Through a Dark Mist

by Marsha Canham

  Moaning softly to express her disappointment as he released her lips, she kept her pale, lovely face level with his. Her hair was spread every which way over her shoulders, with fine, damp tendrils clinging in misty curls to her temples and throat. Strands of it were tangled into the dark mat of hair on his chest. Filaments were tossed over his shoulders and curled around his arms to all but encase them in a gossamer cocoon. And, feeling safe and protected within their golden cocoon, Servanne lowered her cheek and rested it against the hard plane of muscle that breasted his chest.

  “I would stay here with you, bound together like this forever, my lord,” she whispered dreamily. “Let someone from some future time discover our bones melted together and envy us that we died of such pleasure.”

  Lucien ran his hands down beneath the silky veil of her hair, but where he should have insisted they at least retrieve their clothes and restore some order to their appearance, he only held her selfishly tight to his loins.

  “You are a poor influence on a man’s willpower, madam.”

  Servanne kept her smile hidden. “You are no salvation yourself, my lord wolf’s head.”

  “Still, you have been gone far too long from your chambers,” he said gently. “Someone may discover the absence and sound an alarm. Come,” he said, kissing her as he lifted her off his thighs, “I will render what clumsy assistance I can to help bring order back to your appearance.”

  Servanne stood, her long legs as weak and wobbly as those of a newborn doe. Lucien, still on his knees, reached out a hand to steady her, and try as he might, he could not stop himself from drawing her slowly toward him, his sigh almost one of impotent frustration as he laid his cheek against her breast. His arms encircled her waist and for a moment the pain and uncertainty was so stark on his face, it caused a fresh surge of tears to catch in her throat. He was always so sure of himself, so arrogant, so proud and seemingly invincible; the shock of seeing his sudden vulnerability, of knowing she was the cause of it, made Servanne bury her hands in his hair and bow her lips to the chestnut waves.

  “I am no longer afraid, Lucien,” she whispered. “You have come to win justice and I know now you cannot fail. You will not fail. I asked you to share your strength with me to give me courage, and you have. Ask me for my heart, my love, my life, and I will gladly give them in return; now and forever.”

  The Wolf’s grip remained steadfast a moment longer, then slowly eased. “Forever is a very long time, my lady, and I am no ordinary man, remember? I have cast my lot with demons and dwarfish fiends. This”—he pressed a kiss into the softness of her belly—“is pure devilry. You should therefore fear committing your soul into my keeping.”

  “I fear nothing in your arms, my lord. As to my soul, it has not been mine to give these many days now. It was taken in ambush on a greenwood road and no amount of ransom, however dear, will return it to me. I know that now.”

  The Wolf rose off his knees, his eyes burning with a renewed glow which she had no difficulty in interpreting. She parted her lips for his kiss—a tender mingling of breaths and tastes and promises. Their tongues spoke in a language of their own, invoking emotions so powerful, so potent, it was with some surprise she felt him hold her gently away.

  “There must be no more delays,” he said firmly. “The dangers are inconceivable, the risks untenable. In this, you must obey me, Servanne.”

  “Where should I find the strength to obey? Indeed, where shall I find the strength to walk?”

  Lucien cupped her chin in his hand. “You shall find it and you shall use it to run, not walk back to the safety of your chambers. There”—he paused long enough to fetch up her gown and straighten it hem from collar—“you shall remain with the door closed and bolted until either Friar or myself come for you.”

  “But … the tournament!”

  “Plead illness. Plead injury. Plead whatever it takes to win permission for you to remain behind.”

  “He will never allow it. Little as I know him, and little as he cares whither I come or go, I know he will want me present in the bower, both to witness his triumph in the lists, and to be on display as his newest possession.”

  Lucien had lifted her arms, intending to settle the gown over her head, but at her words, he paused.

  “A delay then. Beg only a delay and promise attendance to ease his suspicions. He will be eager to leave early for the common and will not have the patience to wait while you change a soiled gown, or retrieve some forgotten bauble from your chamber. Once he leaves, you can stretch the delay into an absence.”

  “You want me so badly out of the way?”

  “I want you safe, well out of harm’s way.”

  “Once before you sent me away when I would willingly have stayed,” she said softly.

  The Wolf took her hands in his and bent his lips to her cool fingers. “I have blamed myself, cursed myself a hundred times for ever having laid a hand on you. I should have seen the danger and stayed away at any cost, but you were already in my blood and it was too late.”

  “Why did you send me away? You must have known long before I did, that a word, or a gesture, and I would have—”

  He laid a finger across her lips. “You would have stayed with me in the forest? Servanne—I had a score of men at Thornfeld, another eighty or so camped some miles along the Lincoln road. Our task was to get inside Bloodmoor Keep and rescue the Princess Eleanor. You were—”

  “A pawn?” she asked, her voice betraying no rancour or bitterness, which only made Lucien’s oath all the more self-deprecating as he covered her lips with his own.

  “It is a shame I will bear to my grave to have to say we needed the ruse of the wedding to get inside the castle. Without you, there would have been no wedding.”

  “Surely you could still have ransomed the princess from Prince John?”

  “On neutral ground, outside the castle walls, no doubt we could. But then—”

  “M’sieur La Seyne Sur Mer would not have been able to challenge the Baron de Gournay to a joust, and Lucien Wardieu would not have been able to fight for his honour and birthright, and there would not have been bowers full of witnesses to bear out your claim.”

  The Wolf sighed and shook his head in resignation. “I told you once before you were too clever for your own good. Perhaps I should have left you in the forest.”

  “Perhaps I could help …?”

  “Do not,” he said harshly, his voice changing from velvet to steel in the blink of an eye, “do not even think to interfere or trifle with forces you do not understand. Etienne is a madman—mad with greed and avarice and power. He would not hesitate to swat you like a fly if he thought for one moment you were a threat to him. Promise me … swear to me here and now you will do nothing—nothing at all to draw attention to yourself!”

  “But how can you ask me to stay away from the tourney when it is my life as much as yours being decided on the field!”

  “How can you expect me to concentrate on doing what I must do if every time I look up, I see you seated there between Prince John and Nicolaa de la Haye?”

  Servanne had not thought of that. But she did not accept defeat well either, and gave frowning proof of it as Lucien pulled the gown over her head and began straightening the rumpled folds. She continued frowning, and searching so hard for a reasonable alternative, he could not resist a smile.

  “Maledictions, madam, I sorely trust each and every decision to be made in the future will not be met with such lengthy catechism. It leads me to believe you have been spoiled too long, and grown too accustomed to having your own way.”

  “Whereas you, sirrah, have been left in the wild too long and show a marked lack of subtlety and compassion.”

  “I warn you now, I’ll not take well to any attempts to tame me.”

  “Nor will I,” she said, her eyes sparkling with the challenge.

  Lucien caught his breath sharply, thinking how utterly beautiful she was at that instant. The pale gold of her hair was like l
iquid silk against his fingers, her skin like warm satin. Her eyes, luminous and bottomless were as deep and evocative as the waters of the Silent Pool, and he remembered his pledge to take her back to the magical grotto and pleasure her until the forest rang out with their ecstasy.

  “Promise me, Servanne,” he demanded softly. “Promise me you will stay out of harm’s way.”

  Servanne’s eyes grew hooded and a shiver tautened the flesh across her breasts as she felt his hands stroking up her thighs, raising the hem of her gown as they did so.

  “I will do as you ask,” she whispered. “I promise.”

  The muscles across his shoulders rippled and gleamed in the flickering light as he lowered her onto their bedding of discarded clothing again.

  “Your word is your honour,” he murmured, “and I do not question it, but …”

  Servanne’s body ached wonderfully. Her limbs were shaky, but did not falter once on the misty route back to the main keep. Lucien’s arm around her waist for most of the journey was more than enough support, and when he reluctantly agreed with Alaric that he dared go no farther, the thrumming, thrilling aftereffects of their lovemaking were enough to see her through the final gates and into the pentice leading up to the second-storey towers.

  It was there, when Friar left her at the bottom of the steep, spiraling staircase she had yet to climb, her exhaustion and weariness overtook her. Dragging under the weight of the woolen cloak, she mounted the stone steps to her private chambers one by one, slowing as she climbed higher and higher, her breath rasping and her lungs fighting for air as she reached the top of the darkened spire. She paused on the landing to gather her strength, and was so glad just to have conquered the last obstacle, she did not notice anything amiss as she passed through the outer chamber.

  Not until she was halfway across the floor of the huge wardrobe, did she realize the light spilling from the open door to the solar was touching upon tunics and jerkins, hauberks of chain mail, capes and mantles of sky-blue wool … Not until the masculine scents of leather and wood musk assailed her senses did she realize she had mistakenly entered the Dragon’s private keep, the tower adjacent to her own.

  A muffled sound from the inner chamber tore her horrified gaze from the assortment of vestments and weaponry, and fixed it upon the square of bright light shining out of the solar. She dared not move, dared not even back away or retrace her footsteps out to the landing lest a scratch of cloth or a misplaced footstep alert someone to her presence.

  What could she do? She could not remain where she was. She could not go forward, nor back; she could not hide or conceal herself until morning even if she had the nerve or the stupidity to do so.

  Where were his squires, Rolf and Eduard? Were they inside the main chamber preparing their master for bed? Would they emerge at any moment to find her standing there, frozen into a statue by her fear?

  Envisioning what they would see when they found her caused Servanne’s heart to miss several more frantic beats. Her hair was a tangle, clotted with bits of straw and dirt. Her gown was wrinkled and caked with dirt from the long walk to and from the shroud-makers. Her mouth felt swollen and tender, her skin was chafed red from the abrasion of dark beard stubble. The warm, slippery residue of their passion had added to her pleasure on the walk back to the keep, but it would offer sure proof of her adultery if discovered now.

  And for what other reason would the Dragon assume she had crept into his private chambers at this late hour of the night? She had not been entirely truthful to Lucien when she told him the Dragon paid her little heed. She had seen the growing interest in the pale blue eyes, had felt the increasing speculation in his burning gaze.

  No, the Dragon would not hesitate to assume she was come to him for one reason and one reason only: the wedding was but a day away and not worth the frustration of waiting.

  What to do? How to get away without being discovered?

  The problem was solved for her by the sound of a woman’s voice, so close to the door Servanne was not given the opportunity to waste a thought before scrambling to one side of the wardrobe. Crushed up against the coarse folds of a hanging garment, she froze again, fully expecting to feel a rough pair of hands grasp her from behind and haul her into the brighter light.

  The hands did not come, however, and inch by cautious inch, she turned her face until she had a partial view of the inside of the chamber.

  There was none of the whitewash or painted wildflowers that decorated her own solar. These walls were cold, impersonal stone, dominated on one side by a massive depiction of the De Gournay crest and armourial bearings. The bed, what could be seen of it, was easily twice the size of Servanne’s, mounted on a platform three feet high, and shielded by lengths of thick blue velvet draperies. A fire blazed somewhere out of her line of sight, and fully a score of lighted candles added their own extravagant brilliance to the chamber, the sconces lined up on either side of the bed as if to adorn an altar.

  “You should try to get some sleep,” came the woman’s voice again. “It would not do for you to yawn in La Seyne’s face.”

  “I have slept. And I will sleep again—tomorrow—with Mirebeau’s pennant beneath my head for a pillow.”

  The sound of Nicolaa de la Haye’s laugh sent Servanne cringing deeper into the folds of cloth. The sheriff’s wife strolled out of the shadows and took a seat on the claw-footed chair that perched at the end of the bed, giving her a clear view of the area of the wardrobe Servanne would have to cross in order to effect an escape.

  “Well? Should we expect foam and fits from our hallowed regent when we greet him in the morning? I assume you have not been with him all this time discussing his political affairs.”

  “He was not overly pleased to hear of Lucien’s resurrection,” De Gournay admitted dryly. “But he was remarkably calm, all things considered. No doubt he had planned from the outset what to do and say if the whole ugly matter came to light.”

  “He played an equal role in discrediting the Wardieu name. I would have thought his reaction would be much stronger.”

  “Why? The charges and warrants he drew up were valid; his generosity in clearing Robert Wardieu’s name and restoring certain properties would be viewed now as a magnanimous gesture to try to right a dreadful wrong. If my brother rears his vengeful head, our valiant Prince Softsword will simply claim to have been duped the same as everyone else. Deus volt: God wills it.”

  “God help us if he becomes king,” Nicolaa muttered, and stretched a delicate foot forward. She was dressed in a sheer, sleeveless tunic, belted loosely at the waist, and the sinuous movement caused the neckline to gape wide, baring the full half-moons of her breasts almost to the nipples. “I waited up for you,” she added in a purr. “Are you not curious to know why?”

  “You have already advised sleep, so I cannot imagine.”

  She formed a seductive pout with her lips and blew him a mock kiss. “If you are going to be spiteful, I will not tell you where I spent my time earlier tonight. And I certainly will not tell you what I learned while I was visiting La Seyne’s encampment.”

  “You were in La Seyne’s camp?”

  “Not in any official capacity, you understand. But I was bored, and thought I might be able to discover a thing or two about our mysterious visitor that could be of some use to you tomorrow.”

  “I was told his men were as close-lipped as the bastard is himself.”

  Nicolaa sighed and clucked her tongue. “No man can keep his lips closed under certain methods of persuasion. I found one yeoman in particular who was so engrossed with what I could do with my lips, he answered any questions I put to him. Boastings, for the most part, but one could glean a taste of the truth here and there, if one delved deep enough.”

  De Gournay moved into Servanne’s field of vision and she felt sure her gasp would have been audible if not for a timely fountain of sparks bursting in the hearth. He was completely naked, his body a solid, gleaming spectacle of muscular symmetry. There w
ere no scars, no blemishes to mar the sculpted perfection. His chest was hairless and smooth, the powerful bunches of muscle finely delineated by veins that swelled or receded in accordance with the movement required. His belly was flat and hard, his thighs thickened by countless hours on horseback. Shoulders were like slabs of granite, bulked by the weight of heavy armour, sloping down from a proud, bullish neck.

  This further evidence of similarities between the two brothers took Servanne’s breath away. There could be no two more evenly matched combatants, judging by size and shape. As to strength, she could only stare at De Gournay’s unmarked flesh and pray that an unknown physician had indeed excelled in his skills fourteen years ago. “Well? What have you learned?”

  The glistening, jewel-green eyes rose grudgingly from the junction of his thighs.

  “I was told La Seyne comes down the course like a black wind from hell, clad in steel, riding a demon-bred rampager. He scorns the use of blunted tips on the lance, and does not hesitate to neglect the niceties of chivalry by aiming squarely at his challenger’s visor. Further, in the nine years he has been in the dowager’s service, he has never lost a match, never even been jostled from the saddle.”

  Nicolaa paused and stretched sinuously. “At first I thought this last to be just another case of braggadocio, for even you, my lusty lord, have found the ground beneath you a time or two, yet still gone on to win the match. But no. He has never even been unhorsed.”

  Wardieu watched her unblinkingly, his only reaction a visible tautening of his lean flanks as Nicolaa’s fingers traced lazily across his thighs and came to rest at his groin.

  “The yeoman’s reluctance to say more required one of my better efforts. He was quite exhausting, actually,” she sighed. “But at least it could be said he died knowing no greater bliss.”

  De Gournay waited, indifferent to the bold exhibit of impatience another area of his body was displaying, and only mildly attentive to the reverent manipulations of her fingers.