The Dragon and the Jewel

by Virginia Henley

  Before Simon could gain his own chamber he passed a worried Bette standing with a candle in her hand.

  “Pretend ignorance,” he murmured before he entered his lonely chamber. He stood at the window to watch the sun rise, but his eyes saw only the maddening creature he had just left. He knew she would be his wife. He knew as surely as if the book had been written and they were just acting it out, one page at a time.

  Absently his fingers touched his chest where she had left tiny crescent teeth marks. His stark look eased and a curve came to his mouth. He had tried for a light note and he felt sure he had succeeded. It had been a playful interlude and he had allowed none of the dark fires of passion to consume them. He had been afraid that their first sexual encounter would intimidate and threaten her so that she would be unresponsive. He smiled, remembering, then he quivered. Lord God, if she had been this aroused the first time, what would the second encounter be like, or the tenth?

  30

  They did not see each other until early evening. Eleanor had fallen asleep exhausted and slept until early afternoon, then she fought a wine headache for the next two hours.

  Simon had spent the day with the Welsh bowmen of Chepstowe and thought they would make a damn fine company of fighting men. Suddenly they came face to face in the great hall. No servant was close enough to overhear.

  “My lord, I will retire early, my head aches.”

  “Good,” he said with a wicked leer.

  “No, no! You deliberately misunderstand. I cannot receive you tonight,” she informed him imperiously.

  Without another word he took hold of her by her tiny waist, set her aside out of his path, and strode from the hall. She stamped her foot in frustration as she watched his broad back disappear through the doorway.

  At dinnertime she was ready for him, her words carefully chosen to keep him from her bower, but she dined alone. He had chosen to keep the company of the Welsh knights in their quarter. Eleanor was irritated, mostly with herself for being disappointed at not seeing him. After supper she bade her minstrel sing to her, but she was restless as a tigress and finally asked for wine. When the bard changed from a sad lament to a love song, she lost all patience. She drained the cup and went up to bed.

  Simon was waiting for her in her chamber. “How dare you come when I expressly forbade you?” she hissed, but her throat filled with heartbeats at the sight of him.

  “Never use that tone with me again, English.” His face was dark, swarthy, carved in stone. He drew close and towered above her. God, how she wanted him, and he knew full well he had awakened something only he could satisfy. His façade of lust and danger did not scare her off. She was ready to handle the depth of his passions even though she would never give him the commitment he desired. He wanted her to wife, yet he knew he would never gain her consent. Her vows of perpetual widowhood were sacred to her. Forevermore she wished to be known as the Countess of Pembroke. As he had suspected all along, her mind was too strong to control, but he knew he could enslave her senses and her body. He intended to make her crave him like a drug. Simon had every intention of emulating Henry II. He would impregnate her and effect a fait accompli He knew the way to enslave her was to concentrate on her body’s pleasure, never his own.

  His hand moved to the neckline of her gown and she braced herself, thinking he would tear it to the hem, but he reached out a gentle finger and traced the swell of her breast. “I want you beneath me tonight. Open to me in the bed.”

  “Sim.” Her arms slipped up toward his neck possessively and she leaned into him sensuously, no longer denying the desire that blazed up between them. Her hands moved down to his chest, his shoulders, and she wished she was tall enough to touch the silk of his hair at the back of his neck. Again as if he read her mind he lifted her against him. As they fused their hungry mouths together her fingers threaded through his long, black hair and she held his head captive so that he could ravish her mouth.

  His fingers were so maddeningly slow as they worked the fastenings of her gown—his beautiful fingers that made her body sing. It seemed an eternity before they were both naked, then Simon put her arms back about his neck, hungry for the clinging to begin.

  “Warm me,” she begged raggedly.

  He was concerned immediately. “Why didn’t you tell me you were cold, little one? I’ll build up the fire.”

  She almost cried, because she could not wait, but remembered she had vowed to keep secret forever the effect he had on her when he touched her. As he knelt naked to repair the fire, her eyes licked over him like blue flames.

  “I am never cold,” he explained, “but from now on we will always have a good fire in our chamber so you may walk about nude.” She watched the fireplay dance over his body and drew close to feel the warmth of the flames and the heat of her lover’s powerful body. She rubbed her mons against him, wanting him to touch her there. Her body craved it and she did not care if it was right or wrong.

  When he stood and reached out his hand to caress between her legs, she thanked God he could read her mind and gauge her needs so accurately. He dipped his head and his warm lips closed on her throbbing nipple. He teased and licked it, tonguing it playfully before his hot mouth began to draw upon it in earnest.

  Instinctively she pushed her breast against his hot, loving mouth, and he sucked hard, loving the feel and taste of her silken flesh. Blindly she reached out a hand to cup his maleness, and he felt her slippery, satin center between her legs respond erotically to his fingers. She spread her legs wide apart and leaned into his hand, yielding to the questing fingers, begging him to enter her with any part of his body. He too leaned into her hand, loving the feel of her delicate fingers as they cupped, stroked, and fondled him until his erection jerked and bucked from the teasing. “Let’s go to bed,” he said with a husky gasp.

  “Carry me as you did before,” she begged.

  His hands slipped over her pretty hips and he lifted her onto his shaft. She went wild, covering his throat, then his face with kisses, finally plunging her tongue into his mouth until his took over. Now it was her turn to suck and draw, and he knew she was aroused to such a pitch she would let him do anything to her. He lay her upon the bed and stood gazing down at her, wondering if he dared mount her and bury himself to the hilt.

  She almost sobbed from wanting. “Sim, please, please,” she begged. Her writhings made him feel primitive, savage, yet he knew he must not be brutal with her.

  “Kathe, darling, listen … look at it, feel its size.” He took her hand in his and guided it to his erection. “My cock is overlarge, darling. More than anything in the world I want you to be able to take me, ail of me.” His hands spread her silken hair across the pillows, then his fingertips manipulated her rose-tipped nipples until she was sobbing with need.

  Her fingers seemed to have the ancient knowledge of Eve as they tried to lure him to impale her. Very deliberately he took one of her hands, which was curled about his shaft, and, holding it firmly, he laid it between her own legs. He took one of her fingers and whispered huskily, “I want you to know exactly how small and tight you are inside.”

  “Sim, no, I couldn’t.” She gasped, shocked at the idea of doing such an intimate thing to herself.

  “Shh, darling, let me help you. Let me guide your finger.” Her fingertip slipped inside her but she was fearful to push it deeper. Simon lay down beside her and gathered her close, then firmly he forced her finger all the way up inside her body. With one hand upon his enormous male organ, the other inside her own small sheath, she realized that if he had impaled her as she had longed for him to do, he would have torn her brutally.

  “Oh, Sim, ’tis an impossibility,” she cried.

  “Nay, love, not impossible. But now you see why I need to arouse you to your limits.” She made a move to withdraw her finger, but he held it in place firmly. “Just a moment longer, darling. You said you were ready for lessons, so let me instruct you.” He moved his mouth to within a centimeter of hers a
nd murmured, “When I kiss you and caress you, your body slowly begins to open for me.” His lips touched hers and she felt a tiny flutter inside. Then his demanding tongue plunged into her mouth to taste her and her sugared walls expanded and contracted upon her finger. Gently he withdrew her finger and took it to his mouth. He stood up and moved away from the bed.

  She cried out, “Don’t leave me,” and he murmured, “Dragonsblood, sweetheart.” He was back instantly, urging her to quaff deeply. “The wine will heighten your desire, lower your inhibitions, and relax all the delicious little muscles up inside your love passage.”

  “Oh, Sim, I want to be able to satisfy you. Your male appetite must be enormous. I want to be able to blot out any other woman from your thoughts. Teach me everything, all the love tricks. Teach me forbidden things. I want to be everything to you … lover, mistress, whore.”

  “Wife,” his brain screamed silently, “wife!”

  He held the cup to her lips, until it was half drained, then he dipped his fingers into the goblet and began to anoint her silken skin with the sweet red wine. He brushed her shoulders, breasts, belly, thighs, and finally her pretty mons. Then with the deep erotic sensuality that was part of his nature he licked her body from her throat down to her tiny navel, then from her knees up to her tiny slit.

  She lay before him in a silken, wanton sprawl, writhing and arching and thrashing her head from side to side. He knew she was ready. He towered above her on his knees, positioned her legs so that they were spread wide, then moved between them. Slowly, slowly he began to slide himself inside her. He moved smoothly, firmly, opening, expanding, stretching, filling her with his thick, long rod.

  Her eyes widened with the sheer, unbelievable enormity and power of his maleness. And still he was not seated to the hilt as the smooth, marble-headed lance thrust home. His strong hands had begun to force her body closer to his, and while she could still feel him moving up she felt her chalice moving down to receive him. She was so aroused that the moment his tip touched the vault of her love chamber she began to climax. For a split second she closed upon him so tightly he cried out in pleasure-pain, then his seed burst from him in scalding spurts. In that moment nothing else in the entire world mattered to her but the feel of him inside her. When Simon de Montfort made love it was like a raging storm, and she felt as if she had been struck by lightning. Then she spun away into darkness.

  For a moment he was horror-struck at what he had done, but she came blinking back to consciousness in a few moments, sighing and clinging sweetly as if she would never have enough of him. “Kathe, beloved, I want you to sleep, rest … I know I exhaust you.”

  She curled upon his broad chest, her cheek pressed against his heart. The heavy, strong, sure beat of it lulled her to sleep. He had never felt so protective in his life. If any dared even try to take this woman from him, they would regret it with their last breath. If any dared to slander this woman for giving him her love, he would take a terrible revenge.

  They savored each and every moment of the night’s dark hours, but before dawn broke Simon arose and left her. He knew it would please her that she did not have to beg and entreat him to seek his own chamber.

  The steward of Chepstowe approached the Countess of Pembroke after breakfast with a list of disputes that had arisen in the two years since Eleanor was last in residence. “I know the marshal allowed you to sit with him when he held court to settle disputes. These matters are only minor, my lady, but they have dragged on so long….”

  “Say no more. I should have attended to these things the moment I arrived. I will hold a court today. I will need a good interpreter and a scribe.”

  The steward departed then returned to the hall immediately. “My lady, your captain, Sir Rickard de Burgh, just rode into the bailey.”

  “Fetch him some warm food. If he spent the night in the Black Mountains, he will be near frozen.”

  De Burgh’s spurs rang against the slate floor of the hall as Eleanor poured him ale and moved toward the chairs in front of the great fire. “Sir Rickard, I thought you would winter with Hubert. Is aught amiss? I hope you were not worried about me.”

  He gratefully took the warmed ale she held out and undid his hauberk. As always Eleanor was startled at the young man’s beauty. “Amiss?” he repeated. “Everything and nothing,” he said enigmatically, “and yes, I was worried for you. I had one of my dreams that you lay in the snow near death, but my own eyes tell me you have never looked healthier or happier.”

  “Nevertheless your dream was a true one. I behaved foolishly, but fortunately I was rescued. This Wales is such a paradox. Who, seeing the weather today, would believe the blizzard we had last week?”

  “Before next week there will be another upon us,” said Rickard. “I would prefer to escort you back to England before that happens, since I must return there myself.”

  “A mission for Hubert?” she asked shrewdly.

  He veiled his eyes and said noncommittally, “I am only a messenger. I have missives from Hubert for the war lord.”

  “Simon?” she asked, blushing deeply.

  “De Montfort, yes,” confirmed the knight, sensing something in the very air.

  Eleanor stood up quickly and busied her hands rearranging the pewter goblets which ornamented the mantel. Dear God, how did one go about hiding a liaison? Her mind flashed about like quicksilver. Then she turned with a cool smile upon her lips. “The Earl of Leicester is here, Rickard. He too had business in Wales and asked hospitality of Chepstowe. But perhaps your visions have already told you as much.”

  Both raised their heads as the unmistakable sound of horses clattered into the bailey.

  Eleanor said, “I thought we were well off the beaten track, but if I am not mistaken we have yet more visitors.”

  Half a dozen horses came to a halt at the sight of Simon de Montfort’s unmistakable form. The young captain of horse had been training under the war lord only a fortnight back. He saluted him smartly. “Sir, my lord earl, I had no idea you were in Wales.”

  Simon frowned. Had the king learned of Eleanor’s destination and sent for her? He probed, “Riding hell-for-leather, your business must be urgent.”

  “Yes, sir. We have been sent to ready Chepstowe for its new owner. The king has given it to his brother, William de Lusignan.”

  Simon was stunned. In that moment he knew an urge to take the idiot king and pull him from his throne by the scruff of his neck. “The Countess of Pembroke is in residence. I do not envy you your job of evicting her.”

  The young captain swallowed hard. He had always heard rumors of the streak of madness in the Plantagenets. In this moment he believed it. He told his men to stable the horses and reluctantly went with the Earl of Leicester to face the royal princess. They found her sipping ale with Sir Rickard de Burgh.

  Simon was surprised to see him, but he saw immediately that Eleanor must have informed de Burgh of his presence. The two men liked and trusted each other and greeted each other warmly.

  Eleanor was horrified. She felt she wore a scarlet letter in the center of her forehead proclaiming her a whore. For Rickard de Burgh to find her here with de Montfort had been embarrassing, but at least he was a loyal friend and she could trust his discretion. One of the king’s soldiers was another matter entirely, and she knew from the clatter of horses she had heard that he was not alone.

  The captain went down upon one knee before her. The men in the room did not strike him as being irregular in any way. He knew Sir Rickard had been William Marshal’s man and he simply thought Princess Eleanor was being guarded by Simon de Montfort because he was the strongest warrior in the realm. He trembled at the task before him. “Your Highness, please forgive this intrusion, but I am under orders from the king.”

  Eleanor’s hand went to her throat. Dear God, surely Henry did not suspect what she had been up to.

  “You have been absent from court and cannot know of the royal wedding.”

  “Royal wedding?” Ele
anor repeated blankly.

  “The king’s brother … your brother, William de Lusignan, was given the heiress Joan Marshal in marriage.”

  Eleanor almost laughed aloud at the incongruous mating of the effeminate William and the haughty, wealthy Marshal niece, then her eyes narrowed. “I shall never acknowledge de Lusignan as my brother, Captain. Tell me what this has to do with me, pray?”

  The young soldier swallowed hard and his voice came out shrilly. “The king has given them Chepstowe as a wedding present.”

  She stared at him in disbelief. Then she threw her ale into the fire and swept all the goblets from the mantelshelf. She did not trust herself to speak. Her eyes swept over the three men present with loathing as if they were her enemies. All men were vile; she wished every last one an early grave. She departed the room as if their mere presence could contaminate her.

  The young soldier rose to his feet and looked helplessly up at Simon de Montfort, whose face was like stone. “S-sir, I did not dare to disclose the king had also given them Pembroke.”

  “That is impossible. Eleanor is Countess of Pembroke,” de Montfort stated.

  The young soldier looked miserable. He was dizzy with relief when Sir Rickard de Burgh told him he should find room for himself and his men in the knights’ quarters.

  When they were alone Simon exploded. “He is the sorriest fucking excuse for a king England has ever known!”

  “He’s a puppet. There are too many kings in England. Peter des Roches, the Bishop of Winchester, is the power who merely lets Henry have all the glory. Then there are the Savoys whose greed is only exceeded by their numbers.”

  Simon nodded grimly. “Just when the queen’s relatives had decided to divide up England for themselves, along come the king’s with an insatiable thirst for land and titles.” He shook his head. “The barons must be seething. Why do they not act?”