LordoftheHunt (14 page)

This part of her burned. She was wet as if he’d just lifted
her from the rain barrel.

Slippery with want.

He moved his fingertips over her and felt a shudder run her
body; her legs locked about his hips so he could scarcely move.

Her mouth was as hungry as his. He groaned with every sweep
of her tongue.

He caressed her. Readied her. Postponed the taking. Aroused
her whilst arousing himself.

All his senses were consumed by her. His head filled with
the scent of her, his mouth with her taste.

“Adam,” she whispered at his ear, and he felt a twist of
regret that in her passion she did not call for Adrian, but rather for a man
who did not exist.

They moved against each other. It was an almost frantic
undulation, hips bumping hips, his fingertips stirring her passions and his.

Every fiber of his body went hot along with the rising
flames by their heads. From where her hands cupped his buttocks to where her
tongue roamed his throat, he broke out in sweat.

She quivered against his fingertips and her hips twisted
beneath him. She gave a keening cry, sweeping away any doubts her completion
had come.

He rose on his hands to watch as passion and the fire’s glow
stained her skin scarlet.

He thrust into her.

And tore through her maidenhead.

She choked back a cry; her body went rigid. Her fingers
locked on his hips.

Her eyes opened wide and filled with the reflection of the
fire. The tide of his desire tempered, soothed by the knowledge she was
innocent. He slowed his thrusts, tried to gentle his touch.

He watched the changing expressions on her face until, at
last, need took over and he drove deep inside her.

A surge of emotion constricted his throat, so he closed his
eyes lest she see that it was not the smoke that caused the moisture in them.

She wrapped her arms around his chest and arched her body to
meet his, saying his name again and again.

With each plunge of his body, he reveled in the slick, hot
feel of her and imagined she held a fire inside to lick along his manhood and
consume him just as the flames consumed the wood in the hearth.

Hugh de Coleville considered the driving rain. He frowned.
Adam was making himself scarce this morn, and the way to his tent would be a
wet business. Hugh thought he’d do better to search out a lightskirt and crawl
between her warm thighs.

Mathilda came up behind him as if conjured from his
lascivious thoughts.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“To the privies,” he lied.

“They’ll be a noisome place on such a day.”

He shrugged.

“Come with me. I’ll find you better.”

“I am a dog trained to her heel,” he muttered.

“Did you speak?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder.

“Not me,” he said.

They stopped at a chamber he realized must be hers. “I’m not
entering your chamber. Have you lost your wits?”

“I’ll wait here for you. I cannot be inside with you, if I
am standing out here, now, can I?” She held open her door. Her voice dropped to
a whisper. “I have my own privy behind that curtain. ‘Tis sweetly scented and
will serve you well.”

He stalked across her chamber, leaving some muddy boot
prints on the wooden floor, fouling the rushes. It gave him a perverse delight.
He pushed aside the curtain that concealed the thunder box.

She had cloths laid out for washing and pots of soap and
fresh water. He inspected the amenities, thinking his mother had not been more
pampered in the de Coleville manor and regretting he’d used the cold, dank
privies outside and had no real need of her facility.

He strolled about her chamber, finally standing by the bed.
“Mathilda,” he called.

She opened the door and peeked in. “Did you want me?”

Her words sent a rush of heat through him. “That I want you
is not in dispute. That I care no more for you than some tart in a tavern is
the real point.”

The smile fled her face and he felt a twinge of something
akin to guilt.

“We need to speak,” she said as if commanding a groom. “But
not here. Meet me in the little chamber behind the hall.”

Her preemptory tone defied the look of her. Her hair was
loose down her back like a child’s. Her gown was one she might wear among her
family or women, loose and straight without ornament.

“I’m not aware we have anything to say to each other. What
little chamber?”

“You’ll know it when you find it.” The portal stood empty as
she flitted away.

* * * * *

The wind died. An uncanny silence fell over the lodge,
broken only by the hiss of the fire, and the inarticulate sounds Adam made in
his throat.

Joan embraced him tightly with her arms and legs. His skin
was hot and wet with sweat.

He groaned from deep in his chest; his movements became
quick, short thrusts. She thought ‘twas as if a hot blade possessed her, not
the flesh and blood of a mortal man.

She rode out the storm that consumed him, awash in her own
torrent of sensations.

A sudden, cold fear blunted her passion. Would she open her
eyes and this was naught but a dream, a trick of the mind as Nat was wont to
have?

A moment later, Adam collapsed to his side, drawing her with
him, holding her hips tightly to his.

She placed her palm on his chest. His heart still beat with
a frantic pace. Her own had calmed.

Their tunics were damp with sweat where they were bunched
between them, high on their ribs.

What should she say? How did women act when they’ve lost
their virginity in a moment of blinding passion—lost it to a man who would be
husband to another?

What had possessed her?

If he asked the same question now, she must say madness.

She wanted to leap up and run away.

He shifted so he could see her face. His vivid blue eyes
demanded she meet his gaze.

“You are my Diana,” he whispered. “My huntress. I feel like
a stag in rut and would take you ten times within this hour if I had the
strength.”

She said nothing.

He pulled back, gripping her chin and lifting her face.

“What is it, my love?” he said.

She rolled out of his embrace, stood up, and tugged the
tunic down her hips. “I must find Basil.”

“The dog is an excuse to separate yourself from me. Why?”

How easily he saw within her. She could not get the words,
words of Mathilda, past her throat. She just shook her head. The loose mass of
hair that swung across her breast merely reminded her of her wanton behavior.

Wanton
. It was what Brian had called her and he spoke
the truth. Wantons claimed the men of other women.

“You’ll not find a dog in this rain,” Adam continued. “He’ll
have taken shelter as have we. Come back.”

He had not pulled down his tunic. Desire flicked through her
like the crack of a whip on bare skin.

What had she done? She pressed her hand to her stomach and
fought a rising panic. All this time, she had sought to protect Nat’s place at
Ravenswood so he might live his out his days here, and in one mad moment, she
had ensured that they must leave. How could she ever look Mathilda in the eye?

Adam stood up, the tunic falling down to cover him, but it
was short and did little to conceal his shape. What a beautiful man he was. Yet
there was more to this than physical lust, was there not? There had to be after
what she’d done.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. “Nay, do not speak. I know what it
is. You have remembered who I am. You’ve been thinking you have given your
innocence to a hated mercenary. A man who will not scruple to sell his sword to
the highest bidder.”

“Adam. Nay. I thought nothing of the sort.”

He snatched up the blanket near his feet. “Do not lie.”

She caught the corner of the blanket and they held it
between them. He was taut with anger.

“I am not lying,” she said.

“Then what were you thinking? Not of your missing Basil. You
were not thinking of a dog when you left my arms.”

“I thought of Mathilda.”

The name stood between them for a dozen heartbeats.

“In truth?”

Something in his tone told her she must speak only the truth
at this moment. “Aye. I thought of what we had done. And that you want
Mathilda. And that she was once my friend.”

His shoulders relaxed, and he dropped his end of the
blanket. “Grateful I am that it was not my status in the world that turned you
cold.” He put his hand on his chest. “Feel my heart. It’s beating far too
quickly. You’ve done that to me.”

Then he groaned and rubbed his lower back.

“What is it?” she asked.

He turned around and lifted the hem of the tunic, and she
gasped at the ugly bruises overspreading his hips and buttocks.

“How can you bear it?” she asked, placing her palm to the
mottled black, purple, and yellowing marks.

“I mind bear it because I must. And, in truth, it is better
each day.”

A consciousness that she was touching him most intimately
made her withdraw her hand.

And she realized he had not spoken of Mathilda.

How could she justify what she had done?

He had almost drowned. She could not take back the leap into
the pond, nor the demonstration of her feelings for him. Had she shouted it
from Ravenswood’s ramparts, she could not have told him more clearly what she
thought of him.

Hate him? Nay, ‘twas much worse than that. She loved
Mathilda’s soon-to-be husband. Joan took a step away from him.

Adam caught her hand. He held her fingers for a moment, then
lifted them to his lips. “Why are you suddenly wary of me again?”

She felt scrutinized as a hawk watches its prey.

“If I was wary, I would not have touched you.”

“You touched me as you would a wounded animal. One can fear
an animal and still offer it succor. What were you thinking?”

This time she lied. “I thought of the drowned man.”

“You could have done nothing for him. He had been dead many
hours.” Then his voice went low and husky. “You leapt into the pond to save me.
I am humbled.”

An hour ago, by the pond, she had thought of nothing, felt
only a screaming pain when she’d seen the black hair floating on the water.
That pain had been as raw as if someone had dragged a blade across her breast.

An hour ago she had been a virgin.

She had betrayed a one-time friend. Another kind of pain
throbbed in her temples.

He cupped her face and lifted it. “Are you sorry for what we
did here?” he asked.

His eyes were so blue, so alive, so seeing.

She bit her lip. “It is just—”

“Just what?”

“Mathilda.”

His fierce hug wrenched her arm. She cried out and he
lightened his hold.

“Forgive me, I’ve hurt you again.” A smile curved his lips.
“I showed you my injuries, now you must show me yours.” He eased up the tunic
sleeve and gently probed her upper arm. “I may have forgotten your injury, but
I have not forgotten Mathilda.”

Joan pulled away, going to her gown and spreading the skirt
that it might better dry. It was imperative it dry. She must leave this place.
Now. Before she gave in to the compulsion to feel his body joined to hers
again. Perhaps on Richard’s grand bed this time.

“You are here to claim Mathilda—” she said.

“I am here to claim Ravenswood. There is a vast difference.”

Something burned in Joan’s breast. A coal of misgiving. “How
can you have Ravenswood without her?”

“Trust me.”

He put out his hand. It was a strong hand. She went to where
he stood. And took it.

He tugged her near. His fingers were gentle across her cheek
and brow. “You must trust me. I did not take you in idle pleasure.”

His forearms were roped with muscle. Veins near his wrist
throbbed with blood. And ‘twas blood she knew that flooded through her to swell
her in places that embarrassed her.

He kissed her forehead and brows. “I know it is hard to
trust someone who has served in John’s Flemish company. Yet, I ask it of you.
Ask, not demand. Will you believe me? I am here for Ravenswood and Ravenswood
alone. Trust me.”

They did not make love on Richard’s bed.

They made love as they had before, on the furs before the
fire. This time, Adam stripped off her tunic and his before they began.

As she watched the fierce expressions chase each other
across his face during his release, she held herself in check.

One part of her wanted to give everything to him, from the
first simple kiss to total submission of her body. Another part of her held
back and stood outside to watch over them and say,
it will never be
.

That part of her ruined the rapture.

It took Hugh less than a quarter hour to admit he must find
the small chamber or perish of an aching cock. The room proved to have once
been used as a private, family chapel, but was now filled to the brim with
discarded furniture and crates.

Mathilda waited, perched on a chest. She traced her
fingertip through dust. “We must speak of what happened between us at the
fair.”

Hugh crossed his arms. “I suppose I must apologize for my
behavior. Though a woman is wanton by nature…or so the philosophers tell us.”

She frowned. “Wanton by nature? And that you call an
apology?”

“Nay. I said I supposed I should apologize. I have not yet
done so.”

Her small feet dangled, swinging against the chest with a
rhythmic tapping. “I am waiting.”

“For what?”

“For your apology, you dolt.”

“I apologize.”

“I sense a hesitation. Have you more to say?” She mimicked
his stance.

The posture pushed up her breasts and drew his gaze. What a
lush place to rest one’s head.

“Hugh,” she said.

He jerked his attention to her face. “If I seem to hesitate,
it is because you, my lady, laid hand to me first.”

“Oh? Is that a signal you should release your restraints?”

“It is usually so. A woman touches a man in a certain way
and he may see it as invitation. You never said, ‘Stop’ or ‘Unhand me, you
beast’.”

She hopped off the chest and walked toward him. “You are a
great beast.” There was a smile on her lips, a bright delight in her eyes.

He took a deep breath. She walked toward the door. The back
of her gown was dusty where she’d sat on the chest.

“Wait,” he said.

Her buttocks were soft and warm through the thin gown as he
swept away the dirt. “Anyone would think you were—”

He never finished his sentence. She turned. Somehow, she was
in his arms again, her lips on his. He spread his hands across the lush mounds
of her buttocks and lifted her. Her legs came around his hips, and he walked
her back to the chest, set her down, and threw up her hem.

She was rosy pink flesh, moist and ready, when he laid his
hand on her. Her palms were also damp when she slid her hand into his braies.
His breath expelled in a long sigh as she palmed the weight of his stones.

He made short work of his clothing, did not bother to remove
hers, merely shoved the loose gown up her body.

As he entered her he discovered she was not a virgin. She
was inexperienced, but not pure. The fact chased away his guilt that this
should be Adam’s moment, not his.

“Hugh,” she gasped, a deep flush of red rising on her
cheeks. She was slick and hot around him. He could no longer wait. Her head
fell back, her hips lifted sharply. He clamped his hand over her mouth as she
twisted and arched through her climax. He jerked out of her, groaned through
his own finish, then dropped his forehead onto her shoulder.

She combed his hair from his sweaty brow and trailed light
kisses along his temples and cheeks.

“How many men have had you?” he asked.

“Why?”

“A man likes to know how may swords have fitted a sheath.”

She shoved at his chest. “What does it matter? You were not
chaste, were you? I am not your first, so what does it matter if I’ve had more
than one lover? Nay, what does it matter if I’ve had one hundred lovers? I
should ask how many sheaths have held your sword, you hypocrite.”

“Now you call me stupid.”

He moved away to pick up his tunic. She remained as she was,
legs spread, gown twisted at her waist, golden hair tumbling everywhere.

“I hate you, Hugh de Coleville. I’ve hated you since I met
you when I was twelve and you were a bullying ten and eight.”

“Oh, aye, you hate me, you who are wet with my passions and
flushed from your release.”

He jerked his buckle closed then went down on his knees
between her thighs. She mewed a protest when he set his lips to the delicate
skin of her inner thigh just above her knee.

“What are you doing?”

“Marking you so your next lover knows I was here.”

She gripped his hair and tugged, but he resisted the pain
and her gasps of indignation, gasps that only lasted until he slid his
fingertips into her damp curls and massaged the still swollen treasure there.

He suckled her soft skin until a large angry mark appeared.
Then he left off the effort, delighting in her confused look.

“My lady.” He bowed and left her.

* * * * *

Adam carried Joan back to the castle in his arms. He walked
straight through the bailey, ignoring surprised looks and whispers, and set her
on her doorstep. There he left her without word or gesture to indicate the
passion they’d shared.

His arms felt empty, his mind flooded with thoughts as he
strode toward his tent. On the way, he paused to tell Hugh of the minstrel’s
death, then summoned Douglas and gave orders about Christopher’s body.

He felt some guilt that Christopher had lain out in the
elements whilst he had warmed himself at a fire with Joan.

But one must tend the living over the dead.

What had Christopher learned in Winchester? Had he died with
a translation of Brian de Harcourt’s paper in his head? There was nothing for
it but to try to find another way to have the paper translated.

Adam tossed on warm clothes, the finest he could find in his
coffer. He must make his explanations to Mathilda before the gossip reached her
that Joan had come home in his arms. The whole purpose of taking Joan to the
lodge, to hide her state until she was dry and warm, had been negated by her
insistence they return at a time when many were apt to see them.

He wanted not one speck of dishonor to touch his huntress.

And he wanted her in his bed. Without delay. As soon as
Ravenswood was secured for the crown.

He needed to bring his full force from the surrounding
countryside and take possession, but now with Christopher dead, Adam realized
he had no one to summon his troops.

He could not go himself. Beyond the suspicions that might
provoke, he would forfeit the tournament. Until the very last moment, everyone
must think his goal was Mathilda. When his men were in place, he would lay
claim to all of this. Mathilda could go to a convent and the bishop to the
devil.

Would Mathilda choose a man who involved himself with
another woman, a woman he’d been warned to look at less? Never.

Adam smiled as he dashed through the bailey and took the
keep steps two at a time. He’d done far more than look at Joan. And more than
touch her tawny skin. Thinking of her was like having a fine madness boiling in
his blood.

Never had he known such a woman. She had marshaled the
hounds to save him against a boar when she could have run. She had who cared
enough about him to leap into an icy pond.

His last mistress would have stood on the bank, weeping over
her muddy slippers and wringing her hands. Mathilda struck him as cut from the
same cloth.

The guard opened the great doors to him. The hall was
crowded, almost every seat taken, including the one he had been elevated to at
the previous supper. Rather than confront the slack-faced suitor who had
usurped his place, Adam strolled about the hall, keeping an eye on his men. It
pleased him they behaved with great restraint despite a day indoors. They had
separated themselves as well to garner gossip he might find useful.

He paused in mid-stride and hissed in his breath.

Not because Mathilda and her women were arrayed before the
fire like gems on a merchant’s table.

Nay. A thought hammered him like a blow to the chest.

Joan had leapt into the pond to rescue a man she’d assumed
to be him. Had Christopher been struck down by mistake?

Servants filed past him with pitchers and began to fill
empty tankards. Others offered loaves of bread and fresh butter. Had one of
these suitors wanted him dead? He put his hand to his dagger and found his
ribbons gone.

Adam hooked Hugh by the arm. “I must speak with you.”

They stood in the arch that led to the storerooms below.
Adam crossed his arms on his chest in an effort to look at ease, though inside,
his mind was in a turmoil.

“I believe I have made a rather distressing discovery,” Adam
said.

“I tried to resist her.”

Adam stared at Hugh’s face. “What?”

“I tried to set her from my mind. I have pretended I do not
want her, but, in truth, I met her years ago and twice in Winchester within
this past year. She preys on my mind and I’ve tried to forget her, but I cannot
do it.”

“Hugh. What are you saying? You knew Joan before—”

“Joan?”

“Her…you said her.”

“Adam, I’m going to ask you a question, and you had better
give me a truthful answer.”

“If it’s within my power, I will do so.” Some truths were
not his to give.

“Are you in love with the huntress?”

“
Jesu
, lower your voice.”

“Forget I asked. ‘Tis none of my business. As to me, I
confess to liking the huntress quite a bit. If I ever decide to wed, I’ll come
back for her.”

“The devil you say!” Adam frowned.

Hugh slung an arm around his neck and ruffled his hair, then
pushed him away. “I’m just testing you. And the expression on your face says
much. If you like the huntress, have at her. She would be perfect for you, as
I’ve said before. Lush ass, worthy breasts, and I would imagine
very
strong thighs to ride you after a hunt.”

Adam raked his fingers through his hair to smooth it down.
He must not respond to such bait. “Listen, I’ve had a most disagreeable
thought. The young man who drowned…he looks much like me.”

“What? That’s what you wanted to talk to me about? You fear
the dead minstrel was mistaken for you?”

“My first thought when I saw Christopher was that he looked
more like me than my own brother.”

Hugh scratched his chin. “It makes sense someone would kill
you. You are the most likely man to win Mathilda.”

“So who has the mettle to try it?”

“I’d have to say only de Harcourt has the mettle.”

Hugh’s answer did not sit well. No matter Brian’s hostility
toward him, Adam liked the man.

Adam headed for Mathilda, who stood out from her colorfully
garbed women by wearing all white. She also wore her hair loose.

He thought of Joan’s hair, not smooth and combed like
Mathilda’s, but wild and curling about her head. And not this yellow either,
but the color of ale streaked with gold.

Joan had been a virgin. As a virgin, she was more precious
than any gold. It meant she was completely his, untouched. Richard or Brian
might have loved her, wanted her, but they had not had her.

What if she had not been innocent? Would it matter? Not if
‘twas Richard who’d loved her. A dead lover was only a threat in the afterlife.
But, if it had been Brian…

Acid burned up Adam’s throat. Brian was a formidable rival.
Mathilda seemed enraptured of his conversation at this very moment.

A woman’s first lover must, by rights, remain in her mind
and possibly her heart, always. Or so the jongleurs sang. He remembered his
first woman. And his second. He frowned.

Although she had not lain with them, had Joan loved both
Richard and Brian. And in what order had she loved them?

What ailed him? It only mattered whom she loved
now
.

“My lady,” Adam said as he reached the dais. He bowed to
Mathilda and gave Brian a curt nod.

The rushes were strewn with sage and lavender, mingling
their odors with that of the damp wool and muddy leather of the men. Great logs
burned in the mammoth fireplace and a sheen of perspiration glistened on
Mathilda’s forehead.

“We missed you, Sir Adam,” Mathilda said. “Where have you
been hiding? In the privy again? And why do you not wear your ribbons?”

Adam propped one foot on the dais and touched his dagger
hilt. “I’ve lost the ribbons, my lady, but not in the privy.”

Mathilda giggled and floated like a fairy being to where he
stood. “How did you lose your ribbons? Not gaming, I hope. I’ll not wed a
gamer.”

Hugh, who had sat down at a nearby table, shook a dice cup
and called out his joy as the dice landed his way on the table.

Adam frowned at his friend’s unusual behavior. Hugh hated
dicing. “Nay, my lady, I lost them drawing a drowned man from your fish pond.”

Silence fell around them; then whispers broke out. Mathilda
drew her delicately arched brows together. “A man drowned in my fish pond? What
say you? How could this be?”

She looked at the bishop, who waved a negligent hand.

“It was one of the minstrel’s company, I believe,” the
bishop said. “He must have taken too much drink at the fair and mistaken his
way home.”

Mathilda put out her hand to Adam. He took it. So small and
free of blemish it was compared to Joan’s strong freckled one. Had Mathilda
ever done aught but ply a needle and thread?

She squeezed his hand. “I must thank you for caring about
the man. If you drew him from the pond yourself, it speaks of a compassion men
often lack. I must reward such kindness and regret I have no ribbons on my own
gown to give you.”

So saying, she pulled the jeweled dagger from his belt—very slowly.
She walked along the row of her women, then back again. To gasps of dismay from
her ladies and cheers from the men, Mathilda sliced ribbons from their gowns.

Mathilda ignored a sharp reprimand from Lady Claris, and
with a wide smile, walked back to Adam. Every eye in the hall was on them. She
knelt on the dais. Slowly, she slid his dagger back into its sheath and wrapped
the ribbons about its hilt.

Adam felt the provocative nature of her actions, yet she
looked as innocent as an angel, her expression as guileless as a child’s, as
she knotted the finery.