The Falcon and the Flower (21 page)

With the straps undone, the armor fell away, leaving him clad in a linen shirt. He turned to face her where Jasmine stood, still up on the war chest, his hands slipping about her tiny waist, his eyes on hers, dark and smoky with desire. His heart was thudding. She could feel the echoing beat inside her breasts as she hung over him, a tumult of sensations racing through her. He brought his mouth close to hers but did not quite touch her lips as he whispered, “Are you a generous little wench or a selfish one?”

“S-selfish!” she breathed.

“May I share your bath?” he teased.

“No!” she cried, aghast.

He allowed his lips to brush hers. “May I bathe you, then?”

“Absolutely not!” She struggled to free herself but it was in vain.

He brushed her lips a second time, then sighed with resignation. “Alas, I must content myself to merely watch you.”

He removed her ruby-red cloak, then his eyes examined her matching gown to learn the secret of its fastenings. His fingers deftly undid the buttons and slipped the velvet down to bare her shoulders.

“What on earth do you think you’re doing, sir?” she demanded.

“Undressing you for your bath, you said I might watch you. Or did you intend to bathe with all your clothes on?” he teased.

“De Burgh, I did not say you might watch me … you made that outrageous suggestion if you will remember.”

“Did I? I make so many.” He grinned, giving the velvet gown a sharp tug so that it fell to her ankles. She was clad in a short shift that completely revealed her pretty legs.

“You horsefaced lout!” she spat. “I come to you for protection only to have you molest me.”

“Ah, now we are getting to it. Protection from whom, Jasmine?”

She blushed. “It was nothing, just a silly fancy really.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “A silly fancy that sends you rushing to my arms? You risk your reputation and your precious maidenhead to come to my tent where you know I may do anything I please with you?”

“I most certainly would not have come if I had known you would strip me and make me pay a penalty!”

“A small price to pay for my protection, Jasmine,” he teased. “You are welcome to seek another’s protection,
since you seem to hate me so much. Perhaps you would seek King John’s protection?” he asked lightly. He felt her begin to shake.

“No … Falcon … I seek your protection.”

“Then you didn’t come to seek me out because you love me. I’m merely the lesser of two evils,” he accused, knowing if he raised her temper she would forget her fear. “What’s the matter with your legs?” he asked, looking down with a slight frown.

“What do you mean?” she said, glancing down at her bared limbs.

“Is one fatter than the other or do they have that peculiar look because of your uneven knees … one is higher than the other?” He lifted her down from the chest. “Walk about for me so I can have a good look.” Stung by his criticism, she paraded before him in her shift to show him his error. He repressed the urge to tell her how exquisite she was. A young woman who had been told of her beauty every day of her life did not need compliments. To tease her he kept a critical look on his face as he judged the fine points of her legs. She was disturbed that he found her flawed and some of her confidence evaporated.

Finally he conceded, “It must have been a trick of the lamplight, they seem quite passable now I observe them more closely.”

She caught the amused gleam in his eyes and her anger rose immediately. “Only passable?” she demanded, hands on hips as she stood before him.

He reached out for her and pulled her against him. His lips brushed hers. “Vain little wench. You know your legs are absolute perfection. Does the rest of you match?” he whispered huskily as he caught a soft, round breast and cupped it in his palm.

She shivered at his touch and said sharply, “Stop playing
this cat-and-mouse game with me, de Burgh. Whatever it is you intend, do it, and have done!”

“You mean get it over with quickly while you close your eyes and grit your teeth? Ah, chérie, you haven’t the faintest idea about lovemaking, have you?” His powerful hands caressed her silken shoulders. “A night of love can have no time limits imposed upon it, no barriers of any kind can come between two as they merge and become one.” He stroked the back of his hand down the swell of her breast. “The whole night is separated into delicious phases, each uniquely enjoyable. There is the time before love”—his lips brushed her temple—“the time during love”—his lips brushed her again—“the time between the first and the second loving”—his fingers slipped the chemise off her shoulders—“and the time after love.” He kissed her eyelids. “The overture, the prelude, the performance, and the cadence.”

When she opened her eyes she saw he had her naked. Without another word he lifted her and sat her down in the water. She gasped as his hand dipped beneath the surface to grope about for the soap. She was trembling visibly as he lathered his hands and soaped her breasts erotically.

“Falcon, I came here to you so that I would not be seduced. I think of you as my protector,” she said in a small voice filled with trust.

At her soft words an aching tenderness began in his heart and spread throughout his chest. He knew he would shield her their whole lives if she would let him. He stood up and said gruffly, “Have your bath, love.”

He walked his usual rounds, checking on men and horses, then stood outside his tent until he saw her silhouette emerge from the tub and pull on her shift. As he lifted the tent flap and entered he saw her shiver from the cool night air. She moved the small brazier, which gave off little heat now, closer to the war chest and sat down
primly, clutching her cloak. She felt his bold eyes caress her body like a physical fondling. The bath had relaxed her and after the long day in the saddle she wanted nothing more than to go to sleep. She hoped he would be gentleman enough to give her his furs and bed himself down elsewhere.

“Have you ever slept on the ground?”

She sat up very straight and shook her head.

“Don’t worry,” he said softly, removing his shirt, “I will cushion you against its hardness.”

Her eyes flew open in indignation. “Are you hinting, de Burgh … are you dreaming? Please disabuse yourself of the notion I am about to share your bed!”

“Jasmine, you know if I decide to have your body tonight, you will have to do as I say.”

Her eyes were fixed on his hands, on the long slim fingers that had the strength to kill. “You have the strength to force me to your will!” she accused bitterly.

He shook his head regretfully and murmured, “Jasmine, when I make love to you …” He didn’t finish the sentence, but his words implied that it wouldn’t be under these circumstances.

She gave an inward sigh of relief and pulled her cloak tighter about her chilled body. He shrugged as he removed the remainder of his clothes and slipped under the furs. “Suit yourself,” he said, hiding amused eyes from her.

She sat for a whole hour without moving. Each minute seemed longer than the last. De Burgh was obviously sound asleep from the deep even breathing that came from the warm furs. Damn him to Hell, she was freezing! The last coal in the brazier had cooled and blackened long ago. How could the day have been so hot and the night so cold? she wondered wearily. What if she froze to death … while the author of her misery was totally oblivious to her dire peril? Did she dare to steal his furs
while he slept? She heard a rumble in the distance which her terrified mind identified as thunder. The next instant she slipped under the furs beside him as quietly as she possibly could. His whipcord arms were around her instantly, pulling her head down onto his shoulder. “Jassy …” he murmured softly as his lips brushed her temple, “have no fear.”

Instinctively she knew she was safe from everything in the whole world. His warmth became hers as she melted against him and sleep claimed her. Of course Falcon could not sleep, for the night held magic for him. He lay in exquisite torture, needing her more than he had ever needed a woman before, and yet his need to protect and cherish were greater than the demands of his body. He knew a deep, satisfying pleasure that she was here beneath his hand, trusting him implicitly. With the scent of her filling his head, he allowed his imagination full rein to run riot and indulge every fantasy as his blood ran like fire along his veins, pulsing his shaft until he thought the ache would kill him. He caressed a handful of her pale golden hair, kissed it, smelled it, tasted it, then bound it about his neck; chaining them together. He lifted the furs slightly so he could see her delicate pale breast through her shift pressed against the dark tan of his chest covered with the mat of black hair.

Their bodies made such a contrast it sent a deep thrill through him. He promised himself he would furnish their bedchamber with a very large mirror so he could watch their bodies when they made love. He rubbed the tip of his arousal against the silken skin of her thigh and shuddered at the feeling of pleasure it brought him. She turned toward him in her sleep and her soft breast thrust against his hand. He cupped it gently and dipped his head to taste its sweetness. He had to stop himself from sucking hard on the tempting, erect nipple, for it would surely waken her and she would withdraw from him.

He knew a need like he had never known before. It was an unbearable torture for him not to take her there and then, but he had promised her she would be safe with him. He would wait for their wedding night, but his willpower was not strong enough to forego the sensuality of touching her from head to toe. The deep need to feel her beneath him, between his thighs, overpowered him, and he straddled her carefully. Then he slowly crouched above her and let the silken head of his hard shaft slide across her breasts, up the valley between them, then he dared to proceed until it was a hairsbreadth from her lips. He was so sensitized there that when he felt her faint warm breath against the tip he thought he would go mad. He had thought he could stop at any time, but now he realized he had reached a point where he was out of control. Crouched above her, he fought a battle with his white-hot senses. He closed his eyes to blot out the enticing pale loveliness that provoked his manhood. His mind and his body were at war. It was slow, painful torture, but finally he forced his fiercely demanding flesh to withdraw and he lay back down beside her and willed his blood to cool. He couldn’t move; he was too weak with lust.

Just before dawn he slept. The change in his breathing pattern made Jasmine awake. She was covered with blushes as she untangled her hair from his possessive fingers and slipped from the furs.

Mary-Ann FitzWalter’s eyes were misty as Jasmine slipped into the small room Mary-Ann had shared with Estelle. “Oh, Jasmine, you spent the night with your lover. I am so happy for you, but oh how I envy you.” She sighed.

“Mary-Ann, Falcon de Burgh is not my lover! Our betrothal is a temporary arrangement I intend to get out of as soon as it is possible for me to do so.” Jasmine glanced quickly at Estelle, expecting an attitude of outrage
that she had slept in de Burgh’s tent, but Dame Winwood’s attitude toward Jasmine marrying the strong knight was undergoing a change. She saw the malignancy of the royal court. King John’s evil was pervasive and would contaminate almost everyone it touched. Jasmine would be better served as the cherished and protected wife of the powerful de Burgh. She had been kept safe so far, but Estelle knew of John’s insatiable appetites. He thought sex was power and as well as indulging in corrupting practices with his child-bride every day and night, he needed the venal conquest of every female who crossed his path. It was common knowledge that the wives of his closest sycophants and his nobles were his for the asking, and now his eyes were falling on their daughters as well. At first the men were outraged, but John had no conscience. He bribed, he deceived, and he threatened. They soon discovered his threats were not empty—he was capable of any atrocity and gave proof every day of his reign.

Berkhamsted Castle had made the Plantagenet king welcome not only because he owned it, but because they feared the rumors that were more numerous than whores on a Friday night in London. Since arriving seemingly exhausted, the shrewd Dame Winwood had gathered in the rumors from the lowest servant to the highest-ranking duchess in residence at Northampton as she had at Berkhamsted where they had lunched.

The clergy were absolutely outraged at King John’s sexual excesses, but the thing that really stuck in their ecclesiastic craws was that he was a law unto himself, reducing the power of the clergy to naught in church and in legal matters. Sin of sins, he was helping himself to their vast wealth.

They asked Hubert Walter, the Archbishop of Canterbury, to issue King John an ultimatum and bring him back under the church’s thumb, but the archbishop was
old and ailing and nothing official was done. Various churchmen spoke out against him, namely Geoffrey, the Archdeacon of Norwich and the Bishop of Worcester. Only John’s personal friend the Bishop of Lincoln stayed loyal to him. However, the weight of these churchmen was not as significant as Canterbury’s would have been, and John thumbed his nose at their condemnation and marked their names well for retribution.

The baronage was also on the verge of revolt. Their lives and possessions could be forfeit on a whim. John demanded money, he insisted that they ready themselves for war on a moment’s notice, and he demanded their sons as hostages for their good behavior. His strongholds of Corfe, Carisbrooke, and Windsor and Dover castles held the sons of England’s wealthy and powerful aristocracy as a safeguard that they would not revolt. It was an ancient custom and up until now an honorable one, but Hubert de Burgh had confided to his adored Avisa that John had gone too bloody far when he had asked him to blind his young nephew Arthur, so that he could never be brought to the throne.

Avisa, who hated John with a passion, now had her weapon. She opened her mouth to tell the tale to everyone who would listen. She added fuel to the fire by embroidering and exaggerating the things her lover told her in confidence. She said that Arthur, the rightful heir to the throne, was mysteriously missing and that some people even went so far as to accuse King John of disposing of his own nephew.