When Simon de Montfort pursued her so relentlessly, she had innocently, foolishly allowed herself to believe he had fallen in love with her and desired her for herself. Now all her illusions were shattered. A tiny sob escaped her and she bit down upon her lip to stop it from quivering. She pressed the back of her hand against her mouth until she regained a small measure of control. A tiny flame of anger came to her rescue. To lowest hell with romance; she could and would survive without it. Love was a silly game for girls. From now on she would fulfill the roles of woman, wife, and mother without perpetuating this myth of love. She and Simon were well matched at least, more suited to each other than many other men and women. It would be up to her to see that they had a good marriage. However, she could not help sighing and wishing and longing for what might have been.
Her quiet introspection was shattered with the return of her husband and his men. What was it in him that inspired such loyalty? Not a few of his knights and men-at-arms had followed him from Kenilworth, and the ranks swelled every day. She wondered if Frederick and her brother Richard knew how foolish it was to let de Montfort have command of their soldiers and retainers, for she knew with a certainty that when the Earl of Leicester moved on, over half their knights and men-at-arms would defect to Simon.
As the clatter and mayhem of mounted men assaulted her ears, she realized she was weak with relief. She had purposefully pushed to the back of her head any thought of danger to her war lord, but now she realized fear for his safety had been her companion day and night.
She remained where she was, but it was one of the hardest things she’d ever had to do. She wanted to run to him, to pay homage to the returning, conquering hero. She wanted him to open his arms to her and sweep her up to his powerful chest and see the hungry need in his magnetic, black eyes. However, she had resolved to be cool and distant, at least on the surface. It would take all her control to keep her real feelings hidden. She reasoned that in every relationship one partner probably loved more deeply than the other, but as she watched him approach her along the terrace that led to the garden, she realized it was pure hell to be the one who loved most.
Her heart turned over in her breast and her throat filled with heartbeats as he came closer. She hadn’t remembered him being such a colossus, and he was bronzed mahogany from his weeks under the blazing sun. Then he engulfed her. His male scent of leather and horse was like an aphrodisiac. His deep voice sent shivers running up and down her spine. His breath on her skin was so pleasurable it aroused her senses. His mouth so ravenously demanding, it drew all her strength so that she was frightened by her passionate response to him. From somewhere she found the strength to draw away and smile coolly.
Simon masked the hurt he felt. He had imagined this moment of reunion for weeks, living and reliving it over and over.
She was even lovelier than he’d remembered, and now that he’d touched her, the feel and taste of her made him dizzy. But she was keeping that private part of herself from him, the essence that was Eleanor which he craved. She was still angry with him. He knew it wasn’t for one single reason but many—the exile, the rift with Henry, the new baby she carried. His eyes traveled over her possessively and she felt shy as a bride. How would she bear the sexual tension that would build between them during the afternoon hours, through dinner, and on through the evening until bedtime?
She did not need to be concerned, for within the hour Frederick and her sister and Richard and Isabella descended upon them. Richard’s Crusade dominated the conversation. The men sequestered themselves, but the two Isabellas seemed to know every detail of the plans that the men were discussing in private.
Eleanor smiled to herself as she realized she held the lowest rank in the room. Her sister Isabella was an empress, her sister-in-law was a duchess, while she was a mere countess. The women’s talk of the Crusade centered upon the riches of the East: the silks, the jewels, the exquisite palaces with their indoor and outdoor bathing pools, the servants, slaves, and handmaidens.
Eleanor felt there was a gulf between herself and her sisters. She loved them, yet she could never be like them. She observed them and listened to their chatter, but she could not comprehend their materialistic attitude. Both were already so rich they need never concern themselves over money either for themselves or for any children they might have. She glanced about the lavish room. They already had more palaces than they could occupy, filled with more servants than they’d ever need. Even this stone palace on the edge of the sea had a household staff of over fifty women. Some were fair-skinned Germans while others were olive-skinned Italians. Suddenly Eleanor became aware that her sister was looking at her with pitying eyes, and she realized she had missed most of what had been said.
“It must be hell to be married to a man who is handsome as a god. Frederick has his pick of women, of course, but even he knows it is because of his power, so his peccadillos don’t disturb me overmuch. De Montfort’s women must all fall in love with him. I really don’t know how you bear it, Eleanor.”
Eleanor said the first thing that came into her head. “De Montfort has no women.”
Her sister laughed. “Eleanor, you cannot be that naive. Though he only returned today I warrant he has already selected half a dozen of your prettier maids to receive his attentions.”
Eleanor laughed incredulously. “You had better be wrong. I take his fidelity for granted as I am sure Isabella does with our brother Richard.”
Isabella flushed darkly and Eleanor immediately realized that Richard was unfaithful to her. Damn all men to lowest hell! She would take him to task on the matter.
“Joan of Flanders is an intimate friend of mine,” Eleanor’s sister said confidentially.
“Joan of Flanders?” Eleanor repeated innocently.
“You know,” Isabella said, lowering her voice intimately, “Simon’s first wife.”
“You are mistaken, Bella, I am Simon’s first wife.”
“Not according to Joan!” Her sister giggled.
Eleanor glanced at her sister-in-law and saw that she was aware of what her sister alluded to, even though she herself was in the dark. Isabella Marshal thought Eleanor had had enough heartache in her life so she tried to downplay Simon’s involvement. “It all happened so long ago when he became Earl of Leicester and was so deeply in debt. I believe he offered for Joan but she owned so much land that the King of France forbade the union. That’s all there was to it, I’m sure.”
“Oh, no, no, Isabella, you don’t know the half of it,” insisted Eleanor’s sister, warming to the delicious subject. “Joan of Flanders is the richest widow on the entire continent. Simon de Montfort swept her off her feet. His suit was completely successful. She fell madly in love with him. They were wedded and bedded, according to Joan. The legal contracts had all been drawn up—de Montfort was to have control of everything: her castles, her land, her fortune. Highest stud fee ever paid!” Isabella laughed. “When Louis heard, he immediately sent a military escort to take her to Paris to explain herself. She told me she burned the marriage certificate and the contracts to destroy evidence that might get her incarcerated, but she regrets her loss to this day. She is still madly in love with him.”
Eleanor wanted to scream. Something was building inside of her that needed venting. If she could have taken a knife and slashed open every silken cushion in the room, then saddled her mare and ridden through the pounding surf of the ocean she might feel better, but all she could do was murmer inanities and smile or they would know her heart was bleeding.
When the servants announced dinner, the women joined the men in the airy dining salon, but now that the veil had been lifted from Eleanor’s eyes she saw the inviting glances of the female servitors and she watched the men’s responses to those invitations. How attentive the serving women were, especially toward Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester. His physical magnificence lured them to hover about him like pretty moths about a candleflame.
Eleanor could eat nothing. Latel
y she had developed a craving for dark, ripe olives but she knew if she put one in her mouth tonight, it would choke her. She sipped her wine instead of eating, then, realizing what a foolish thing she did, she diluted the contents of her Venetian goblet with rosewater.
Simon was acutely aware of Eleanor’s strange mood. His eyes returned to her again and again, though Frederick and Richard dominated the conversation in an effort to convince him to join their Crusade. Finally he said to his wife, “You have eaten nothing, Eleanor, are you unwell?”
“I never felt better,” she bristled, controlling the urge to pull the Damask cloth from the table and smash all the dishes.
The concern did not leave his eyes as he murmured, “Perhaps your stomach is a little delicate just now.”
She flared, “I wondered how long it would be before you announced your virility!” All eyes swung to her and she knew the devil that dwelled within was looking to escape this night. Richard seemed highly amused at his little sister’s outburst, but Frederick seemed unaware of the undercurrents and relentlessly pursued the topic of the Crusade.
Simon threw his wife a warning glance to curb her sharp tongue then gave his attention to Frederick. “One of the things that has stopped me from committing myself is money. However, I have just negotiated the sale of the forest of Lincoln to the Hospitallers.”
Eleanor was speechless. How did he dare pledge himself to this damned Crusade without consulting her? Obviously her feelings and her wishes meant less than nothing!
When the table had been cleared, thick, sweet Turkish coffee was served out on the stone balcony. Eleanor was damned if she was going to be part of this family circle any longer. Rude or not she said curtly, “I shall leave you in the capable hands of your host. You must all please excuse me.”
The bedchamber was large with great arched windows to let in the breezes from the sea, but tonight Eleanor’s blood was high and she found the night hot and oppressive. She bathed and donned an Egyptian cotton nightgown, finespun as a spider’s web. It covered only one shoulder in Grecian fashion and the hem was embroidered with gold thread in a Greek key pattern. The marble floor felt deliciously cool against the soles of her feet, and she leaned her cheek against one of the slim marble pillars that decorated the long, airy chamber. When de Montfort joined her she would be an ice maiden. She would not speak to him, she would freeze him with a glance. The Mediterranean climate might be hot and sultry, but he would find his bed cold this night. She was determined to totally and completely ignore him.
As the long moments stretched out to an hour, her emotions were in turmoil. Where the hell was he? How could she ignore him if he wasn’t even there?
The guests departed shortly after Eleanor retired, then Simon returned to the stone balcony that afforded such a lovely view of the sea. It was a moonlit night, very conducive to romantic fantasies, and he wished his love would come down so they could walk on the beach. Or perhaps he could even tease her with some water play like they had enjoyed in their mere at Kenilworth. The water beckoned him and he decided not to resist.
He stood in the dark and removed his clothes, then he fastened back his hair with a leather thong and walked slowly to the water’s edge. He knew she would see him from their chamber above if she was looking from the arched windows. If her need was as great as his, she would join him.
Eleanor did see him, but not until he emerged from his swim. As he stood poised upon the beach looking straight up to her windows, the moonlight glistened upon his powerful, wet body. He was Neptune, the ancient sea god rising naked from the waves. Her eyes clung to the bare length of his bronzed body, unable to look away. His torso turned in the moonlight until he was fully facing her, then as he raised his head she knew he was aware of her at the window. She went weak. His body looked sculpted from marble and she’d explored every plane and hollow, every muscle and sinew. His deep chest covered with sable-black hair was covered by moonlit drops of water. The thick pelt on his chest narrowed to a thin line that ran straight down over his hard, flat belly then became thick and dense at his groin.
The muscles in her thighs and belly contracted as she tore her eyes away from his virile maleness, and she almost choked on her jealousy. At last he moved and she saw his step was purposeful and determined. By the time he entered their chamber the ice in her veins had turned into pure molten lava.
He stepped into the room and stood mesmerized at the loveliness before him. “I wish you had joined me. This climate invigorates me. I have so much energy … sexual energy …”
“I wish you’d drowned!” she spat.
Simon’s blood kindled. She wanted a fight. He knew from experience when she was in this mood her passion knew no bounds. He’d have to subdue her, of course, but their verbal dueling was like taunting foreplay that lifted them both to such a pitch they became almost insatiable and it would take a full night of ravishment before their appetite for each other was slaked. His shaft went rigid with anticipation, reaching all the way to his navel. It looked exactly like a battering ram.
“You whoremonger!” she spat angrily. She was exactly like a sleek and savage cat, spitting at him, and he knew she’d claw him before she was done with him, but before he was done with her he’d have her purring and filled with cream.
“Does this whore have a name or are you just accusing me in general?” he taunted.
The name almost choked her. “You married Joan of Flanders. I was your second choice, Frenchman!”
“So that is what you were gossiping about all night.” He was furious with those two jealous bitches for telling her and furious with himself for not telling her at the outset.
“Gossip or truth?” she blazed hotly.
“It was before us.” He said the statement in a final tone as if that was the end of the matter and stepped toward her.
“Don’t touch me.” She gasped. “Don’t you dare to touch me.”
“Eleanor, you are my wife. I haven’t seen you for weeks. I cannot make love to you without touching you, and be assured I do intend to make love to you.” He took another step.
“You act as if everything were the same,” she flared, “but it is not! We fled from England to avoid imprisonment and charges. The charge of adultery against me was false, but the charge of seduction against you was not! I was blind not to see that you seduced and impregnated me exactly as my grandfather did to my namesake, Eleanor of Aquitaine. I have only just realized it was for ambition, not love,” she said bitterly.
“I love you,” Simon thundered, “and I am certain you love me.”
“I did love you, Simon, but after what I heard tonight about Joan of Flanders, my love is dead.”
“Don’t kill love—you will regret it for the rest of your life!” His large hands encircled her waist and he pulled her against the hard, naked length of him. Her hand came up and slapped him squarely in the face. She pulled slightly away from him and then she was slammed against the hard wall of his chest, his fingers digging into her shoulders. His mouth descended upon hers, branding it with his ownership, teaching her anew his great power. Her nails came up and recklessly she raked his cheeks bloody.
With a savage curse he tore the leather thong from his tied-back hair, intending to secure her wrists behind her so that she was lashed to the marble column. A picture flashed into his mind of a man his size needing to bind a woman to have his way with her, and it effectively stopped him. If he could not subdue her with his powers of seduction, he did not deserve to receive her passion. He flung away the leather thong, then slowly, deliberately he lifted her furious face in his hands and helped himself to her vulnerable mouth. It was achingly sweet, and his delving tongue forced entry and thrust within her. As she twisted against such intimacy he thrust ever more forcefully, stroking deeply in the primitive passion of man against woman. Her body writhed against his muscular torso, but he held her face immobile for his relentless invasion. The fire of his passion scorched her breasts, thighs, and mouth, but soon he kn
ew he would ignite her with the flame of her own passion. She was not afraid of him and his heart soared because it was so. He did not want a woman he could intimidate, but one who matched him in courage, in daring, in fury, and in passion. She refused to close her eyes and surrender to the tempting pleasures whose hot flame licked at her so seductively. She watched his eyes dilate with need as he pushed her Grecian nightrail from her shoulder. It slipped down to reveal both breasts, which thrust forward so provocatively because he held her wrists behind the pillar with one of his big hands. His lips teased them to ruching arousal in seconds, and she prayed that they would hold his interest so that he would not lower his dangerous mouth to her most private and most vulerable center, which he called her rosebud. She knew he was a conquering predator wise in the ways of woman. If his mouth reached its goal she knew she would be lost to her need for him.
Fight! she commanded herself, but her treacherous body wanted to receive him in hot abandon. He lifted the hem of the filmy gown to bare her to the navel. When his tongue parted her it found the liquid fire. She tried not to arch into him, but he simply took her bottom in his hands and lifted her mons so that his tongue could stroke her more intimately.
Triumphantly he heard her tiny moan, watched her eyes close in ecstasy, then with total male assurance he exulted as her arms came up about his neck. “Sim, Sim,” she cried.
If she could not deny her passion and her need, she would make sure his needs brought him to the edge of begging alongside hers. She only used his Gaelic name when she was in the throes of love, and it raised gooseflesh on his dark skin. With her arms raised so her fingers threaded through his damp black hair, he felt the whisper of her nightgown fall to her ankles. Then she went high on tiptoe and raised herself so that she straddled his manroot, levering it downward so that her cleft lay along its topside. As his tongue again slipped into her mouth she used her own tongue to duel with his, then darted inside to tease and arouse him further. She intended to taunt him and plague him until she owned his very soul.
The Dragon and the Jewel Page 42
