The Love Knot (34 page)

It was impossible to bear. A great wave of grief began to gather. 'I do not know. I came here to find out if he is a prisoner and, if he is, to pay his ransom!'

'And found me, instead.'

Tears spilled. 'I should never have come.' The final word ended in a howl of self-reproach and she began to cry.

'Yes, you should, it was meant to be.' Louis took her in his arms and held her firmly. When she tried to push out of his embrace, he tightened his grip and murmured soothing words at the same time. He wanted to know more about her and until he did, he had no intention of yielding her up to another man, if at all. What had once been stale was now fresh and new and intriguing. Besides, it was several days since he had last had a woman and he was hungry. And she was, after all, his wife.

'Catty, Catty,' he crooned, kissing her temple and her wet cheek. 'Catty, it's all right, I promise.' He let her weep, and at the same time rubbed her back and her shoulders. He made her finish the wine, and then gave her the rest of his. Only then did he taste her lips, moist with wine and the salt of tears. His hands soothed, stroked, and then manipulated. From her side they moved to her waist and then to her breasts. His kisses went from comforting, to questing, to passionate, and beneath his touch her nipples budded and her body arched.

'Stop,' Catrin gasped as they broke for air. She tried to push him away, but Louis ignored her protest and placed her hand on the swollen bulge beneath his tunic.

'Catty, for God's love don't refuse me or I will go mad,' he groaned. 'I have to have you.' He ended any attempt at protest with another deep, probing kiss, and moved his own hand to her lap. His fingers searched and then delicately rubbed. His tongue thrust and stroked, and his hips rocked.

She made a small sound in her throat, and her hand closed around him and began to squeeze and relax. It was good, exquisitely so, and Louis had to struggle to keep his wits about him. It was obvious that they could go no further than this without seeking somewhere more private, but it could not be too far or the impetus would be lost.

There was a storeshed a few yards away, in which was stacked kindling for the great stone ovens in the kitchen. It was not the best place for a tryst, but it would afford them more privacy than this. Disengaging, he took her hand and pulled her to her feet.

His voice was light with excitement and daring. 'Do you remember that time in Chepstow, Catty? In the keep undercroft before we were wed?' It was a rhetorical question. He knew she did because it was the first time that she had experienced the delight of climax, and he had brought her to that point time and again, panting, sweating, crying out and clawing him.

Now he pulled her into the small shed and wedged the door shut with a hefty chunk of split log. Anyone who wanted fuel would have to wait. Snatching off her cloak, he spread it on the bare floor in front of the kindling and removed his gambeson to use as a pillow.

'Lewis, I can't.' She tried to retreat, but he was blocking the entrance and there was a wall of wood at her back.

'That's what you said then too,' he answered with a grin. For all that she was shaking her head, her rapid breathing betrayed her. She wanted him as much as he wanted her.

He grasped her hand and brought it to his lips. The tip of his tongue flickered out and touched her palm, then trailed lightly to the pulse point on her wrist. 'Pleasure,' he said softly; 'nothing but pleasure.' Returning to her palm, he kissed her fingertips one by one, then bit down gently. His tongue circled. He was the hunter and she was the prey. He stalked her now, his other hand encircling her waist and pulling her against him. 'Remember Chepstow, Catty.' He angled his head, pushing her wimple to one side, and sucked her throat.

'Jesu God,' she whispered, and he felt her swallow. In the streaks of light showing through the cracks in the wood, he saw that her eyes were closed and that her breathing was short and shallow as she sought not to gasp.

'It's more than a memory now,' Louis murmured. 'It's here, it's real.' He claimed her mouth again and pressed his hand into the small of her back, at the same time pushing his hips forward and up so that she could feel his arousal. 'Please,' he said. 'Shall I get down on my knees to you?' And promptly did so, but only to lift the hem of her gown and caress her ankles, and then work his way up her calves and thighs. She shuddered but did not try to stop him, and her gasps grew more audible. He rose to his feet again, but now the folds of her gown were bunched upon his forearms and she was naked to the waist. He cupped her buttocks and rubbed against her, enjoying the cool smoothness of her flesh. The anticipation was often almost as exciting as the act itself, although what he liked best of all was to watch the effect he had on his partner.

Holding her against him, he unlaced the drawstring of his braies and rubbed his swollen penis against her belly and between her thighs. 'Feel how hot I am for you, Catty,' he muttered against her throat. 'I want to fill you until I burst. It's been too long.'

He drew her down on to the improvised bed of cloak and hauberk, and spread her thighs. His thumbs rested on the soft skin there, then stroked lightly upwards, opening her to the thrust of his body. She arched her throat, a soft cry escaping between her clenched teeth. Louis watched her response and avidly fed upon it. He pushed deeper, cupping her buttocks and pressing down upon the small pea of flesh that was her centre of pleasure. She whimpered and clutched him.

Despite saying that he was desperate, Louis had no intention of racing to climax too soon and he held back, his movements rhythmic and measured, keeping up a constant pressure on her, without driving himself beyond control. She began to thresh and toss her head, and the whimpers became louder cries. Louis studied her face: the tightly squeezed lids, the open mouth drawing air in rapid breaths and letting it out in shallow gasps of frustration and pleasure. His loins twitched at the sight. Near, so near. He held her there a moment longer, relishing the sight of her struggle the way a fisherman relished the sight of a newly caught fish flapping its silver body on the river bank. Then he went for the kill, plunging deep and surging hard.

'Jesu God!' Catrin uttered again, but this time it was not a whisper but a full-blown howl.

For a moment she went rigid beneath him, and then she shattered, the ripples of her climax engulfing him and bringing him triumphantly to his own.

He surfaced somewhat breathlessly from a well of pleasure whose depth had taken him by surprise. But then lying with Catrin in the old days had often been rewarding. He liked her wild response. It was always better with a woman who cried and screamed. And now that he had taken her, he felt more in control.

Withdrawing, he rolled away and sat up. She was still breathing hard, but the straining hunger no longer filled her expression. Very slowly, as if reluctant to do so, she opened her eyes and looked up at him with heavy lids. Then she flung violently away and burst into tears.

It was not what he had expected and for an instant he was nonplussed. 'Catty?' He leaned over her. 'What's wrong?'

She shook her head and wept all the more. Louis sighed and pulled her dress down over her buttocks and bare thighs. She was wearing red silk hose like the ones he had given her all those years ago, and the sight sent a small aftershock of lust through him.

'I'll bring some more wine,' he murmured, and slipped out of the shed.

When he returned, she had pulled herself over to the wall and sat with her spine against the planks, her knees drawn up to her chin in a defensive posture. She had ceased to weep, but her eyes were swollen and she kept sniffing into a linen kerchief.

'I brought some bread too, else you'll be as drunk as a Bristol sailor,' he said, as he set the wooden platter down in front of her.

'Perhaps I want to be as drunk as a Bristol sailor,' she answered in a choked voice. 'Perhaps I want to consign what just happened to a drunken haze.'

'Not you, Catty, it's not in your nature. You always run to meet difficulties head on.'

'What would you know about my nature these days?'

'Not enough, although I've made a beginning.'

He started to grin, but she wiped it off his face when she said, 'Then I hope you're proud.'

'I never gave pride a thought, did you?' he retorted with some asperity, and poured wine into one of the cups. 'I wanted you, I still do and, as I far as I'm aware, the feeling is mutual.'

He took a drink from the cup and then handed it across to her. 'Is it not?'

She rested the cup on her knees and stared into the wine. 'I don't know. If you asked me my name just now, my tongue would stumble. I came to Rochester in search of the man to whom I am betrothed, and instead I find that betrothal null and void because I am no longer a widow but a wife.'

Louis tilted his head. 'Tell me about him,' he said. 'Tell me about your life since I left it and, in the name of Christ, eat some of this bread before you faint on me.' He thrust the platter beneath her nose.

She took one of the flat, golden loaves and bit into it without any enthusiasm. 'I thought about throwing myself into the river and joining you,' she said with a twisted smile. 'What a waste that would have been. But I was saved from myself and my grief by a lady named Amice de Cormel, who was in need of a maid for herself and a nurse for her seven-year-old son.'

He listened attentively and with developing interest as she told him her tale. Catrin the girl-wife, whose sole concern had been tending the hearth and pleasing his needs, had become Catrin the woman of independent strength and means. But that was only a small part of her appeal. Piquancy was added by the fact that her betrothed was his prisoner. Louis could see the attraction that the tall blond knight might have for Catrin. Oliver Pascal's laconic ways only hinted at the quiescent strength of the man, and the way he bore himself would be equally as appealing to women as a more bold approach. Still, Louis might yet have released Catrin from old vows had she not mentioned that King Stephen was in her debt for tending his wounds at Bristol.

'King Stephen?' he repeated, unable to believe his good fortune. 'You know King Stephen?'

She made a small movement of her shoulders as if it did not matter. 'They keep him in irons and the irons chafe. I tend his flesh with salve and I have spoken to him often. He knows me by sight and by name.'

Louis gazed at her while his imagination took flight. His young wife, whom he had once thought insignificant enough to desert, had the ear and the gratitude of Stephen himself. 'I have heard a rumour that Stephen will soon be exchanged for Robert of Gloucester,' he said.

'Then his men will be freed too?' She looked at him eagerly.

'That will depend on who holds their ransoms, but I should think so.' He rubbed his palm across his upper lip.

'I don't even know if Oliver's alive.' She gave a sniff and wiped her sleeve across her face. 'That's what I was coming to find out . . . and then this happened.' She looked at him, searching his face. 'What am I going to do?'

Louis considered her. He knew that he had to play this very carefully now; hold the balance, manipulate it in his favour. 'He is alive, you need not fear on that score,' he said. 'I saw him and spoke to him earlier this morning.'

Several emotions flashed across her face. Relief and joy, swiftly followed by the bitten lip and tear-filled eyes of guilt and grief. 'He is well?'

'Chafing at the confinement, but otherwise whole. I was one of the party who captured him and the Earl of Gloucester on the Winchester road, and part of my duty has been to guard them. I am promised a portion of the ransom price but, in the light of what he is to you, I dare say I could be generous enough to waive it.'

'You dare say?' Catrin looked at him through swollen, narrowed eyes. 'You could be generous?' She flung the words and then, with a rapid fumbling at her waist, she hurled a leather pouch in his face, making him duck. 'Take it,' she spat. 'Take it all. Go and count it in a corner and rub your hands!'

He looked down at the pouch where it had fallen into his lap. Silver coins spilled from its open throat. He scooped them back, laced the drawstring and placed it gently at her side. It was not as generous a gesture as it appeared. By the laws of matrimony, whatever was Catrin's was his. He would have the silver from her at a time of his own choosing.

'I confess that I am jealous,' he said, with the travesty of a smile. 'I would like to run him through with my sword, but how can I when, to all intents and purposes, you were a widow and, as far as both of you were aware, the road was clear? I am sorry if I cannot be as gracious about it as you wish, or as I indeed would wish it myself.' He paused and shrugged. 'But then, I realise that I have you and he has nothing. I will free him this very day.'

She made a choking sound and, turning to one side, retched up the wine she had drunk. He watched her and said nothing, his eyes brightly observing her response as he had observed it in the act of love. He was surprised to find that he really did feel jealous - although he had no intention of running Pascal through on his sword. There were other, subtler means of torture.

'Is that a condition of his release, you having me?' she demanded as she sat up. Her voice hovered on the verge of loathing.

Louis kept his own voice level, a little apologetic. 'I suppose you could take it that way, Catty my love, but I was hoping that you would cleave to me without such threats. You cannot marry him while I still live. You cannot give him legitimate heirs of his body or stand in church with him.' Taking her hands in his, he leaned towards her. 'I promise on my honour to be a better husband than I was before. I still love you and desire you. I always have.'

'But you don't love me enough to set me free,' she said flatly.

'Is that what you want?'

She jutted her jaw at him, and the old, stubborn look was back on her face. The one presented to him when he strolled home from the alehouse three hours later than promised with blond hairs on his tunic. 'I want to see Oliver.'

Louis eyed her thoughtfully, considering his options. He could run the risk of 'setting her free' and hope that she chose him, or he could hold her to ransom with Oliver's release as the price. The first was the more dangerous but ultimately the more satisfying if things went his way. The second would ensure him her body, her obedience and access to King Stephen, but not the devotion he craved from her.

He inclined his head. 'If that is your desire.' There was a doubtful note in his voice. 'But I am not sure it is for the best.'

'I want to see him,' she repeated, her voice trembling.

Rising, Louis beat crumbs of soil and bark from his elegant tunic. Then he helped her to her feet, his expression one of tender anxiety. 'It is your decision.' He brushed gently at the creases and rumples in her gown.

'I know.' Trembling, she stiffened her spine.

Louis cupped her face with his palm and brushed away her tears with a gentle thumb. 'Then, Holy Christ, I pray you make the right one,' he said softly, and anticipation quivered through him at the size of the gamble he had just taken.

Oliver was seated over a merels board with Geoffrey, halfheartedly considering his move, when their prison door opened and Louis de Grosmont returned.

Oliver eyed him with surprise. He had not thought to see de Grosmont again until his next turn of duty, especially after viewing him with the woman in the bailey. The satisfied glow on the man's face and the sated droop of his eyelids suggested that the encounter had been profitable. 'Now what does he want?' Oliver muttered out of the side of his mouth.

Geoffrey glanced over his shoulder. 'You by the looks of things. Perhaps he's still hoping to woo you.'

Oliver curled his lip. 'If he is, then he's in for a sad disappointment.' He straightened his expression as Louis sauntered over to their trestle.

'I need to speak with you alone,' Louis said to Oliver, and gestured to another trestle in the corner.

Close up, Oliver could smell the sweat of the man's exertion and the faint, but disturbingly familiar, perfume of rose attar. He raised one eyebrow, first at Geoffrey, then at Louis. In his own time he pushed to his feet. 'About what?'

'About your ransom.' Again Louis indicated the corner.

Oliver was tempted to dig in his heels and stay where he was but decided that it would serve no purpose. If Louis wanted to discuss his ransom, it was best to co-operate. Warily, he rose and went to the empty trestle. There was a wine stain on the wood and some drips of hardened candle wax from the night before.

'What about my ransom?' he demanded as Louis joined him. 'Have you suddenly decided to raise the stakes?'

'Let us just say that the stakes have changed.' Louis rested his hip on the table and leaned into Oliver's space.

Oliver immediately slouched back on the bench and folded his arms to show that he was neither impressed nor intimidated. 'In what way?' His expression was sardonic. 'Have I suddenly become so wealthy or important that my value has vastly increased?'

Louis smiled with his mouth but not with his eyes which remained as wary as Oliver's. 'Important, yes,' he said. 'In fact, so important that you are free to collect your weapons and go.'

All attempt at nonchalance fell away. Unfolding his arms, Oliver gazed at Louis with widening eyes. 'I am free to go?' he repeated on a rising note of disbelief.

Louis spread his hands. 'As soon as you will. Rise up and walk out of here and no one will stop you.'

'Hah, I do not believe that!'

'It is the truth, I swear on my soul.' Louis crossed himself as he spoke.

Oliver spread his hands too, in a gesture of utter bewilderment. 'But why?'

Louis dropped the hand with which he had been signing himself and hesitated. Then he looked at Oliver with avid, bright eyes. 'Catrin,' he said.

Colour filled Oliver's face and he felt a warm surge at his core. A vision, not so far from the truth, flashed through his mind, of Catrin riding into Rochester with a determined jut to her chin, letting naught stand in her way. 'She is here?' he said eagerly.

Louis nodded. 'Yes, she is here.'

Oliver's mind was so filled with the image of Catrin that it took a moment for other considerations to pierce the upsurge of joy. But when they did the cut was deep and sharp - the intimacy with which Louis said 'Catrin', affording no other title as if he knew her well; the woman in the red dress and dark cloak; the heaviness of recent pleasure weighting Louis's eyelids. Like a hammer blow the thought struck