“Not undisciplined. They have what is called ‘character’, something your friends sorely lack,” she shot back, not even pretending to be polite.
“It didn’t have to come to this.” Slicking his dark curls back with a gloved hand, Guilabert drew near. His male scent reached her and sent tiny shivers up her arms. He cocked his head to one side. “You can still stop all of it.”
The only thing she wanted to stop was blood flow to his head. “All of what?”
“That man, Charlotte, he’s not of the same ilk as good Simon. Brother Gautier fought in the crusade. In fact, he used to be a chevalier like myself. He was taken prisoner by the Saracens. Some say their prisons can kill a man within a week. Brother Gautier was kept there for over a year.”
Charlotte understood now the multitude of scars on the man’s body, the whiplash marks covering his chest. A pang of sympathy stirred her heart. How he must have suffered.
Looking pleased with her unusual silence, Guilabert went on. “His ways are much different than that of priests. He knows how to keep folks in line. He knows how to fight a war, how to win one.”
“Remind me…didn’t we lose the crusade?” she put in waspishly.
Guilabert gripped her by the arm and pulled her close. “Don’t ever make light of things you know naught about, woman.” A new light danced in his hazel eyes. And it frightened Charlotte. Guilabert looked…demented.
“Take your hand off me,” she snarled, pulling against his steel grip.
He let go and she stumbled back against the table, knocking a few bottles to the side. Armand materialized it seemed out of thin air and took a threatening step toward Guilabert. Warning flashed in the wizened eyes. Renaud stood in the doorway as well, his bull’s neck flushed in repressed anger.
“Everything all right, mistress? Should I call the boys?” Armand asked, a quick glance at Renaud behind him.
She shook her head. “Sir Guilabert was just leaving. He has a lot of work to do, doesn’t he?”
Guilabert growled some reply and ripped his cloak out of Armand’s hands before storming out without another word and under the weight of the overseer’s glacial stare. Renaud turned about and followed the knight out of the bottling room.
“I’m well protected,” Charlotte put in with a shake of her head. “Pray tell Renaud that Guilabert is armed.”
“I’ll make sure to mention it to him.” Armand’s face split in a sardonic grin. “Now, I swear that Brother Gautier looks more like someone guarding the door to a slummy inn than a man of God. What sort of brother has a broken nose, I ask! Too bad he’s in bed with the knight, I could use a pair of shoulders like his.”
“He looks strong indeed,” she commented weakly.
She knew very well just how strong for having tasted his vigor herself. Heat rose to her cheeks.
* * * * *
That Sunday, Charlotte arrived at church in her best gown. Gone were the work habit and loose hair. Instead, she had let a maid do her hair up in a twisted braid with several chosen strands left to dangle along the nape of her neck. She wore a dark blue gown without trim and comfortable shoes. She would not be the best-dressed woman in assistance but for her, it was a huge stretch. A very small part of her wanted Brother Gautier to notice her though she would have denied it to her last breath.
Charlotte smoothed the front of her gown after she stepped off the uncovered coach. Armand and Constance stepped off after her, with the wife scolding the husband for letting the “mistress get down on her own”. Charlotte would have said something to defend her overseer but preferred to let Constance vent her ire. She had been of particular sour humor the last few days.
As soon as she turned toward the church, she spotted him among the crowd. Only a man of God would wear such stuffy clothes in the heat of early September. Then again, he would have stood out even without the dark garments, with hair so shiny and pale and a face carved by a master. And those eyes—like chips of ice.
Stop it.
With a grin, she realized she was not the only woman who had noticed him. A cluster of them huddled close by, exchanging surreptitious remarks behind their hands.
Charlotte took in a deep breath when she approached the two steps leading inside the small rural church. Over the years, she had had many requests to build another larger one but Simon and she had preferred to donate most of the tithe instead of putting it aside for a grander building. Until townsfolk would stand outside to attend mass, she would keep the little church the way it was.
She spotted Brother Gautier staring at her. Someone spoke to him and he turned away. She used this break to slip inside the building and take her seat in the first pew. Armand and a still-bickering Constance sat next to her. Polite “how do you do” and “fine day, mistress?” floated up to her, which she returned with as much courtesy as she could fake. News of this man’s task was no doubt the talk of the whole province. They probably had bets placed on whom would win—the champion sent from the Vatican or their stubborn “Iron Lady”.
Guilabert came in with Lussier tailing him. She had to give the pair their due, they looked splendid with their wool tunics and capes. Guilabert’s was a dark shade of green, which brought out the light in his hazel eyes. Even Lussier looked good. A snort of frustration escaped her. She turned away when Guilabert’s gaze settled in her direction.
When a thick crowd had filled the darkened church, Brother Gautier glided up the middle aisle, two serving boys struggling to keep pace in his wake. He stepped up the dais with vigor, turned and spread his arms wide. “My name is Brother Gautier. I have been sent from Rome to Montmorency to care for Father Simon’s parish while he is away. Though I am not a priest, I have been granted by my cardinal permission to speak homiliaria, hear contritio and perform the sacrament of matrimonium.”
His quick glance was followed by a few others in the pews as some pivoted to look at her and nod.
Given permission to speak homilies, hear penance and force a woman into marriage. She wanted to sink under the earth.
He then went on with his address. His strong voice filled the small place but not annoyingly so. Then Mass began and with it, Charlotte’s most humiliating struggle with her emotions.
She spent the entire time trying to tear her gaze away from him. The way he moved made her blush several times. When his strong fingers tore a piece from the bread and brought it to his lips, she thought she would keel over. He exuded such raw masculinity that she caught herself in a fever of envy at the golden cup he raised to his mouth, and could only stare mesmerized when he licked his lips and dabbed the corners with a linen serviette. A wave of heat rose out from the opening of her gown. She wanted to watch and leave at the same time. Good God, how could a man move so gracefully, given his muscled body? Charlotte sighed.
“Everything all right there, mistress?” Armand whispered from her right.
She nodded. “Just tired.”
As if to add credence to her words, Charlotte’s weary mind floated out of the church, over beyond the trees. She knew what was coming yet she could find neither the energy nor the will to deny herself this small guilty pleasure. She had cause for so few. Mentally, she went back to the cascade.
Gautier—Brother Gautier, reminded her brain—was there as he had looked that night, gloriously naked, his fit body glistening with water droplets. The pads of her fingers tingled as her mental self reached out to touch his shoulders, his scarred chest, the place where his neck connected to his collarbones. In her fantasy, Gautier leaned closer and kissed her gently. His hands reached for hers, pulled them up over her head so he could disrobe her. Charlotte willingly obliged, feeling liberated, guilty, aroused all at once. As much as she tried to stifle it, her fantasy took flight.
His mouth visited her everywhere, lipped and sucked and kissed, triggered lust to the core of her being. While he gorged on her, she clung to his sturdy shoulders, rubbed a thigh along his and tried to mold herself to the man who had so easily awakened the woman i
n her.
Gautier dove for her exposed breasts. Never had she experienced such vivid fancy. Even the taste and smell of his breath felt true. Lemon and sage. His tongue and lips and teeth reduced her nipples to throbbing garnets while Charlotte let her hands rove over his strong back then down lower where she grabbed both his cheeks hard. River water gurgled around them, over her hips, between her legs, cooling the pulsations his mouth had triggered down in her loins. As if he knew what he did to her, Gautier smiled as he pressed her against him. His member felt hard and hot against her lower belly. Since this was only a fancy, Charlotte cast caution and plausibility to the wind.
She changed the location of their encounter to something more appropriate than the outdoors. A bedchamber would do, not her own and certainly not his for she had visited old Simon several times and knew the inside of the small annex beside the church. No, an anonymous bedchamber with a blazing fireplace, dark furniture and thick rugs.
So Charlotte fancied herself there instead, with Gautier still devouring her breasts. Backing up until she reached the edge of the bed, Charlotte murmured wicked things in his ear, satisfied though she had no idea what exact things she would murmur to a man that it would be shocking enough to stimulate him. It worked. Gautier braced them with an arm as they tumbled onto the bed. The frame creaked.
They rolled onto the feather mattress—she spared no expense on this fantasy—created recesses with their elbows and knees, their heels as they each tried to keep the other beneath. He ended up on top of Charlotte. She let him.
“You are so beautiful,” he murmured in her ear as he settled on top of her. His weight was a shelter, his heat a brand.
Silky lips marked her, calloused hands stroked and raided her and Charlotte had to stifle the very real moan of satisfaction. When he backed down along her belly, she grabbed two fistfuls of his hair and anchored him there. Her need becoming pressing, she undulated and arched, rubbed her sex against his middle. She wanted him to fill her again, stretch her.
Without further dallying, Charlotte spread her legs wide, knowing she would never do this for real, safe in the knowledge no one would know how debased she acted. Towering between her thighs, Gautier slid her down closer to him. His pale gaze on her, he leaned under and scooped her up. Muscles rippled like iron bands along his forearms. Pelvis a foot off the mattress, Charlotte felt exposed, a fruit to a voracious mouth. She fisted the bedclothes on either side of her, waiting for him to enter her. He did not.
Charlotte opened her mouth in a silent O when Gautier, muscles corded tight, lifted her pelvis up, up to his mouth. And he kissed her. There.
In her pew, Charlotte shifted then crossed her legs. Her fancy seemed to have taken a life of its own. She had heard of the practice done in the far lands to the east but never would have dreamed of it. Until now—with Gautier.
Back in her fantasy, Charlotte stared as he curled his tongue and like a whip, flicked her bud. Heat and wetness spread from her folds to her nether hole. Cramps tightened her buttocks and lower back. With her looking on, he kissed, tongue-lashed, suckled, nibbled, until she was about to till her own skin with her nails. Lowering her to the mattress, Gautier leaned down on all fours and poised his glistening member above the throbbing place his mouth had just abandoned.
Charlotte hooked a leg behind him, pulled him to her. Hot and hard, his shaft sank all the way in. She clenched her jaw against the wave of ecstasy she knew was coming. His gaze on her, Gautier retreated to the tip, adjusted his elbows so they’d keep her from moving upward before squeezing his eyes shut and thrusting deep. Charlotte’s arms flew over her head. She arched. She dug her heels in the back of his thighs. He pulled almost completely out again but she’d learned to know his ways and waited for the inevitable plunge. And it came. Puissant, profound. Charlotte melted between her legs.
One more thrust then two quick and sharp ones. Almost in a trance now, she rolled her hips to match his push, forced him down harder with her legs and arms clutched around his middle. She wanted him with an ardor that scared her. Fire crackled behind him, casting its orange glow around his head. Just like a halo.
Just like a saint.
The vision burst in a thousand shards. Charlotte reeled.
Ashamed, she was thrown back to the here and now of the packed church, her cheeks on fire. Her breathing came shallow and quick but unheard because of the crowd’s murmured prayer, which she tried to follow but lost the thread right away. How could she have let herself lose control so completely?
Discreetly, she looked about. No one seemed to pay particular attention to her. Up on the dais, Brother Gautier went on with the service, his hand outstretched on one side while the other held a small, worn bible. Latin had never sounded so luscious as in his mouth.
Shame at her conduct forced Charlotte to bite the sides of her tongue. If she hurt enough, she might forget the impious thoughts.
Shortly after, Brother Gautier finished and extended his arms again so the people could stand and take their leave. Because he was not a priest, she realized her people would have to wait for Father Simon’s return until they could receive benediction. Even better, she thought for Charlotte meant to elbow her way out of the church. She needed air. Right now.
Before she could even take a step in the middle aisle, she spotted the celebrant making a straight line for her. She kept her gaze lowered as she tried to slip out.
“My lady,” Brother Gautier said, stepping in front of her and sliding his hands inside the sleeves of his black habit. “May I have a word with you?”
A jumble of panicked replies crowded her numb brain. A few women stopped to stare. Rumors would be flying high within moments. What if she just ignored him? Could she without attracting attention?
The man did not look the kind one could ignore. Resigned, she mumbled something incoherent even to her and he nodded, apparently taking it for an agreement. She cursed silently. Armand came by her side, an implicit gesture that let the brother know Charlotte Bourbon-Condé did not stand alone. She could have hugged the older man.
“It’s all right, Armand. You two leave and I’ll walk back. I need the air,” she replied, still staring at Brother Gautier.
God, he was handsome!
The way colored light from the stained glass hit his high brow made her want to run a hand over his skin. She remembered how smooth it felt under her fingers. Her outrageous fancy flashed in front of her eyes. The small gold cross on his chest gleamed and she lowered her gaze, mortified.
Yet at the same time, she couldn’t help herself and wondered if he felt the same.
Brother Gautier motioned for her to precede him into the nave where he followed, closing the cleated door behind him. None of Simon’s things were left. The room was bare except for essential church things, a few books on the mural shelf and a walking stick in a corner. That was it. The whitewashed walls looked freshly painted, the table and pair of chairs polished to a high glimmer.
“We must talk,” he said behind her.
Her heart sank to her feet. He would not dare speak of their encounter. Strangely though, she felt torn inside. She would prefer to avoid the subject, for doing so would make her more uncomfortable than she thought she could endure. Yet there was this nagging little voice murmuring wicked things to her, things that made her wet in places she would rather not think about. Not in front of him, anyway. Even if she had not refrained from doing so during his service. Appalling.
When silence had dragged on for a long moment, he cocked his head to one side. But this was a patient man!
To give herself some countenance, she wanted to reply something clever. Wit had never before seeped out of her brain so fast. Weak, treacherous flesh! Charlotte crossed her hands over her front to keep them from shaking. She was a patient woman too. Actually, she was not, but she was stubborn.
Silence settled over the small room as though it was a felt blanket. Brother Gautier stared straight at her, his gaze never leaving her face, not even onc
e sliding down the rest of her. She mentally commended him for it, for she hated how men would sometimes talk at her breasts instead of to her.
After a while, he seemed to have had enough for he shifted to his other foot and let his hands hang by his sides. “I see that your character wasn’t exaggerated when I was told of you.”
“Told of me?”
He nodded. “Told of you, yes. ‘Intractable young woman’, I think were the exact words. I’m here at Sir Guilabert de Lissi’s request. My cardinal had me come to this parish so I could better assess the situation.”
“Situation…?”
“Precisely. To tell you the truth, I’m not usually sent for such…delicate matters. But Sir Guilabert must be very good friends with the cardinal. I guess some have used the crusade to further their ambitions while others were being tortured and kept in rat holes.”
The zigzags of whiplash marks on his chest flashed in her mind. A wave of sympathy engulfed her. The venom in his tone betrayed what frustration he must feel at having to come to France to marry some woman to a man whom his superior owed a favor. Yet as much as she sympathized with the brother, her own situation was much more immediate and precarious.
“Father Simon has already assessed the ‘situation’. I won’t marry Guilabert.” As beautiful as this man was, she would not sway from her position.
“But Father Simon failed to see the Church’s position on it. Since you’re orphaned, it’s—”
“What?” she snarled, taking a step forward.
This seemed to rock him back on his heels. He balled tight fists at his sides, looking surprised and on his guard, but he said naught.
“How dare you?” she went on, heat rising to her cheeks. “How dare you insinuate my brother is dead? He’s given years of his life to the Church, to fight for the Holy Land. And this is how you repay him? Sell off his home, his sister, while he’s gone?”
“The crusade?” he asked, clearly taken aback. “Where is he now?”
“I don’t know! I’m here.”
“Whom does he fight under?”
Sinful Page 5