by Jennie Reid
“Esme,” said Berenice, “I can manage.”
“Nonsense,” the maid answered, “William, Gareth, help us! The Lady’s been through a terrible experience. We’ll need your assistance to help her to her chamber.”
The two men escorted the women across the courtyard, up the stairs, and through the door. Berenice could see little point to it, as long as Gareth was there. All she needed was him; he was her world.
Esme had found a taper, and lit some other candles from it. There was one on the little table next to her bed, one on the chest, another on the mantelpiece. Then she and William seemed to melt away, into the night, leaving her alone with Gareth.
“What was that about?” Berenice asked Gareth.
“I think your faithful maid realized it wouldn’t do for everyone in the castle to see you departing to your room accompanied only by your troubadour.”
“Oh,” said Berenice, “I hadn’t thought of that!” She giggled. “I’ve had little experience at this sort of thing.”
“I know, my Lady,” he answered, drawing her into his arms, “do you want me to leave too?”
Leave? How could she possibly want him to go? Since waking in the Count’s bed, she’d thought of little else but him.
“No,” she said, turning her face up to his, “I don’t want to you leave.” I never want you to leave, she thought, I want to spend the rest of my life in your arms.
He accepted the invitation of her parted lips. His kiss was gentle at first, and tentative. His lips moved upon hers, and she let herself open up to him, enjoying the sensations of his mouth, of the soft brush of his beard on her cheeks, of the mingling of their breaths.
His tongue slid between her parted lips. She found she could do the same, and touched his tongue with her own. Something rippled through her, augmenting the ache deep in her belly. Despite that one moment of release, the ache had never completely left her. It stirred into life, a fire left dormant, now refueled.
Her arms had encircled his neck when he’d first kissed her. Now she let her hands wander, across his broad shoulders, feeling his strength, all his restrained male power. She could feel the thud of his heart, and the growing hardness further down. Now she understood what it was, it no longer alarmed her. She knew he was reacting to her, in the same way his touch and his kisses set her afire, and started the hot moisture flowing in her.
The heat in her body was growing, far stronger than it had in the Count’s chamber. The pressure of her clothes on her skin was torture. More urgently than that, she wanted to see him naked, to know if he were as beautiful as she remembered from the day at the river.
Her hands drifted down to the belt of his tunic. They trembled as she struggled with the large metal buckle.
“Berenice,” he murmured, breaking free of their kiss, “are you sure?”
“Sure?” she answered, kissing him again.
“There’s something,” he kissed her, “I must tell you.”
“Will it stop you,” she asked, answering his kiss with her own, “loving me?”
“No,” he answered, kissing her brow, her temple, and working his way down her cheek to her throat, “nothing would.”
“Then love me, Gareth.” Her head fell back. His kisses stopped at the neckline of her dress. “You can tell me tomorrow.”
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
With fingers that shook almost as much as Berenice’s had, Gareth undid the ties at the neck of her dress and the shift beneath it. While she stepped out of her garments, he undid the buckle of his belt, and let it fall to the floor. With one swift movement, he pulled his tunic over his head.
He was truly magnificent, she thought, lean and strong like a well-bred stallion. His scars seemed only to add to his rugged male beauty, to emphasize that he was as much a fighting man as a lover.
She ran her hands up each side of his chest, fascinated by the contrast of the textures of his body. The diamond of hair on his chest was soft, like his beard. His brownish nipples were small and hard, and she delayed there a little, playing with them, drawing a sigh of appreciation from his lips. The bumps and ridges of his scars were hard, but some of his skin was surprisingly smooth.
She could spend a lifetime exploring his body, she decided.
Meanwhile, he watched her, his eyes dark in the candlelight.
“Let me see you,” he said, holding her at arm’s length. She felt his gaze travel over her as surely as if he touched her.
“You’re so beautiful,” he said.
Taking his hand, she led him towards the bed. He sat on the edge of it, ridding himself of his leggings and boots in a few deft movements.
“So are you,” she answered, standing on front of him. And he was. His imperfections only added to his beauty. Most of all, there was the marvelous love light, shining in his eyes as he gazed back at her.
His big, rough hands moved over her, exploring her, as she’d done him. Under his touch, some parts of her body were more sensitive than others. Every time he discovered one of these special places, she wanted to tell him.
The power of speech had fled. She could only moan, deep in her throat, when his fingers brushed the sides of her breasts.
He held her closer, using his lips and teeth to torment her nipples. The sensation was sweet agony. A river of fire raced through her, settling in that pit deep in her belly.
His kisses trailed down, across her midriff. He paused a moment at her navel, circling it with his tongue, sending shivers of delight coursing through her. Next, the small mound of her belly received his thorough ministrations. She dug her fingers into his hair, certain her legs would give way beneath her.
Grasping her around the waist, he picked her up, and laid her on the bed. Her legs separated of their own accord. He lay between them, starting again where he’d left off, kissing his way down her belly, to the hollow where it met her thighs. His mouth found another place, on the inside of her thighs, that set the tremors racing through her again.
Her legs parted further, giving his mouth access to those special, sensitive, secret places. No feat of her imagination could have prepared her for the reality of his lips and tongue, exploring the most intimate parts of her body.
His tongue discovered the same destination her finger had found, not long before. He used his tongue to stroke it, like a feline. The slight roughness of his tongue, his moist mouth, the knowledge that it was Gareth doing these things to her, all added to the wonderful feelings boiling through her body. She felt them unite, then build into one cataclysmic reaction.
Her back arched. Every muscle in her body tensed, and then relaxed again. She cried out, a shout of pure triumph. The feeling was akin to the one she’d first experienced in Fulk’s bed, but was unlike it also, as a gentle summer shower differs from the raging storms of winter.
Her entire body felt languorous and lazy, but incomplete still. There was more to come, more she needed to know.
Gareth came to lie on the bed beside her, and caressed her while she drifted down from her small cloud of satisfaction. She smiled up at him, and he kissed her. His kisses tasted different now, and she knew it was her own moisture on his lips and beard she could taste. The thought excited her again.
“Gareth,” she said, looking into his eyes, “I want you, in every way. I want you inside me.”
The emptiness, the need for him to fill her, grew stronger with every passing moment. She ran her hands over his chest, down the smooth places beneath his arms, over his hips. She wanted to touch him, to touch the part of him he’d brought as his own gift to her.
It was magnificent, standing strong and proud. A droplet of moisture clung to the small opening in its smooth, rounded head. One day, she promised herself, I’ll use my mouth to bring him pleasure, as he did to me. But for now, the dreadful need, building in her since she’d woken in Betizac, demanded completion.
She wrapped one leg around him, drawing him down to her, desperate to feel him inside.
“There may be so
me pain, my love,” he said, “but I’ll do my best to make it brief.” He kissed her tenderly.
No, she wanted to say, there won’t be any pain, only joy between you and I. The time for pain has passed. But her desire was so strong, her need for him so complete, she couldn’t speak.
Supporting himself on one elbow, he guided his shaft into her. Unable to stand the slowness, she moved her hips, bringing him in. Once again, her imagination had fallen far short of the reality. The feeling was so wonderful, so full, she cried out again.
“Did I?” he asked, concern written on his face.
“Don’t stop,” she managed to gasp, “please don’t stop.”
He didn’t. Softly, cautiously, gently, he began to move within her. Soon she could feel the storm clouds gathering within her once more. She moved with him, taking the lead from him. Each movement, each thrust and counter-thrust, set the thunderheads rising.
She clung to him, calling his name in a mindless chant, over and over. Lightening flashed, the storm within her burst, and she cried out. This time, instead of falling back to the earth, the feeling mounted, taking her up until she reached her climax again. And again. And again.
She became aware of a change in his movements. His thrusts were more urgent, more intense, as he buried himself deeper and deeper within her. He grimaced, as though in pain, and let go a hoarse cry of his own.
They floated back to the bed together, in a tangle of arms and legs.
He kissed her, and he held her, and their hearts beat as one. They slept.
***
Bright sunlight woke them.
Berenice looked at Gareth with fresh eyes. She felt like a new woman, fulfilled, whole, ready for anything the future might hold. All because of this marvelous man, and the love they’d made together, many times, during the night.
They kissed, gently. His mouth was familiar now, but still the feelings raced through her when his tongue brushed against hers.
“I must see William,” Gareth said, later, “the Count may come, and demand your return.”
She released him, seeing he was right. He found his clothes, shrugged into them, and went to stand by the window.
Berenice found her shift on the floor. Untangling it, she slipped it over her head. The morning was warm already; she could bathe and put on her gown later.
She followed him to the window, and stood behind him, leaning on his broad back, her arms around his waist. She couldn’t remember when she’d last felt so content.
The sounds of morning drifted up from the courtyard and beyond. The fair was still in progress, Reginald’s hammer struck a note in the smithy, Robert shouted at an apprentice. She felt Gareth stretch, then he turned in her arms.
“What’s this?” he asked, holding out the ring Fulk had given her. She must have placed it on the chest beneath the window the previous night. She couldn’t remember clearly; parts of the day before were blurred, as though remembered from a dream.
“The Count gave it to me yesterday. It was my late husband’s.”
Gareth turned it over and over, fascinated by it.
“Look,” she said, “it has his coat of arms.”
“I can see,” he said.
She glanced up at his face. Something in the tone of his voice disturbed her. The light from the window was behind him, and she couldn’t read his expression.
“How did the Count come to have it, do you know?” he asked.
“No,” she answered, “I think he said a friend gave it to him. He gave it to me as a betrothal present.”
“Did he.” It wasn’t a question. Gareth’s demeanor was changing. The arm holding her close dropped away. She felt a sudden chill, and moved away from him.
“Gareth, it proves my husband’s dead.”
“Does it?”
It proves I’m a widow, she’d meant to say.
“Do you want it?” she asked, “It’s yours, a gift. I don’t want it any more.” She turned away, looking for her gown.
“Why not?”
“It reminds me of things I’d rather forget,” she answered. That whole part of my life, she thought. The Count’s rape, the hasty marriage soon after. How convenient poor Huon had been. If Fulk had left her pregnant, the child would have been passed off as his.
“I will accept your gift, in that case, my Lady.” He bowed, rather formally, and slid the ring onto the middle finger of his right hand.
It fitted perfectly.
“My Lady,” he said, “Forgive me. There’s something I must do.” In a few strides, he was out of the door.
The room seemed very empty after he’d gone. Berenice went to the window in time to watch Gareth ride out of the courtyard. She wondered where he could possibly be going, and in such haste.
He hadn’t even kissed her goodbye.
CHAPTER THIRTY THREE
Fulk was the only person in Gareth’s mind when he strode across the courtyard to the stable, and asked for a horse to be saddled. After stopping briefly at William’s to collect his sword, he set out for Betizac.
His thoughts raced as he walked. How had the Count found his ring? What had Fulk told Berenice to give her reason to believe the ring proved her husband’s death?
Berenice, he thought. It had not been the way to leave a Lady, after a night of tender lovemaking.
Berenice, his Lady of contradictions. An innocent by day; a siren, a vixen, a houri by night. She’d welcomed him into her body with gentle caresses and sweet kisses. All her hesitancy had vanished, like mist in the morning.
Fulk, he reminded himself, wanting to concentrate on the problem at hand. What was Fulk’s connection with the battle at the Horns of Hattin?
Huon had last worn the ring, given to him by his mother at his knighting, at Hattin. When he’d woken in the slave traders’ camp the ring was gone, taken, he’d always believed, by the slavers. The vultures of the battlefield, they picked over the dead and the near dead. If a body wasn’t worth resuscitating, they’d strip it of anything they could sell.
Berenice. Her warm and welcoming body, her cries of ecstasy. Twice more in the night she’d woken him, used her lips and her hands to arouse him. She’d wrapped her agile body around his, demanding her own release, bringing him to his.
There’d not been the resistance he expected when he’d first entered her; no blood on the sheets this morning.
She’d not been a virgin, after all.
William had sworn, months ago, when Huon had first arrived at Freycinet, Berenice had never taken another man to her bed. He’d know, because Esme would know. Esme would have removed the stained sheets.
Was that the reasoning behind the farce of their wedding night? She hadn’t been a virgin then, so rather than let him find out, she’d pretended to threaten to stab herself?
Was Berenice capable of such guile?
He remembered the woman he’d spent the night with. So innocent and sweet her kisses had been, that day in the river, and again, on the hill above the castle, and in the forest. The woman last night was barely the same person. She’d led him to the bed, she’d made sure he knew how much she desired him. She’d not been innocent then.
And she’d not been a virgin.
How she must have laughed when he’d said he’d make sure the pain would not be too bad. How amusing it must have been those times she’d kissed him, feigning innocence, drawing him steadily into her trap, like any spider would a fat, juicy fly.
What had changed? The answer was clear: she now believed herself a widow, free to share her favors and her bed with her troubadour. The need for subterfuge had ended.
The turrets of Betizac came into view above the trees. Only now, his temper cooled, did he consider it might not be wise to ride up to Count Fulk and demand to know the source of his ring.
It was too late. He’d been sighted by a guard on one of the towers, who shouted to someone below. Huon kept on going towards the castle, every sense alert, his left hand gripping the reins, his right hovering nea
r the pommel of his Viking broadsword, strapped to his saddle.
The gates were open wide, the portcullis raised. The tall English captain waited in the entrance, alone.
“I’ve come to see Count Fulk,” said Huon.
“Have you now,” answered the captain, “Have you broken your fast yet today?”
“No, I haven’t,” said Huon, thinking it a strange greeting.
“Well then, join me while I break mine. Dismount, and I’ll see your horse is tended.”
Huon swung out of the saddle. He glanced at his sword, unwilling to be without it.
“You’ll not be needing that,” said the Englishman. He beckoned to a boy, who came running, and led the horse away. This man had helped them last night; there was no reason for Huon to think he might betray him now.
Huon followed the man up a flight of stairs near the gate to a comfortably furnished room. On a table beneath the window was a jug of ale, a round loaf and a slab of cheese.
“You’re welcome to share,” he said, pulling a three-legged stool up to the table, and ripping the loaf apart with massive hands. “Now, tell me, what’s so important you come riding in here, alone, demanding to see the Count?”
Huon found another stool, and an appetite for breakfast.
“This is my reason,” he stated, extending his right hand. The ring gleamed in the morning light, its intricate details catching the rays.
“Ah,” said the captain, “it’s yours, then.” He wolfed down another chunk of cheese.
“Yes,” said Huon, “it’s mine. My name is Huon de Fortescue et de Freycinet.”
“In that case, I suppose I should address you as ‘my Lord’.” He drained a tankard of ale. “You’ll be wanting to know how the Count came to be in possession of your ring.”
Huon nodded, and drank his own ale.
“The Count can’t tell you.”
“Why not?”
The captain ignored Huon’s question. “I’ll tell you what I know, though, what he told me last winter, when the old Lord died. In a nutshell, he paid someone to kill you, to make it look as if you’d died in battle. Hattin, was it?”