Virginia Henley (6 page)

He dismounted. “Come, I’ll take you up before me. He will be delighted with you.”

Her cheeks flamed with embarrassment now that he had drawn close, for the thin material of her gown clung wetly across her breasts. Though she tried to stand with her chest in as concave a manner as possible, her breasts thrust up impudently between them, causing his devil’s grin to widen.

“I’ll not ride with you,” she said, lifting her head high.

He mockingly indicated the packhorse with its bloody burden. “Take your choice.”

“I prefer
this
boor,” she said acidly.

One heavy eyebrow slanted with appreciation at her stinging wit.

She mounted behind the carcass and glared daggers as Tristan looked his fill at her shapely legs. Soon she was chagrined to find out that she had been very close to Belvoir. She could have gotten there without this imp of Satan if she had only known.

Tristan turned the horses over to a groom and led her through an archway into the rambling lodge. She resolutely ignored the stares of two young squires and followed Tristan up a winding stairway to a chamber on the upper level. Thankfully, there was a fire, and Roseanna stepped toward it gratefully.

“I’ll find you something dry to wear,” said Tristan, going to another chamber door and calling, “Cassandra, come and see what I’ve found.”

Knowing the young knave was referring to her, she whirled toward him with a mouthful of invective, but the words dissolved as she stared at the most vividly flamboyant creature she’d ever seen. She wore a low-cut gown of shining gold material that revealed rather than concealed her breasts. Her hair also was a most unreal shade of blond; it looked as if it had been sprinkled with gold dust. To top it off, she wore face paint—her lips were brightly crimson, her eyelids gilt.

The woman appraised Roseanna carefully as Tristan approached them. “I thought she’d make a unique present for Roger.”

Roseanna had had enough. She sprang at him. “You bastard!” she cried, punching him until he grabbed her by the arms.

“Before you give her to Roger, best draw her sting, darling,” Cassandra whispered. She passed Tristan a tiny
vial of sleeping drops distilled from the poppy, then left him to it.

“For God’s sake, settle down,” Tristan said. “No harm will come to you.” He moved a huge armchair before the fire and poured her a goblet of wine. Then he pulled off the voluminous silken tapestry that served as a bedcover and handed it to her. “Take off that wet rag, and I’ll go find you a gown. Then I’ll take you to Ravenspur, if that’s what you want.”

“It is, you grinning goat!” Roseanna glared at him.

He closed the door behind him, and she stood immobile, determined not to remove one stitch. Then she caught sight of herself in the mirror and gasped in horror. Her appearance was a thousand times worse than she had imagined. She was in rags, she was dirty, and her hair was in such wild disarray, it fell down her back in a tangled mass of curls that looked as if a brush and comb hadn’t touched it since birth.

Quickly she washed her hands and face, then her feet and legs. She stripped off what used to be her gown and wrapped herself in the silken tapestry. There was no hairbrush in the room, but if he could produce a gown, a hairbrush should be possible, too, she mused. She sat down before the fire to wait and drained the goblet of wine.

When Tristan returned with a couple of items of female attire draped over his arm, he found her asleep before the fire. The empty goblet was on the rug, where it had rolled from her hand. Christ! The sleeping potion had worked faster than he thought. He hoped he hadn’t given her too much. He took Roseanna’s chin in his hand and lifted it. God, she was lovely! It had been so long since he’d seen a woman without face paint, he was enthralled.
The natural texture of her skin seemed as luminous as a pearl, and her lips were like soft pink velvet. The tapestry fell away to reveal a luscious pink-tipped breast. She was a prize indeed, and by God, he knew exactly how he was going to present her to Roger.

The feast below in the dining hall of the King’s hunting lodge was sumptuous. All the game that had been bagged the day before had been roasted for tonight’s banquet. Roger Montford, Baron of Ravenspur, sat on the small raised dais with Cassandra at his side. He was as dark as his name implied, an older, broader version of Tristan. But instead of open humor, his dark eyes held cynicism. Where Tristan’s mouth lifted in laughter, Roger’s was hard and masculine. In fact, everything about Roger was more vivid, more pronounced, more striking than his younger brother.

Forty of his favored knights who had served him well in Wales sat along two rows of trestle tables facing each other. The tables groaned beneath the platters of game and venison and the flagons of wine and ale.

Between every pair of men sat a young woman; there were twenty in all for their enjoyment. As the evening progressed, the drinking was deep and the atmosphere grew louder and more bawdy with each drained goblet. The women also were well-flown with wine; one stood on a table and performed an erotic version of the dance of the seven veils to enthusiastic shouts from the men.

When this performance finished, there was a natural lull in the proceedings. Tristan chose his moment well. He strode into the hall with the silk tapestry rolled up and draped over his arms. He stopped before Roger and bowed. “We have a special prize for the man who bagged the most game on this hunt.” All eyes went to Ravenspur,
since everyone present knew their lord always took the most game. Roger looked on, amused and curious as to what the young devil was up to now.

Tristan went down on one knee and gently rolled out the silken tapestry. Whistles and shouts broke out as the naked maid was revealed. Only her dark mane of hair provided cover from the men’s avid eyes.

The smile was instantly wiped from Roger’s face. “Who is she?” he demanded.

“A peasant girl,” said Tristan, feeling the back of his neck prickle because his brother was not pleased.

Roger stood up and swore. “Jesus Christ, you’ll get us all hanged before you’re finished! These peasants are not ours, Tristan. They belong to the King. You young fool— sometimes I think your brains must be in your arse! Is it not enough for you that I brought along Madame Cassandra and these young ladies from her riding academy?” he asked with cutting sarcasm.

It always annoyed Roger that although Tristan had a lovely young wife and child, that didn’t keep him from whoring. He took up his cloak and stepped down from the dais. He bent and wrapped the maid in his mantle, picked up her limp form, and handed her back to Tristan. His dark eyes bored into his brother’s and he said firmly, “Put her in my chamber until she recovers. Lock it!” Tristan left without a word, but he wondered what the hell was up with Roger that he spoiled all the fun. He must be getting old, Tristan decided.

Cassandra soon coaxed Roger’s sense of humor to return by regaling him with the details of an evening’s entertainment in honor of the Archbishop of York that she and her girls had attended. She had dressed her girls as nuns, and the romp that ensued had almost caused a
scandal when the Archbishop’s brother, the great Warwick, heard of it.

Roger laughed. “No wonder the King took away the Archbishop’s office of Lord Chancellor and gave it to young Richard.”

Cassandra wrinkled her nose at the mention of the King’s youngest brother, Richard. She was about to relate an eyebrow-raising tale about him, but Roger touched her nose with his finger. “Don’t gossip about young Richard to me. I know he isn’t popular, but Ned gives him all his dirty work to attend to. At least he’s loyal, and that’s more than can be said for the King’s other brother, George.”

“Brothers can be a sore trial, can they not, my darling?” she purred, and she ran her hand along his thigh, which was as hard as steel. “Come, your men can manage without you, but I cannot.”

They went up to her chamber, taking with them a full flagon of malmsey. He had indulged her by allowing her to pick the most lavish chamber for herself, and now he noted with a jaded eye that the room was already in wild disarray. When she stripped off her gown, he saw that her nipples were gilded to match her eyelids and that her pubic hair was dusted with gold powder. He cocked an eyebrow. “The latest fashion?”

“Not really,” she drawled, touching herself suggestively with long, slim fingers. “The very latest fad is to shave off the hair completely, but I didn’t think that would please you, somehow.”

“Damned right,” Ravenspur grinned. He picked her up and deposited her onto the bed to complete the act they both desired. Between bouts, sated for the moment, he lay on his back and half listened to Cassandra’s con
versation. With one finger she traced his lips; then she tried to insert it into his mouth so that he would suck on it. Instead, he bit her, and she quickly withdrew it and traced the deep cleft in his chin. Then with the same scarlet-tipped finger, she traced the black line of hair that ran from his chest, directly over his navel, and down into the heavy black mat of hair that covered his groin.

By the time she had reached her goal, he was rigid again, and she licked her lips in anticipation. Cassandra wished she had more power over him. By this time she would have had the King mindless and young Tristan positively groveling, but not Ravenspur. She thrilled to the stories that were whispered about him, about the things he’d done to his wife because of her infidelity. Cassandra knew that if a man was dangerous, he was attractive—and by God, this man was dangerous!

She shut her eyes as her hot mouth closed over him, unable to wait a moment longer. He lay back and allowed her to have her fill, thinking cynically that at least it kept her quiet for a while. He held back a long time to prolong his pleasure as well as the silence. She doubled her efforts, flicking and swirling her tongue, wanting to hear him moan, to watch his head arch back and the tendons stand out on his strong neck. At last he came, with such force that he was only dimly aware of Cassandra.

The moment she got her breath back, she was talking again. “Next week, my lord, why don’t I arrange for you to have two girls?”

A corner of his mouth lifted in amusement. “Both making love to me at the same time?”

“No. The idea is that you make love to them at the same time. They say that if a man can bring two women to climax simultaneously, one with his shaft, the other
with his tongue, it gives him a surge of power such as he has never experienced before.”

He drew away from her. “Cassandra, excess sickens me,” he said flatly.

“Nonsense,” she whispered.

“It’s titillating to speak of, perhaps, but in reality it’s disgusting.”

She laughed. “How old-fashioned you are!”

“I have nothing against more than one woman,” he said smoothly. “It is just that I prefer that the first one leave before the second arrives.” He threw back the covers and removed his long legs from the bed.

“Where are you going?” she asked, alarmed.

“I think I’ll sleep better in my own chamber.” He said it with such finality that she dared not protest.

He cursed at his locked chamber door, then sorted through the bundle of clothes he carried under his arm until he found the keys. He threw his clothes onto a leather-topped coffer and lit the candles that stood about the room. His eye caught sight of the young girl asleep in his bed. “Hellfire, I forgot about you,” he muttered. He picked up the candelabra and strode naked to the bed. As the candle glow fell on her delicate features, his eyes dilated with pleasure. Carefully, he drew back the coverlet and let his eyes play up and down her exquisite body. He drew in his breath at the loveliness laid out before him. Her breasts swelled up temptingly—soft, white, round globes, gleaming like satin, tipped with pink rosebuds. They seemed to beckon him to touch them, to kiss them as they rose and fell with her gentle breathing. He resisted for a moment, savoring the opportunity to explore her with his eyes before she awoke. Her luxurious mane of glossy black hair reached all the way to her knees like
a sable cloak, its rich darkness contrasting with her pale, smooth skin.

He knew he had never before beheld such a magnificent crown of glory. Unbidden, his fingers lifted a silken tress where it fell across one thigh. His physical response to touching her was immediate and pronounced.

“Splendor of God,” he muttered thickly, licking lips gone suddenly dry. He observed things about her that he had never noticed on women before. Her hands were small, as pale as new ivory freshly carved; her nails were a delicate pink. His eyes traveled over her breasts again, up the delicate column of her neck, and lingered on her full, soft mouth. He longed to taste that mouth—and in a moment he would! Her long lashes made dark crescent shadows upon her cheeks; her eyelids were so delicate, he could discern tiny blue veins.

Roger Montford had only one use for women; he had a theory that only whores and prostitutes were beautiful. Apparently he was wrong; peasant women could also be beautiful. At this moment common sense and caution— two qualities he usually had in abundance—deserted him. He had never quite felt like this before. A heady intoxication made him oblivious to everything but his need for her. Her body’s scent reached his nostrils, making them flare with lust.

He slipped into the bed and reached for her. The moment his hands came in contact with her velvet skin, his shaft lengthened another inch, so intense was his response. He cupped her delicate cheeks and lifted her mouth to his, but she slept on, unaware of his touch. Her limp helplessness excited him further. By all heavenly delight, he would be able to do anything to her, and she would not protest!

He dipped his head to her delicious breasts and touched the tip of his tongue to her nipples. They did not bud in response to him; a frown creased his brow. He took her mouth in a demanding kiss and was sorely disappointed when she did not open to him to allow his tongue entrance. No answering pressure met his lips; no arms entwined lovingly about his neck; no gasps or moans of pleasure met his ears. She was rapidly becoming a grave disappointment.