“It’s him,” they cried in unison, running back into the castle, racing for the stone staircase that would carry them to their quarry.
“What’s he done with the woman?” one asked. They gripped the hilts of their swords but did not unsheath them until they finished climbing. By then it was too late for the first man to draw. He had run straight onto de Burgh’s needle-sharp weapon. Falcon lifted his foot to the man’s chest to help him withdraw his sword and immediately engaged the other two. Before the space of thirty seconds had elapsed he had drawn blood on one assailant’s sword arm and the man fell back in a moment’s hesitation. The secret of Falcon’s success in battle was that he never, ever hesitated. He slashed the other man and met his blade with a grating metallic sound, then he pulled back and swung with all the power behind his arm.
As the man fell back trying to keep his balance, Falcon slipped his sword into the gut below the armor that covered the man’s chest. He turned to face the other sword but the man had fled. With decisive determination Falcon pursued the fifth man who was still alive.
On his way down the flight of stone steps the Welshman emerged from the shadows. “He has fled the castle,” the man said.
De Burgh snatched the bow from the man’s hand and one arrow from his quiver, then he took the stairs, going back up three at a time. High on the ramparts he took careful aim, his eye and his hand steady. The arrow sped its way to its target like a bird of prey flying through the night. The man’s scream disturbed a flock of pigeons that had settled to roost for the night. A pair of screech owls took immediate advantage and selected a plump pigeon each for their supper. Then all was eerily silent until a lone wolf took up the cry and howled at the moon.
Falcon stood on the battlements a long time, oblivious to the freezing night air. Finally he went below to the kitchen and knocked on the door of the small room. “Jasmine,” he whispered hoarsely.
“Falcon, are you all right?” she asked as she fumbled with the bar.
“No, don’t lift the bar, Jasmine. All is well; go to sleep.” He couldn’t touch her that night, not with the blood of five men on his hands. He sank down at the door and laid his head back against the door jamb. For one fleeting moment he glimpsed himself through her eyes and understood exactly her distaste for him.
What dark, perverse desires had made him choose one so fragile, fair, and innocent? Jasmine was like a flower and no fit mate for a black rogue who lived by blood and sword. Splendor of God, what had made him dip his ring in her virgin’s blood to stamp his brand all over the sheets? She must think herself married to a madman to do such a bastardly trick. Well, she was his now, for better or for worse. “Pauvre petite,” he murmured into the darkness.
By morning they were cursing each other again. She emerged from the tiny room to find him wolfing down a great slab of cold mutton, followed by hot, freshly baked bread dripping with honey.
“How dare you shove me in there for the night? It was so small I could scarcely turn around. I was choked with flour in the air that is stored in there, and,” she emphasized angrily, “I suspect the pallet was lousy!”
He looked at her incredulously. “I really believe you expect me to apologize.”
“I doubt that a de Burgh would apologize to anyone … not in this lifetime.”
“Put your mouth to better use, lady, and fill it with hot food.” The warning in his voice boded no good for her if she disobeyed him. He strode from the kitchen to attend their horses, and the cook brought her a steaming bowl of gruel laced with cream and honey. The cook eyed the little blond creature holding the ermine fur with wonder. She had never seen a female so fair-skinned and fine-boned in her life. She seemed unreal, like a fairy princess from a child’s story. Timidly she held out a parcel of food for their journey, fearing to offend the lady by the crudeness of the offering.
Jasmine was touched by the thoughtful gesture. “Oh, how very kind of you. I was wicked to complain of the bed you gave me, but I said it just to plague de Burgh.”
The cook could hardly believe the lady deigned to speak with her. Finally she decided to warn her, “Don’t anger him lady. Last night he killed five men who had come to seize you.”
Jasmine’s first thought was, Why do people tell such outrageous tales about him, as if he were some living legend? But she held her tongue. The tales usually proved to have more than a grain of truth in them.
Falcon made her sit pillion behind him as they left the Castle of Usk, and it annoyed her beyond belief that she was again being treated like a child. As they climbed higher through the mountain pass, the wind howled fiercely as if it were trying to blow them back whence they came. Fancifully she feared the mighty spirit of the Black Mountains was putting them through an ordeal, a test of wind and ice that very few would master.
De Burgh’s great, wide shoulders blocked the impact of the icy wind and sleet from her. She huddled against his warmth, clinging to him for dear life as the stallion’s hooves struck splinters of frozen earth from the hard ground.
It took them the whole day, but when they were safely over the highest peaks and descended to the sheltered valley beneath, Falcon built a fire and set up the campaign tent beside it. He then proceeded to cut fir boughs to make a lean-to for the horses.
Jasmine unpacked food, candles, and the bedroll of furs and took them into the tent, leaving him to his cold task. He brushed the snow from his shoulders and came inside. His eyes softened as he saw that she had lighted the candles and warmed their food at the fire.
“I think the great spirit of the Black Mountains has approved our passage. Perhaps it will be easier from here on,” he said.
She laughed, amused that their thoughts could be so alike.
He took off his cloak and doublet and spread them to dry. “That is the first smile you have gifted me with since we were wed,” he said, sitting down upon the furs to eat.
“God’s feet, there has been little enough to smile about. We are escaping from enemies who will take our lives if the cruel elements don’t do it first. We’re out here in the middle of this wild, godforsaken wilderness with a snowstorm raging above us that almost freezes our mounts in their tracks.”
He stretched lazily and smiled up at her. “There is nowhere on earth I would rather be tonight than here with you,” he said, caressing her with his eyes.
She flared, “You have the most infuriating habit of looking me over.”
He smiled again. “A crime every bridegroom in the world could be accused of, I’m sure.” He stretched out his hand to her. “Come and eat. The pleasure of the food is doubled when I share with you.”
She sat down stiffly, wanting none of his soft looks, soft words. “I would rather be anywhere than here with you,” she said cruelly.
He was amused. He raised his head from his food and smiled lazily at her. “You cannot provoke me tonight. It is an impossibility.” His eyes mocked her gently, clearly telling her that tricks to incite a fight between them would not work.
She knew she was trapped. She knew he was going to do it to her again. He pulled her to him. He had inherited his reckless, pulsing de Burgh blood. It made him alive with passion, and he was unashamed of it. His hand went up her gown to strip off the woolen stockings, then he ran his hands up and down her slim, silken legs, lingering long about her soft thighs.
She shivered uncontrollably and he quickly removed her remaining clothes and rolled her inside the warm furs. She was so filled with dread for what was to come her eyes brimmed with tears, mercifully blurring his hard, erect nakedness. Then he was against her and she felt the full monstrous length of him.
He enclosed her in a world that extended no farther than his encircling arms and the powerful strength of his hard body. He began to kiss her and nuzzle her with his warm persuasive mouth, but, knowing what was to come, she could not begin to enjoy the loveplay. The tighter his embrace became the further she withdrew into herself.
She withdrew further and further, the gulf
between them widened and widened until at last she was able to separate mind and body. Her spirit flew high inside the silken tent and floated there, then it soared above the tent, the trees, the clouds, and up to the stars. Her body lay still, inert, motionless. Her lack of response filled Falcon with a sense of despair. His passionate hands and mouth failed to kindle a spark of desire in her. Instead of meeting his fire with fire, she met his fire with ice. In spite of her lack of response, he soon felt his seed start, then it soared into her tight, velvety sheath as he emptied himself inside her. Her body was delicious, yet without response it had been one of the most disappointing experiences of his life.
When it was safe to do so, her mind and body came together with a little jerk, and she turned from him and slept. His need for her was so intense, it was more pain than pleasure. Once again sleep obliged him to beg before it permitted him to lose consciousness.
Chapter 29
A lifetime of training awakened him at dawn. How he longed to awaken her with a kiss, to cuddle together in the warm furs, to meet the day’s challenge with the taste of her on his mouth, but he did not want to see her flinch from him.
She stirred beside him and, as she reached for her clothes, he turned away quickly to hide the bleakness in his eyes. The wind had died down considerably and great flakes of soft snow drifted down, blanketing the whole world in white.
She scorned to ride with him again, but followed his lead, climbing steeply, descending cautiously, splashing through mountain streams, and picking their way through dense forest. Whenever the snow blanketed him from her vision she panicked. By midday she could no longer feel her feet. Her teeth began to chatter and would not stop, no matter her proud determination. Finally she swallowed her pride.
“Falcon,” she called.
He stopped in his tracks and allowed her to come abreast of him. “What would you like?” he asked politely.
“I-I’m cold,” she said in a small voice.
Again he repeated, “What would you like?”
She bit her lip. He wasn’t going to make it easy for her. “I-I would like to come up with you.”
He stared at her as if he were undecided.
“Please,” she added as an afterthought, afraid he might refuse.
He fastened the reins of her palfrey to the string of packhorses and lifted her before him in the saddle. She tucked her cold hands between her legs to warm them and in a very short time felt her back deliriously warm from the heat of his body. He had decided to be cool and detached. If she preferred to deal with him at a distance, then so be it. Trouble was, she wasn’t at a distance. She was sitting in his lap. To make matters worse, each time his horse shifted weight from forelegs to rear legs she moved slightly back against him. Her buttocks touched the tip of his shaft, causing an erection. A strand of her silver-gilt hair blew back across his cheek and he quivered at the exquisite sensations she aroused in him.
His mind conjured an erotic fantasy and he groaned. He had heard somewhere that Arab men in the desert trained their horses for what they called coït à cheval A man sat his woman astride his horse facing him and made love to her as the horse galloped over the hot sands. Coït à cheval horses were rockers, and legend was that it was an experience a woman remembered always.
He groaned aloud this time and Jasmine turned around and looked up into his face. “Are you cold?” she asked with concern.
“Cold?” he repeated with disbelief. Bones of God, his blood was so overheated at this moment he felt he might erupt like a volcano. “Are you cold, Jasmine?” he queried.
“Only my feet, but I can’t really feel them anymore.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded. “We’ll make camp now. I’ll get a fire going right away.”
“No … no … perhaps if we rode all night, we would be there in the morning,” she urged him. He heard the panic in her voice at the thought of making camp for the night and vowed to keep his lust under control. Where was the pleasure in making love to an unwilling wench?
As soon as the fire was lighted, he pulled off her boots and massaged her small feet. His strong hands soon warmed them up and the numbness vanished. Jasmine yawned. She quite liked having her feet played with. In fact, if she admitted it, she quite liked this man who was her husband. She had learned to have a great deal of respect for his strength and courage and his practical common sense. He was also far more attractive than any man had the right to be. If only he didn’t do that to her, she could almost be happy, she told herself.
Again he fashioned a lean-to for the horses and she watched him effortlessly cut huge fir branches with his knife. When he was done there was still light in the sky. “I think we would benefit from some hot food. I’ll see if there’s any game about. Stay close by the fire until I return. Call out if you are afraid, I won’t go far.”
“Afraid?” she scoffed as he disappeared into the trees. “What could there possibly be out here to fear!” She put her boots back on and walked toward the sound of a nearby stream she could hear. There beside the water she saw a young, furry cub. “Oh, how sweet, you’re just a baby,” she murmured. She picked the animal up in her arms trying to discern if it was a mountain lion, lynx, or snow leopard.
“Falcon, Falcon, come quickly,” she called.
He came quickly through the trees, dagger already to hand. He was alarmed at what he saw. “Jasmine, put it down and get the hell out of there.” His temper flared at the danger she had put herself into. “I told you to stay by the fire. I don’t give orders to have them disobeyed.”
The mother of the young wildcat crouched along a tree limb readying herself to spring. As Falcon came beneath the tree, the three-hundred-pound killer sprang, her forelegs splayed, and ten black claws shot out of her pads. She bared three-inch upper canines, white as bone, and stabbed them into his shoulder. He rolled with the animal, desperate to keep her fangs from his jugular. In the same split second the cat was on her back, Falcon plunged in his knife to the hilt and ripped upward. He had no choice but to kill the wildcat.
Jasmine stood white-lipped, staring in horror at the carnage. “Must you kill everything that moves?” she cried.
“Damn it, woman, you were the cause of this wildcat’s death.”
She knew his words were true. He plucked the kit from her arms and ordered, “Get back to the fire.”
“What are you going to do?” her voice rose on a note of panic.
“What I have to do. The kit was born too late in the season. It will starve without its mother. It is more humane to kill it.”
“No!” she cried. “Let me have it for a pet. Please, Falcon?” she implored.
He spoke to her as if she were being an unreasonable child. “It will grow the size of its mother. It will be a mankiller.”
“I’ll set it free the moment the hard winter is past. Falcon, let me have it.” She was so unreasonable in the things she asked him for. It increased his temper that he must refuse her when she pleaded with him. “I’ll call her Shanna,” she said softly.
His patience, stretched beyond its endurance, snapped. “We are escaping with our lives and you drag along a bloody menagerie. You have a sparrow over there who’s cage is wrapped in an oilskin and a hedgehog at the bottom of my saddlebags. I’m going to feed Feather to Prick, and then feed Prick to Shanna,” he vowed.
Jasmine knew she could have her way with him. She knew as surely as Eve had known in her dealings with Adam. She came close to him. He was so tall she had to tilt her head to look up at him. She put her small hands upon his chest and said softly, “You gave me no wedding present, Falcon … I would have Shanna for my bride’s gift.”
He could not resist her. He commanded hundreds of men with ease but found it almost impossible to handle one small female. She looked toward the dead wildcat and the tears streamed down her sweet face.
“Don’t weep. It’s over and done and no tears will change it. Take the kit back to the campfire.” When she had gone he stripped
to the waist and washed his wound in the icy river. His chain-mail vest had prevented the fangs from disabling him and he knew his blood would soon coagulate in the freezing mountain air.
Jasmine surreptitiously fed the kit her supper while Falcon wasn’t looking then took off one of her petticoats to bundle it, and put it in a basket on one of the packhorses.
The next day Falcon became concerned when he discovered Jasmine asleep in the saddle. He took her before him again but could not seem to warm her or keep her from falling into exhausted slumber. He stepped up the pace, knowing he must reach Mountain Ash this day. Her endurance was at an end, her face alarmingly pale as the snow, and he touched it repeatedly to see if she was fevered.
When at last the wearied pair rode into the courtyard at Mountain Ash, the whole castle came out to greet them. He was amazed to see every last one of his knights there before him, including some Welsh knights he hadn’t seen since he had last been at the castle. Two of them stepped forward now, eager to relieve him of his burden. Gower and Tam were brothers, strapping great louts, always ready for mischief.
“My lady is nearly done. I’ll need a woman to look to her needs until she is recovered,” Falcon explained.
The brothers looked at each other and said in unison, “Big Meg.”
Falcon handed Jasmine down to Gower, but only until he dismounted, then he took her back into his own arms. “Get her. I’ll take Jasmine to the tower room above mine.” There was no need for him to point out that would be the safest place in the castle of Mountain Ash, for an enemy would have to first defeat Falcon to get to her.
The men vied with each other for the honor of carrying Jasmine’s luggage to the tower room. She smiled sleepily at Tam and he lost his heart forever. Gower bent to set the fire to blazing while his eyes were alight with mischief. He winked suggestively to Falcon and said, “A week in bed should put her right.”
Tam gave his brother a hard punch in the ribs. “There’s no need to be lewd. Don’t you know a lady when you see one?”
The Falcon and the Flower Page 30