by Karen Ranney
Was he watching her? Did he look at her sitting there, nude except for a cloth across her breasts? Her knees were pressed together, her hands rested on her upper thighs. She was immobile, but her blood was racing.
“Juliana.”
Her name seemed breathed from his lips. A whisper, no more. The sound a breeze might make when dancing through the branches of a tree. A sigh of storm upon the land.
She did not want to answer. He would pull her from this place of secrecy, force her to open her eyes, to face what she was doing. She wanted to remain in this half world, enticing without a word, inviting him to touch her without entreaty. Adrift in sensation that heightened as each moment passed. Imagination coupled with curiosity.
Please, Sebastian, touch me.
“Juliana.” Another summons, in a voice that had grown harsh. Still, she did not open her eyes.
“Yes?” She licked her lips as if to cool their heat.
“Remove the cloth.”
Time stopped. So, too, her breath. Her hand reached up and flattened itself against the drying cloth. Then her fingers crept to the edge, gripped it and slowly peeled it back. Her skin was cool where it had lain, and her nipples hardened in the sudden surprising chill. Yet, it was as if heat entered her body at the same time.
She opened her eyes to meet his look.
He knelt in front of her, his head bare. His eyes studied her, and wherever they touched she felt as if a tiny flame had been lit. His mouth was compressed into a thin line, his face looked more severe than she’d ever seen it. An ascetic’s face, a warrior’s mien. She closed her eyes again.
“‘As she waited before me, her clothes cast off her body, no blemish appeared. What shoulders, what arms, what thighs are hers, this youthful beauty. The shape of her breasts are fit for my hands. There is nothing not worthy of praise about her. How I wish to press her up against me.’”
Her eyes opened. “Ovid?” The word passed through the constriction of her throat.
He nodded.
One of his large hands, covered in its eternal glove, reached out, came closer. She could almost feel the heat of his skin through the leather. His palm curved as if to mimic the shape of the breast it would hold in the next moment. Instead, he hesitated an inch from her skin. His hand trembled. She looked up then, to meet his eyes.
“Sebastian.” A wisp of sound. Neither admonishment nor question, but rather a plea.
She ached, hurt with the pain of this moment. She wanted him to touch her, wanted his hands on her body. Please, Sebastian. Words that were spoken in her heart, in her mind. Instinctively, she knew that he was the answer for this ache she felt, his hand on her would ease this longing.
She extended her hands to him, palms up, a sign of surrender.
He looked at her hands for a long moment, then his eyes lifted until they met her gaze.
From the great hall came the sounds of merriment. Laughter and singing. Voices arranged in harmony, in raucous enjoyment. They would have no idea that their joy was counterpoint to this moment of silence, stretched so thin she could almost see through time. Her chest ached; she could barely breathe, and when she did her breath felt too hot, as if her body was an inferno.
He did not speak, but she could feel the heat of his hand still, even through the leather of his glove. It remained poised an inch from her body. She closed her eyes again.
“Did you lure me here to tempt me, Juliana?”
Her face warmed at the thought.
“If so, you’ve succeeded at your aim,” he asked, his voice rough. “Do you know how badly I want to touch you, I wonder? Do you know how the sight of your body arouses me? No? Of course you can’t. You are an innocent, aren’t you? Then, innocent Juliana, would you like to know what I wish to do at this moment?”
Her eyes opened, then closed again quickly.
“I would kiss you first, Juliana. I think you would like kissing. Your lower lip especially, it seems almost too full for your mouth. Such things are sometimes an indication of a passionate nature. Is yours, I wonder?”
She looked beneath her lashes at him. He stood.
“I think it is. You’ve read love poetry in secret. Did the words you read make you hunger, Juliana? Want something you’ve never had?”
He moved, circling the bench.
“You would become adept at kissing very quickly. I would learn the shape of your lips, the sounds you make as I deepen the kiss. Lovely Juliana, passionate Juliana.”
Her lips felt oddly strange, as if they were being kissed. But not simply in passion. In anger. It was there in his words, in the tone of his voice.
“I would touch you, Juliana, on your shoulders, your neck. Kiss you there, where your skin is soft and your pulse beats strong. And at your temple.” His voice changed. He was behind her now. He bent and whispered in her ear, as if the words were too intimate to be heard even by the shadows. “I would touch your breasts, Juliana, stroke those lovely nipples of yours. My fingers would make your blood leap.”
Her blood seemed on fire, her skin too tight for her body. Her hands were clenched now on her knees. Again, the sensation that his breath brushed her skin. Or was that his hand again, suspended over her body? Why did he not touch her?
“Press your fingers against your lips, Juliana.”
She hesitated but a moment, then followed his instructions.
“They are my fingers now, just as your body is mine. You wanted this moment, Juliana. Then experience it.”
She shivered at the note in his voice. Not cruel, nor punishing but firm. The tones of a warrior, brooking no refusal. Still, she did not speak to protest his assumption, didn’t tell him that his presence here was only an accident. Instead, she felt trapped in the web of his words, entranced, flushed. Wondering.
“I am tracing your lips with my fingers, Juliana.” Blindly, she followed his unspoken command.
“Now take your hand and place it on your shoulder.” She did so, cradling her right palm against the bulb of her left shoulder. “Touch your skin, Juliana, the smooth slope of your arm.”
Her fingers slid slowly down to her wrist. His hand lay only an inch from hers on the slow descent, as if he wished to absorb what she was feeling, touch her without doing so.
“Can you feel me?”
She nodded.
Her body felt as if it were weeping, growing heated and damp. His voice came closer, breathed in her ear, a sorcerer’s murmur low and compelling and strangely exciting. “You are trembling, Juliana. Are you afraid?”
She shook her head.
The Latin poetry she’d read had spoken of passion, of a lover’s despair, of powerful emotions all churned together. Until this moment she had not understood. Until she’d heard Sebastian’s voice filled with anger and need, until she’d felt her own trembling acquiescence to actions that surely must be forbidden, she’d not known that she could feel all these emotions at once. Anticipation and anxiety.
Her body was on fire. My senses are rooted in eternal torture. The words of Catullus seemed too fitting.
“Juliana.” He spoke her name as if it was a prayer, a soft invocation of sound. She shivered at the sound of it, bent her head.
“Place your hands beneath your breasts. I wish to touch you there.”
She felt as if her heart were racing, as if she’d run to meet him. But she remained pinned to the bench by his presence, by the soft timbre of his voice and a feeling of being ensorceled. No, not sorcery this, but need. A desperate need to know what came after this, what made the poets sing of rapture and bliss.
Her palms cradled her breasts, lifting them. She had never touched herself for the pleasure of it. The sensation startled her.
“You have beautiful breasts, Juliana.” His voice was no more than a rough growl. “Rub your thumbs against your nipples, Juliana.”
Her head fell back, her eyes closed, but she did as he told her. Her fingers felt abrasive against her sensitive flesh. Her breasts tightened, the skin prickling
in response. Her breath came in soft, helpless gusts that matched the cadence of his breath at her ear.
“Do you feel me touching you?”
She nodded, once.
“Tell me.”
“Yes,” she said, her voice a faint whisper of sound. Even so, it was almost impossible to speak.
She felt empty, aching. Too close to wisdom, too far away from the answers she sought.
“I want you, Juliana. I want to be inside you.”
Heat flooded her cheeks, but she did not move.
“I would stretch you gently so that you fit the shape of me. I want to feel your hips move, your body lift to mine. I want to fill you, Juliana. I want to hear you scream in my arms.”
Her breasts felt hot, her thumbs stilled as the pounding of her heart seemed to beat louder in response to his words.
“But it will not happen, Juliana.” His voice came from far away.
Only when she heard the door slam did she open her eyes.
Chapter 16
Jerard stood leaning against a staff nearly as tall as he was. As Sebastian’s steward, he was supposed to use it as a badge of his authority. Instead, it made him feel awkward. He would never strike an unarmed man. Too many years under the dominion of another man’s rule had left him with an abiding distaste for it. However, he was only too aware that everyone had a master, even the Pope. What differed was the degree of power one wielded while attempting to do a master’s bidding.
As Sebastian’s steward, he had too much authority. Sebastian trusted him to the degree that it was possible to steal from him with impunity, to cheat him without fear of being caught. Not that he would. He owed Sebastian his life and his future. When Sebastian had plucked him from serfdom and asked what it was that he most wanted to be, he had stammered some answer in response. Only later did he realize that he had said, “Free!” Sebastian had made it come true.
The harvest would be in soon, and this occupation of standing at the end of the field pretending to be surveying the work of the villagers would be at an end. The days could not come fast enough.
Yet as onerous as this one duty, he did not wish the passage of time to increase. If he could have slowed it, he would. He’d even wondered if there were spells he might use to do so, not minding the exchange of his mortal soul for Sebastian’s health. Would happiness be too great a thing to wish for, in addition?
He used his sleeve to wipe the sweat from his eyes, keeping an amiable smile on his face lest the villagers believe him annoyed or angered. The villagers of Langlinais had a very great respect for their lord, and he, as Sebastian’s representative, had to guard his expression.
This harvest might very well pay the rest of Sebastian’s ransom. Then, Langlinais could once again become the wealthy demesne it had once been.
Wealth was not a precursor to happiness, however. Just as having a lovely young bride was no guarantee of marital bliss. Jerard was aware of the currents that swirled around both Sebastian and Juliana. They were each so careful not to mention the other. Yet, when he carried news between them about the other, neither cautioned him not to speak. Instead, their demeanor was the same. Watchful, intent, silent, as if trying to hear beyond his words. As if they were creating a picture in their minds of the other and made the picture move, and speak and act according to the words he spoke.
He told Sebastian of Juliana’s return to her manuscripts, of her diligence. He spoke of how she did not stop as long as the sun was in the sky, of the two times her hands had cramped so badly she had asked him to fetch some cream from her trunks. But because of Sebastian’s reaction to that information, the silence and the stiffness of his shoulders as he’d stood at his window surveying his land, he’d not told Sebastian how she’d been unable to unstop the bottle. Nor had he spoken of how she was not eating well despite how he tried to tempt her at dinner, how her gaze seemed to flit to the empty lord’s chair again and again.
To Juliana he was careful not to speak of those moments in which Sebastian stared out the window, how he barely seemed to hear him when he brought news of the villagers, of the inhabitants of Langlinais. He did not tell her how his lord was careful not to ask of her, an omission so obvious that it betrayed his interest.
He acted as messenger and observer, but he was too aware that their union was as doomed as any he’d ever seen.
He had not believed it possible to feel more pain for Sebastian than he had when learning of his affliction. Now, he knew there were only degrees of anguish. His friend and lord had been resolved to his fate, his acceptance hard-won and difficult to witness. Now, it looked as if the battle must be commenced yet again.
The Lord of Langlinais might feel himself alone in his hell, but Jerard would accompany him there willingly, just as he had ever since that day in France. A small enough price for the man but six years his elder, who’d rescued him from starvation, from mutilation, who’d ignored his humble birth and given him a chance to become squire and then steward. He would protect Sebastian with his life. And guard his secret with the same dedication.
She had spent most of her life secluded from the outside world, although anyone who knew of convent life could not say that such an existence sheltered one from practicality. The nuns at Sisters of Charity worked hard and took pride in the diligence of their labors. They respected both hard work and intelligence. She was the only scribe not exempted from work in the gardens and the fields because of her work at the scriptorium. The abbess had said that she tended to immerse herself too fully in her work and a change of pace was necessary to look at any task cleanly.
How did she look at the task before her now? Not her work, but her life?
She had not seen Sebastian for nearly a week, not since that night he’d come to her room. Memories of those moments lived with her now, and she could recall every word he’d said to her. Especially those at the end. It will not happen, Juliana. She felt as if she’d pushed Sebastian away, first with her curiosity, then with her wantonness. It had been an accident of timing, him coming into her room that way. Yet, she had not covered herself, or explained, or asked him to leave.
Sometimes, Juliana wondered if she felt more than other people did. There were times she simply wanted to cry for hours, the pain in her heart felt so great. Or sometimes, she wanted to weep because she was so happy. Did feeling so strongly mark her as a weak woman? Should she guard her emotions with more care?
There was even a difference in the way she worked. Her letters were as correct, her script as precise as any other good scribe, but her illustrations were more poignant. A young girl sat in the window of the letter R, her feet dangling from the crossbar, her gaze pensive. Not a smile to be seen. No winsome look on her face.
Juliana looked out the window at distant clouds. A summer storm was approaching. The wind whipped at her hair, as if to coax her from this place.
She put away the parchment sheet to dry, poured the remaining ink in its container and checked her quills for wear. Then, satisfied that everything was as it should be, she stood and walked out of the oriel, closing the door firmly behind her.
Perhaps if she changed her surroundings, she might also be able to stop thinking about Sebastian.
He’d been aroused and angry, twin emotions that did not deal well in tandem. Sebastian had wanted her to desire him. All he’d accomplished was to feel a measure of shame for his treatment of her. The guilt, however, did not banish his need. It was stronger than before, just as each thought of her seemed more vivid. Juliana. Even the air seemed to breathe her name.
Had she lain awake the whole night as he had? Had her body felt restless and eager for his? His dreams of her had been wild things, but his nighttime visions of her had not eased his daytime need.
He was a man, condemned to die by circumstance and fate. Not, however, before being given a vision of his life as it might have been.
It was as if a celestial voice enumerated all the things that he would never enjoy. Here, the scent of roses, that
you might smell it and recall the fragility of her wrists, or wonder at her soft fragrant neck. Here, the sound of her laughter, so that you remember the joy she caused you to feel with a simple smile. Here, the contents of her mind, that you might wonder at what else she knew and how she reasoned. That you might realize she was the companion of your days, that single soul allowed by heaven itself to be your match. Here, the sight most wished, Juliana nude, bathed by gentle light. Juliana, with her eyes closed and her breath coming fast, her skin so delicate and fair. Her toes had curled upon the floor. The sight of them had stirred his heart as her body had stirred his loins. Here, the shadows bedecking her, the curves of her, the sweetness of tight nipples colored pink in the light. His bride, untouched and needing. Her lips open to speak his name, her eyes closed to hide her fear.
Dear God, he’d wanted to touch her. Just with the tip of a finger, to see if her breast would quiver at his touch. Had he imagined it, or had her nipples swelled as he’d watched, lengthening, pouting? A short kiss of benediction had trembled on his lips and had been refused only by the greatest of wills. He’d wanted to brush his hand against her back, the curve of her shoulder, the length of her legs.
Their marriage might have been a gift, a sharing of minds formed alike, of interests strongly similar. And passions? He could only wonder, fuel his hot dreams with imagined sighs and limbs wrapped around him in wonderment. Their nights might have been spent in dalliance, gentle training as he taught her what pleased him and learned what made her weep with joy. He might have come upon her during the course of his day, wound his arm around her shoulders, bent down to give her a kiss upon her nose, nuzzle that spot behind her ear he longed to touch. Or, his fingers might have trailed through her hair in delight, glorying in the touch of it. He might have stopped, and regardless of those around him, enfolded her in his arms, his cheek pressed against her hair, his eyes closed lest tears of contentment leak from his eyes and shame him. She would have nestled close, her head fitting in that spot next to his shoulder seemingly formed for her.
