Emerald Silk

by Janet Lane

  He gasped from the pleasure, and stroked her, returning the pleasure.

  She moved slowly, delicately, and the gentleness of it wrapped around him, warm and loving.

  Hope and desire flooded him, and he held her tight, responding to a new urgency.

  She moved slowly, gently. Her breasts pressed into his chest, her mouth on his, withholding nothing.

  They clung to each other, steadfast against all else or others. His heart pounded insistently and he tumbled out of control, bursting inside, releasing his seed. He held her bottom tight to him for a moment, savoring their union, then moved again, stroking her with his body and fingers, bringing her closer.

  She trembled against him, her sharp cry of release filling the chamber, and then she lay still, snuggling.

  Her heart raced, beating strongly against his chest.

  His heart hurried in answer. Tabor smoothed his hands over her soft curves, relishing the sensation of skin on skin. Their hearts slowed, along with their breathing.

  He stroked her hair, playing with the ends. “It will grow.”

  “I know.” She kissed him, and then closed her eyes.

  He gazed at her features, memorizing her high cheekbones, strong, straight nose, and small chin. Her face was serene now, but it could be so lively and expressive. Like the time she saw her bean plants blossom. He smiled, remembering the breathless anticipation in her eyes when he ate the frog-bone cake. And her concern when she first read his palm, and saw something so dark she had yet to tell him of it. And the pleasure when he told her how much he liked the pennants she sewed for him.

  He pushed a ragged strand of hair from her face. She was so full of love and life.

  Dawn lit her face, overpowering the candle.

  His thoughts grew grim. Neither king nor duty will keep her from me. I will die before I give her up.

  Could he forfeit his honor and abandon his family? Was there any hope left to petition Gloucester again, annoy him into granting him the right to wed her? His chances would be slim, nay, disastrous, if he took the issue before the royal council.

  A shuddering sickness overwhelmed him. He had but two choices. Stay on Gloucester’s terms or leave and give Coin Forest back to the crown.

  A distant sound awoke him. The sun still shone low to the east; he must have drifted off for a short time. He listened for more. Had he dreamt it?

  A horn blew.

  Another answered from the watchtowers.

  Tabor bolted from bed, grimacing with pain.

  Sharai rose. “What is it?”

  A single name came to his mind.

  Hungerford.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Tabor left Sharai in the safety of the solar and hurried through the demolished gate door, down the steps and into the bailey. Cyrill joined him, along with what was left of their garrison.

  In spite of his orders, Sharai appeared with Kadriya, peeking out of the stone way.

  A large party advanced, a dozen knights wearing royal livery and carrying a banner: three fleurs-de-lis on azure and three lions passant guardant.

  “The king,” said Cyrill.

  “Look closer. They’re royal arms,” agreed Tabor, “but note the white border around the shield.” He pointed, as if tracing the edge of the flag. “It’s Gloucester.”

  Confident, Tabor stood ready to receive him. He had not provoked the attack and had only defended himself and Coin Forest.

  Horns sounded, and the herald announced His Grace, Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, Chief Councillor and Keeper of the Peace during the king’s minority.

  Gloucester approached, draped in a purple velvet cloak with white ermine trim.

  Tabor bowed. “Your Grace.”

  Gloucester surveyed the damaged bailey with a frown. “I see Rauf has been here.”

  “How did you know?”

  “Lord Hungerford wrote, warning me. It was not his wish that his son attack.”

  “Too civilized for that, is he?”

  Gloucester searched among those gathered in the bailey. “Is Rauf here?”

  “He has expired,” Tabor said.

  “Are his knights here?”

  “Twenty dead and eight detained in the tower,” Tabor answered.

  “The Lady Anne?” inquired Gloucester.

  “Safe in Fritham.”

  “Your priest?”

  Tabor looked toward the burned shell of the nave. “His church lies wasted, but he’s alive.”

  Gloucester leaned forward. “And the Gypsy, Sharai?”

  “Safe and well, in spite of Rauf’s best efforts. Please, Your Grace,” Tabor said, recovering enough to observe protocol. “The hall is damaged, but we can offer food and the comfort of the solar after your travels.”

  In the solar, Gloucester approached Sharai and Kadriya.

  Sharai had covered her hair in a headdress and veil, which also discreetly covered her torn earlobe. All her clothes had been lost because of Aydin, and her skirt badly torn during her struggle with Rauf. She had changed into the green silk gown she had sewn for Lady Emilyne, inches too wide and a foot too long.

  The length made her steps uncertain, and in the presence of royalty her usual confidence seemed to have wavered. Her beauty shone through it all, though, and Tabor thought his heart would burst with love for her.

  Gloucester’s mouth curved in a gentle smile, and his keen eyes watched her. “I’ve heard much about you, Sharai,” he said.

  She said nothing, giving only a slight nod and a tentative smile.

  He scanned the solar and raised his voice. “You will excuse Lord Tabor and me,” he commanded smoothly to all in earshot.

  Tabor led the way to his private chambers. Inside, Gloucester took a position by the fireplace and Tabor, too nervous to sit, stood by the window.

  “At Eleanor’s insistence I have reconsidered your petition.”

  Tabor’s stomach pitched. Would he reverse his decision about Coin Forest?

  “The duchess thinks me inconstant that I should be forceful in my own selection of a wife, and then admonish you for like conduct.”

  Tabor gripped the frame of the window. Could it be possible?

  Shaking his head, Gloucester continued. “On the other hand, you must see the awkward position this puts me in. Should you wed this peasant girl, the crown forfeits any favorable alliances it could draw from your union to a strategic noblewoman.”

  Tabor steeled himself. “What are you thinking?”

  “A long memory of this boon, Lord Tabor, and a considerable marriage fine to rectify the crown for lost alliances.”

  Relief made Tabor light-headed. “Of course.”

  “I will rely on your political support.”

  Tabor fought the urge to shout for joy. Though Gloucester’s statesmanship was marred by the long-running power feud with his brother and his unfortunate trait of carrying grudges, he was a fair man, a hero at war, and a long-standing patron of books and scholars. “I will be pleased to provide my support, Your Grace. I vow you shall have it.”

  Gloucester nodded. “I remember your loyalty in Paris.” He pulled a sealed envelope from a pocket in his cloak. “And I wish you happiness. Please hand deliver this to Sharai.”

  Wearing a self-satisfied smile, Gloucester returned to the solar.

  The moment rang loud in Tabor’s ears. He pounded the table and fought the urge to run to Sharai like a raw squire and twirl her around in circles.

  He slipped Sharai’s envelope in the pocket of his cotehardie. No, that would not do. He had something else in mind.

  The next morning Sharai sat with Tabor at high table. Gloucester had left as quickly as he had come, and Tabor had been distant. Likely the prince had laughed at Sharai, wearing ill-fitting clothes that matched her ill-fitting presence in this castle. He was no doubt relieved at his decision to refuse their union. Marriages were based on station and political advantage, not love. Tabor’s security depended on his alliance with Gloucester, and she simply h
ad nothing to offer.

  Lady Anne’s chair was empty. Sharai would never forget her condemnation, but she felt sorry for her. The woman lived in constant fear of other people’s judgment, and she didn’t realize the many fine qualities her son possessed. Sharai fingered the hem of the linen tablecloth, turning the smooth fabric in her fingertips. The Hungerford problem was solved, and mother and son would eventually work out their problems.

  Father Bernard was at table, his blue eyes haunted from the deaths and burials. Once his work was done, Sharai would ask him again about the monastery. She had no dowry, but certes the nuns could make use of her skills, and they in turn could offer education for Kadriya and safety behind the abbey’s high, thick walls.

  Tabor, freshly shaven and handsome in spite of his bruises and wounds, gave her that special look, taking her breath away, and he squeezed her hand. “I must see you now, in the solar.” He looked pleased. Sharai supposed he should be. The morning sunshine reached into her heart, a quiet joy for him, yet she would not be here to share in his life. She pushed the thought away and forced a smile. “Of course.”

  In the solar, he directed her to sit in one of the chairs clustered by the window. She fluffed the apple-colored cushions she had sewn and did so.

  With a look of childlike anticipation on his face, he placed a small white casket on her lap. A hand length long and half wide, it was a rectangular box with a truncated triangular lid. Carvings of roses ran the length of the box. On the front of the lid, two cherubs danced with scarves, while two others played a drum and flute. Sharai traced them with her fingertips. “Ivory. I have seen such art, but only from afar. I have never touched it.” She ran her fingertips lightly over the sides, where soldiers stood guard, holding spears, swords and shields. Age darkened the exquisite detail of each face, each hand, and the hinges shone golden in the sunlight.

  Tabor sat opposite her, watching her every movement. “Open it.” His voice rang with excitement, and her heart danced like a stone skipping over water.

  What could be inside such a treasure?

  She pulled the latch gently and lifted the lid. She stared at the contents, then met his gaze. There was no mischief in his face.

  “Dirt.” She resisted a frown and tried to read his mood. “You’re giving me a box of dirt.”

  “But look inside.”

  Her disappointment and weariness from the last several days threatened to draw tears. She swallowed, trying to show some interest. “Look inside the dirt?”

  “Aye. All is not always as it seems.”

  He was enjoying himself to excess. She gave him a “watch yourself” look and plunged her pointer finger in the dirt, stirring it around. She found a small object and pulled it out, holding it between them, in front of his mischievous face. “You gave me a bean.”

  Love shone in his eyes.

  Her skin tingled from her face, down her neck and to her chest. Her heart jumped two wild hops in her chest. “Do not tease me,” she choked on her words, terrified to believe if it were not so.

  He pulled her to her feet. “Come with me.”

  He pulled her down the stairs, out to the bailey. Holding her hand, he pulled her so fast she had to run. He stopped at the garden. “There. See, I had Hungerford’s knights till it for you.”

  He looked to the end of the garden, or where it used to end. A new, five-foot square section near the chicken coop had been dug and turned. “’Tis yours, Sharai. Ready to plant with beans, herbs, whatever you want, because you—and Kadriya—will be with me, season after season, year after year. If you will have me.” He took her into his arms. “What say you? Will you be my wife, bear my children, and make frog-bone cakes for me till the end of our days?” He kissed her, a quick, hard kiss, as if he was too excited to linger because he must go on. “Gloucester has granted us license to wed.”

  Sharai jumped up into his arms, swinging her legs around his hips. She cried out in joy, kissing his face, his eyes, his bruised cheek.

  He cradled her head in his big hands and covered her mouth with his, and his kiss melted her.

  But then she thought about the box and the dirt, and she pulled away. “We’re free to wed? Fie!” She punched his good arm. “You knew yesterday, and you didn’t tell me. You left me to suffer while you filled a box with dirt.”

  He laughed, then sobered. “I hope you forgive me. But I needed a betrothal present, and I couldn’t wait.” He lowered her to the ground, and his voice became hushed. “When we first met, I thought you cared more for coin than you could ever care for me. When Gloucester finally gave us license, I thought of giving you an exquisite gem that would shine for all to see, so they might know how much I treasure you. But your needs are deeper. You’re vatrasi, of the Gypsies who settle. I wanted to give you what you love most—not gems, but a home.”

  His eyes had become moist, and he pulled away. “I almost forgot, I have this for you, from Gloucester’s wife, the duchess, Eleanor.” He stopped, envelope midair, and looked around the bailey.

  Cyrill, Kadriya, Maud, and servants and knights alike had gathered, pretending to sweep, scrub, or visit, but all sounds had died, and many curious eyes focused on them.

  Tabor cleared his throat loudly.

  Heads were averted, and everyone returned to their feigned activities.

  Sharai grew lightheaded. “I must sit.” They settled by the well, leaning against the old stones in the shade of the rising sun, and she opened Eleanor’s letter.

  Sharai,

  I wish you happiness. Be always true to

  England, and remember my husband’s

  kindness. He will need your loyalty

  in the upcoming parliaments. We share

  an interest in love charms, you and I.

  I am most curious about your love-spell

  cake. Not since mine own husband have I

  seen a man so smitten as your Tabor. Mayhaps

  at your wedding you will share your secrets

  with me, and I will share a secret spell with

  you, one of bay leaves and rooster’s feathers

  to help you conceive a son.

  … E.

  Tabor nudged her. “Well? What did she say?”

  “You told her about the frog bones?”

  “I had heard she dabbled with spells, so I thought it safe.” His eyebrow lifted in curiosity. “What about the frog bones?”

  “She thinks me a sorceress.”

  He rubbed his chin like a wizened sage. “These things happen. At one time I thought you a simple dancer.”

  She leaned in to him and smiled. “Aye, and I thought you a selfish noble.”

  “And now?” His eyes captured her.

  “Why, Lord Tabor,” she said, joy catching in her throat. “ Might you be fishing for a compliment?”

  He widened his brown eyes ever so slightly, as if startled at the thought.

  She laughed and gestured him closer. “Come and let me do so with a kiss.”

  * * *

  FOLLOW THE COIN FOREST SERIES AND SAVE!

  Dear Readers,

  I hope you enjoyed Tabor and Sharai’s love story.

  If you’d like to share some love for the novel and let your friends know about it, please consider writing a review.

  BOOK TWO: EMERALD SILK - Winner of the EVVY Award

  An award-winning best-seller about Kadriya’s desperate quest for a stolen emerald chalice. The powerful knight John Wynter will deliver her fiancé to the gallows if she fails. In a single bell’s toll, their lives depend on harnessing the power of love—and one elusive chalice.

  FREE SNEAK PEEK FOLLOWS BELOW!

  BOOK THREE: TRAITOR’S MOON

  Stephen Ellingham accidentally kills his neighbor on a moonless night. He makes amends by wedding the dead baron’s daughter, Nicole--the Ice Queen of Somerset. Lucky he has some good armor, though that particular set of armor may lead to his death.

  BOOK FOUR: CRIMSON SECRET Estimated Release Date: May, 2016


  My work-in-progress! Joya Ellingham knows which side she’s on in the War of the Roses – definitely Red! Then she’s kidnapped by Luke, Baron of Penry, a White Rose leader of a secret attack on King Henry. Luke saves her life—and claims her heart. Can either side give?

  How pre-order works: You don’t pay for the book until it’s released, yet you still lock in the special low price. Just click the “Pre-order” button, and a copy is reserved for you.

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  Happy reading! --Janet

  ____________________

  SNEAK PEEK

  Follow Kadriya’s adventures in part two of the Coin Forest series …

  Emerald Silk

  Copyright 2008, 2014 by Janet Lane

  It is autumn, 1448, at England’s Applewood horse fair in Somerset. Noblemen and traveling Gypsies alike have gathered to buy and sell their finest stallions. The midnight peace is shattered when monastic knights invade the camp to reclaim a treasured chalice stolen by a Gypsy. The attack sets in motion a string of deadly pursuits, a mystery murder, and a political crisis involving the most prominent bishop in England.

  The beautiful half-Gypsy, Kadriya, yearns for true love. Raised by English nobility, she has passed the threshold of womanhood. Spurned for her mixed blood, she is now twenty and longs for acceptance. With one foot planted firmly in each of her ethnic shorelines, Kadriya struggles to find her place in the world.