Right now, Phillipa was standing with her back to him, hand-in-hand with Aldous as they watched Marguerite dance. In that lovely ivory tunic that bared her shoulders, her hair in a pearl-wrapped chignon, she was as angelic a vision as Marguerite was demonic.
Clare said, “Father and I used to fly the hawks with your sire—did you know that?”
“Aldous told me,” Hugh said thickly. Damn, but he wished he hadn’t drunk so much.
“I knew Lord William had a son two or three years younger than me, but you never came hawking with us.”
“My father didn’t permit any activities that would take time away from my training.”
Her smile deepened. “We were almost betrothed, you and I.”
God’s bones. The thought of being bound in matrimony to this woman was too grotesque to contemplate.
“Father tried to arrange it,” she said, “but Lord William refused.”
“Because he thought you were too old for me?” Hugh lifted his cup to his mouth.
She shook her head. “Probably because he was sleeping with me.”
Hugh managed not to pass the wine through his nose.
“I was thirteen when he took my maidenhead,” she said conversationally. “He was just a little older than you are now, and the handsomest, most commanding man I’d ever known. And perceptive—he’d noticed me mooning over him. One morning while we were hawking, he got me away from the others on some pretext and took me into the woods and laid his mantle on the ground. I asked him what he was doing. He said he was tired and needed to lie down, and asked if I wasn’t tired, as well. ‘Twas a warm day, so he took off his tunic and said perhaps I would be more comfortable without my—”
“Yes, I get the idea,” Hugh ground out, feeling an unexpected burst of sympathy for her—or rather, for the young girl whose childish infatuation his father had so thoughtlessly exploited. This was the same man who used to lecture Hugh so ceaselessly on matters of chivalry and honor. He hadn’t thought his loathing for his sire could deepen any further; he’d been wrong.
“I’ve never met a man like him since,” Clare said wistfully. “Although I must say, you come close. I think I remember you from Poitiers.” An impish spark lit her eyes as she raised his cup to her lips and took a sip. “Didn’t you tup me in the arse one night while I took Roger de la Foret in my mouth?”
Hugh suddenly wished he were a good deal drunker. “I don’t believe so.”
“Aye, ‘twas in the barn,” she continued blithely. “You and Roger brought in one of the stablehands then—that strapping brute with red hair, remember? You two cheered him on while he had a go at me.”
“I think I would recall such a...romantic interlude.”
“You know, I think you’re right. I’m getting you mixed up with Roger’s cousin, Guillaume—he was fair-haired, like you. Men do tend to merge together in one’s memory.”
Hugh could recall every woman he’d ever tupped, down to the smallest detail. “I kept pretty much to myself during my stay at Poitiers,” he said.
“Did you?” A spark of recognition lit her eyes. “Ah! Now I remember you. Yes, of course. You caught my eye because you were so handsome, but there was a spectral quality to you—always appearing and disappearing in the shadows...watching, listening, but never very much a part of things. You didn’t seem to have any interest in the ladies of the court—although I did hear two of the kitchen wenches whispering about you once when they didn’t know I was behind them.”
Ah, yes, thought Hugh. Those pretty little kitchen wenches.
Clare smiled. “I seem to recall them comparing you to a stallion.” Before Hugh realized what she was doing, she’d snaked one hand beneath his leathern tunic and seized him through his drawers. “Ah, yes, that must have been you,” she said, fondling him purposefully—as if he could ever rouse to the likes of her. “If you can slip away from that prissy little wife of yours tonight, why don’t you join me in my chamber? Marguerite will be there, too.”
“Perhaps some other time.” He pried her hand off his cock, which she was wringing like a washrag. Best not to reject her outright; if she felt spurned, she might turn him away from Halthorpe, and Phillipa along with him. “I’m afraid I’ve drunk far more wine tonight than I should have. Bewitching though you both are, I fear I would be unequal to the challenge.”
This was not entirely true, of course, Hugh having never been too drunk to perform if the wench was inspiring enough. But he knew enough about women to steer well clear of both Clare and Marguerite even if he weren’t still firmly in Phillipa’s thrall. Clare, although she fancied herself quite the siren, was far too hard and opaque to be alluring—not to mention that her oily-sweet perfume made his nostrils flare. And as for Marguerite, Hugh had learned long ago to avoid the type of bed sport from which one might come away clawed.
“I hope you’re not refusing me out of misguided devotion to your lady wife,” Clare said as she caressed the fidgety kestrel. “You do know how she’s been carrying on with my brother. I mean, look at them.”
Hugh did, and saw Aldous leaning down to whisper in Phillipa’s ear, one arm curling possessively around her waist.
“We’re neither of us hamstrung by archaic notions of fidelity,” he said, his hand twitching with the urge to unsheathe his jambiya.
“Then, perhaps I can talk you into going hawking with me tomorrow. I’ve got a huge, particularly vicious gyrfalcon I’ll bet you could handle just fine. What say you?” She smiled. “You can bring a mantle in case we get tired and need to lie down.”
“It sounds...” Intolerable. “Enchanting. Unfortunately, one needs a functioning right hand for falconry.” The gauntlets were all made for the left hand, the right being employed for a multitude of tasks that required a thumb. Thank the saints.
“What a pity,” Clare said with a pout. “Outdoor sport can be so stimulating.” Rising from the bench, she bent to whisper in his ear, “Never fear—I’ll get my talons in you sooner or later.” She turned and sauntered away, the absurdly long train of her emerald silk gown dragging through the grass like a lizard’s tail. “Edmee,” she shouted to a sturdily-built wench passing by with an armload of wine jugs, “come get me ready for bed.”
Hugh gulped down the remainder of his wine, eyeing Phillipa and Aldous and trying not to think of him in bed with her, on top of her...
Did she leave her shift on with him, or had he talked her out of it? Did she undress while he watched? Did he get to hold her naked in his arms? Did she moan when he was inside her?
“Christ.” The thought of her going willingly to Aldous’s bed after that night with him was agonizing. A feverish tide of anger rose within him, anger both at himself, for having let her do this, and at her, for not puzzling a way out of it. She was clever enough; she could have thought of something.
She’d wanted to use her wits instead of her body. You told her it wouldn’t work.
Hugh scrubbed his hands over his face, trying to wade through his hazy, wine-induced rage toward rational thought. He reminded himself that he had no claim on her. Phillipa had only asked Hugh to bed her so that Aldous wouldn’t be the first. She had made herself clear enough that night in Southwark when she’d followed him into the stable, telling him that her virtue had become a burden to her but that he, Hugh, was the last man she would lose her heart to.
It was a good thing she was sleeping with Aldous, if only for the sake of the mission, and a damned good thing she didn’t fancy herself in love with Hugh, because he didn’t need that kind of trouble on top of his own ungovernable feelings.
Given a bit of encouragement, he was all too afraid he could imagine those feelings to be something more than they were and end up playing the deferential husband for the rest of his life instead of just for a few weeks. He would then be tied to someone else for eternity, fettered by her needs and expectations, something he’d vowed to himself when he broke free of his father’s dominion seventeen years ago would never happen to him. He’
d resolved with the utmost conviction to make his way alone, unbridled forever by the demands of overlord, sire, wife or family. He would go where he pleased, fighting for the highest bidder and partaking of his wenches and his wine and his dice as he saw fit, with no one to rein him in or tie him down, no one to flog the spirit out of him or tame his soul, until the day he passed from this earth.
True love tends to tame the most feral of men, Turstin de Ver had said of Raoul, once a man’s man and a damned good soldier and now his wife’s groveling little lap dog. If Turstin was right, and Hugh was immune to love, then he should be safe from any risk of suffering the same fate.
He didn’t feel safe.
Looking up, he saw Phillipa walking toward him, ghostly and radiant against the curtain of leaping flames. Behind her, Aldous looked away from Marguerite’s performance to follow her with his eyes, scowling. Pausing on the other side of the table, she said, “Hello, Hugh.” They hadn’t spoke privily since he’d arrived.
“Phillipa.”
Her expression guarded, she said, “It’s gotten late. I’ll be going to bed now.”
Hugh cocked his head toward Aldous. “With him, or...”
“N-nay, in my own chamber—our chamber now, I suppose. When you’re ready, it’s at the very end of the east wing, on the ground floor.”
“I’ll fetch my things and be along shortly.”
“Very well.”
After collecting his satchel and saddlebags from the stable, Hugh made his way unsteadily—damn, but I wish I hadn’t drunk so much—across the drawbridge to the inner bailey. His drinking, normally fairly steady, had escalated dramatically during his two-week sojourn to Rouen for his meeting with King Henry—during which he had, indeed, been offered the sheriffship of London, which he’d declined. The king had been dismayed by this turn of events, and asked Hugh to reconsider, but Hugh had been too haunted by thoughts of Phillipa in Aldous’s bed to concentrate on much else. He’d striven to drown his misery in wine, which had succeeded only in making him grow more choleric day by day, as if his nerves could not stop twitching.
It was with some effort that he negotiated his way through the labyrinthine castle to the crumbling old east wing and down the dank corridor that ran the length of it to the door at the end. He almost knocked, as had been his habit in Southwark, but on an impulse driven by his smoldering frustration, he merely yanked the door open and walked in.
Phillipa looked up sharply from where she sat on the edge of a fur-draped, uncurtained bed, still in her ivory tunic, unwrapping the rope of pearls from around the hair coiled at her nape. “Hugh.”
With a curt nod, he dumped his baggage into the rushes that blanketed the floor of this surprisingly modest and ill-furnished little room. “Why did you end up in this part of the castle? Are any of the other guests housed down here?”
She hesitated, glancing away as she freed the pearls from her hair and laid them on the bed next to her. “Just Aldous. He’s got the chamber next door.”
Of course. With a bitter little exhalation, Hugh raked a hand through his hair. “You needn’t stay here on my account. I mean, I assume you’ve been sleeping in his bed—this one is just barely big enough for—”
“Are you drunk?”
“Not nearly drunk enough.”
“Given the circumstances,” she said as she slid silver hairpins out of her chignon and set them aside, “don’t you think you should try to keep your wits about you?”
“Given the circumstances,” he snarled as he strode toward her, “I think I should drink myself into a blind fucking stupor. Just because you find this situation easy to stomach doesn’t mean I do.”
“You’re wrong, Hugh.” She pulled out the last pin; her hair uncoiled in a serpentine black river down her back.
“Am I?” He loomed over her, fists quivering. Don’t do this. Deal with it, rise above it. But then he pictured her, writhing and crying out as Aldous Ewing rutted away on top of her, and the pain of it boiled red-hot in his veins. “You seem to have fallen rather smoothly into the role of Aldous Ewing’s whore.”
Her eyes darkened with outrage. “Isn’t that what you wanted?” she demanded in a voice that quivered with anger, “Isn’t that why you sent me here?”
“Christ!” Hugh wheeled around and paced away, grinding his fists against his temples. She would drive him mad if he let her.
“Hugh,” she said quietly. He heard the soft whisper of her damask gown and knew that she was standing. “I...” She sighed. “‘Tisn’t as if I have any feelings for Aldous.”
With a bitter little chuckle, he turned back to face her. “Oh, I don’t flatter myself that you need to have feelings for a man to spread your legs for him.”
Her gentleness turned to ire. “Perhaps I’ve simply come to share your views about sex—that it’s naught but animal gratification. You’ve made it clear enough you don’t attach any emotions to the act—why should I?”
“You’re already thinking like a whore,” he ground out. “That being the case, you won’t mind servicing me now, I trust.”
She hitched in an indignant little breath as he unbuckled his belt and flung it off. “I most certainly would!”
“Be a sport.” He stalked toward her, whipping his leathern tunic over his head. “I’ve been a fortnight without having it off. I could use a quick tumble.”
Turning her back to him, she fetched her pearls and hairpins off the bed. “I’m going to find someplace else to sleep.”
He seized her bare shoulders from behind. “I’ll be damned if I’m going to let you spend tonight in his bed.”
“I didn’t mean his—” Her words ended with a gasp as Hugh wrapped his arms around her, grabbing a breast with one hand while the other gathered up the skirt of her tunic. The pearls and pins fell into the rushes.
“I don’t care what you do tomorrow night,” he said gruffly, although it was a lie, “or any night thereafter, but tonight you’re mine. You’ll stay in this bed if I have to chain you to it.”
“Hugh—” Her gasp was more like a whimper as he slid a finger into her snug little sex. She tightened reflexively, sending heat pumping into his groin.
“Do you feel this?” He rubbed himself against her from behind as he thrust his finger in and out of her, deep, deeper... “Every night I lie awake like this, remembering how it felt to be inside you, how wild you went at the end, how it drove me right to the edge—and wondering if I’ll ever see you like that again, if I’ll ever make it happen again. You’ve wondered the same thing. You’ve wanted this, too, haven’t you?”
“I wish I hadn’t.”
Hugh yanked on the wide, scooping neckline of her tunic and the kirtle beneath, baring one breast, which he kneaded as he caressed her intimately. “Does he touch you like this? Do you come with him?”
“N-nay...he doesn’t...we don’t...”
“That’s something, anyway.” He squeezed her nipple rhythmically, drawing a tremulous little gasp from her as it stiffened. “Do you have any idea what torture it is to know that you share his bed, that he gets to lie with you night after night?”
“Hugh...”
“God, Phillipa...I can’t bear this.” If only he didn’t feel this mad, unrelenting need for her. If only he could stop caring. If only he could stop thinking about her for one bloody minute out of the day...
She breathed his name on a trembling moan. He moaned, too, when he felt her grow wet. She was as breathless as he was, he realized, her body swaying languorously, her head falling back against his chest.
Reaching between them, he untied his drawers. She tried to turn around, thinking no doubt that he meant to lay her on the bed, but he took her by the shoulders and made her face the bed again. “Kneel.” Pushing her onto her knees in the rushes, he guided her head down so that her cheek rested on the rough fur throw covering the bed. Her hair had fallen across her face; he left it there.
Shaken by the tumult of unwanted feelings roiling inside him, the last
thing he wanted was to look upon her face as he took her, to gaze into those big, liquid brown eyes and feel his heart catch tight in his chest. Let this be a hard, mindless fuck to drive the demons out of his soul, he thought as he flipped her skirt up and seized her hips. Let this be about bodies, about coming. Let this be about anything but love.
He rammed into her with a growl of effort. Still so tight, so excruciatingly tight...
She groaned hoarsely, clutching handfuls of fur. “Oh, God, Hugh...”
He reached around her as he pounded into her, stroking her where they were joined, wanting her to come, needing to claim her in a way that he hadn’t, to make her surrender herself in a tempest of sensation.
The bed ropes groaned with each savage thrust, the straw in the mattress crushing faster, faster... Her entire body went rigid; she tore the fur off the bed, crying out rawly as her climax overtook her.
Hugh arched over her, erupting with shocking suddenness as she shuddered beneath him, around him. He heard himself shout as his pleasure was wrenched from him. It crashed through him in wave after heartstopping wave, until he collapsed spent and trembling on top of her, murmuring her name over and over again.
She was shaking, he realized, with her face buried in the bunched-up fur, which she still clutched tightly in her fists.
“Phillipa?” he whispered unsteadily.
Her response was so muffled that he couldn’t make it out, but it had a damp, choked sound to it.
Jesu. He shouldn’t have done this, not...not like this. He’d never even treated a whore this way. This had been a barbarous act, a form of retribution. He hadn’t even had the presence of mind to withdraw, something he never failed to do.
Lords of Conquest Boxed Set Page 55
