Hearts of Fire

by Anita Mills

  A messenger caught his eye as the fellow slipped in the side door and conferred with Everard briefly. Richard tapped his heavy signet ring against the table before him, curious now that his captain pointed toward him. The messenger, still carrying his round parchment case, made his way forward, stopping on bended knee before Richard, holding out the cylinder, its seal affixed at one end.

  “Greetings from my lord, Earl Robert of Gloucester, to his liegeman Richard of Rivaux, lord of Celesin and Ancennes, and warden of sundry English castles.”

  “Aye.”

  A page rushed to take the parchment case and carry it to Richard, who examined the wax seal before breaking it with his thumbnail. It had been weeks since he’d heard of Gloucester, and there’d not been a word regarding England’s crown or the usurper who wore it.

  “My lord?” Everard crossed the room to hover while Richard read the earl’s letter, waiting impatiently for the news that could change their lives.

  But Richard was not attending, choosing to reread the curious message instead, his brow furrowed in concentration, and then his face cleared. “Aye,” he addressed Gloucester’s man, “tell Earl Robert he is most welcome at Celesin.”

  “He comes here?” Everard asked, betraying his surprise.

  “Aye, on his way to England.”

  “God’s bones! What says he?”

  “Not enough.” Richard sighed heavily, uncertain whether to be disappointed or relieved. From the sound of it, Gloucester did not mean to fight Stephen now, and that gave Richard more time to spend loving Gilliane de Lacey rather than going to war. But it also forced him to consider the unthinkable: Stephen would expect him to do homage for his English possessions ere long. And lurking in the background was the thought that either way, Guy of Rivaux would not be pleased with him.

  He heaved himself up from the heavy chair, murmuring low for Everard alone, “Walk apart with me.”

  “But, my lord, ’tis court day,” his estates steward, Drogo de Montfort, protested feebly.

  “I leave it to you to give justice as you do when I am gone,” Richard retorted, stepping down from the dais. “Aye, I have heard no complaint of your wisdom.”

  It was an honor to sit in judgment when the lord was in residence, for it signified a great trust. Drogo bowed respectfully to hide his pleasure, and turned back to those who waited for their lord’s will. “The clerks of Celesin will present the petitions for me,” he called out clearly, “and all cases save those of bodily harm will be heard this day.”

  “It does not appear that Gloucester means to challenge Stephen,” Richard mused aloud to his captain as they reached the outer chamber.

  “Jesu! ’Tis King Stephen, then!”

  “He says he comes to discuss matters of import to both of us—that he’d have me go to England with him.”

  “Then … ?”

  “Nay.” Richard shook his head and sighed. “There is no mention of raising mine levies for him.”

  “He’d dare not write of it—e’en if it were his intent,” Everard reminded him. “Too many wait to know of his plans.”

  “I know, but I know Gloucester also. For some reason, he chooses not to fight.”

  “When does he come?”

  “Tonight—he lies a scant twenty furlongs from here.” Richard fingered the hard bulge in his purse pensively, wondering how Gilliane would react to the news that Gloucester wished him to go to England.

  Apparently she was in Everard’s thoughts also, for he appeared to consider before he asked, “And what of the Demoiselle? There will be those who say you had not the right to take her from Beaumaule.”

  It was a question Richard had asked himself a hundred times and more, knowing sooner or later he would have to face it from whoever wore England’s crown. He’d made himself her guardian, had left his pennon over Beaumaule’s ruins, a warning to any who would gainsay him, but there was no guarantee that a King Stephen would confirm his authority there. He could perhaps claim the small keep by right of having taken it under fire, but that still did not mean that he could enforce his wardship over Gilliane.

  “If we go to England, I’d leave her here,” Everard advised.

  But Richard was loath to leave her anywhere. “Nay,” he decided abruptly, “if I go, I take her with me. If Stephen would have mine oath, he will have to confirm the wardship of Beaumaule to me.”

  “You swear to him then?”

  “I do whatever Gloucester does.”

  “Count Guy still stands for the Empress.”

  “Art always ready with reason, Everard,” Richard chided him. “Aye, I know where my father stands—was there ever one to doubt him? And I know I hold the greater part of my lands of him, but I am vassal to Gloucester also, lest you forget that. If my father raises his standard and takes the field for her, I will send him the troops I owe of Celesin and Ancennes, but I will not fight against Earl Robert in any case.”

  “He could hold your lands forfeit,” Everard reminded him.

  “For a time mayhap, but he cannot deny me my patrimony when all is done. These lands, Harlowe, Rivaux itself—all will come to me, whether he wills it or not.”

  “And you could starve whilst you wait.”

  “Ah, Everard, art always my father’s advocate, are you not?” Richard’s dark eyes warmed and his mouth twisted in a rueful smile. “Sometimes I wonder whether ’tis I you serve—or whether my father set you to watch over me. But you worry for naught. Nay, but so long as I do not meet him in battle, my sire to too honorable to take back that which he has given.” He reached to clasp the older man’s shoulder affectionately. “You worry too much.”

  “Aye.”

  “For now, I’d have you seek out both stewards and have them prepare for Gloucester’s arrival.”

  “And you, my lord?”

  Richard exhaled heavily and squared his shoulders, wondering how Gilliane would take his news. “I go to tell her there will be company.”

  Gilliane’s fingers worked ceaselessly, making the quick, tiny gold stitches on the crimson sendal tunic. While it was not quite orfrois, it was the closest she could make it, and she hoped he would be pleased. Even as fine as it was, it seemed small payment, for there was no gift to compare with the rich samite and sendal and velvet gowns, the jewels, and the ease of life he’d given her. The harshness of Beaumaule, the horrors of the past, seemed so very distant now as she basked in the warmth and security of Richard of Rivaux’s love.

  She’d not known such luxury existed before she’d seen Rivaux, and even Celesin still was a marvel to her. Whereas the inner walls of the hall at Beaumaule had been but rough stone, those at Celesin were plastered and whitewashed, and the solar in which she worked had clean-swept floors covered with woven mats and walls hung with brightly patterned carpets imported from the Moors in Spain. Above her, on a raised platform, his bed was cushioned with three feather mattresses, sheeted in softest wool, and veiled with curtains of gold-shot silk baudequin beneath heavily embroidered hangings of sendal. And thick multicolored silk cushions abounded, adding to the appearance of overwhelming wealth. Aye, and even though this day she was alone save for Alwina, she knew that she had but to clap her hands loudly for a page to scurry forward, eager to run her errands. Indeed, the place was overrun by those who ran his household, managed his estates, and executed his every wish as though it were by writ of law. And, once they understood that she was more than whore to him, they treated her with courtesy and deference.

  It had not been so at the beginning. There had been sniffs and sneers and whispers behind her back, whispers that somehow carried just enough for her ears to hear. But one of his knights had gone too far, speculating on who would have her when he was done, and Richard had heard. His wrath was swift, his punishment so harsh that the fellow had been fortunate to remain alive. And since then, there’d not been another to speak ill of her. Except Alwina. Aye, Alwina muttered her disapproval in a dozen ways, predicti
ng direly that Gilliane would bear his bastards and then go to the convent in disgrace. Noble bastards, she’d remarked pointedly, did not enjoy quite the status of those with royal blood.

  A pang of conscience assailed her. She had not the right to love him; the union that gave her so much pleasure was more like to be cursed than blessed. And yet she could not help loving him—she could not. Even when he wed Lincoln’s daughter, she’d still want him in her bed. Lincoln’s daughter. She could not bring herself to use the girl’s name, for then his betrothed bride became a person, another woman to vie for his love. And that troubled her. She could not imagine that any could lie with him and not love him. But what if in doing his duty he came to love Lincoln’s daughter also? Nay, that would be more than she could bear.

  Resolutely she pushed back the jeweled cap that slid forward on her head, his gift to cover the crown of her hair. She was neither wife nor maid now, and while a wife would bind her hair, Gilliane could not, for lack of enough to braid anyway, and yet Richard tried to give her a wife’s status by providing shimmering veils and caps. Well, there was naught to be gained but a sore heart if she did not accept her true lot and take what love he offered whilst she could. She held the tunic closer and bent to take another careful stitch.

  He stood and watched her, spellbound by the sight of her, her copper head framed in the early-spring sunlight much like the paintings of the saints. The deep green samite of her gown shimmered as her hand moved, and the undersleeve of gold reflected the sun itself. Gone were the serviceable wools she once wore, replaced at his insistence by silks—if he could not make her his wife, he could at least dress her as befitted a queen.

  And the transformation had been worth every mark, for whereas he’d once thought her pretty, he now knew her beautiful. Aye, there could not be a man to look on that bright hair who would not envy him. But she was so solemn now, as though pained, mayhap by thoughts of the past, by memories of the horror of those last days at Beaumaule—and he wished he had the means to ease her.

  Alwina saw him first, rising silently as she did so. The old crone did not like him, he knew, and disapproved of what he’d made of her mistress. He ought to send her away, but she’d been with Gilliane since her birth, and if Gilliane would tolerate the woman’s insolence, then he’d not interfere. But still it rankled him that Alwina could not see that what he did, he did for love as much as lust.

  Gilliane looked up as the old woman picked up her sewing and prepared to leave the solar. “Nay, but—” She stopped when she saw him and nodded. “Aye.” The open desire in his face as his eyes met hers sent an answering shiver coursing through her. To hide her own racing pulses, she folded the tunic neatly, laying it aside, and smoothed the green samite in her lap. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Alwina march past him.

  “I worry for your eyes,” he murmured, barring the door behind her woman. “You stitch too much.”

  “There’s naught much else for a woman to do in a well-run keep.” A thrill of anticipation made every fiber of her being seem to come alive in his presence.

  He walked behind her and lifted the jeweled cap from her hair, brushing lightly over its silkiness to smooth it. “There’s always something else for a woman to do if she wishes.”

  She thought that he was going to kiss her neck, as he was so often wont to do, but then she felt the cold metal slide around it as he fastened the chain. The golden heart slipped forward, its weight seeking the bottom of the loop. She looked down and gasped as the rubies and pearls seemed to wink back at her.

  “Sweet Mary—’tis lovely! Nay, but I—”

  “Aye, you can,” he whispered, kissing the place where his hand held back her hair. “ ’Tis but a small token of what you have given me, Gilly.”

  She knew not what was wrong with her, but even the softness of his voice sent waves of desire flooding over her, and the feel of his lips on her skin made her ache with the wanting of him. She fingered the pendant and closed her eyes to keep him from knowing how his very presence affected her.

  As if to echo her own thoughts, he bent low to nuzzle her ear, sending his warm breath into it. “ ’Tis not possible to get enough of you, Gilly.” And as he spoke, his fingers slid beneath the layers of gown and undergown, moving downward over suddenly hot skin to cup a breast.

  He could feel her tremble and heard her sharp intake of breath. He’d not meant to lie with her, he’d come to tell her of Gloucester, but the temptation was great. With an effort, he started to draw his hand back, to focus again on why he’d sought her. But her hand caught his arm, holding it there, and she rubbed her cheek against the hair on his forearm.

  “I like what you do to me, Richard,” she whispered.

  He needed no further urging. With one hand still inside her gown, he slid the other beneath her arm and lifted her, holding her back against him, and leaned to explore the softness of her skin with his lips and his hands. She was so often pliable, gentle, and yielding, but this time she was almost rigid in his arms.

  She stood, holding her body taut, tense with near-agony as his fingers rolled her nipples, hardening them, until she thought she would shatter into pieces. The tension built until she could stand it no longer, and she caught at his hands, pulling them away, and turned into his arms. Reaching for his neck, she pulled his head down to hers. There was no gentleness in the kiss between them, only urgent, mindless need. She clung to him, taking as much as she gave, until at last he set her back, his chest heaving, and gasped, “Art like fire that burns me, Gilly!”

  “Aye.” Despite the heat in her own blood, she managed to smile up at him, and her fingers began loosing the laces that gave her gown its fit beneath the arms. He watched, mesmerized, while she drew off the silk overgown, then unlaced the sleeves of the golden undergown. His pulse pounded in his temples like thunder and the heat in his loins was unbearable, and yet she moved slowly now, revealing the soft cambric undershift that outlined her body against the light from the window. For answer, he pulled his overtunic and tunic off and flung them to the floor. His eyes still on her, he slipped off his shoes and bent to unwrap the leather cross-garters that held his chausses smooth against his leg. She grasped the undershift at her hips and began easing it upward, revealing the whiteness of her legs and thighs. His mouth went so dry he could not speak. In one quick stride he caught the undershift from her hands and pulled it off, flinging it to land in the pile of his clothes. His eager fingers found the ties of his chausses, loosened them, and pushed them down.

  She stared at his aroused body, unable to think for the pounding in her head and chest. “Well?”

  She was naked save for the locket that hung between her firm, rounded breasts, her bare skin gleaming like alabaster, and she waited eagerly for him. An unholy gleam crept into his eyes as he advanced on her, backing her into the thick carpet that hung on the wall. Her eyes grew wider with the realization that he was not going to take her quickly despite his obvious desire. Instead, he leaned into her, a hand at either side, pinning her against the thick carpet, and slowly, deliberately, kissed her again.

  She wanted him to take her, to carry her to bed and lie with her. She wanted the feel of his weight over hers, the feel of his body within hers, and yet he was denying her the quick slaking of her desire. Could he not see that she would not wait?

  He tasted and teased, playing about the corners of her mouth with soft nibbles, and brushed his body against hers, feeling the fire within her, prolonging his own exquisite ache. Her arm came up to clasp him, to pull him closer, and her mouth opened eagerly beneath his.

  “ ’Tis not as though we are groping in the hayloft,” he whispered, still delaying. “Aye, we have all the time we need.”

  He was so close and yet so far from giving her ease. She arched her body against his, tantalizing him with her eagerness, and when he raised his arm, she edged along the wall closer to the bed, backing against the small step that led to the bed. To her relief, he lifted h
er, holding her waist.

  “Please,” she moaned.

  “Aye.” He drew her arms around his neck and held her, letting her slide against him, holding her still against the wall, and then his hands moved over her, trailing fire from her shoulders to her arms and down to her hips, cupping them against him. His lips sought hers, this time with an eagerness to match her own, and as his tongue possessed her mouth, he possessed her body and felt her shudder of ecstasy as he entered her. And then he began to move, tentatively at first, afraid to hurt her, but her hands clutched convulsively at his back, raking him with her nails, as she writhed and moaned against him.

  It did not take long—her breath came in gulps as she gave herself up to what he did with her, and her low moans and small animal cries grew in intensity until she cried out in great gasps as wave after wave of pleasure carried her higher and higher until he joined her, his groan of release matching hers.

  She kept her eyes closed when it was over, scarce able to believe what she’d experienced. His body still pinned her to the wall, still penetrated hers, and yet the intense heat between them had faded to a warm glow. His hard, flat belly heaved as he let out his breath in an attempt to master it. She could feel his hand smooth her damp hair back from her temple, stroking it with a gentleness that belied what had just passed between them.

  “I have played the whore again,” she whispered finally.

  “Nay, you have loved me.”

  When she would have spoken again, he silenced her with a finger to her lips. Reluctantly he eased away from her, separating their bodies. His hand groped at the bedside cabinet for a cloth while his arm circled her.

  “I was like a hound bitch in her season.”

  It pained him to hear her condemn herself for giving her body to him. Cloth in hand, he met her eyes soberly. “Gilly, there is naught about you that displeases me—save that you are ashamed of loving me.” He reached the cloth between her legs and felt her stiffen in embarrassment. “Nay, let me aid you. Look at me, Gilly,” he commanded. “What we have done is done of love, and despite all the Church’s fine words, I do not believe God thinks it wrong for me to love you.”