Sanctuary of Roses (15 page)

The pinpricks of circulation returning to
her fingers caused her to pull away and shake her hands. “Lord
Gavin, I am in your debt for your protection of me—”

“Do not be a fool, my lady,” he snapped,
spinning away to stalk toward Rule. “’Tis I who am indebted to you,
and ’twas my folly that caused you to be in this state.”

He gathered up the trailing reins of the
well-trained destrier and, with a quick pat on his nose, led the
horse toward Madelyne. Mal Verne’s thick dark hair sprung wildly
about his face, brushing the heavy black brows that drew together
in angry points while curling softly about his ears and throat. The
cord of his neck throbbed and thrummed with his furious pulse, and
his sensual mouth leveled into a thin, hard line. “Come now, I will
get you back to the others where you will be safe.”

He stepped toward her, and the energy that
surrounded him engulfed Madelyne even as he reached to touch her.
Pushing aside her earlier bargain with God to cease her deviant
thoughts of Gavin Mal Verne, she looked up at him and replied, “I
cannot be any safer than when I am with you, my lord.”

Her heart swelled in her throat and her
stomach turned a little flip when he paused, his hands resting on
her shoulders. The harshness in his features eased into derision
and weariness clouded his eyes. “If you imagine that, Lady
Madelyne, then you are even more of a fool than I believed.” He
made ready to lift her, but she stopped him, reaching out to place
a light hand on his chest. It felt solid and warm beneath the
shifting, chinking of his mail.

“I am no fool, my lord,” she replied,
suddenly annoyed at his persistence on that track. “An’ if that is
all you think of me, then—”

“Nay, Madelyne, that is not all that I think
of you,” he whispered, and suddenly he pulled her to him, his mouth
slamming down onto hers.

Those lips that had moments before been hard
and unyielding became soft and coaxing as they closed over her
mouth that parted in surprise. They molded to hers, hot and smooth
and slick, tasting of mint and sweat and man…Gavin. Gathered up
against his solid chest, Madelyne felt the bumps of the mail and
the bands of his arms holding her close, his hands cupping her head
from behind. She fitted against his tall length, thigh to thigh,
belly to belly, mouth to mouth. Her hand moved up to touch his
thick, damp hair, and her fingers brushed the heat and moistness of
his neck.

Her world spinning, Madelyne kissed him
back, tasting him, tentatively caressing his mouth while his lips
devoured hers—demanding from them, from her—leaving her breathless
and her eyelids weighted closed. A fiery heat built within her,
surging into her middle and down, lower, to pool there where they
fitted, hip to hip.

One of his arms slid to the base of her
back, crushing her close, lifting her up against him as his mouth
continued to coax and caress hers. She felt a thrill of surprise
when his tongue slipped inside her, bringing all the heat and
sleekness of his desire. He sighed into her, giving a short
shudder, and dragged his lips away with a soft, deep-throated
moan.

Gavin stared down at her, breathing heavily,
his fingers sliding from the back of her neck to rest on her upper
arms. He gazed at her for a long moment with hazy eyes, a myriad of
emotions playing across his face before the harshness settled there
again.

“As I said, Lady Madelyne, a fool is not all
that I think of you.” His words were rough and hard. He continued
to look at her with eyes that had cleared and flattened to match
his tone as he gathered up Rule’s reins. “I’ll not apologize for
that—nay—but I’ll see that it does not happen again. Now, you will
put your misguided self into my passable care until we reach
Prentiss Keep, and then we shall start off for the king’s court
with a rested band of men and no more of my transgressions.”

Eleven

Fantin’s howl of rage ricocheted off the
walls of the small room, followed by the clatter of tin goblets,
eating knives, and metal platters as they tumbled to the floor.
“Imbeciles!” he shouted, eyes bulging as he stalked fore and aft
amongst his men. “Each of you! All imbeciles!”

He could not even take pleasure in the way
they cowered before him, for pure rage empurpled his vision.
Madelyne had been within his grasp…the Stone so close he could
taste its power…and now he sat empty-handed in some bloody,
primitive tavern with naught but godless cretins to serve him.
Unblessed, they were, and he, foolish as he was, had brought them
into his employ, thinking to share with them some benefit of the
Gift once it was his. But now, nay. Nay.

“Out of my sight! All of you!” he ordered,
heedless of the proprietor’s worried face peaking around the
doorway.

The men fled—those who were left of the
thirteen—and Fantin slumped in his chair, fighting to regain
clarity over the haze of fury that fogged his faculties. These
rages that befell him at moments such as this, and with more
frequency now that he came closer to the fruits of his labor,
affrighted him with their vehemence and strength. Rufus had
cautioned him to work to control them, else he might become too
impatient and suffer God’s displeasure. Thus, Fantin raised his
eyes to the heavens and prayed for a moment, allowing the comfort
of this familiarity to wash over him.

He barely finished his words of supplication
when his mind wandered back to the moment…the moment when he had
seen her, seen the girl and recognized her—before slipping away
from the small battle to allow his men to finish. In an attempt to
maintain anonymity, he’d left the actual seizure of Madelyne to his
trusted man Arneth, choosing to keep for himself the pleasure of
killing Mal Verne—of putting an end to the man who stood always
betwixt Fantin and his work. But to his surprise and fury, the
bloody coward had not been present when the ambush took place.

God’s bloody teeth! The fury threatened to
rise within Fantin again, rattling his nerves and stringing his
muscles tightly. How could he have come so close, only to have her
swept away? Never again.
Never again
could he trust those
fools to do what he must do for himself!

His fist closed around a knife and he
stabbed it into the scarred wooden table, burying it as deep as the
first digit of his finger. His shuddering breathing rasped in the
sudden silence, and his fingers opened and closed, opened and
closed around the hilt of the knife.

His breathing slowed again, and at last he
was able to reach for his goblet of wine—he disdained ale, for it
was the drink of mean serfs—and drink heavily, draining it with
several gulps.

Could he have been wrong? Could he and Rufus
have misunderstood?

Or…mayhap it was another test.

Aye. Another test. He nodded and sank to the
floor, to his knees, to prostrate himself there.

He must ask forgiveness…for failing. For
allowing the bloody heathen Mal Verne to best him. For allowing his
rival to once again stand in his way, to keep him from completing
his work.

The stone floor bit into his knees, but
Fantin reveled in the pain. He knew he must bear it, enjoy it,
worship
it. He must find some other painful penance to bear,
now that he had failed his God again.

Curling his fingers into the edge of the
rough table, Fantin dropped his forehead to the wood with a loud
and painful thump and stared down at the floor with vacant eyes,
praying, begging, pleading…silently and violently…for something.
For God to speak to him, to guide him.

Tears filled his eyes. He tried so hard…so
hard to be the man God had chosen him to be. To fulfill his
destiny. To be all that God wished him to be. A drop fell to the
floor, dampening the dust below, and seeping into nothingness.

At last, when he looked up, he saw a flicker
of movement at the doorway—the wisp of a skirt as it fluttered
past. “Hail! Wench!” he called, suddenly thirsty…and famished.

The skirt paused and returned to view, and
with it came a comely wench with a low-cut, but soiled, bodice. She
sauntered in to the room. Obviously she was either unaware of his
high ire only moments before, or, now that it had subsided, was
unafraid.

“My lord, how may I-a be helpin’ ye?” She
flashed him a coy smile and came to stand next to his table,
generously showing her cleavage to its best advantage.

The ample mounds of her pushed-up bosom
threatened to erupt from the tight bodice, and he saw them vibrate
with her movements.

And he
knew
.

God had responded to his pleadings. Here was
his penance. “Come hither, my lovey,” he invited in his smooth,
rich voice. He smiled.

She bent forward, and, eyeing her cleavage,
he reached to slip a long finger into the deep crevice between the
globes. She allowed him to slide his hand down to cup a heavy
weight, sighing and smiling in the same way all whores did…the way
Nicola had, and Retna.

“Eey, my lord, I see what ’tis y’r wishin’
for.” She grinned, showing three holes where teeth had been and
moving around the table to stand next to him. “Wit’ such fingers as
you have, I can bet at the pleasure you give. An’ let’s see what we
have to work with, now.”

“Aye…let us indeed.” Fantin did not relish
taking the filthy whore to his bed…but ’twas God’s will, and, in
truth, his desire flared there beneath the table. After doing this
task, he would serve his penance and mete out the punishment God
had chosen…upon himself and the woman.

* * *

Gavin’s jaw hurt. His teeth ground into each
other, jarring slightly with the rhythm of Rule’s sure-footed trot,
as he focused his attention on the road in front of him—looking
over the dark head that rocked below his chin and sent a faint
smell of something floral to his nose.

He refused to think about the thick,
shininess of that bare braid, or to admit that with one slight
movement of his arm, he would brush against her ribs. Instead, he
concentrated on what he should have been doing instead of chasing
stags through the wood: delivering Madelyne de Belgrume safely to
Henry’s court.

He would not allow himself to be distracted
by the memory of those lush lips beneath his, and the way her lids
had slid closed over luminous gray eyes, fanning thick black lashes
over her fair cheeks.

A spear of desire shot through his abdomen
and for a moment he was helpless to the memory of her soft curves
pressed against him and the tentative slide of her tongue over his.
In sooth, he had committed his share of sins in his life…but surely
this was too great a penance even for those.

He shifted uncomfortably in the saddle, then
gritted his teeth as the movement brought him in contact with
Madelyne’s rigid back. She’d been more silent than usual, ducking
her head when faced by him whenever they’d met in the day they
spent at Prentiss Keep, and now that they had been back on the road
again, she and Patricka kept to themselves when not ahorse. The bit
of spirit Madelyne had begun to show since leaving the abbey had
disappeared, leaving her little more than the silent, serene nun
he’d taken from Lock Rose Abbey. Verily, he’d frightened the wits
from her with his clumsy, forceful assault in the wood.

He almost regretted it—that succumbing to
his base urges—but, in all truthfulness, he knew he would do it
again if he had to do it over. It had been so long that he’d
embraced or kissed a woman that did not smell of the farm, or did
not need to scratch the fleas and lice that infested her hair. And
surely it was only that novelty causing his mind to spin with the
memory of a soft, scented noblewoman in his arms—nun though she
was. With a frustrated rake of fingers through his hair, Gavin
vowed to find a clean, willing woman when they reached the king’s
court to flush this haunting memory from his mind.

He was pulled from his internal ruminations
as Clem rode up next to them. Gavin was mildly surprised to note
that he was not sharing a saddle with the dimple-cheeked maid
Madelyne had insisted upon bringing and he raised an eyebrow.
“Where is your charge, man?”

Clem’s face ruddied slightly and he gave a
curt gesture. “She insisted that to save my arm from further
injury, she should allow it to rest as it healed. She rides with
Jube.”

Gavin glanced back to see the pair in
question, then returned his attention to Clem. “Does your arm pain
you, and did you welcome the discharge of that custody?”

The other man straightened in the saddle,
flickering a glance toward Madelyne. “My lord, you know that I
would not shirk my duty. The mistress stated that she wished to
spare me the pain of holding her in the saddle. I could not argue
with her logic.”

“She is no light of feather,” Gavin
agreed.

“’Twas no strain for me to hold her, my
lord.” Clem replied with indignation, “But if she prefers the
company of Jube, then who am I to say her nay?”

Gavin shot a surprised look at his man,
noticing that his wide, kind face was set in a shuttered
expression. He seemed most irked that the chubby maid rode with
Jube, but mayhaps it was only that he felt his mastery had been
challenged by her fear of injuring him. Gavin frowned. Clem was not
normally one to care what a woman would think of him—Jube was more
likely to flirt and woo and court a maiden than Clem. And Gavin
himself rarely even smiled at a woman, yet he’d smiled at
Madelyne…sought her company…kissed her in the deep woods….

Sighing, Gavin shifted again in the saddle.
It seemed his thoughts always came back to the woman who rode with
him. Praise God they would reach Whitehall this night, where he
could discharge himself of Lady Madelyne and return his attentions
to that which truly mattered.

* * *

The Court of Henry the Plantagenet was more
hectic and crowded than Madelyne could have imagined. She forgot to
sit forward in the saddle, away from Lord Gavin, in her amazement
at the activity just within the bailey at Whitehall. And she did
naught but gape like a peasant.