Simon's Lady (31 page)

“Now, if you’re done discussing the matter,” he said, bending toward her so he could speak low into her ear, “we shall quit the hall.”

Without so much as a by-your-leave to Senlis or anyone else, he turned, drawing her with him. With one of her hands still in his, he walked ahead of her. He was taking her from the room, not ushering her out of it, as would the courteous lover.

They were hardly two feet from the table when Walter Fortescue huffed, overloud, “Well, now! The most celebrated man of the hour leaves mid-feast and with not a word or even a bow to his neighbors! That’s Beresford start to finish, and speaking of finishes, I’m glad, don’t you know, that he’ll be ending the day as well as he started it! Glad to see, too, that his beautiful wife warmed up to the occasion. Oh, she was as pale as bleached flax after the joust! Wished to find words of praise for her husband, but was still choking from her fear. Ah, but she’s loosened up now, finding herself among Norman friends. Can’t think why Beresford was so dead set against the match when Adela first presented it to him!”

At these cheerfully insensitive comments, Gwyneth could have died of embarrassment, if her own desire just then had not been so strong as to drown all other emotions. As for Beresford, he made no sign that he had heard Fortescue’s opinions other than to raise his arm dismissively, his back still to the group. He picked up his pace, but his haste did not spring from a wish to put distance between himself and Fortescue.

Still holding Gwyneth’s hand, he preceded her out of the hall and along the passage to the wide stone steps. At the foot of the spiral he stopped and ushered her before him.

She could not look at him as she passed in front of him. The sight of him would have been too intense, for the feel of his presence had already engulfed her, and she could not imagine life or breath away from him. She lifted her skirts with one hand then placed her other against the newel post. When she began to mount, he placed a hand on her hip and followed her.

Feeling him behind her, feeling his hand on her hip, she became increasingly breathless. They completed one turn of the spiral steps, then another, and suddenly she found herself flattened against the wall, his hands on either side of her. Her arms were flung back, hands splayed on the spiraling wall behind her. A thrill flashed up her spine, produced by the cool of the stone offset by the heat of her surprised desire. She shivered.

“I don’t want to wait,” he said.

His words were blunt. So were his actions. He was poised against her, one foot on the step below her, the other on the step below that. Their lips were level. His hands moved from the wall to cup her face. He leaned into her. The hilt of the sword at his belt pressed against her stomach, the sheath against her abdomen and thigh. He bent to kiss her.

She turned her head away.

He turned it back so that she faced him. He asked provocatively, “Do you object?”

Her heart was beating furiously. She felt a strong wave of emotion wash through her. “Here?”

He nodded then tried to kiss her once more.

Again she broke the kiss and turned her head away. “And if I do object?” she managed.

He placed his lips at her neck. “Then the nature of my pleasure in the act will change.”

She was startled into looking back at him. “You mean to do it with or without my consent?”

At that, he lowered his hand to the hem of her skirt and raised it so that his palm could grasp her bare thigh. He fumbled under her clothes, seeking the immediate goal of the pearl between her thighs. No sweet words, whispered low. No tickling touch, grazing up and down the insides of her thighs. No teasing forays between soft lips and wetness. No subtlety whatsoever.

When he touched her jewel, his expression was smug. “I don’t need your consent, when I have your desire.”

She gasped softly. She melted against him. Her knees buckled. She was not ready to concede. “No.”

“Yes.”

He flipped up his tunic and released himself from his chausses. Taking advantage of their staggered positions on the stairs, he moved in under her and between her legs.

Hard muscle pressed at the soft opening of her thighs, touching off a quick spasm of pleasure inside her. A gasp, less soft this time, escaped her lips.

“The guards,” she breathed, still trying to argue him out of this luscious, lascivious folly.

“You’ll have to be quieter, madam, unless you want to bring them to witness.”

With a smooth thrust, he folded himself into her. She accepted him easily, without constrictions, only desirous contractions and the hot-cold sensations of her spine sliding up and down the stone wall. The coupling was as intense as it was short. She flowered around him before he was finished, so his final pleasure extended her own. She was weak and happy, and sagged exhausted against him. She moaned sweetly into his neck. He supported her by cradling her buttocks in his hands.

Still full within her, he began to move away from her.

“No,” she said, this time for a very different reason.

“Yes,” he countered, withdrawing. He rearranged his clothing, smoothed her skirts, turned her and propelled her gently up the next few steps. His hands rested heavily on her hips.

“Why?” she asked, as she stumbled upward, her legs wobbly, her heart pounding and breaking and reforming itself to beat for him.

“A courtesy,” he replied. “The opening salute.”

She turned her head and gave him a glance filled with feminine lust. “Who won?”

“I did.”

She flamed for him, melting the last cold corner within her. She completed the upward spiral of the staircase and managed better the straight length of hallway, helped by his strong, firm hands on her hips.

They clattered into his chamber. He shut the door behind them by leaning against it. He remained there, his back against the door. When she turned to face him, he folded his arms across his chest and eyed her measuringly.

He threw down the gauntlet. “Make me want you.”

Her eyes widened. She felt her courage momentarily falter, but knew that her continuing desire for him was strong enough. It would have to see her through.

She took a deep breath and took the circlet and veil from her hair. She let them drop at her feet. His eyes did not follow their gentle descent. They remained pinned on her.

She took a step toward him and unlaced the ties at the sides of her bliaut. She let it, too, flutter and fall at her feet. Then came her kirtle, with more difficulty, her hands and arms and breath and heart trembling. Another step closer, and her shift was at her feet. She stepped out of it, offering him her defenseless nakedness, shuddering with fear that he would finally defeat her with humiliating violence.

He did not. He did not unfold his arms, and he did not take his eyes off her. He said, “I have always admired your courage.”

The sound of his voice steadied her. He had issued her another challenge, one that turned her shuddering fear again to the poised edge of desire. She felt strong and feminine and capable of taking him again within her body, to complete his satisfaction.

She put her hands bravely on his forearms and unfolded them, so that his hands were at his sides. She put her fingers to the buckle of his belt and unclasped it. The belt and sword clattered to the floor. She worked at his tunic, and he gave her no help. The shirt was easier. She had to kneel, in supplication, to uncross his garters and remove his shoes. The chausses tricked her and got caught on the most natural of impediments as she was removing them.

She bit her lip and stepped back. “Did I hurt you?”

He reached out and brought her against him. “You’ll have to try harder than that if you mean to hurt me.”

“I don’t.”

“That’s your decision, then.” He nodded acceptance. “Now what?”

She considered. She put her hands lightly on his shoulders. They were wide and well muscled. She touched her fingers to the lance wound, which was clean and clotted and no threat to his life. She slid her hands down his chest to explore the smooth muscles there, seamed with old scars, and the ribbed muscles of his abdomen, similarly scarred. She slid her hands farther down and reached to touch the lance wound on his thigh. He flinched at that. She looked past his erection and saw that the second wound was not as clean. She bent to kiss the slightly swollen area around it.

When she stood up again, she slipped her arms around his neck and touched her tongue to his ear. She whispered, “I want you under me and at my mercy, but I do not think I can carry you to the bed.”

He easily carried her. Soon the bed covers had been thrown back and she was straddling him, slotting him into her and working her thigh muscles around him. Nothing separated her from him, and she rode him to the tip of his desire time and again. When she had given him everything, she gave even more. Finally, she met him body and soul and lay herself generously across him.

Luxuriating against him, she wished to stay in the flow of the infinite by pouring out in words what was in her heart. With her new experience in the softer arts of speaking to a man, she decided this was the ideal moment for confession.

She shifted and placed her hand on his chest to claim his attention. She began, “I want to tell you about the visitor I received yesterday and what happened at the joust— ”

“Don’t,” he said, covering her mouth with his hand.

Her heart lurched then sank. She must have misjudged her moment and abused the intimacy. She felt as wretched now as she had previously felt wonderful.

She had not misjudged the moment, but rather the turmoil in Beresford’s breast. He had hoped to repeat the day’s victories this night in bed, but he had failed so completely that, if he could have ripped out his heart to give it to her, signaling defeat, he would have. He had challenged her. She had met his challenge, just as separate parts of him hoped and feared she would, and she had conquered him with her body so completely that the parts of him had fused, thick-thewed, with love for her. He was wed now, all of him, muscle and sinew, blood and soul, to this woman in a way he had never felt, nor ever thought possible.

He did not want to hear her lies, and so put his hand over her mouth. He could better bear the burden of his love, unmet by a reciprocal love, if she did not dishonor herself with falsehoods. He closed his eyes and surrendered himself to the whirling funnel of his emotions, which turned faster when he realized that he had prevented Langley from falsely, jealously denouncing Breteuil earlier in the day—and that Langley had been right.

The pain of his wish that Gwyneth, like Langley, was not false was so great that he thought he would die from it. With his mind’s eye he searched for Valkyries, but knew they were not there. What he felt came from a new and fecund source, as fresh and generative as the beginning of the world, and far stronger than any magic wrought by the dying race of Norse gods.

****

The night of mingling and merging lasted an infinite second. Beresford was awakened with the news that he was to be called away, this time to the north, toward Tutbury, but not as far as Northumbria. He received his orders with indifference. He had no wish to live apart from her, yet every moment with her was magnificent agony. It was just as well that he had no choice in the matter. The love of his heart belonged to Gwyneth; the loyalty of his muscles remained always at the service of King Stephen.

He made lavish love to her one last time in the morning. He saw no reason to deny himself, for it was not as if he could rid himself of his love by spending his seed. In fact, the power of his love only seemed to increase with every mating. Yet such was the nature of his desire that he gladly accepted the possibility of more pain for the momentary satisfactions of touching her and kissing her and lodging himself within her and riding with her to the sun.

The great hall was a blur of color and movement. He was as undistracted by the chaos this morning as he had been the day before on the tourney field. This time, however, his transcendent focus was not a heightened result of the prospect of combat, but a numbing realization of love. He knew the requirements of his position and could consult with the king, call together his men and prepare for departure without having to remove Gwyneth from the center of his thoughts and being.

He was just able to discern an odd quirk in Johanna’s behavior, which, if it had not been for her association with his wife, he would have missed.

When he crossed his cousin’s path after breaking his fast, he noted that she was smiling at him rather broadly. He wondered why, in the face of his great pain and confusion, she should be so happy. Then, dully, he realized that she must be pleased with herself for having discovered Gwyneth’s treachery.

“Well, Simon,” Johanna said brightly, “I trust you rested well this night.”

“Do you?” he returned, none too cordially.

She winked saucily. “Not at all!” She laughed. “I hope you did not, in fact, waste your time sleeping!”

He grunted.

Johanna’s mood altered. “But, Simon… ” She put a hand on his sleeve and looked up at him with a mixture of surprise and concern. “Are you vexed with me about yesterday? I assure you, I meant no harm. Quite the opposite!”

He looked down at her hand and felt its intended comfort. Johanna was excusing herself for having meddled in his affairs, but he could see that she had had no choice. Of course, she had meant him no harm. Her warning to Langley had not won the victory for him, but it had given him an edge, lessening his confusion when his lance first broke.

He pulled himself together and looked at his fond cousin. “I should thank you for your help and concern.” He bowed.

Johanna’s mouth hung open one fraction of a second too long. She said, “Simon, I think you may have misunderstood something of what happened yester—” But she was not destined to finish her thought. Beresford’s attention was claimed by Roger Warenne, who drew him rudely aside, on the grounds that what he had to say about the day’s operations was of far greater importance than any feminine silliness.

Beresford felt his heart leap at what he thought Johanna might have been about to say. He made a mental note to seek her out after he had finished with the innumerable particulars involved in moving a great many men and arms over considerable distances. He would have done so had not Gwyneth already descended to the hall by the time he and Warenne came to the end of their consultation.