After that he had stayed far away, but using tears, promises to change—and most specifically her body—Desire had eventually maneuvered her way back into his life. With her mouth and tongue and touch she had taught him such delights and pleasured him in places so forbidden the church could only allude to them in passing. And which Matthew could never long resist.
He would never label their relationship "love"—whatever that emotion might mean beyond a weakness of will. Desire could repeat "I love you" as regularly as the rising and setting of the sun, but he was certain her feelings for him ran no deeper than his for her.
Fidgeting in his seat, Matthew wondered whether he would ever again be content with a woman. Unbidden, his eyes strayed to Lord Thomas Rendell, across the table from him. A fierce fighter whose counsel was both wise and sparingly offered, Thomas Rendell made Matthew uncomfortable. It wasn't that he disliked the Canterbury knight; it was just that some of Rendell's facial expressions, the vivid blue of his eyes, reminded Matthew of She-of-Whom-He-Would-Not-Speak. No surprise since She-of-Whom was Rendell's natural daughter. Matthew lifted his gaze to the cartwheels of perfumed candles bathing the hall in a golden glow. He'd once believed he could be happy with She-of-Whom but even had they never parted, their relationship would have ultimately revealed itself to be a mirage.
Mayhap my melancholy is just that the Najera campaign is over. Idly he drew circles on the white linen tablecloth with the point of his dagger. And I do not know what to do with myself until the next one comes along.
Following each campaign's end, Matthew experienced the same unfocused disappointment. He did not enjoy travelling around Gascony with Prince Edward, or partaking in court politics, or playing at war in various tourneys. Much of life these past six years seemed to be merely marking time. Only in the heat of battle, when all of life was stripped down to one essential—survival of the strongest, of the most skilled—did Matthew feel truly alive anymore. After each encounter, he would survey the battlefield, the contorted bodies of the dead, the priests moving among the dying, administering last rites, and each time he would experience a deep feeling of satisfaction, of the rightness of the universe and of his position in it.
After Najera he had tried to explain his feelings to his father. Never skilled at such verbalization, he'd fumbled about, seeking what was in his heart.
William Hart had flung his arm around Matthew's shoulder. "They are dead and we are alive. Does not that say it all?"
Indeed it had. His father understood. His prince understood. As did all true knights. That was what set them apart, what made life incomparably sweet—and much of it vaguely unsatisfying. Between the Poitiers and Najera's, much of war was boredom and empty bellies. The surrounding months were spent readying for the next campaign or ruminating over the last. But such mundane times only rendered the heights of battle that much more incomparable.
He glanced at his father. William Hart was drumming his fingers impatiently upon the table, as if he might momentarily leap to his feet and upend it with a mighty roar. His mouth was set in a line that Matthew recognized as boredom. At that moment William raised his eyes, so startling against the darkness of his sun-burned face, so similar to Matthew's own, and they exchanged gazes.
William mouthed one word. "Cumbria."
A shiver ran through Matthew. Aye, Cumbria. His father need say no more. William Hart, one of the most powerful lords of the north, had had enough. He'd executed his feudal duty and now he'd be returning home. To Cumbria. Where Matthew, Harry and Elizabeth had all been born, where Matthew's heart ever remained. Cumbria... England... Home...
In the center of the hall, boys leapt through hoops, played with knives, slings, and brass balls. Nubile maidens walked on their hands and contorted their figures in marvelous positions. The girls were slender, agile, and exciting to watch. The perfume from the candles and cut flowers, the writhing bodies, the wine, and the awareness of Desiderata Cecy's nearness refocused Matthew's wayward thoughts on baser matters.
Desire whispered against his ear, "We will enjoy our own dance tonight, will we not?" Her hand, which had intermittently rested on his upper thigh throughout the evening, suddenly brushed against his groin. "Does that please you, my lord?"
Matt's response was strong and immediate. It had been many months since he'd pleasured himself with anything other than camp followers, which were poor substitutes for someone of Desire's talents. Bringing his lips close to her ear, he caught her lobe in the lightest of nibbles. "What say we render our excuses so we might further explore this conversation in private?"
Desire laughed. She particularly enjoyed her ability to arouse her lover at a moment's notice. When it came to sexual matters, she was certain she could entice Matthew Hart to do anything.
Lacing her fingers through his, Matt leaned so close that his arm pressed against her breast. "Any new tricks you've learned in my absence?" When she did not respond, he teased, "Do not be shy. You know how your lovers trail you like hounds after a bitch in heat."
"I mislike being compared—"
"Tell me." Matt circled Desire's palm with his thumb as if caressing other, more intimate places. "Let me imagine now what you will show me later."
Desire shook her head and lowered her gaze demurely, though 'twas not shyness she was feeling...
"Come, sweetheart. If I must endure this banquet at least give me something to fire my thoughts."
Schooled as she was in artifice and the intrigues of the Bordelais court, Desire could not quite suppress a frown. All night she'd been unable to concentrate on anything beyond the moment when they would retreat to her chamber. Visions of Matthew's naked body, of her running her lips and fingers along his massive chest, of teasing and tormenting and arousing him beyond endurance, of feeling and tasting his manhood, had been far more vivid than dancing girls or scurrying pages or the parade of elaborate entremets presented between each course. But, Sweet Jesus, Matthew's likening her to a bloody dog and his mention of other men had shattered her amorous mood. What lovers she'd taken over the years were primarily to rouse his jealousy. The fact that Matthew seemed indifferent made her worry, not for the first time, whether he cared for her at all.
As calculating as she was, Desire seldom misstepped.
She was about to.
Falling back on court gossip to hide her uncertainty, she said, "Have you heard what they are saying about Prince Edward's babe, that Richard is not his son at all, but was begotten by a French clerk who has been Princess Joan's lover for years?"
Matthew recoiled as if slapped. "How could you even think such a thing? By all that's holy, woman, will you never learn to curb your tongue?"
Ignoring the curious stares, he abruptly stood and left the table and Grand Salle for the adjoining cloister garth. Striding along the covered arcades he breathed deeply of the relentless waves of scent rising from the flower beds, and tried to regain his composure.
Did she never know when to stop?
A quince-colored moon hung suspended above the garden wall. Its light and the diffused glow from the palace interior softened the garish monotones of the lilies, roses, peonies, and jasmine. Everything about Bordeaux, from its climate to the color of its foliage, was overblown and lacking subtlety. Bordeaux reminded Matthew of Desire.
Why do I keep coming back to her when I spend most of my time regretting it?
He was bored with the entire business: with Desiderata Cecy and Aquitaine, with Bordeaux and its fine claret, its sunshine and misty rains. He had not set foot on English soil in six years. He missed his native countryside and its people. He missed the wild freedom of Cumbria; he missed his brother, who had broken his leg and stayed in London. Later, after Harry's break had healed, he had bought his service and remained in England. More than simply the English Channel separated them; Bordeaux's court was an alien landscape that Matt no longer had any interest in navigating. He wished Harry were near to guide him.
Matthew suddenly remembered the letters he
'd earlier slipped inside his purse. They had been awaiting him upon his return but in the day's excitement he'd forgotten them. Most assuredly word from home would take his mind off Desire.
Moving closer to one of the rush lights, he shuffled through the parchments. Three were from Harry, two each from his sister Elizabeth and his mother. He broke the seal from one of his brother's and unfolded it. Rather than dictate to a clerk, Harry penned his own missives, which made them far more interesting—though difficult—to read.
Harry wrote about his leg, which pained him in bad weather, his latest failed marriage plan and his and Elizabeth's forthcoming pilgrimage. Then he scrawled, 'I saw Margery Watson a fortnight past. She remains unhappy with her husband and her life. I will tell you true, brother, though her marriage is ancient business, the circumstances surrounding it yet trouble me. She and I discussed it, and I oft suspect that Desiderata Cecy had a hand in some sort of treachery. I cannot say how, but I hope you are not still seeing that lady—'
Raising his gaze from the parchment, Matthew stared into the shadows. He did not need a reminder of Margery Watson, She-of-Whom-He-Would-Not-Think. She of the lying lips and treacherous heart, who had married that bastard goldsmith even while proclaiming her love for Matthew. Sending him letters instructing him to postpone his return to London. Matthew had been innocently lounging away in Cumbria, stupidly, happily contemplating their forthcoming life together. Mistress might not be as respectable a position as wife but mistress to a powerful lord was a different matter. Obviously, Margery Watson had disagreed for in his absence she'd wed that odious troll. And then, when confronted with her perfidy, blaming HIM for her marriage, accusing HIM of betraying her. Women! They had the reasoning abilities of toddlers—
Two arms slid around Matthew's waist. He recognized Desire's scent, a potent mixture of musk and jasmine. Her body pressed against his back.
"I am sorry I angered you," she murmured. "I did not mean to repeat foolish gossip. My head was muddled from your nearness and too much wine. Will you forgive me? "
Returning the letters to the purse inside his tunic, Matthew turned to face his lover. He would not allow the mere mention of She-of-Whom to unsettle him. But why would his brother insinuate some sort of sinister link? Desire had indeed been at the Hart townhouse during Margery's frenzied visit, but Harry's recollections had been so befogged by drink as to make the re-telling hopelessly muddled and incomprehensible. And Matthew's wound had been too fresh to probe more deeply. His focus had been to bury that part of his past. Which he had well done.
Enough of all that. Matthew reached out to pull Desire's head close and covered her mouth with his.
"Come away with me, sire," she murmured, her lips moving against his. "I will indeed show you what I've learned."
Desire slipped her tongue inside his mouth and Matthew returned full measure. Then, putting aside all thought beyond the night's pleasure, he allowed himself to be led.
* * *
Matthew stirred and edged away from his companion, who moaned and reached out for him.
From stately windows morning sunlight dappled the marbled floor; a faint stir of curtains from a breeze off the Garonne foretold another temperate day. Matt scooped up his clothes, scattered in a haphazard trail from the door to Desire's canopied bed.
"You are not leaving?" Stretching languidly Desire ran her hand over the empty spot beside her. "Come back to bed. Come make love to me."
"Nay. I've other things to do."
After Matthew moved to the basin of scented water left by one of several chambermaids seeing to morning duties, he began washing himself. Desire sat up to watch him. Mentally devouring the ripple of muscles along his upper torso and his thick chest, that strong, chiseled face and full mouth framed by a dark beard, she felt a fierce stab of longing. How she had missed him! And how she had schemed to separate him from that English commoner and into her bed. She had no regrets for Matthew Hart consumed her every waking moment. If she could devour him she would, ingest him so that he would be one with her—body, mind and soul—without separation.
Absently, while watching her lover, Desire stroked tendrils of black hair snaking past her ample breasts. Should Matthew Hart forever refuse to marry her, she was certain she could not continue living. Who would have thought that after his breakup with that ill-born creature, after all the times she'd pleasured him, after all they'd shared, the object of her obsession would yet remain elusive?
Slipping from their tumbled sheets, Desire went to him and slid her hands downward, along his groin. "You are like a fever with me," she whispered. "I think I have it under control only to feel it burn ever hotter."
Matt tossed the sponge into the water basin. "We have other duties than making love, sweetheart," he said lightly, twisting free of her caress. "Time to tend to business. I'll wager the rest of the prince's household is already about the day."
Desire stood uncertainly behind him. When Matthew rebuffed her sexually she felt vulnerable—as if she must offer an explanation for which he did not ask.
"Often I think you do not even like me," she said, unable to keep the edge from her voice. "I am fine enough for a mistress, but not for a wife."
"Jesu, Desire, 'tis too early for this."
Reaching for her chemise, Desire slipped it over her head to hide her nakedness.
"I was seven years old when the first pestilence came," she said softly, as if intimate disclosure might reveal something that would soften her lover's heart. "I cannot remember much of that time, except that my father was rich and adored wine and women, and he died alongside the poor and devout. My mother was pious as the pope. She survived the first pestilence, but was struck down in the second, along with my three brothers. I was the only one spared."
Matthew slipped on his braies, then reached for his linen undershirt. "What say you save the confessions—"
"My mother was a saint, my father a devil and God took them both. He took the clerk and the bishop, the harlot and the queen, beggars and emperors. It does no more good to be religious than sinful. I have vowed to enjoy life to its fullest. Aside from my unfortunate marriage, from which Le Morte delivered me, it has been so. Do you find me wicked for acting thus?" Lowering her lashes, Desire raised her chin and eyed Matthew provocatively. She'd successfully practiced that look on hundreds. But how long had it been since he had responded or even noticed?
"I've already purchased my share in the Treasury of Merit so that when I die I'll enter heaven," Matt said without meeting her gaze. "Other than that I do not ponder the imponderable."
Feeling more melancholy and vulnerable than was her wont, Desire searched for another approach. "I saw Jacques again, two nights past."
"Indeed? And what did that charlatan have to say?"
"Jacques is not a charlatan, and his prophecies all come to pass."
Jacques was Bordeaux's Grand Coesre—leader of the beggars, rogues and thieves that comprised the city's underworld. Many members of Prince Edward's court firmly believed in Jacques' ability to foretell the future. "He said someday I will be lover to a king."
"Congratulations."
"I do not want to be a king's leman." Crossing to her dressing table, Desire began combing her hair, all the while watching Matthew from the corner of her eye. "Jacques also said I would marry."
"Not this mysterious king, I trust." Slipping on his tunic and fastening his purse, Matthew felt the packet of letters and remembered Harry's warning. He knew where this conversation was leading, as it always did. Why could she have not had the good sense to stay quiet for a few more days?
"He said the hart and the bear would someday combine." Desire's coat of arms contained a trio of bear heads.
"Jacques told you what you would hear."
Rising from the dressing table, Desire approached him and pressed her body against his. "Marry me, my dearest heart." She felt him tense and pushed all the harder. "Why will you not? I am a fine match. Men daily clamor for my hand." After her
first husband's death, Desire had purchased a royal license, at great expense, which allowed her to marry whomever she pleased. Only she pleased to wed Matthew Hart.
Matt sighed. "As I have explained many times, if I should marry and beget legitimate heirs, my brother would inherit next to nothing. I vowed long ago I would care for him, and I mean to keep my word."
Desire grimaced. "You can care for Harry and still be married. I myself have plenty of properties I would happily share. Besides, you forget. Harry is a man of twenty-five, not a babe."
Matthew's temper was rapidly fraying. "If I had a mind to marry, 'twould not be you anyway."
"But you tell me you love me."
"God's blood, Desire, would you just not nag me the moment I return?"
"But—"
"Anyone can say anything. I only tell you what you want to hear, not what I mean." Matthew headed for the door. "Despite your protests, you do not love me either. You just want me as you would a prize monkey or a trained bear."
Desire swept after him. She wanted to punch him in the face, beat him with a candlestick, grab the nearest vase and smash it over his head. She'd never known how to reach Matthew Hart save through her body and that was so transitory, and, at times like this, so unfulfilling.
"I know why you do not love me," she said, raising her voice. "Because of that... Margery Watson."
Matthew spun on her. "Quit digging about the past, you dim-witted fool!"
"Why do you become so incensed when I am merely asking—"
"The past is dead and buried. Stop trying to resurrect it!"
He glared at her with such—not hatred, it could not be that—and yet she'd not seen that expression before. She stretched out her arms to him in a placating manner, but he remained out of reach.
"Why are you looking at me that way? Has something happened? Why are you acting so peculiar?"
"I am returning to England," Matthew blurted, speaking aloud what he'd only vaguely considered before. His place was with Prince Edward and Edward was in Bordeaux. But many Englishmen, even those in service to the prince, were returning home. "My father plans to leave for Southampton tomorrow. I've decided to return with him."
Within A Forest Dark Page 2
