The Shattered Rose (10 page)

Galeran didn't want to know more, but the man continued doggedly. "The very day the babe was buried, she slept the night with Lord Raymond, and all knew it."

Galeran turned away, blocking talk he could not yet bear. "Where is Gallot buried?"

"In the churchyard, near the wall, lord. There's a stone."

Galeran waved the man away and stayed on the battlements for a while, his mind wandering aimlessly in random patterns over his shattered life. It did no good, however, and so he went and prayed by the stone that marked the brief life of his child.

Someone had planted a rosebush there, but it was young and feeble yet. However it, unlike his son, would grow.

Galeran spent an hour in the darkening garden seeking the spirit that was his flesh and blood but finding nothing. He forced himself to leave the small grave and to return to the solar. He'd prayed and thought through most of the last night, and when he'd slept he had been cramped in the open air. It would be foolishness to do it again when he needed strength and wits to cope with all his problems.

All the same, he was reluctant to face the chamber he'd shared with Jehanne. He wasn't sure he could sleep there with the memories of past pleasures for company, but he couldn't face the talk he'd cause by sleeping anywhere else.

Jehanne and her closest ladies would be sleeping in the smaller room with the babe. He could summon her. . . .

No. On top of all the other reasons, exhaustion had swamped lust.

He stripped off his clothes and settled into the bed.

He almost leaped out again. The feel of the mattress and sheets, the smell of fresh air and herbs, all carried him straight back to this bed before he left.

With a groan he rolled over and buried his head in his arms. He'd convinced himself that it was God's will he take the cross, that it was God's will that he leave England, home, and wife. But if this situation was God's will, then the deity had a very nasty sense of humor.

* * * * *

Galeran woke rested, but heavy with too much sleep. The angle of light on his closed eyelids and the noises rising from the bailey all told him it was late in the morning and he should be up. He was in no hurry to open his eyes and stir, though. To rise was to face myriad problems.

He didn't want to go back to sleep either, for his dreams— though scarce remembered—had not been pleasant. He'd been back in Jerusalem at one point, with Jehanne by his side. There'd been a child crying, but always too far away to be reached, too far away to be saved from German knights and a river of blood.

Even the thought of those dreams was unbearable, so he opened his eyes ...

... to see Jehanne sitting cross-legged on his bed, watching him.

She wore just a delicate silk kirtle and her hair hung long and loose around her, some wisps stirred gently by the summer breeze.

His heart began to pound as his body tightened and swelled. "Have you bewitched your guards?"

"I convinced them I was as secure in here as in the next room. A guard is outside the door."

"They might have given thought to my neck."

Color rose in her face, and not prettily. It was rare that Jehanne looked awkward, but now she did. "Since you let me shave you, they must know you don't fear that."

"I was awake then."

"I have never wished you harm, Galeran."

"Then you are remarkably clumsy, aren't you?"

As if slapped, she looked down and he found he hated this, hated seeing her so ill at ease. He'd rather she fought him.

"What do you want?" he sighed.

She did not look up, and two fingers and the thumb of her right hand moved in small anxious movements against the cream silk. "Raoul de Jouray ... He told me of your vow."

Galeran silently cursed his helpful friend.

When he said nothing, she looked up, chin raised, almost her old self. "Perhaps you'd rather I sent a maid."

Pride and dignity said send her away.

Prudence echoed it.

Everything else in the universe made him flip back the sheet in silent welcome.

She caught her breath and a light shone briefly in her eyes. A cool, logical part of his mind warned that a clever woman in Jehanne's situation would make swift moves to reestablish herself with her husband, including getting with child if it were possible.

Jehanne was very clever.

He seemed to be split into three separate parts, though, and the cool, logical part was only one.

The second part was the man who loved Jehanne of Hey-wood too deeply for prudence.

The third part was an animal, consumed by scarce-contained lust for this woman.

She slid down to join him in the bed, stripping off her kirtle at the last moment. She would have covered herself, but he held the sheet away.

So she surrendered to his eyes.

He ran a hand gently over a belly that was a little more rounded.

"It’s from carrying the babe."

"I don't mind." But he minded that reminder.

Then he let his hand wander up to her fuller breasts and darker, longer nipples. When he gently rolled a nipple, a drop of milk appeared. Milk for the child whose brains he should dash out against the nearest wall.

And a small, primitive, raging part of him wanted to.

Kill the bastard, the cuckoo in the nest.

Get rid of him at least.

Get rid of Jehanne's only living child.

He pushed these thoughts away and concentrated on the immediate. Her skin was as pale and translucent as that drop of milk, and against it his hand was darker than it had ever been, showing its exposure to hot sun. The only darkness on Jehanne was the bruise on her face where he had hit her. He touched it softly. She looked at him without reproach, and indeed she had no right to reproach him.

But he wished she would.

He stroked her breasts again, feeling the difference in them. She must have fed the babe recently, for they were not full of milk, but they were different.

To his relief, his lust was somewhat under control, perhaps because it knew it would soon be assuaged. He was hard, and every nerve was humming, but he could wait.

A little.

For some reason, it seemed important, now the moment had come, that he not just rut like an unruly stallion.

He moved his leg over her slender ones while exploring with hand and lip the wonderful softness of her skin, the curves and edges of her bones, the silk of her hair. ...

He buried his face in her hair, fighting tears at the familiar feel and smell it, the stuff of dreams during exile, the stuff of torture now, as he shivered and his mind fell apart.

She had been passive, but suddenly her arms went around him, drawing him close, stroking down his back, over his buttocks, urging him over her, drawing him into her, so mat—shuddering with agonized relief—he was home without intent or consciousness.

He wept as he found his release, and wept afterward in her arms, feeling her own tears trickle down onto his skin.

They lay together in silence, speaking through their skin, renewing their senses in the taste and smell of each other.

Then Galeran laid his head against hers. "Why?" he whispered.

She shook her head. "Not now, not here." She slid down and took him in her mouth, licking, tasting, tormenting....

After a moment he found the strength to drag her back up to face him. "Are you trying to whore away your guilt?"

Her eyes sparked anger in her old manner. "Are you afraid I'll bite it off?"

He could keep demanding answers, but he saw in her face that he wouldn't get them here, not even with torture, so he settled for what he could get. He let her drive him wild with her lips and tongue and clever fingers, then entered her again in a fierce, violent passion that set the bed shaking and started her breasts pouring milk.

Their bodies slithered against each other, lubricated by the milk, and he started to laugh. She gave up trying to stop the flow and laughed, too, as she rose to meet him.

He licked the sweet milk off her, and she off him, as yet more spurted out to drench them and fuel their wild laughter, fuel their wild passion.

At the time of his last mighty thrust, there was a crack, a jolt, then one end of the bed collapsed, tumbling them,

still interlocked, to the floor. Jehanne squealed, Galeran cursed, and the guard dashed in.

He stared. Then retreated, grinning.

After a frozen moment, Galeran and Jehanne dissolved into laughter again, rolling with it like children, wet and sticky among the ruins of the great bed.

When they finally sat up, however, Galeran's mind was clearing. "It would have been a clever move to half saw through that joint."

Jehanne's lingering smile disappeared. "By the Rood, Galeran, are you going to suspect every move I make?"

"Why not?"

She erupted to her feet. "Because of who I am! And anyway, I half expected you to whip me and send me to a convent, so why would I plan this pretty scene?"

"You were always capable of planning for many opportunities. And I might still. Whip you and send you to a convent, that is."

"I might prefer it to living with suspicion." She turned to the bed and wrenched back the mattress to inspect the wood. Then she swung to face him. "Look. Worm!"

He leaned closer. It clearly was worm, but a sour madness had taken control of him. "Not very good housekeeping," he pointed out. "I suppose it was merely good luck that the bed didn't collapse under you and Lowick."

And that was what really ate at him—the thought that the last time she'd joined in passion here it had been with another man. That she'd explored milky sex with another man . . .

She froze, half turned from him. "We never used this bed."

His relief was out of proportion to the words. "Why not?"

She walked away and pulled on her shift. "Probably because it was wormy."

Galeran sighed and rose to his feet. Another door slammed in his face. He watched her slip on her clothing, enjoying the way it settled over her damp curves as much as he'd enjoyed her nakedness. "You're going to have to talk to me soon, Jehanne."

She spun to face him, and the stark agony on her face silenced him. "I'm sorry," she whispered, and left. But where another woman would have run, she walked from the room with dignity.

But what are you sorry for? Galeran wondered as he surveyed the shambles. The bed was quite an accurate reflection of his life—messy, rot-riddled, yet fall of the essence of his love, his life, his wife.

Jehanne.

He inspected the bed and found worm in other parts. A new one would be needed. He couldn't regret it. Even if Jehanne and Lowick had never used this bed, it was part of something past, not present.

He froze, hands tight on the wood.

Jehanne and Lowick.

It had been a distant thing before. But now, now he could see them, hear them,
smell
them. Everything Jehanne had done with him today she had done with Lowick. She'd held him, guided him, nuzzled him, kissed him, sucked him, bit him. ...

Galeran realized he was trying to snap the side of the bed with his bare hands. Since it was four-inch oak, it was more likely to snap him first. He made his hands relax and release, then examined the grooves and bruises he had made there.

What terrified him most was that one day he might turn his rage on Jehanne. She had to be made to talk to him, to let him understand and forgive, or one day he might snap her with his bare hands.

Pushing to his feet, he called for water and John to shave him. He couldn't take any more of his wife's ministrations for the moment. He dug out more clothes and was soon ready to face the day.

He wasn't ready for an encounter with Jehanne's cousin Aline, but that was what waited outside the door. Eighteen forceful years old, Aline of Burstock was short and plump, but had Jehanne's coloring. She shared Jehanne's temperament in many ways, but whereas Jehanne was a sword, Aline was a club.

"I'm sure hitting her made you feel better," she stated.

"You're usually more astute." He actually liked Aline, and was suddenly grateful to have her here with her common sense and her habit of speaking her mind. Although that didn't mean he wanted to discuss his affairs with her.

"I suppose you might as well get into practice, since you'll probably have to beat her to clear the air." Her worried frown showed that her words were bait dangled to see whether the fish would bite.

"You should get to know Raoul de Jouray. You two seem to think alike."

Bright color rose in her cheeks. "Alike! That one's a heathen. He'd scarce washed off the dirt of his travels before he found Ella."

"Or Ella found him." Galeran couldn't help but grin. "But then, Raoul could probably find the most amenable woman in any castle inside five breaths."

"Then he should get
her
to bathe him," said Aline, glowering.

"He expected you to?" Galeran tried not to laugh. He wondered if Raoul had guessed that Aline had strict notions about modesty and had deliberately teased her. "I'm sure he didn't insist on it when you objected."

"No. Jehanne assisted him."

All urge to laugh vanished. It was only proper that Jehanne bathe a well-born guest, and such matters had never bothered him before. Now, however, he wanted to squeeze his friend's throat between his hands.

"I'll bathe him next time he asks," Aline said, her blue eyes sharp as a hawk's.

He hated being so transparent. "There's no need . . ."

"I'm
not going to be cause of more trouble with my silly scruples."

"I know such things are important to you, Aline. One of the other women . . ."

"That wouldn't be right. It would be an insult to a friend of the castle's lord." But then she frowned at him. "If you don't trust him, though, he's no friend."

"And if I don't trust her, she's no wife."

"Friends can be disowned. Wives cannot. Or not as easily."

Galeran leaned an arm against the stone wall and surrendered. "So, cousin, what do
you
think I should do?"

She looked up at him steadily. "She never stopped loving you, Galeran." Then the frown settled again. "But if you ever find that Brother Dennis, who brought news of your death, you could maybe cut out his lying tongue!"