by Anne Stuart
He was unprepared for her response. In seconds she was on her knees, and then she launched herself at him, throwing herself into his arms.
He was unprepared for it, and he went down beneath her, his arms coming around her immediately, cushioning their fall. She looked a sight—her face was streaked with tears and mud, her nose was running, her hair was tangled and full of snarls and brambles, her once pretty gown was ripped and torn and filthy. And to his smitten eyes she had never looked lovelier.
"Thomas," she cried, and there was an ache in her voice that he couldn't resist. "Thomas." And that was all she said, as she wrapped one arm tight around him and held him as if he were her only link with safety.
He should get up and disentangle himself. He should put a distance between them. She was a young, foolish, willful girl who didn't know her own mind, and he needed to be wise, to protect her from men like himself.
"Thomas," she said again, with a sigh of relief that sounded perilously close to love. He put his hand beneath her chin to tilt her tear-swollen face to his, to assure her he would keep her safe, but she looked so lost, so woebegone, that he couldn't resist her. Leaning down, he kissed her, when he knew he shouldn't, pulling her damp, bedraggled body closer to his, deepening the kiss as she opened her mouth for him, and he knew that he was lost. Hopelessly, irrevocably lost. And he wasn't going to let her go back.
* * *
Chapter Twenty-Two
It was a slow, laborious procession northward. King Henry the Third, the boy king of England, was in residence at one of his castles near York, and the trip from Somerset seemed to take forever.
Not that Simon of Navarre was in any particular hurry to arrive there. He had yet to figure out a way to extricate Alys from her captivity, and each day as they drew nearer he felt his options vanish.
Richard had seen to it that he'd had no chance to talk to her. She was kept closely guarded in that damned cage that at least resembled a carriage. She had cushions and throws and plenty to eat, her every comfort seen to. Richard had a certain wicked cunning—he knew that if he abused her too sorely he would lose Simon's unwilling cooperation. But if he released her he would no longer have anything to hold over Simon's head.
Simon kept his expression blank, his gaze forward as they plodded along the rutted roads heading toward the north of England. It was growing colder with each passing day as the winter approached, and his fur-lined mantle was little protection against the bitter wind. He was heading north, for the first time since he'd left, and with each tedious day of travel he felt disaster looming ever larger.
He was eighteen years old when he left the North of England, young and pious and newly knighted, filled with a crusader's zeal. He would right the wrongs of this world, he would. Free the Holy Lands and win his place in heaven. He would return, loaded with riches and honors, and win back his family's place in the world. He would regain the lost manor house and lands that King John had torn away from them and passed to another favorite. He would live in peace and harmony, with justice for those who served him.
God, he'd been young! Even then he knew there was no bringing back his mother, dead from cholera, or his father, dead from a drunken accident during a tourney that might just as well have been deliberate suicide. And he'd learned in the ensuing years just how ephemeral peace and harmony were, just what a joke the very notion of justice was.
The only way to survive was to see to your own interests. He'd learned that hard lesson, and all the good men he'd met over the years, the monks of St Anselme's, the physicians of Arabia, the gypsies of Lombardy, and the ascetic scholars of Switzerland, had failed to convince him there was any alternative. His plan had been simple: amass all the wealth and power he could in the shortest amount of time. And keep himself inviolate from the people that surrounded him.
Alys of Summersedge had destroyed that notion. He should hate her for it, and part of him did. He was no longer the center of his own life, and that made things damnably complicated.
Killing the child of King John should never have been a moral issue. King John had destroyed his family on a whim—it was simple justice that Simon return the favor. But he'd been reluctant from the very start, and he wasn't certain he could blame that on Alys. Even before she arrived at Summersedge Keep, he'd felt unsettled.
He refused to look back at the traveling carriage that held her prisoner. He hadn't met her eyes since she was brought forth from the dungeons—if he did he might lose the icy composure that was one of his major weapons. He had no idea what she thought of him, or if she understood what had happened to her. That she would despise him was a given. That she blamed him was also likely. How would she feel when he freed her? If he freed her?
He huddled deeper into his cloak. She had piles of fur throws in her litter; she had curtains drawn against the wind, and against curious eyes. She would be safe enough for the time being. And if she was sentenced to die he would strangle her himself before he let her endure the torture of being buried alive.
She was being taken to her death. Alys knew it with calm instinct. The endless days of bouncing over the horrible roads made execution seem almost a delightful alternative. Almost.
She had no intention of going quietly, however. She had refused to confess to witchcraft and the unholy murder of Lady Hedwiga, despite Richard's pleasant assertion that her confession was not needed and would only make things easier for her. There were enough witnesses, her husband included. And Alys didn't know who to believe, who to trust. Or whether, in the long run, she even cared.
Would they burn her? She hoped not. She had never seen anyone burned, but she suspected it would be the most unpleasant of deaths. Having her head lopped off would be a marked improvement She had seen the severed heads of criminals and found them extremely unsettling, but if it were her own head then she would no longer have eyes to see it.
Perhaps they'd toss her into the sea. She couldn't swim, of course, but she'd heard that drowning was not an unpleasant way to die.
Or would they choose the crudest, kindest death of all? Would they have Simon of Navarre administer the same poison that he'd used to kill Lady Hedwiga before laying the blame on her?
Would he be merciful? Would he make certain her death was swift and sure? She no longer cared.
She lay back amidst the fur throws, closing her eyes. Why had he done it? Why had he denounced her as a murderess? For that matter, why had he killed a querulous old woman who was essentially harmless?
The answer was simple. He had done it for gain. He had done it for his lord and master. Richard had bade him do it, and it was done.
Perhaps they would hang her. Would Claire come and hang on her body, to speed the process? Or was she safely away, with Thomas du Rhaymer to protect her? Alys tried to summon anxiety but found she couldn't. For once in her life her own situation took precedence. Claire could fend for herself.
They had stopped for the night. Alys pushed the curtains aside to watch the soldiers dismount, and Simon of Navarre moved into view. He was muffled in black, his long streaked hair flowing in the wind, and he looked cold and merciless. She could hear her brother, the new-made widower, laughing somewhere out of sight, and she half expected Simon to join him.
She willed Simon to look in her direction, fiercely determined that he should see what he had done. He was strong enough to resist the lure of her gaze, but he turned anyway, his expression as bleak as the harsh wind that swept down over them.
Richard came up behind him, slapping an arm around his shoulders. "We need some warm ale and warm women," he said. "Damn this blasted weather!"
Simon turned to look at him, and Alys waited, hopelessly, for him to denounce him. To demand her freedom, to threaten him, kill him, if he didn't release her.
"I'll settle for the warm ale," he said evenly.
Alys flung herself back against the cushions. Another night in her luxurious cage, huddled beneath the thick fur throws. In truth, she was probably more comfortable than
the creature who was her husband, but she felt trapped, crazed by the bars that surrounded her. She had never had a fondness for dark, enclosed places, and day after day of imprisonment was wearing at her soul.
They were going to see the King—she'd been told that much and little more by the men who guarded her, and by the pale, frightened Madlen who'd been brought along to attend to her needs. She would be brought before the child king and he would pass judgment on her crimes.
If Claire was safe she no longer cared what happened to her. She would endure, as long as she must, and if she died she would come back and haunt Simon of Navarre like Grendel's mother—a vengeful hag to drive him mad.
She despised him. She despised herself, for her weakness, for her futile attempts at discerning a reason for Simon's betrayal. There could be no reason, no justification.
And the worst part of all were her dreams. She would dream she lay in his arms, his face pressed against hers, his scarred hand cradling her. She would dream that he loved her, when he never had. And when she woke she would weep silently in her elegant cage.
Thomas might have lost his head and betrayed everything he held dear if Claire hadn't cried out in sudden pain. Her mouth was full and sweet beneath his, her damp, bedraggled body warm and irresistible, and she kissed him back with such desperate fervor, and he wanted her so urgently, that he might have forgotten everything and taken her there among the moss and fallen leaves, and she would have welcomed him.
Her reluctant cry of pain was followed by a strangled protest as he pulled away from her, but sanity had returned, whether he welcomed it or not. She sat amidst the lichen and the leaves, her gown tattered and mud-stained, looking up at him with such soulful longing that he almost reached for her again. And then he saw the swollen wrist she was trying to hide from him.
"Is it broken then?" he asked, his voice unnaturally harsh.
She didn't flinch. "I don't know. I fell on it when Arabia threw me."
"Your horse threw you?" he echoed in astonishment.
"She's afraid of lightning." Claire straightened her back, immediately defensive.
"I thought you were a better horsewoman." He said it deliberately, to push her away, when he was so afraid he'd reach for her again.
"I thought you were a better protector," she shot back. Her eyes filled with fresh tears.
"I failed you," he said evenly, taking her swollen hand in his with infinite gentleness. She bit her lip but didn't cry out as he slowly, carefully examined it. "I will never forgive myself for that."
"Don't be silly," she said, immediately contrite. "You had more pressing obligations."
"To a woman who had already relinquished all claim to my care, and who no longer needed it." He set her hand back in her lap. "I don't think the bone is broken."
"It hurts," she said, faintly fretful.
"It will heal in God's time."
"How do you know?"
"I have faith," he said simply.
She lifted her eyes to his face, and he wished he could force himself to turn away. He couldn't. She could see the hopeless love in his face if she chose to recognize it, and he could only hope she would ignore it.
A foolish hope. She leaned forward and pressed her soft mouth against his in a sweet, tempting kiss. "Will you marry me, Thomas du Rhaymer?"
He jerked back from her in shock. "What?"
"Will you marry me?" she repeated. "I have decided that I want no one but you, and I am very used to getting what I want in this life."
"Your brother would never allow it."
"We won't ask him. We won't go anywhere near him. We can sail for France and wander the countryside. You can live by your sword and I'll cook for you," she said, growing more enthusiastic.
He stared at her, bemused. "You can cook?"
"No," she confessed. "But I'm certain I can learn."
"There is no need, my lady," he said in a reproving voice. "I will keep you safe, I've sworn my life on it, and I won't fail you again. I have houses and lands of my own. My mother will make you welcome."
"And you will marry me?" she persisted.
He shook his head. "You need to marry a man with far more wealth than I possess, my lady. You need a man with a light heart and a merry soul."
"I'll lighten your heart, Thomas," she said.
Little did she know she was tearing his heart apart. He shook his head, doing his best to keep his expression distant and austere. "No," he said. "I will not marry you."
He wasn't sure whether he expected relief or displeasure from her. He got neither. She simply nodded. "Very well," she said calmly. "I shall simply have to be your leman." And she launched herself against him, ignoring her wounded wrist.
He fell back among the leaves as she covered his face with inexpert kisses, and he reached out to push her away, only to find that his hands were kneading her arms, and he was kissing her back with an unholy fervor, drinking the honey sweetness of her mouth.
He tried to extricate himself, but she clutched him tightly, despite her injury. To get away from her he would have to hurt her, and that was something he simply could not do. He tried not to respond to her kisses, but that was another thing beyond his suddenly limited capabilities. He could no more keep from kissing her than he could keep the sun from rising and setting. He loved her, and there was no way he could deny it, or her.
Her breasts were small, beautifully shaped, and she took his hand and placed it on her, and his fingers cupped her instinctively. He tried to sit up, but she simply climbed astride him, so that she was cradled in his lap, and he told himself he could stop fighting, at least for a moment.
She was breathless, laughing, when she lifted her head to look at him. "You'd best change your mind, good knight," she said. "If you won't wed me I'll seduce you, putting both our souls in mortal danger."
"My lady…" he protested helplessly.
The light vanished from her eyes. "Thomas," she said simply, "don't you want me?"
She looked as if she might cry once more, and he knew he couldn't bear it if he were the cause of her tears. "Claire," he said, "a man would be mad not to want you. I want you with every breath in my body, every drop of blood that moves through my veins. I want you so much I could die from it."
An impish grin lit her face. "Then have me."
And he knew he would. He would have her without her family's blessing; he would have her knowing she could do so much better for herself. He would have her, and he would never let her go.
He moved with surprising swiftness, surging off the forest floor, and she would have landed in an ignominious heap if he hadn't caught her good arm and dragged her up against him. "Not without a priest's blessing."
She blinked in disbelief. "You'll wed me? Because I forced you?"
He was perversely pleased to see his love could be as irrational as most women. Now that she'd gotten her way she seemed suspicious.
"No, my lady," he said with great patience, picking the leaves out of her tangled hair. "I'll wed you because I love you."
"Why? Because I'm comely?"
It was an obvious enough reply, but he had the sense to know that his bride wouldn't be pleased with it. He picked a twig out of her hair. "My love," he said with great patience, "your hair is a rat's nest. Your eyes are swollen from weeping, your nose is red, your clothing is tattered, and your face is streaked with mud. You are still beyond passing fair, but not enough to tempt my immortal soul." He wiped a patch of mud from her delicate cheekbone. "I love you because you have a fierce heart, a brave soul, a tender touch, and a woman's grace. I love you for a thousand reasons that I can't even begin to understand, when I didn't want to love you at all. I love your mind and your heart and soul, and yes, I love your pretty face as well. But I'll love you when you're an old crone as well."
"I'll never be an old crone," Claire said with great confidence, clearly pleased with his confession. "I expect I'll be a great beauty even when I'm fifty."
"I expect you will,"
he agreed solemnly. "And why would you be marrying me? For my strong right arm?"
"Of course not," she said briskly, picking twigs out of her gown. "I've had a long time to think about it. I love you because you can't resist me, no matter how much you disapprove of me. I love you because you're not afraid of my brother, you're not afraid of the wizard, and you're not afraid of my frowns. I have a thousand reasons as well for deciding that only you will suit me, but I think that most of all I'm marrying you for your pretty face."
He threw back his head and laughed, the sound ringing through the forest, and she looked at him in shock. "I've never heard you laugh before," she said ingenuously. "You should do it more often."
"You'll have to ride pillion with me. Paladin is strong enough for the extra weight, and I'm in no mind to see if that devil mare of yours decides to return."
"We're in a hurry?"
"We need a priest, my lady. You may have no care for your immortal soul, but I'm not so lax about such matters. I'll have you with the church's blessing and not before."
She looked at him, and there was a look in her eyes that in any other but an innocent he would have called pure desire. "Let's find a priest," she said, starting for his horse.
They dragged her from her sleep in the midst of the darkness, rough hands pulling at her, yanking her out of the cage. She could hear Madlen's useless protests as they hurried her away, and she wondered if they were going to kill her now, without further delay? If she weren't so weary she would probably care.
They took her to the magnificent tent that had been erected, one knight that she didn't recognize pushing her through the opening, his gloved hand painful on her upper arm. She tripped, sprawling on the thick carpet, and for a moment she kept her head down, keeping her hatred a secret.
"There's my little sister now!" Richard boomed in a cheerful voice.
She raised her head. Richard reclined against a vast pile of pillows. His beard was stained with grease, his face red from wine or heat, and he watched her from chill, evil eyes devoid of feeling. She didn't bother to look at the man beside him, knowing it was useless. Simon of Navarre would give nothing away. He would simply stare at her as if she were an insignificant insect.