by Jo Beverley
"So will Nicolette."
"She deserves some punishment. Perhaps I should return you to your own home, though you'll doubtless face punishment there, too."
Did he perhaps care about her safety? That tempted Joan to smile. "My parents wearied of punishing me years ago."
"It would have been better if they had persisted."
She cast him a reproachful glance and his lips twitched. "Unprovoked attack. I do beg your pardon, my lady."
"They will be disappointed," she admitted. "They continue to hope, you see, as if time might turn me sweet and pliant, make my hair silky and my figure willowy."
This time it was a definite smile. Lord save her, he had dimples. "Lady Joan, there is nothing at all wrong with your figure."
"Lord Edmund," she said, her thumping heart betraying her words, "I am immune to that sort of attack now."
"It's simple truth, Lady. Men's tastes vary as much as women's, and I like a woman of substance, one I'm not afraid of breaking."
"Oh." She realized she was running her hands over her generously curved body, and his eyes were following her hands.
More acting?
She told herself so. Whichever, she stilled her hands and clasped them modestly before her. "I think I must balance the scales by complimenting you back. You doubtless know it all too well, but you are a very handsome man."
"More curse than blessing. Women make fools of themselves over me, and if they are married women, they create enemies."
Make fools of themselves. Oh, if there were words to armor a maiden to a man's charms—even this feast of a man—those were they. Whether given deliberately or not, she silently thanked him.
"Now we are equal again," she said, turning to pace as she spoke, and glad to break the taut connection between them. "Can we return to plans? Returning me to Hawes would ensure my safety, but Nicolette and your brother would still be in peril. Nicolette has no safe explanation for the switch, and your brother will die unless you return the banner to Wol—"
"Not return," he interrupted sharply. "It was never theirs."
Joan flung up her hands. "How can an apparently reasonable man be so... so unreasoned! Sir Remi de Graves and Sir Henry de Montelan—I'm surprised you aren't called Remi, my lord—"
"My older brother, who died when twelve."
Joan rolled her eyes. Two families trapped in an ancient quarrel. "Sir Remi and Sir Henry went on crusade together, cousins and brothers in arms. They carried with them a banner they hoped to bear victoriously into Jerusalem and into the place of Christ's birth in Bethlehem."
"A banner made by my ancestor's mother and sisters!"
"But carried by both, yes?" When he didn't deny it, she went on, "Unless the de Montelans lie, Sir Remi was wounded in the taking of Jerusalem, and Sir Henry alone rode with it to Bethlehem to complete their vow."
"Remi was wounded in saving Sir Henry's life. His blood stains the banner to this day!"
"No one denies that. But why do not the de Montelans have a right to the banner half the year, as they claim?"
"Because, Lady Joan, they would not return it."
"Are you not judging them by yourselves?"
She watched his hands clench into fists then, with effort, relax. "Are you saying," he asked grimly, "that if I gave the banner to Lord Henry now, he'd return it in a six-month?"
"No. But he has many a six-month to make up for. Lord Edmund, someone has to bend!"
"It will not be me. I will not betray the generations that have gone before."
"I see. You're afraid of them, and of what people will say."
His fists clenched again. "Take back those words, Lady Joan. I fear only God."
Joan wished she hadn't said it, largely because she could see it hurt him in ways she'd not expected or intended. She was past the point of return now, however. "I cannot take them back, my lord, unless you prove them not to be true."
He whirled away, looking up. "What sins have I committed, Lord, that you punish me with this woman? Her tongue flays me, yet my honor says I cannot strike back! My body burns—"
Though trembling with physical fear, Joan caught those chopped-short words.
Oh.
My body burns. One thing was sure—that had come deep from within. It had been no trick.
Of course, she told herself, there was nothing deep and meaningful about it. But it was undeniably satisfying to think that at this moment, the Golden Lion burned for her.
He turned to look at her, almost sheepishly. "Lust," he said.
She nodded. "You're probably used to it. It's new to me."
"You've never lusted?"
"Not like this."
He ran a hand through his hair, looking away. "We should not even be aware of these things at such a time. When so many important matters hang in the balance."
"It's not easy to stop, though, is it?"
His eyes rested darkly on hers. Flickered over her. Back. "No, it's not easy to stop."
What would happen if she touched him? She'd probably end up like Nicolette. At the moment, it didn't seem to matter. "Does your lust make it hard for you to think straight?"
"I would have thought that was obvious!" He turned abruptly to seize the jug of mead and fill the two cups.
Some splashed on the floor. He passed one to her and unsteady hands brushed, sending sparks up her. Their eyes held as they drank.
Broke free.
She wanted to ask many questions, the main one being, did this happen to him all the time with woman after woman, or was there anything special about it? Just a little bit special? Something about her?
Another one was, if she tried really hard, tried to become more gentle and sweet natured, to guard her tongue, would there be any hope...?
Oh, indeed, she was a foolish virgin. He wasn't trying to trick her again, but she was doing it all by herself!
"The first idea was better," he said, sitting on the rocky shelf covered with furs, as far as possible from her and the heat of the fire. "You will be my hostage to bargain for Gerald."
Matching his cool tone, Joan said, "I think it would be better for me to attempt to return to Woldingham, now."
"The woods will still be crawling with men."
"I'm one small woman."
"And hounds."
She'd forgotten the hounds.
"If I use you as hostage, I can make it clear that the raid was simply to gain a prisoner to balance my brother. Yes, Lord Henry will be angry at you and Nicolette for switching places, but if he does not punish during Christmastide, perhaps his rage will fade. If not, we still have twelve days to think of some other solution."
The thought of Lord Henry's massive hounds on the hunt had definitely sapped Joan's courage for a lonely trek, but she said, "Your plan means Nicolette will have to face them alone. She'll be so afraid."
"Unlike you?"
"I'm with you, and she's with Uncle Henry."
His brows rose. "As you've seen, I have no scruples about meting out punishment at Christmastide."
She almost said that she didn't fear him, but he'd probably take it the wrong way. She would mean that she didn't fear terrible punishment from him unless she did something truly terrible, in which case she'd deserve it.
What if he did something terrible?
"What are you thinking now, you wretched woman?" But the smile in his eyes took any offense from it.
She surrendered to honesty. "I was wondering whether you'd let me punish you if you did something stupid or wrong."
"No."
"Why not?"
"Why should I?"
"Strength," she complained with a huffed-out breath. "It's most unfair."
"Woman was put on the earth to be governed by men, and man was given the strength necessary for the task."
"So," she mused in deliberate wickedness, "if you were weakened by injury..."
"I'd stay well out of your reach! Very well, Lady Joan," he said, "I take your point and will make you anot
her bargain. If ever, during our brief adventure, I give in to temptation and strike you again, I will let you pay me back in even measure." Before she could quibble, he added, "And you may compensate for strength and size by using a tool—stick, rock, what you will."
"Even your sword?" she asked, eyeing the magnificently scabbarded weapon lying near his mail.
"If you think that just."
She pulled a face at him. "I have to be just? That takes the fun out of it."
He laughed, a natural open laugh despite the perilous nature of their problems.
Something deeper stirred inside her. Here was the first man she'd found that she could talk to without watching every word, who seemed able—after a fashion—to accept her blunt speech, and even give as good as he got.
Sad that it would only be a "brief adventure."
Enough of that. She resolutely turned her mind back to plans. "If you exchange me for your brother, nothing will have changed."
"True. It will be worse, in fact. I'll still have to rescue Lady Nicolette or Gerald will rush into danger again. And all hope of peace will be over."
He sighed and leaned back against the wall. "The irony is that Lord Henry was moving a little. I've been negotiating with him for nearly a year, with only moderate success, but recently he became much more open to suggestions. Two things happened simultaneously, just weeks ago. Gerald confessed his folly and told me Lady Nicolette was carrying his child, and Lord Henry proposed peace, sealed by a marriage, the matter of the banner to be sorted out later. It was almost complete capitulation."
"Nicolette and Gerald? But then—"
"Of course not," he said, looking at her. "Nicolette and me."
"Oh." Joan could see what a disaster that had been, but she was struggling with the thought that even Lord Henry had tried to bend. He surely couldn't have known which de Graves Nicolette loved, so he'd assumed the most likely and tried to obtain him for his daughter.
"Without Gerald's news, I would have accepted. As it was, all I could do was propose a marriage to my brother, which Lord Henry quite rightly took as an insult. If I'd been given any time to plan at all," he added with irritation, "I would have married again myself and thus been unavailable."
"You've been married?" Ridiculous to be hurt.
He looked at her strangely. "I'm twenty-five years old and destined to be Lord of Mountgrave since I was ten. Of course I've been married. It was arranged when I was thirteen. An excellent alliance, but my wife died of a flux two years ago."
"I'm sorry."
He shrugged. "I've been busy with warfare and attendance on the king since I was sixteen, so I never saw her for more than a week in a six-month. I'd say 'poor Catherine,' except that she was perfectly content in the situation."
"I can understand that," Joan said, struck by the charms of such an arrangement. Her parents, and the neighboring families she knew well, did not spend much time apart. With grand families, however...
Then she looked at him, blushing. "I wasn't referring to you, my lord!" Then she wished she'd not even hinted at marriage between them.
"You think you could tolerate my presence for a little longer than that?"
"Of course! I mean..." She collected herself from the embarrassing mire. "I merely thought that I might seek out a similar husband. One much engaged with national affairs."
"A husband who will leave you in sovereignty over your world?"
"You have to see, Lord Edmund, how ill suited I am to day-by-day compliance."
He leaned back, studying her. "But—and remember you agreed not to throw rocks at me—you seemed to enjoy a man's physical attentions."
Her blush was an answer. "But I doubt many men could make them as pleasant to me as you did."
He smiled, and looked away for a moment almost bashfully. Truly, at times, Lord Edmund was a tantalizing mystery, and it was his faults and frailties that fascinated her more than his obvious charms.
If only...
Don't be foolish, Joan.
He patted the fur beside him. "Come sit over here. It doesn't suit me to talk across the cave like warring factions." When she hesitated, he added, "You have my word. I won't hurt you."
Chapter 4
"I know," she said, walking over. "You seem to have forgotten that I might have reason not to want to sit."
"I didn't think I'd been so harsh."
"You weren't," she admitted as she sat. She looked at his arm, hidden by his sleeve. "What of you?"
He pushed up the sleeve and, with a wince, she saw a dark red bruise near his elbow.
"Nothing that will impede my fighting," he assured her, flexing the muscular arm. But then he held it out to her. "Perhaps you should kiss it better."
She looked him in the eye. "Oh no. Then you might think you should kiss my hurts better."
Dimples flickered. "If you wish, my lady."
She stared into his eyes. "Don't."
As if he understood, his expression turned wry and he lowered his arm, leaning back against the wall. "So, my wise virgin, what are we to do?"
She grasped the assumption that they were talking about the feud, Nicolette and his brother. "I do admire your desire for peace."
"Even if I cannot bring myself to do what is necessary to create it, and surrender the banner?" His brows rose. "Silence? I pray I haven't cowed you."
"I'm practicing tact and tongue control, since I fear this will all end with me imprisoned in a convent."
"A terrible waste."
"Perhaps in time I'll become an abbess, able to flay the male world with impunity."
"A waste."
"My cleverness and administrative abilities would be put to full use."
"A waste," he insisted.
"A waste of what, my lord?"
"Of a great deal of heat and fire." He held out a hand. "Come here."
Though her body longed to leap at him, Joan made herself eye that tempting hand. "I've learned my lessons well."
"I have more to teach."
Joan swallowed. "I don't deny you have an effect on me, Lord Edmund, but two Woldingham maids carrying de Graves babies will hardly improve matters."
"I won't get you with child."
"Many a man says that."
That anger sparked in his eyes again, anger because she was doubting his honor. She didn't. Truly. And yet, she didn't trust any man in matters like this.
"Swear it to me," she demanded.
Frostily, totally without dimples, he said, "I swear on my immortal soul, Joan of Hawes, that I will not get you with child this night."
"Good." But she sighed. By obtaining the oath, she'd destroyed any chance of needing it.
But then his hand stretched out again, and her pulse started a nervous beat. "This is hardly the time—"
"This might be the only time. The feud is now likely to be cast in iron. Would even your tolerant parents allow marriage between us, to the great offense of Lord Henry?"
"Marriage? You can't expect me to fall for a trick like—"
"Joan!"
She covered her unruly mouth with her hand. "Oh, I'm sorry. I truly didn't mean... But—" she hardly dared put it into words "—are you saying you might want to marry me? Why?"
He captured her hand and tugged her closer. "Poor Joan. Have you been so unvalued?"
"N-no. I've had men interested, but none who interested me. But you..."
Dimples flickered. "Awed by the great Edmund de Graves? I'd have thought you'd learned better by now."
"I've learned nothing but good of you."
She was against his broad, warm chest.
"You see my faults as virtues. What more can any man want?" A hand slid beneath her plaits, rough hot against her neck. "I like you, Joan, as I've liked no woman before. I like your courage and your calm head. Now I've grown accustomed, I even like your sharp tongue, for it is wielded by a clever brain." He tilted her head up toward him. "Can you imagine how wearying it is to be surrounded by people who reverence ev
ery word I say. I'd welcome a truth sayer." His other hand found her thigh and stroked upward, over cloth. "And my body likes your body—very well, indeed."
"My body likes yours very well, too. But is this wise? We have plans to make."
"The plans are made. I'll bring you through this unscathed if I can, so at dawn I will take you safely to Woldingham."
Complete reversal. "But—"
He slid her off the bench, to stand between his legs. "We have a night to pass before dawn, and I have plans for that, too."
"But your brother!"
"I'll find some other way." He pulled her close and his head came to rest between her breasts.
She held him off. "What of the danger to you?"
"It is nothing beside the danger to you."
"This is folly. Take me to Mountgrave and bargain me for your brother. At least Nicolette and I will not lose our lives."
"Trapped in a convent? Close to death for you, Joan. Let me prove it. Prove that it would be a waste." His hands merely flexed on her hips, but she swayed, and her body, her inner body, ached.
"All women feel this way, but many become nuns, and happily so."
"All women do not feel this way. Some, though excellent wives and mothers, are cool. My Catherine was. She was a dutiful bed partner, but if she could have started a child with a hug she would have preferred it."
Joan found that impossible to believe. Her hands rested on his shoulders, close to his bare neck. With her thumbs, she tilted his chin up. "Are you sure of that?"
"Yes, for we spoke of it. Though not as sharp as you, Catherine didn't hesitate to speak her mind. She was some years older than I, and experienced. Twenty when we finally wed, and two years a widow. I was just fifteen. She knew her needs and how to demand them, and did not mind if I took other women for more vigorous sex play."
Joan frowned, and his brows rose as he continued, "Are you saying that when you wed your busy man, you will expect him to be virtuous when he's away?"
"I'd hoped he would not be much interested in sex at all."
"That would be a waste of another kind. Even if your matings are few, Joan, you should want them to be fiery." He pulled her closer. "Do you deny the fire in you?"
