Lady Fortune

by Anne Stuart

  She would have screamed, but his other hand silenced her, and she thrashed, rigid in his arms, as wave after wave of shocking joy washed over her, and she felt his seed deep within her, flooding her body with heat and life.

  She wanted to cry and scream and laugh at the top of her lungs. She wanted to dance and caper and rhyme like a madman, but all she could do was lie in his arms and weep as the shudders slowly weakened and her body collapsed into a boneless mass of pleasure.

  The room was pitch black by now, and she couldn’t see him, her mad fool, she could only feel him, smell him, taste him, all around her, still inside her.

  She should say something, she thought dazedly. Thank him. Tell him she loved him. But he must know that.

  He pulled free from her, and she wanted to weep afresh, but she simply locked her arms around his neck and pulled him against her, his strong, sweat-slick body, his pounding heart, his labored breathing.

  “If you leave me, I’ll kill you,” she muttered. It sounded far from tender, and she knew she should say something else, but words failed her.

  He said nothing. He simply cupped her face and kissed her. And she slept, secure that she’d captured him at last.

  HE WAITED UNTIL she was sound asleep, till the fierce grip of her arms relaxed and fell away. He’d managed to exhaust her, and he felt a faint, reluctant grin curve his mouth, then slowly fade away. He had no reason to feel so smug.

  In truth, it had been nothing more than he’d expected. Total disaster. He’d given more of himself to Julianna of Moncrieff in one short hour than he’d given to all the women he’d ever bedded, and there had been any number of them. If he left her, she’d kill him, eh? Well, she’d already managed to destroy him with her mouth and her eyes and her tears and her sweet, shuddering response.

  He couldn’t figure out why it should make such a difference. The moves were the same, the little tricks of pleasure he’d learned when young. The body parts were essentially the same, and they fit together nicely in a way made for mutual pleasure.

  She was only a woman, one of many. There was no reason for it to feel so different.

  But it did. And to deny it would make it even worse.

  The room had gone from firelit shadows to inky darkness, but now the first rays of the sun were beginning to penetrate, and he could see his lady love now, the dried tears on her pale face, the tangled hair, the soft mouth swollen from his kisses. He hadn’t had a virgin in a long time, not since his own first time, and he’d been afraid he’d botch the job. She looked far from botched. He would have liked to bring her cool damp towels to wash away the blood, and then make love to her all over again, this time with no pain at all. He wanted to teach her to take him in her mouth, to sit astride him, to take her in all the dark and glorious ways imaginable, but that wouldn’t be possible. The best thing he could do was leave her. Another man would teach her the more complicated forms of pleasure. Not him.

  If Bogo had any sense, he would have left the copse by now, heading deeper into the forest where the earl’s men could never find him. But then, Bogo had always had more loyalty than sense. He’d still be waiting for him, and Nicholas had best hurry up if he didn’t want them both caught and strung up like trussed geese.

  Ah, he was a noble soul indeed, he thought wryly, abandoning his lady so she could find a worthy mate, running out to save Bogo from certain capture. At least he could comfort himself knowing that his fall from grace was only temporary, tempted by an innocent with an adder’s tongue. He would be back to his bad old ways in no time, and with any luck Julianna would find her new husband to be greatly to her liking and forget all about him. And if by any chance a babe was born a little too soon after her second marriage, and that babe had blond hair and golden eyes, then at least he’d know he’d given Julianna the greatest gift she could have wanted.

  Her arms were by her sides now; she wasn’t holding him any longer. There was nothing to keep him in this bed, he thought, staring down at her with a curiously bereft feeling.

  Bogo would cure him. Bogo would tease him unmercifully, call him a moonling. A few hours with Bogo would set him back on the path of wicked selfishness, the path that had been his whole life.

  He still didn’t move, staring at her. If he kissed her, she might wake up, and then he couldn’t leave. She’d stop him, and he’d have no choice. Bogo would take the chalice to King Henry, and God only knew what would happen to him. Or whether it would matter or not.

  Just a kiss, to decide which way a life would go. But he was a man who took chances every day in his life. He wouldn’t shy away from this one.

  He leaned forward and gently brushed her plump, soft lips with his. She didn’t move.

  He tried it again, kissing her a little harder. She shifted lazily in the bed, opening her mouth for his tongue, and then drifted back again.

  He reached out and put his hand on her round, beautiful bare breast, remembering the taste of her nipple, her soft cries of pleasure. She let out a small, peaceful snore.

  It was done.

  He had no excuse to linger, and no right. By the time he had washed and dressed, it was almost daylight, and Julianna slept on, a faint smile on her exhausted face. He realized with shock that she lay on the remnants of her torn shift, and on impulse he ripped a piece of it from beneath her. She didn’t even stir.

  There was a spot of blood on the fabric, a reminder of her virginity. A bit of him on it as well. He was being as mad a fool as he pretended to be, he thought with a shake of his head.

  But he tucked the piece of cloth inside his shirt, against his heart, hidden away, and left her without looking back.

  BOGO WAS WAITING for him, the two horses saddled and ready. “What kept you? You look like something the rat catcher missed.”

  “I was busy.” He looked at the horses. “Which one’s mine?”

  “The gentle one. Seeing as how you haven’t ridden in a number of years, I figured you weren’t up to much of a challenge.”

  “They both look like slugs. I’d rather have a challenge than to have Hugh capture us and stretch our necks.”

  “Henry would stop him.”

  “Maybe. But I’ve learned to trust no one, particularly kings. He’ll be in a hurry to get his damned chalice, but not to save a couple of vagabonds.”

  “Watch your mouth, Master Nicholas!” Bogo chided him with surprising dignity. “You’re talking about the Blessed Chalice of the Martyred Saint Hugelina the Dragon. It’s sacred.”

  Sacred, my ass, he thought, but for some reason kept silent. Bogo was a simple villain, but he had his moments of surprising piety, and he’d spent an inordinate amount of time with Brother Barth over the last few days. Perhaps he was suffering from the same sort of lapse into grace that was currently afflicting Nicholas.

  They’d get over it, the both of them. They were made to be wicked, not noble, and any thoughts of honor or piety would soon vanish.

  “We’d best be moving on,” Bogo said finally. “Do you want to be the one to carry the chalice?”

  “A blasphemer like me? No, you carry it, Bogo, since you seem to have some affection for it. Besides, if Hugh comes after it, he’ll be expecting me to have it. That might give you enough time to get away with it. And don’t give me that stubborn look and say you won’t leave me. What’s more important, my worthless hide or your sacred chalice?”

  “Not mine,” Bogo said gruffly. “It belongs to the good brothers who tend the saint’s shrine.”

  “It belongs to the king who pays our wages,” Nicholas corrected him. “If Saint Hugelina is so moved, she could show Henry the error of his ways, and he’ll give the relic over to her order. But I doubt it.”

  “You’re a hopeless sinner, Master Nicholas.”

  “Indeed. But I’m beginning to worry about you, my friend. You wouldn’t be turning
noble on me, would you?”

  Bogo shook his graying head. “It’s too late for the likes of me. No matter what Brother Barth says.”

  Nicholas looked at him sharply. He would love to have heard exactly what Brother Barth had told Bogo, but now was hardly the occasion to question him. There would be more than enough time to ask him during the long ride to King Henry’s court. In the meantime, the sooner he put some distance between Fortham Castle and the chalice, the better. The sooner he put some distance between Lady Julianna and a poor, besotted fool, the better.

  “Let’s move,” Nicholas said. “I want to reach the hills by dark, and we haven’t time to waste. I don’t fancy sleeping in Hugh of Fortham’s dungeons tonight. The cold night air will do me just fine.”

  Bogo was looking at him, too much wisdom in his wicked eyes. “Are you running away, lad? From anything in particular? An angry father?”

  “An angry lady, Bogo. Women do have a tendency to take things a bit too seriously,” he said in a light voice. “Not like us men.”

  Bogo had known him for too long. He shook his head.

  “You’ve lost, my boy. No matter what lies you spin yourself, I know you too well.”

  “Lost what?” he demanded. “I have no intention of giving the blasted chalice to anyone but King Henry.”

  “I’m not talking about the Blessed Chalice,” Bogo said sternly. “It’s your heart you’ve lost, lad. And God help you if you don’t get it back.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  WHEN JULIANNA finally awoke she was dazed, disoriented, sleepy, and sticky. For a moment she lay still, her eyes closed, trying to bring back the blessed, rich feeling that had encompassed her body. And then memory flooded back, and she reached out her arm, knowing she’d be alone in the bed.

  She sat up, the thick fur throw tumbled to her waist, and she grabbed it again, pulling it up to cover her nudity. Not that anyone was around to witness it. She was alone, abandoned, in the deserted room that had once belonged to the fool.

  She couldn’t very well just sit there—someone would be bound to stumble across her sooner or later. Her loose tunic lay in a crumpled heap on the floor. Shoving the cover away from her, she reached for it, then paused, looking down at her body in shock.

  She still lay on the tattered remnants of her shift, and there was blood between her legs. What had her mother asked her? If she’d bled with her husband?

  Not with her husband, but with Nicholas Strangefellow, who managed to do what her husband had obviously failed to do, and done it well.

  And then he’d left her. There was no doubt of that, she thought, pulling the gown over her head, ignoring the marks on her pale flesh—love bites, tiny scratches, faint bruises that had come from him. There was always a chance she’d find him down in the Great Hall, capering and spinning rhymes, but in her heart she knew he would be nowhere around. He’d left her, just as she knew he would.

  And she was going to kill him.

  How had he found the chalice? He wouldn’t have gone without it, she knew that much for certain. But when had he found it? It had to be after he’d bedded her. He would never have wasted time on such a trivial matter if he’d had his blasted relic in hand.

  She made a quick prayer of apology to Saint Hugelina as she rose on unsteady feet. She was sticky and tender between her legs, and the sensation should have put her in a rage. Instead she touched herself, through the folds of heavy cloth, a brief, wondering touch. How could she have been so wrong for so many years?

  And how could she have been so vulnerable to a liar and a cheat? She had to find her mother, to make sure her new husband hadn’t beaten her senseless. And then she had to find the chalice. She no longer cared who had it—the king or the earl or the abbot, it made no difference. She needed to do this for her mother.

  She held her breath when she stepped into the hall, her bare feet peeping under the long tunic. The fabric was thick enough that no one would realize she was naked beneath it, but with any luck she’d get safely back to her room with no one catching her.

  But her luck had run out, and in the worst possible way. They were in her room, awaiting her, like a tribunal from the Inquisition. Father Paulus, stern and pale in his rich robes, and Brother Barth, his round face creased with concern. And the young boy, Gilbert, with a whip in his hand.

  “Whore!” Father Paulus greeted her when she opened the door. “Jezebel, peddling your flesh to the highest bidder! Where is the fool?”

  If she’d had her wits about her, she would have tried to run, but young Gilbert had already moved behind her and shut the door, trapping her in the room.

  “I . . . I don’t know. I haven’t seen him. I fell asleep . . .” She was almost going to say at prayers, but she decided that might be risking a lightning bolt for such blasphemy.

  “I’m certain you did, once you’d roiled in the pleasures of the flesh! You reek of fornication!”

  Julianna didn’t particularly reek of anything, much as she longed for a bath, but she wisely said nothing. Brother Barth hadn’t uttered a word, but his troubled expression didn’t augur well for the outcome.

  “You and your . . . lover will be punished,” Father Paulus spat. “You will be stripped and flogged for all to see, and it matters not how your lady mother pleads for you. Unless you can tell me he cast some kind of unholy spell on you.” It would have been a simple way out, and Julianna wondered why the priest offered it. Nicholas was obviously gone—to blame him for her fall from grace would do him no harm and would keep her safe from the shame of punishment for her transgressions.

  Indeed, half the castle folk were involved in the same sorts of transgressions. She wondered why she was chosen to be punished, when Father Paulus had clearly turned a blind eye to the goings-on in the Great Hall.

  It didn’t matter. One word would keep her safe. Accuse Nicholas Strangefellow of bewitching her with his golden eyes, and while she doubted she’d escape censure, at least Nicholas would be out of reach.

  She opened her mouth to denounce him, but something stopped her. Some small, stubborn part of her. It was foolish—she did find his eyes bewitching, maddening. No other man could have lured her into his bed, could have had her pleading, demanding. The very memory made her cheeks turn red.

  “The whore can still blush!” Father Paulus thundered. “Tell us where the fool is, and how he bewitched you, and I won’t have Gilbert whip you.”

  She should have realized that was what he was there for. Her brief glimpse of him wielding the whip over the abbot’s pale flesh was forever embedded in her memory. The stripes of blood on his skin had been sickening, and somehow she doubted she’d be groaning in holy ecstasy.

  “Tell us where he is, my lady,” Brother Barth said earnestly, “and save yourself this punishment.”

  “I don’t know,” she said simply. “He must have left.”

  “Gilbert, strip the wench’s clothes from her back!” Father Paulus demanded in a shrill voice.

  She had little doubt Gilbert could overpower her, but she wasn’t about to stand still and let him touch her either. She clutched her loose gown around her body, watching him warily as he took a step toward her.

  “Father Paulus!” Brother Barth said hastily. “I think you’re being misled. This poor creature has obviously been tricked by the fool and his devious ways. Surely she doesn’t deserve such punishment.”

  “She refuses to denounce him for witchcraft.”

  “I doubt he is capable of such wickedness. He’s only a poor fool, after all. And if he’s gone, surely he’s taken the chalice with him. Do we dare waste the time punishing her ladyship while the chalice may be gone forever?”

  It was the right thing to say. The abbot’s pale eyes turned toward the monk, the glitter fading. “You are wise, Brother Barth,” he said grudgingly. “This whore c
an wait for her punishment. The chalice is what matters. It must belong to God.”

  There was little doubt who Father Paulus considered to be God’s Only Servant. Relief was sweeping over Julianna at her close escape, but she kept her unruly mouth still. They wouldn’t be able to find Nicholas—she had no doubt he’d be able to evade two old men like Brother Barth and the abbot—and she doubted Father Paulus would deem one poor, sinful woman worth returning to Fortham Castle now that the treasure was gone.

  “But where would he go? And how would he get there? The creature refuses to ride—”

  “He rides,” young Gilbert murmured. “Nicholas Strangefellow isn’t at all what he seems.”

  “How do you know that?” The abbot demanded, eyeing him with suspicion.

  “I’m very observant. People don’t expect me to notice things, but I do. I would guess that Master Nicholas and his servant have headed east, toward London.”

  “Why in heaven’s name would he do that?” the abbot demanded.

  “He serves the king, doesn’t he?” Gilbert said calmly.

  An ugly smile curved the abbot’s pale face, exposing blackened teeth. “Good lad,” he said. “Brother Barth, go and see to four mounts. Make sure they’re good ones—we’ll need to catch up with them quickly.”

  “Four, Holy Father?” Barth looked doubtful.

  “Gilbert will accompany us. He’s a lively lad, and we’ll have use of him. And we’ll bring the whore as well. I suspect she’s Master Nicholas’s weak point.”

  “You can’t! Lord Hugh won’t hear of it!”

  “Lord Hugh is closeted with his wife, and they haven’t been seen yet this day. I have no idea whether he strangled her or raped her, nor do I care. He’s far too interested in his new wife to care about her daughter. He’ll be just as glad she’s gone.”

  “Father . . . ,” Brother Barth said, pleading.

  “If it takes you too long, brother, I will have her whipped.”