Lady Fortune (12 page)

“See that it stays that way. If I’m not to tup, then neither are you.” Lord Hugh rose with exaggerated dignity, looming over the banqueting table. Some of the servants at the far end of the room stirred uneasily, clearly wondering if they dared approach their lord and master.

“I’m going after my wife,” Hugh announced. “And woe betide anyone who interferes.”

“You’ll go against the holy father’s orders?” Gilbert questioned, seemingly shocked.

“No. I’ll lie beside her, not between her legs,” he growled.

“A chaste wedding night,” Nicholas said. “Is my lord certain that’s the best course? Will you be able to resist temptation?”

“I can resist anything I damn please,” Hugh said. “Now where the hell is my lady wife?”

Her mother, Julianna soon discovered, was not a sound sleeper. A light rain had begun to fall, and the sound of it beating against the stone walls of the castle should have soothed Isabeau into the deepest of slumbers, particularly since the previous night had been disrupted by the Abbot of Saint Hugelina. It was all Julianna could do to lie perfectly still beside her, keeping her breathing deep and slow, while Isabeau tossed and turned.

Obviously she didn’t take after her mother in that particular regard—the steady beat of the rain was lulling Julianna into a beckoning slumber that was proving almost impossible to resist. She’d drift, her mother would thrash, and Julianna would be jerked awake, determined to stay that way, only to drift once more.

She’d given up fighting as exhaustion began to take firm possession of her body and soul. The Blessed Chalice could wait for another day, and if someone pilfered it in the meantime, it was hardly her fault. As the night advanced, she was no longer quite sure why she’d decided to take it in the first place. She’d had some vague plan to trade it to Father Paulus in return for his help, but as she drifted deeper and deeper into sleep she thought that for a godly man, Father Paulus didn’t seem terribly trustworthy. He might take the relic from her and offer her no gratitude, no reward at all, even though the only reward she craved was the peace and serenity of a convent.

The fool had probably climbed up on the stool that had tripped her and taken the relic from its dusty hiding place. So be it. She would live with the consequences. What she needed now, more than a priceless relic with which to barter her future, was a decent night’s sleep.

She’d just begun to drift, peaceful at last, when she heard a loud noise, then footsteps echoing, a voice raised, a flurry of activity that effectively wiped out any hope of sleep.

She sat upright in bed. “Oh, bother,” she muttered. “What is it now?”

Her mother was at last still and unmoving, but her quiet voice attested to the fact that she was wide awake. “I suspect it’s my new husband.”

Julianna had no notion whether she was imagining the tone of pleased satisfaction in her mother’s voice, and she wasn’t about to waste time questioning her mother’s wisdom. The voices grew louder, and she could indeed recognize Lord Hugh’s deep bellow. A moment later the heavy door was flung open. Julianna dove beneath the covers, but Isabeau sat up, calm and serene as always.

“My lord?” she questioned in her even voice.

“You’re my wife,” Lord Hugh declared in a tone bordering on the belligerent.

“Yes, my lord,” Isabeau said.

“You’ll sleep in my bed then.”

Julianna shivered beneath the covers, but Isabeau seemed undaunted. “The priest has declared we live chastely, my lord.”

“We’ll live chastely, damn his eyes. But we’ll be chaste in my bed.”

Isabeau hesitated, and Julianna tried desperately to think of a way to save her, but in her panic she could come up with nothing at all, not even a convenient illness that would necessitate her mother staying by her side.

“Yes, my lord,” Isabeau said, far too cheerfully, and climbed down from the bed, her linen shift trailing behind her in the cool night air.

A moment later she was gone, the door closing behind her, and Julianna was alone, huddled in the big bed. The room was huge and dark, lit only by the fitful flames of a dying fire, and she wanted to weep, though she wasn’t quite sure why. Ten years ago her mother had been unable to stop the cruel fate that had befallen Julianna, sent to the bed of a mean, ugly old man when she was just a child. Had Julianna just allowed the same thing to happen to her fragile mother?

Except that Isabeau had seemed remarkably calm about it. And in truth, Hugh wasn’t particularly old, and no one could call him ugly. Julianna drew her knees up to her chest, hugging them, shivering in the chilly air. If she had any kind of courage at all, she should climb out of bed and go after them. She pushed the covers down, ready to move, when an all-too-familiar voice drawled from close at hand.

“I wouldn’t waste my time if I were you,” the fool murmured. “Neither of them would thank you for it.”

“What are you doing here? Get out of my room!” Julianna said in a scandalized whisper.

“Why do you bother whispering? There’s no one around. Are you trying to save my spotless reputation?”

She could see him now, reflected against the flickering fire. He seemed larger than she remembered, broader. Dangerous.

“It’s my reputation I’m worried about,” she said sharply, ignoring the faint quiver in her voice.

“Oh, your reputation would survive quite handily. After all, you’re a virtuous widow who’s made her dislike of men in general, and me in particular, quite obvious. On the other hand, I wouldn’t fare so well. They might simply geld me if they were inclined to be merciful. Or your stepfather might hack me up in little pieces and deliver me in a box to King Henry.”

“What a lovely thought,” Julianna said faintly. “I’m not sure which appeals to me more.”

“You’d rather have me gelded, my lady,” Nicholas said cheerfully, coming up to the side of the bed. “You’d rather have every man in the place gelded. Wouldn’t you?”

She wasn’t going to back down. “It would make life a great deal more orderly and peaceful.”

“More peaceful without children. You don’t care for children, my lady?”

The pain was sharp and swift, straight to the heart. He couldn’t see through to her soul; there was no way he could know how the thought wounded her. She kept her own counsel, and the room was too dark to reveal any betraying flicker of expression if she somehow failed to hide it.

“Don’t pretend you don’t know the gossip. I am unable to have children. I’m a useless woman.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Nicholas said, sitting at the end of her bed and swinging his long legs up beside her. “I can think of any number of things you could be quite good at, with the proper encouragement.”

“Get off my bed!”

“It’s big enough for both of us with your mother gone,” he said lazily. He stretched out at one end, and his feet barely came to her waist. He was wearing a soft leather boot on one foot, a slipper on the other, and in the darkness the firelight flickered over his face, illuminating and then hiding his expression.

“If you don’t go away I will scream. There are women in the adjoining rooms, and I imagine they’ll come quite quickly. And you’ve already assured me you’d be the one to suffer for it, not me. What’s to stop me?”

“Curiosity.”

“Curiosity is a sin.”

“And you’re above sin, aren’t you, my lady? Except that I don’t believe it. I think you’re capable of sinning quite deliriously.”

“Go away. My mother can sin for both of us.”

“I doubt that she will. She’ll probably have as chaste a night in her lord’s bed as the rest of us will outside it, more’s the pity.”

“Then why are you here, if not for sinning?”

He leaned forward then, his silky hair brushing his face, and Julianna’s breath caught in her throat. In the firelight he was quite disarmingly handsome. He’d lost his maddening bells, he wasn’t annoying her with rhymes, and she let her errant gaze stray to his mouth before she could stop herself.

He had a beautiful mouth, wide, wry, with warm lips and white teeth. It was a mouth worth kissing, if one had to kiss.

“That’s right, my lady,” he said softly. “We haven’t finished what we started.”

“I’m not finishing anything.”

“I’m not going to hurt you. I’m just going to kiss you.”

“Why? You already kissed me in the chapel, sinful as it was, and—”

“I didn’t kiss you in the chapel. You kissed me. I still bear the bruises.”

She glanced at his mouth, shocked. “You don’t!”

It was even more appealing when it curved into a teasing smile. “No, I don’t. My mouth can stand up to a fair amount of abuse.”

“Go away.”

“After I kiss you.”

He meant it, she knew it, and she had two choices. She could scream, and someone would come to her aid, and at the very least he’d be beaten.

Or she could let him kiss her. She could sit perfectly still and analyze what he was doing, see if she could figure out why people seemed to put such great store by it. If that was all he planned to do, and she believed his promises, men there was no danger.

“All right,” she said in a challenging tone. “Kiss me, and then go away.” And she folded her arms across her chest, waiting.

He had to admit it—the Lady Julianna was utterly, completely beguiling. Dangerously so. He couldn’t remember when he’d been so drawn to a woman. It had to have happened before—he refused to allow the possibility that this was a unique experience, but it was undeniably unsettling. This woman, this girl, called to him. She was in the full bloom of youth, past innocence, and yet there was an oddly childlike aura about her that made him think of untouched maidens. She had a virginal soul.

He’d never cared much for deflowering virgins—he found the task vastly overrated. There were no diseases to be had from virgins, but very little pleasure either. They wept, they were clumsy, awkward, unskilled at giving or receiving pleasure. No, give him a woman of experience any day, a bawdy, hearty soul who knew how to please a man and herself.

And yet here he was, sitting on the bed of a young woman who knew as little about pleasure as the Abbot of Saint Hugelina. She offered nothing but danger and distraction—so why was he here, looking at her, instead of going after the chalice?

And where the hell was Bogo when he needed him?

He’d been so certain his problems were solved this afternoon. He’d found the chalice with almost no difficulty at all, and even if he had a witness, Julianna had no idea how important the relic was. He’d had every intention of coming back as soon as night fell and removing the chalice.

Unfortunately, everyone else had decided to get in his way. The courtyard had been filled with people, and despite his best efforts to make himself totally unbearable, Lord Hugh had demanded his presence. He didn’t dare disobey and raise suspicion.

And he couldn’t find Bogo anywhere. His servant could have been filching the chalice and planning their escape while Nicholas distracted the earl, but the man was nowhere to be seen. Someone mentioned he’d been talking with Brother Barth, but since Bogo had the spirituality of a fox, that seemed unlikely.

Unless Bogo turned up swiftly, stealing the chalice would be up to Nicholas. And he was a fool to be here now, a fool to be tempted by her, when it would be such a simple matter to solve his problems.

But then, he prided himself on not being practical. The chalice could wait—this was where he wanted to be. At the moment he wanted her more than he wanted a priceless relic and the king’s favor. It was that simple.

She wore a loose white shift, the drawstring neckline pulled up tight, and for the first time he could see her hair in the shifting firelight, even if it was still braided. Pale gold, not unlike his own.

He reached out and caught one fat braid in his fingers. It was heavy, silken in his hand. “Our children would have yellow hair,” he said absently, staring at it.

Her swift intake of breath sounded almost painful. “Do you never think before you speak?” she demanded in a harsh whisper. “I cannot bear children, and you shouldn’t. You might pass your affliction down to them.”

He reached the end of her braid and began unfastening the leather thong that held it plaited, his head bent to hide his smile. “I’m hoping my particular affliction isn’t hereditary. ‘Twould be a cruel thing for a child, wouldn’t it? To caper about in rags and always say what pops into his mind.” He began unwinding the braid, letting the silken hair brush against his fingers. She smelled like cinnamon, an uncommonly erotic scent, cinnamon and roses.

“Is that what you were like as a child?”

“Nay, my lady. Had you seen me as a child, you would never have known me.”

“You’re hard to mistake, Master Nicholas. Few people have spun-gold hair and cat’s eyes.”

“You wouldn’t have looked at me, my lady. As a child I was covered in rags and dirt. Ladies do not look at ragamuffin children.”

She paused, and he wondered if she was feeling a spark of compassion. He was hoping she would. His plan was very simple and basic at the moment—to exercise her sympathy and the tender heart she kept sternly hidden. She was a woman who needed a child. If she could open to him on a maternal level, it wouldn’t be long before he’d manage to get into her bed.

“Ladies quite often look at ragamuffin children,” she corrected him. “Had you no mother? No one to look after you? Even peasant children have parents.”

He considered lying to her. Which would she find more acceptable, a peasant or a poor fool? The one braid was free, and he dropped the strands, reaching for the other one as it lay against the thick blanket, meeting her gaze.

“Did you look after the peasants in your holdings, my lady? Would you have looked after me?”

“You aren’t a peasant,” she said flatly.

“And how do you know that?” She didn’t even realize he’d loosened her thick, beautiful hair so that it covered her shoulders like a golden shawl.

“I’m not sure. I just do.”

“Or maybe you just wish it. It would be wrong to kiss a peasant, wouldn’t it, my lady? Very, very wrong to want the touch of a peasant’s rough hands against your soft, pale skin.”

“I don’t want any man’s hands touching my skin,” she said. “And I expect your hands are as soft as mine…” Like a fool she caught one of his hands in hers, and then froze. “Your skin is rough,” she said in surprise.

“Yes,” he said. Her hands were much smaller than his, capturing his between them. His skin was darker from the sun, darker than her pale flesh, and his hand was callused, hard, strong.

She tried to release him, but it was a simple enough matter to twist his hand around to capture one of hers, holding it. She tugged, but he refused to release her. It was a small enough imposition, one she’d hardly scream over.

“You must have worked hard at some point in your life,” she said. “You weren’t always a fool.”

“They say a blow on the head can make a wise man mad,” he murmured. “Perhaps I was a knight in training who made the mistake of getting in the way of someone bigger and stronger, and it’s left me the way I am, a poor, pitiful hulk of what I could have been.”

He couldn’t read the expression in her warm brown eyes, couldn’t decide whether he’d convinced her with his string of lies or not.

“I expect you were probably kicked by a horse,” she said. “Which would explain your dislike of them.”

“Agreat tragedy,” he said solemnly. “There I was, one of King Henry’s favorites, and my poor brain was completely scrambled. I was lucky the good sovereign took pity on me, giving me cast-off garments and allowing me to amuse him.”

“A touching story, Master Nicholas.”

“Indeed.” He sighed.

“But Henry is noted neither for his goodness nor his pity. And if your brains are addled, then I’m the castle whore.”

“Splendid!” he said, and moved toward her.

She slapped him, not a soft blow but something hard enough to jar him. Lady Julianna was certainly not a tease, he thought, rubbing his face as he pulled away from her.

“Very well,” he said. “You’re not the castle whore, more’s the pity. One could hope.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“Teasing me. Annoying me. Why don’t you go away and leave me alone?”

“Dear lady, it’s what I do. I’m here to amuse and entertain.”

“I don’t find you amusing.”

He smiled at her, for once with no malice. “I know you don’t. I doubt there’s much you find amusing in this life, Lady Sobersides. I could make you laugh. I’ve done it before—doubtless I could do it again.”

“Not by annoying me.”

“Crave and have don’t rhyme,” she said severely.

“Close enough. Will you lie with me tonight, my lady? No one will ever know. You’ve assured me we don’t need to worry about bastards making an untoward appearance, and I carry no diseases. You’re wide awake and so am I, and the night is long. Take me into your bed, my lady, and let me love you.”

“I thought we’d agreed on a kiss, no more?”

“One can always hope for a boon from a bountiful lady.”

“A kiss is all you’re getting, and I’m beginning to rethink the wisdom of that as well.”

“Don’t think, my lady. It causes nothing but trouble, I assure you. I do my best to think no more than three times a week, if that.”

She tried to hide the beginnings of a smile, and failed. “Go away, master fool,” she said. “I am weary and I need my sleep. Kiss me and have done with it.”

She had no idea how infinitely luscious her mouth was, he thought. She had no notion of how her entire body could be made to sing with pleasure.

First things first. To run you must walk, to walk you must crawl, and Lady Julianna appeared a veritable infant.

“As you wish.” He dipped his head close to her, and she shut her eyes tightly, her lips bitten together as if expecting a cruel blow.

It would be very cruel indeed. It would undermine everything she held to be true. He waited, patiently, so close he could see the nervous flutter of her eyelashes. She was holding her breath, and sooner or later she’d have to let it out or faint. He didn’t care which—he’d enjoy reviving her.

Eventually her eyes flew open, and she released her pent-up breath. “What are you waiting for?” she demanded irritably.

“You. You look as if you’ve taken a taste of something nasty, and I haven’t even touched you yet. A kiss isn’t supposed to hurt, my lady. Even if the one you planted on me earlier was closer to a blow.”

“I don’t want you to kiss me.”

“Why? Are you afraid you’ll like it?”

“Of course not!”

“Then what are you worrying about? It will only take a short while…”

“A short while? A moment, no longer.”

He shook his head, laughing at her. “Kisses aren’t supposed to be rushed. For them to be effective, you have to linger, savor…”

“Kisses? When did this become plural?”

“Kisses are seldom singular, my lady.”

She looked at him suspiciously. “How many kisses were you planning on?”

“Oh, ten or so,” he said casually.

“Unacceptable. One.”

“Five,” he countered.

“Two,” she shot back.