Heaven's Fire (22 page)

Thorne shook his head. “He hasn’t been the same since.”

Peter
had
seemed preoccupied... Nay, not preoccupied, Rainulf decided, regarding him thoughtfully. Haunted. Peter’s jaw clenched, and he quickly swallowed the contents of his cup. But then he returned his attention to Corliss, and the pain left his eyes.

Rainulf’s gaze sought out the young woman who had so captivated the grief-stricken knight. Corliss accepted a towel from a second page. As she dried her hands, she discreetly inspected her surroundings. Rainulf tore his eyes from her to follow her line of sight, trying to see the great hall of Castle Blackburn as if for the first time. It was a magnificent hall, round like the keep that surrounded it, handsomely plastered and wainscotted, and with a high, vaulted ceiling. A gallery, onto which many of the upstairs chambers opened, completely encircled the massive room. The floors were covered not with rushes, but with a scattering of colorful Saracen carpets, gifts from Queen Eleanor when she made Thorne a baron.

But the most remarkable aspect of the hall was its many tall, arched windows. It wasn’t their number or size that made Corliss’s mouth fall open, he was sure, but the fact that they were glazed—something she had undoubtedly never seen outside of a cathedral. Each one was fitted with a panel composed of dozens of panes of sea-green glass set into lead. The panels could be opened, and in fact, they all were, revealing a brilliant orange-gold sunset and allowing the summer evening’s warm breezes to circulate through the hall.

The table at which Rainulf and his companions sat was situated before a massive fireplace, larger even than that in his Oxford town house; the servants’ tables were arranged around the edge of the hall. Corliss’s attention was drawn first to the enormous hearth, in which a low fire flickered, and then to Rainulf. She met his gaze, her expression one of both amazement and amusement. With ingenuous deliberation, she made her laughing brown eyes go wide, just for the briefest moment, before Martine spoke to her and she turned away. Rainulf smiled, pleased by her disclosure of her amazement to him and him alone, warmed by the intimacy of it.

“She came with you, Rainulf?”

He turned to face Peter, sensing an undercurrent of disappointment beneath the civil question. “Aye.” He wished he didn’t know where this was leading.

Peter leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Is she your mis—”

“Nay!” Rainulf said, a bit too sharply. “I’m offering her protection from someone who would do her harm. She’s naught to me but... a friend.”

“A friend,” said Thorne, with a glimmer in those blue Saxon eyes. “Of course.”

Rainulf had taken Thorne and Martine aside when he returned from his ride and explained the situation, but asked them not to discuss the details with others. For this reason, only his sister and brother by marriage knew of Corliss’s humble origins and their living arrangement. But despite his protestations to the contrary, they both apparently still thought of her as his lover.

Rainulf looked back at Corliss chatting with his sister and the squires and ladies’ maids gathering around the sink. He heard her throaty laughter as she made conversation with those highborn attendants, and felt both pride and a certain measure of vague discomfort at the ease with which she handled herself.

“Is she marriageable?” Peter asked.

Marriageable!
Rainulf stared at the handsome young knight who, judging from his sincere expression, was completely serious. “She has no property,” Rainulf said.

“I have no need of property. Thorne’s granted me a choice holding. Has she a husband somewhere?”

Rainulf heard himself say, “She’s widowed.”

“And not promised to anyone?”

Waving over the boy with the jug, Rainulf mumbled, “Nay. She’s...” He grimaced and shook his head as the page filled his cup with brandy. “Nay.”

Martine and Corliss and the rest of the ladies approached the table, the squires behind. Peter smiled and tossed back his sandy mane as he rose, his gaze fixed on Corliss. The men all stood as the ladies took their seats.

Martine introduced “Lady Corliss” to the knights and motioned for her to sit next to Rainulf. He saw the relief in Corliss’s smile as she walked over to him, and felt gratified that she viewed his nearness as a source of comfort in this strange place.

Her silken gown rustled as she settled down beside him, keeping her back straight and her chin raised, just as he had shown her. A warm, evocative scent rose from her and enveloped him like an enchanted mist. There was something darkly exotic about the scent, something compelling and enigmatic that reminded him of the East—of fragrant blossoms that opened only at night, of aromatic spice markets, and hot, swirling windstorms.

Martine, seated across the table from him, met his gaze and smiled in a self-satisfied way, then cocked her eyebrows as if to say,
Well? What do you think of my handiwork?
She’d dressed and adorned Corliss just for him, he realized. The intoxicating perfume rising from Corliss’s warm skin was one of Martine’s obscure herbal concoctions. The sapphires encircling her slender throat, the tiny gold rings flashing on her tapered fingers, catching his eye again and again, were all part of Martine’s vision.

Smiling politely, Rainulf nodded and raised his cup toward his sister, acknowledging the skill with which she had transformed his—how had Thorne put it?— smooth little pebble into a precious gem.

Peter cleared his throat. “My lady?”

Corliss, seemingly oblivious to the knight, thanked the page who poured her wine and took a sip.

“My lady? Lady Corliss.”

She lowered her goblet slowly, her expression of surprise giving way to a gracious smile. “I’m sorry, Sir Peter. I didn’t realize you were speaking to me.”

He returned the smile. “Of course I was speaking to you. You might as well be the only person at this table, for your beauty is so blinding that I can barely see the others.”

Rainulf gulped down his brandy and gestured grimly for another.

*   *   *

Corliss watched Rainulf hand the two books to his sister and then slowly circle the table and return to his seat next to her. She smiled and pretended interest as Martine exclaimed over the gifts, all the while keeping a close watch on Rainulf out of the corner of her eye.

He was drunk. Very drunk. He’d barely nibbled at his supper, and now his almond-spice cake sat untouched before him while he poured himself yet another goblet of wine. She’d often seen men drink to excess, but never Rainulf Fairfax. Once, he’d told her how much he hated the unbalanced feeling that came with drunkenness, and she’d gotten the impression it almost frightened him. Yet he’d spent this entire meal getting steadily—and, it seemed, deliberately—intoxicated.

He was the only person at the table who was truly in his cups, but she seemed to be the only one who recognized his condition. Conversation had been lively during the meal, and no one seemed to notice Rainulf’s silence, or the increasing lack of focus in his eyes. All his movements were slow and deliberate, as if it was important to him to seem his normal, coolheaded, unflappable self. He’d fooled the others.

But not me
. Perhaps it was because she sat right next to him, and could see the slight unsteadiness in his careful gestures. Or perhaps it was simply that she’d come to know him so well—too well to be taken in by his feigned sobriety.

“My lady? Did you hear me?”

She started, and met Sir Peter’s intent gaze. “Aye... She grinned sheepishly. “Nay.”

He smiled compassionately. “You’re fatigued from your journey. I understand. I had asked you if you would care to join me for some hawking tomorrow afternoon.”

“Hawking?” She saw Rainulf’s knuckles turn white as he gripped his goblet, then brought it to his mouth and emptied it swiftly. “I’m afraid I’ve never... I don’t know how—”

“Oh, I’ll show you everything you need to know. And the baron can supply you with a gauntlet and a suitable bird. What say you, Thorne? Have you a tame little falcon for my lady to hunt with?”

Corliss saw the Saxon’s amused gaze flick toward Rainulf before turning to her. “I’ve got a lovely little merlin who’ll serve you well, my lady. Meek as a newborn pup—till she lands her prey, of course. Then she shows her true colors. Falcons need meat like they need to breathe.”

Thorne popped the last bit of his cake into his mouth and dusted off his hands, his azure eyes trained on Rainulf. “No creature can keep its true needs in check forever. One can go years pretending they don’t exist. But nature despises pretense, and eventually the desire to satisfy them becomes... overpowering. Impossible to resist.”

Rainulf glowered at him. Thorne grinned and said to Corliss, “The merlin’s name is Guinevere, after Arthur’s queen. I’ll introduce you to her on the morrow.”

With a mumbled “Excuse me,” Rainulf stood. For a moment he clutched at the tablecloth. His wavering gaze took in the diners and then rested on Corliss. He started to say something, but then seemed to change his mind. Beneath the wine-induced haze in his eyes she thought she saw a hint of uneasiness, even dread.

He hates being drunk. It scares him
. She watched him as he took his leave, crossing the great hall with cautious, unhurried steps.

“Do you play chess, Lady Corliss?”

She glanced briefly at Sir Peter, then returned her attention to Rainulf as he made his way to the stairwell. “Nay, I never learned how.”

“Then I’d be honored if you’d let me teach you after supper.”

“Tonight?” she asked distractedly as Rainulf ducked into the stairwell and disappeared from view.

“Aye. Unless... That is, if you’re too tired from your trip—”

“I am, I’m afraid.” She rose, and the men all stood. “More tired than I’d realized. I hate to retire so early, but...”

“Of course,” Peter said. “But you must let me walk you upstairs.”

“Nay, don’t trouble yourself.”

“But it’s no—”

“Please. I’ll be fine.”

“But—”

“What time shall I meet you tomorrow, Sir Peter?”

“Ah.” Her ruse worked; he left off arguing and smiled in anticipation. “After the noon meal? At the hawk house?”

“I shall be there.” She bid the company a hasty good night and followed Rainulf into the torchlit stairwell.

Halfway up the circular stairs, she came upon him sitting on one of the cold stone steps and leaning against the wall.

“Oh, Rainulf.”

He groaned when he saw her.

“Let me help you.” She went to lift him under the arms, but he grabbed her hands.

“I’m fine,” he said thickly.

“You’re not fine. You’re drunk.”

“Nay, I’m fine. Just don’t make me move.”

“You can’t stay here.” She tried to raise him up by the hands, but he resisted her, pulling her down until she sank to her knees on the step beneath him, his long legs flanking her.

“I can damn well stay wherever I want.”

She’d never heard him sound so surly. “Come on,” she said, struggling to her feet. “I’m taking you to—”

“Stop it!” Releasing her hands, he seized her shoulders and lowered her roughly. “I just...” He shook his head helplessly. “I can’t...”

She made her voice gentle and tried to rise again. “Rainulf, please.”

“No!” He shoved her to her knees so abruptly that one side of her gown slid down her arm. With a seemingly great effort he focused on the crumpled silk beneath his hand, and the shoulder that he had inadvertently exposed.

Very slowly his hand moved up, hot and slightly rough against the bare skin of her upper arm. She shivered as he gripped her naked shoulder. He caressed her, his expression one of mystification, as if he were watching the unfathomable actions of another person. His thumb glided along the shaft of her collarbone, and back again, robbing the breath from her lungs. She felt dizzy, and as he swayed slightly, so did she.

She saw his throat move as he swallowed. Then his expression sobered and he righted her sleeve, smoothing the purple silk carefully over her shoulder. He sighed and closed his eyes, his hands urging her toward him until she was crushed against him, his chin resting on her head. She thought she heard him murmur her name, and something that sounded like “I’m such a fool,” as his arms encircled her.

She wrapped her arms around him and pressed her ear to his chest, listening to the erratic thudding of his heart beneath the wool tunic. “Shh... You’re just drunk.”

“I was a fool to get drunk,” he whispered.

“‘Tis no great sin. Everyone does it once in a while.”

“I hate it, though,” he mumbled.

“I know.” She looked up at him. “But you’ll feel better once you’re in your own bed. Try closing your eyes while I walk you back to your chamber. I’ll bet that’ll do the trick.”

He shook his head, but she pressed her fingertips to his eyelids and forced him to do as she asked. “There. Keep them closed.” This time, when she stood and lifted him under the arms, he rose willingly, leaning on her shoulder as she walked him up the stairs and into his lamplit chamber, closing the door behind them.

“This way.” She guided him to his big bed, swept aside the curtains, and helped him to lie down on his back. “Let’s get you comfortable.” Sitting next to him, she pulled his boots off and set them on the floor, then reached for his belt and hesitated. He had his eyes closed, his face turned away. Biting her lip, she took hold of the silver buckle and began working the thick leather belt through it, but it didn’t slide easily, and the buckle was designed in some peculiar way that she couldn’t figure out. As she fumbled with it, she became aware of his eyes on her, studying her face as she struggled to undress him, and her cheeks stung.