Lord of the Mist (24 page)

She raised her fine dark eyes to his. An instant heat
coursed through him.

Luke and Marion…they no longer mattered—not this day, nor
this hour. One thing was clear to him, though he must keep it to himself.

This woman was all he wanted or needed.

“What are you doing here?” Cristina asked in a tart voice.

“What happened?” Durand swung his leg across the front of
his horse and slid from the saddle. The ravens scattered. He went down on his
haunches and picked about the ruined boxes.

“A rope split and my boxes fell off the packhorse.” There
was no welcome in her manner.

He plucked a length of twine from the mire. “This end is
cleanly cut, Cristina.”

She shrugged. “I must take the babe in by the fire.”

“Might I join you?”

“Nay! We’re by the road, my lord, and any who pass would see
your horse.”

“Then I’ll stable my horse, Cristina. I imagine I still
remember how.”

Cristina opened her mouth, then shut it, and shrugged. She
rested her cheek on Felice’s head.

“What’s going on here?” He could not help the anger coloring
his voice.

Was he really angry at her—or at Luke?

“What, my lord?” Her voice dripped the vinegar of a sour
wine. “The queen commanded me. Was I to say her nay? She pointed out quite
clearly that Lady Nona was to be mistress of Ravenswood and any other
mistress
was a burden. Surely, you know that? You do know all that transpires at
Ravenswood, do you not?”

“I think I know more of Philip’s court than my own keep.”
His mount sensed his agitation and danced in place, the heavy hooves clomping
near the devastation of her boxes. “And so you took Felice and hastened here?”

Her face softened and she kissed Felice’s head. “The queen
had me escorted here. So convict me only of protecting myself, my lord. Is
there aught more I could have done?”

“You could have come to me,” he said gently.

How much was betrayed in those simple words?

His desire for her. Her distance from him.

She dropped her gaze and shook her head. “I thought you
approved.”

“Approved?” The memories of her body beneath his were too
raw and immediate for him to be less than completely honest. He could not
deceive her—or himself. The power lay with the king, some with him, none with
her.

Anger died, to be replaced by some other emotion that she
had not sought him out and laid her cares at his feet.

“I knew nothing of the queen’s scheme.” He shifted his
attention back to her belongings. “Will you tell me who did this?”

When she did not answer, he pointed to the ruined plants
crushed in the yard. “I find myself uncommonly talented in naming these plants.
Lavender there. Violets. Roses.” Then his gaze swung back to her. “And I am
also uncommonly talented in reading the tale in little evidence. This was no
accident. Now what happened here?”

Only silence met his query—a very stubborn silence. He knew
her well enough now to know she would be silent only to protect someone. In
this case he suspected she was protecting him. She probably thought he would
dash off with drawn sword and try to exact a punishment. She was right.

He unhooked the heavy purse at his belt and held it out.
“Then I shall ferret it out on my own. Replace what is lost and keep what
remains for the care of the child.”

“For the care of
the
child?” she stepped toward him.
Despite the rain, fire snapped in her eyes and words. “For the care of your
child!
Your
child. When will you acknowledge her? She may have caused
your wife’s death, she may be naught but a female, yet she is
your
child. You are responsible for her, and she is precious! Would that I had such
a daughter!”

Her words smote him with the force of any weapon man might
wield. “Go inside, Cristina, ere you become chilled.”

Her mouth opened, then closed with a snap. She turned and
crossed to the cottage door. He led his mare to the stable and groomed the
horse, using the time to contemplate what he must say to her.

Offering the purse was clumsy.

Durand skirted her muddy belongings and entered the cottage.

She stirred a small cauldron bubbling at the hearth. “What
are you cooking?” he asked. He draped his muddy mantle over a bench and placed
his gauntlets on the hearth stones to dry.

“I am washing clothes, my lord.”

“With such a curious smell, I am thankful ‘tis not supper.”
He grinned, but she did not react to his jest.

* * * * *

Cristina had no humor left. She could not tell him she had
naught left but the gown she stood up in. The rest was irreparably stained with
the mud of the stable yard. She had not even a penny to purchase some of the
fine lengths of cloth on Simon’s shelves to remedy the situation.

This made it doubly hard to refuse Durand’s purse.

Durand sat on the floor by a thick sheepskin on which Felice
lay. “You’re the only one to take me to task for my neglect of her.” He prodded
Felice in the belly with his finger. Her limbs kicked the air. The babe was a
living reminder that Marion had sought comfort or love in someone else’s arms.
But ‘twas time he ceased to blame her for what was naught of her doing. “I will
leave the purse for
my
daughter’s care.”

Cristina’s dazzling smile amply rewarded him; then she
ducked her head and plied the wooden paddle in the wash.

Her gown clung to her body from the heavy, damp heat. He
cleared his throat. “Your calling me to account is but one thing I admire in
you,” he said.

A light blush colored her cheeks. “What have I done, my
lord, but state what you already knew?” She used her stick to lift some article
of clothing and drop it from the boiling pot to a barrel of cool water.

“You stood by your marriage vows, despite what I imagine was
a powerful dislike and sense of shame.”

“Dislike?” Cristina wiped the sweat from her brow with the
back of her hand. She removed the leather thong holding her hair back. He
watched her lift her hair and let the air cool her neck. The action raised her
full breasts and drew his gaze to the long line of her neck. The simple action
aroused him.

She pulled her hair over one shoulder and said, “I wanted to
run at every moment. But he was my sworn husband…and my only hope of a family.”

“You wanted that so much? A family?” Durand watched her
intently.

“I have wanted nothing else. You cannot understand, I am
sure, what it is to have no children—to wish and pray for them, but have the
prayers go unanswered.” She looked down at Felice, and her expression softened.
“A child loves you without condition.”

“Only a child can love in such a manner,” he said gently.

“Aye.” She returned to her work.

He changed the painful subject by returning to a count of
her strengths. “And you stood without flinching whilst those of lesser honor
accused you of theft.”

This time she merely shrugged. “What else could I do?”

“Your head was high. You did not allow your spirits to
falter. Some men are not so brave.”

“Some men would offer to stir this pot,” she said with a
smile.

He got to his feet and took the stick from her. She worked
at rinsing the garment she had removed from the boiling water. Sweat broke on
his brow as he swirled his stick through the soapy wash water. “I would not
want to do this each day,” he said.

“Remember that when you muddy your hem.” She pointed at his
mantle.

“Aye. I’ll give my women a penny each when I return, lest
they curse me over their washtubs.”

With a soft laugh she pulled the garment from the rinse
water and wrung it out. Then she shook it and draped it over a rope she had
strung across the end of the cottage storage area.

Durand recognized the garment from their time together in
the west tower. The soft linen shift was so sheer it did little to conceal her
sweet form. Now it was blotched with dark stains. He strode to the garment and
lifted it, spreading it out that he might see it more clearly. “I was most fond
of this shift. What happened?”

“‘Twas in the box that fell from the horse.”

“Cristina,” Durand said, placing his hands on her shoulders.
How small and delicate she was. He almost asked her again who had destroyed her
belongings, but realized he could easily discover who had escorted her here.
She was protecting him from something. “If you say ‘tis how it happened, then
‘tis how it happened.”

“I want no more trouble.” Her eyes entreated him to let it
rest.

“And I want you to take Felice and go. Mayhap to Winchester
or to one of your family.”

Her shoulders went stiff. “Take Felice?”

He gently massaged her shoulders. “Aye. If you remain here,
you and Felice will be pawns to the royal pleasure. I want to know that you
both are settled whilst I am in France. I know that in your loving hands,
Felice will be safe. When you are gone, you will be quickly forgotten by those
who might wish you ill.” His hands were magic.

“The king will not forget so valuable a child,” she said.

“For a while he will,” he assured her. “He’ll have a kingdom
to consider, not a child and her nurse. I’ll be better able to direct Felice’s
future when this foray against Philip is done.”

She wanted to shout with laughter. Durand could not know of
the king’s proposition or he would not be sending her into his snare at
Winchester

Durand soothed the aches and pains of hurts both inside and
out. A mad urge to lean back into his arms swept over her.

Cristina stepped away from him instead. “The queen also
wishes a say in Felice’s future. Now, excuse me, my lord. I-I…have something I
must do,” she said, but did not wait upon his pardon.

She climbed the ladder to the second story. After rummaging
in her meager belongings, she found what she wanted. But before she could lift
the vial to her lips, Durand appeared on the ladder.

In a lithe leap he was on her, dashing the vial to the
floor. “
Jesu!
What are you doing?”

Cristina stared down at the small wet stain on the wooden
floor, then looked up at him, a stricken look upon her face.

He gripped her shoulders and shook her. “What was it?
Poison?”

She covered her lips with her fingertips and her face paled.
“Poison?” She shook her head. “You misunderstand.”

“Sweet heaven. Explain it to me then.”

“I must see to Felice,” she said, and broke out of his
embrace. He caught her at the ladder.

He put himself between her and the way down. “She’ll make
herself known; doubt it not. Now explain what you were doing.” He held out the
vial.

Sorrow flitted across her face before she spoke. “I was
resisting you.”

“What?” Durand dropped his hands to his sides. The vial
slipped from his fingers to roll away. “You were resisting me?”

Cristina snatched up a length of linen, knelt, and wiped
away the wet stain. “Aye, ‘tis a simple matter to make a resistance potion. Any
good herbalist can do it.”

Durand shook his head and paced about the small sleeping
space surrounded by stores and goods from cloth to casks of pickled herring.
“You were resisting me.
Mon Dieu
. Would that you had made such a potion
for me weeks ago.”

She sat back on her heels and dropped the cloth, her
expression stricken.

“I can still do so, my lord.” The words were like thorns on
her tongue.

“Nay, resistance is not what I desire.” He raked his hands
through his hair. “I thought you had poison. That you wanted to end… What is
the matter with me? You, of all women, do not lack courage.”

He extended his hand. Hers was cool and smooth in his. He
pulled her to her feet. They stood there, hands clasped. “Do you truly wish to
resist me?” he asked softly.

In answer she tugged her hand away and headed for the
ladder. He followed her down. Felice lay nestled in her sheepskin, eyes closed,
lips moving as if she suckled in her sleep.

“You have not answered me,” Durand said when Cristina took
up her stick and stirred the laundry with great vigor. “Do you want to resist
me?”

She sighed and looked at him over the rising steam. “Verily,
you are not the smartest man in Christendom, are you?”

Her insult made him grin. “Lest I completely shame myself,
let me guess why you felt a need to drink a resistance potion.”

All signs of amusement left his face. Cristina thought him
the finest man she had ever seen. Every line of his face, from his stubborn jaw
to his noble nose, reminded her that his birth and ancestors destined him for
another, more worthy woman.

Durand pulled the paddle from her hand and cast it aside.
“You took a resistance potion because you are as hopelessly bewitched by me as
I am by you. But, in truth, you do not want to resist this thing between us any
more than I.”

She shook her bowed head.

He folded her into his embrace. The back of her gown was
damp beneath his hands. “The king has plans for me, else you would be mine,
claimed this instant, part of my body and blood.”

How his words touched her with joy and equally with sorrow.

“I understand,” she said, the words barely making it past
her tongue. “You must act for your sons, as all barons do.”

“I did not speak lightly when I said you’re to take Felice
and go. Besides the king and queen there is someone here who aided Simon, and
that person is still unknown. Until I return, I will not rest easy with you
here unprotected. I shall have Father Laurentius will arrange everything that
your days shall be filled with joy. Never will you want for anything from now
until the day you die.”

He did not understand. There would be no joy without him.
And that thought pierced the shield about her heart.

She squeezed his waist and rubbed her nose on his chest. “We
will miss you.” How little the words meant when she wanted to cry out at the
unfairness of it all.

He tipped up her chin. “I spoke to the king in hopes he
might find Lady Nona another husband. He did not look kindly on my wish to be
shed of her. In truth there are many who might make a fine match for her, but
John will use this as a stick to beat me into submission. Should I refuse to
wed Lady Nona, John will seize both her property and mine.”

Cristina went to the window and threw open the shutters. The
rain had stopped, but the sky was still filled with clouds. The view was not
the heady one from the high towers of Ravenswood, but still, it soothed her.

He had no choice but to wed Lady Nona. The fact that he had
tried to slip from the king’s plans polished some of the raw edge off her pain.

She looked over her shoulder at Felice. She knew it was
likely the babe would wake when it was least propitious, but she wanted this
last moment with him.

He went to her and hugged her, but loosely. His heart beat
with a slow thud against her cheek.

“We have said this before,” she began. “And if I had drunk
the potion, I might not say it now, and yet each time I mean it.” Cristina
leaned back to see his expression. Her heart raced. “I wish with all my heart
that we might… That is…”

“Just once more,” he finished for her, then settled his lips
on hers. Every fiber of his being flashed hot when she moved her body against
his. He kissed down the damp line of her throat and chest, down her middle
until he knelt before her.

He ran his hands up the backs of her legs to her hips as his
mouth pressed to the apex of her thighs.

To do just this, on her skin, to breathe her essence, to rub
his cheek against the smooth skin of her belly, would be paradise.

She crumpled to the floor, her skirts at her waist. He
touched a kiss to the tender flesh on the inside of her knee.

“Durand.” His name was sweet on her lips. “Undress for me. I
want to feel your body against mine.”

He did as bidden and watched her as she also disrobed. He
spread his tunic on the floor.

“Now,” she whispered, and put out her hand.

But he shook his head in denial of her request. There was
something raging within him, something so frantic that if he let it loose, he
might harm her.

He took her hand and guided it to his hot flesh. “Touch me,”
he said. She made a soft, breathy sound in her throat. Her fingers curled about
him.

He whispered, conscious of his daughter who slumbered so
close by. “What more can a man wish than to lay with the woman who is all he
desires?”

The full, ripe shape of her body drew him with unmerciful
need. Her hand was no longer gentle. She urged and inflamed.

“There is no resistance potion strong enough to combat
this,” he said against the smooth skin of her shoulder. Shocks of sensation
cascaded from his belly to his feet. He floated on the edge of madness, saved
only when she let him go.

She fisted her hands in his hair and arched to the kiss he
placed on her breast, then lower and lower to her inner thigh. Her body bloomed
with the scent and heat of passion’s thrall.

When his lips moved to the core of her, she gave a sharp
exclamation, bitten off before it escalated to more.

He breathed the heady scent of her and licked up the sweet
essence that would envelop and ease his way.

“Durand.” She gasped when he moved up her body.

Her nails bit into his arms as he thrust into her heat. For
several long moments he held himself still, gazing into her eyes, combing her
hair from her brow, examining the precious face that would soon be seen only in
his memories. “How can just once be enough?” he asked.

“You rule my heart, my lord,” she said. Tears slipped from
her eyes. He lapped them with his tongue and then drew their moisture across
her trembling lips.

Her heart raced against his hand when he placed his palm to
her breast. “As much as I thought I knew of making love…” He gasped as her hips
lifted beneath him. “Yet until you…I knew nothing of being loved,” he said.

With an iron will, he held himself in check against a quick
end, knowing it would be their last. As slowly as if he measured precious gold,
he slid in and then out of her. Her hands roamed his back, buttocks, hips,
shoulders, and hair. She whispered his name again and again along with
indistinguishable sounds of suppressed passion.

“Hold nothing from me, Cristina.”

He thought his heart might cease its beat when she pulled
his head near and whispered. “I love you,” she said so softly he thought he
might have dreamed it.

Then she gasped, her thighs tightening on his hips. She had
found her pleasure. Still, he waited. He fought a need to move, to give in to
it, until each pulse of her body had stilled.

When she settled beneath him, he rose over her. Outside the
window, a thrum of raven’s wings beat time to the pulse of his ending.