Juliana Garnett (30 page)

“Yet you force us to your standard, and threaten good Saxons with eviction or death? If you do not love England, then leave it to those who do.”

She was trembling, her eyes wide with angry shadows and her lips quivering between tightly clenched teeth. Pale hair framed her face with gold curls that shone softly in the fading sunlight. Luc shook his head.

“You still do not understand, Ceara. England and Normandy are one now. What I love about Normandy, I will love about England. It takes more than trees and hills to make a country. There is beauty here, just as there is in Normandy, France, and Spain. Yet it is not beauty that bids a man risk his life and honor to hold his home.” He reached out and cupped her chin in his palm, a little surprised that she did not jerk away from him. “You are beauteous, yet it is not your fair face and winsome smile that bids me risk my life to keep you. It is the inherent qualities that you possess that summon me to hold you safely.”

Her eyes widened, lashes shadowing her cheeks as she stared at him. Funny little stick, with her furry brows like the markings of an inquisitive rabbit, endearing and vexing at the same time, a curious blend of child and woman that caught at his heart with unnerving tenacity. But he could not tell her that, could not betray the tenderness he oft felt for her, for it would be his undoing. Had he not erred by even mentioning to Amélie that he wanted her? She had leaped at once to the wrong conclusion, as women were prone to do, and he dared not risk shattering the fragile alliance he had with Ceara by saying the wrong thing.

“My lord.…” She inhaled audibly, then shrugged with a soft laugh. “You undo me.”

As you do me, my beauty, as you do me.…

He smiled wryly. “No doubt, the barons are drunk as friars by now, and my stores you think me so proud of have dwindled to dry lentils and empty corn husks while we stand out here in the snow and cold air to shout at one another. If you think we are done for the evening, my lady, I will escort you inside to the hall.”

“I make no promises about being done shouting, but I will go with you inside if you will allow me to call for Sheba one more time first.”

“S’il arrive que vous avez besoin de moi … c’est ici.”

She stared up at him oddly, and there was a faint tremor at
the corners of her mouth. Then she looked away, and gave a little shrug. “I do not understand.…”

“No matter. I will wait here.” He released her chin and watched as she moved gracefully to the postern gate and slid back the bolt. Perhaps he was wrong, but there were moments he was certain she understood. Why would she lie to him? Was she yet unwilling to trust him? Or still willing to betray him? Neither were pleasant thoughts.

Dark shadows filled the courtyard now, flickering over the dry fountain and bare trees, casting the buildings and ground into gloom. It was quiet this night, with no howling wind to drown out the rhythmic murmur of the surf against rocks.

Stars overhead shimmered in the darkened sky, bright against deep blue, tiny beacons of light that reminded him how small were the things in this world. In contrast, he was an infinitesimal speck on a land peopled with others like himself. He thought of the comet-star that had been seen over England during the last week of April in 1066. Some had named it an omen, for it shone brightly with its long trailer of fire for the whole week before disappearing again. And that year William had invaded England, another omen like the comet-star.

But unlike the comet-star, William’s duration would be long. Monks had noted the comet-star, just as they had noted the other bright stars of heaven, and so they would note William of Normandy. Luc had made the right choice, for all that it had cost him. There was no other choice he could have made, none other that would endure.

Like others, he was groping for the right way, hoping for a star to show him the path. William had long been his star, flawed, perhaps, but his very determination a bright beacon. He believed in William, believed in England’s future, and believed in himself. Could he believe in his wife as well?

Iron hinges creaked, and he looked toward the postern gate to see Ceara coming toward him, her shoulders slumping with weary disappointment, no wolf at her heels. Luc went to her and
put an arm around her to hold her against his side, steadying her as they made their way across the slick patches of ice in the courtyard.

“Sheba must be dead.” Ceara’s voice was toneless, but betrayed the deep hurt beneath her words. “Never has she stayed away this long.”

“The wolf is not dead. Where did you leave her before? Perhaps she has gone back there.”

Ceara glanced up at him, hope shining in her eyes. “I had not thought of that. I left her in the woods with an old huntsman. She might have gone to Sighere. On the morrow, I will—”

“Hold. The snow is too deep. I will send Paul.”

“Sighere will tell nothing to a Norman, my lord.” Her voice was tart. “He is old, and not as trusting as some of us.”

Luc laughed at that. “God help us all, then. Wait,
ma chérie
. I will think of another way to find Sheba. Do not despair, for it is my notion that she has gone far afield hunting fat winter hares and does not care to return. When she is hungry enough and cold enough, she will come to you.”

“I hope so.” Ceara sounded forlorn. “She has been with me since she was a pup, and though it may be odd to you, she has been my only friend these past years. None other did I dare trust.”

Luc envisioned a wary maid, her nature prickly to keep away those who might hurt her, and to keep from growing close to those who might die or leave her behind. He knew well the emotions that attended those fears, for he had fought them himself: alone in a strange land, sent away because of a woman’s hatred, spurned by his father. Yes, he knew well how she had felt.

“I will find Sheba for you,” he said softly, and pulled her under a vaulted stairwell to take her face between his cold palms. She stared up at him and nodded.

“If you set out to do it, my lord, it will be done.”

Her faith shattered him, and he bent his head and kissed
her, almost fiercely, needing to feel her warmth and her surrender, needing the intimacy. This time it was not the urges of the body that drove him, but the urges of the heart.

Until Ceara put her arms around his neck to kiss him back, and his control splintered. He held her hard against him, his hands moving beneath her heavy cloak to scrub over her curves, palms sliding over the layers of her clothing with impatience. Hidden in the dusky shadows of the stairwell, he leaned against her, pressing her back against the wall with his weight, kissing her hungrily, needing to feel her around him, her softness and heat and the small excited noises she made when he entered her.…

“Luc—what are you … here?”

He had the hem of her skirts up, bunching them around her waist, then his hands moved to untie the straps of his linen chausses enough to release the fierce pressure. Ceara gave a shocked gasp when he lifted her legs to wrap around his waist and lunged forward, his length sliding inside her with exquisite friction. Sweet torment, the scrape of her bare thighs against his sides, the pressure of her velvet heat around his shaft, and the soft, panting breaths against his throat as she clung to him.

It was madness, ecstasy, searing pleasure and rising tension that made him forget everything around him, forget all but the lady in his arms. He rocked against her with driving thrusts, and she answered him with fervent arches of her hips, taking all of him, moaning his name in breathless sobs that filled the steamy space between them. The tautness stretched out almost unbearably, release trembling just out of reach, another thrust, another drag of his body that radiated heat and exquisite sensation down his spine, and he held tight to his control until he heard her spiraling cry in his ear, felt her body grow taut with tension and shudder. Then, gripping her hard by the waist, he slammed into her with a final thrust that drained him of everything. Groaning, his mouth pressed into the sweetly scented curve of her neck
and shoulder, he held her still against the wall for several moments as he tried to gather the strength to move.

Her hand fumbled for him in the dark, fingers stroking through his hair to cup the back of his neck in her curved palm. Her whisper was soft and replete. “Soon it will be Christmas, Luc.”

“Joyeux Noël, ma petite choute.”

Unable to see through the thick shadows that shrouded them, he stroked her cheek and shifted his weight to keep from hurting her. Her legs were still clasped tightly around his waist, her cloak draped over them but a chill breeze that he had not noticed before cooled their damp, naked flesh.

As he circled her waist with his hands to free her from him, he heard a sudden noise behind them and swore softly, cursing himself for being so foolish as to lose awareness of his surroundings. Lowering Ceara to the ground, he slid his hand to the hilt of his dagger and half turned, putting her behind him.

A single shadow detached from the deeper ones under the stairwell and moved into a wavering pool of light cast by a wall torch. A dry voice said with droll inflection, “What a novel way to celebrate Advent, Luc. Won’t they let you in your own hall to fornicate?”

Robert. And beside him stood Amélie, her green cat’s eyes shining in the dim light with glittering sharpness.

Y
OU DID INVITE
me to come anytime, you know, Luc.” Robert eyed his host with amusement, rather enjoying Luc’s embarrassed hostility. It was not often he had been able to truly surprise Luc, and this was a moment to cherish.

“Yes,” Luc snapped, “but it did not occur to me you would arrive at so inconvenient a moment, bringing trouble on your arm.”

“Trouble? Do you refer to the Lady Amélie?” Robert flinched at the look in Luc’s eyes, and shrugged, spreading his hands helplessly. “It was not my idea, Luc, I swear it.”

“Then you should have spared yourself the pain of having to cut short your visit, and left her behind.”

“Will you allow her to come between us, Luc? After all our years together?” Robert studied Luc, noting the lines of tension around his mouth. He rose to his feet, contrite. “I am certain your lady wife did not mean what she said. She will reflect, and once I explain to her that Lady Amélie is to wed another, I do not think she will feel so … harsh toward her.”

“Amélie is to wed?”

“Yes. The king has set into motion the agreement that will
bind her to Malcolm’s cousin. He hopes that it will form ties between the Scots and England.”

Luc flung one leg over the corner of the table and rested his weight on it. “I still do not see why you brought her here, Robert. Especially knowing the enmity Ceara feels toward her.”

Unhappily, Robert nodded. “It was not to be helped, Luc. Do you think I wanted to travel the goat tracks that pass for roads in this weather? The king celebrates the season in York, tucked warmly into his castle with fine food and amusements, while I have been stuck with a complaining shrew.” He rose from his chair and moved to the brass brazier, putting out his hands to warm them over the hot coals. “It has been hellish.”

“No doubt. I recall Amélie’s fondness for her comfort.” Luc scraped a hand through his hair, fingering locks that looked to have been recently shorn. Always worn a bit longer than most Normans, now his hair was neatly trimmed below his ears and on the nape of his neck. He frowned at Robert. “How long have these negotiations been discussed?”

Robert shrugged. “Awhile, I think, but you know how secretive the king can be about arrangements. Only Lady Amélie knew and, of course, the king’s advisers and Malcolm. It may yet work, though often these arranged marriages never reach the altar.”

“True.” Luc glanced toward the closed door of the solar he shared with Ceara. There had been the distinctive sound of metal grating against metal that indicated it had also been bolted. Not a good sign, Robert knew, and he could hardly blame her for being angry.

Not only had she been embarrassed at being caught in so indelicate a situation, but Amélie worsened it with a laughing reminder to Luc of how they had once been caught in just that position in Winchester.

“Of course it was warmer weather then,” she added, putting her hand lightly on Luc’s arm and smiling at Ceara’s
flushed chagrin, “but most exciting, as well. Do you not recall, Luc?”

It was hardly the sort of thing a man should be reminded of in front of his wife, and quite obvious that Luc had no recollection of it. He shot Amélie a furious look that should have made her quail, and shook loose her hand. Turning protectively to Ceara, he offered in English to see her to their chamber.

Ceara rudely rejected his efforts, shoving him away and snapping that he need not escort her anywhere. “Stay and see to your guests. I have duties to tend, and do not want your company.”

If she had planned it, Robert thought, it could not have worked out better for Amélie. There were moments on the journey he’d wondered if she even cared about her betrothal, for she spoke mostly of Luc, lamenting that Malcolm’s cousin was not an earl like Luc, nor was he Norman.