“You … are La Seyne Sur Mer?” Servanne gasped in astonishment.
“I took the surname from the small village in France where I landed amongst the living again. The Christian name was given me by the physician who swore I should have died a dozen times in the months I spent recovering from my wounds. It all seemed fitting … the name, the hood.”
“The queen? She accepted you without question?”
The Wolf tilted his head slightly, revealing a faint grin to the light. “The queen thought it a delicious ruse—her very words—for a hooded knight to hold her court, and her enemies, in terror.”
“And the Black Wolf?”
“Her pet name for me, I’m afraid.”
“But what of this … this madness? Surely she could not have sanctioned it?”
“The dowager knows nothing of my connection to Blood-moor Keep, or that I have a personal score to settle with its master. To her, Randwulf de la Seyne Sur Mer is her trusted champion, the man she sent to regain her beloved princess’s freedom regardless of the cost.”
“La Seyne Sur Mer … the Black Wolf of Lincoln … Lucien Wardieu …” Servanne shook her head in bewilderment. “Which one of those men is really you?”
“All of them. None of them.” He turned fully into the light and she saw the smudges of weariness under his eyes. “You should not have come here tonight; it was a foolish risk.”
“Why did you agree to see me? You could have refused.”
His gaze was steady, his expression grim. “You are absolutely right. It was stupid of me to worry what kind of trouble you might be in, or that I had promised you help if it was needed. But no matter, if you are discovered here, the blame will fall on equal parts on both our heads.”
“Alaric and the others are outside. They will give ample warning of any threat.”
The threat is here, the Wolf wanted to shout. It was in her eyes and on her lips. It was steeped in her fragrance and woven into every glimmering strand of her hair. Worse, it was raging white-hot throughout his body, and had been since she had walked through the door. It was all he could do now to force his hands to remain down by his sides and to try to turn his thoughts away from the scent of her skin.
“You … have been treated well since your arrival?”
“De Gournay has been very civil, very polite under the circumstances. He asked few questions about you, however, and I am convinced he thinks I know you only as an outlaw, not as his brother.”
“He … has not touched you … or harmed you in any way?”
Servanne looked up into his eyes, wondering how much longer her legs could support her, trembling as badly as they were. “Would you have cared if he had?”
“Of course I would care.” He caught the gruffness in his voice and forced it behind a flat grin. “I would care for the safety of your neck, my lady.”
“Only my neck?”
His jaw tautened to a ridge of corded sinew and a small blue vein leaped to prominence in his temple. Her hood had slipped back, baring the gleaming gold crown of her hair to the light, and he had a sudden, clear image of it scattered around her naked shoulders, clinging to both their bodies as they lay twined together in the steamy dampness of the grotto.
But it passed in the next instant and a clearer image of a jousting field took shape, and the gold of her hair was replaced by the crimson of spilled blood.
“You should not have come here tonight,” he said again, harshly. “I only agreed because I offered La Seyne as a means of protection if you were hurt or required help in some way. Since you look remarkably healthy, my lady, and if, as you say, everyone has been civil and polite—”
“Your brother,” she interrupted sharply, “shows even less emotion than you—if such a thing is possible.”
She turned her back on him, shielding her outburst behind the cloud of yellow hair that had worked its way free of the braid.
“His expression rarely changes from one hour to the next,” she continued bitterly. “Yet I have seen his mere presence reduce a burly man to a mass of cowering fright. The castle is full of fear; the halls and chambers are thick with it, the air reeks of it. To me, he has been polite, yes, but there is a coldness in him, an underlying evil, sinister and cruel … traits I might not have seen or looked for had you not planted the seeds of suspicion in my mind. Now that you have, how am I to deal with it? How can I be expected to go through with the wedding, or be the smiling, dutiful wife he has contracted? And if he comes into my bed at night and touches me—”
“There will be no wedding, by Christ,” the Wolf exclaimed. “And if he touches you … if he touches you—” he grasped her by the shoulders and spun her around so that the shadows no longer concealed her features. What he saw, glowing in her eyes, caused the grip of his fingers to squeeze hard enough to promise bruising.
Servanne de Briscourt was smiling. Tears studded her lashes like tiny sparkling gemstones, but she was smiling.
“You do care,” she cried happily. “You do. You do!”
His jaw flexed. His hands tightened and the gleam in his eyes flared with anger.
“No,” he snarled. “No, you are wrong.”
“Am I? Then push me away. Tell me you pray God you never need lay eyes on me again, never need touch me again, never need hold me or feel your body moving deep inside me. Tell me you want no part of this heart that beats so strongly within my breast. Tell me all of that, my lord, with your eyes as well as your lips, and I will walk out the door and never look back. It will be no easy task, for I have only just begun to realize my life will be nothing without you. But I will do it. I will obey your every command to wipe your memory from my heart … if it is what you want me to do.”
The years of hardening himself, years of conditioning himself to feel nothing, betray nothing, reveal nothing of his emotions, were slipping away with each warm, shiny tear that escaped her lashes. His hands squeezed until he felt bone, and he started to push her away. He started … even managed to gain an inch or two of freedom before a pent-up breath exploded from his lungs and he dragged her forward, dragged her into his embrace, into the hungry caress of his lips.
Their mouths came eagerly together. Their arms circled one another, clasping each other tightly, desperate to bring their bodies as close as life and breath would allow. He kissed her deeply again and again, smothering her gasps and sobs, adding his own muffled words of endearment as his hands, lips, and body trembled with further admissions.
“Lucien,” she cried softly. “Lucien—”
“Hush,” he commanded, and stripped the gauntlets from his hands before lifting them to cradle either side of her tear-streaked face. “You have worked enough of your cleverness on me for one night.”
She melted into his kiss, savouring the devouring heat of his lips. When she could bear no more without the threat of a faint, she pressed her cheek into the crook of his neck and surrendered herself to the comfort of his arms.
“Take me away from here, Lucien,” she begged. “Take me away … now! Tonight! I am so afraid!”
“There is nothing to fear,” he assured her, smoothing the blonde wisps of her hair.
“As long as it is your intention to fight tomorrow, I will know nothing but fear.”
This time his mouth could win no response and he sighed. “Servanne, I cannot simply walk away from the evil here at Bloodmoor Keep. Perhaps … if it were just my own name and honour demanding vengeance, I could happily and willingly forsake it in order to take you away from this place forever. But it was my father who died a traitor’s death, starved in his cell like a mongrel, his name spat upon by men who believed Etienne’s lies. I can no more walk away from my responsibilities to the memory of Robert Wardieu, than I could turn my back on my most solemn pledge to the queen to see the Princess Eleanor brought back to safety.”
Servanne bowed her head and pressed her face against the thickness of his quilted doublet. He was right, of course, and it was unfair of her to think only of
her own wants and needs, but it was also suddenly, shamelessly impossible to think of anything else.
Lucien drew his hands away, reluctantly forcing a space between their bodies. He reached up to disengage her arms from around his neck, but she only clung to him more determinedly and raised huge, glistening blue eyes to his.
“You must go back,” he urged gently. “You have already been absent from the keep too long.”
“Lucien—”
He shook his head and placed a finger lightly over her lips. “And you must not call me Lucien. Not yet. Not while there are a thousand things to betray us.”
“Betray us? How?”
“A loose tongue, an unguarded look. The Dragon is keen and clever; his suspicions must not be roused so near the end.”
She tightened her arms still further and drew herself up so that their mouths were only a breath apart and elsewhere, their bodies were not even that.
“Promise me,” she pleaded. “Promise me this will not be the end for us.”
“Has your confidence in La Seyne’s abilities gone the way of your expectations for the Black Wolf’s success?”
“Promise me,” she insisted, ignoring his feeble attempt at humour. “Give me your most solemn pledge, then I know it will be so.”
Lucien’s gray eyes studied her intently, his body responded to hers despite the armoured strength of his will.
“My pledge, madam,” he said softly, “is that when this matter is settled, we will bathe together, and often, in the grotto by the Silent Pool. Moreover, we will discuss this stubborn streak of yours. We will discuss it until you are too exhausted to plague me with it ever again.”
Servanne’s eyes shone as they drifted down to his lips. “Your word is your honour, monseigneur, and I do not question it … but … is there no other means of sealing a most solemn vow?”
Lucien was still as a statue; Servanne’s cheeks flamed as hot as fire.
“You will be missed—”
“I have spent these past few nights alone, feeling missed by no one,” she countered poignantly. “Aching for something … I knew not what until tonight.”
“Servanne—”
“For you, my lord. I ache for you. I ache with the loneliness and emptiness I feel when you are not near me. I know I dishonour myself in asking, but … but I would feel you inside me once more,” she whispered haltingly. “I would feel you banish the emptiness, and fill it with some small part of your courage and strength that I might carry it with me through whatever may come on the morrow.”
Neither Lucien the man, the outlaw Wolf, nor the vaunted Randwulf de la Seyne Sur Mer knew what to say or do to counter the powerful intoxicant of her eyes. His hands were less than steady as he cradled her face between them; the sight of her tears, flowing in wet shiny streaks to her chin made them even less so.
“There is … no time,” he said raggedly. “The risk—” “The risk is that we might neither of us have this chance again. You said yourself, a thousand things might betray us —a slipped tongue, an unguarded look …”
His thumbs came tenderly together over her lips to silence her. They parted again, brushing reverently over the damp tearfall, and when they failed to staunch the liquid flow, his mouth took up the challenge, moving over her lashes, her cheeks, trailing lower to collect the salty sweetness that eluded him. A groan sent his tongue plunging helplessly into the velvety recesses of her mouth, and she tasted the curse that brought his lips slanting more forcefully over hers. She felt the tremors in his arms as he gathered her close again, and she felt his desire, rising bold and insistent between them.
“Love me,” she pleaded. “Love me, Lucien, that I might know what we shared was not just a dream.”
He swore again as the shivered plea rippled through his body. There was no use denying the hunger that raged within him, no use resisting the lithe and supple body that clung to his with a feverish desire. Their mouths came apart and met again, broke apart and met, and he knew he was lost. His fingers searched after the ribbands and fasteners that bound her clothes in place, and the woolen cloak was flung aside, billowing away like a dark sail in the shadows. Layers fell rapidly to the impatience of lips and hands, and when there was only the slippery thin sheath of her linen undergarment between them, he stood back, his eyes burning with passion, growing darker with promise as he pulled and tugged aside his own bulky clothes.
Shivering with the remembered power of all that flesh being laid bare before her, Servanne stepped up when he had completed but half the task. She ran her hands across the hard breadth of his chest, her fingers combing through the storm of crisp, curling hairs. She found the darker islands of his nipples and a smothered gasp sent her leaning into his heat. Her lips closed around one of the sensitive aureoles, caressing his flesh with a hunger that prompted a muffled hiss of a breath from between his teeth.
He was still flinging aside points, belts, and hose when he dropped down onto his knees in front of her. His hands skimmed up her thighs, raising the sheath to her waist, then her breasts. The last of his patience was expended as he tore the flimsy garment in two, barely troubling to cast it aside before his hands were cupped around her flesh and his lips were feasting on the bared bounty.
Servanne curled her arms around his neck and staggered against his warm, wet manipulations. She shuddered at each swirling turn of his tongue and cried out as his lips kneaded and suckled and worshipped the firm white pillows of flesh until they were blushing as pinkly as the rest of her heated body.
He drew her down onto his bended knees and she did not resist. He guided a snowy white thigh to either side of his waist and his hands cradled the softness of her hips holding her against him with an apologetic urgency.
“Yes,” she gasped. “Oh yes—!” And the gasp became a husked cry as he lowered her smooth, yielding flesh over his straining heat. Groans were wrung from both shocked throats. She was hot and sleek and moulded to his flesh like a second, tight skin, and he paused every other heartbeat as he lowered her, knowing he had never, in all his lusty years of manhood, wanted or needed a woman with so vast a passion as he felt now.
One woman, he reflected savagely. This woman. Fill me, she had said; love me, banish the emptiness …
He groaned and bent his head to her shoulder, his body quaking with a fever he feared he would not be able to control. He was all too aware of the subtle, rippling contractions that pulled his flesh still deeper, and of her cries and whispers drenching him in a heat that was almost too much to bear. He shifted his hands to her waist, his fingers rigid with the force of his need. He clenched his teeth against the growing, spreading rings of pleasure that spiraled through him, but he feared it was no use. His arms circled her waist and he groaned aloud, the sound catching like a sob in his throat as he fought valiantly to weather the unholy torment. Servanne shuddered and writhed and he heard her gasped plea, acknowledging it with an even hoarser groan as he gave her hips their freedom to plunder his flesh with their own merciless ingenuity.
Servanne’s upper body arched back and her hands clawed into his shoulders. She moved blindly against the hard fullness of him, the rapture engulfing her in waves of heat so intense she continued to quake with shock and pleasure long after she had lost the ability to govern her actions. She had to rely upon Lucien’s hands to reclaim their authority, Lucien’s arms to bring her to a dazed, quivering halt against him.
Limp and drained, she collapsed into the welcoming comfort of his embrace. Stunned by the depths of her own passions, she panted lightly against the curve of his shoulder and was thankful for his solid presence supporting her. His skin was hot beneath her cheek, and, with the slow return of sensation to her body, she became aware of the pounding beat of his heart against hers, and the fiercely possessive way he held her.
She dared to look up and their eyes met. Incredulously, she felt the wolfish fur at his groin chafing her and the deep, moist pulsations of his flesh sliding, stroking between her thighs.
> “I am still there,” he murmured tersely. “How, by God’s splendour, I shall never know, but I am still there.”
He bowed his dark head, his words sounding like oaths where he pressed them against her breasts. Servanne squeezed her eyes closed and a glistening, fat tear splashed onto the back of the hand she curled around his neck and shoulders. Beneath her fingers were the welts of raised scar tissue; beneath her lips the taste of salt, musk, and leather. Deep inside her was the aching heat she had so shamelessly longed for, and she half-laughed, half-cried at her own foolish innocence. He had wanted her as much as she had wanted him and she wept for the joy of it, the wildness of it, the passion that coursed through her veins like rivulets of fire.
Lucien’s hands raked up into her hair, scattering the remains of the neatly plaited braid. He dragged the heavy woolen cloak closer and lowered her swiftly onto the padded folds, his body driving into hers with a hungry violence, his mouth eagerly sharing her renewed cries of awe and wonderment.
21
Servanne opened her eyes slowly. She had been oblivious to her surroundings, oblivious to everything but the power and the passion of the man in whose arms she lay. The tiniest shiver of fear chased along her spine when she recognized nothing familiar in the surrounding gloom. Could it all have been a dream again?
No. No dream had ever felt like this. No dream had cradled her body with such contented bliss. No dream had ever provided a shoulder of steely muscle for a pillow, or arms of warm marble for a blanket, or a body of such magnificent textures and essences for a mattress. No dream had ever supported her head when she could not, nor had there been hands half so bold or loving to gently draw her mouth around to his that they might savour the last ebbing shudders of spent ecstasy together. Spent, yet not spent. Drained, yet full to bursting with his life-giving strength.
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