by Anita Mills
“Aye, I have heard of when ’twas done for Count Alan of Brittany’s wife to keep it from sapping her strength ere she died.”
“ ’Tis less for you to do, so I’d not complain of the lack.”
The other woman, one Grisel by name, picked up a bucket of steaming water and asked Gilliane to stand. Somewhat self-consciously, she complied, feeling very much as though they inspected her. Beads of oil mingled with soap scum where the water line had been. Grisel waited until she straightened up and then threw the full contents of the bucket over her, while Neste readied the soft woolen sheet. As Gilliane stepped over the side of the tub, she was enfolded in it and rubbed dry until her body shone.
A serving girl brought a cup of mulled wine, and Gilliane sipped the spicy sweetness of it, wondering if Richard meant to come for her. Neste dragged a comb through the tangles in her hair, exclaiming again about the beauty of it, and then they all withdrew, leaving her alone with Alwina and ready for bed.
Still carrying the wine with her, she surveyed with satisfaction the chamber she’d been given. Rivaux might be angered with her, but he’d spared nothing for her comfort. The room was well-furnished, with tall cabinets of carved wood at either side of a curtained bed, several large lacquered clothing boxes, a table, and two narrow benches. Curious, she opened a cabinet and saw neatly folded chausses of soft wool, snowy cambric undertunics, and a row of brightly dyed leather slippers. A crimson tunic, ornately embroidered with gold and gemstones, lay at the top. Everywhere she looked, she saw his things—his boots, the cloak she’d made him, Belesme’s sword standing near the bed.
“Aye, ’tis to his chamber he’s brought you,” Alwina said finally. “ ’Tis what you have wanted since first he came to Beaumaule, Demoiselle.”
A denial sprang to her lips and died, for Gilliane knew ’twas the truth. “I’d have you leave me, old woman.”
“I pray he makes no babe within you,” Alwina muttered, passing her. “I’d not have all know your shame.”
The door closed, leaving her alone, and Alwina’s words brought home the enormity of what she’d done. From the beginning, she’d tried to gain his notice, telling herself she made the cloak for her honor, that she’d fought to save him out of fear, that she’d begged to come to Celesin with him out of loneliness. She’d set herself a path of dishonor and trodden it willingly, despite all her fine denials to Simon of Woodstock and the others who’d warned her.
She could hear steps on the stone stairs, muffled steps that drew nearer as they reached the third landing, and then she heard him telling someone below that he’d not be disturbed. Her heart pounded apprehensively and a knot of fear formed in the pit of her stomach. Still wrapped in the woolen blanket, she passed her tongue over suddenly parched lips and waited.
He seemed to fill the room as he came through the door, kicking it shut after him. As he turned back to drop the bar in the cross-latch, her body went numb, and her limbs seemed to have taken root in the floor.
Her eyes were enormous in her face, betraying her fear, but it gratified him that she did not back away. After arguing with himself for two weeks and more that he had no right to take her, he knew he could not stand it if she turned from him now. It would not take much to make him leave her—already the guilt for what he was doing to her gnawed at him. She deserved to be wife to a man, and that he could not make her. His eyes dropped to where she held the woolen sheet wrapped against her breasts, and his mouth went dry with his desire for her. With the sputtering pitch torch he’d used to light his way still in his hand, he walked to the brazier, tossing it into the fire, speaking casually to hide the eagerness he felt.
“I’d have you pour me some of the wine.”
When she did not move, he walked closer, standing over her, and reached to lift her chin with his knuckle. The gold flecks warmed his eyes despite the seriousness of his expression. His still-wet hair appeared even blacker, gleaming in the firelight, and he was already half-undressed, with his creamy cambric undertunic spotted with water where it lay against his skin, and his chausses clinging ungartered to the curve of his calves. The irrational thought crossed her mind that he’d bathed for her.
“Gilly, you know I’d lie with you.”
She nodded, unable to speak.
“And you?”
“Aye,” she choked, trying to look away from his strange eyes.
“Art afraid?” he asked softly, knowing she would be.
“Aye.”
“I’d wed with you if I could—you know that, do you not?”
Her throat ached and her chest tightened, threatening to stifle her breath, but his hand forced her to look up at him. She closed her eyes, unable to meet his. “Nay.”
“Gilliane, I swear to you that although I cannot give you the protection of my name, I am yours in truth—that I will love and protect you, giving you whatsoever else you desire of me.” Abruptly he released her and moved to get the pitcher of warmed, sweetened wine, pouring its contents into two silver cups. “Take some—’twill ease you.”
Her hands shook as she tried to drink, but she was glad of the time he gave her. The room was acutely still save for the sounds of the pitch torch popping in the fire, and the tension grew as fear and excitement vied within her. Too nervous for words, she turned away from him, unable to let him see what his very presence did to her. He set down his cup and walked slowly, deliberately, each footfall seeming louder than the last, until he came up behind her and lifted a strand of her hair, bending to brush his lips there, letting his warm breath caress the back of her neck. A shiver sliced through her as the cup slipped from her nerveless fingers, clattering to the floor.
“I’d see you, Gilliane.” His voice was soft and low, almost a whisper, as his hands slid around her to loosen the soft sheet she wore.
“I … I cannot,” she gasped, clutching at his hands, holding them still against her breasts.
His lips found her neck again at the back of her bent head where her hair parted, falling forward, and he nuzzled the smooth skin softly, kissing lightly down to her bared shoulder, sending waves of excitement coursing inward. She held his hands so tightly that her knuckles whitened, and she stood still as stone within his embrace. This time, when he asked, his breath rushed against her ear. She squeezed her eyes shut to still the raging need that threatened to engulf her.
“Let me look on you, Gilly.”
Holding both her hands with one of his, he managed to free the other and slide it beneath the overlap of the woolen sheet, brushing it lightly over the curve of her breast, over the suddenly tautened peak. She sucked in her breath very much like a sob, and let him loosen her hands. The sheet fell away, sliding over her bare skin to land in folds at her feet. For a moment he stood very still himself, and then his palms moved over her breasts, cupping them, as his thumbs massaged her nipples until they strained against his hands.
Agony … ecstasy—she knew not what she felt, but it seemed that the center of her being lay beneath his fingers. And when she thought she could stand no more, his hands slid lower, tracing the line of her rib cage to her waist, pulling her back against the warmth of him, molding her into his hard abdomen until she could feel the rise of his body against hers. His palms moved over her flat belly, drawing fire in their wake, until his fingers found the wetness below.
“Nay, I’d not … Ohhhhh …” Her protest turned to a moan as the urgency of his fingers elicited a need she no longer wanted to deny.
He could feel her sag against him, giving in to her desire, feeding his. He lifted her from behind, half-turning her to carry her against him. She buried her head in his shoulder, and heard his beating heart beneath. The drawn bed curtains brushed over his back as he bent to lay her within, and then he followed her down, crouching over her. Pulling off his undertunic, he flung it to the foot of the bed, and began untying his chausses.
His eyes glittered strangely in the darkness as he eased his freed body down to hers, a
nd she stiffened beneath him with fear. Cursing himself for his eagerness, he rolled to lie beside her and took her in his arms. He wanted her body freely given, even if he had to wait. He held her very quietly, letting his own urgency abate, and then slowly, carefully began the task of arousing her again.
He smoothed her bright hair back from her temples with his hands, cradling her face between them, and bent his head to taste of her lips. Her eyes widened, then closed as her lips softened, parting to receive his teasing tongue. He’d meant to explore her mouth leisurely, but her answering kiss ignited the fire in his body anew, and he plundered instead, taking full measure of her. While one hand held her head, cradling it for his kiss, the other caressed lightly from her cheek to her neck to her throat and lower to her breast, brushing again at the peak until it hardened. She stiffened again, this time not from fright, as his thumb and forefinger rolled her nipple, and then she relaxed, giving herself over to the pleasure of his touch.
“Sweet,” he murmured, releasing her mouth to trace quick warm kisses in the path his hand had taken. Her eyes were closed, purpling beneath their lids in the faint light, and her breath was rapid, raising her breasts with each quick, shallow intake until he curled his tongue to lick at one hardened nob. Her hands, which had been clenched, groped for and clasped his head as her fingers massaged his thick hair, holding him to her breast.
He sucked, savoring the sensations he was creating in her while she moaned the low animal noises he knew for a woman’s desire. His hand splayed over her flat belly, feeling the quivering need within, and then slid to the smooth, silky curve of her hip, moving his palm over her.
Gilliane felt as though there was no part of her that did not desire his touch. Her fingers worked ceaselessly, opening and closing over the thick strands of his hair, as her body grew hot with wanting more of what he would do with her. And then she felt him touch her, touch the softness between her legs, stroking her until the center of her being seemed to be there, and she arched her back, straining for more.
He had what he wanted—he had her willing. His mouth left her breast, returning to kiss her again, and this time when his tongue parted her swollen lips, he eased his aching body over hers, striving for his release as well as hers. As his knee slid between hers, her legs opened to receive him. She went rigid at the insistent feel of him against her maidenhead, her moan intensifying as it gave way, and he willed himself to hold back, to soothe, until she relaxed. As he left her mouth to whisper almost incoherent words of love and encouragement into the shell of her ear, her arms clasped him tighter. Slowly he began to move within her, ready to ease off if she cried out again, but her hands began stroking his back, and the fire returned with an intensity that threatened to consume him.
She’d expected him to hurt her, had heard whisperings of that even in the seclusion of Beaumaule, but she was unprepared for the greater need that came after. As he moved, what had gone before seemed as child’s play. She was alive to the feel of him within, straining for some greater promise, unable to restrain her own need of him. Her hands r moved ceaselessly, goading him on, begging more, and her body rocked and bucked against his, taking until she thought she could take no more. Conscious will ended, obliterated by the fire that engulfed them, until his hard, almost anguished breathing turned to an animal cry of his own, and she felt the flood of his seed before he collapsed, breathless and spent, over her.
Then she floated. Despite his weight on her, she floated, feeling a peace like the calm after a storm. Reluctantly she opened her eyes to find him watching her, and the peace was gone. She’d had what she’d asked for—she’d given herself to Richard of Rivaux—and she was suddenly shamed. Still beneath his heaving body, she tried to turn her head away and hide from him.
He’d watched the emotions cross her damp brow, one after the other, seeing first the ecstasy of union, the contentment, and then the shame. “Nay,” he whispered gently as he eased his body off hers, “ ’tis love I feel for you.” He smoothed her wet hair with the back of his hand, feeling the dampness of tears on her cheeks.
“That does not make it right,” she answered dully. “No matter what words we use to couch what I am to you, the truth is that I am but your willing whore.”
“I love you, Gilly. Stay with me, and you’ll want for naught, I swear it.” Even as he spoke, he saw her tense. “I can give you—”
“Can you give me sons of your name? Can you give me sons who can stand tall beneath the banner of Rivaux?” she blazed suddenly. “Nay, you cannot!”
“Gilly … Gilly …” He sought to take her rigid body into his arms, but she pulled away.
“God aid me, Richard of Rivaux, but I love you also,” she whispered through the ache in her throat, “and still ’tis not right what we have done. ’Tis sin.”
“Then God forgive me, but I mean to sin and sin again,” he admitted. “Nay, Gilly, but ’tis not wrong to take what happiness we can.”
“You will wed another.”
“Not willingly.”
“You will get your sons of her.”
Realizing she was serious, he propped himself up on his elbow and reached to stroke the tangled mass of copper at the back of her head. “I would that I could break my oath to Lincoln’s daughter, Gilly—I swear to you—but I cannot. Aye, and I’d promise not to lie with her also, but I owe too much to my sire and grandsire to let my name die.”
“You’ll love her.”
“Jesu! I cannot even remember what she looks like,” he sighed. “But even if she were the most beautiful girl in Christendom, I’d not love her.” He laid a hand on her shoulder and tried to turn her back. “For good or ill, ’tis only you I’d love.”
She wanted to believe him, to think that to him she was more than just a wench to be tumbled. Reluctantly she allowed him to turn her over.
“Do you think I’d have ridden all the way to Douai in Flanders for you if you were naught to me?” he reasoned. “Do you think I would have risked my father’s certain wrath for you if you were but another wench to me?” He waited for his words to sink in, and then he added, “Aye, and do you think I’d have come for you rather than seek Gloucester when there is a crown to be fought for? Sweet Mary, if you cannot know it—”
“Aye.”
It was more a sigh than a word. He leaned closer to brush a soft kiss at her temple. “Then let us speak no more nonsense, Gilly.”
“I just do not know how I can bear it when you go to a wife.”
“When that time comes, I’ll be an unwilling husband.” He glanced out of the bed to where Hellbringer stood balanced against the wall. “Would you have me swear that on Holy Rood also?”
It was enough that he would. She turned against him, burying her head against the healing scar on his shoulder. “Nay,” she murmured, holding him close, “ ’tis enough that you have sworn to kill Brevise for me.”
They lay, locked for a time in a close embrace, each savoring the nearness of the other. After a time, she thought he’d drowsed off, and she started to ease away to give him room in the bed.
“Nay.”
Even in the darkness, she thought she could see the slight curve of his mouth as he smiled at her. His eyes, which had been closed, caught the faint firelight as his arms pulled her even nearer. His hand moved over the curve of her hip possessively, renewing desire.
“My only regret,” he whispered as his mouth nibbled again at hers, “is that ’twill take your hair a full year and more to grow.”
18
“ ’Tis dear, my lord,” the merchant warned him.
Richard turned the golden filigree heart over in his palm and studied it, letting the light from the narrow window catch in the pearls and tiny cabochon rubies that winked among the openwork. It was as lovely as she was. He lifted the fine squarelinked chain to let the light filter through the heart, and nodded.
“I would have it.”
“It comes from the East, and cost me a fu
ll fifty marks. I’d have at least sixty for it.”
“I said I would buy it.” Richard gestured to his chamberlain to bring forth the casket where he kept the money. “Count out sixty marks and gain a receipt for this,” he ordered. “Aye, and I’d have the small mirror also.”
“Your lady is most fortunate, my lord,” the merchant murmured in appreciation.
“Nay, ’tis I who am the fortunate one,” Richard answered, slipping the locket into the purse that hung at his belt. And it was true. The month he’d had Gilliane de Lacey in his house and his bed had been the best of his life. A slow smile of remembering spread across his face as he thought of her as last he’d seen her, her sleepy eyes awakening to his passion, her body coming alive to his touch. There was still as much fire between them as at the beginning, more mayhap, for each new lover’s discovery brought greater delight than the last. He was besotted, he knew it, and yet he fervently prayed that ’twould always be so.
“Would your lordship see anything else?”
For a moment Richard stared blankly, reluctant to leave his thoughts of her, and then he shook his head. “Nay, but you may see of either my chamberlain or my steward if there’s aught else we need.”
The fellow drew back, bowing as he left, and Richard looked about his busy hall. From his carved chair on the dais he could see his steward look up impatiently from where he directed a clerk at accounts, dismiss the Italian merchant with a wave, and turn again to his work. And across the room, his marshal and his captain disputed with his seneschal out of his hearing. There was so much to running Celesin that sometimes he chafed at the task, almost wishing he’d not been quite so prosperous, for in the two years since his knighting, his household had grown from but the fifteen he’d had at Rivaux as son in his father’s house to nearly ten times that in his own. Poor Gilly—she strove so to acquaint herself with the workings of the place, but ’twas so very different from what she’d had at Beaumaule.