Must be growing soft with age and all this court living. After a night like this, his bones groaned for the softness of a bed piled with furs, well warmed by his lady’s body.
Turned out his lady was not abed.
Steam rose from the wooden tub to wreathe her, graceful as a damned angel, as she knelt before the fire and combed that gold and silver splendor of hair. Bare feet with delicate arches poked beneath her robe, sparking a riot of tenderness and arousal. Inevitably, his groin tightened.
She turned to find him in the doorway and stilled—as if caught in indiscretion. But nay, not his brave and virtuous lady. Worry was written in her strained features, exhaustion in the violet shadows under her eyes.
Relief transformed her, illuminating her like a lamp. “Praise God, you have returned. I was ready to go seeking you.”
He bolted the door, shutting out the darkness and the dangers it concealed. The chamber was secure, Allah be thanked—not even a garderobe to conceal an assassin.
“I was needed in the dungeon.” He grimaced. Aye, growing soft. I’ve seen far worse in Outremer. “Henry’s men questioned the two who survived.”
Interest kindled in her eyes. “Did you learn why they were lying in wait for you . . . or for me?”
Caught pulling off his boots, Jervaise jerked up his head. By the Prophet, she was right. Those bastards might have been lying in wait for her. Though he couldn’t imagine who stood to profit by her death—beyond her fool of a brother—a wrenching fear lanced through him.
Casually he loosened his belt. Wouldn’t do to frighten her any worse than those whoresons had already done. For that alone, he wanted to slit their throats.
“A strange affair,” he said gruffly. “I didn’t know them, but like most sell-swords, I’ve my share of enemies. Someone hired this lot—common soldiers—to settle a grudge.”
She seemed younger tonight, less poised than the queen’s privy chancellor, more vulnerable. He’d never forget how she’d rushed to his aid: resolve burning like a flame in her white face, eyes flashing silver as she battled through a wall of enemies to his side. Something twisted in his chest—a painful tenderness, too intense to acknowledge.
“By my faith, surely those men revealed who hired them? I should think fear for their hides would loosen their tongues.”
“They were hired in a local inn.” He shrugged out of his surcoat. “A man, cloaked and hooded, paid them silver to kill me. The same man smuggled them past the gates.”
He saw the shudder run through her and clenched his fists—fiercely protective. She was his now, and he would keep her.
“If the same man opened the gates,” she said, “he may yet remain beneath this roof.”
He jerked a nod. “He gave no name, and they could recall no more of the fellow. Young or old, tall or short, thin or stout, any uncommon mannerisms—in short, nothing. It’s as if they were bewitched.”
He dragged the shirt over his head, and welcomed the fire’s heat against his dungeon-chilled skin. “Henry ordered them lashed. Perhaps it’ll aid their memory.”
She froze, ribbons of hair spilling from her fingers. A subtle tension invaded her voice. “The king attended the interrogation?”
“Henry’s a late worker, aye? He wasn’t abed.”
He gripped the cords that bound his chausses and wondered how much intimacy she’d allow. He’d promised not to force her until she met with Henry. But blast it, he stank of the dungeon’s sweating terror.
“Will it trouble you if I bathe, Alienore? Wouldn’t offend your nostrils by my stench.”
“Of course.” Briskly she rose, giving him her back. “Shall I send for your squire?”
“Vulgrin’s not as young as he was.” He unknotted his chausses. “Needs his sleep. I’ll manage without.”
He’d given his word, little as that was worth, and he would keep it. Yet as he shucked his chausses, he couldn’t avoid thinking he would soon be naked, and she nearly so. He could ask her to bathe him—
He veered away from that dangerous thought. Her graceful hands smoothing soap over his body, caressing his naked skin, finding him rock hard and ready . . .
Damn, he couldn’t trust himself. He’d wanted her too badly, for far too long. Best do what he had to without her assistance.
Rummaging in his saddlebags, he found his incense and tossed a pinch on the fire. The air grew hazy with musk and sandalwood. She busied herself near the bed, eyes averted.
His lips twisted bitterly as he dropped his braies and climbed into the tub. Then he groaned as the hot water enveloped him, lapping his cold skin, easing his tight muscles.
Her hesitant query caught him off guard.
“Since your squire is not to be troubled, do you wish my assistance?”
Despite his good intentions, his exhaustion, the lulling effect of steaming water, his cock throbbed with painful arousal.
Thankful for the tub’s concealment, he forced his breath out. “Aye.”
He shuttered his gaze, not wanting to alarm her with the lust-maddened beast raging behind his eyes. But he itched to read the intent in her guileless eyes. Allah’s blood, he’d take whatever she was willing to give. He was no monk—surely she couldn’t begrudge him that much.
Yet he thrummed with tension, like a bowstring pulled too tight, as she knelt behind him and reached for the soap.
The delicate aroma of lavender wafted past, and he snorted. No doubt he’d smell like a damned flower by the time she was finished. But she could douse him in attar of roses if it won him her willing hands on his body.
Tentative, she touched his shoulders, and the breath rasped in his lungs. Breathe, he told himself as she smoothed soap into the bands of muscle spanning his shoulders. She leaned into the knotted sinews, reminding him of the strength in her battle-trained body.
By the Prophet, he needed a distraction. His voice came out hoarse as a crow’s.
“You wield a blade better than many men I know. Who taught an earl’s daughter to do that?”
Her hands stilled. Shameless, he prayed she’d keep touching him. When she resumed, his eyes closed in gratitude.
Her boudoir voice was a siren’s song, luring him to shipwreck on the rocks. “I was twelve years old when I was summoned home to tend my mother. But aside from caring for her, I had little to occupy my time. Raoul was in similar state—our arms master, whose legs were crushed when the tower collapsed. His body was crippled, but his mind remained intact. He blamed himself for her accident.”
“Your father’s suspicions can’t have made his life easy.”
“Nor did they. I feared he would do himself an injury, without some purpose to fill his time.”
“You cared for him.” Jealousy shafted through him. Twelve was old enough for a lass’s first love. Exactly how old was this Raoul?
Her fingers kneaded his biceps, slippery with soap, drawing those little circles that seemed destined to drive him to madness.
“You might say we were kindred spirits,” she sighed. “My father seemed angry with me as well, though I could not comprehend why. ’Twas as if he blamed me for my mother’s shortcomings.”
She spoke lightly, but pain threaded her words. Fighting the dangerous urge to pull her into his arms—Allah save him, he was lost if he did that—he spoke curtly.
“You loved him.”
“I lionized him. It devastated me to see him so angry . . . so hurt. When I asked Raoul to teach me the sword, I think it eased the guilt we both felt. Of course he protested, but I had my share of stubbornness—then as now.”
Humor shaded her voice, and a smile tugged at his lips. Her hands slipped over his chest, and his heart jumped. When she hesitated, he clenched his jaw until it ached with the effort not to touch her. If she stopped now, he wouldn’t be responsible for his actions.
“A cripple might teach basic swordplay, the stances and such,” he managed. “But you couldn’t learn to defend without a foe.”
“Nay.” She smooth
ed soap onto his chest. To his ears, she too sounded breathless.
“Raoul arranged for me to spar with this squire or that, always wearing a helm to guard my identity. Then I began to champion wronged women—the ones no knight would defend. ’Twas remarkable, how many of those there seemed to be. I suppose, in a way, I was trying to defend my mother. For there was no knight to uphold her—not even my own father.”
Her voice darkened with grief and anger, a witch’s brew whose bitter taste Jervaise too had choked down. He burned to cradle her in his arms, to soothe her pain. But that would send her scrambling for her sword and end this shattering intimacy that was Heaven and hell.
“It gave me a purpose in life,” she said, “and Raoul as well. I doubt either of us would have survived our grief and my father’s wrath without it.”
“Didn’t you fear discovery?” Eyes at half-mast against the rising tide of desire, he clenched his fists. He couldn’t drag her hands under the water, down to the throbbing ache only she could ease.
“I was always very careful.” Her fingers grazed the hardened nubs of his nipples, then flinched away. Desire sizzled through him.
“I honed the steel of my defiance in the convent. Rather than submit humbly to God’s will, I grew ever more determined to forge my own path. The abbess despaired of me. I believe they were all quite relieved when I was summoned home.”
She brushed his nipples again—as if she couldn’t resist—and his cock jumped, curse it. He gripped her, pressed her palms flat against his chest. His heart galloped like a spooked horse.
“Alienore,” he rasped, “I’ve sworn to you—”
“To leave my virtue intact, until I appeal to the king.”
He sensed her inner struggle and braced for her withdrawal. When she pulls back, I’ll release her. I must release her—I swore to that.
Yet she did not pull back. Her breath fluttered against his neck.
“I spoke with the king this night,” she whispered.
At first, he didn’t grasp her meaning. Then realization arrowed through him.
“My lady wastes no time.”
Her hands stirred, restless. “I wanted to settle this.”
Dread coiled tight in his belly, knotting his insides. He’d always been sure of Henry’s support . . . yet he knew the man far better than he knew the king. Wasn’t certain he wanted to hear the outcome, but he had to say something.
“I saw the way he looked at you.” The savage beast of jealousy clawed his chest. “It’s a look I’ve seen before when a wench catches his eye, or a willing lady or nubile girl—”
“He refused my petition. He values your goodwill.”
She spoke with her signature bluntness, unflinching, as if it cost her nothing. But he knew her to the marrow of her bones, knew the quiet strength and fierce courage that fired her soul. He knew the unwavering sense of honor that drove her to tell him, rather than keeping it secret to hoard her advantage. He knew what it cost her to speak.
He distrusted these surges of emotion, but couldn’t seem to control them where Alienore was concerned. Hell, didn’t he remember what happened last time? Pain and grief had taught him never to love.
“Yet you saved me.” He scraped out the words. “Should have let those ruffians cut me down.”
“If you think so, you do not know me!”
He was ready when she wrenched away, and twisted to his feet, soapy water streaming. She resisted when he pulled her close, only her robe and the tub separating her body from his.
He met her silver gaze—incandescent with anger and pride. The force of her will met his like the clash of blades.
“I know you better than any man living, Alienore of Lyonstone,” he growled. “Better than you know yourself. I know your vulnerability and your strength.”
He knew her purity and her passion, and treasured them both. Beneath the self-imposed chains of a lifetime of denial, his heart turned over.
“I’ll show you passion is nothing to fear.” Climbing out of the tub, he drew her close and kissed her.
She resisted him by instinct, as she’d always done. Yet he blazed like Greek fire through her senses: broad shoulders and powerful chest, abdomen taut with sinew, a lifetime of scars slashing his golden skin. The blatant lance of male arousal stood between them, and her damp robe was a poor defense.
She braced her palms against his chest. His arms closed around her, a fortress that protected her, enclosed her in a prison of her own yearning.
I thought myself prepared for this, resigned to yielding, without emotion.
Yet nothing could ever prepare her. Every kiss was an ambush by a superior power, ranging over terrain she did not know. Still, she stood her ground. His kiss was a battle to first surrender, and defeat was the same as victory.
Yet she’d never learned how to surrender with grace, even when he swept her up and bore her to the bed. Remus scrambled away with a yip as he lowered her to the furs.
When he tugged at her robe, her head reeled. Suddenly their combat was sweeping along too swiftly, tumbling her toward the crux.
“A moment,” she whispered, “for mercy.”
“I know naught of mercy. I’m the devil—don’t you recall?”
His words raised gooseflesh along her skin. “You are not the devil!”
She choked as her robe fell open in a cloud of lavender scent. A sense of abashed exposure made her squirm, even as his reverent hands spanned her body. Heat followed his hardened fingers as he traced the sides of her breasts, the dip of her waist.
“For sixteen years I’ve been burning in hell, Alienore. You alone can save me.”
A surge of tenderness caught her by surprise, the fierce swell of a protective heart. Forgetting everything, she caught his head in her hands. His raven’s wing hair slithered down, framing his lean, deadly grace.
“You are not the devil,” she whispered, her throat aching. “You are beautiful to me as the angels in Heaven.”
“Wasn’t Lucifer the fairest of all God’s angels?” His mouth twisted.
But behind his bitter armor yawned a chasm of emptiness only she could fill. Tears blurred her vision as she cradled his lined face between her hands and brought his mouth to hers.
His heat seared her, skin against skin, her breasts pressed against his chest, his pulsing length like a sword of fire between them. Her desire for him blazed, a sweet rhythm that throbbed in her womb, more insistent for being so long denied.
She arched against him, her legs slipping apart. A lifetime of restraint was falling away like a discarded shield. Without words, she asked for something she couldn’t name.
Jervaise understood her to her core—as he always had. She bit her lip when he cupped her, damp with her own arousal.
“Alienore,” he groaned, brow pressed against hers. “Neither one of us wants to wait. Never fear.”
“I do not,” she said as his calloused fingers parted her. He touched her—somewhere—and a cry of astonished pleasure slipped out. The tide of battle shifted, and she floated on the ebb. Her hands dug into his corded back, nails piercing his skin at this invasion of her innermost self.
She was certain she should not like it. But her body recognized what it wanted, drew him deeper toward her sealed womb.
“Trust me in this,” he rasped. “Show me that courage you have in such abundance.”
“I know ‘twill be painful,” she whispered. “I do not fear that. Do it quickly, Jervaise—and do not falter.”
He crouched between her thighs, black hair pouring over skin burnished by firelight. Staring at his length, she wondered how he would manage to fit inside her. For her entire life she’d hidden from this. Now she would discover what she’d been denied.
When he fitted his body to hers, stiffened length sliding into her tight channel, she stretched to accommodate him—then felt the flash of pain. Red light bloomed against her closed lids, but she did not voice it. Beyond the ragged remnants of discomfort, the tide was rising. H
er own body turned traitor, flinging wide the gates, sweeping away her inhibitions. Clinging to him, she strove to match him, free as an arrow soaring through the skies.
She reached the apex just as he did. Braced above her, he shuddered, rigid in her arms.
When he collapsed, he rolled so as not to crush her and brought her to safe harbor, her head against his shoulder. His chest heaved as they struggled together for breath.
“Alienore? Tell me—”
“I am well.” She voiced a little laugh. “More than well. Is it always like that?”
“Not always.” Gently he massaged her nape. “I’m fortunate in my bride.”
That reminded her of matters better left unspoken—of connivance and betrayal. But she would not think of that now. Tomorrow would be soon enough.
A sense of safety and well-being seeped through her, despite the sticky soreness between her thighs. With a sigh she let go and sank into darkness. Cradled in his arms, she slept.
Chapter Eighteen
Alienore floundered from the depths of slumber, disconcerted to find herself curled against Jervaise’s bronze-skinned body.
Remembrance blazed through her and burned away the clinging fibers of sleep.
Overhead, a man cleared his throat. The bedcurtains were thrust back, sunlight pouring through the windows. Against the blaze of light stood the King of England. The sun flamed in his red-gold hair as he peered down on them.
“Your Grace!” she blurted, horrified.
Jervaise twisted up with a grunt, furs tangling around his hips, curved dagger flashing in readiness. Barely in time, she clutched an armful of bedclothes to her bare breasts.
Grasping after her shattered poise, she sat beside her naked husband with what dignity she could manage. Struggling to contain her annoyance, face flaming, she raised her chin and faced down their royal guest.
“Pardon my intrusion, Jervaise—madam.” The king’s lips twitched as though the infernal man were laughing. “I would’ve waited until you rose of your own accord, but you both seemed like to sleep the day away. Our enemies are on the move.”
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