His mind was detached as he noted how exquisitely she was formed. At the moment there was no room in his brain for thoughts of lust. As his powerful hands circled her breasts and belly, massaging in a steady rhythm, Eleanor opened her eyes beneath her heavy black lashes and murmured. He did not catch what she said, but it sounded very much like “Sim.” He turned her over and after pouring more of the fiery liquid onto her back and buttocks, he set to work stroking heavily down her back and down her long, slim legs. He gave up thanks that nothing seemed broken. When he examined her scalp laceration he saw that it was superficial, though it had probably bled profusely until the cold snow had congealed the blood.
Soon he could tell by the feel of her skin that her body temperature was becoming normal, and he pulled back the covers of the bed and slipped her beneath them. She was conscious now but very drowsy. He looked quickly about the lodge, noting another chamber with a bed and a large kitchen room with larder, cupboards, and a big stone hearth complete with oven, spits, and cooking utensils. The cupboards were bare save for dried herbs, candles, pots for the fire, and linens for the beds. The room was furnished by a long trestle table and chairs cut from logs.
De Montfort knew he must stay in his wet clothes until he had built a fire, cut enough wood to last them through the night, and provided them with food. He took a woolen blanket from the cupboard, picked up his saddlebags, and went out into the lean-to. He gave Eleanor’s mare the last of the oats, took off her saddle and bridle, and secured the blanket over her back and withers.
He cut a fir limb into short lengths, returned inside and carefully lit a fire, then hurried back out to cut logs before the branches and needles burned themselves to ash. At first the fire smoked vilely and sputtered as the melting ice ran off the branches, but with patience, using bark and bough, then thicker logs, he built a fire that would last and throw off heat.
When he returned to the bed to check on his patient, he noticed the blue circle had left her mouth. He reached out a finger to trace the curve of her cheek, and she sighed softly as her lashes lifted over her deep sapphire eyes, then closed again in exhaustion.
In the lean-to he painstakingly fashioned snares and plodded off to conceal them in the snow, away from the lodge. He then took up the ax and chopped wood until it was almost dark. Thinking to make a bow and arrows for hunting on the morrow, he cut a dozen long, straight branches, then he retraced his footsteps and methodically checked the six traps he had made. They were all exactly as he’d left them, save one that had snared a hare, still struggling. He mercifully dispatched it with his knife and bore it back to the cabin.
His wet leathers had rubbed his skin raw in many places and all he could think of was stripping the wet, stiff clothing from his freezing body. Yet still he took the time to fill a cooking pot with snow, put in a handful of pine nuts he’d gathered, then skin the hare and spit it over the fire.
Finally he sat down to remove his heavy boots and shrug out of his doublet. He spread it beside Eleanor’s clothes to dry, then took off the heavy wool tunic he wore beneath his leather jack. The delicious aroma of roasting meat spiraled about the room, and Eleanor stirred at last and struggled up on her pillows.
He was beside her in two strides, his brows drawn together in anxiety.
She gathered her defiance. “Your brows are even blacker than usual,” she breathed. His inner relief was so great he felt giddy, but he concealed it from her and spoke harshly. “I should take my belt to you, you reckless little bitch!”
Her eyes followed his attractive hands as he undid his belt. He was already naked to the waist and suddenly she was filled with alarm. “Please, de Montfort,” she begged, “don’t remove all your clothes.”
His eyes softened at her plea. “Kathe, I have no choice,” he said softly. “My leathers are so wet they are plastered to my skin. But I promise you I won’t be entirely naked.”
She looked somewhat reassured at his words, but as he removed the soaked garment she stared in curious disbelief. He had not lied to her, he was not naked, but the thing he wore was worse than being nude. He wore a black leather sheath over his shaft, held in place by a strap about his narrow hips. He was such a large man he needed penile protection in battle or when he was twelve hours in the saddle.
Eleanor felt strange as she gazed at the magnificent giant with the dragons upon his forearms and his long shaft encased in black leather. Her blood seemed to rush up to crimson her cheeks, then drain away too quickly. The room swam before her and she fell back in a faint.
“Kathe.” He was beside her in a moment, cradling her against his chest, stroking her tangled black curls with his infinitely tender hands. Her lids opened lazily and she heard his deep voice caressing her with his words. “You will have to get used to me, my darling, you will be seeing me without clothes every night for the rest of your life.”
“You dream, de Montfort.” She gasped low, as if she could not summon another ounce of strength.
“Food,” he said, moving her up against her pillows. He removed the hare from the spit and carved it with his knife, then he brought the carving board to the bed and held it up to her nose to tempt her. Indeed its aroma was delicious, the meat soft and juicy, the skin brown and crisp.
“I cannot lift a finger,” she whispered helplessly.
He grinned. “You never need to lift a finger for the rest of your life; you have me.” He selected a choice morsel and proceeded to feed her. Eleanor had never tasted anything quite so heavenly. The hare had a strong, gamy flavor as if it had been feeding upon cedar boughs.
As he lifted the meat to her lips, she watched his hands as if she were in a trance. His hands are beautiful, sensual, disturbing, she thought. Then her memory caught the thread of something they had done to her earlier. It eluded her for a moment, then she caught the memory and held it. His hands had massaged her from head to foot, back and front, above and below. Her eyes sought his and his look almost devoured her. She could not help herself. Her tongue came out and licked his fingers. He was staring at her mouth. His eyes were like black velvet. Then his mouth was on hers, not fiercely demanding, just tasting her, savoring her, celebrating her.
“De Montfort, eat,” she said with a gasp, “please eat.”
Simon wasn’t even hungry.
“I swear you are a sorcerer,” she said angrily.
“Perhaps, but I did not cast the first spell. That first day in the forest I thought you were a wood sprite.”
She closed her eyes remembering. She had flown at him with nails and fists, then stoned him and still he pursued her. When she opened her eyes she saw that he was staring at her nipples where the sheet had slipped. His mouth watered for a taste of her. Since he usually took what he desired, he dipped his head and ran his tongue across the pink crest of her breast. His mouth scalded her and she moaned in her throat. He whispered huskily, “You taste like brandywine.”
When she did not reply he drew back and looked down at her. Her eyes were closed again, her breathing shallow, but he suspected she was feigning unconsciousness to avoid him. He lifted her chin with gentle fingers to observe her at very close range. When her lashes lifted, her look of pure outrage pierced him and he knew without doubt she had been pretending.
“You are a brute to take advantage of me.” She turned her face from him, knowing he would read her response there. At all costs she must keep secret now and forever the effect Simon had on her when he touched her.
“Splendor of God, I’m not going to eat you!” He flung from the bed, poured two cups of the pine-nut tea he had boiled, and returned to her. He knew he must be firm with her. She would probably reject his offering as a way of rejecting him, but he knew he must get the hot drink into her. When she made no move to sip the steaming liquid, he goaded her. “God’s death, you are weaker than a kitten. You cannot even hold a cup.” Immediately she made an effort to take it from him.
“I admit it is poor fare I’ve offered you tonight, but tomorrow I pled
ge to do better.” He drew a log chair to her bedside and sat down to fashion a bow and notch arrows with his knife.
Eleanor watched his hands, almost mesmerized. “How did you learn I had fled to Wales? I thought I had covered my tracks,” she said resentfully.
“Your red-haired maid was most reluctant to tell me, but I managed to force the information from her.”
“At knifepoint?” She sneered.
He smiled lazily. “I have other weapons,” he drawled suggestively.
“Oh!” she said, burrying her nose in her cup. Why was she annoyed that he had had dealings with Brenda? Deep down she knew exactly why. The wench was far too saucy and attractive for any man to resist. “Why didn’t the men of my castle come to my rescue?” she asked bitterly.
He looked at her and gave her the truth. “It was a blizzard. They would not risk their necks for a spoiled female, English.”
“You did,” she pointed out.
He spread his hands. “I am in love.”
“You think of nothing but your prong,” she spat.
Her language shocked him, but he was glad she was strong enough to try to antagonize him. “As usual you are audacious.”
“Audacity appeals to you,” she returned.
“True, I do lust after you, but ’tis no itch an evening’s play would satisfy.”
“I’ll never marry again!” she declared.
He merely grinned. “I’d advise you to wait for a proposal before you reject me.”
“Oh!” She gasped. “Take this vile concoction away before I throw it across the room.”
“If you are able to do that, it has strengthened you considerably. Perhaps you are even strong enough for more than verbal games.”
She flung her hand toward the other chamber. “Go to bed.” “The mere thought of you has a way of coming between a man and his sleep,” he said, towering above her. “To lowest hell with you,” she spat.
“A strong palm applied to the bottom corrects a sharp tongue,” he said, snatching at her blanket.
She shrank from him, but his hands tenderly tucked her covers about her more closely. Then with a fingertip he traced her eyebrow, cheekbone, and kiss-swollen mouth to commit them to everlasting memory. He looked deeply into her eyes and saw the defiance and anger, but she could not hide that which told him he had marked her as his woman.
When he knew she slept, he stretched himself on the floor before the fire. De Montfort had probably slept on the ground more often than he had slept in a bed, so it was no hardship to him. In the last hour before dawn, he heard the frightened scream of her horse. In one fluid movement he palmed his knife and threw open the door. The wolf pack was back and closing in on the mare. They fell back when they saw the man, but one, more bold than the rest, rushed forward to leap upon the mare’s back. Simon leapt at the same time. With one powerful arm he pried back the wolf’s head and buried his knife in its throat. Eleanor staggered to the door swathed in a blanket. She screamed as she saw the wolf and a naked Simon roll over and thrash in the snow, then for a space of time they both lay still, until at last the man disentangled himself from the body of the animal and came inside.
Eleanor swayed on her feet. “You must be freezing,” she whispered, but she could see a sheen of perspiration covering his dark throat and chest.
“You should be abed” was all he said as he lifted her and padded across the room. “They know I’ve killed the dominant male, they won’t be back,” he said before he returned to the fire.
She did not doze for a long time. She watched the firelight play upon the superbly muscled flanks of the colossus. What chance did she have against him? All things were merely a challenge to this magnificent warrior. He must have a weakness somewhere. She would find it and turn it into a wound! She buried her face in her pillow as she tried to deny the desire he had awakened. She had too few weapons to use upon him, only her quick mind and her sharp tongue, but a tongue could be a deadly weapon if you discovered where a man was tender.
At last she slept again. Only then did he trust himself to draw near the bed to gaze down upon her. “Sleep well,” he murmured, “for once you’re mine, I’ll never let you sleep again.”
27
Eleanor awoke early when sunlight came through the windows of the lodge, yet Simon had already shot and plucked a pheasant and had it simmering on the hearth with some delicious-smelling herbs.
She struggled up in the bed and saw with relief that he was dressed. He came to her immediately with hot broth, and her belly gurgled loudly at the mere thought of its tempting aroma and taste. “I’m sorry I slept so long, we should be on our way back to Chepstowe.”
“Not today,” he said. “The sun is warming up; we are in for a great thaw. By tomorrow all traces of the blizzard will be melted away. By tomorrow your strength should be back to normal,” he added.
“I’d rather go today. Bette must be frantic about me, and it is unseemly for us to be alone here like this.”
“The decision is mine,” he said quietly.
“Why so?” she challenged.
“Because I am the man, you the woman.” She saw his face carved in stone, the low tone of his voice ominous. “It will be ever thus,” he warned her.
She lowered her thick lashes over her defiant eyes. She was determined to have her own way, but realized she would have to go about it in a subtle manner, for there was a hidden devil in each of them that set off sparks whenever they were together. She needed two things at the moment to strengthen her position: food and clothes. Daintily she picked up the bowl of stew and cup of broth he had brought to her and slowly devoured every drop. The man was a sorcerer, a warlock.
Making her voice sweetly deceptive, she said, “May I at least get dressed, my lord earl?”
For a moment she saw the raw need in his eyes, then they softened and he said, “I’ve heated water so you may bathe. Your clothes are dry. You may be private while I chop wood enough to last us until tomorrow.” He put on his heavy leather doublet and picked up the axe.
The first thing she did was help herself to another bowl of stew. Amazingly she had never felt better in her life. She bathed quickly, gingerly washing the shallow wound on her head, and was pleased that it neither hurt much nor bled. She gathered up her clothes and saw that something had fallen from de Montfort’s doublet. It was her silk stockings. What in the world was he doing with such intimate articles? She’d make sure he did not get his damned hands on them again, she thought as she sat on the bed and drew the stockings up her legs. She took the garters from her wool hose and slipped them up past her knees. She was admiring her legs when she thought she heard him returning. Hastily she pulled on her gown and stuffed her wool stockings and undergarments beneath her pillow.
He threw down a stack of logs in the lean-to but did not enter the cabin. She watched from the window as he felled a young oak and methodically swung the ax until it was cut into uniform lengths. He was so untiring, perhaps he did not need sleep. He was extraordinary in every other way, so why should that surprise her? She gazed out over the landscape. The sun was brilliant, reflecting off the snow. The wind had dropped considerably. The icicles had all melted from the roof and the snow had turned soggy from the warmer air.
He was right, it would all be gone by tomorrow, but she had no intention of spending another night under the same roof as the devastating Earl of Leicester. A shiver ran over her as she remembered how he’d looked, naked save for the black leather that sheathed his manhood. She felt powerless against the intense sexuality of the powerful man. “I’ll not love again,” she said aloud. “It hurts—it ends in loss. I want no more losses!”
She moved restlessly to the kitchen and made herself some herb tea. No one had ever wanted her for herself … until Simon, her traitorous mind added. How ironic life was. The only one who had ever really wanted her could not have her. She had not even thanked him for saving her life, for saving her horse. And she would not thank him either. She’d be dam
ned if she’d be beholden to him, grateful to him. She would be a thankless bitch, so he might as well leave her alone … but she knew he would not.
Eleanor heard him at the door and lay down atop the bed to pretend sleep. She lay still and forced herself to breathe very slowly. She heard him tend the fire and knew his clothes must again be soaked through from the melting snow. Any minute now he would strip them off again.
She peeped through her lashes after a while and saw his naked back and buttocks as he knelt at the hearth to spit a brace of game birds for roasting. Then he stretched his enormous length before the fire in a prone position, his dark head resting upon his folded arms.
Eleanor forced herself to lie still waiting for him to drowse. She reasoned he had had little sleep in the night and had expended a lot of energy on very little food. When she heard his breathing slow to an even, steady rhythm, she cautiously got off the bed. When he obviously did not hear her rustling about, she picked up her cloak and went through the door, opening and closing it as softly as she could. Immediately putting her hands upon her mare’s muzzle to keep her from whickering, she whispered, “Softly, softly, my beauty.”
She struggled with the saddle and realized she had used up most of her strength. She walked away from the lodge, leading her mare through the deep wet snow. Already her boots and the bottom half of her gown and cloak were soaking wet. She leaned weakly against the warmth of the horse, wondering how she would summon the strength to put her foot in the stirrup and throw her other leg across.
The Dragon and the Jewel Page 28
