LordoftheKeep

by Ann Lawrence

  She had spoken the truth, she must believe it. Gilles treasured her, vows of love or not.

  * * * * *

  Gilles put aside the aches and fatigue of his body as he rode into the bailey, his horse snorting plumes of steam, hooves striking sparks. His caparisons were streaked with mud, his men weary of their siege, yet elated at finally returning home. Crowds surged about his party. Wives and lovers, friends and children spooked the horses as the people sought their men. Gilles grinned as he controlled his horse’s behavior; his eyes searched the crowd for his beloved Emma.

  She stood in the shadow of the hall entry, aloof to the throng. Her eyes avidly searched over him as if seeking to find a wound or some evidence he’d been hurt. He felt her glance as if she’d actually touched him.

  Gilles tugged off a gauntlet. His hair, now a month longer, and loose about his shoulders, whipped in the wind to sting his cheeks. Without showing the urgency he felt inside, he lifted a hand to her in acknowledgment of her presence and then turned to the man at his side.

  “Nicholas, see to your men and mine.” He turned back, but Emma was gone, had disappeared from the steps like a dawn mist flees the sun. “I will see you—anon.”

  It was but moments later when he reached his chamber.

  “Gilles, Gilles. You’ve been gone for weeks.” Emma threw herself into his arms. Her encounter with William had made her frantic for reassurance. His arms tightened about her, stole her breath.

  “Aye, I understand.” They didn’t wait for him to bathe the sweat and grime of weeks from his body, they didn’t even wait until they undressed. They made love immediately and urgently. Emma could not stem the tide of her words. They flowed from her lips in soft whispers against his ear as he held her. She told him how much she missed him and needed him. He was moved beyond words—indeed could still not say what lay in his heart, could only absorb her care and strength into his being.

  Distance had not, however, erased his jealousy that William had loved her first—or his fears that she loved William still. Nay, the long nights on a cold pallet on the hard earth had convinced him Emma came to him only for her child’s sake.

  I must do this. It is best for you, my child. You are all I care about. I will stay here as long as you are cared for.

  He must somehow make her want to stay for her sake, not just her child’s. Lying in her arms, he reveled in her touch and accepted whatever she offered—for now.

  When both of them were too sated to endure another kiss, Gilles pulled from her arms. He opened the door and asked the posted sentry to call for hot water and food. For once he looked forward to the rich fare of the keep. He was tired of Hubert’s meager repertoire of roasted meat and, in truth, his insides had been complaining for the past fortnight as had his aching back. He looked at Emma, smiling up at him from the nest of pillows she’d made for herself. He considered asking her if she knew of some potion to relieve his discomfort, but could not bring himself to show that weakness to her. He would call for the leech later.

  While he waited for his bath, he paced restlessly, rubbing at the small of his back. When the tub and the accompanying servants arrived, Emma was nowhere to be seen. She had taken herself behind a screen, and he knew she would not appear until they’d left. She always hid herself from the servants’ scrutiny and always stifled her sounds of passion lest the sentry on duty hear her. At any other time, Gilles would have smiled to himself at her reticence, for surely all knew that Emma was his lover. Yet, she did not wish to flaunt the fact. He had, heretofore, shielded her as she wished.

  Tonight, fatigue and the long siege made him impatient. He was short with the servants and peered critically at the food arrayed on the tray. He lifted the linen napkins and grimaced at the venison in rosemary and thyme. He’d had enough of venison from Hubert. He then sneered at the roasted turnips. He’d been forced to eat endless mounds of turnips at the siege site as well. He was damned if he’d eat them at Hawkwatch.

  Pouring himself a flagon of wine, he stood with one hand on his hip and waited for Emma to reappear. When she peeked from behind the screen, he was short with her, too. “They are gone.”

  His anger disintegrated when Emma placed her hands on him. She unlaced his filthy shirt, fit only for burning. As she eased it up his body, her hands trailed over him. She plucked open the tie of his chausses and danced away, evading his questing hands. He stripped off the rest of his clothes, stepped over the edge of the tub, and sank into the depths. Emma dropped to his side and gently kissed his shoulder.

  “‘Tis time to make you sweet smelling again, my lord.” She opened a pot of soft soap, scented with cinnamon and cloves, and lathered a cloth. Bathing became a sensual pleasure that set Gilles to groaning. At the finish, Emma was as wet and finely scented as he. They entwined themselves in the many furs and pillows and gave themselves to their individual dreams.

  It was dark night when Emma awoke. The tapers had extinguished themselves in pools of wax. The fire had died. Thousands of stars glinted through a gap in the shutters. She stretched cautiously so as not to disturb Gilles, but discovered the bed by her side empty. She sat up and searched the gloomy corners of the chamber, but he was not tending the fire. She knew a momentary stab of fear. The door opened.

  “Where did you go?” Emma rose and held a fur to her chin as he slowly closed the door.

  “I went to visit another woman, to give her my kisses, to see to her good health.”

  Emma swallowed. A lump formed in her throat.

  “Don’t look so stricken. I speak of Angelique. I found I missed her almost as much as you.” Emma’s relief was tangible. “She could sleep here, with us,” he said, striding to the bed and touching Emma’s cheek with the back of his knuckles. “May says she misses her mother in the night.”

  “Oh Gilles!” Emma rose on her knees and put her arms around his neck. “You always know what is within my heart!”

  He pressed her back into the pillows and drew her close. She searched over his many scars with her fingertips, learning each one anew.

  “What are you doing?” he laughed as her quest tickled along his ribs.

  “I am making sure you were not injured. Hubert is skilled with a needle, as I well know, but I do not trust anyone to see to your care save me.”

  “I am flattered.” He lay back and stared up at the canopy over their heads. He savored the clean scents of his chamber—fresh rushes scattered with sweet herbs, applewood in the hearth, the soap from the bath, the musk of their lovemaking—and sighed. “‘Tis glad I am to be home.”

  Emma propped herself on her elbow and continued to scrutinize him for bruises and scrapes. “Is Richard free now?”

  He tweaked her cheek. “Nay, you innocent. It has not even been determined where he is being held. ‘Twill be weeks or months of intrigue until a ransom is settled and delivered. In the meanwhile, we will have skirmishes here and abroad. Pray they do not fall within my sphere, or I shall again be gone from you.”

  She felt ignorant. What did a weaver know of royal ransom? “I prayed in the chapel four times a day that you might be delivered home unharmed.” And that William would go away.

  “Four times,” he said, amused. He sat up and threw off the coverlet and inspected her knees. “Aye. These knees seem much worn!” He kissed each one.

  Desire swept through her. His playful kiss became a caress of the same place. The sight of him, the flicker of light playing over his broad shoulders as he bent his head to touch his mouth to the soft inner flesh of her thigh, made her tremble. The fire threw a red gloss to his hair, cast shadows on his cheeks. She reached out and sifted her hand through his hair.

  He looked up. Their eyes locked. Her small tremor became a quiver. He turned his gaze to her legs, and his hand traveled slowly in long sweeps from her knee to her hip. Over and over again. “I desire you only,” he whispered.

  The warmth of his words sank into her vitals. It might be the closest she ever came to love. Her breath caught. H
er hands moved on him to tell him she felt his desire. There was a scar on his back, a long puckered mark. She oft felt it as she embraced him during lovemaking. She traced it now with her fingertips, her eyes closed, and felt his muscles ripple in response to her caress. She knew his body by heart. The scar now beneath her fingertips, the curve of his ribs, the furrow of his spine, the cleft of his buttocks, the soft furring of hair on his thighs and chest. Every inch of his body fell under her exploration.

  He was resilient muscle, hard-edged bones, smooth skin, roughened scars. The myriad textures of his body made her insides flow warm and liquid.

  His hand slipped between her thighs. “I desire this and only this.” He bent his head to press a kiss to that part of her that ached for his touch. She arched to his mouth, gasping and shaking from the tantalizing caresses. The intimate kiss tore away all restraint from her. She returned his bold touch, kissed his shoulder, his chest, and on down to his hip. She traced the rise of bone with her tongue, followed the swath of black hair to his belly and lower. She inhaled his scent, tasted him, aroused him.

  She drew back and raised her head. “Come to me.”

  “Jesu,” he whispered, and did as she bid.

  * * * * *

  Later, he stroked his hand along her shoulder and trailed kisses in its wake. “I know ‘tis past Epiphany, and I could not be here to celebrate the Christmas season, but I wish to give you a piece of jewelry to grace your beauty.”

  Emma sat up abruptly, reached for her shift, and drew it over her head.

  Gilles sat up, too. “Does the offer of jewels offend you?”

  She shook out her hair. The golden mass slipped over her shoulder. With impatient fingers she quickly plaited it. “Nay, ‘tis just that others will see and know—”

  Gilles grabbed a braid and tugged until she faced him. “What is this? Shame? Shame that someone will see you wear a token of my affections?”

  Emma shot off the bed, jerking her hair away from his grasp. “A weaver does not wear jewels, my lord.” She pulled on her gown and tied a leather girdle about her hips. Weaver’s clothing, simple, sturdy, warm—not that of a fine lady, worthy of gems.

  His title on her lips pained him. It was easier from his place at the table to forget the differences that lay between them. “Forgive me. I did not think. Is there nothing I may give you, no token it would not shame you to wear?” He said it in a rush lest she pursue the topic of the distance betwixt lord and weaver.

  “There is something, my lord.” She dragged her toe through the rushes.

  Her tentative manner made him sit up straight. He clasped his arms about his knees and grinned. “Come. Do not play the shy one. Name it. An emerald for your navel? Bells for your toes? Toes may be hidden from view in your slippers.”

  Emma giggled. Her eyes met his, shining with amusement, and he thought of sapphire seas and lapis skies. She was more precious than any jewel, more worthy of them than even Queen Berengaria.

  “Nay, my lord. I’ve no wish for such things. Do women wear jewels in their navels?” She cocked her head to the side.

  Gilles’ blood boiled as her braids fell over her plump breasts. “‘Tis said they do in the sultan’s harems of Arabia.”

  “Hmm.” She seemed to consider the idea. “Nay, my lord. What I wish is very simple.” She climbed onto the bed by Gilles’ side and knelt there, her hands clasped in her lap. “I have a cross of my mother’s that I cannot wear for lack of a chain.”

  With a nod, Gilles rose from the bed and went to a coffer. He dug about for a moment and finally brought to the bed a soft leather pouch. Drawing the throng that held it closed, he poured a cascade of glittering jewelry across the bedding.

  Emma stared at the pile of gems. She did not gasp as he expected. With her lip between her teeth, she stirred the pile with a single fingertip. She rejected a fortune. Then, finding what she wanted, she drew from the tangle a delicate chain of silver. Although of fine workmanship, it was of little value.

  “Take what else catches your fancy,” he urged her, but she shook her head.

  He saw tears in her eyes as she slipped the chain over her head. “This is all I need.”

  * * * * *

  Gilles stepped over Angelique as he drew on a long linen shirt. He toed a stuffed leather ball in her direction, and then reached for his surcoat, but Emma stayed his hand. “Wear this instead, my lord.” He took the bundle from her. A small thrill ran through him as he touched the beautiful cloth she’d handed him. His long fingers stroked the pewter-colored fabric. He unfolded and shook out the garment.

  “I thought the color would suit you…Gilles.”

  He looked sharply in Emma’s direction. His hands stroked the cloth. His eyes held hers. He watched a stain of pink rise up her cheeks. His own face felt hot and flushed.

  “‘Tis in thanks for the chain.” She touched the spot where her mother’s cross lay between her breasts. “Could you watch Angelique whilst I fetch May?” He nodded and she left him.

  He gently laid the surcoat on his bed. The sheen of the wool was so lustrous he needed to stretch out his hand and touch it. He walked about the room and inspected the cloth from many different angles. From some angles it appeared to be molten silver flowing in waves across his bed. From others, it took on the dark sheen of moonlight reflected off a stormy lake.

  The cloth was fluid, strong, sensual like the woman who wove it. Without shame, Gilles allowed himself to pick it up and hold it to his face; it was meant to be touched and savored. He knew without any prompting that it was the right and proper color for his black looks.

  Arousal came hard upon him because the cloth held Emma’s scent. He pictured her at her loom, her hands weaving this cloth. His pleasure was as ripe as any new pain could be. He drew on the tunic. Opening his coffer, he brought out the first belt she’d woven for him, the one with hawks in flight—linking one to the other, end to end, and settled it on his hips. Garbed as finely as any king, he thought. He should not wear such a garment except at some great occasion, yet he knew he must have it on, next to his bare skin even. He resisted the urge.

  A sharp tug on his hem brought him back to the here and now.

  Angelique.

  He bent and scooped her up. “What is it, my child?” he asked, nuzzling her neck and taking in the scent of innocence. She had become his child in his mind. She was his grandchild, and he loved her to distraction. His son, Nicholas, had no children yet, so Angelique was his first—albeit through William’s loins. Though he could never acknowledge her, she was his, and his grip tightened possessively as guilt assailed him. He bedded his grandchild’s mother. Somehow it seemed incestuous, though Emma and he shared no common blood.

  “Gilles,” Angelique squeaked at his tight grip. She had just learned to say his name. In fact, she practiced it by bellowing it down the hall whenever she wished. That such a small set of lungs could give forth such volume of demand amazed him. He thanked God she’d not been swaddled and placed with a village woman. With a grin he rewarded her with a kiss and loosened his hold, tossing her aloft and changing her squeak to a shriek of delight.

  “She will vomit on your head,” William said from the threshold. Gilles clamped his lips on a sharp retort and bid him enter, putting Angelique down in a nest of blankets arranged for her comfort. May would soon come to feed the child. Emma no longer nursed her. The image of Emma with her child at her breast sent a bolt of possessive agony through him.

  “What do you want, William?” Gilles strolled to a hearthside table and poured himself a cup of wine. He strove for the impassive, cold demeanor for which he was known. A wretched thought occurred to him. If William sought to claim Angelique, he might not have this time with her. He let the cool liquid slip down his throat as he listened to William’s litany of complaints about an elusive band of thieves who had been taking advantage in Gilles’ absence.

  “You should seek the thieves yourself.” Gilles carefully pulled Angelique back as she toddled too cl
ose to the hearth.

  “You don’t wish to hunt them, my lord?” William cocked his head to the side and studied Gilles in surprise. “You love a good hunt, be it man or beast.”

  “I think I’ll remain here. Take whom you wish and…good hunting.” He watched Angelique try to sneak back to the forbidden hearth. For the first time, Gilles understood how Roland could be content to remain by a fire with the family he loved.

  He had never sat at the hearth with his wife—nay, he’d avoided her, and having fostered Nicholas early, had seen little of the boy.

  Nicholas. His son would return to Seaswept in a day or two. Gilles felt guilty he had taken his son away from his new wife throughout the season of celebration and feasting.

  He also felt guilty he’d not mentioned Emma to Nicholas. Nor mentioned Nicholas to her.

  What did he fear? Disapproval from his son? Or the look on Emma’s face when she met his son and the realization struck that to have a son a of more than a score of years, he must be near or more than two score years himself. Another thought intruded. Like William, Nicholas was a comely man. Women sought him. Gilles thrust the thought aside.

  William paced the large bedchamber. He looked for signs of Emma about the room, but saw none. He was beyond curious. Emma ignored him at every turn. She didn’t meet his eyes. She didn’t acknowledge his words. He had to have the haughty bitch. As his eyes took in the huge carved bed, the luxurious furs, the scarlet bed curtains, he grew hard thinking about subduing Emma on those soft furs, tying her down, mayhap, with the golden bed cords. Envy that she lay on such finery consumed him. Needing to take a wench in some dark corner rather than on a feather bed made him more resentful.

  “I’ll mind leaving for only one reason.” William climbed the low dais on which the bed stood and flopped back onto the fur coverlet to savor its feel. He closed his eyes and stretched, missing the glint of anger that coursed over Gilles’ face at the audacity of William, lying upon his lord’s bed. “This wench I’m bedding, I’ve just taught her the ways of a man’s tongue. ‘Twould be a pleasure to have her kneeling, plump ass in my face, on this fine bed, my tongue and hers busy with each other.”