LordoftheHunt (23 page)

His breath was warm on her skin as he spoke. “There is a
legend in these parts that the stag is saved from the boar by a huntress and
from that moment, she owns his heart.”

She rubbed her thumb on the scar through his eyebrow, then
combed his black, thick hair off his face. “What does a man mean by such noble
words?” She held him still by his hair, clasped at his nape.

Then she pulled him up and kissed him.

The feel of his hair sliding on her breasts puckered her
nipples and she whispered a request. When he complied, his hair slid along her
skin, warm and heavy, as much a caress as his lips closing on her nipples. He
teased first one, then the other, licking fire across her heart.

“Diana, magic commander of the hunting hounds, I have found
you at last, here at Ravenswood,” Adam said, lifting his head from her breast
and gazing into her eyes.

“Adam, rescuer of maidens in distress,” she countered,
attempting to mimic his light tone, but her voice cracked and went breathy, for
he had bent his dark head again.

He dragged his tongue along her throat with agonizing
slowness. She began to shake. His hands journeyed over the lines of her body,
along her sides, over her stomach, down her thighs, across her mound. He never
lingered, just stroked her and soothed her as she might an ailing hound.

“Diana—”

“I do not want to hear legends, Adam Quintin. Be still.”

He stopped talking, but his body shifted subtly against her.
Then he said, “But I know one you’ll want to hear.”

She could not help smiling.

“There was this stag who was rescued by a fair maiden named
Diana, or was it Joan? I forget. So, the stag was ridden deep into the forest
and held captive there for a year until every wish was granted.”

“I am not a fair maiden. And your tale makes no sense. Whose
wishes were granted? The stag’s or the maiden’s?”

He laughed.

It did strange things to her body to feel his move so
sharply against hers. He was all hard edges, a honed warrior, forged in battle.
And she loved him.

“Joan, a woman should not point out the inconsistencies in a
man’s tale. A woman should just listen and marvel at his cleverness. To do
otherwise would be to risk punishment.”

“Punishment?”

“Aye. Like this.” He rolled her over to lie atop him,
cupping her buttocks, and pressing her down on his aroused body. Then he kissed
her.

It was invitation, not conquering.

It was a gift, not a punishment.

She accepted the offer, the light feather of his lips on
hers, the slow drag of his warm tongue after them. He kneaded her with his
palms and she could not stifle the groan of pleasure he evoked with every
subtle flex of his fingertips.

Her arm was still sore, weak, but she forced herself to
embrace him as he did her, holding him close. Whatever fear she felt of him and
who he was fled before the tide of his ardor. The scent of him, his skin, the
taste of his mouth, the strength of his hands, washed all concern away.

The cave was quiet. Water dripped somewhere. The dog
snuffled in his sleep. Adam breathed deeply, then shifted her to her side.

She stroked her fingers on the line of black hair that ran
down his belly. “You are a lovely man,” she said.

She bent over him and traveled the same path with her
tongue. He held her head and arched into her caress. When she sat back, he
subsided, letting out a long sigh.

He opened his eyes and touched her cheek with the tips of
his fingers. “Did I tell you the tale of the boar who met a huntress in the
king’s forest?”

“Nay, but I’m sure you will.”

He pinched her nose. “This huntress kept a respectable
tongue in her mouth. And she met this boar. A magic boar.”

“Of course it must be magic,” she said.

“Aye. The huntress, cornered by the beast, commanded him to
let her pass. He said that if she could answer a riddle he would let her go
without harm.”

“Oh no. A riddle. I am hopeless at riddles.”

He played with her hair. “The huntress agreed to try the
riddle because she was an adventurous woman. The riddle the boar posed was
this: What is it men truly want?”

She burst into laughter. But when Basil woke and woofed,
startled from sleep, she lowered her voice to a whisper. The dog edged along
the cave floor until he was lying against Adam’s hip. She made to shift the
dog, but Adam shook his head, and Basil fell asleep again, stretched out
against Adam’s flank.

“This is a sorry thing,” she whispered.

“What is? My riddle or this hound, who is a much less
appealing blanket than you?”

“Passing off the oldest of riddles as one of your own.”

“Then answer it, if ‘tis so simple. What is it men truly
want?”

“Your riddle is an old one posed by an ugly witch to King
Arthur. And it was, ‘What do women really want?’”

He pulled on her hand so she leaned forward over him.

“Men. Women. ‘Tis all the same.” He wrapped a hand around
her neck and held her for a kiss. “Answer it.”

“What do men truly want? To have their own way.” She
whispered the words.

“Allow me my way,” he said, rolling her over once, twice,
her legs splayed open about his hips.

She lost her thoughts, driven like the beasts of the forest
before the hunters, driven some place where sense was dormant and caution lost.

* * * * *

Joan watched Adam sleep. His face looked very young in the
pale light of the breaking dawn—a noble face. Who was he?

She woke him. They walked to the edge of the rocky ledge and
looked over the river. A faint gray light picked out the tops of trees. She
must go to Winchester but did not know why.

They stood on the precipice, completely naked, hand in hand.
The wind tightened her nipples and brought gooseflesh out on her arms and legs.

“I feel wanton to be standing here like this,” Joan said.

“No one can see you, save me, and I don’t think you wanton.
I think you’re the most desirable woman in the kingdom.”

She shivered and laughed nervously.

“Let me warm you.”

“I’m not cold. I’m afraid.”

“Do you regret agreeing to help me?”

She shook her head, laying her hands on her breast. “Nay,
never.”

“Let me hold you.
Jesu
.” He backed away from Joan.
Basil stood before him growling, snapping, inches from his manhood.

“Basil.” She swept her hand out and the dog sat, tail
wagging. “I offer you my humble apologies. I fear I gave the hand signal to
guard without realizing it.”

“Guard?”

“Aye, watch.”

She crossed her hands on her breast. The dog rose and stood
facing him. Unmoving.

He took a step toward his braies near her feet. The dog
limped on its paws, baring its teeth, growling low in its throat. Adam
hesitated, one hand out. “Will he—”

“Aye. He will attack you if you come any closer to me.”

“
Jesu
,” he said softly. “Are all the hounds trained
to guard you like this?”

“Almost all.”

“Can you call him off?”

She swept her hand out, parallel to the floor, and the dog
lay down, head on its paws.

“Teach me,” Adam said, cupping her face, kissing her hard.

Joan buckled the straps of her saddle bags, which lay across
the table. The light from the door was blocked and she looked up, expecting to
see Nat. Instead, Mathilda stood there in the pink shades of dawn light, in
glorious splendor, an ivory mantle set back over her shoulders to show her gown
the color of Adam’s eyes. Dozens of small braids and blue ribbons tied her hair
up in a coronet about her head.

“My lady?” Joan curtsied.

“Where have you been?” Mathilda set her little foot on the
stone floor as if she might soil her dainty leather shoe. Then her gaze went to
the saddle bags. “Where are you going?”

“I am going to Winchester.”

“I thought so. What of your duties?”

Joan ignored the first question. “I have no duties that
prevent my going.” Joan closed the saddle bags.

“You carry something for Adam Quintin, do you not?”

Joan silently cursed. It had taken much persuasion to get
Nat’s permission to leave. In fact, at first, he had been confused and alarmed.
It was the prospect of the pennies she would earn that had finally reassured
him.

Guilt that she left Nat, even for a moment, settled on Joan
like a mantle too heavy for her shoulders. Now, Joan regretted that she had not
told him ‘twas a secret.

“What are you carrying?” Mathilda persisted.

“It is not my place to say.”

“You don’t trust me.” Mathilda spread her skirts out and sat
across from her at the table. She lifted a cloth over the bread and butter Joan
had laid out for Nat.

“It’s not a matter of trust, my lady. It’s a matter of the
tale not being mine to share.”

“At chapel, Brian said he would never trust Adam Quintin.
You and I know Brian well, you more than I, but we do know
Brian’s
word
is spotless. If
he
doubts the value of Quintin, how can we then trust the
man?”

“And how will you choose a husband from among these suitors
if you rely on one of them to direct you? Brian is jealous.”

“Is he?” Mathilda tore the heel from the bread and chewed
it. “I do not believe him jealous. He is concerned that two women he knew as
close friends might be taken in by a handsome face and fine figure. Have you
forgotten Quintin’s company is composed of mercenaries? Mercenaries killed your
parents. Such men are a necessary evil, I grant you, and might have the
strength to hold this place, but their leader may also be a treacherous beast.”

“Then why did you not dismiss him at your love court?”

Mathilda smiled and smoothed her skirt. “Dismiss him? I
intend to wed him.”

Joan felt as if a knife had been thrust into her breast. She
squeezed her fingers around the saddlebag straps lest she betray herself in
some way. Her voice sounded too high when she spoke. “Why? You just said he’s
untrustworthy. A mere mercenary.”

“He is also very, very handsome…and my desires are different
from those of other women.” She stood up, sweeping crumbs from her skirt. “In
fact, he and I have struck a bargain.”

“A bargain? When?” Joan’s fingers jerked on the straps.

“After the hunt.”

Joan stared at Mathilda, thunderstruck. After the hunt she
had gifted Adam with her secrets, her trust, her body, her heart. “I don’t
believe it,” she whispered.

“Then you’re a fool. He’s using you for his own purposes.
Have you thought that Adam might be a traitor? That he might have sold his
services to Prince Louis?”

The veil of joy from Joan’s night with Adam was torn away
like a scab from a wound. “You speak nonsense. William Marshal defeated Prince
Louis.”

“Did he? When is an ambitious prince ever defeated? Haven’t
you heard the gossip that someone here, one of these suitors, works for Louis,
and so, against our king?”

Heat spread from the wound in Joan’s breast, carved wider
and deeper with every word Mathilda uttered.

“I’ve heard nothing of such things,” Joan said.

“You’ve been cloistered like a nun in our kennels then, and
I hold myself responsible. But you must understand what I am saying. Think,
Joan. If you wanted to take a castle with stealth, from within, would you not
send a man who could seduce others to him, both men and women?

“Think of how seductive is Adam Quintin. I’ll wager he’s had
half the women’s skirts about their heads in just these few days. The serving
women trip over their feet for watching him. Tell me you’ve not been one so
used.”

Joan plucked at the buckles of her saddlebag. “I’ve not seen
anyone fall on her face.”

“Then you see only what you wish. Lady Claris says he has
been quite free with his favors in her direction as well. You do know what she
means by that, do you not?”

“I’ll not believe such a thing.” Joan’s throat went dry; her
heart thudded uncomfortably in her chest.

“Can you, at least, believe the man is as seductive as
Lucifer? Think of his handsome face, his—”

“Is there aught else you wanted?”

Mathilda stiffened at Joan’s interruption. “Pray forgive me
if I overstepped my bounds.” She went to the door. “I have but one more thing
to say. You are terribly innocent. You have lived in a world of simple animals.
Don’t be taken in by Adam’s pretty face. Oh, and lest you disbelieve Lady
Claris is his lover, she says he has terrible bruises on his ass.”

“And you still want him?” Joan whispered.

“He’ll not take lovers after we are wed.” There was no
triumph on Mathilda’s face. Nay, Joan shrank from the pity she saw there.

Mathilda hesitated in the doorway, turned, and dashed back
across the cottage. She enveloped Joan in a cloud of flowery perfume. “Oh, dear
friend. We were friends once, were we not? I cannot see you hurt.”

The embrace sent pain down Joan’s arm and more through her
heart. A heart shattered beyond repair, not with weapons, but with words. Nay,
a single word.

Bruises
.

Mathilda cupped her face as Adam had. Joan looked at the
purity of Mathilda’s complexion, the beauty of her golden hair, the perfection
of her rose-red lips.

“I know how to control such a man, Joan, you do not. Think
with your practical head, not your womanly heart. Do not be deceived. If ‘tis
true a traitor lies within these walls, he cannot take this castle or defend it
later without an
army
. He must summon them. Is that what you carry,
Joan? A summons?”

Mathilda kissed her cheek and drew away, closing the edges
of her mantle over her gown. “Or, mayhap I misjudge him. Mayhap it is simply
the missing jewels and coins from our lord bishop’s quarters you carry.” She
held out her hand. “Come, give me the package. I’ll open it, see what’s in it,
and if I’m wrong, I’ll apologize to the man.”

“I cannot,” Joan said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I could order you to do it.”

Joan stood up. “I beg that you do not.”

They faced each other and Joan held her breath. Refusal
might mean dismissal.

Mathilda slowly dropped her hand. “As you wish.” She left in
a swirl of skirts.

Joan sat heavily at the table, the saddlebag before her.
Mathilda thought her a fool. She had not said the word, but still, she had
meant it. Was she a fool? Was Adam a traitor? A man who ruthlessly used her?

Something crackled and Joan looked down. Adam’s package lay
in her hands. She had pulled it from the bag without thinking. Should she have
given the package to Mathilda?

Joan weighed the bundle of parchment tied with twine and
sealed with a deeply incised V. She wondered if she could recognize guile. She
knew beguilement. And how often had she been beguiled by a man in the past?

Once. Brian de Harcourt.

But she had not erred in her beliefs of what he felt for her.
Brian had loved her.

Richard? A fleeting affection that was mostly on his side,
and which had likely dissipated with every mile from Ravenswood he’d ridden.

Adam beguiled her. He filled her thoughts at every moment.
And what did she know of him? Almost nothing. And yet, she had given herself
with complete abandon.

A voice in her head said, “Nay, he has compassion,
kindness.”

Another voice, a kennel lad’s whispered, “His hair is black.
His tent is black. His clothes are black. Black is evil.”

Her stomach knotted, a feeling she experienced all too often
since the coming of the suitors. She jumped to her feet. She paced, Adam’s
package in her hands.

The hounds trusted him
.

Was Adam Prince Louis’ man? Could a man who cared about a
mere minstrel’s fate also be a traitor?

By helping Adam, was she betraying her king? Nat set great
store by one’s loyalty and honor. His favorite stories were of the time William
Marshal had hunted at Ravenswood. And William Marshal was the regent—loyal and
dedicated to the crown.

Why could Adam not tell her what he was about? He’d sworn an
oath, he’d said.

To whom?

Was it possible to find him? Speak to him one more time?
Would she be able to read his loyalties in his eyes or detect guile in his
words?

He was swimming. So he could find Basil. Joan remembered the
lymer lying so trustingly by Adam’s side in the cave.

A terrible, aching thought twisted the dagger in her breast.
Had Basil been stolen, not to discredit Nat, but instead, so she would be
grateful to the finder? So she would then agree to carry a package of
treasonous documents to Winchester?

She desperately wanted to weep. She crushed Adam’s package
to her breast and closed her eyes, saw him standing naked in the center of the
Diana chamber, lighted by candles.

Desire and fear warred within her.

Bruises
. One simple word to taunt her, make her
doubt. But how could Lady Claris know he was injured unless—

A ferocious jealousy filled her. Was this how the dogs felt
when they hunted? Ready to tear something apart?

As quickly as the fire of jealousy flared, it spent itself.
She wanted only to weep, to drive off the visions now filling her mind. Adam
with Lady Claris. Herself on her knees touching and learning him in intimate
ways that would shame her to the day she died if he were treacherous.

Her eyes burned. “Oh, Adam. Why must you test me this way?”
She tried to force away her fears with thoughts of him praying over the
minstrel, of the hounds vying for his attention, of Basil curled, sleeping, at
his side.

She clutched the package to her lips with a gasp. Adam knew
her hand signals and why she used them. He knew every fear of her heart—every
secret.

The hounds trusted him.

“I’ll not listen to her. I’ll not let Mathilda do this to
me.”

Joan turned the package end over end, kneading it, thinking
of Nat. What shame would he endure if she was part of a conspiracy against the
king?

He would suffer far more than he had when Brian’s men had
blackened her name at the alehouse. If she were imprisoned, he might die of
shame. Worse, what if she were hanged?

She looked down. Adam’s package lay in her hands, crumpled,
twisted, the seal broken.

Hot stew from her morning meal rose in her throat. As if it
burned her hands, she dropped the mutilated package to the table. It bloomed
open like a flower in the summer sun.

Unable to control the urge, she spread the wrapping with the
tips of her fingers. The center sheet, stiff new parchment, contained a list of
names. The suitors—or some of them. She shifted it aside to the next page.
‘Twas a well-creased sheet of paper, in Greek.

She remembered little of her childhood learning from her
scholarly father, but a few words leapt off the page at her. The final sheet
contained close writing. She saw only the last line.
Keep Joan Swan in
Winchester.

“Joan?”

She looked up.

Adam stood in the doorway. “Why are you still here? What did
Mathilda want—” His gaze dropped to the table.

“Adam, I—”

He crossed the cottage and snatched up the papers. “You
broke my seal?”

“Nay, it just…fell apart.” She looked up into his eyes and
read naught but disbelief.

“And Mathilda just happened to be here when it happened?”
The heat of his words heaped anger onto her guilt.

“Nay, she saw nothing, indeed I have not really—”

“Not really what? Read it all yourself?”

She felt the burn of shame on her cheeks. “I only glanced at
it.” She ended on a whisper, for his face had gone hard, so devoid of
expression it might be stone.

He thrust the papers into his tunic. “I thought I could
trust you. Yet I leave you but an hour and find you reading that which is for
the eyes of only one man.”

“Adam, please, let me explain—”

He turned and strode away. She ran across the cottage to the
door. He walked, head up, with long, angry strides toward his tent. Suddenly,
he wheeled about and marched back to her.

She recoiled from the fierce expression on his face, backing
into the cottage, suddenly afraid.

He walked across the threshold without breaking stride. He
pointed his finger at her. “If you so much as say one word of what you read,
you could cause good men to die. And if you ever reveal the Roman Way to the
river, you shall rue the day.”

Tears spilled onto her cheeks. She made no effort to wipe
them away. Words failed her, trapped in her throat.

Then he was gone.

She sank to her knees at the hearth. Misery filled her. But
as she stared at the flames, tears running over her cheeks, she saw a broken
leash hanging on a hook by the mantle. A leash could be mended if one cared to
do the work. Could this rift with him be mended? Did she want aught to do with
a man who bedded Lady Claris? “Nay,” she said, jerking the leash from the hook.
“A man would have to have less sense than a mongrel to want that woman.”

She found an awl to bore a new hole for the leash’s buckle.
As she stabbed at the leather, she grew angry. How dare Adam think her so
perfidious she would break his seal deliberately?