The Mistress Of Normandy (9 page)

Walking through the long stretch of woods, she pondered her plan. Surely Rand, if she could find him again, would plant a child inside her, and Lazare would be too proud to deny the babe was his own.

So simple, she thought. So cold-blooded. So damnably necessary. She wondered if she had the courage and callousness to bring her attraction to Rand to its natural conclusion.

She did. But not by virtue of her courage, which she doubted, nor by virtue of her callousness, which had been soothed to tenderness by Rand’s loving hands. She was motivated by more than the simple need for an heir. She wanted Rand to make love to her, to fill the void that had gaped like an open wound in her heart all her life. He’d awakened the dreamer within her, given her the will to reach out with both hands for the love that had ever eluded her.

Since she was accustomed by now to finding the glade empty, her heart hammered in surprise when she spied Rand through a frame of budding willows. Filled with gladness and fear, she approached him from one side. The woods craft schooled into her by Chiang gave her a light, silent step. Rand didn’t notice her; he appeared deep in thought.

His back against the stone cross, his sun-gilt head bowed over his chest, he put her in mind of a sleeping giant, his power unsprung, hovering beneath a patina of repose. Hazy, diffuse light showered over his profile. His hair, she noticed with affectionate attention, had grown longer, the ends curling like a halo around the unspoiled beauty of his face.

His guileless pose, his pensive attitude, made her regret her intention to take advantage of their attraction, yet the heart-stopping magnificence of his long, muscled body filled her with guilty excitement.

She expressed her agitation with a soft gasp, a whispered greeting.

With a start that sent her stumbling back, he jumped to his feet and yanked out a pointed dagger. Recognition, then undiluted joy, blossomed on his face. The weapon disappeared back into its sheath. “
You
gave me a start.” His smile touched her heart like the shimmer of a sunbeam.

She flushed. “I didn’t mean to.” Studying the tender ferns on the forest floor, she felt suddenly shy.

“You always startle me, sweet maid,” he said, a strained note of longing in his voice.

Her throat constricted at the sight of those leaf-green eyes, that rugged face far more animated, more compelling, than the one she saw in her dreams each night.

With one swift movement he swept her into his arms. “Oh, God, Lianna, I have missed you.” He hugged her close with his powerful arms, buried his face in her neck, and plunged his hands into her hair. The plaited locks yielded to his fingers, and soon her hair lay loose around her shoulders.

He smelled of the sea and the sun. She felt as if she’d come home, with his arms tight around her, his chest solid against her cheek. “Where have you been?”

“Nowhere. I am nowhere without you.” He cupped her chin and tilted her head up. His lips began a slow descent onto hers.

Trembling, she clung to him, relished every tingling sensation that shivered over her as their lips melded into a long, slow kiss. Her hands ranged up his sinewy torso, feeling the sweat-dampened skin beneath his mail shirt. She twined her fingers through his golden hair and pulled him closer, her lips parting, inviting the velvety sweep of his tongue. He filled her with masculine sweetness, wrapped her with steel-tempered hardness, and kindled the fuse of her passion.

Seared by yearning, she pressed closer. He dragged his lips from hers. His eyes glinted jewel-bright with an inner torment that tore at her heart and filled her mind with questions. “Why did you stay away for so long?” she asked.

He touched her cheek, her brow. “Because it is wrong for us to meet like this, in secret. I can offer you nothing.”

“How can you say that? How can you belittle the friendship you’ve given me?” He started to pull away. She grasped his hands, leaned up on tiptoe, and kissed him hard on the mouth. Then she stepped back and let her hair fall forward to hide the fire he’d ignited in her cheeks. Peering uncertainly from between her locks, she wondered if her bold behavior appalled him. He’d certainly been disapproving enough of her interest in gunnery. Doubtless she violated every image this knight-errant had of feminine ideals.

He parted her hair with his fingers. With relief, she saw only affection in his smile.

“Would that I could give you more than friendship,” he whispered.

Hope billowed in her chest. “I’ve come here almost every day,” she admitted.

Taking her hand, he pressed his lips to the pulse at her wrist. “Testing your guns?” He sounded both teasing and annoyed.

She shook her head. “Looking for you. And I asked where you’ve been.” He didn’t speak. Raising one eyebrow, she ventured, “Doubtless on knightly business of utmost secrecy.” She fixed him with a probing stare. “But I’ve guessed your secret.”

He fell still, seemed not even to breathe. “Lianna—”

“Don’t worry,” she said, smiling softly. “I’ll not put it about that you’ve chased the Englishman from Eu.”

He blinked. “Chased the—”

“Aye, we heard that the
god-don
has sailed away.” Excitement danced in her eyes. “Did you fight him? Did you slay the man who came to conquer Château Bois-Long?”

“No blood was spilled.”

“Did he run back to England like the coward he is?” She touched his sleeve. “You wear no colors, my Gascon. Are you for the Armagnacs or the Burgundians?”

“I could ask you the same of your mistress. She is of the blood of Burgundy, yet she houses a supporter of Armagnac.”

Her eyes widened. “How do you know about Gaucourt?”

“His presence at Bois-Long is no secret.”

She regarded him with mock severity. “Perhaps you’re a spy for Burgundy...or the English.”

He grinned. “Suppose I were?”

“Then I would steal your dagger and use it on you.” She took his hand and laid it alongside her cheek. “Talk to me. I want to know you.”

“There is much I would share with you...if I could.”

“Have you a family?”

His expression softened. “If you could term a band of motley men a family.”

“Your men?” She turned to scan the area.

“My comrades. But you won’t find them here.”

“Tell me about them, Rand.”

“They are men like any other. They have mothers, sweethearts...except for the priest, of course.”

She smiled. “Somehow it seems fitting that you would keep constant company with a priest.”

Laughing, he said, “You’d not think so if you knew
this
priest. He’s more likely to be found ranging the fields on a hunt than in a chapel hearing confessions. He often says mass in muddy boots and falconer’s cuffs.”

“What of your other friends?”

A guarded look made him seem suddenly distant, unapproachable. “I think it is better for us both to keep silent about certain matters.”

Wanting to draw him back to her, she leaned up and kissed him lightly. It wasn’t fair to question him, not when she was full of her own secrets. She couldn’t tell him now that she was the Demoiselle de Bois-Long, and married, with the wrath of the Duke of Burgundy and the King of England down upon her. This glade was their private garden, a place to forget they were each part of someone else’s plan.

“Times are uncertain. I’ll badger you no more,” she said.

Cloaked in wildflowers, the fields beckoned. As they walked, Rand stooped to pick hepaticas, fire-pink gaywings, early yellow violets, and bluets barely furled from their buds. Lianna loved to hear him talk. His rich, musical voice revealed ideas as fine and fanciful as the flowers he gathered. With enchanting whimsy he told her improbable tales of gallantry, unconquerable villains, damsels in distress.

Stopping on a little rise in the middle of the field, he offered her the flowers. She shook her head. “What would you have me do with them?”

“Smell them, for God’s sake. Let them pleasure you.”

She laughed. “Pleasure me? What a silly notion?” She plucked a single stalk of mayapple from his bouquet. “Now this is useful in making a decoction for the grippe.”

He tucked it behind her ear. “To you, everything needs must have a practical use. Why is that?”

“I know of no other way to look at things.” Taking a violet, she stared intently at the blossom, then at the waving profusion of flowers all around her. “In sooth they all seem alike to me.”

He cupped her chin in one hand and rubbed the silken petals over her lips. “Then let me show you.”

Sitting down, he spread his hands and scattered the blossoms. The scent soon brought a flurry of butterflies.

She stepped back, her breath snared in her throat. He was so beautiful, so true of heart. She yearned for a measure of his charming insouciance, the self-assuredness that made him capable of exalting even a lowly mayapple. But, tainted by intrigue and secrecy, she knew she could never share his clear-eyed wonder. Stiffly she sat down beside him. A butterfly flitted between them.

“My sad girl,” he said softly. “Why do you look so sad?”

“I wish I could be like you, Rand. So...whimsical.”

“Whimsical! Dear maid, you unman me.”

“But it’s true. You’re so full of unexpected delights....” She let her voice trail off and frowned. “I am clumsy with words. I know not how to say what I feel.”

“Try, Lianna.”

“I have an emptiness deep inside me, a darkness. In studying weaponry I learned high-flown ideas of science, the timing of fuses, the use of priming irons, but no one ever taught me how to—” She swallowed hard. “You have said I am beautiful, but I cannot believe it because I don’t feel it in my heart. I’ve never thought the attribute of any value.”

She heard the rasp of his quick-drawn breath, saw the unsteadiness of his hand as he picked up the flowers in his lap. He plaited the blossoms into a circlet, put it on her head, let chains of lavender hepatica trail over her shoulders. Placing his arms around her, he lifted her up, out of her wooden sabots, so that she stood with her bare feet on the cool ground.

Her head and shoulders festooned with flowers, her heart pounding with a sense of new awareness, Lianna saw desire flare in his eyes. His admiration made her truly beautiful for the first time. The idea gave her a sudden, deep sense of her own worth, not as a political commodity, but as a woman.

As if he understood, Rand caressed her cheek. “Do you see now
?
You are lovely, sacred, worthy.”

Shaken, she closed her eyes, spread out her arms and opened her hands as if to grasp the very air around her. Filled with the scent of flowers and the enlightenment his words brought, she tasted the quiet exultation of a dream fulfilled. She opened her eyes and looked at him.

Her thoughts tumbled over one another. It was right. It had to be right. She wanted him now, not just for the child he could give her, but to satisfy the yearning in her newly awakened heart, to unleash the desire she recognized in his taut body and emerald-bright eyes. His hands were hard fists at his sides, as if he were clenching them against the urge to touch her.

How to tell him? she wondered wildly. She could not possibly blurt it out: Excuse me, but I cannot contain my passion for you and I need a child, so would you please make love to me?

Gripped by shyness, her tongue thick and clumsy with words she’d never thought to utter to any man, she snatched a yellow violet and rolled it between her fingers. “Rand...I have been thinking on...a matter. I think it is time we were honest about...certain things.”

His eyes dimmed almost imperceptibly. “What things?”

She inhaled a gulp of air. “Well...our feelings. I confess I am graceless with words. I know you have certain desires. I have felt this in the way you hold me, and kiss me.” A blush suffused her face with heat. “Doubtless you hold the favor of many women,” she rushed on, growing more embarrassed with each word, more entrapped in her own awkward speech.

“You presume a great deal,” he said.

She blinked, discomfited by his easy, bemused tolerance. “Of course, you might have been with a woman these weeks past.”

Suppressed laughter gave his voice a compelling richness. “Why don’t you ask me?”

She couldn’t bring herself to frame such a question. “You are free to do as you will. But I was wondering, if you could see your way, perhaps, to act on these feelings.” She lowered her head. “Do you not feel some...some measure of desire for me? That is—”

“Lianna,” he broke in, “I love you.”

Her head snapped up. “So you said,” she whispered. “At least, you said you
thought
you loved me.”

He stepped forward, brushed a wisp of silver-gilt hair from her temple. “I no longer think so
.
I know.”

Why did his declaration mean so much to her? She needed only his seed. Still, there was that deep agony within her that had nothing to do with procuring an heir and everything to do with the man standing before her.

Sudden doubts pricked at her. She was married; she could never share more than stolen trysts with Rand. Yet she wanted him so desperately....

He regarded her with a steady gaze. His lips curved into a tender smile. A smile she trusted.

The doubts vanished.

“Well,” she said, wondering if the raw inner tenderness she felt could truly be love. “Well. ’Tis settled, is it not?”

His smile widened. “What is settled?”

She forced herself to face him squarely. “Why, the matter I was trying to speak to you about. You’ll make love to me now, won’t you?”

Six

T
he thrust of an enemy lance could not have pierced Rand more deeply. Her earnest request singed his every nerve with a longing so hot, he burned with it, a frustration so sharp that he could scarce draw breath.

His mouth was dry, his tongue thick, when at last he found his voice. “Lianna, sweet maid, you know not what you ask.”

“Yes,” she whispered, her breath warm as she leaned toward him. “I do.” A pucker—innocent, adorable—turned her lips to a sweet bud. “I suppose you think no worthy lady would ask such a thing, but I want you....” She stepped closer, brought her thighs brushing against his. “And I think you want me.”

Indeed, he thought wildly, how could she mistake the iron-wrought bulge in his braies that reared against her soft, yielding form? “I am a knight,” he said, less forcefully than he would have wished. “I took an oath....”

She fixed him with a steady silver stare. “Every true knight,” she said, her finger tapping lightly against her chin, “is a lover.” She smiled. “So say the troubadours’ lays.”

“The troubadours preferred the sweet torment of yearning to the passing joy of a conquest won.” He spoke quickly, for his resolve flagged with each wild beat of his heart.

Her gaze touched his face, his shoulders, his torso. “And you, Rand. What do you prefer?”

He kept his hands at his sides, for to touch her now would be to lose the last shreds of self-discipline he possessed. “You are far easier to reckon with in my dreams. There, you are only a shadow.” Aye, he thought, in his dreams he could control her...and himself.

She sent him a whisper-soft smile. Her eyes shone, her face glowed, the curves of her flower-strewn body were evident beneath the plain smock she wore. Disconcerted, he moved away.

She set her hands on her hips. “Professions of knightly devotion might be enough for ladies of legend, but such lofty regard is not enough for me.”

“In person,” he conceded, “you are a more earthly goddess.” He met her steady gaze. “Demanding, complex, difficult.”

“Will you let your scruples get in the way of something we both want and need? How can it be wrong?”

He looked down at his big, rough hands, the left one sleek with scars. Too soon, he must put a ring on the finger of another. “I can offer you nothing.”

“You say you love me. Will you call that nothing?”

“I don’t want to dishonor you.”

“You dishonor me by denying my womanhood,” she said, her eyes flashing like quicksilver. “You refuse to acknowledge that I have a mind of my own, a body that sings for yours.”

“That is precisely what I’ve been fighting. Already I love you too much, more than I should.”

An errant breeze caused a blue flower to drift across her cheek; she caught the blossom with her hand and rubbed the petals thoughtfully over her chin. “Before I met you, I knew no love at all. Now you speak of loving too much. I do not understand.”

In her voice he heard all the hurt and bewilderment of an orphan left to the care of castle folk. He yearned to gather her into his arms, to teach her love, yet at the same time he felt a terrible futility, for she would also suffer betrayal from him.

He drew a ragged breath. “All my life I have had self-restraint schooled into me. A man who cannot control himself is doomed to be controlled by others. That is why I turn away from the
chevauchées
of my fellow knights.” Looking up, he met her wide, unblinking eyes. “Now you’ve catapulted into my life and shaken everything I’ve ever believed in.”

“Touch me,” she said, and her compelling tone caught at his heart. “Touch me, and know that I am a woman, nothing more. Flesh and blood and bone—”

Her words disappeared as, with a groan of fragmenting will, he closed his arms around her and pressed his mouth against hers. He tasted a powerful sweetness, felt the warmth of her awakening body as she slid her fingers into his hair. His own hands charted her supple curves while his tongue discovered the shape of her lips, the silky moistness within. His resistance peeled away like layers of heavy garments. He abandoned the knightly scruples and vows, the allegiance to an overambitious monarch, the woman who’d erected a military stronghold against him. He set his sights on a fair maid who’d confessed her desire, who’d asked nothing more than the meager gift of friendship, who’d stolen his heart with her unusual ways and sweet, sad smile.

He lifted his mouth from hers but still held the warm, willing girl in his arms. She needed him, she wanted his love, and his heart closed exultantly around the knowledge. It was a relief to shed his ill-wrought principles—principles of a man who, until this moment, hadn’t understood so deep a love. With Justine, devotion and duty had held him in check. With Lianna, love and desire pushed him past the bounds of reason.

He pulled back and stared into her passion-bright eyes. “If I make love to you now, you’ll hate me for it one day.”

“I could never hate you.”

“In sooth you could.”

“Is lovemaking truly so disagreeable?”

“No, it’s not that. It’s—” He broke off, then began again, loathing the necessity for secrecy. “You and I can never have more than these trysts. What if I get you with child?”

Rather than looking alarmed, she smiled. “A child is a gift from God.”

He thought of the cruel, raven-haired demoiselle. “Your mistress would beat you, cast you out.”

“She’d never do that. Believe it.”

“What about me, Lianna?
I
want more than secret trysts.”

Her confused gaze caught his; he sucked in his breath. She spoke a single word, so softly that the breeze nearly snatched it from his ears. Yet he heard. “Please.”

A groan of surrender rumbled up from deep inside him. He said, “Yes.” He caught her against him, kissed her hard. “Yes, I’ll make love to you.”

Roses bloomed in her cheeks, and a smile curved her lips. “We won’t be sorry,” she said. Yet a shimmer of uncertainty glinted in her eyes. “But there is something I must explain.”

As he plucked the flowers one by one from her hair, he asked, “What is that
?
”

“I’ve had a scholar’s training in science and gunnery. But I know naught of pleasing a man.” Looking down at her hands, she added, “And I would please you.”

With gentle fingers he lifted the rest of the flowers from her head. Bending, he inhaled the perfume that lingered there. “You please me simply by being Lianna,” he said.

Her smile had the power to steal his soul and plunder his convictions. He slowly plucked at the laces of her smock, drawing the string out, parting the neckline. Her eyes were steady, calm, yet the glints of battered silver never quite left those misty depths. She was like a wounded bird who could not speak her pain to him, but who deserved all the tenderness he could offer.

Aye, he thought, slipping the smock over her shoulders. He would be careful with this fragile creature. She’d fallen from a nest; he’d not be the one to toss her to the cat.

The wide, square-cut neckline of her shift revealed the delicate lines of her throat and collarbone, the sheen of dew on her ivory flesh. He gulped a quick breath; the unique essence of her wafted to his soul.

Reaching behind her, he loosed the laces of the shift and pulled the garment down. A dainty chemise remained. He bent and kissed her. All his life he’d envisioned this as an act performed in the darkness of a cool nuptial chamber. Yet here he was in full, glorious light, unveiling beauty beyond words.

The chemise came away in his hands. She stood motionless, uncertain. The sight of her body, shining with purity, snatched his breath away. She was a harmonic poem of loveliness, a miracle of symmetry and form, from the rich mantle of her hair to her small bare feet. Shoulders and arms sleek and sturdy with delicate muscles. Small high breasts adorned with dawn-shaded tips. Hips flaring with a subtle femininity, womanly curls above her thighs. Her legs were long and finely made, the flesh pale yet kissed by roses.

Rand was a stranger to a woman’s body. Tavern wenches and noblewomen visiting Arundel had often tried to seduce him, their desire honed by a challenge to possess the unattainable. Passionless, detached, his man’s body had resisted.

But now, when he looked upon Lianna, he saw with his heart and soul as well as his eyes. And with his hands. He traced the curves of her torso, fingers grazing her breasts, her belly. A blush misted her throat and cheeks, but yet-to-be-discovered promises softened her lips and glazed her eyes with a lustrous sheen of passion.

“Well?” she asked, folding her arms across her chest.

Rand grinned at her almost childlike expectancy. “You are passing fair.”

Her chin lifted a notch. “Is that all?”

“You have a fine mind.”

“Well!” Her pale eyebrows clashed, affronted.

“You once bade me not to prate about your beauty.”

“I’ve changed my mind. I would know what you think.”

He took her by the shoulders and lowered his mouth to the curve of her neck. “You are magnificent.” His mouth moved lower, teeth grazing the ridge of her collarbone. “Your skin is like ivory, but warmer, more yielding—” he cradled her breast in his hand “—than the first lily of spring.” He lifted his head and stared into her eyes while his hands continued to caress her, reaching around to cup her hips. “I see something wild and fay in you, as if you were a creature conjured by a skilled sorcerer.” He bent again and took her lips with a hard, biting kiss, leaving them love-bruised and glistening.

Her fingers shook as she touched the edge of his tunic, fingered the mail shirt beneath. Frowning, she plucked at the lace points. “Who the devil dresses you?” she asked. “Your laces are done up with knots like a friar’s scourge.”

Rand yearned to share every aspect of his life with her, to tell her of Jack, his scutifer; of Simon, his squire; of all the people who belonged to his other life. He nearly choked on the words crowding into his throat. He’d already said too much, lied too much. All he could offer was this flower-studded meadow, the tender spring grass beneath their feet and the gulls wheeling overhead, and the passion of a man’s body tested far past the tenets of knightly discipline.

Driven by the need for secrecy, he tucked her head into the lee of his shoulder, tugged off King Henry’s amulet, and shoved it into a pocket of his tunic. He couldn’t allow her to see the talisman, to guess his mission. With bitter irony he recalled the motto carved around the jewel: To valiant hearts nothing is impossible. Yet like a distant comet, a future with the woman he loved eluded him. No, he thought. I’ll have her. I’ll find a way.

He shed his clothes, the garments skimming down his marble-hard body. The late-afternoon sun bathed his skin with honeyed warmth—or more likely the fever came from within.

Wide-eyed, she subjected him to unabashed scrutiny, and he had to remind himself of her empirical bent of mind. With a gaze of melting radiance she touched him, and with one finger, too, tracing the ridges of muscle banding his chest, arms, shoulders, following the path of golden hair down his middle, hesitating. Her eyes found his and her finger moved on, upward again.

“I always thought you unconquerable, yet you bear half a hundred scars,” she said, finding a deep crescent at his shoulder.

“Nicks,” he said gruffly. “Pinpricks.” In sooth neither sword nor arrowhead could inflict the exquisite agony imparted by her touch. She continued to map the contours of his body; he bore the torture like a martyr in the steely grip of an inquisitor’s iron maiden. His gaze searched her face, seeking the emotions written there, dreading to discover fear, regret.

Instead she seemed eager with passion and endearingly curious as her hands discovered the way he was made.

He took her hands and drew her down so that they were both kneeling, thigh to thigh, chest to chest, like supplicants in some pagan rite. He kissed her, a deep, mating kiss that left them both breathless.

“What now?” she asked unsteadily.

He wrapped her against him.
What now?
In wartime he’d seen women raped. In peacetime the act had been described in minute, lusty detail by Jack and scores like him, archers and noblemen alike.

His hands glided down over her shoulder blades, her backside. “I want to touch you...all over...your body, your mind, your heart.” As he spoke, his fingers took flight, winging over her throat, her breasts, her belly, her thighs. Moving his mouth along the curve of her jaw, he added, “I want to make you forget where you end and I begin.” His manhood pressed against her soft flesh.

“Nom de Dieu,”
she gasped. “Can you do that?”

He pulled back, cradled her chin in one hand. “I mean to try
.
”

* * *

Swept up in a great wave of wanting, Lianna wove her fingers into his sun-spun curls. His naked body blazed with power. She felt a clamoring need to be engulfed by this man, his noble goodness, the purity of his passion, the enchantment of his masculinity. A small inner voice reminded her that she was breaking her marriage vows. Aye, this was wrong by the laws of man and God, yet her heart knew it was right. Rand made her feel clean and brave and womanly all at once, and the promise he’d voiced, his promise to make her forget, was nigh as potent as the love words that spilled from his lips as he scattered kisses over her face, her neck.

All the kissing, the touching, startled her. How much longer would he torture her with lusty words and loving hands? All ignorant, she didn’t understand this arousing loveplay. She knew only what Bonne had said, that men spread their seed like chaff to the wind.

But there was hardly a breeze today. How was he going to plant his seed?

His breath came in quick gasps; he stirred against her thigh. With an abrupt flash of insight, she envisioned a stallion covering a mare.
Would he
invade her body in that way? She fixed him with a rapt, helpless stare. Oh yes, said a voice deep inside her. Yes, she wanted him to.

Pressing gently on her shoulders, he brought her down to the grass so that they were both reclining, she on her back, he on his side.

His strong fingers glided over her breasts in a touch so light, so compelling, that suddenly she knew why his harp sang so sweetly for him. She heard a similar note of helpless yearning in her own voice. “Rand...”