Lionheart (88 page)

ISABELLA HAD REACHED her climax first, and so she was able to watch as Henri enjoyed his. Now she lay in the circle of his arms, marveling that the simple act of love-making could be so different. Their first couplings had been urgent and impassioned; they’d usually left a trail of discarded clothing scattered about their bedchamber and remained abed so late each morning that they were greeted with sly smiles when they eventually appeared in the great hall. Tonight, though, it had been less intense, slower and more deliberate. She knew he’d held back, and was touched that he was so protective of the baby, so protective of her. Surely a man capable of being both lustful and tender would be a good father.

“So . . .” he said, giving her a drowsy smile, “did you like being the one in the saddle?”

She had; this new position had given her greater freedom to move, and knowing it was prohibited by the Church was somehow exciting in and of itself. “Will I have to do penance for it?”

“Only if you tell your confessor. Have you never wondered, Bella, at the oddity of it—that the men who decide what comprises sins of the flesh are the same ones who shun such sins themselves? My uncle once said it was like asking a holy anchorite to lead an army into battle.”

“Which uncle—Richard?”

“No, Geoffrey, the one who was killed in a tournament outside Paris. Although I’m sure Richard would agree—as most men would. Few would argue that adultery is not a serious sin. But why is it sinful for you to mount me or for us to lie together during your pregnancy or even when you will have your flux? Granted, that might be untidy, but why sinful? Above all, I do not understand why the Church cautions men against loving their own wives too well, insisting that they sin if their lust burns too hot. If that be true, I am doomed,” he said cheerfully, “truly doomed!”

“I am, too, then,” she confessed, propping herself up on her elbow so she could watch the amusement playing across his face. She loved the intimacy of conversations like this, loved the way they could shut their bedchamber door and shut out the rest of the world, at least for a while. “That reminds me,” she said. “I had a very interesting and surprising discussion about carnal matters with your two aunts this afternoon.”

He cocked a brow in feigned shock. “Women talk about carnal matters?”

“As if you men do not!”

“Well, yes, we do that,” he conceded, grinning. “But men tend to boast about the vast number of their bedmates, and I would hope that is not true for royal wives like Joanna and Berengaria!”

“Speaking of that, you’ve said very little about your past. I know nothing of the women you’ve bedded.”

“And I intend to keep it that way,” he said firmly, although the corner of his mouth was twitching with suppressed laughter. Sitting up, he swung his legs onto the floor and returned a moment later with a cup of spiced wine. Offering her the first sip, he took several swallows before setting the cup down on the carpet. “So what do women say, then, when they talk of the marriage bed?”

“Well, it began with Anna asking us what it felt like to lie with a man. She wanted to know if it was ‘pleasant.’”

“It is only natural that she’d wonder about it,” Henri said with a chuckle.

“What did you tell her?”

“Joanna assured her that it was indeed ‘pleasant,’ and Berengaria agreed, saying the intimacy was very comforting. I could scarcely believe my own ears, for they made it sound so . . . so tame, so downright dull! I started to speak up, but then it occurred to me that they were deliberately understating it, lest Anna be too intrigued.”

“That makes sense. Anna is a handful, and if they’d dwelled too much upon the delights of the flesh, she might be tempted to try them for herself.”

“So I thought. But when I said as much once Anna was out of earshot, they looked at me in perplexity. Joanna said Anna deserved an honest answer and they’d given her one. It was only then that I understood, Henri. To them, love-making is indeed pleasant, enjoyable, intimate. But they know nothing of what else it can be, what you taught me it can be!”

“I am not sure I want to hear about my uncle’s bedsport, and for certes I do not want to envision my aunt Joanna in the throes of passion. They are my family, after all, and I still remember how discomfited I was as a lad when I realized that my own parents did the deed, too!”

They both laughed and she wished she’d known him then; she did not doubt he’d been a happy child and she thought that she must do all in her power to make sure that he would be no less happy in Outremer than he’d been in Champagne. Henri leaned over and gave her a soft, seeking kiss. “Well? Are you not going to tell me ‘what else it can be,’ Bella?”

“I do not know if that would be wise. I’d not want to puff up your male pride too much. . . .” She let him persuade her, though, with a few caresses. “It is not easy to find the words. When you make love to me, I stop thinking. I just . . . feel. It is as if my very bones are melting, as if every nerve in my body is afire. It is a little scary to be so out of control, but it is very exciting, too, the way it must feel to be drunk. Only I’m not drunk on wine, Henri, I’m drunk on you.”

Henri kissed the hollow of her throat, brushing back a strand of her long black hair. “How did I ever get so lucky?”

“By letting my stepfather lure you back to Tyre,” she said with a smile. “Your turn now. When you make love to me, how does it make you feel?”

“Blessed,” he said, with a smile of his own, “truly blessed.”

“Silver-tongued devil,” she said lightly, but the candlelight caught a suspicious sheen in those wide-set dark eyes. “All those troubadours and trouvères at your mother’s court taught you well—Oh!”

“What?” His immediate alarm revealed the intensity of his protective instincts.

“Are you hurting?”

“No, the baby just kicked, and quite a kick it was, too.” Remembering that her womb had not quickened until he’d gone to join Richard at Bait Nūbā, she said, suddenly shy, “Would you . . . like to feel it?” When he nodded, she placed his hand on her abdomen, with a stab of regret that her pregnancy must be so complicated, not the source of pure joy it ought to be.

Henri’s eyes widened. “I felt it move!” He laughed, fascinated, for the first time seeing the baby as an individual in its own right, not just part of Isabella’s body. “Do you think it swims around in your womb like a tadpole? I wonder what it thought was happening whilst we were making love?”

“I daresay the rocking motion put it to sleep. At least I hope so, for it is well past its bedtime.” She managed to keep her tone playful, no easy task, for her throat had closed up.

“Speaking of sleep . . . Richard is likely to roust me out of bed at dawn to plan our assault upon Beirut. Once he makes up his mind to do something, he wants it done yesterday.” Deciding to let the candles burn themselves out, he kissed her again, saying, “Good night, my love.” Lifting the sheet, then, he leaned over to drop a kiss on her swollen belly. “Good night, little one.”

The first time he’d done that, he’d acted on impulse, but she’d been so moved by the gesture that he’d incorporated it into their bedtime ritual. She gave him a dazzling smile now, then nestled against his body, her head cradled on his shoulder. To his amusement, she was soon snoring; she’d never done that before and he assumed it was yet another symptom of pregnancy. He shifted his position with care, not wanting to disturb her sleep, and let his hand rest lightly upon her rounded abdomen. Whenever he entreated the Almighty to keep Isabella safe and well, he always included the baby in his prayers. But he also prayed that the child she carried would be a girl.

MORGAN WAS WATCHING from the shadows as Mariam and two men-at-arms approached the Cathedral of the Holy Cross. He could not hear what she said, but it was obviously welcome to the men, who beamed and bowed respectfully before leaving her alone on the steps. She waited until they were on their way before entering the church. When Morgan materialized silently beside her, she did not speak, either, following as he opened a side door that led out into the cloisters. None of the secular canons were about, for they were getting ready for the None Mass; Morgan and Mariam had chosen their time with care. Morgan had already scouted out the cathedral precincts and when he said, “This way,” she nodded and slipped her arm through his, pausing first to draw her veil across her face, leaving only her eyes visible. He knew it was a trick of the light, but they looked golden, as lustrous and gleaming as a cat’s eyes in the dark, and he was glad he’d found an inn so close to the cathedral.

“How much time do we have?” he asked once they’d safely merged into the usual street traffic of pedestrians, carts, vendors, beggars, and an occasional horseman.

“I told them to meet me back at the cathedral when the bells sounded for Vespers. They were delighted to have the rest of the afternoon to themselves, are likely headed for the nearest tavern or bawdy house.”

“Vespers . . . then we have three hours.”

She nodded and her eyes crinkled at the corners, as if she were smiling. “I am supposed to be meeting Bishop Theobald and Prior William of the Hospital of St Thomas the Martyr to discuss donations for the poor, and I told them to take me to the cathedral first so I could offer up prayers for those who died during the siege of Acre. It would have seemed strange if I’d made it later than Vespers, for they know I’ll be expected back for the evening meal. I could not leave the castle without an escort, though. A king’s daughter—even one born to a
harim
concubine—cannot go wandering about the streets by herself, after all. Sinning would be so much easier if only I were not so highborn!”

Morgan halted so he could look directly into those glorious golden eyes. “Do you think that we are sinning,
cariad
?”

“No, I do not,” she said, without hesitation. “Fornication is surely a venial sin at worst. So unless you have a wife hidden away in Wales that you’ve failed to mention, I do not think we are putting our souls in peril.” They resumed walking and she rested her hand again in the crook of his elbow. “If I’d said yes, that I did think we were about to commit a mortal sin, would you have taken me back to the castle?”

He considered the question. “No, I’d have tried to convince you it was not a sin,” he said honestly, and when she gave a low, throaty laugh, he wanted to stop and kiss her then and there. Fortunately, they did not have far to go, for the inn was already in sight. He’d planned it as thoroughly as a military campaign, arranging access to a back entrance so she’d not have to pass through the common chamber. Even though she was veiled, he did not want to subject her to the stares of other men. She teased him that a man did not get to be so adept at trysts without having had a lot of practice, but her footsteps were as quick as his as they mounted the stairs.

He’d deliberately rented a chamber on the top floor so they could leave the windows unshuttered, and the room was aglow with late-afternoon sun. Mariam had worried that there might be some initial awkwardness once they were alone, but as soon as he slid the door’s bar into place, Morgan unpinned her veil and kissed her the way he’d wanted to kiss her out in the street. “Let’s do this right,” he murmured and swept her up into his arms. But as he headed for the bed, his boot slipped on the floor rushes and her weight kept him from regaining his balance. With a startled oath, he pitched forward, tumbling them both onto the thin straw mattress, and only his agility in twisting aside at the last moment kept him from landing on top of her.

Before Mariam could say a word, he burst out laughing, “Good, Morgan, very good! What better way to impress a woman than to drop her onto the floor? What else can I do to bedazzle you, my lady? Step on your skirt, kick over a chamber pot?”

By now she was laughing, too, for if he’d truly been trying to impress her, his mirthful reaction to his mishap could not have been better calculated to do just that. From their very first meeting, she’d been charmed by his inability to take himself too seriously, a trait she found to be as appealing as it was rare. “It was not as bad as that,” she protested. “You did not really drop me onto the floor. And at least you did not blame me for the fall, claiming I was too heavy to lift.”

“Good God, woman, I am clumsy, not stupid!” he said with a grin, and she realized how much she’d missed in her marriage to a decent, dependable man who’d known nothing of the joys of laughing together in bed. She traced the shape of his mouth with her finger and he caught her hand, pressing a hot kiss into her palm. After that, they could not get their clothes off fast enough.

Morgan genuinely liked women, in and out of bed, and because many of them found him very attractive, he’d had more than his share of liaisons in his twenty-seven years on God’s Earth. He knew that initial couplings were not always all they were hoped to be; sometimes a man and woman needed time to learn each other’s rhythms, to listen to what their bodies were telling them. He was aware, too, that disappointment was more likely because he’d been waiting so long for this, having had months to imagine what it would be like to make love to Mariam. He’d actually sought to lower his expectations for their first time, and he would soon recall that with amusement, for he’d had no reason to worry. Delay had honed their desire to a feverish pitch, generating so much heat that he’d later joke it was a miracle the bed had not caught fire. They trusted each other enough by now to abandon any inhibitions and what followed was a sexual experience so powerful that it left them both exhausted, astonished, and awed.