Anita Mills (28 page)

“I canna stay,” he maintained stubbornly. “I canna. ’Tisna yer place ter ask it.”

“Jesu! I tell you what I have told no one, and still you deny me? The only thing wee about you, Willie, is your brain! Is it not enough that I’d not have you go?”

“The quarrel is nae wi’ ye.”

“But ‘tis over me, is it not? God’s bones, Will of Dunashie, but would you have me grovel at your feet?”

“Nay.”

“You have more pride than I!” she shouted at him. “Can you not stay the night at least? Must you leave now?”

He wavered. “ ’Tis unseemly fer ye to beg me,” he muttered, looking downward. He didn’t want to go, and she knew it. What he wanted was for Giles to ask.

“If you are of like mind on the morrow, I will send you off with a full stomach,” she promised him.

A slow, almost grudging grin spread across his face. “Och, but I wonder that the merchants profit of ye, Lady Elizabeth, fer ye make a hard bargain.”

“War comes, Willie, and my son will have need of every kinsman.” She reached to take his leather pack from his shoulder. “Wear your better tunic to sup,” she ordered.

“Nay, I—”

“The blue one.”

He watched her go, then followed at a distance. Those she passed in the courtyard looked up, noting that she carried his pack. His grin broadened. A babe born of her would be fierce enough to hold anything. And, God willing, ‘twould heal Giles’ pain also. And then he remembered Guy of Rivaux. His grin faded to a frown. They’d not heard from Rivaux yet.

News reached Giles of what Elizabeth had done, angering him. Instead of feeling grateful that Willie stayed at all, he felt betrayed, for he’d confronted his half-brother for her.

“Jesu,” he snapped when he saw her, “what is it that you would have of me? You complain of Willie and then have him stay!”

She looked up from the altar cloth she embroidered. “You did not tell me he was your brother,” she responded. “I could not in conscience send one of your blood away.”

“ ’Twas not your right to interfere!”

Stung, she took refuge in her own temper. Rising to face him, she retorted, “I’d not be hated more. God’s bones, but there was none who did not blame me for the quarrel between you! If there be any blame in this, ‘tis that you did not tell me!” Looking past him, she saw that her maids watched. “I’d have you leave us,” she ordered curtly, disappointing them. As they filed silently from the solar, she turned again to him. “At Rivaux, any born of the lord’s blood are recognized. My father says bastardy is not the fault of the bastard, after all.”

“Do you teach me how to order my keep?” he asked incredulously.

“Aye.”

“ ’Tis not Rivaux!”

“Do you wish him to leave?” she countered. “Is that how you would reward one who has served you well these twenty-six years past? Is that how you would recognize one who shared the misery of King Henry’s household with you?”

“Nay, ‘tis not. But that is between Willie and me, Elizabeth.”

“You let me think him no better than a villein! He ought to share your table! He ought to have—”

“If he does not, ’Tis by his own choice. Do you think I have not offered? ‘ ’Tis not meet,’ he says, for his mother was but my father’s leman. Willie is content to be what he is.”

“He is born of the same blood as you, Giles, and I’d recognize him for it. I’d have him sup with us. Aye, and I’d have—”

“You have not the right to interfere in what you do not know,” he muttered.

“I’d have his loyalty for my son.”

“Willie’s loyalty cannot be bought by a chair at my table. Jesu, but—” He stopped as her words took on meaning to him. “You cannot—’tis too soon—”

She nodded. “I have never missed my courses since they were begun.” Moving closer, she smiled crookedly. “You were right when you said you were no Ivo.”

“Sweet Jesu.” Then, as the full import of her news came home to him, he turned away. “Nay, ‘tis too early.”

“I’d not wanted to tell you ere I passed the second month.” She reached to caress his shoulder. “But I thought you would be pleased.”

“Pleased? How can I be pleased that you mean to leave me?” he demanded harshly. “How can I be pleased that you will bear my son at Harlowe?”

“You agreed—’twas agreed between us,” she reminded him.

“I did not think ’twould be so soon. What if you are wrong?”

“I am willing to wait until ’tis certain.” She smoothed the soft wool of his tunic where it covered his arm. “I’d not quarrel these last weeks with you,” she added softly.

As light as her touch was, it was enough to send a wave of desire washing over him. Her fingers crept to the thick, black waves of his hair as she leaned her head against his back. The sweet smell of her rose water wafted over his shoulder, intoxicating him. He closed his eyes and swallowed, hoping she could not see the power she held over him. He stood very still.

She could feel his body tense beneath her head, and her answering desire made her almost weak. “There’s none here but us,” she whispered. “I’d have you hold me, Giles.”

His anger and fear dissolved in his need. With a groan he turned into her arms, seeking her mouth eagerly. The now familiar heat between them sent his pulse racing as she returned his embrace. Her lips parted, yielding and demanding at the same time. It was as though liquid fire coursed through his veins, fueling his desire for her. He tasted deeply, exploring her mouth, as his hands moved over her hips, molding her body to his. This day at least he’d make her forget who she was and where she would go. Breathless, she broke away. “I’ll bar the door,” she gasped.

When she turned back around, he had divested himself of his clothing and stood like a stallion before her. Blood pounded in her ears as he reached to unhook the golden girdle that spanned her waist. His hands worked clumsily to release the jeweled hook. It fell away, dropping into a tangled chain at her feet.

Stepping back, she lifted her gown, ready to pull it over her head. His hands slid beneath, moving over her bare skin, feeling the heat of her flesh.

“Nay, I’d not wait, Giles,” she panted, trying to twist away. Her protest died in a moan when he grasped her hips, holding her as he entered her with ease. She stiffened momentarily, shocked by what he did. And then he began to move, slowly at first, as though to test that he did not hurt her. Still guiding her hips, he rolled her against him in an undulating motion. As her embarrassment yielded to the pleasure of union, he released her, letting her move against him with abandon.

She clasped his arms tightly for balance and rose on tiptoe. He watched as she moved, her eyes closed, her lower lip caught in her teeth while she concentrated on what she did. The soft sheen of perspiration damped her forehead as her breath came more quickly now, punctuated by the gasping cries that told him she was nearly there. Her hands dropped from his arms to his hips, urging him feverishly to join her. He rocked against her harder, faster, losing himself in her until he was mindless, aware now only of his own body. His cries joined hers until he exploded within her, giving him peace.

“Sweet Mary,” she whispered, clinging to him.

“Aye.” Very gently, he separated from her. Grinning, he let her gown drop between them. “You are the first woman tall enough for that.”

“I’ll warrant they heard us in the scullery.”

“Do you think so?” he asked wickedly, turning her around. His fingers found the end of the gold cord that bound her single braid, loosening it.

“What are you doing?”

“I fancy seeing your hair on my pillow,” he murmured, combing the heavy black hair with his fingers. “And this time, I’d see all of you.”

“Again?” she asked faintly.

“ ’Twas but the ale before the meal,” he answered.

Her green eyes widened for a moment, then she gave him an answering smile. This time, when she lifted her gown, he did not stop her from taking it off. It fell in a swoosh at her feet, where it was joined by the linen undertunic. She faced him, her pale body gleaming in the dimness of the solar, and his mouth went dry again with desire.

Still smiling, she backed to the bed. Her heart beat wildly as he stalked her, then pushed her gently down into the feather mattress. For a long moment he looked at her, his black eyes warm. Slowly, deliberately he eased his body into bed beside her and turned to face her.

“This time, Elizabeth of Rivaux, I’ll see that they hear you in the cellar.”

His gaze traveled hungrily over her body, taking in the still-flat plain of her belly, the full swell of her breasts, the white curve of her throat, the glossy black hair that spilled over his pillow, the eyes as green as glass. She was, he knew, the most beautiful woman in Christendom. And for now at least she was his.

The previous lovemaking had taken the urgency away, leaving him the luxury of exploring her leisurely. He propped himself up on an elbow to watch as he traced over her body with his fingertips, beginning with her forehead. Intrigued, she met his gaze, blinking only when he would touch her eyelids ever so lightly. She felt his hand brush over her nose, dipping at the bridge, then skimming down to her lips.

“Art lovely, Elizabeth,” he whispered, bending his head to kiss her. His breath, warm and light against her face, sent a new shiver of anticipation through her.

“Nay, I—”

“Shhhhhhh.”

Even as his lips met hers, his hand moved lower, from her chin, down over her throat and neck to the hollow there. She would have twined her arms about his neck, but he shook his head. His mouth left hers to follow his hand’s lead, nuzzling soft kisses that intensified the shivers.

His scar-roughened palm brushed her breasts lightly, first one and then the other, hardening her nipples. And she felt the now familiar tightening deep within her. She had to will herself to lie still before him. He eased his body down in the bed, laying his head against her breasts. She looked downward, seeing the thick, tousled black hair, and this time she could not resist burying her fingers within the waves. His tongue curved around her nipple, teasing it.

“Have done. I—”

“Sweet,” he murmured, turning his attention to the other one.

“Mary, but I cannot stand this,” she protested as his palm moved over her stomach and abdomen.

“I’d have you do the same for me,” he murmured, lifting his head.

“Now? But I—”

Even as she spoke, he lay back, his dark eyes daring her.

“Touch me, Elizabeth.”

“Where?”

“Everywhere.”

It wasn’t supposed to be like that. The priests had never said ’twas for anything but procreation. And yet there was that in his eyes that compelled her. She leaned over, letting her hair fall like a curtain of black silk over his bared body, and slowly, ever so slowly, she explored him in like manner, tracing over his profile to his lips.

The fragrant mass enveloped him as she bent to kiss him, gently at first, then with deepening passion. When she lifted her head, his dark eyes were so black that there were no pupils.

“Lower,” he urged.

She drew in a breath and exhaled slowly as her fingers traced through the dark, curling hair that covered his chest, touching his nipples. His body was hard, rigid almost beneath her hand. Very gingerly, she moved lower, feeling the flatness of his belly, dipping below. As her fingers skimmed lightly over him, his whole body seemed to tauten. He was so big, so physically powerful that she was almost in awe of him.

Without warning, his leg twined over hers, pulling her down to him. “Would you ride?” he asked softly as he entered her again. As she settled over him, his hands found her breasts again, and the scars on his palms tantalized her nipples once more. “Ride, Elizabeth, ride,” he urged, moving beneath her.

She moved slowly, tentatively at first, marveling at the freedom, the power she had over him, then as the old intensity returned she gave herself up to the feel of him, of what he did to her. He bucked and writhed beneath her as she moved harder and faster, riding as though she could master him. Her breath came in great sobs, mingling with primordial cries of ecstasy. There was no one, there was nothing beyond what he did to her as wave after wave of release flooded through her. Spent, she collapsed to lie still, savoring the moment, listening to his gasping breath beneath her head. Finally, she reluctantly rolled to lie beside him. His hand clasped hers.

“You are a wonder to me,” he said, his fingers tightening on hers. Turning his head, he regarded her solemnly. “A wonder,” he repeated softly.

She snuggled closer, resting her head against his shoulder. “And a wanton,” she murmured.

His hand smoothed her tangled hair where it fell over her back. “A wanton wonder then.” His arm closed around her, pulling her closer, and for a time he was silent.

Life was too good, too full, to last, and he supposed he’d always known it, but these last weeks with her had been the best of his life. For the first time in his memory he’d been content, daring to think he could keep her, that he could make her forget she was anything other than his wife. But such was not destined to be the lot of a mortal man, he supposed.

“I’d have my babe born at Dunashie,” he said finally, giving voice to his thoughts. “If ’tis a son, ’tis his patrimony.”

“ ’Twill be a son,” she answered with conviction. “I have prayed to the Virgin for a son.”

“Your mother bore but one, and your grandmother none. Nay, Elizabeth, I’d not fault you for what you give me.”

“ ’Tis a son,” she insisted. “I know it.”

“I will leave him more than my sire left me, I swear it.” He twisted his neck to look down on the crown of her head where it rested against his shoulder. “What I cannot give him in blood, I’d give him in land.”

“Aye.”

“Tell me—do you regret wedding me?” he asked suddenly. “Am I still as naught to you?”

“Nay. You are my husband,” she answered, disappointing him.

There was that within him that wanted to know more than that, that wanted to know if she loved him beyond what he did to her. “When you face your father, will you be ashamed that I have taken you? That you have wed one who cannot match you in birth?” he persisted.