Juliana Garnett (23 page)

After a moment, she dared to glance at him. Strain cut
grooves on each side of his mouth; a desolation creased the corners of his eyes.

Shocked, she reached out a tentative hand, touched his chest. “Milord?”

His head turned; lashes lowered to hide bleak shadows. “There was a child. Aimée. Slain by Saxon outlaws.”

Barren tones, a recitation of the past, betraying no emotion—if not for the brief glimpse of torment in his eyes she might have thought he did not care.

He held up his hands, stared at them, flexed his fingers in idle exercise. His conversational tone chilled her as he said, “I hunted them down, every last man who had been there that day, every foul villain who had dared touch what was mine. Before I was done, they prayed for sweet death to claim them. I would do it again.”

An involuntary shudder racked her; he glanced at her, lowered his hands. “You would do the same, my fine lady of Ravenshed. Do not judge me.”

“No—I do not.… I would do the same.” Her unconvincing whisper drew a faint smile from him, a gesture lacking real amusement.

“I pray you are never put to the test. It is not a pleasant thing to lose one’s soul.”

18
 

Guy de Beaufort squinted against the bright prick of sunlight in his eyes. A rare English day, warm enough to ease the constant chill in his bones. Soft wind blew the stench of coal fires and raw iron up the steep slope to the lower bailey.

Nottingham Castle stretched its stone turrets to the sky, snagging an occasional cloud. Inside the bailey, booths and stalls crowded close to the walls. An air of festive chaos reigned. Vendors hawked their wares, boasting of the freshest eels, the finest pastries, the most beautiful silks.

Restless, Guy moved to a small square where jugglers performed, dancers moved to the music of flutes and lyres, wrestlers sweated and strained; a trained bear with a wide leather collar danced clumsily to a tune from a gittern. It amused Guy only for a short time before he moved on; waiting always scoured his temper.

He climbed the circular stairs to the outer walls. Mail-clad sentries patrolled the battlements, far removed from the excitement, sullen eyes forced to watch it. Guy felt no sympathy for them; by Matins, most of them would be drunk on new ale and puking in their boots.

From this vantage point he could see to the River Trent. It was a dizzying view. Between the castle and the river lay a sea
of silk tents and fluttering pennons, brilliant colors of barons and knights camped in comparative comfort in elaborate pavilions; the inns were full, lodgings crowded, and freemen and villeins sought shelter in caves or the surrounding woodlands.

Church bells struck the noon hour as Guy left the walls to wait by the middle gate. He was to meet Tré there. He leaned back against the rough wood of the stave wall; the sturdy construction, heated now by sun, felt warm against his back, even through his tunic. He crossed his arms over his chest, squinted against the light.

Thick black smoke boiled up from smithy fires, drifted on the breeze to sting eyes and nose; across the bailey, bowmen practiced, the
swisssh
and
thunk
of arrows hissing toward straw butts a constant sound. He watched them idly, mind leaping ahead to the morrow when he would fight in the tourney. A welcome change from inaction, a chance to fill his purse with something other than the king’s meager coin. It was the best way for a landless knight to acquire wealth if he was skilled enough.

Impatience rose apace with the sun. There was no sign of Tré. Time crawled, the sun rose higher; when it straddled the east tower, he left the gate for the middle bailey. Tré might be in his chambers, waiting just as impatiently.

Shadow swallowed him as he moved through a gatehouse filled with echoing voices as the guards kept the flow of people under minimal control. With the crowd, he passed under the lethal iron spikes of the portcullis raised by huge winches at each side. His eyes narrowed when he stepped out into the light again, adjusting slowly.

“Who are you looking for, Sir Guy?” The soft voice was light against his ear; he turned to see Lady Lissa. Her brow lifted. A faint smile was on her lush mouth as he surveyed her, a sweeping gaze that took her all in.

She wore a sideless surcoat of gold samite tied with silk laces at the hip, revealing form-fitting silk beneath. The low, round neck displayed a tantalizing expanse of creamy skin and rounded bosom. Her beautiful face was framed by blond hair bound in a gold mesh caul and cap.

“You,” he lied, and saw by her widening smile that she did
not believe him for an instant. There was no need for illusions with this lady; she had few of her own to muddle a man’s pleasure. He returned her smile, felt a flash of heat that had nothing to do with the sun. “I was searching for you, milady.”

“Yea, so you say, but I know better.” She tapped his chest lightly with a slender oak stick. He glimpsed entwined figures of mythical dragons and griffins intricately carved into the wood. “You do not have the look of a man searching for a woman. I know that look well, for I have seen it oft enough.”

A slow grin, a shrug that hitched up one shoulder. “I do not doubt that. You are the most lovely woman I have yet seen in all of Nottinghamshire.”

An arch of her brows, a slight smile on rosy lips: “Yet you resist my charms most easily. How can that be if I am so lovely?”

“Fear, milady,” he said promptly, and she laughed.

“Fear? Not you, Guy de Beaufort. You are rumored to be a most formidable knight who has won every tournament he entered. Whom would you fear?”

“Your husband.”

“Walter?” This time her laughter was incredulous and genuine, mirthful peals like sweet bells. “You jest, Sir Guy! My husband could not fight a dead ferret and triumph. His talents lie more in the wagering than the actual deed.”

Scorn laced her amused comments; her low opinion of her husband was obvious.

“Every man has his own talents, milady.”

“Yea, but some men have more—talent—than do others, Sir Guy.” Heavy lashes lowered over amber eyes; lips pursed in a sultry pout. “I fear me that I am alone, for my maidservant has disappeared, and there is no sign of my husband, as usual. La, I cannot even find my cousin in this crowd.”

Guy held out his hand. When she took it after only the slightest hesitation, he smiled. “Since you are unaccompanied, I will squire you safely about the castle.”

Eyes lifted to his; her smile deepened. “It would be most appreciated, Sir Guy.”

“There is much that can happen to a lady alone in an unruly crowd such as this.”

“Only,” she said so softly that he had to lean close to hear the words, “if the lady is extremely fortunate.”

Her meaning was clear. Guy’s pulse quickened. If he wanted her, she was his.
Christus
, but the temptation to ignore sanity, duty, and common sense was great.

Yet the lady was gazing at him with melting eyes, each breath a tantalizing lift of samite and the jeweled pin on her bosom. His gaze lingered on the soft curve of breasts mounding the material. She had been an itch in his cruck since he had met her at Ravenshed.

He blinked suddenly, recalled her earlier words, asked, “Did you say you cannot find your cousin, milady?”

Her head tilted; she nodded. “She was to meet me, but must have been detained.”

Guy smiled. It was obvious to him now: Tré had found the lady Jane more tempting than duty. He put his palm over the hand Lissa lay on his arm, pressed her fingers. “I know a place where it is more quiet.”

He drew her with him, steered a course toward the lower bailey. Before reaching it, he detoured down a narrow path that led around the foot of the inner walls, where bracken grew in wild tangles along the sandstone talus. Cut into one wall was a postern door that had been sealed shut; it formed an empty arch that was shadowed and hidden from view. Heavy vines looped over it, a drape of green leaves veiling thick mats of red, star-shaped stonecrop that grew in cracks and crevices. The pungent fragrance of cow parsley was reminiscent of a cattle byre.

Ducking into the shaded arch, he pulled Lissa with him, pressed her against the rough stone wall with his weight, and leaned into her. Open-mouthed, eager, she gasped with delight when he cupped her breasts in both hands and squeezed them. Moaning, she arched into his hands; her lips parted as she wet them with the tip of her tongue, igniting a fire deep in his belly.

Impatience made him rough; he touched her, kissed her open mouth, kneaded her breasts as he leaned harder into her. He could not think for the need that rose in him, hot, fierce,
driving out thought. Dimly, he knew he should be more careful, but Lissa of Gedling made him reckless.

“Guy …” a soft, breathy sigh, “please.…”

His hand went to his tunic, lifted the edge, fumbled at the tapes binding his hosen and braies. Against her mouth, tasting her, he muttered, “Are you certain?”

“Yea,” she murmured with a provocative smile, “I am most certain, fair knight. What of you?”

Any restraint he still possessed evaporated. He pushed up the rich cloth of her skirts, skimmed a hand along the sleek length of her bare thigh above her garters. Hot, damp, inviting—she spread her thighs.

Shoving his hips forward, he lifted her, pressed her back against the wall to impale her in a single, smooth thrust. Lissa cried out, clutched his shoulders; her legs wrapped around his waist and she buried her face in the angle of his neck and shoulder.

She was light in his arms, legs tangling in her skirts as he took them both to a swift release.

Drained, he stood half-propped against the stone arch, holding her. Slowly, he rose from the haze of repletion to become aware of his surroundings. Lissa’s breath was warm against his neck, her arms looped over him still. Her weight was slight, encumbered by soft folds of cotte and surcoat as she hung in his embrace like a silken butterfly.

Shifting, she lifted her head to gaze into his eyes for a long moment; birds chattered loudly in stone niches above their heads.

“You are overbold, Sir Knight.” She grazed his mouth with her lips, a feathery caress. “I did not dream you would be so dauntless.…”

He inhaled deeply, caught the faint scent of roses, let out his breath in a soft laugh. “I do not have to be asked twice when a beautiful lady beckons.”

“So I see.” Fingertips played across his cheek; he eased her down his body, a rustle of silk and wool. With her mouth against his jaw, she murmured softly, “You are a gallant knight, indeed.”

He released her, stepped back to retie his chausses and adjust
the sword and sword belt encircling his tunic. “I thought for a time you did not think well of me.”

She gave a flick of her fingers. “La, I did not know what to think of you. Now—I do.”

“We should return. Devaux will be looking for me ere long, and so might your husband be searching for you.”

Lissa readjusted the caul and cap atop her golden hair, a graceful, feminine act that snared his attention. She leaned out the archway to peer down the line of the stone wall; he followed her gaze. No one was in sight, save a squirrel with a red-plumed tail frisking beneath a ragged tuft of bracken.

When she turned back to look at him, a glint in her eyes shone like newly minted gold. His throat tightened. She was lovely: a brazen angel.
And wed to a Saxon baron.
He bludgeoned his desire into indifference.

Lissa leaned forward to smooth a fold of his tunic, her hand lingering on his chest; seductive lips curved into a promising smile.

“You are very quiet, Sir Guy. Are you displeased?”

“With you?” He caught her hand in his, held it fast as he looked into her eyes. Slowly, he lifted her hand, turned it over to press a courtier’s kiss on her pink palm. “Never.”

It was true. He was just waiting. Nothing in his life was ever simple. Females were always complication; pleasure always too brief; the luxury of trust nonexistent. He enjoyed Lissa of Gedling but would not trust her beyond the end of his arm.

A soft sigh, replete, extravagant, and she nuzzled his jaw with her nose. “Handsome knight … champion of love lists as well as the tourney.”

Practiced love talk; he recognized it, used it himself. His thumb slid over the curved bones of her wrist in a light caress. Mouth pressed against heated skin; his words were muffled against her faint pulse.

“This time my lance has won a worthy prize.…”

He held out his arm; after a brief hesitation, she lay her fingers on his forearm, accompanied him along the narrow dirt path in the shadow of the bailey wall. In thick brush to one side, a startled plover burst upward in a whir of wings. Lissa
shivered in the soft breeze that blew grit and the smells of the fair toward them.

Gray clouds scudded overhead to blot out the sun. Beyond the wall, a loud clatter broke the hush, followed by a Saxon oath.

Guy put out a hand with the intention of guiding Lissa in the other direction. Another curse sounded—a voice he knew too well:
Gervaise Gaudet.
His hackles rose, and so did suspicion.

A finger to his lips, he signaled Lissa to silence. Just a yard or two ahead was the end of the wall; a chink in the stone allowed soft words to filter through. This time he heard them plainly: