Royce frowned in consideration of this. “My wife might enjoy it,” he allowed.
“Indeed, she might.” Bartholomew smiled down at Anna. “And now, my lady wife, your duties are done by God but not by husband.” He winked lewdly at her. “To bed! Good night to you, Sir Royce.” He swept Anna into the chamber, only to be greeted by Cenric. He leaned back against the door for a moment and dared to meet Anna’s gaze.
She smiled at him, a twinkle in her eyes. “I have never known you to be so fulsome, my lord,” she whispered, then reached up to touch her lips to his cheek. The press of their softness against his skin sent a surge of heat through him and made his heart pound.
“Well done,” she whispered, her eyes glowing. “Thank you.”
Before Bartholomew could savor her rare approval, Anna pivoted and walked toward Leila. “Dare I hope the water is yet warm? It was always cold when I lived with the sisters, but truly, husband, I grow spoiled in your company.” She sat on a stool and unfastened her stockings, as if he were not watching her with such interest.
But then Anna lifted the hem of her kirtle and granted him a fine if fleeting glimpse of her legs. It must have been unwitting, for her gaze flew to his in sudden dismay. Their gazes met and held, and a bewitching flush rose over her cheeks. She untied the garter and removed the stocking with haste, then smoothed down her kirtle to hide her legs again. She turned her back upon him so abruptly that he wondered whether her fears of men—of knights—were restored.
The bed was curtained. They could draw the drapes and make a great deal of noise, as if vigorously making love. It was the sole way to keep from offending Lady Marie, Bartholomew reasoned, for then he could argue that his wife had exhausted him.
The trick would lie in convincing Anna to cooperate. It would have been untrue to say that he had no desire to lie with her, because he did, but he knew what was right and what was not. He could not touch Anna in that way. He had given his word.
But that did not mean that Marie had to know the truth.
Were they being watched even now?
Had Royce gone to his wife or retired alone?
There was a rap at the door, and he found Timothy on the threshold. The squire bowed and entered the chamber, for he had come to help Bartholomew disrobe. All set to the business of making ready for bed, although Bartholomew’s thoughts were spinning.
There would be little slumber this night and a hard race on the morrow to escape.
And what then? If they succeeded, would he ever see Anna again? Or would their paths part forever? If naught else, he wanted to leave her with one good memory of a knight.
And he had this night together to grant it to her.
* * *
Father Ignatius had learned long ago to keep his counsel when he was uncertain of his situation. Prudence was a necessary trait for any who would survive in this holding when it was under Sir Royce’s command.
Indeed, Father Ignatius’ nature was such that he could weigh the merit of two competing possibilities for months on end, if not years. He preferred to make as few decisions as possible, and ignored the conviction that doing naught was a choice in itself.
Truly, the only thing Father Ignatius had ever known without doubt was that he should take holy orders.
He had, for example, been troubled for years by the departure of so many from the village of Haynesdale. That they were compelled to take to the forest and live like outlaws, when few of them had committed any crimes worthy of such a punishment, would have been of sufficient concern. That he, by remaining in the village, was losing the flock he had been charged to tend was even more troubling. There were days when he thought he should follow the survivors into the woods, seek them out, and ensure that they were provided with the services of his office. He knew there had to be some of them out there, even after the great fire.
Father Ignatius knew however that if he did as much, he would be in violation of the baron’s express orders to forget their existence. There would be no return to his home and hearth, even if he went once. This might have been one thing, but he in his role as village priest was responsible for the tithes being submitted on time from Haynesdale. He feared that Sir Royce would simply add the tithes to his own treasury, for that man had offered several times to do as much.
Caught between the tending of his flock and the defense of tithes owing to the church, Father Ignatius was not certain what to do. He believed that the ultimate administrator would value souls over tithes, but he was far less certain of the bishop’s preference. So, he lingered, and he debated, and he did not choose.
And now, here was Anna, the smith’s daughter, in Sir Royce’s private chapel, dressed as a noblewoman and apparently wed to a French knight. He would have given the young woman the benefit of the doubt, for she was pretty and he had not had tidings of her for two years—indeed, he had feared her dead, as had many others—but Sir Royce’s comments revealed that he believed her to be Anna de Beaumonte.
She was no more Anna de Beaumonte than he was the Archbishop of Canterbury.
Father Ignatius said nothing, because he did not know what to do. He had wondered whether the arrival of these knights had any connection to the sudden appearance of this remarkable relic in Sir Royce’s collection. Both the knights and the reliquary seemed exotic, too exotic for Haynesdale. He had shown it to the lady because he had thought she might know something of it.
She had seemed to be hinting.
But he had been so surprised to recognize Anna that he had failed to notice much else. In mere moments, he had been left alone with the reliquary to lock it away, while the knight and Sir Royce left with Anna.
How had Anna conspired to arrive as the knight’s wife?
And why?
“While you are here, you might as well give last rites to the prisoner in the dungeon,” the Captain of the Guard said to him when he would have returned to his modest home.
“I did not know there was a prisoner in the dungeon,” Father Ignatius said with a mildness he did not feel.
“Well, there is, and he dies tomorrow,” Gaultier snapped.
Father Ignatius fought against the horror that rose within him, even as he inclined his head.
That another prisoner should be executed was deeply wrong, for there had been no court, but it was also a warning of the price of dissent.
Father Ignatius believed he could make more difference in Haynesville alive. “Then I shall be glad to visit him,” he said, bowed and made for the dungeon.
So it was the Father Ignatius finally found himself making a decision. For him, it was remarkably impulsive. But when he unlocked the dungeon and found young Percy alone in tears in the darkness of that dank cell, his resolution was made.
This was the fearsome villain who was condemned to die?
Percy was but a boy, and a frightened boy at that. Father Ignatius then understood Anna’s appearance in the keep, if not her disguise. He knew her to be fiercely protective of her younger brother. Was the knight she accompanied in league with her? Why would he aid her?
“Father Ignatius!” Percy cried in amazement, his face streaked with tears. “Can you help me?” He must have been terrified to be confined here in darkness, with only rats for company.
Rare anger rose inside the priest, an outrage that was only awakened when the strong abused those weaker than themselves.
The priest crouched down beside the boy, who seized his robe. Father Ignatius dropped his voice to a whisper. “Of course, I can help, Percy,” he said with newfound resolve. “But first, tell me how you came to be in this place.”
* * *
Exhaust him with her passion.
Anna could not push Bartholomew’s suggestion from her thoughts. He had pledged to keep their bed chaste this night. Had he changed his intent? That kiss might have been a hint of what was to come. Leila had said he was honorable. Was it true? He had caressed her in the hall. Had that been a feint or a hint of what she could expect this night? I
t was her nature to simply ask for the answers she desired, but her awareness that they might be watched—and overheard—precluded that.
Anna wished she knew him better.
She wished she had some experience of expecting good from knights, instead of the pursuit of their own interests.
Her hands were shaking when she folded away the fine stockings, and she knew she took too much time with disrobing and washing. She thought it likely a lady might linger over the task and did not wish to reveal her truth. She also wanted to delay the inevitable as long as possible.
She did not dare to look at Bartholomew as his squire aided him in removing his mail and garb, though there was little reason for shyness. She had seen him nude in the river that very morning, but the chamber was more intimate. She felt herself in greater peril where there were fewer witnesses, and fewer to respond to a cry.
Not that she had gained much aid when she had cried out on that fateful night. Anna shuddered in recollection and realized Leila was watching her closely. The other woman pressed her hand briefly, as if to encourage her. Anna took a deep breath and smiled for her. She wished she was not so easily read, but it was her burden.
Bartholomew meanwhile had been divested of his hauberk. She was keenly aware that he was shedding his boots and chausses. It was hard to believe she had met him less than a day before, but Anna reminded herself of it repeatedly.
She knew so little of his nature.
He was kindly to the boy and thanked him, then drew the curtains on the bed on the side of the common wall. Did he mean for them to have privacy? Or that none could see his deeds? Anna wished she knew! He placed a lantern on the far side of the bed. The dog returned to sleep by the brazier, which now burned low, and Leila dragged a pallet alongside it. Anna’s hair had been combed out and she wore only her chemise. The chamber was cold but she stood there, hesitating to join Bartholomew in that great bed. Though she yearned to seize her cloak and curl up on a pallet alongside Leila, she knew that any observer would find the choice curious.
She lifted her own crossbow from the neat array of Bartholomew’s belongings and rounded the bed on silent feet. Both Leila and Cenric watched her.
Was Bartholomew nude in the bed? Was he asleep already? Her mouth went dry.
“Husband,” she said softly. “Do you not always sleep with your weapons nearby?”
“I have both sword and knife, my lady,” he said. When Anna took another step, she could discern him in the shadows of the bed. He was sitting, his back braced against the wall behind the head of it, his eyes glowing as he watched her. The sword was on the floor, in its scabbard. The knife, she could not discern. “But if you would prefer I have the crossbow as well, then I will keep it to hand. Did you bring the bolts?”
She had and offered them to him, keeping one herself. He was watching her and she could not guess why he smiled when he saw what she did. The weight of the bolt was reassuring in her hand, cold and solid. She could stab with it, if necessary.
Bartholomew had to know as much, but he appeared to be untroubled. His chemise was open and he had shed his boots. His chemise covered him to his thighs, which she found encouraging, and she could see the tanned flesh of his chest. His sleeves were rolled up, and he smiled at her, as if knowing her trepidation. The light from the lantern painted him in shades of gold. She had never seen a more alluring man, noble or common.
“You must be cold, wife,” he said. “Come and let me warm you.”
A part of Anna longed to do just that.
The greater part of her was more sensible. She would not begin what she could not halt. She would not give encouragement to any urges. She eased into the bed, ensuring that she was at the foot of it. She placed the crossbow on the mattress between them. It was not loaded, but still she thought its presence would make her feelings clear.
Indeed, Bartholomew smiled. He lifted the bedclothes and patted the mattress beside himself. “Come and be warm,” he invited again. When he leaned forward, Anna saw his shadow on the closed curtains on the far side of the bed.
Would the silhouette be visible to anyone watching from the other room?
He beckoned to her, the motion of his finger clearly displayed on the drapery. Anna crawled toward the empty spot beside him and saw how it appeared that she moved into his embrace. He rolled over, as if pinning her beneath him, though in truth they were alongside each other and not touching at all. “Oh, my lady,” he murmured, then kissed the pillow and moaned in pleasure. He embraced the pillow in apparent rapture.
Anna had to bite back a giggle. He did mean to trick Lady Marie!
And he did not touch her, just as he had pledged. Relief flooded through her.
He winked at her and moaned again. “My lady, how I have longed for you this day!”
“My lord!” she replied in kind, his game restoring her confidence. “Cease your chatter and kiss me!”
Bartholomew dropped his face to the pillow to smother his chuckles. Again, he embraced it with ardor. Anna clapped a hand over her mouth and had to avert her gaze from his dancing eyes when he braced himself on his hands. The shadow made it appear that he was looking down at her.
“Have you lost your passion for me, my lady?” he asked as if perplexed. “Methinks you are uncommonly shy this night. Do you yearn for another?”
“Nay, my lord. Never!”
“Then what is amiss, wife of mine?” he growled. “Tell me what I can do to feed your pleasure.”
Anna shivered at the intent in his tone. “I prefer such deeds be done in darkness, sir,” she dared to say.
“The sisters cannot see you now.”
“But I, sir, fear to look upon nudity.”
“Your every wish is my command,” Bartholomew replied, then leaned out of the bed. He licked his fingers and pinched the wick on the lantern. The flame hissed as it was extinguished, then they were plunged into darkness.
Anna had a moment to fear that she had erred, then Bartholomew groaned anew. She could not feel him or even his heat, and knew there was distance between them.
“Oh!” he cried. “Oh!” He began to move so that the mattress rocked, and Anna blushed in the darkness at the familiarity of the rhythm he set.
She had heard that sound many a time, to be sure.
But it was an illusion, and she should do her part to help.
“Oh!” Anna gasped, ensuring her cries were in time. She had heard her mother cry out thus and tried to mimic the memory. “Oh, oh, oh!” The ploy felt ridiculous to her and she feared she did it badly.
But Bartholomew seemed to understand. He seized her hand, the warmth of his fingers closing over hers. “Slower then faster again,” he whispered, his voice close to her ear. “’Twould not be mortal to endure long at this rate.” Then he raised his voice to a roar. “My lady, you will ensure my demise this night! Oh, oh, OH!”
Anna giggled. She could not help it. The notion that she might kill him with passion was as preposterous as his performance.
Then she had to account for the sound she had made. “Sir! That is a treacherous tickle!”
Bartholomew laughed. “Atop me, my lady,” he commanded. “I will show you a treacherous tickle.”
He began to rock again, his motions making the bed thump against the floor. He grunted and groaned with his apparent pleasure, then gave her fingers a quick squeeze.
She had to say something or make a similar sound.
“Sir, you are as vigorous as a boar!” she cried, and she felt Bartholomew shake with laughter. His rhythm faltered and she feared she had ruined all.
“My lady, you are insatiable,” he retorted. “I fear I will not survive the month in your bed.”
“That is why we will not spend the whole of the month abed, sir.”
“Who would have imagined an innocent to be so lusty?”
“Who would have imagined a bold knight would so complain?”
“I do not complain, lady mine. I simply savor the marvel that you are.”<
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Anna was surprised by his words, for his tone had dropped low. She wished she might have believed them, and even so a warmth suffused her heart. He held fast to her hand and kept his pledge, which gave her great pleasure. She was close enough to smell his skin and to feel his warmth.
Rather than considering the intimacy of their situation, she thought about their plans. What would happen in the morning? How would they save Percy? How would they escape? She wanted to ask him but Bartholomew’s finger suddenly landed over her lips.
“Moan,” he advised quietly.
“I do not know how,” she confessed quietly.
“Everyone knows how,” he countered and moaned with gusto to prove his point.
Anna listened, then tried to do the same. She was certain she sounded more like a lowing cow than a woman in raptures.
Or a sheep with bloat.
That Bartholomew was trying to disguise his chuckle did little to help. She could feel him shaking and swatted him. “Oh my lady, you are demanding!” he cried, and she swatted him again.
“I feel foolish,” she whispered. “I like it better when we bicker.”
“We cannot bicker all the while we pretend to make love.”
“I am certain there are those who do.”
“Should I silence you with kisses?”
He was teasing her and Anna knew it. Her face burned. “I think not!”
“Shall I compel you to moan, then?”
Anna caught her breath. “You would not.”
“Not unless you asked me to.”
She could imagine how he would look in this moment, his hair tousled and his eyes sparkling with mischief. His confidence was clear, and she wanted to challenge him in return. “You cannot do it,” she insisted. “And you will not do it.”
“I will. I pledge it to you.” His lips brushed across her knuckles. “You have only to ask, and your wish will be my command.”
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