The girdle would be it. Christina grimaced and began to break it apart into its component links.
“You might try to seduce me,” Duncan teased, then seated himself on her other side. He smiled at her. “Though you might find it more of an easy victory than you seem to prefer.”
Christina endeavored to match his tone. “And what is that to mean?”
“Only that you seem to like a challenge. It is a rare courtesan who would seek an enduring alliance with a knight like Wulfe. I cannot imagine that you will succeed in that, though I enjoy watching your attempt.”
Christina could not stop herself from glaring at him. He had judged Wulfe and clearly found him lacking, from her observations, though that knight had shown her more kindness than any other man in years. “I am gratified to know that someone finds amusement in my situation.” she said, her tone dismissive, then turned her attention to the kirtle.
Duncan saluted her with his wine and drank deeply of it.
“What will you do with it?” Ysmaine asked moments later. Christina knew the other woman watched her, apparently fascinated. Was it possible that she did not know the import of the girdle?
Christina smiled in anticipation. “Destroy it.” She met Ysmaine’s gaze and found only incomprehension. “It marks me as chattel, and I would be chattel no longer.”
“Has it any value?”
“Its destruction will bring satisfaction, which might be value enough.”
“Will you discard them?”
“Not yet. I will keep them, in case there is a purpose to be wrung from them.”
“Have you a sack for the pieces?”
“Nay. Why?”
“I will give you one,” Ysmaine said, much to Christina’s surprise. “There is one in my belongings for which I have no use.” Christina could not help but stare at her, so astonished was she that a noblewoman would grant her a gift. Ysmaine seemed to be amused by this. “It is only a plain cloth bag.”
“Yet more than any soul has given to me in a very long time.” Christina blinked quickly. “I thank you for this courtesy, Lady Ysmaine. Your kindness is much appreciated.”
The lady left the room to climb to her chamber and Christina found her throat tight. Two souls in this party she would count as innocent—Wulfe and Ysmaine—for she believed she had seen their true natures. Her instinct was to trust them.
The rest had yet to prove themselves, but one she knew for certain was a black-hearted villain.
She had to tell Wulfe the truth so he was warned.
* * *
Pious.
The quality, when linked to Helmut, made Christina want to scoff aloud. She stood in the darkened common room that night, watching Helmut and Joscelin play at dice. Evidently they did this most nights. Evidently Helmut usually won. She lounged in the corner, behind him and out of his view, waiting for Wulfe to leave the cursed stables.
When Gaston abandoned the common room for the stables, she dared to hope that the knights kept watch or some such. She feigned an interest in her nails, noting how Gaston spoke to Duncan, who was wrapped in his cloak in the courtyard and seemed to be their sentry.
To her delight, when Gaston disappeared into the darkness of the stables, Wulfe emerged shortly thereafter. As usual, he moved with purpose, coming directly to the common room. He poured himself a cup of wine, ignoring her pointedly, and watched the game.
Christina knew he could not be interested.
“Finally,” she purred, rising to her feet in one smooth move. She caressed Wulfe’s arm, stole the cup of wine from his hand, and granted him an alluring smile. “I cannot bear to wait any longer.” Then she took the pitcher of wine as well and swept from the room, hoping he would follow.
“I would have another cup!” Joscelin protested.
“Control your whore,” Helmut snarled, and Wulfe’s silhouette appeared in the doorway.
“Take a cup but leave the rest,” he suggested, but Christina fled up the stairs. She heard his footfalls behind her and raced into the chamber, halting before the window with pitcher and cup.
He paused in the doorway, granted her a look, then marched across the room. “What jest is this you play?” he demanded in a growl that made Christina smile.
“I would speak with you. Alone.”
“I have told you…”
“I know which of the party is the villain,” she said with quiet heat, interrupting him.
Wulfe blinked. He glanced from the pitcher to the doorway and back to Christina.
“I suggest that you pretend you cannot resist me,” she murmured. “No one expects a true conversation when people meet abed.” She raised her eyebrows, daring him. “They will never guess that we conspire.”
While he considered that, she raised her voice and darted away from him. “I will not surrender the wine so readily as that,” she declared, her tone mischievous. “My price is a kiss, sir.” Christina laughed, ensuring that she sounded flirtatious. “If indeed you can halt at that.”
She had a moment to fear that Wulfe would not take her challenge, but then his eyes flashed. He grinned and lunged for her. “I shall teach you to challenge me thus, wench,” he cried, and she emitted a sound of delight that did not have to be feigned. She twisted out of his grip and put down the pitcher. When he claimed it, she ran to the far side of the chamber. Once there, she slammed the portal and turned the key in the lock.
Wulfe spun to face her, his surprise clear.
Christina then flung the key out the window to the courtyard, well aware that Duncan watched them with avid interest.
“Temptress,” Wulfe murmured, but there was no real complaint in his tone. Indeed, he seemed unable to tear his gaze away from hers.
The room was much warmer than it had been just moments past. Christina felt alluring and powerful when Wulfe watched her thus, and she liked that his gaze remained upon her face, not the flesh she revealed to view. She strolled toward him, untying the lace of her chemise, then bent and swiftly blew out the flame on the lantern.
“Convince me, sir,” she purred, loud enough that she could be overheard. “I await your instruction.”
Duncan’s laughter rose from the courtyard below but Christina cared only for the gleam of Wulfe’s eyes. “You tempt me overmuch,” he murmured. “Who is the villain?”
“The kiss is not the price of the wine,” Christina replied softly. “But of my confession.”
Wulfe smiled and put down the pitcher. Christina’s heart skipped at the resolute gleam in his eye. He closed the distance between them with a single step and caught her close. She could feel his heartbeat against her own and loved being crushed against his lean strength. They were yet before the window and she was certain that Duncan, if not others, could see their embrace.
In truth, she did not care. She cared only for Wulfe, the smile on his lips and the intent in his eyes, and wished he would kiss her soon.
Indeed, she might not confess what she knew until he had granted her far more than a kiss.
* * *
“Everard,” Christina finally had the opportunity to whisper, but Wulfe had forgotten what they meant to discuss. The lady’s touch nigh overwhelmed him, and once he had claimed her lips, he had been able to think only of her charms.
He pulled back and considered her, even as she repeated the charge.
Everard the villain?
It was startling that Christina’s assertion so closely allied with his own suspicions. That compelled him to argue the other side, the better to ensure that their conclusion was sound. Her ploy of feigning to make love was a good one, and his body responded with vigor to the feel of her in his embrace. Wulfe bent and nuzzled her neck, savoring the scent of her skin, and kissed beneath her ear.
“But he is the Count of Blanche Garde,” he protested, his words barely uttered against her flesh.
“Perhaps so,” she replied, her voice just as quiet. “But this man is not Everard de Montmorency.”
Wulfe pulle
d back to look into her eyes. “How can you be certain?”
“They were both in our party of pilgrims,” she admitted, and he saw nary a doubt cloud her expression. “Everard was a pious man, and he found an accord with my husband, Gunther. They talked long into the night upon matters of faith and did so many times on our journey.” She sighed and slid her fingers into Wulfe’s hair, arching her back. Her touch sent fire through his veins and her expression was more than enticing. When she parted her lips thus and gasped, it was all he could do to refrain from kissing her soundly.
He indulged himself with one sweet kiss, telling himself that it was for Duncan’s benefit. “How many years ago was this?”
“Of what import is that?”
“He might have changed much, if it has been a long time.”
Christina granted him a skeptical look. “So much that he resembles his man-at-arms more than himself?” She framed Wulfe’s face in her hands and brushed her lips across his, then hooked her ankle around his. He fell, just as she had intended, tumbling to the pallet with her sprawled atop him. Christina braced her hands on his shoulders and smiled down at him, her legs straddling him, and Wulfe was certain there was no finer place in Christendom he might be.
“Tell me of him,” he invited.
Christina unbound her hair, working out the braid as Wulfe watched, fascinated. “The mercenary I met as Helmut has taken the place of his employer, Everard,” she said quietly. “And evidently has lived under his name these many years in Outremer.”
Wulfe frowned as he considered this. “I suppose it could be done.”
“Of course it could be done.” The lady was dismissive. Indeed, she shook out her hair in that same moment, then leaned her weight upon him. Her eyes were bright with conviction but Wulfe found himself keenly aware of the press of her breasts against his chest. “Many of the noblemen and knights in Outremer have lived there for many decades. They might have heard of Everard’s repute but not met the man himself—or had met him as a child.” She bit her lip. “Do you think he killed Everard?”
“I cannot imagine how he would replace the man otherwise.”
Christina winced. “Nor can I.” She sighed. “Everard was a lovely man,” she murmured and her endorsement only made Wulfe wish to ensure the nobleman was avenged.
“And Everard’s holding was Blanche Garde,” he mused, barely aware that his hands had fitted around Christina’s waist. He was more aware of a different reaction to Christina’s proximity.
“Is that of import?”
“It might be. Few pilgrims halt there, and if any did arrive at his portal, he could declare himself too ill to entertain them, if need be.” He shook his head. “Still it would be a troublesome situation to manage. Why do as much?”
Christina chuckled, bending to kiss his earlobe. Wulfe’s eyes closed in pleasure at the sensation. When she whispered in his ear, he shivered but locked his hands more tightly around her waist lest she move and halt this divine torment. “Why take the name of a rich man when one could be a mercenary instead? Truly, Wulfe, you cannot be so innocent of vice as this.”
Wulfe nigh lost the thread of the conversation when Christina touched the tip of her tongue to his earlobe. When she nipped at his ear, he rolled her abruptly to her back, knowing he could not endure much more. She smiled at him, her eyes sparkling, for she knew well what spell she cast. “Could the true Everard have simply fallen ill? Many do on the road to Outremer.”
Christina bit her lip and Wulfe watched with hunger. “Everard was very hale when last I saw him and that was here in Venice. He might have been tricked on the ship to Outremer. Many slip from the decks of ships in the night and their bodies are never found.” She made an alluring sight, the lace on her chemise was unfastened and her hair in disarray.
“Perhaps he had assistance in that.”
“How so?”
Wulfe found his hand sliding from her waist to cup her breast. “I have heard tales of men convinced to drink themselves insensible, then robbed and killed.”
Christina arched her back and made a little purr of satisfaction. Wulfe caught her nipple between his finger and thumb and caressed it, ensuring that she was as tormented with pleasure as he. Even though the cloth, he could feel her nipple tighten to a peak. She gasped and writhed beside him, her cheeks flushed. “Or cast overboard,” she said, her words wondrously breathless. “I suspect we will never know the truth of it, for only Helmut knows what he has done.”
She bit her lip and closed her eyes, moaning his name.
Wulfe recalled another detail that allied with her tale and halted his caress. “And the true Everard must be dead, for his father lies on his deathbed. It is said that this man returns there now, having delayed overlong in returning to France.”
Christina braced herself on her elbow to meet his gaze. “Aye, who better to recognize that he is not Everard than Everard’s father?”
“Indeed.”
She frowned. “Why would he go to France at all?”
Wulfe could only guess. “Outremer is besieged. Perhaps Blanche Garde has little chance of standing against the assault of the Saracens.” He had thought it strange that Everard would abandon his holding rather than defend it. “Perhaps he has few allies.”
“Perhaps some soul has guessed his truth.”
Their gazes held for a moment, then Christina tipped her head back. “Wulfe!” she cried out suddenly, her voice high as if she were lost in pleasure.
He considered her in surprise, but she smiled at him and moaned with new vigor.
“Oh, Wulfe!”
“Temptress,” he growled, then kissed her throat. She cried out with apparent pleasure, and he could not resist the feast she offered. He interlaced their hands and held her captive beneath him, savoring the heat of her kiss. When he lifted his head, her eyes were sparkling.
“Where is it?” she demanded, and Wulfe could not understand her meaning. She smiled. “His holding,” she added in a whisper, and he knew himself to be distracted indeed.
He rolled away from her and sat with his back against the wall, out of Duncan’s view and away from Christina’s beguiling touch. “Between Jerusalem and the port of Ascalon. Fewer take that route than to Jaffa. Even riding from Gaza, I chose the road to the east of Blanche Garde and rode through Bethgibelin instead.”
Christina moved to sit beside him and he could see from her expression that she considered this. “Perhaps he hopes to arrive too late at his father’s deathbed and take that holding beneath his hand instead.”
Wulfe could not believe it. “Surely some soul will recognize him there!”
Christina met his gaze. “It has been almost a decade, Wulfe, and I know full well how ruthless Helmut can be.”
“How?”
Her lashes swept down and her voice grew husky. “He killed Gunther.”
Wulfe was horrified. “Did you witness this crime?”
“Nay. I saw them argue.”
“About what?”
“Gunther would not tell me.” Christina’s lips set. “He believed I had taken a dislike to Helmut, which he saw as uncharitable. I never liked him,” she said with quiet ferocity. “And my instincts are always right.”
“Indeed.”
“I saw him follow Gunther when he went to ensure our passage to Outremer several days later. Something was amiss. He had no reason to follow Gunther, so I followed them both.” She swallowed, her discomfiture clear. “But there was a crowd and I lost sight of them for a precious few moments. I only found Gunther because I knew his destination.”
“And?”
She lifted her gaze to his, and Wulfe’s heart clenched at her despair. “He was dead,” she whispered, and her tears began to fall.
He gathered her into his arms, wanting to console her even as he realized that she still loved her lost husband. She clung to him like a child. “How?” he murmured into her hair.
“Stabbed with his own knife and left in a pool of his own blood.”
There was bitterness in her tone. “His purse was gone, as if it had been the work of a frightened thief, but the wound was savage. There had been no attempt to simply injure him. The assailant’s intent had been murder.”
“And you believe Everard did it?” Wulfe could not call the man by the name Christina insisted was his own.
“I saw him in the crowd!” she declared, even as she pulled back to look at him. Wulfe looked to the window and dropped a finger to her lips to remind her. She flushed and lowered her voice. “And I saw the satisfaction in his expression before he pulled up his hood and disappeared.”
“And what did you do?”
She trembled a little in his embrace, so painful was this memory. “Two monks came to my assistance and took Gunther to a chapel. They said a mass for him, even knowing that I could not pay with coin. I offered them the ring that sealed my wedding vows, but they declined to take it.” She heaved a sigh. “I could not pay for a burial, either. I know not where he is laid.”
Wulfe feared the man’s corpse might have been cast into the sea, but did not wish to upset her with the suggestion. “Do you know their foundation?”
Christina shook her head. “I was so distraught. I sought it later, but this city is a veritable maze. All I know is that their robes were undyed wool, and they were kindly.”
In that, she had described most of the monks in Christendom.
“And when I returned to the inn where we had been staying, the portal was barred against me. I was told that our goods had been seized for our failure to pay the fee for the room. I had naught but the clothing upon my back.”
“And the ring,” Wulfe reminded her.
“And the ring,” she admitted.
“Surely you sold it to see yourself fed.”
Christina was clearly affronted. “Surely I did not.”
“Where is it?”
“Safe.”
He frowned, dismayed to learn that she had refused to part with a piece of jewelry, which surely she did not need, when he had been prepared to lose his destrier to ensure her welfare. He knew he should leave the matter be, but he could not. “You would rather starve to keep a ring?”
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