Anita Mills (25 page)

The expression on his face sent a new shiver down her spine. “You do not drink,” she chided, trying to still the racing of her heart.

He lifted his cup then, pausing before he touched it to his lips. Looking over the rim, his eyes met hers and held. “To the bride of Dunashie.” He drank deeply, letting one heat fire the other within him.

“May she give you sons of your body,” she whispered as her gaze lowered to the black, curling hairs on his chest, then below. “Sweet Mary,” she murmured, embarrassed.

“Nay, ‘tis enough that she comes willing to me,” he managed, reaching to take her cup. His hands shaking, he set both vessels on the small table beside the bedstead, then eased his body down into the depths of the feather mattress. The ropes creaked from his weight. Slowly, deliberately, he bent his head to hers. “I’d taste fire again, Elizabeth,” he said softly.

Her lips parted eagerly beneath his, giving him possession of her mouth, and she tasted of the spiced wine she’d drunk. And although his skin was cold from the air, there was heat between them wherever it touched hers. The thought crossed her mind that she was as tinder before the flame, and it no longer mattered that she was of Rivaux and he but of Dunashie, not when there was this fire ready to consume them.

It was as though her whole body answered his, returning kiss for kiss, caress for caress. But this time he wanted more than before: this time he wanted her to cry out, to show him what he did to her. He wanted more than coupling between them—he wanted union. Despite her protest, he left her mouth to nuzzle her hair where it spilled its rosy scent over the pillow. Her restless hands stroked his head, urging a return to her lips. Instead he eased downward, resting his ear against one breast while his scarred palm lightly brushed the other. Her breath caught like a sob as the nipple went rigid under his hand, and her body trembled beneath his head. He could hear her heart pound more loudly than a workman’s hammer.

She tried to twist, to turn her body against his. Sweet Mary, but did he not know she was ready for more than this? That she would have the other and be done?

But he was not to be denied the exploration, the awakening that came with the exquisite wait. Even as her fingers tightened in the thick waves of his hair, he turned his head to her breast, darting his tongue to tease it before he tasted. His hand moved over her ribs to rest lightly on her belly. As his mouth possessed her nipple, he could feel her stomach tauten. He sucked, letting his fingertips stroke the smooth satin of her skin, tracing ever lower until she could stand it no longer.

The heat flooded her body almost unbearably, and it was as though every sense she possessed was centered beneath his mouth and hand. She moved restlessly, twisting under him, teasing him with what she would have of him until finally his hand found her. She moaned as her legs opened to give him access to her body.

He’d meant to go on, to stroke until she fell slack beneath his hand, but his own body would not be further denied. ’Twould have to be the next time that he showed her how good it could be between them.

Her moan heightened to a cry as he entered her, and from there it seemed he had no mind. There was no Aveline, no past to forget, and no future to worry over. There was only the woman beneath him, there was only the fiery melding of flesh against flesh, the ceaseless ride to ecstasy as she writhed and bucked against him.

Her breath came in great gasps, and still she strained to have what he would give her. Her hands clutched at his back and her nails dug into his flesh, urging him ever onward until at last he plunged over that final edge. His cries and hers intermingled until, spent at last, they returned to earth together, their wet bodies entwined. It was a long time before either could breathe evenly.

He looked down to see her eyes were still closed. Her black hair lay about her head in a tangled halo against the pillow, and her forehead was beaded with perspiration. He must have been grinning, for when at last her eyes opened to meet his, her face reddened.

“ ’Twas the ride of my life,” he said simply.

Reluctantly, he separated from her and rolled onto his side. Sliding an arm over her, he pulled her closer and lay quietly for a time. She was silent, savoring the intimacy between them, the warmth of his body behind hers, the strength of his arm over hers. Even if she was not loved she was wanted, and that was more than she’d thought to get in this world. She closed her thighs tightly, holding what she could of his seed. God willing, she would conceive and have nothing left to prove to Reyner of Eury.

Giles wrapped his arms more closely about her, holding her. For this night at least, she had been his buckler against the demons that haunted his bed. He nuzzled her soft, fragrant hair, and murmured sleepily, “Ah, Elizabeth of Rivaux, but you are a marvel to me.” When she made no answer he roused slightly to ask, “Would you that I aided you to clean yourself?”

“Nay. I’d not move yet—I’d not lose a babe, if there be a chance of one.”

It was another reminder of what Ivo of Eury had done to her, and he could almost ache for her. “Nay, Elizabeth, I’d value you for more than that,” he whispered against her ear. “From this night forward, you are flesh of my flesh.”

She turned her face into the pillow that he would not see the tears that filled her eyes. The lump in her throat was almost too large for speech. “Every man would have a son of his blood,” she managed to say despite the tightness there.

“Aye.” He shifted his weight, propping himself up on an elbow to look at her. “Jesu, Elizabeth, but I’ll not think you barren if you do not conceive forthwith.”

“And if never?” She dared to look again at him.

“I think the fault was Ivo’s. But if it was not, then I will accept it as God’s punishment for my sins, not yours.” He forced an encouraging smile and brushed her wet cheek with the back of his hand. “Nay, I’d not get a child so soon, sweeting, for then you would leave me.”

“Giles, I swore—”

“I’d not hear it,” he cut in impatiently. “I’d not speak of that.” Abruptly he lay back down, this time to stare unseeing into the blackness of the canopy above them.

Thinking she’d angered him, she sighed. Finally, when he did not speak again, she turned to face him. “Then I’d speak of something else, my lord—I’d have you tell me of whence you are come.”

“ ’Tis overlate to ask. Holy Church will not set aside a marriage for that.”

“I’d know.”

She had the right to ask it of him, and she deserved to know what she had wed. He nodded, then answered, “I cannot match you in blood, Elizabeth— nay, none could.”

“Yet you have said you are as Norman as I,” she reminded him.

It was his turn to sigh, for she would surely think she’d taken a man beneath her father’s notice. “Aye. My mother was a distant kinswoman to the Morays on her father’s side, and she was related to the Giroux on her mother’s.”

“And your father?”

There was a long silence before he responded. “My sire was a Scots borderer, and his sire before him but the son of a Norman knight come to make his fortune in the Conqueror’s train. My mother’s family said he was knighted for battle rather than blood, but I know not. All I know is that he was given Dunashie for his service.” He met her eyes almost defiantly. “Is there aught else you would know?”

“Are you bastard-born?” Her words hung between them, and she wished as soon as she’d said it that she could call them back. “Nay, I did not mean—”

“Does it make any difference?”

“Nay.”

“Well, I am not. My sire wed my mother much as I have done—he stole her from her family, and, for that he died. She bore me in Moray’s keep, hence I am called by the place.”

“And she died?”

“Aye.”

“And yet this is your patrimony. Surely the earl—”

He gave a harsh, mirthless laugh. “I was as naught there, Elizabeth. When King Henry would have surety of him, my mother’s kinsman sent me for hostage to the English court, with naught but Willie for company. I lived, knowing that it mattered not to Moray if I died,” he recalled bitterly. “ ’Twas a jest that he sent me, but King Henry did not know of it. Had the peace been broken, they’d have shed no tears for me. As ’twas, I am left with no love for England’s court.”

Her heart went out to him as the image of a boy alone in King Henry’s court came to mind. “You were but a child then.”

“I was but five and Willie ten when I went. I did not see the land of my birth, nor did I return for my patrimony until I was fourteen.”

“And yet you took it back.”

“ ’Twas given to another in mine absence. Like a fool, I sued in royal court, thinking I would regain Dunashie because I had the right.” His black eyes grew hard and distant, almost frightening her. “Kings and courts care not for that,” he told her. “ ’Tis their own interests they serve. ’Twas argued back and forth between us for nigh to two years, until I could see I would be an old man ere ’twas decided, if ever. Hamon of Blackleith boasted to me that he’d be dead ere Dunashie came to me, and in that at least, he had the truth. Willie and I gathered the malcontents from castles between here and Alnwick, and in the night, we burned him out of here.”

“Holy Jesu—he died?”

“Aye.”

“And King David let you keep it?”

“Hamon’s family perished with him, every one of them, making the court case indisputable. And to a king, one strong vassal is not so different from another. I paid a fine to the crown, and what was left of Dunashie was mine.”

“And so they called you Butcher,” she said softly.

“Aye—for that and other things.” Again, there was the bitter, derisive laugh. “What I have, I have taken—on both sides of the border. I gained enough power that de Guelle wished to ally himself with me. ‘Twas wrong of me to agree to take Aveline, for she was there the night Hamon died.”

She lay very still. What had he said of Aveline’s father? That he’d perished over her dowry? Sweet Mary, but what manner of man had she wed? It did not matter now—it could not. He was her husband in fact and deed.

When she said nothing he took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. “Is there aught else you would know of me?” he asked again.

“Nay.” Then, realizing that he watched her closely, she reached out to touch his face gently. “You were but a boy then, Giles, and ‘tis done. If I asked, ‘twas that I did but wish to know what we will give to our son.”

His eyes searched her face, fearing that she lied to him, that she was afraid of him now, but she met his gaze steadily, satisfying him. “And you bear him, I will try to give to him all that I have won. I’d not have him do what I have done, Elizabeth—I’d not have him hear the cries I have heard.”

“You did but what you had to do, my lord. In his time, he will do the same. God willing, his task will not be so great.” Moving closer, she laid her head against his shoulder. “I fault you not for anything you have said this night.”

His arms closed about her, holding her. “ ’Tis why I chose you,” he murmured.

Eleanor of Nantes’ letter reached Guy of Rivaux outside Beaumont, where her messenger finally tracked him. There, surrounded by envoys from Geoffrey of Anjou and numerous Norman lords, he read it with disbelief. Not wanting to betray any weakness before the Angevins that might jeopardize the Empress’s cause, he withdrew to his tent to consider how best to aid his daughter. In the end, he did what to him would have been unthinkable a scant two years before—he sent for his son.

Knowing only that something ill had befallen Elizabeth, Richard rode posthaste from Celesin, where he’d gone to issue his call to arms, to his father’s side. Arriving shortly after dawn, after an arduous two- days’ ride over mud-mired roads, he flung his tired body onto a bench in Guy’s water-soaked tent. Guy, roused from sleep, handed him the letter.

At first he glanced over it impatiently, then as its meaning sank in he reread his grandmother’s message aloud, his anger growing with every word.

Richard looked up, meeting his father’s troubled eyes. “Jesu, Papa!
I’d hang him for this—nay, I’d flay him! How can this be?” When Guy did not answer, he returned to the reading.

“The sons and daughters he would give her!” Richard exploded in disgust. “Afore God, but this Scot overreaches himself! Nay, but she is born of Guy of Rivaux and Catherine of the Condes, and I’d not see her given thus!”

Guy, who’d vented his own anger in much the same manner, shook his head. “He asked, and I denied him,” he pointed out dryly. “This time, he came not to me.”

“Aye.”

Sucking in his breath to calm his temper, Richard realized that anger served them nothing now. To his father, for whom Elizabeth had long been the favorite, this was an even greater blow than the discovery that her earlier marriage had been a miserable one. He exhaled slowly, letting his fury escape, then he finished Eleanor’s letter.