to brood with his troubling thoughts, alternating between what Emmalyn might decide to say to the queen when she arrived that evening, and the more pressing concern sparked by Rannulf's appearance in the market yesterday.
For what had not been the first time, Cabal regretted that he hadn't simply done away with the potential threat right there in the center of the market. It would have been easy enough. The brigand had accosted him on a public street. Many had witnessed Cabal's sizable trade at the armorer's booth; who was to gainsay him that this beggar had seen the transaction, too, and then demanded some of the coin for himself? Who would doubt that he had posed a danger to Cabal's life as well as his purse?
Cabal's dagger had been poised to kill; it would have been no trouble at all to drag the razor-sharp blade across Rannulf's throat and claim the act self-defense, that he was only protecting his lady's hard-won coin from a desperate thief. Who there would have questioned him? Indeed, who would have cared?
Blackheart, Rannulf had called him in the street. What a jest the name was coming to seem to Cabal now! Blackheart would have laced Rannulf open simply for daring to call him thus in a public setting. Blackheart would have immediately recognized the threat that Rannulf posed and eliminated it--without hesitation or afterthought. Blackheart would have no cause to waste time cursing his mistake and dreading what his inaction might one day cost him with Emmalyn.
Being kept away from her was making him mad with impatience. He needed to see her, touch her, assure himself that she cared for him. Perhaps he needed to assure himself that he was not the same person Rannulf had known in Palestine. His time at Fallonmour had changed him. With Emmalyn, he was a better person. With Emmalyn, he had hope.
Deciding then and there that he would wait no longer to see her, Cabal strode into the castle with solitary purpose. He passed the furious activity in the hall, dodging the scurrying maids who rushed hither and yon with buckets of wash water and brooms. On the stairwell leading to the guest chambers, a troop of a dozen servants filed past him carrying fresh linens and newly made feather bolsters. The corridors on the second and third floors rang with the excited chatter of maids and attendants, everyone flitting about in nervous haste over the preparations being made for the evening's grand reception and a pending royal visitation.
Perhaps Cabal should have been anxious himself to think that he might catch a glimpse of the venerable queen Eleanor in a few short hours, but the only person he wanted to see at the moment was hidden away from him behind a thick oak door. He stood outside Emmalyn's chamber and waited for two serving women to pass by before he knocked. What greeted him was a vision of loveliness that verily left him speechless.
“Cabal!” Emmalyn exclaimed, her green eyes wide with surprise. “I thought you were the tailor come to finish my gown for the feast tonight. What are you doing here?”
She was garbed in a flowing kirtle of lustrous violet silk, the color of which he had seen only on nature's palette before. Thin ribbons of the same exquisite fabric had been adorned with small glass beads and woven into her plaited hair, the heavy blond coils gathered atop her head like a shining crown of purple and gold. When he could only stare at her in awe, Emmalyn grasped his hand and brought him into the chamber, pushing the door closed behind them.
“Josette insisted I should have something fine to wear at this evening's feast. Do you like it?” she asked, twirling before him and then looking up uncertainly. “'Tis not quite finished; the tailor still has to sew on the edging and fit me with a veil and girdle...”
Cabal could not see where the gown or the woman in it needed any improvements. The silk bodice fit Emmalyn's delicate figure like sheer perfection: clinging to the rise of her bosom and the artful shape of her shoulders and arms; following the curve of her tiny waist and the gentle flare of her hips the very way he wanted to follow her form now with his hands. The long, sweeping skirts fell to the floor in soft folds, emphasizing the graceful length of her legs. The toe of one intricately embroidered slipper peeked out from under the hem.
“You look...enchanting,” he told her, struck beyond words.
She beamed, placing a quick kiss to his cheek. “I am glad you came to see me. I've missed you. I cannot wait for us to be back home at Fallonmour.”
He flicked one of the tiny beads in her hair, watching it twinkle in the morning sunlight. “Yes, I can very well see why you would wish to be away from all of this,” he quipp
ed wryly. “Would that your sister's tailor had outfitted you in sackcloth instead, my lady. I am loath to consider the sort of torture I will be forced to endure tonight, watching you bedazzle every man in the hall.”
She soothed his sullenness with a brilliant smile, wrapping her arms around his torso and gazing up at him wide-eyed. “Why, Sir Cabal, I do not believe my ears! You are jealous!”
He was, although the idea did not thrill him half as much as it seemed to please her. He had no right to feel possessive of Emmalyn. No right to want to keep her barred in this room where he alone could admire her. Here, where she would see only him, and have no time at all for the countless fancy lords who would surely vie for the beautiful young widow's attention at the gala this eve.
Would one of them be the man Richard would eventually choose for her husband?
Damnation, how the notion of her being wed to another burned him now. What he felt when he thought about her being sent to marry someone else surpassed jealousy. It nigh consumed him. Knowing it was only a matter of time before he would be dispatched to another mission, likely never to see her again, was as though a piece of him were being torn slowly from his chest. He was not sure he could bear it.
What was this desperate, aching feeling she stirred in him?
Looking down into Emmalyn's clear, warm gaze, Cabal felt some of his lingering, petulant mood begin to melt away. She was his in the only way it mattered; the truth was there, if he could trust his eyes that what he saw reflected in her face was real. Although at the moment, he would rather feel her need for him, know it was as strong as what he felt for her.
Pulling her closer, he kissed her, letting his mouth cover hers, tasting the sweetness of mint on her breath as she opened her lips to him. His need jolted through him, hot as a flame, rocking him to the core. He tore away from her kiss, his body tense with hunger and quickening with desire. He trembled with the force of it. “God, Emmalyn, what is it you have done to me? I can hardly stand to be away from you.”
“We'll be home tomorrow eve,” she whispered, bringing his hand to her mouth and pressing her lips to his palm. “Everything will be as it has been. 'Twill be better than before.”
But Cabal did not want to wait, not when every passing moment brought him that much closer to Emmalyn's learning the truth about the man he was. Being away from her was pure anguish when he thought he might lose her sooner than later.
He stared down at her in hungry silence, feeling a growl curl up from somewhere deep in his belly as she traced a line of kisses from the center of his palm to the tips of his fingers.
“It pleases me to think you are missing me,” she whispered, her breath warm and moist against his skin. With her eyes trained on his, she slid her tongue around the callused pad of his index finger, then slipped it into her mouth, sucking it. Her gaze was innocent, uncertain, but her satin kiss was hot and deliciously brazen. Cabal's body went as rigid as granite.
“Emmalyn,” he rasped, scarcely able to think straight, “you are playing with fire. I want you too much to abide being toyed with now.”
To his anguished delight, she ignored his warning. She drew away from him, her lips glistening with moisture. “I don't want to wait another moment,” she whispered. “I need you to love me, Cabal.”
“I do.” He said it fiercely, reverently, startling himself with the depth of pure feeling that swelled inside him with the voicing of that admission. He hated himself to think how unfair it was to tell her that, when he still withheld a truth that might turn her against him forever. “God help me, Emmalyn,” he said, too weak to risk losing her now, “loving you is all I want to do.”
“Then show me, my lord. Show me now.”
Powerless to deny her, Cabal bent forward, capturing her mouth in a fervent claiming, a soulful kiss, filled with all the passion and anguish that clashed within him in the heat of that moment. She said she needed him to love her, but he had never known a need so strong as the one he felt for Emmalyn. He had never yearned for love, never wanted to be loved like he did now.
“Please, make love to me,” she whispered brokenly, shuddering against him as he let his lips trail down the curve of her neck.
He reached around and unlaced her gown, parting the soft fabric and letting his hands roam over the silky pleasure of Emmalyn's delicate back. Cabal slid the lush gown over her shoulders and let it pool at her feet, baring her and drinking in her beauty like a priceless artifact revealed for the first time. Slowly, he lowered his head, cupping the soft underside of her breast and bringing it up to his mouth. She moaned softly as he caught the dusky nipple between his teeth, coaxing the sugar-sweet pearl to a hardened peak before turning his attention to its perfect twin.
He felt Emmalyn grapple with his tunic, her hands fisting in the fabric at his back, clutching and pulling at it with almost mindless effort as she arched further into his embrace, opening herself to his tender assault. Sharing her frustration for the offending linen barrier, Cabal stripped the tunic off and thrust it away. His sigh mingled with hers when the bare flesh of their torsos met and pressed so deliciously together.
He wanted to go slowly, to savor every beat and nuance of the moment, but his desire proved an urgent and commanding force to reckon with. All it took for him to shed his hose and braies was the feel of Emmalyn's fingers brushing tentatively at his waist, the subtle lift of her hips against his hardened groin. Naked, his desire now unleashed, Cabal's appetite for her was overwhelming.
With a hungered growl, he moved out of her embrace, ignoring her little mewl of protest as he slowly lowered himself before her, raining kisses from her shoulder to her breast, past her stomach and lower, to the tender ridge of her hip and the thatch of silky, golden curls at the juncture of her thighs. Her breathless gasp as he opened her for his kiss nearly unstrung him on the spot. The sweet, musky essence of her body's perfume lured him in like a siren's song, the first heady taste of her sending a bolt of lust coursing like fire through his veins.
She went rigid when he stroked his tongue around the swollen pebble secreted at the crest of her dewy folds, then seemed to slowly melt in his arms as he held her against him, gentling her with his mouth. Never had he heard a more enchanting sound than the soft cry that escaped her as her body began to quicken, her thighs trembling in his hands as he brought her to a frenzied climax, laving her with a savage tenderness that left his own loins heavy and straining for release.
He rose and scooped her into his arms, carrying her to the bed. Gently, he laid her down on the mattress, easing her onto her back as he covered her body with his. “I did not want to rush,” he whispered, a rasping, frustrated apology. “Emmalyn, I need to be inside you.”
“Then come, my lord.”
Her sweet reply, the gentle way she opened her legs for him, was like a balm to the many ancient abrasions on Cabal's heart. He moved his hips forward, entering her with a deep, careful thrust that sapped the breath from his lungs and left his limbs rigid, his body awash in a sheen of perspiration. Emmalyn's gasp of pleasure fanned his ear as he slowly buried himself to the hilt inside of her. Her body flexed around him, the sleek, soft walls of her sheath caressing him with every stroke and withdrawal, coaxing him toward the edge of his teetering control.
Cabal's hope to prolong the moment shattered when Emmalyn started to move in time with him. “Give me all of you,” she commanded breathlessly, arching up to meet his thrusts and urging him deeper with the heat of her kisses and the insistent pull of her hands at his back.
Before long, he was lost, overcome by desire and eager for release from the coil of pressure mounting in his loins. He clutched the coverlet above her head, rocking faster, harder, rejoicing in the look of erotic bliss that came over her as she bit back a whimpering cry and tensed beneath him, caught in the throes of ecstasy. Cabal followed her there in the next instant, shouting her name like a reverent curse as his climax seized him and his seed pumped, swift and hot, recklessly, into the haven of her womb. He trem
bled, feeling his essence fill her--this one last vestige of control, lost to him.
He had no idea how sweet being the vanquished could be.
They lay there, entwined and panting, for some long moments. Emmalyn embraced him, smoothing her hands over his sweat-sheened back, her heart thudding in time with his. He heard her breath hitch slightly, then he felt a small tremor begin to ripple in her chest. Praying he hadn't hurt her in some way, Cabal rose up on his elbows to peer down at her.
Emmalyn was laughing.
Cabal scowled. “I can't say that I expected this reaction,” he drawled, finding it hard to feel wounded when her cheeks were still flushed from arousal, her eyes yet heavy-lidded and dusky with the embers of smoldering passion. “What do you find so amusing, my lady?”
She reached for the disheveled braid that had been coiled so neatly atop her head when Cabal arrived. The ribbons and beads hung in complete disarray now, a good number of the tiny glass orbs dripping off as she unfastened the skewed mass of blond tangles and let it fall down around her shoulders. “I spent most of the morning trying to force my hair into this absurd style,” she said wearily. “I wager Josette would be positively scandalized to see it now.”
“Ah, damn, Emmalyn. I'm sorry.” Cabal rose up on his knees to assess the damage. Her hair was in a shambles and her beautiful gown lay in a heap on the floor. “'Twas selfish of me to come up here like this. Let me help you fix it.”
He reached for what was left of the braid, but Emmalyn sat up and placed her hand over his, shaking her head gently. “I don't want to fix it, Cabal. It didn't suit me anyway. And I am very glad you came up here.” She smiled at him, a sultry, kiss-swollen grin of pure sated pleasure. “I have something for you.”
She scooted off the bed and crossed the room to pick up a small bundle that rested atop a clothing chest. Returning to the bed, she held the package out to him.
“What is it?”
