Jervaise reached for his braies, columns of muscle flexing against his supple back. She’d scored his spine with her nails during the height of passion, and her face burned hotter. Indisputably, he was now her husband in the fullest sense. Unsettling to recall how eagerly she’d welcomed him to her bed.
With a single smoldering look at her dishabille, Jervaise rolled out of bed. She caught a searing glimpse of buttocks bulging with muscle before he tugged on his braies.
“Privacy for my lady.” Catching up his leather chausses, he strode away.
Henry cast an appreciative eye over the tousled hair tumbling around her shoulders and the swell of her breasts.
“God’s eyes, madam,” he murmured. “Last night you were all ice and outraged defiance—now this. Love play suits you.”
Jesus wept! King or no, would the man ravish her in her marriage bed? She tightened her jaw but said nothing, lest she singe the royal ears. Teeth flashing, he obligingly gave her his back and strode to the hearth, where a scowling Vulgrin stirred the fire.
Nesta bobbed up beside her, rosy with excitement.
“The king, milady!” she whispered.
With a disgruntled glance at her sovereign, Alienore reached for her chamber robe. “That would have been better said, Nesta, before you allowed him in.”
The girl’s face fell, and she ducked a subdued curtsy. “Aye, milady.”
“Where is Remus?”
“Gone out,” Nesta mumbled. “I came to attend ye for Mass—but ye were sleeping so sound I couldn’t wake ye.”
“Never mind, Nesta,” she sighed. “Fetch ale for the king, and any morsel you can find in the kitchens. I cannot imagine how I managed to sleep through Mass. ’Tis many years since I have been so lax.”
“Ooh, milady, I’d say the answer’s not far to seek!” Nesta cast a telling glance at the tangled bed. Following her rapt gaze, Alienore glimpsed a reddish stain on the linen. A fresh tide of embarrassment seared through her, and she twitched the furs over it.
“The ale, if you please, Nesta.”
As the girl bustled out, she composed herself and joined the men. Already the fire was burning away the morning chill.
Chausses knotted around his hips, Jervaise swung a chair around for the king. Henry ignored it, striding back and forth with vigor.
“I have tidings from Flanders, Jervaise. A courier rode through the night to tell me.”
Jervaise’s eyes narrowed. “Count Philip?”
“Aye. The grasping whoreson—your pardon, madam—is making ready to sail. He’s assembling a massive fleet at Ponthieu. It’s as I feared. They mean to invade England.”
“They support their Scottish allies,” Alienore said.
Surprise flickering on his features, the king glanced toward her. No doubt he had not expected her to counsel him, but she was undaunted. He’d come to her chamber, had he not?
“Aye, madam, and the English rebels are also on the move. Northampton is threatened—though I rely on my loyal lord Huntingdon and my chancellor de Lucy to hold them in check. Still, the situation we discussed is coming to pass.”
Anticipation crackled through her like the tension that fired her on the tourney field. “You will need every loyal soldier, every sword, every grain of provender the Lyonstone lands can yield. I shall compose a message to my brother—”
“Already done.” He paced. “The earl’s counselor rode at dawn.”
God save me, he means Sir Bors. She shivered to recall their unsettling interview—and the offer that villain had made.
Jervaise stood naked to the waist with that decadent mane pouring down, still as a crouching panther. Mercenary or nay, the prospect of war did not please him.
“Your Grace,” she said, “you dare not trust Sir Bors of Bedingfield.”
“There are precious few I trust. Christ, this rebellion led by my own wife and sons taught me that!” He swung to face Jervaise. “Old friend, I know this is naught you wish to hear. But I need your support at Lyonstone.”
“Lyonstone.” Her husband hooded his gaze. Unpleasant things resulted when he looked like that. “How well do you trust your intelligence? How do you know it’s no ploy meant to draw you from Normandy? Ormonde sits on Philip’s doorstep. Perhaps my support’s better deployed there.”
Henry’s face creased in a rueful smile. “You think I don’t know how you chafe to return? How loudly those neglected lands and people clamor for your attention? Nay, my friend, I am fully aware. But I have others to rely on in Normandy. Your wife persuaded me your support’s best placed in England.”
Jervaise shot her an inscrutable look. “Wasn’t aware you take council from my wife.”
“In fact,” she hurried to say, “I said nothing of how you should be deployed, Jervaise. I spoke only of my desire to return home. If you wish to return to Ormonde, I shall voice no objection.”
Yet her conscience stabbed her. Only last night, she’d deployed her best arguments to annul their marriage. Now the thought of going their separate ways left her cold and hollow.
“This debate is pointless.” Standing still at last, Henry drummed restless fingers against his thigh. “I have made my decision. Jervaise, you’ll go to Lyonstone and assume joint command—with the new earl—of the border army. Since I’m told the lad has little experience leading troops, I expect your presence will curb any youthful rashness, hey?”
Henry clapped a hand on his shoulder. Jervaise inclined his head, inky hair sliding forward, but a muscle twitched in his jaw. He held himself still—too still.
“Honored to serve,” he rasped.
“Nay, you are angry,” Henry said gruffly, giving him an affectionate shake. “Believe me, I know what this means for you. You’ll be back in Ormonde before the harvest—you have my word on that.”
The king swung around to Alienore, speculation kindling in his eyes. She struggled to untangle her emotions: concern for Jervaise, for her lands and people, buffeted with a rising exuberance that made her heart sing.
I am going home! And Jervaise is coming with me. Nothing could puncture the swelling bubble of joy that buoyed her.
“The battlefield is no place for a gently bred woman.” The king eyed her. “I’ll make a place here at court for Lady Alienore. With no queen or princess to lead here, this court will benefit from her gentle virtue.”
His words dissolved the smile breaking over her. Dismayed, she turned to Jervaise. His face was a shuttered mask, eyes offering no window to his thoughts.
“It’s what you wanted, aye?” Jervaise’s mouth twisted.
The king was handing her what she’d asked for—an ironclad excuse to be quit of the man who’d coerced her into marriage. Yet perversely, the prospect gave her no joy.
Only a fool would miss the true motive behind Henry’s generosity. With Ormonde safely launched for England, the king could pursue her at leisure.
She must avoid the trap. Yet one did not lightly refuse a Plantagenet.
“Your Grace is generous.” She bowed her head. “But I believe I may serve better in England—at my husband’s side.”
Jervaise stood impassive, fists clenched.
She groped to explain herself. “I know the Lyonstone lands and people better than anyone living, including my brother, who is newly returned from crusade. ‘Twould be selfish—indeed, cowardly—to place my safety before theirs.”
She felt dishonest, for she had not spoken the full truth. Aye, she wished to go home. But she would not abandon Jervaise. How could she leave him to defend her lands alone?
Probably she would never know all the devils that drove him. But she knew this much. He was not the rogue she’d thought him, bereft of honor or virtue. He placed his life at risk, his hard-won lands in jeopardy, to defend her home. He deserved her full support.
“Spoken like an earl’s daughter,” the king said smoothly. “How can I do other than commend your resolve?”
So easily he gave in to her? Uneasiness tickled her skin
as Nesta scurried in, bearing a flagon and goblets. The king waved the tiring girl away with an absent hand, and the girl’s cheerful features fell.
“Nay, lass.” Henry smiled to take the sting out. “I’ll not tax you. Your lord and lady depart for England this day.”
As the king strode for the door, she couldn’t look away from Jervaise’s dark countenance. He eyed her as he would an unknown enemy—wary, even distrustful. The knowledge twisted her heart. She’d sworn the marriage vows, yielded her body, thrown her support behind him. Yet still he did not trust her.
“Christ, I almost forgot.” On the threshold, Henry paused. “What with this crisis and that—I’ve news of those villains who attacked you.”
She tore her gaze from Jervaise’s guarded features. She’d nearly forgotten last night’s assault by those would-be assassins.
“They were to be lashed, so my husband told me.”
“Those were my orders.” Henry nodded. “Their cell was found empty at dawn, and the jailer drugged.”
Alarm spiked through her. “Then Jervaise is in danger.”
“Nay.” Jervaise watched the king. “Say the rest of it.”
“It gives me no pleasure.” Henry scrubbed a hand against his whiskers. “We found the missing men an hour ago, floating heels up in the river. Not a mark on them.”
A chill skittered across her skin. Chafing her arms, she moved closer to the fire. Vulgrin squatted in the ashes with the shovel, his single eye glittering.
“Dead end,” Jervaise growled. “Villain’s covered his tracks. Damn.”
“I’ve appointed Sir Guy Aigret to investigate.” Henry shifted as if, even now, he could not bear to stand still. “The man needs a task. But I doubt he’ll find much, unless a witness comes forward. Watch your back, old friend—both on the road and in battle.”
“Just like old times.” Jervaise bared his teeth in a wolfish grin.
“I trust Sir Guy will investigate Sir Bors?” Alienore said. “What were his whereabouts last night?”
Eyes gleaming, the king hoisted his eyebrows. “Why, madam, I’m told he was with you.”
Thus did the King of England wreak vengeance on the woman who’d spurned him. She should have expected the ambush. He was a Plantagenet, after all.
When the king departed, she turned to Jervaise, her heart sinking. His mouth twisted in a mordant smile.
“Nay, ’Twas not like that.” Her conscience smote her. “I meant to tell you.”
But had she truly? At least she could say honestly she’d never wanted Sir Bors to kill him!
Aware of the listening servants, she straightened.
“Nesta, find me a gown for travel, if you please. You have heard the king’s edict. We ride for Lyonstone this day.”
She could not mute the ring of gladness in her voice. But her elation faded before Jervaise’s keen gaze.
“You were busy last night, aye?” he rasped. “Couldn’t find time to tell me before you came to my bed?”
Uneasy, her eyes flickered to Vulgrin and Nesta as they bustled about, too well trained to react to this tense discussion. Still, she disliked discussing personal matters before them. Though she would take oath Nesta, at least, was trustworthy.
“I would have told you, Jervaise. There was simply no occasion, with the assault upon you and then . . .”
He stalked toward her. Flustered, she turned to the window and the churning river below. In the clouded glass, the dark flame of his reflection leaped to life. His hands rose to brace against the wall, trapping her between his arms.
“No occasion?” His warm breath tickled her nape. “No chance to tell me you’d met your mortal enemy? The very man who brokered our marriage? This disturbs me.”
She struggled to remain calm, to recall she had nothing to hide. “We know Sir Bors is responsible, yet we cannot prove it. He alleged there is still a rival claimant for your duchy—a rival candidate for my hand. Is it true?”
“Oh, aye, it’s true,” he whispered, lips brushing her ear. “Does that please you?”
The pain of his distrust knifed through her.
“Why should I wish to exchange one unwanted husband for another? I know nothing of this rival claimant. Indeed, he could prove worse than—”
Too late, she swallowed the words. He barked a grim laugh. “Worse than me—another outcast, bastard, infidel? That what you meant to say?”
“Why are you doing this, Jervaise? We are wedded now—”
“Wedded and bedded.” His hands slid down her arms and curled beneath her breasts. “I gave you one gift he couldn’t, aye? Made you a woman—taught you the truth of your body.”
Her breath caught as his hands cradled her breasts. A flood of desire weakened her knees.
When her nipples tightened under his caress, he chuckled like a demon. Burning and breathless, need pulsing between her thighs, she leaned against him and closed her eyes.
“I want no other husband,” she whispered. “None but the one I have.”
“Behold the power of desire,” he jibed.
“I cannot blame you for doubting.” Inhaling a shaky breath, she turned her cheek against his naked chest. “You are not the unprincipled knave I called you—”
Abruptly he pushed away, ending the caresses that coaxed her to voice these dangerous thoughts.
“Don’t deceive yourself. I’m everything you think me. I’m the worst of what’s rumored,” he said harshly. “You’d do far better with another man. Afraid you’re stuck with me now, though.”
Heart twisting, she watched him pull a shirt over his muscled torso. Protests spun through her head, but mindful of the servants, she said nothing. Guilt and uncertainty clouded her thinking and muddied her usual decisiveness. She needed time and the solace of prayer to clarify her feelings.
“Nesta, I have missed the Mass, but I daresay the priest will hear my confession.”
As Nesta combed and coiled her hair, he armored himself in the Raven’s unrelieved black. He’d withdrawn behind a wall of foreboding, devoid of any warmth or tenderness.
As if last night never happened and I mean nothing to him. Struggling for composure, she draped a veil over her hair. Her mirror showed her modest and seemly, with no sign of her sinful passions or the guilt that roiled her soul.
Her stubborn spirit reasserted itself. He called himself a godless man, but he had not always been so.
“It may be long before we have leisure for matters of faith.” She hesitated. “Will you not accompany me to confession?”
He raked back his hair and tied it. “Your God and I are not on speaking terms.”
“But we are riding to war! You are long unconfessed. Don’t you think—?”
“Nay, I do not.” He shot her a black look, his ruined voice simmering with warning. “I renounced God long ago—after he renounced me. Say no more of this.”
And so, once again, she failed to persuade him. But she could not seem to cease trying. She would heal the damage wrought by his rift with his faith, an open wound grave as the one that destroyed his voice. She wanted more for him—for them—than the cool resignation of an arranged marriage, two people bound together by expediency.
She was going to save him, whether he wanted it or not.
Chapter Nineteen
Alienore twisted in her saddle to search the rolling hills curtained in gray drizzle. Aye, these were Lyonstone lands.
Despite the rain that had drenched them since they set foot on English soil, miring the roads in a sea of mud, the soft breath of spring caressed her. The Wishing Stone folk should be busy in the fields, sowing the barley and oats that put bread on the table, tending her sheep—source of the manor’s renowned cheeses. Yet the fields stood empty.
She’d meant to trumpet her return; she’d thought her faithful folk would be jubilant. Yet now, as her lands huddled under ominous clouds, she shivered and pulled her mantle closer.
An uneasy silence shrouded the traveling party. Watchful eyes glitte
red in his hood as Jervaise eyed the barren fields. Yet he too said naught.
Indeed, that was nothing uncommon. Clearly, he was displeased by the king’s edict, sending him to England rather than his own distressed lands. Only at night, in their bed, would his armor drop, during those heated hours of darkness when she burned in his arms.
She cleared her throat. “By my faith, where have they all gone? ’Tis the height of the planting season—almost Easter.”
“They’ve gone away, milady,” Nesta said, subdued. “Even my own mam and da, and all my sisters too. Their little cot stood empty.”
“God save us, I should never have left.” The burden of guilt weighed her down. “I fled my duty when I fled Ponce. Now God must punish me for cowardice.”
Jervaise snorted. “This is no biblical curse, but mere neglect. My lands looked the same after sixteen years of Ponce’s indifference.”
“I simply cannot comprehend it. I left Raoul in charge. He has been my steward for years, and an excellent one at that. My reeves and bailiff have always heeded him.”
“Many a servant may fail his duty, aye? Need a strong hand to guide them.”
“Not Raoul.” Concern tightened her chest. “God’s mercy, I pray no evil has befallen him. He has never written, not once since I left. But I thought—”
Knowing how close she treaded to awkward secrets, she swallowed the words. I thought he was only angry, hurt and upset as I was, after our quarrel the night I fled.
Yet she tingled with awareness of Jervaise, his guarded eyes trained on her. A month ago she would have swallowed her own tongue rather than confide in him, but something had changed between them.
How not, after the intimacies we share in our bed? He knows everything about me—sinful thoughts, carnal knowledge, the secrets of my soul . . . all except one. The last one and the worst.
Bending to brush away a gobbet of mud, she spoke softly. “The night I left home, we . . . quarreled. I left without telling him whence I traveled. I thought ‘twould be easier. He could swear to my brother and Ponce that he knew nothing.”
Jervaise was perceptive enough, and knew her well enough, to sense when she skirted an unpleasant truth. “Difficult to write when he doesn’t know your whereabouts.”
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