Where Love Has Gone (40 page)

“I’m sure you will be happy in Kent,” she
told him.

“Sir Desmond said so, too,” Jean replied, his
eyes shining with excitement. “He promised if I’m a good page,
he’ll take me on as his squire after Richard is knighted.”

Elaine left him with her heart a little
lighter.

Desmond came to her shortly before dawn on
the sixth day after leaving Caen. Elaine had been awake for some
time. Expecting to see her maidservant, she answered the knock on
her chamber door in her bare feet and thin linen night robe.
Desmond was unshaven. Weariness lined his face and shadowed his
eyes. His sword and chainmail tunic were gone. He wore only his
padded gambeson and his hose and boots.

At first Elaine couldn’t speak. She pulled
the door open wider and stepped back to let him enter. She shut the
door and leaned against it. And waited. Desmond just stared at her
in the faintly rosy predawn light. Finally, she could bear the
suspense no longer.

“What happened?” she asked, sounding somewhat
breathless.

“The French have withdrawn. The invasion has
ended.”

“Thank heaven.” She closed her eyes, only to
open them at once when she sensed his warmth moving closer. Warmth,
and the distinctive odor of horse and road dust and sweaty male
surrounded her. And the coppery smell of blood. “Are you
wounded?”

“On our way back to Caen, we met a few of
King Louis’s men who were not happy to learn we’d ended their
dreams of land to seize and fair maidens to ravish. Cadwallon and I
persuaded them to reform their minds to a more peaceable
attitude.”

“Was Cadwallon hurt, too?”

“Merely a scratch. Ewan is bandaging it.
Elaine, I have other news that does not concern the invasion.”

“Tell me later. Did Richard see to your
wound?”

“He offered, as a good squire should. I
refused him. All I wanted from Richard was for him to disarm me.
For the rest, for washing and binding my wound, and for soothing
the memory of violent battle, I need you.”

“The water in my pitcher is cold. I’ll send
for hot water.” She turned to open the door.

“No.” Desmond’s hand slammed on the wood,
keeping the door closed. “No servants. Cold water will do well
enough. I want only you.”

“Very well, then.” She looked him over, but
in the shadowy light she couldn’t detect any sign of his wound.
“Lift your arms and I’ll help you remove your gambeson, so I can
see where you were cut.”

He placed his hands on either side of her,
holding her with her back once more against the door. She raised
her head to protest that she couldn’t tend to his wound unless she
could find it, but she never uttered the words. Before she could
speak his mouth slanted across hers while his body pressed her
tighter against the wood panels of the door, making her aware of
his urgent masculine need.

She tried to pull away from him so she could
ask where his wound was, but the instant their lips separated and
she opened hers, his tongue surged into her with all the force of a
crossbow quarrel finding its target. His tongue, and his hard
masculine shaft, pinned her to the door, the trembling victim of
her own desire for him.

She felt herself beginning to melt. Heat
pooled in her lower body. Her knees buckled. In an effort to keep
herself upright she wound her arms around Desmond’s waist and held
on tight. Not until he tore his mouth from hers and she could
breathe again did she realize that the warmth and the stickiness
she was feeling came not so much from Desmond’s urgent need of her,
but from a gash in his left side just below his waist, which was
bleeding in a rather nasty way.

It was a common location for a broadsword
wound. A swordsman customarily aimed for the mid torso below his
opponent’s ribs. If the slashing blow was wide and deep enough a
man’s insides would spill out and he would die in agony. Less
obviously fatal wounds merely punctured the gut. In that case,
though the wound was small death still came, though more slowly,
from putrefaction. Lesser still were wounds that only slashed
through muscle and did not open the gut, and those had a chance of
healing, so long as they did not putrefy.

Elaine had seen all three types of wound
during her youth at Dereham and her later years at Warden’s Manor.
Men-at-arms often hurt each other if they grew careless during
practice. Sometimes they fought in earnest, over a woman, or
gambling debts, or out of pent-up anger.

“Desmond, you must remove your gambeson now.”
Elaine took her hands from his waist and placed them on his
shoulders, pushing him away from her. This time he allowed her to
do as she wanted.

When she finally dragged the sweaty,
bloodstained padded shirt off him, she shuddered at the sight of
his left side covered in dried blood.

A quick knock on her door was followed by the
entrance of her maidservant carrying the large jug of hot water
that Elaine had requested be delivered to her every morning. The
maid stopped short at the sight of a half-clothed man in her
mistress’s bedchamber.

“Thank you,” Elaine said, trying to sound as
if nothing was the least bit unusual. “Please bring me a pitcher of
wine and some food. Do not tell anyone what you’ve seen here.”

As soon as the maid was gone Elaine said to
Desmond, “Take off your hose and boots, too. Don’t argue with me,
just do it.”

To her amazement Desmond grinned as broadly
as Cadwallon ever did, and quickly stripped away all of his
remaining clothes. Pretending she wasn’t aware of his aroused
state, Elaine examined his wound.

“Will I die of it?” Desmond asked, sounding
remarkably solemn.

“Certainly not. I think you knew it was a
minor cut,” she scolded. “The skin is barely nicked.”

“It bled so much that I couldn’t be certain,”
he said. “So I decided to die in your arms.”

“What nonsense.” She spoke with unnecessary
harshness because she was so intensely aware of his rigid arousal.
“All it needs is cleaning and a bandage. Sit down.” With a rough
gesture she pushed him onto the edge of the bed. Dipping her towel
into the hot water she set about washing the cut on his flank.
Fortunately, she had tucked away in her clothing chest the last
remnant of the rolled linen bandage they had used during their ride
from Regneville to Caen, and this she wrapped around his waist. She
worked quickly, wanting Desmond to cover himself again, so she
wouldn’t give way to her longing to look her fill. By the time the
maidservant returned Elaine was tying off the end of the
bandage.

“My lady?” The maidservant nearly dropped the
tray she was carrying. She stared entranced at Desmond’s naked back
as he rose and walked to the table where the water jug was.

“Put the tray down,” Elaine ordered the girl.
“Sir Desmond will want to rest without being disturbed, so I will
dress myself. You may leave now.”

“Yes, my lady.” The servant lingered long
enough to see Desmond begin to wash himself, and it seemed to
Elaine that she departed with great reluctance.

“I hope you realize,” Elaine said to Desmond,
“she will go straight to Royce and tell him you are here.”

“I don’t greatly care what she tells Royce.
Cadwallon and I have already made our reports to him, so he is
presently with King Henry, where I expect he will be occupied for
several hours. Royce is unlikely to come bursting through your door
to rescue me.”

“To rescue
you?
”

“There.” Desmond tossed the wet towel aside
and dumped the dirty water out the window. “I remain unshaven, but
otherwise I am reasonably clean and all of the blood is gone. Now,
may I die in your arms?”

“I don’t know what Royce has told you,”
Elaine began nervously.

“He cannot have you.”

“He doesn’t want me.” She gaped at him in
astonishment. “Whatever made you think he does?”

“Royce is very fond of you.”

“He was my sister’s godfather, and my own
father’s best friend. I think of him as a dear uncle.”

“I’m glad to hear it. I don’t want to have to
kill him.”

“Desmond, I fear you’ve taken leave of your
senses. I know you are overtired after your long ride—”

“My senses are all still with me.” He caught
her around the waist and pulled her so close that she could no
longer pretend to ignore his jutting arousal. “Can’t you feel the
most urgent of my senses probing against your senses?”

“Stop that.” She made a weak attempt to shove
him aside. “Desmond, please. We must talk.”

“Later.” His mouth seared the skin of her
shoulder, his lips tracing the wide neckline of her linen robe.
Elaine began to tremble.

“You said you have something to tell me,” she
reminded him.

“I’ll tell you afterward.” He began to nibble
on her earlobe.

“Desmond—”

Then she was on the bed and he lay close
beside her. His strong hands pushed her robe up and drew it over
her head. His mouth caught hers, stopping her weak protests,
halting any attempt at serious conversation. Or of thought. His
stubbly beard scratched her breasts and her belly, but she didn’t
care. She opened to him quickly, easily, and he entered her in a
rush of pleasure, stretching her still untutored body, filling her
and, finally, driving her to a state of delicious madness.

They found completion with his mouth over
hers to quell her wild cries, his hands holding her wrists at
either side of her head. Imprisoned thus in his embrace, aware that
such warmth and joy would likely be short-lived, still she had
never been so happy.

A long time later, with the morning sounds of
the castle stirring outside the door and the window, Desmond lifted
his head to look at her.

“You are mine,” he said. “Now I can claim
you.”

“I believe you just did, and rather
thoroughly, too.” She smiled at him, preparing to tell him about
her enlarged dowry and about Royce’s advice that she admit her
feelings to him. Desmond kissed her, stopping the words before she
could speak them.

“It’s time to tell you my news,” he said.

“Very well.” She put a little distance
between them, so she could see his face more clearly, without his
touch to make her want to move back into his arms and agree with
whatever he said. She expected to hear of his next assignment, some
difficult and dangerous task that King Henry or Royce wanted done
at once. An assignment that would take him away from her. She was
glad she hadn’t spoken.

“My mother had a cousin, a man named Robert,”
Desmond said. “I met him only once. My father disliked him and
refused to let him visit Ashendown. Robert died some months ago,
leaving no direct male heir. In his will he asked that his lands be
evenly divided between my brother Magnus and me. An hour before I
rode off to Evreux, King Henry informed me that he has approved the
arrangement. Thus, I am now in possession of lands and a manor
house in Devon.”

“I’m happy for you,” Elaine said, momentarily
diverted from her own concerns and from her sadness at the thought
of losing him. “Isn’t Cadwallon’s castle located in Devon?” she
asked.

“He tells me that my new lands lie close to
his. In fact, Cadwallon has proposed a marriage between the son he
expects his beloved Janet to deliver in a few months and any future
daughter of mine.” Desmond grinned. “I informed him that I intend
to produce only sons, so if he wants the union, Janet will have to
bear a girl.”

“What
are
you saying?” Elaine looked
at him in surprise. She’d formed the impression that Desmond didn’t
much like Cadwallon, though she thought he had begun to respect the
big man.

“I’m not saying it very well, am I?” Desmond
touched her cheek with a gentle hand. “Elaine, will you marry me,
live with me in Devon, and have children with me? Will you, in
time, agree to allow one of our children to marry one of
Cadwallon’s?”

“I know you don’t want to give up
spying.”

“Indeed not. I enjoy the challenge of
matching wits with King Henry’s enemies too much ever to relinquish
that special excitement. You know what I mean; you’ve felt the
thrill of it, yourself. Still, Cadwallon has managed to continue to
work for Royce whenever he’s needed, in spite of being married. I
can do the same, if you will agree to marry me.”

“Are you asking me because you believe I
won’t interfere in your beloved game of spying?” she demanded with
just a hint of annoyance in her words.

“No.” His smile deepened and mischief
sparkled in his eyes. “I’m asking you because I think you need
protection from your mother.”

“I can protect myself from my mother, thank
you very much. I’ve been doing it most of my life.” She glared at
him. “I will not marry you.”

“I need you.” His smile did not waver, which
only infuriated Elaine.

“You may need a chatelaine, and certainly you
need a mistress, but as a spy, you most definitely do not need a
wife. I refuse to serve as a convenience you may use or leave, as
you see fit.”

“I came to this room, to you,” he said. “To
no other woman. You are the only woman I want to bind up my wounds
and lie in my bed, to kiss me and touch me and drive me to near
madness with desire.”

“I will not marry you.” She was shaking with
her need to fall into his arms and accept his proposal. She knew he
was the only man she’d ever want, and she did not doubt that her
mother was already choosing a husband for her whom Elaine was sure
to dislike, whom she’d insist Elaine must marry. She’d rather enter
a convent. No, she’d far rather marry Desmond, but not if he didn’t
love her. Marriage to him if he didn’t, or couldn’t, love her would
be a foretaste of Hell. She turned her face away so he wouldn’t see
the tears in her eyes.

“Not even if you are carrying my child?” he
asked softly.