Fire and Steel

by Anita Mills

  Her heart thumping against her ribs as though it would jump from her chest, Catherine averted her head and nodded. She knew she had no right to refuse him if he wanted to lie with her again. Placing the cups on a shelf for Hawise to tend to on the morrow, she tried to quell her own rising desire, denying even to herself what she wanted. But despite everything, she could not control the traitorous trembling she felt when he took her hand.

  “Well, Lea,” Roger murmured against Eleanor’s hair after everyone had left, “what think you of the boy now? Think you he can please our Cat?”

  “I think him a man grown,” she decided softly. “And ’tis Cat who will have to please him.”

  “Nay—I had thought him angered with her, but now I can see he is besotted instead.”

  19

  Guy sat on a bench near the bed while Arnulf removed his shoes. Behind him, he could hear Hawise humming as she brushed out Cat’s hair, and he tried to hide the eagerness he felt by staring into the small fire before him. His back still smarted where his linen undertunic rubbed against the scratches she’d made but hours before, and his eyes were sensitive from the soap and the smoke, but his body, rather than being tired, was acutely alive as he thought of her.

  “Sweet Mary, but you would make me bald,” Catherine complained, ducking her head and pulling away from her serving woman. “Jesu!”

  Unperturbed, the plump woman stepped back to lay down the brush. Haying just remade the bed with clean sheets, she had a fair idea of what ailed her young mistress—Cat sought to cover her nervousness with ill temper. Aye, it could not be an easy thing on the girl’s conscience to lie with one man when she thought she loved another.

  Rising to pour herself a cup of wine, Cat kept her back to him, not knowing that the firelight shone through her thin undershift, outlining her body. “I think you have had enough.” He spoke behind her as he stood.

  “Nay, you’ll not tell me—” Her voice trailed off with the realization that he had moved toward her. Her mouth went dry and her heart beat wildly in a curious mixture of dread and anticipation.

  Hawise, looking from one to the other, realized that her services were no longer needed. With a quick little bobbing bow, she excused herself and made for the door. They were either going to battle or breed, by the looks of it, and she had no business watching either.

  Guy followed her to bar the door and then turned back to Catherine. Padding almost silently across the rush-matted floor, he reached to take the still-full cup from her nerveless fingers. “I favor my women sober, Cat,” he murmured. Setting it down on the shelf where shed gotten it, he watched the color drain from her face. “Nay, I’ll not hurt you this time,” he told her softly as his fingers stroked the bones of her shoulder through the thin fabric.

  Her eyes widened at his touch and an uncontrollable shiver shook her as she waited. “God’s bones, but you are cold,” he whispered, taking her into his arms. She closed her eyes to keep him from knowing it was not cold, but heat that coursed through her body. But she willed herself to stand stock-still within his embrace—she’d not play the wanton for him this time.

  He felt her stiffen in his arms and released her. He wanted her desperately, but he also wanted her willing. He waited until she turned away, and then he came up behind her. She had too much pride to let him see her give in, he reasoned, but an old whore had taught him once that there was more than one way to arouse a woman. Sliding his arms around her, he pulled her back against him, folding his arms across her waist and bending to nuzzle her hair with his cheek.

  “I remember the smell of roses in your hair,” he whispered.

  “Well, tonight it stinks of lye soap,” she snapped. “As well you should know, my lord.”

  “Aye, but ‘tis still a smell headier than wine, Cat.” Pressing his body more closely into her back, he held her with one arm and began brushing lightly over her breasts with the other, and as she leaned her head away, her hair fell back to bare her neck. His lips sought the sensitive place where her neck met her shoulder, and he was rewarded with the sharp intake of her breath. Her body trembled against his and her skin turned to gooseflesh as his lips moved upward to the shell of her ear.

  His breath sounded like a gale as it rushed across her ear. She closed her eyes again and swallowed hard. “Sweet Mary, but I’d not have you do this to me,” she whispered in near-anguish.

  “Your body tells me a different tale,” he murmured against her. He felt her nipples tauten beneath his palm and sensed he had half the battle won. Both of his hands moved to cup her breasts through her undershift and his thumbs teased the peaks that strained against the thin cambric.

  She caught at his hands to stop them with her own, but she could not still the waves of desire that threatened to overwhelm her. He was rubbing against her back, letting her feel his aroused manhood through their clothing, and when his hands moved from her breasts, they skimmed over her rib cage and then lower to smooth the fabric of the undershift over her hips. And it was as though even the light touch of his fingertips had the power to awaken an ache deep within her. Her pulse pounded so loudly in her ears that she was unaware he eased her shift upward until she felt his hand on the bare skin of her thighs, and suddenly she didn’t care anymore. Every nerve, every sense in her body was tuned now to his touch and was centered between her legs. She didn’t even hear him whisper soft love words as his fingers found the wetness there and slid inside. A low moan escaped and rose to an animal cry while fire spread and engulfed her. She tried to turn in his arms, twisting against him, wanting the feel of him, wanting him to feel her need of him.

  He lifted her by her waist and backed toward the bed, and then when he reached it, he brought her shift up over her shoulders, pulling it off even as he laid her down. Fleetingly, somewhere in the back of her brain, she wondered where he’d learned to do that, and then she watched wide-eyed as he stripped himself of his clothes.

  She’d expected him to cover her with his body, to take possession of her and give her what she wanted now, but he eased into the bed beside her and began exploring her body leisurely with his hands, watching her with those strangely beautiful eyes of his until she thought she could stand it no longer. She wanted to tell him she was ready, but could find no words. Her body arched as his fingers found her again, and she thought surely he meant to come to her now. Instead, he bent his head to kiss her, brushing her lips with agonizing slowness and then taking full possession of her mouth as though to savor the taste. Her legs opened invitingly, her desire making her shameless, and still she waited, wanting his body to release hers from its mindless need.

  He probed and stroked and teased until she forgot all else save the exquisite sensations her body gave her. With her eyes tightly closed again, she was in another world of intense pleasure where everything centered on what he was doing to her. Her body thrashed, bucked, and moved ceaselessly beneath his hand, and still he would not take her. She felt her senses heighten to where the aching desire built into pulsing, throbbing waves that spread outward from where he touched her, consuming all of her. No longer caring what he would think, she cried out in great gasps of ecstasy until the intensity ebbed and she floated finally, breathless and at peace.

  He’d not meant to take so long, but as he’d watched her, seeing her woman’s response to his touch, he’d wanted her to feel what he knew whores only feigned. And now, as he saw the fine mist of perspiration on her forehead that made tendrils of hair cling to her temples, he knew he’d wanted to make it good for her, to make her want him even as he wanted her. Moving his hand to stroke the smooth, satiny skin of her belly, he waited for her to open her eyes. And when at last she stared up at him, he bent to kiss her again, to blot out the embarrassment that brought a rush of blood to her face.

  “Nay, Cat—’tis how ’tis supposed to be between us,” he murmured softly when she would have turned away. And the feel of her lips beneath his sent a thrill of renewed passion through him, reminding his own body that it
had yet to be satisfied. His hand cupped her breast and the rosy tip budded anew. Lowering his head to rest on her chest, he licked the hardened nipple, teasing it with his tongue and then sucking, and he felt her tremble as her hands grasped his hair.

  “Have done…I cannot…ohhhh…” Her fingers caressed the thick black hair restlessly as desire rekindled deep within her.

  “Sweet Cat…my sweet Cat,” he whispered as he eased his body over hers.

  He awoke to the early morning sounds of a castle rising, and turned to ease Catherine off his arm. He’d slept with his arms wrapped around her, his body curled to draw warmth from hers, and now the limb tingled almost painfully from its cramped position. She slept the deep sleep of the sated and her face betrayed none of the night’s passion. He propped himself up on an elbow and rubbed his aching arm while watching her. A slow, almost tender smile curved his mouth and warmed his eyes. Her dark hair lay tangled between them, spreading out from a face that would have made a sculptor proud of its perfection. God’s bones, but there could not be another like her anywhere, he thought to himself, and yet she was his. Pride surged through him as he gingerly lifted the covers to look again on her body, a body that had given him more pleasure than any other, a body that, while still as stone now, had moved beneath him with such abandon but hours before. Whereas whores were paid to moan and pant and cry out their pleasure, Cat of the Condes had responded to him with such fire that shed made his desire her own. He let the coverlet fall and smoothed her tangled hair back from her temples softly to avoid waking her.

  A cock. crowed somewhere in the outer bailey, breaking through his reverie and reminding him he was hungry. He rolled away from her to sit on the edge of the rope-hung bed and collect his thoughts. She moved behind him, adjusting her position to the shifting of the mattress, and sighed heavily in her sleep. Rising, he reached for his discarded chausses that lay in a heap at the bottom of the curtained bed. Jesu, but he’d wanted her like nothing he’d ever wanted before, he remembered. Aye. That thought gave him pause.

  He’d managed to survive twenty-four years by the sheer strength of his will and his acknowledged fighting skill. There’d never been any softness, any ease in his life—not his earliest years, spent unwanted in his grandsire’s house—not in the lonely isolation of the monastery—not when his father had grudgingly brought him out as heir to his patrimony—and certainly not since he’d inherited. Had it not been for William, he’d not have been valued at all. Memories of aching loneliness, of wanting his cold father’s acceptance, washed over him. Nothing he had ever wanted had come to pass—or if it had, it had not lasted.

  He turned back to stare at the sleeping Catherine. Aye, she’d given him her body with abandon, but even in that, he’d had to make her want him. He could lie with her every night, he could get his heirs of her body even, but his rational mind had to admit that he might never possess her heart. He could be her husband, her lord and master, but he wanted more of her than that—he wanted her to be what no one else had been to him.

  The cock crowed again. With a reluctant sigh he pulled on his chausses and sat to garter them, wondering how early Lord Roger broke his fast. But even as he wrapped the leather bands about his legs, his thoughts went back to Catherine. God’s bones, but in those years since Tinchebrai, he’d thought he’d ended his foolish dreams of her—and yet he’d had but to see her again to rekindle them. Absently he leaned to pick up his undershirt and pulled it over his head. He’d allowed himself to be at no man’s mercy, he’d kept his distance from his fellow magnates out of wariness, and now he was hostage to a mere girl—a girl who did not even reach his shoulder. Well, he could never let her know—’twould give her too much power over him if she even suspected how much he yearned to be everything to her.

  His feet found his leather shoes and he tugged them on, straightening the points beyond his toes. A man ought to wear boots rather than such silliness, he told himself, for what good was something that extended so far that some men stuffed the long points while others rolled them? He never favored such nonsense, but it had gotten to where it was impossible to buy a pair otherwise. As it was, his were shorter than most, and still he thought of them as fool’s shoes.

  His overtunic was wrinkled and in need of pressing, but he had only two others suitable for wear at the Condes. Aye, that was another thing—as Count of Rivaux, he outranked Roger de Brione in title, but he was a pauper in comparison. While Lord Roger had kept his lands by not fighting, Guy had lost Rivaux and its revenues for five years in one battle.

  Idly he wondered what Catherine would think of him when she realized he did not even have sufficient money now to pay for lodgings for her in Rouen. Nay—he’d not tell her. Mayhap when he got to Rivaux, he would find things were not so bad as he expected them, and after fall crops, mayhap he’d be a richer man. Before Tinchebrai, he’d had numerous estates throughout Normandy, and now he did not even know if Henry meant to restore more than just Rivaux itself to him. His boast to Roger that he had other castles had been made recklessly, because he didn’t want Cat’s father to think him unable to provide for her. Under other circumstances she would have been dowered when she came to him, but since he’d wed her without her family’s blessing, or even consent, he could scarce expect anything—nay, he would not take it even were it offered.

  “Art wake early.”

  He spun around guiltily at the sound of her voice, and found her propped up looking at him. Her tangled hair fell about her shoulders in wild disarray, spilling over the covers she clutched to her breasts, and her great dark eyes were serious, as though they would - know his thoughts now. And whatever she saw sent a rush of color to her face.

  “I did not mean to waken you,” he apologized.

  “Nay—you did not. Most days I am up before this.”

  “I thought you’d be overtired.”

  Her blush deepened, sending desire through him again, and he had to look away to master himself. He ought to be sated—able to go days without her after the night past—and yet he wanted her now. It was as though the more he had of her, the more he would want of her. Resolutely he reached for the wrinkled tunic and laid it across one of the benches. His back still to her, he rummaged in a box for another one. Finding a relatively plain blue overtunic, he shrugged it over his head before he dared turn to her again. And when he looked back, she’d already risen and pulled on her undershift. He breathed a sigh of relief that she was covered at least.

  She walked to the narrow slitted window and. threw open the shutters to breathe deeply of the fresh spring morn. “When do we have to leave for Rouen, my lord? I’d—”

  “I leave on the morrow. I am commanded to give my oath on Whitsunday.”

  At first she’s not thought she heard him aright. “Tomorrow? But I…” Her voice trailed off in consternation. “You leave on the morrow,” she repeated, swallowing. He did not intend to take her with him, she realized incredulously, scarce able to believe it.

  “Aye.”

  She felt a sense of shame that threatened her composure. Hot tears of humiliation welled in her eyes as she realized that he’d used her as he would have a castle whore—he’d come to the Condes and bedded her, not once, but twice and more in the same day—and now he meant to leave her to the certain pity of her sisters. And, Sweet Mary, but she’d let him—nay, she’d lain willing for him, giving him what she’d denied Brian. The fear that she’d been a fool made her furious.

  “Nay! I am neither whore nor leman, Guy of Rivaux, but rather your wedded wife! If you did not want me, then you should have stayed in Wales!”

  “I am come to do my liege’s bidding,” he reminded her. “I will be back, I swear.”

  “Nay! If you leave me now, I’ll not go with you later, my lord. How do you think ‘twill look to others come to my sister’s wedding when ‘tis told that you bedded me and left?” Her voice rose angrily as she choked back her tears. “D’you think I wanted you to come back? Nay, but I did not! And did
you think I wanted to lie with you? Nay, but I did not! And if you think that you can come and take and leave, you are sore mistaken, Lord Guy!” she hissed furiously.

  “Cat…” He took a step nearer and stopped, not wanting to touch her for fear his resolve would collapse.

  “And do not cry ‘Cat’ to me!” She looked around her helplessly for a weapon to wound with. “Jesu! ’Tis not any maid you would take for wife—’tis Catherine of the Condes! And I’ll not be insulted by the likes of a man lately come from exile—I’ll not!” Her fingers closed around an iron candle spike and she hurled it at him, missing his head by a hairbreadth. It clunked against the stone wall, breaking the candle and exposing the pointed spike.

  “God’s bones, Cat! You could have put out my eye!” To his horror, she’d spied the dagger William had laid on a table, and he lunged to intercept her. “Nay—’tis enough of this!” He caught her at the waist and held her at arm’s length while she kicked and clawed at him. Releasing her, he took possession of the dagger. “I’d not thought you wanted me so badly, Cat,” he murmured as she faced him, panting.

  “’Tis your hide I would nail to the wall!” she spat back. “ ‘I am come to do my liege’s bidding,’ ” she mimicked. “Well, you can go back to King Henry and tell him I’d rather be Brian’s leman than your wife!”

  The smile that had begun to form at the corners of his mouth faded, and the gold in his eyes gave way to cold green. She backed away, suddenly frightened of the temper she saw in them. “Nay, I am all you are given, Cat,” he told her evenly as he advanced on her. “If ever I think you have lain with anyone else, I will kill him. You are mine to take and no one else’s, Catherine of the Condes, and so long as blood flows in this body, I will not hesitate to defend mine honor—do you understand me?” His hand reached to cup her chin and force it upward until her eyes met his. “Do you?”