Oh, my God. Oh, my God. He burrowed a finger through the hair and gently stroked the tight cleft of her sex. No one had ever touched her there, and at first she was too astounded by the raw intimacy of it to feel much. At first. Gradually, as she relaxed, she found her senses focused exclusively on his mesmerizing touch and her body’s strange reaction to it.
His fingertip barely grazed her, yet suffused her with a thrilling heat, a delicious buzz of sensation. The feeling grew and grew as he stroked her, very slowly, very patiently. Presently he brought his other fingers into play, caressing her until her heart pounded painfully in her chest and her breathing accelerated.
She closed her eyes and pictured a tightly closed flower bud slowly swelling, opening...That’s what she felt like, that’s what his touch did to her. When he slipped a finger between the petals, she gasped at the sudden charge of pleasure. This soft, hidden part of her had become so sensitized that every delicate touch made her quiver.
He moved a finger lower, to the mouth of her sex, drawing its moisture up...
Corliss’s breathing grew ragged as he explored the slippery heat between her legs. It was almost too intense, too much to bear. She had the sense of something welling up, building to a fever pitch. Her heart raced wildly; her fingernails bit into her palms through the linen sheet. An element of alarm mingled with the pleasure. She had never traveled the path on which he led her, and didn’t know what to expect at its end.
He deepened the caress, massaging her slick, aching flesh until she moaned. The reaction embarrassed her; even though he couldn’t see her in the dark, she turned her head toward the wall, fighting the urge to move her hips. She thought of the young Rhineland widow and her screams.
Sorcerer’s hands. The widow said he had sorcerer’s hands... It was true. He was using them to cast a spell over her, a spell both marvelous and frightening.
He paused, backing off a bit. Her hips rose, hungry for his touch. He obliged her, then lifted his fingers again; again she thrust upward, aware this time that he was teasing her deliberately, trying to make her move. At this point, she had no choice, no conscious control over her body. She rocked her hips in rhythm to his caress, as if she were a puppet and his sorcerer’s hands were pulling the strings.
She felt herself approaching a dark threshold at the end of the path. It beckoned with irresistibly seductive force, even as it made her heart tighten with fear of the unknown. It was as if she were about to tumble off the edge of the world.
His quickening fingers coaxed her swiftly toward that threshold. No longer could she still her writhing body or silence the low moans that escaped from her.
The dark abyss beckoned. Yet even as she approached the edge, she felt a lacking, an emptiness, a need deep inside her.
Him. She needed him...
And then she felt him, felt a long finger enter her, pushing inside. He knew it. He knew this was what I needed.
He pressed down with the heel of his hand; she cried out, arching her back, as she felt contractions, like pulsing waves, plunging her over the edge of that mysterious void. A delicious frenzy overcame her, pummeling her from the inside as he continued stroking her. Her heart stopped. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think as the rapturous seizure crested, rocking her with convulsive pleasure.
The movement of his hand gentled as the spasms gradually subsided. She kept her eyes closed, as if this had all been an astonishing dream that would vaporize if she opened them. To her surprise, he was breathing as rapidly as she was.
When he began to withdraw his finger, her body clenched it involuntarily. She heard his sharp intake of breath as he stilled his hand, then eased it away slowly. A flurry of little tremors coursed through her. She brought her hands up to cover her face, finding it damp with perspiration.
He smoothed her hair off her forehead, his hand unsteady. She uncovered her face and looked at him, finding that she could make out his image, now that her eyes had gotten used to the lack of light. His eyes glittered in the dark as they locked with hers. She knew that look; all women were born knowing it. It was a look akin to that of the hungry wolf—a look universal to the male animal, a look as old as the ages, as primal as breathing. He wanted her.
He wrenched his gaze from hers and took a deep breath, letting it out shakily. Aye, she had no doubt he wanted her... but he was not going to take her. He wasn’t just any male animal; he was Rainulf Fairfax. And this wasn’t lovemaking; she’d known that all along. It had been more in the nature of a... friendly demonstration. At least, that was obviously how he had intended it, even if he now had to battle his natural response to her.
She wondered about that response, wondered what his reaction would be if she were to reach for him and pull him down on top of her. She wanted him with a desperation that stunned her. She wanted to make love to him, wanted them to join their bodies and their souls, wanted to spend the rest of her life in his arms.
Martine was right. I’m in love with him. What do I do now?
Nothing. To tempt Rainulf into making love to her would be unfair to him. The chancellorship was all he wanted in life. Toward that end, he’d made a commitment to celibacy. For her to undermine that commitment by seducing him—and that’s what she’d be doing, for he’d never meant to share her bed tonight—would be inexcusable.
She’d best accept tonight as he had intended it—a kind of gift from him to her, a favor.
She cleared her throat. “Is that what you made happen to that woman in the Rhineland?”
“Aye.”
“More than once?”
She saw him smile slowly. “Quite a few times, as I recall.”
“No wonder the ladies of Paris went into mourning when you took your vows.”
He chuckled and tucked the quilt up around her, then stroked her cheek. She felt the tension in him, and knew he wasn’t nearly as calm and unaffected as he wanted her to think. “Good night, Corliss.”
“Good night.”
He rose and pulled the bed curtains closed. She heard his footsteps retreating, saw the fleeting shaft of lamplight as he opened and closed his chamber door. And then all was quiet and dark once more.
* * *
Rainulf and Corliss set out from Blackburn at dawn. They’d ridden perhaps a hundred yards from the castle when the distant rumble of hoofbeats from behind made them rein in their mounts.
What’s this? thought Rainulf as he and Corliss looked back over their shoulders. Thorne and Martine still stood on the drawbridge, where they’d said goodbye. On the path, advancing at a gallop, was a lone horseman.
Peter.
He drew up his mount, nodded in a cursory way to Rainulf, then reached over to take Corliss’s hand. “I didn’t realize you were leaving so early. I wanted to...” He glanced uneasily at Rainulf.
“I’ll wait up the road a bit,” Rainulf said tersely, nudging his horse into a walk.
Of course Peter would want to say a private farewell to Corliss, Rainulf realized. They’d been inseparable, and from all accounts, she had affected a remarkable change in him. Gone was the haunted creature he’d been when they’d arrived, replaced by the old Peter—the charming, easygoing fellow women had always found irresistible.
A little ember of jealousy glowed red-hot in Rainulf’s stomach. He wondered how Corliss felt about Peter’s attentions. She’d be flattered, certainly. Peter was young, handsome, and of noble blood. He was the perfect knight, a skilled and loyal soldier whose prowess with his fists had become legendary. Young knights and mercenaries from all over England journeyed to Blackburn to challenge him, hoping in vain to best him and thereby steal his fame. Rainulf himself had sparred with him during his last visit, and had found it a punishing experience, although Peter seemed impressed; he claimed Rainulf had fought better and lasted longer than anyone in recent memory. The praise had taken some of the sting out of his bruised and battered flesh.
“Whoa.” Rainulf patted his bay stallion on the neck and glanced back down the road
. Corliss and Peter had dismounted. From this distance, they looked like two young men, Corliss having returned to her male disguise, although her saddlebags bulged with the kirtles and tunics Martine had had altered for her. Peter took both her hands in his and spoke to her while she stared at the ground. Then he reached down and lifted her chin, lowering his face to hers.
The little ember burst into flame as Rainulf watched her accept the kiss. When the couple drew apart, Corliss turned to look in his direction. He abruptly looked away, yanking on the reins and kicking his mount into a trot. He didn’t stop until he reached the main road that led north. By then, Corliss and Peter were a quarter mile away, and he could barely see them.
Self-doubt—Rainulf’s special curse—curled its claws around him. What kind of a man was he? How could he just look on as Peter kissed her, given what had happened between them last night?
Nothing happened between us. He had satisfied her curiosity about the mysteries of the flesh, nothing more. She’d known it was nothing more. It was nothing. Nothing.
Nothing? It had been the first time he’d touched a woman so intimately in eleven years. And it had been...
He expelled a shuddering sigh. It had been more than he’d wanted it to be, more than he’d intended. He closed his eyes, reliving the breathless excitement that had gripped him as he caressed her, guiding her toward a fulfillment she’d never known. How he’d missed the magic of a woman’s body... the hot, hidden places that felt like wet satin to the touch... the challenge of coaxing that mysterious flesh into revealing its secrets... the thrill of driving a woman senseless with pleasure.
It had gratified him to be the first man to make Corliss lose herself so completely. He could still picture her at the end, her head thrown back, her eyes half-closed, moaning and writhing. He could still feel her, slick and tight around his finger. He’d wondered how it would feel to be buried deep inside that pulsing heat. Then, as how, such speculation aroused him painfully.
He’d been hard as a steel rod as he touched her, and perilously close to orgasm. When she climaxed, it was all he could do to keep from whipping the quilt aside and ramming himself into her. But even then, even in the grip of such excruciating arousal, he’d known better than that. Had he surrendered to his aching hunger, had he crossed that line, they could never have gone back to the way it was before. Corliss was not like the women he knew in Paris; she was not someone he could enjoy briefly and then set aside. But anything more was out of the question.
The effort of will it had taken for him to get up and walk away from her last night had been profound. Alone in his chamber, he’d leaned back against the door and untied his chausses with trembling hands. Cursing himself, he closed his fist around his tortured flesh; release came almost instantly. The ache in his heart had persisted, however; he felt it still.
He watched Corliss ride toward him, turning to wave to Peter, on horseback, who gazed after her. What would the enamored young knight think if he knew what had transpired between Rainulf and Corliss in her darkened chamber?
She joined him, and they wordlessly proceeded north along the main road. The rhythm of his horse’s gait and his stubborn memories of last night conspired to keep him in a state of high arousal most of the morning; he was grateful for his concealing tunic.
* * *
At noon they spread a blanket in a clearing in the woods through which they had ridden. They ate their cheese and bread in near silence, and then Corliss lay on her back and squinted up at the forest canopy above them. Flickers of sunlight danced on the translucent skin of her face. A very singular face, a face like no other he had ever seen. God, she’s exquisite.
“Looks like diamonds,” she murmured.
He lay down next to her and shielded his eyes to study the sun glittering through the leaves, something he hadn’t done since he was a boy. That part of him—the part that looked at the world with childlike wonder—had lain dormant until she’d come to Oxford. His memories of life before Corliss were shadowy and vague, like a poorly recalled dream. Now, colors and scents and sounds were sharper, details more vivid, everything more... real, more there. She’d awakened so much in him, changed him so immeasurably.
“You’re right,” he said softly. “It does look like diamonds.”
“Peter asked me to marry him.”
Rainulf turned his head to look at her; she continued to stare up at the sky. “This morning,” she added softly, “while he was saying good-bye.”
Deeply shaken, Rainulf sat up with his elbows on his knees and rested his head in his hands. For a long time, neither of them moved or spoke.
I’ve lost her. Christ, I’ve lost her. The knowledge devastated him. He felt as though his insides had been pulled out, leaving him a hollow shell. After a while, he was able to think clearly enough to gather his thoughts and formulate a response. When he realized what it would be—what it had to be—his melancholy only deepened.
“It’s a good marriage,” he said tonelessly, feeling as though he were listening to another man’s voice. “A very good marriage.”
He heard her shift behind him as she sat up. “I turned him down.”
Thank God! He wheeled around to face her. He wanted to laugh and throw his arms around her. He wanted to tear off her clothes and claim her, body and soul, whisper lover’s words, promises...
Promises he couldn’t keep. “Why?”
“Oh, Rainulf.” Her eyes were sad. “There are so many reasons. Peter is... Well, he’s very troubled, but he doesn’t realize it. He’s got me all confused with his Lady Magdalen.”
“I wondered whether he’d told you about her.”
“It took him a while. He doesn’t like to talk about her. He’s never properly mourned her. It’s as if he doesn’t want to admit to himself that she’s really gone. He wants me to be her, but I can’t. ‘Twould be unfair to both of us for me to try to replace her.”
“He’ll get over her eventually,” Rainulf said. “And then he’ll learn to appreciate you for who you really are.”
“Rainulf, if Peter ever found out who I really am, he’d be shocked to the core. He’d probably hate me for deceiving him. He thinks I’m... I don’t know. Some sort of Saxon nobility, I suppose. A far cry from the truth.”
“You are nobility,” he said with conviction. “You’re the most noble and gentle woman I’ve ever known. The most accomplished, the most...” He shook his head in frustration. “For God’s sake, Corliss, he’s obviously smitten with you. And he’s a good man. Your background would make no difference to him. The woman you’ve become is so... unique. You defy easy categories. That’s why you can pass so well for whatever you set your mind to.”
“Then there’s the most important reason,” she said, rising and strolling away from him to yank a handful of berries from a bush. “I hate marriage. I hate being bound to a man. You know that.”
“I think you should reconsider,” he said, despising the words even as they left his mouth. “You need protection from Roger Foliot, and marriage is the best way to get it.”
“Is that really what you want?”
“I want you to be safe.”
“I want to be free.” She turned to face him, the berries crushed in her hand. “I’m tired of being a whore, a safe whore. I’ve been a whore since I was sixteen.”
“You were a married woman part of that time.”
She flung the berries away and squatted to wipe her hands on the grass. “I was just as much Sully’s whore as Father’s Osred’s. The Church may have blessed the union, but it was no different. I bartered my body for protection, and lost my freedom in the process. It wasn’t worth it.” She met his gaze, her eyes fiery. “I’ll never do that again. Never!”
“Marriage doesn’t have to mean losing your freedom,” he said. “There are men who value their wives as equals. Look at Abelard and Héloïse.”
She straightened up, tossing her head with a smirk. “How many men are that enlightened?”
“
I am.”
The smirk faded.
“And there are others,” he hastily added.
Her eyebrows shot up. “Name one.”
He groped quickly for a name. “Brother Matthew.”
She laughed bitingly. “I don’t suppose you know of any who aren’t celibate.”
“What about Thorne?”
“Or married?”
He tried to think of someone else, but couldn’t.
“You can forget about getting rid of me through marriage,” she said. “Though, if you want, I’ll move out of your house.”
He jumped up. “Nay!”
“But last night...” She bit her lip and crossed her arms, staring at the ground. “Last night, when I asked you if you wished I’d never come to Oxford, you said—”
“Last night never happened,” he said, quietly but firmly. He took a deep breath and added, “Any of it.”
There was a long pause as she continued to look down; then she nodded.
“We’ll return to Oxford and all will be as it was before. Nothing will have changed.”
She closed her eyes and nodded again.
They stood in silence for a moment, and then she looked up. The light had left her eyes. “He said he’s going to write to me.”
“Peter?”
She nodded and began gathering up the remains of their meal. “He thinks he can change my mind.”
“Can he?” He nearly choked on the words.
“Nay. But he’s going to try.”
“What reason did you give for turning him down?”
She stood and shook the blanket out, then handed him one end. Together they folded it. “I told him I wasn’t in love with him.”
Had he just imagined the emphasis on the word him?
She stuffed the folded blanket into a saddlebag while he stowed away the food.
“He’s going to write to you, too,” she said as she mounted up.
“To me?” He settled into his saddle. “Why?”
“To ask your permission to press his suit, since I have no family. And to enlist your aid in wearing me down.”
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