So Great A Love (34 page)

Still kneeling behind him, she ran her hands
along his shoulders, to his upper arms and back again. Fearing he
might not understand the message she was trying to convey by touch
alone, she spoke the words she believed he needed to hear.

“Earlier tonight, when I lay close in your
arms, when you were part of me, I said that I love you. Nothing you
have said or done since that moment has changed what is in my
heart.” Daring rejection, she reached around and caught his chin in
the fingers of one hand, forcibly turning his face toward hers and
making him look at her for the first time since he had begun his
terrible story. “I love you, Arden. I will always love you.”

“If I could believe that -” He pulled away
and stood up, leaving Margaret kneeling on the bed among the
tangled sheets and quilts. He walked to the brazier and stood next
to it, fists on his hips, his gaze fixed on the glowing charcoal in
the pan.

Margaret stared at his broad shoulders, his
naked back, his long, straight legs – and she was shaken by a gust
of desire so intense that she feared her heart would stop from the
strength of her passion. Every feminine instinct she possessed told
her that Arden's welfare and the future of their marriage depended
on what was said and done between them in the next hour. Once, she
had fancifully imagined that he was constrained by an evil
enchantment. After listening to his story she knew the evil that
bound him was worse than any magic, for it was the evil memory of
an intolerable reality. She knew of only one cure for Arden's
affliction. The remedy was love.

“Believe this,” she said, holding out her
arms to him, though his back was to her, “believe that I want you
in my arms again, that I want you deep inside me, with your mouth
on mine and your hands touching me in places where I never until
this night imagined anyone would want to touch me.”

“After what I’ve told you, still you make
such a request of me?” He turned to her abruptly, and took a long
breath at the sight of her kneeling unclothed on his bed with her
arms outstretched, inviting him to join her. His voice was a bit
unsteady, betraying emotions tightly restrained. “You are not
repulsed by me?”

“How could I be?” she asked. “I love you.”
Those words must be her answer to all his objections, for her
boundless, unconditional love was all she had to offer him.

“Ah, Margaret, if only -” He broke off,
shaking his head.

She believed she knew what he meant to say.
He was not free to love her, not until he had spoken with his
father and revealed the part of his story that he could not yet
tell her. And, afterward, perhaps he still would not be free.

“Let me love you,” she said, “and comfort
you, if comfort is what you require. It will make me happy.”

“I have done nothing in this life to deserve
a woman such as you,” he said, and put out his hand to trace the
shape of her lips.

“Come to me, Arden. Make me yours again.”

As if he could not stay away from her, he
moved close enough for Margaret to catch his arms, to run her
fingers over smooth skin and hard muscle, upward to his shoulders.
His once-cold eyes were warmer, were a pale, clear blue, and very
bright when they met hers. Smiling at him, Margaret tugged at his
shoulders.

Without warning he bore her down onto the bed
and came down on top of her. Margaret reveled in the exciting heat
of his skin upon hers.

“You smell like a summer meadow,” he
murmured, “and your hair feels like warm sunshine in my hands. For
so long after that first night, when I discovered you here, asleep
in my room, the sheets carried your fragrance. I could not go to
bed without thinking of you.”

“And when you thought of me, did you want
me?” she asked, well aware that he wanted her now. She could feel,
hard against her thigh, just how much he wanted her.

“My longing for you was a sore trial to me,”
he whispered with his lips against her ear. His hands stroked over
her hips, his fingers straying with deliberate delicacy into the
crevasses and hidden curves of her body. “It has been the sweetest,
most painful torment ever inflicted on a man.”

Margaret dared to laugh – and took the
further risk of daring to tease him.

“Perhaps you ought to invent a suitable
punishment for me, to pay me back for my perfume,” she
suggested.

He reared up to look at her, and there on
Arden's face was the closest thing to a real smile that she had
seen since his return. There, for a few precious moments, was the
youthful Arden she once had known, all shining warmth and bright
good humor, and his sparkling blue eyes were dancing.

“What would you like me to do, Margaret?” he
asked, teasing back at her.

“Kiss me until I swoon,” she answered, and
saw the corners of his eyes crinkle with amusement.

“I'll do better,” he promised. “I will show
you what words cannot say.”

He did kiss her until she was near to
swooning, and he did not confine himself to her lips. He started at
her forehead and kissed every inch of her body, right down to her
toes. He used his tongue and his skillful hands, he nibbled and
sucked and blew his warm breath into her until Margaret was aching,
trembling, sobbing in uncontrollable desire. And then Arden rose
above her and lifted her into his arms and made her his in one
smooth, possessive stroke, and held her tight, safe against his
warmth and strength, while the two of them burst into a joining so
complete that Margaret knew it would never end.

Much later he laid her down upon the pillows
again and pulled up the quilt to keep her warm. He propped his chin
on one hand and lay looking into her eyes and Margaret saw that,
though some of the hard and chilly Arden had returned, a part of
the younger, softer man lingered, too.

“That was no punishment,” she whispered,
touching his face with gentle fingers. “That was a glimpse of
heaven.”

“The only glimpse I am ever likely to be
granted.” Sadness shadowed his expression, leaching the humor and
warmth from his face. “You are so beautiful, so good. And I have
done irreparable harm to you.”

“I love you, Arden.” It was the only thing
she could say, and her heart ached to see his eyes turn bleak and
cold as soon as she spoke.

“Go to sleep, Margaret.” He kissed her brow
and lay down beside her, but not touching her.

Later, when she thought he was asleep, she
moved closer and put her head and one hand on his chest.
Immediately, his body stiffened and went perfectly still. For a
time he did not even breathe, but he made no objection to what she
did. After a while, very slowly, his arm came around her and held
her closely and gently, as if she were a priceless treasure that he
feared he would break if he were not very, very careful.

Down in the hall, Phelan and Eustace had at
last staggered off to bed with the assistance of two of Royce's
men. The ladies had also retired for the night – far more soberly –
and Father Aymon was in the chapel, saying Compline, his final
prayers for the day. Only Royce and Tristan were left at the high
table. Tristan was slowly sipping a cup of spiced wine, while Royce
finished the last of the almond pudding.

“Now, Tristan,” Royce said, pushing his bowl
aside and smiling at the maidservant who hastened to remove it,
“you and I are as private as we are likely to be for the next hour
or so. In the letter you sent to Wortham, you wrote that you are
carrying information from a friend of mine, that you would put into
my hands when we were together.”

“Yes.” Tristan reached into the small leather
bag attached to his belt and pulled out a much-folded parchment.
“I've kept this with me at all times since Sir Braedon gave it to
me.”

“Braedon?” Royce accepted the parchment.
Breaking the wax seal, he began to unfold it.

“He is one of your secret agents, isn't
he?”

Royce went very still, watching Tristan.

“He never claimed that he was,” Tristan said
quickly. “Braedon was visiting Lord Garmon, who is Isabel's
father.”

“I know who Lord Garmon is,” Royce said.

“I have a habit of noticing little things,”
Tristan went on. He waved a hand in front of his handsome face. “I
have this naive, boyish look to me, so people assume I am not very
intelligent. I don't mind, for it's convenient. I listen and watch,
and it's amazing how much I can learn. Sir Braedon's sobriety and
his quietness intrigued me. Then, in early December, the rumors
started and I noticed how Braedon was listening almost as carefully
as I was to what people were saying.”

“What were the rumors?” Royce asked.

“That
The White Ship
didn't sink by
accident,” Tristan answered readily. He leaned toward Royce,
speaking now in a quieter voice. “The rumors claim the ship was
sabotaged in hope that young William, King Henry's heir, would be
drowned in the sinking. Supposedly, William wasn't a strong
swimmer.”

“That part of the story is true enough.”
Royce's fingers continued to unfold the parchment, but he kept his
gaze on Tristan's face, watching Tristan's reaction to a sudden
change in subject. “How did you convince Braedon to give you this
letter?”

“Actually, Braedon approached me,” Tristan
said, showing no sign of guilt or confusion. “People in Lord
Garmon's household know that Arden is your son and he made no
secret of his plan to return to Wortham. The night before we
departed for England, Braedon asked me to carry this letter to you.
I assume it's his report on whatever he learned in Aquitaine, and
that he sent it by me because I am only an innocent traveler.”

Royce was unable to repress a sudden bark of
laughter at the idea that Tristan was an innocent.

“Does Arden know about this?” Royce
asked.

“A little. We did discuss the rumors I had
heard. I never mentioned Braedon. I don't believe Arden was aware
of his activities. Arden has his own heavy problem, that he's
working through, so he doesn't always take note of what is
happening around him.

“But I thought,” Tristan said, “that, just in
case something should happen to me along the way from Aquitaine, I
ought to make sure Arden did know I was carrying information to
you. I knew I could trust him to put Braedon's letter into your
hands and to tell you what little I had revealed to him.”

“I see.” Royce had the letter unfolded, but
he didn't look at it. He continued to regard Tristan with a growing
sense of wonder and discovery – and of curiosity as to what Tristan
would say next.

“I have come to a few conclusions about you,
Royce,” Tristan informed him, “based on what I knew of you when I
was a boy, combined with what I heard at Lord Garmon's castle, and
the little – very little, indeed! – that I was able to pry out of
Sir Braedon.

“My taste for adventure wasn't entirely
satisfied by my years in the Holy Land. If ever you have need of me
-” Discreetly, Tristan left the thought unfinished. Instead, he
glanced down at the letter in Royce's hand. “Shall I leave you
alone with that?”

“No. Stay here,” Royce commanded. “If you
leave, someone will certainly approach me, wanting to talk. If you
stay, folk will assume we are in a private conversation and wait
until later to speak with me.”

When Tristan flashed a knowing grin, Royce
lowered his gaze and began to read the letter. It was written in
code, but he knew the code well enough to decipher it on the second
reading. When he finally began to refold the parchment Tristan
watched with raised eyebrows and a questioning expression on his
boyish face.

“Well?” Tristan asked. “Is there any
substance to the rumors?”

“Braedon reports them in great detail, but
adds his personal doubts based on who is spreading the rumors. They
will need to be thoroughly investigated before I can carry any of
this to King Henry. I will not add to his grief with unfounded
stories.”

“I understand. I'll say nothing on the
subject, not even to my father, and I'll warn Isabel not to discuss
the rumors. Arden won't talk, either. I wish I knew what his
problem is, so I could help him,” Tristan said with a frown.

“Leave Arden to me,” Royce said. He was
pleased by Tristan's devotion to Arden and by his apparent honesty.
But years as King Henry's personal secret agent had taught Royce to
be cautious. “Tristan, once we are at Wortham, you and I will talk
again. Now, be off with you. Lady Isabel is waiting for you to come
and rub her back or her feet.”

“You remember what it's like, do you?”
Tristan grinned. “And you aren't going to recruit me on the spot,
are you? Well, good night, then.”

“Good night.” Royce responded automatically,
his thoughts on the letter he held, which hinted of a vast net of
conspiracy, of barons scheming to place their own candidate on the
throne of England, once the aging king was gone.

Royce's task, as always, was to guard and
protect his friend and liege lord. He had been idle long enough; it
was time to return to the work he loved. Smiling slightly, he
finished folding the letter and tucked it into his own small
leather pouch at his belt.

“It snowed again last night,” Phelan
announced. He stamped into the great hall and planted his fists on
his hips, glaring at Arden, who was talking with Tristan. “What the
devil are you doing out of bed?”

“The morning is half gone,” Arden observed
mildly. He refused to comment on the subject implied by Phelan's
question. “I am surprised that you did not rise earlier, my lord,
since we all thought you meant to return home today.”

“Did you, now?” Apparently in a truculent
mood, Phelan advanced on Arden. “I cannot go anywhere today.
Eustace is sick.”

“I am not surprised,” Tristan murmured, too
low for Phelan to hear him. “After all the wine he consumed, it
will be a wonder if Eustace can sit a horse again within a
week.”