Lord of the Mist (18 page)

She clung to his shoulders. Her breath was sweet on his
cheek as she whispered two words at his ear: “Just once.”

“Aye,” he said, bending his head to drag his teeth across
her shoulder. “Just once.”

He could wait not a moment longer. Her skirts rode up her
smooth legs with one sweep of his hand as if the summer breezes assisted him.

Her hands quested beneath his linen shirt, and she shoved
the remainder of his garments down his hips. She cupped his buttocks as he
cupped hers, drawing him hard against her, shifting as he shifted on her.

For long moments he reveled in the taste of her mouth, the
feel of her hands on him, the soft brush of her feminine hair across his groin.

Then he wanted more. All of her.

“Cristina,” he murmured. How sweet she smelled. He buried
his face against her throat and felt the rapid throb of her pulse against his
lips.

They stumbled back against the shelves. Rolls of parchments
tumbled about them.

With no more words, he lifted her. Her legs came around him.
He sought her warmth with his fingertips. A strangled cry escaped her mouth,
and he drank it in with his lips and tongue as he touched, soothed, stroked.

She was wet, warm, more than ready for him. Another cry
escaped her as she wrapped her arms tightly about his neck and sealed her mouth
to his.

He entered her—hard, as deeply as he could, and then held
still. He pulled out, thrust in again. Her thighs trembled on his hips.

“Just once,” she whispered in acceptance of the joining. Her
arms and legs tightened on him along with the hot, silken sheath that enfolded
him.

His iron control slipped from his grasp.

With one hand on the shelves to steady himself, one arm
beneath her buttocks, he rode the frantic pace of his need.

Sweat broke on his skin.

A quiver within her sent a bolt of sensation from his belly
to his feet. She moaned and arched in his arms, nearly throwing herself from
his grip. More parchments tumbled from the shelves.

He held her so she could barely move—held her while he moved
in deep, hard thrusts with the spill of her liquid heat on him, the scent of
her pleasure a heady perfume in the air.

When she met ecstasy, he buried himself as deeply as he
could, held himself still, and allowed the intense heave of her body on his
take him over the abyss.

Finished, drained, they slumped against each other.

Gently he lowered her onto the bench. He straightened his
clothes and looked down on her, stretched out on the rough wood, her skirts at
her waist. Her thighs glistened wet with his seed.

He felt as if he had fought a battle. Every muscle in his
body shuddered.

She stared up at him. Then she cried out and flew off the
bench to the window. Her gown off one shoulder, she stood there, her hair in a
tangle down her back, like a wild creature set to leap to freedom.

Or oblivion.

In two steps he reached her, but before he could put out his
hands to hold her, she buried her face in her arms. Her shoulders shook.

Unsure what to do, he skimmed his hands over her hair.
“Cristina?” he said softly.

She lifted her face and turned to him. Tears ran down her
face. “That was…was…” She turned and leaned on the stone again, and her body
shook with her weeping.

“Cristina, did I hurt you?” He did not know if he should
touch her.

“Nay, my lord,” she said through her tears. “You didn’t hurt
me. I… It is just…” She looked up at him. Her dark eyes were huge and shining
with her tears. “Thank you, my lord.”

Then she broke away from him. Her hands shook as she tried
to draw together the front of her gown.

He watched her fumble the laces and resisted a desire to
strip the gown off and see all of her. He wanted to hold her body against his
once more, wanted to carry her off to his bed and claim her again and again
until the urge was purged from his body.

She picked up his belt. “My lord,” she said and held it out
to him. Her gaze never reached beyond his chest.

He looped the belt around his waist.

What words should he offer her? He had taken her without
thought of consequences, no thought of aught but what it might feel to be
buried in her warmth.

“Cristina—” he began.

But she cut him off. “Please, I beg of you. Say naught of
this. It was…beautiful. Do not ruin it with regrets.”

“Regrets?” But before he could contradict her, apologize for
the wild way in which he had possessed her, William thumped on the door and
called his name.

Cristina wheeled toward the sound of the heavy fist. Had the
guard heard them? Heat flooded through her.

Then she straightened her spine and her shoulders. “You must
go, my lord.”

“My lord,” William called again.

“We’re not finished,” Durand promised her. “Open the door,”
he called to William. The sound of the key turning reminded him of her status
and possible fate on the morrow. He touched her shoulder. “I’ll come to you
tonight.”

But she dipped away from him as the door opened. “Nay, my
lord. Just once. I meant it. Only once.”

“Cristina—”

“My lord,” the guard said. “The king has called for you.”

Cristina watched Lord Durand hesitate. Then his jaw clenched
and with a stiff nod at her he left the chamber.

She looked around to see what the guard must have—piles of
old parchment rolls scattered about the floor, nothing more. There was no
rumpled bed, no couch stained from a pleasured coupling.

What could the guard make of a few scattered records? Or a
few muffled sounds? What gossip would run through the castle? Nay, the man was
kindly and gentle—not much of a guard if the truth be known. Mayhap Lord Durand
had set him to watch over her for those qualities.

Cristina painstakingly replaced each record on the shelves.
She counted to be sure each plank held the same number of rolls.

As she worked she tried to ignore the rippling fear of what
her fate would be on the morrow. Her mind shied from thoughts of Simon. He
surely lay wrapped in his shroud in the chapel. Or was he already in a gibbet,
set at the crossroads?

An anger so raw it sickened her, coupled as it was with
regret and grief, rose within her breast. Even in death she was shackled to him
with accusations. Wherein lay honor?

Her grief was for what might have been.

She could not ignore the slick heat of Lord Durand’s seed on
her thighs. Surely she must have been mad. Surely she had lost all reason. Nay.
She would not be ashamed of what had happened between them. She had nothing and
could not be blamed for reaching out for bodily comfort.

On the morrow, at the least, she would be branded a thief.
No honorable man would ever want her again. Therein lay shame.

And no matter Lord Durand’s assurances, who would believe
her? Father Laurentius had failed Simon and would fail her. Only Simon’s
accomplice—whoever it was—would find triumph on the morrow.

Tears ran down Cristina’s cheeks. Roughly, she dashed them
away. She did not weep because her life lay in ruins. She wept that there had
been but one time with him to call her own, and that one time, she imagined,
was now being regretted by Lord Durand as he stood before his king.

A sumptuous feast lay spread across the table. Finely
roasted meats were in evidence: venison, rabbit, and heron. Jellied eels also
lay by trays of bread and cheese.

King John picked his teeth. “Tell us more of this woman.”

“She’s completely blameless,” Durand said. He could not eat
and abruptly dismissed the boy who held out a tray of rabbits dressed in sage
and marjoram.

His mind was in the west tower. What was Cristina doing at
this moment? He had never taken a woman so roughly or quickly. Yet he would not
undo one moment of it. It bothered him greatly that she thought he regretted
the joining. When could he escape and see her again?

The king leaned close to Durand. “You take an uncommon
interest in her fate. Is she Luke’s mistress, as her husband claimed, or
yours?” A boy poured wine into John’s goblet. He traveled with his own dishes
and cups. This one was studded with deep red stones.

“Mistress le Gros is not Luke’s mistress. She’s a simple wet
nurse. And she did not take the Aelfric. I gave it to her and she had no
interest in it. She cleaned it and returned it. We both know there were several
names on both Simon and Luke’s lists. Why are we not pursuing them?”

John watched him over the rim of his cup. “I have found it
is most often those closest who betray. Who better than a wife to do the deed?
And we have a dying man’s word.”

Durand stifled a retort. The king’s words cut deeply. “Simon
died
unknowing
that he had but moments to live. There is room for
doubt.”

“Present your doubts on the morrow.” The king turned away
from him to his queen. It was a dismissal.

Oriel, who looked both ill and anxious, approached the
table. “Durand, might I have a word with you?”

Grateful for the opportunity to remove himself ere he said
something that would put him in his own dungeon, he rose and excused himself.
Oriel led him from the hall into the bailey, chattering rapidly as they went.
“She refused to eat, Durand. She will starve.”

“Who, Cristina?” He had to almost run to keep up with her.

“Nay.” Oriel shot him an inscrutable look. “I speak of
Felice, of course. The queen said the babe was not to have any of what she
called ‘thieving milk’, so we set her to Rose’s breast, but she’ll not eat.”

“Sweet, bloody hell,” Durand muttered. “The queen decided
this?”

“And Lady Nona took the child ere I could object.”

“Nona! She interferes.” He threw off his fatigue.

“Don’t blame Nona. She only did as the queen directed.”

He heard Felice before he saw her. The sounds issuing from
her chamber might lead one to think the child was being stabbed with a hot
dagger. Without further comment, Oriel threw open the door and he stepped
inside.

Several maids scattered to the corners of the chamber in
various stages of undress. He strode to the hearth.

Rose was a pretty woman, but her face was pinched with
anxiety. Her new babe nestled at her breast. Suddenly, Felice no longer looked
so tiny. Without a word, he lifted the screaming Felice from her basket by
Rose’s feet.

Silence fell immediately. Felice stared up at him, her mouth
half-open, her face as red as Oriel’s scarlet skirts.

“She knows ‘er father,” Rose said. “Thank the Blessed
Mother.”

Or Durand thought, the child could smell Cristina on his
skin and clothes. Without a word, he left the chamber. This time Oriel hastened
after him.

“I know what you intend, Durand, but will you not anger the
queen?” Oriel tugged on his tunic.

He tried, with great effort, to control his anger. “I shall
sweet-talk her.”

“You?” Oriel frowned. “Pray forgive me, but you’re not known
for your soft words.”

“I shall learn very quickly.”

“Allow me to take the child to Cristina whilst you have your
lesson.”

He reluctantly gave the babe up. Instantly, Felice began her
open-mouthed wails.

“Oriel, could you also see that Mistress le Gros has a few
amenities and a pallet?”

“I’ll see to it; you see to the queen.”

* * * * *

An hour later, a compromise was reached with Queen Isabelle.
Cristina could feed the babe. Still, the queen would not allow Felice to remain
in Cristina’s chamber.

‘Twould be on Durand’s head if the babe set to thieving ere
she could sup from a spoon, the queen declared, then turned her attentions to
Lady Sabina who sat at her side.

Durand gave Sabina a warning glance and deliberately sat
near the women that Sabina might not poison the queen or king against Cristina.
She had a caustic tongue.

Finally the king declared he would judge Cristina at dawn
and called for a bath. The queen retired with him, and suddenly the hall began
to empty.

As men and women lay out their pallets, Durand thought of
one who must be sleeping ill upon hers.

Moments later he found himself in the tower. When William
opened Cristina’s door for him, the chamber lay in darkness save for a wick
burning in a dish of scented oil. Durand drew air into his lungs and was
immediately aroused. It was the same scent as the soap she used to wash her
hair. It lingered about her, and now lingered on his shirt as well.

The shutters were flung open to the night, and a web of mist
wreathed the upper tower heights and seemed to enter the chamber and float a
few inches above the floor.

She lay on her pallet, facing away from him, garbed only in
her shift. He stretched out behind her and touched her shoulder.

“My lord,” she whispered, turning to him. “Are you a dream?”

He took her hand and laid it on his chest over his heart.
“Does a dream have warm flesh?”

He cupped her face and kissed her lips. This time, he would
not besiege her. This time he would be gentle and draw out the little time they
had together before the dawn. This time he would have her naked against his
skin.

Cristina pulled away and leaned up on one hand. She traced
his torque with a fingertip. “You are bred to rule.”

“Aye. And you to nurture and heal.”

“We have naught between us save idle lust.”

“My lust is not idle.” With that he took her hand and
pressed it to his chest again.

She heard no regret in his voice.

His heart thundered against her palm.

She could not see him well in the dim flicker of the flame,
and so would have to trust to what she could feel—a man whose blood ran as
quickly as hers in his veins. She explored with her fingertips from his chest
to his throat. His blood pounded there as well, beneath his warm skin.

Just this once more
.

Aloud, she said, “I knew ‘twas you at the door. There is no
other who has your scent.”

“Or yours,” he said. He sat up and helped her pull the shift
over her head. Then she was naked before him. He brushed her hair over her
shoulders and examined her.

“You are beautiful,” he said, and meant it.

His fingertips were warm as he traced the silvery lines of
childbirth that marked her breasts, finally coming to the tight peaks waiting
anxiously for his touch.

The touch of his hand, his tongue on her warm skin, made her
groan.

Quickly he rose and shed his clothing. He drew his dagger
and set it close by the pallet. Sadly, she knew he did not feel completely safe
here with her.

The single flame danced shadows on his body—a strong,
warrior’s body, honed in battle, hardened with time. When he lowered himself
over her, fully stretched upon her, she remembered well her dream.

Mayhap she dreamed again. Mayhap she would awake and find a
demon nightmare visited upon her. She shuddered.

“I’m hurting you,” he said, pulling away.

“Nay!” She wrapped her arms tightly around him. “I was
cold.”

He enveloped her in warmth, breathing his inner heat upon
her shoulder, breast, and throat. A wild ache to be joined, to feel the blade
of his desire within her, drove her to near madness.

She learned the shape of his hips and back with long sweeps
of her hands. She learned the depth of his passion when he locked his mouth to
hers and whispered barely audible words against her lips that she could not
understand.

With an urgency building within her, a fire stoked by each
touch of his hand, she lifted her hips and silently begged with her body to be
joined with him.

He rolled her onto her side, and she found herself staring
directly at the gleaming gold that encircled his throat—and set her apart from
him.

But not at this moment in time.

Not for this one night.

The shadow of beard painted a harsh line along his jaw. She
must see every expression that crossed his face, she vowed silently. She must
remember each moment when she was gone.

Or dead.

He spread her open and in one swift movement joined himself
to her. It was he who closed his eyes, and she who watched the many expressions
of his passions cross his face.

Then she could not continue. Her body was afire. Her heart
seduced. She ducked her head to his shoulder and locked her fingers in his. He
drove his hips to meet hers again and again and again.

She felt the quick, hot spurt of his seed deep within her,
and every fiber of her body began to tremble.

But pleasure eluded her. She reached for it, but fear of the
morrow, knowledge this was all she would have, kept the prize out of her reach.

He knew it. He, whose chest rose and fell as if he had slain
a thousand enemies, knew only he had found pleasure. He separated himself from
her and placed her on her back.

His warm hands cupped her face. He kissed her gently. He
stroked each breast, then caressed her belly on a journey lower. No man, save
he, had ever touched her in such a way. He nuzzled her warmth, parted her with
his fingers and tongue.

A flash of sensation rode through her. She arched and bucked
her hips against the hot touch of his mouth, keening a cry of wild pleasure.

He slid quickly up her body and clamped a hand over her
mouth. “Hush,” he quietly admonished her, and where she was once warm, she felt
a rush of cold.

Of course; it would be a mistake to allow anyone to know
what they did.

“My lord, may I rise?” she asked after swallowing a few
times to contain her rampaging emotions. He opened his arms, and she rolled
away from him and off the pallet.

She had to distance herself. Her hands trembled, as did her
knees when she poured water into a basin. She lathered a cloth with soap, one
she had been making in an effort to capture that intangible scent of his, one
so completely wrong now she had his essence on her skin.

Aware of his scrutiny, she bathed her breasts and thighs.

When she was finished, she drew on her shift and turned to
look at him. He stretched upon the pallet, his one leg bent. Fingers of desire
clawed at her again. How beautiful he looked, completely exposed to her view,
nothing hidden. If they were truly lovers, she would kneel at his side and
touch him, learn his body slowly. But they were not lovers. Two joinings did
not make love. It merely affirmed lust.

She poured fresh water and took the basin to his side.
Quickly she drew a cloth over him, destroying any evidence of their coupling.
His body reacted, filling as she touched him. He encircled her wrist and guided
her caresses.

What she had tried to hold in check whipped through her. His
gray eyes, shrouded in shadow, could only be imagined. And she imagined he
watched her as if he were one of the ravens on his banner set to catch prey.
Together their hands moved on him.

Her heartbeat rose.

“Cristina. Remove the shift and join me here,” he said. “You
nurture my desires with your touch.”

Though she shook her head, he ignored her. He pulled her
astride his hips, tugging her shift to her waist. Settled on his manhood, she
could not deny the quickening of her passions. Surely she would expire of such
pleasure? Surely he knew it.

An utterly wild need filled her.

He cupped her buttocks and lifted her. But it was she who
put a hand to him and guided him to where she most wanted him to be.

* * * * *

Durand drifted to sleep in her arms, but that blissful peace
eluded her. She lay there for hours and savored his scent, the hard length of
his body, the warmth of his hand tangled in her hair.

When next he woke, he drew her into his arms and, without a
word, mounted her quickly. She rode his passions as they flew from his control.
At some point he gasped her name again and again.

She said nothing. There was nothing to say.

Dawn had come.