by Shari Anton
She squirmed against him. “Do I pleasure you, my lord?”
“You know damn well you do.”
“Then might I suggest ’tis your turn again.”
He didn’t need to be told twice. He flipped her over, entered her, filled her. With slow strokes he took her to the brink of a precipice, and with swift thrusts tossed her over the edge.
In the midst of her fall she felt him throb within her, the planting complete and deep. ’Twould be weeks before she knew if the seed took root. If not, well, they would simply have to try again . . . and again. Not an unpleasant prospect.
He nuzzled her neck. “Now are you not glad I chose the bed over hard ground? You have no twigs tangled in your hair or rocks poking your back.”
She smiled, running her hands over his broad shoulders. “Then I shall have to trust you will find us a patch of long, soft grass for our tryst.”
He lifted his head. “You truly want to tryst in the woods?”
“’Tis Beltane, so we should participate fully in the spring rites. What better than to honor a long-standing tradition?”
“Not for the lord and lady.”
“Especially for the lord and lady. Who better to beckon the blessings of the gods and goddesses of fertility?”
He tossed back his head and laughed. “Then so be it. If my lady wishes to cavort in the grass, I will not say her nay.”
Still smiling, still joined with her, he shook his head. “I swear, Gwendolyn, I never dreamed marriage would suit me so well. ’Tis far more than I expected, and I thank you for making it so.”
His kiss was soft and gentle, a peace-filled expression of contentment. Then he rolled over, relieving her of his weight, taking her with him to enjoy the aftermath of their exertions.
She, too, had found more in this marriage than she expected, the joys of the marriage bed merely one of them.
Never would she have expected to fall in love with Alberic. She loved the man who hadn’t been carefully selected for her, whom she truly should dislike for coming into her life through violence and misery. Whom she married because she’d seen no way out of it.
She’d given up examining her unexplainable feelings and berating her heart for succumbing so easily. Still, she’d been raised to expect the man she married would love her in return. If Alberic never came to see her as more than a suitable wife, could she live with the lack?
’Twas disheartening to know in that, too, she had no choice. The king had ordered Alberic to marry one of Hugh de Leon’s daughters, and Alberic had done his duty, choosing her because of her age and health. Affection played no part in his decision, just as emotion wasn’t a consideration in most noble marriage bargains. Many husbands never came to love their wives. One couldn’t bind a heart that didn’t want to be bound.
But if the heart already held caring and affection, as did Alberic’s, perhaps love could bloom. With a bit of a nudge, love might grow.
Snug against Alberic’s side, Gwendolyn wondered if she dared try to provide that nudge—with magic.
Chapter Sixteen
ALBERIC WASN’T SURE why he felt the need to seek out Gwendolyn. Maybe because she’d been so quiet this morning. Or perhaps because she’d taken a furtive glance around the hall before heading up the stairs, as if ensuring everyone was occupied so they wouldn’t miss her.
Come to think on it, she’d been rather preoccupied since their tryst in the woods on the night before last, which Alberic could hardly believe had happened. Imagine the lady of the castle dragging the lord out into the woods for Beltane debauchery. He’d felt lecherous and lusty, and had found that soft patch of long grass she’d expected him to provide.
He smiled, remembering how she’d lost a bit of her daring, unable to bring herself to disrobe. She’d lifted her skirts and he’d lowered his breeches, then they’d rutted like the beasts of the forest—secretly and silently with little finesse and all heady sensation. A fine, lusty way to celebrate the rites of spring.
Why she’d wanted to make love that way, he couldn’t say. Perhaps merely because, as she’d said, she’d never had the opportunity to sneak off into the woods with a male before and wanted to satisfy her curiosity. Fine with him. Whatever curiosities she wanted satisfying, he’d be most willing to satisfy.
But right now his own curiosity nudged him toward the stairs and up to where he’d thought she’d gone. The bedchamber.
She stood near the trunks, her gaze rising from her clenched hand at his entrance. Chagrined, she glanced back at her hand, and the hair on the back of his neck itched. He knew what she held before she opened her hand to reveal the trefoil pendant.
“I shall have to be more careful next time,” she said.
Tempted to rip the pendant from her hand, he closed the door and leaned against it. “Why do you have that out? I thought we agreed you should put it away and leave it be.”
“Had I better control over my thoughts, you would not have known I took it out.” She picked up the chain, allowing the pendant to dangle, the rainbows to fly around the room. “It appears I need no candles to unleash its powers.”
Not sure if he truly wanted to know what she meant, he asked, “What powers?”
“I called you to me.”
“Not that I heard.”
“All the same, I did so.”
“Nonsense!”
She arched an eyebrow. “Is it? My thoughts were of you, and so you came, as you did the other night. I thought I needed to light candles or say your name aloud. I was wrong.”
Her belief in magic was deeper than he’d thought. Not only did she believe the two of them could summon King Arthur back from the dead, she now believed she could call him to her side by merely wishing on the pendant.
The very thought of the possibility that magic could exist bothered him. The notion of someone controlling his actions with a mere wish was terrifying. No such magic existed, of course. Unfortunately, Gwendolyn was not only convinced magic existed but that she could use it. He worried for her sanity, and that someone would learn of this silliness and brand her a witch.
Something had to be done, quickly and firmly.
“You did not call me, Gwendolyn. I noticed how furtively you left the hall and became curious over what you were about, that is all.”
“But it has happened twice, now and the other night, just before the fire in the village. I called out your name and within moments you came upstairs!”
It took him a moment to realize what she was talking about. He’d been on the verge of a tumble with Gwendolyn when a guard interrupted them to announce ap Idwal’s menace. Before that, he’d been down in the hall with Roger and Thomas.
He remembered the feeling of something being amiss, of his instincts urging him to find Gwendolyn. But at no time had he heard her call out to him.
“Coincidence. We were done discussing the preparations for the siege and I wished to spend some time with you in the hours before dawn. I heard no call that night, either.”
He started toward her. She grasped the pendant tightly and, childishly, hid her fist behind her back, as if he couldn’t take it from her if he didn’t see it. She held out her other hand, palm outward, as if that would stop him.
“But I did call you!” she protested. “I wore the pendant for several hours the other day—”
That stopped him. “You what?”
“I wished to know what would happen if I wore it.”
“I saw it not.”
“I hid it beneath my chemise so you would not know.” She tossed her hand upward. “You forced me to question everything my parents told me about the legacy. So I conducted a test to discern if you could be right.”
His hand shook when he raised it to rub at his brow. “Dear God, Gwendolyn.”
“Alberic, if you believe this pendant holds no magic, then I should be able to wear it as freely as you wear the ring, which you still have not been able to remove, have you?”
Aye, she should be able to wear
the pendant and nay, he hadn’t removed the ring, having given up trying. Nothing, however, would convince him that he wouldn’t, someday, find a way to take it off.
“That you wear the pendant is not as disturbing as what you believe can happen when you wear it!”
She slipped the damn thing over her head. “Take my hand.”
He stared at her outstretched hand.
“If there is no magic, naught will happen,” she stated firmly, daring him to cooperate.
Nothing would happen because magic didn’t exist. He knew that. So why did he hesitate to accept her challenge?
“You wore the pendant the other day and nothing happened, correct? So why bother now?”
“Because now you know I wear it and we are alone. Perhaps that will make a difference.”
Chiding himself for cowardice, he took her hand. ’Twas warm, as always, and fitted perfectly in his, as always, and his loins stirred at her touch—as always. Normal feelings and reactions all.
She looked at him quizzically, waiting for him to tell her that he, what? Could feel some kind of power? He could, but not the kind of power she expected.
“I want you, Gwen. But that is not unusual, is it? Given that we are alone in our bedchamber, I should think the stirring in my loins quite normal.”
He wasn’t sorry to see disappointment. Then she slipped away, headed for the hearth and lit a taper. Though it was the middle of the morning, she lit a candle. Before she could light a second, he figured out what she intended to do. ’Twas time to stop this idiocy before she went too far.
He snatched the taper from her hand. “Enough, Gwendolyn. I will stand for no more!”
“You fear if I light the candles I will prove you wrong.”
“I fear for your mind! If you light the candles and nothing happens, then what? Do we drink some nasty potion? Must we anoint ourselves with special oils? Perhaps we must stand on one foot, facing south. And if all those do not produce the results you wish, then what else will you decide must be done? Well, I am having none of it!” He stretched out his hand in demand. “Take off the pendant and give it to me. I shall put it away this time so it remains put away!”
She backed up a step. “You fear what you do not understand.”
“Apparently you do not understand, either, or you would not be conducting these ridiculous tests!”
“At least I try to understand. You make no effort!”
“I have no reason to try! Gwendolyn, you cannot perform magic. You cannot summon me to your side simply by thinking of me. You will never be able to summon King Arthur from Avalon. The entire legacy is nonsense!”
She bit her bottom lip, hard, telling him how desperately she wanted to refute him. Wisely, she didn’t try, but merely stood there looking hurt and disillusioned. Better that than her continuing to believe a ridiculous falsehood. Whoever had perpetrated this nonsense on her parents, and so onto Gwendolyn, should be hanged from a stout oak and left as carrion for the ravens to pick clean.
He extended his hand again, palm upward. “Give me the pendant.”
The demand squared her shoulders. “’Tis mine, a gift from my mother. No matter whether you believe in the legacy or not, you may not have it.”
Her outright defiance took him aback. “You are my wife, Gwendolyn. What is yours is mine.”
She shook her head. “Not the pendant! I may give it to no other than the next guardian.”
He lowered his hand, stunned. Short of ripping it from around her neck, which he refused to lower himself to do, she wasn’t giving it over.
Next guardian? Passed from mother to daughter.
That he would never allow. To have Gwendolyn delusioned was bad enough without her passing on a false legacy to a daughter. They didn’t have one yet and might never have, but he still vowed to protect her as a father should, even from her mother.
Somehow he had to save them both. Somehow he had to decisively convince Gwendolyn that King Arthur was dead, buried, and would never again walk English soil!
On his own, he couldn’t. He’d tried and been rebuffed—defied! He needed help, and he knew where to find it. At Chester. Which meant facing his own demons, but he knew of no other way to put this legacy nonsense to rest. Damn.
“Several years ago, a man by the name of Geoffrey of Monmouth wrote a history of the kings of England. The Historia Regum Britanniae. Have you read it?”
“I have heard of it but not read it.”
Neither had he, only heard parts of it discussed. But from what he’d heard, he was sure the book contained the answer to his dilemma.
“’Tis my understanding that the tome also contains the prophecies of Merlin. I believe ’tis time you read them.”
“You have a copy of this book?”
“Nay, but I know who does. Prepare for a visit to Chester. We leave on the morn.”
The town of Chester looked no different from when he’d left it for Wallingford.
On the palfrey beside him, Gwendolyn stretched this way and that in an effort to take in the sights along the dirt-packed streets. From those streets, people stared up at who most knew as the earl’s by-blow, with his new wife and a small entourage in their wake.
Alberic wondered if he should have listened to Gwendolyn and brought a larger retinue. She’d argued that a baron should travel with no fewer than a company of twelve, six of those being knights. He’d balked, bringing only two knights, one of them Garrett. Roger, four liveried soldiers, the cart driver, and a maid for Gwendolyn made up the entire entourage. Until now, when no one raised an impressed eyebrow, did he admit he’d truly wanted to impress his father’s people, allow them to remark upon how well the unacknowledged son had done for himself.
Too late for a show of rise in rank, wealth, and power.
Too late to impress his father.
Only one bejeweled ring sat upon Alberic’s hand: the seal of the dragon. He wore no gold chains around his neck, no showy brooch fastened his mantle. Instead of spending a portion of his newly gained wealth on flashy baubles, he’d purchased lumber and labor to repair fire-ravaged huts. All well and good, but the earl would dismiss the altruism as unnecessary because Alberic gained naught of import from it.
Peace of mind didn’t have a place on the earl’s ledger. Wealth and power were all that counted in his books, and he’d done a damn good job of ever adding to both.
Alberic spotted a few familiar faces. A bar wench, whom he ignored completely. The blacksmith who’d repaired his chain mail a time or two rated an acknowledging bob of his head. Two of his father’s knights came out of an apothecary shop, and to their hails of greeting Alberic raised a hand.
He led the way through the gate in the thick stone wall that separated the castle grounds from the town that had grown up around it. Gwendolyn sat tall and erect in her saddle, her expression serene, though she must be impressed by the size of the earl’s residence. She gave nothing of her thoughts away, however, as a proper, well-bred wife of a baron shouldn’t.
But then, a proper, well-bred wife of a baron wouldn’t have defied her husband over possession of a pendant, forcing him to make this journey to Chester! Alberic tucked away his ire as he had since their argument. If this journey turned Gwendolyn right-headed, then he considered the time and money well spent.
Naturally, a guard at the city gate had hustled to the castle to inform the inner garrison of Alberic’s arrival. A bevy of stable lads and servants hovered near the steps to lend the company assistance, and with them, quite to Alberic’s surprise, stood Lady Mathilda.
An honor, that. While he would like to think the honor all for him, he knew it wasn’t. As the daughter of a Norman baron and Welsh princess, Gwendolyn was due consideration in her own right, and the wife of the earl well knew which personages in England were due consideration.
Young and pretty, fair and blond, and of royal blood, Mathilda had married Ranulf de Gernons several years ago in a political marriage arranged by her father, Robert, earl of
Gloucester. How she managed to remain on good terms with both her empress-loyal family and her now king-supporting husband, Alberic didn’t know.
But he knew her greeting smile for him was genuine, and didn’t doubt she would take proper care of Gwendolyn during those times when it proved necessary.
Alberic dismounted and aided Gwendolyn down from her palfrey, then led his wife to their beaming hostess.
“You bring me company, Alberic. How very sweet of you!”
Alberic took Mathilda’s outstretched hand and bowed over it. “Lady Mathilda, you honor us with your greeting. I should like you to meet my wife, Lady Gwendolyn.”
Gwendolyn dipped into a deep curtsy. “I am in your debt for your courtesy, Lady Mathilda.”
Mathilda accepted the obiescense as her due and waited for Gwendolyn to rise before grasping her hand, too. “I am delighted the both of you accepted the earl’s invitation. He knows you are here, Alberic, and awaits you in the solar. Your wife and I shall have a pleasant visit until the two of you join us for supper.”
Alberic wasn’t surprised the earl wished an immediate audience, and he had no excuse to linger, knowing Mathilda would see all in his company settled in short order.
“I beg a boon, my lady. Gwendolyn is most interested in Monmouth’s Historia. Might she be afforded the honor of reading your copy?”
“Of course, Alberic. We shall have our visit in the library.”
“Then I shall leave Gwendolyn in your most excellent care.”
He bowed off, gathering his resolve to endure what was sure to be an uncomfortable meeting with his father. He’d taken no more than five steps when he heard Gwendolyn call his name. He turned to see her rushing toward him. She stopped a mere foot away, so close he caught her lavender fragrance.
She bit her bottom lip, a sure sign she wished to say something she wasn’t sure she should say. Likely she wished to issue some order, which he preferred to think of as well-meant advice or suggestions. Just this morning she’d advised him to wear his scarlet-and-gold tunic for his visit with the earl. He’d done so, not bothering to tell her that he’d already made that decision.