Elizabeau was not asleep but she wanted Rhys to believe that she was. She was too depressed to sleep even though she was exhausted. As the night trickled on and she lay awake, she could hear every move that Rhys made. She heard him drink, and eat, and when he finally lay upon the bed, she had not been able to contain herself and she rolled into him. He had responded as she had hoped, with his arm around her and gentle touches. She had been content with that. But when he had rolled over and pulled her against his firm, warm body, it had been more than expected. His right leg wrapped around her legs, pulling her closer still.
She could feel his lips against her forehead, kissing her in the darkness because he thought she was asleep. They were gentle kisses, now and again, as if reminding himself that he could kiss her now that she was asleep. There would be no response from her and therefore no further temptation. But she was awake and after several such kisses, she suddenly snaked her arms up between them, put her hands on his face, and lifted her lips to meet his warm, gentle ones.
Rhys knew he was lost the moment she latched on to him with her soft mouth. He didn’t even try to pull away; he lost himself in her honeyed lips, his enormous hands entangled in her hair, her body, savoring every sound, every taste, every movement she made. He couldn’t even think, knowing he was a slave to her desires. He could not have resisted her in any case. Emotion finally overwhelmed him and he was lost.
He was more forceful in his kisses than ever before; perhaps it was the wine or perhaps it was simply because he could resist no longer. In any case, he rolled her onto her back and quickly removed the cloak. She was wearing the soft blue Perse fabric surcoat he had purchased for her at the Blond Gazelle and that, too, came off under his eager hands. Somehow his lips never left her mouth and before she realized it, Rhys had stripped her. Hot kisses rained down on her mouth, face and neck as he removed his own clothing and suddenly, they were both naked.
Rhys’ enormous body came down on her soft, slender one, enveloping her in power and heat. His mouth left her lips, devouring her neck as he moved down her body. He tasted every inch of flesh on her shoulders and arms, moving to her chest and depositing lustful kisses on her swell of her bosom. A big hand kneaded her breasts as his lips finally found her nipples, moving from one to the other hungrily. Beneath him, Elizabeau squirmed and gasped.
His weight on her was significant and she instinctively parted her thighs. His lower body slipped through, finding rest upon the mattress as his upper body smothered her torso. He was such a big man that he nearly swallowed her up with flesh and heat, though his touch and kisses were infinitely gentle and passionate. She was delectable and nubile in every way and as one hand slipped beneath her to grasp her tender buttocks, the other slipped down her flat belly as his mouth began to move along her abdomen.
Elizabeau was in a haze of delight. It was her first experience with a man at this level and she was only thinking of how deeply she loved him rather than of the consequences they had so recently discussed. She knew, beneath the haze, how horrifically dangerous this was but she was selfish in that she didn’t care. All she could feel was the love and need for him. When he moved lower, grasped her buttocks with both hands, and brought her private core to his mouth, she was propelled onto an entirely different plane of existence.
The protests of embarrassment and surprise died in her throat as his mouth began to work her virginal center. He worked her mercilessly with his tongue, ignoring the fact that she was a maiden and determined to sate his passion with her essence. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew that he could not, should not take her in the literal sense and he was hoping that this would satisfy him enough. He hoped it would slake his thirst for the woman enough to allow him to gain some semblance of control.
As his tongue licked her into a frenzy, his hope that this would quench him were for naught. He could feel his lust building. Even when he manipulated her taut little bud of pleasure and felt her body convulse, it did nothing to sate him. Everything was growing worse. But he still knew, through the most powerful lust he had ever experienced, that he could not take her. He could not take her!
As Elizabeau lay gasping beneath him, he suddenly lifted himself up and straddled her torso. One big leg was on either side of her body. Placing his rock-hard manhood in the valley between her full breasts, he took both of her hands and together, they pushed her breasts together and created a soft, warm passage for his great organ. It was a delightful tunnel of friction as he thrust powerfully between her breasts and he closed his eyes to the sheer bliss of it. There was such tender heat surrounding him, a totally different sensation than being buried within her body. But it was equally exciting. Through his haze, he could feel Elizabeau’s timid, curious fingers touching the ruby-red tip of his phallus and it was enough to throw him over the edge. With a groan of passion, of complete emotional release, he spent his pleasure on the creamy skin of her beautiful breasts.
He paused there for the longest time, feeling her flesh wrapped around him, feeling more fulfillment and dread than he ever imagined possible. When he finally opened his eyes, he looked down to see Elizabeau gazing up at him.
They just stared at each other. Now that they had passed through the violent wake of their storm of passion, Rhys wasn’t sure what to say to her. All he knew was that he wasn’t sorry in the least although he should have been. He should have been begging for her forgiveness. But he wasn’t.
Silently, he climbed off his straddled position over her and went to the table where a rag lay bunched up on the food tray. Picking it up, he went back over and sat beside Elizabeau on the bed, gently wiping his seed off her chest. He never said a word and he never looked her in the eye. But he wiped her as gently as a father tending a child. Elizabeau watched him as he cleaned her up, threw the rag in the corner, and finally lay back down beside her.
Without uttering a sound, he collected her warm, naked body up against him in a fiercely protective position, tucked her head beneath his chin, and closed his eyes. He was snoring softly before Elizabeau even fell asleep.
*
“Answer the question and I may spare your life.” David had the man by the throat. “Deny me my answer and your death will continue to be as painful as possible.”
Screams and moans sounded throughout the east gatehouse of Ogmore’s massive structure. The gatehouse was large enough, and populated by enough soldiers, to be used as a prison. Christopher de Lohr and his men had been at Ogmore for three days; yesterday, they had caught a known supporter of the king in the nearby town and had promptly taken him to the castle for questioning. Wherever there was one supporter, there were usually more and with the princess due to arrive at the castle any day, Christopher was understandably cautious.
While the earl stood back and watched, his younger brother had proceeded with the interrogation. It had been going on since the day before. Since David was an older knight with a good deal of experience, he also knew methods of torture that were designed to cause more pain than actual death. A dead spy was of no use to anyone. But a spy persuaded with just the right amount of encouragement could be invaluable.
The particular method being used against the prisoner was called “filet”. It was, literally, fileting the extremities. Both the earl and his brother had spent years in the Holy Land and had come by methods of torture used against the Christians by the Muslims. This one was more painful than it was actually deadly, although death would eventually result if it went on. At the moment, the man had the skin of both feet sawed away from the bone. His toes were in tatters but for all he screamed, nothing valuable had come forth.
Christopher and two of his knights, Edward de Wolfe and another by the name of Max Cornwallis, stood in the shadows watching the exchange. They tended to be the more cunning and interpretive of an enemy’s actions whereas David and Lawrence were higher-strung and more intent on gaining the actual information. Lawrence was a ferocious warrior who was sometimes more animal than man, especially in the hea
t of battle, which was why he had no problem fileting the prisoner’s feet as David asked the questions. Lawrence was often called upon to do the dirty work because he was the one most capable of doing it.
But the prisoner was surprisingly resilient. He had so far resisted everything put to him and screamed in frustration and agony in response to David’s question.
“I will say again that I know nothing of what you ask,” he howled. “I was traveling home from France and have not seen nor been in contact with the king for months!”
They had heard this repeatedly. David lifted an eyebrow. “So you mean to tell me that you, the Lord of Esgarraida, who has in the past supplied John with money and men, know nothing of the latest turn of events? You know nothing of Arthur’s death?”
The bloodied man looked up at him, his face pale with blood loss and pain. “I told you I knew of Arthur’s death. Everyone knows of Arthur’s death.”
“I know you did. But what we are trying to understand is why you are here, right now. Why did the king send you?”
Lawrence began to filet the man’s heel and he screamed. Halfway through, he began to twitch and jerk. “The king did not send me!” he howled. “I am returning from France!”
More screaming and blood followed. Christopher, having been watching this display for well over twelve hours, finally broke from his stance in the darkness and made his way over to the prisoner. When Lawrence caught sight of him, he stopped what he was doing and stepped back respectfully. But Christopher’s focus was on the lord, panting with pain and weakness. For fourteen hours, the man had stuck to his story without wavering; either he was very strong or he was telling the truth. Christopher was beginning to think it was the latter and decided it was time to intervene.
“What do you know of Arthur’s death?” he asked.
The Lord of Esgarraida looked at the baron with unnaturally bright eyes. “Nothing more than what I’ve said. It was rumored everywhere. It was all people could speak of on the boat over.”
“You did not, perchance, have a hand in it?”
The man shook his head. “I am not so high powered,” he breathed. “Rumor has it Eleanor orchestrated it to protect John. That is what everyone seems to believe.”
Christopher didn’t look at his brother, but he could feel David’s gaze on him. “Eleanor?” he repeated, thinking that it made a good deal of sense considering the old woman had undoubtedly captured the lad. One more death by her command would not be unheard of. “But no one knows for sure?”
“Not that I know,” the man hung his head, exhausted and in agony. “That is all I can tell you. If you are going to kill me, then be done with it. I am of no more use to you.”
Christopher gazed at him a moment longer before shooting his brother a knowing look. David followed him several feet away to a private conference.
“What is it?” David whispered.
Christopher crossed his arms in a thoughtful gesture. “Esgarraida is not one of John’s more powerful barons. He holds a small fiefdom in Central Wales and is not usually in the heat of things. I am coming to think he is telling the truth.”
David nodded, not feeling the least bit remorseful for tearing the man’s flesh apart. “If that is your thought.”
“It is. But I believe this episode provided something of value.”
“How is that?”
“He has implicated Eleanor in not only the abduction of Arthur, but his death.”
“We already have information that she was behind his kidnapping.”
“Aye, but not his murder. Everyone knows how underhanded she is, especially against her husband’s bastards. She will do anything to protect her sole surviving son and his throne.”
David wasn’t following him. “What are you saying?”
Christopher stared at Esgarraida, his mind working, before replying. “I am thinking that perhaps we have overlooked the obvious. Certainly John wants Lady Elizabeau dead; that is no secret. But what of Eleanor? What if she not only abducted Arthur but killed him as well? She would think nothing of murdering another relation, and particularly an illegitimate one, who is a threat to her son.”
David caught on with a look of disgust. “You are right. We have been foolish not to worry about her, also.”
Christopher nodded with reluctant resignation. “I fear we’ve been blind not to realize that she was more a threat than John. And we must get word to Rhys. He would not know otherwise if Eleanor sent assassins poised as envoys. We have him focused on avoiding the king, not the king’s mother.”
David sighed heavily. “Jesus,” he hissed. “Then someone needs to ride back for Whitebrook and warn him.”
“If he’s even still there. He should be on his way here.”
Christopher shrugged his big shoulders decisively. “Send someone to find him, and do it quickly. There is no time to waste if Eleanor is sincerely after the lady.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Carys stood in the yard behind the manse, feeding the great flock of fowl that had seemed to intimidate Elizabeau so much. But Carys had been raised around the animals and was very comfortable with them. As she fed them, Dylan and Maddoc would run through the flock and scatter the birds, laughing with delight as they did so. Carys would frown at them and resume her feeding only to have the boys do it again. But the birds were resilient and would return to gobble down feed every time.
“Mama!” she turned to call towards the house. “Tell Dylan to behave. He’s frightening the birds!”
“Dylan?” Orlaith dutifully yelled from the house. “If those birds stop laying eggs because you’ve frightened them too badly, your father will have something to say about it.”
Dylan made a face at his mother, who couldn’t see it, and to his sister who could. Carys stuck her tongue out at him and resumed feeding. With the birds to no longer harass, Dylan took Maddoc and went in search of bigger game to harry, more than likely Renard. Dylan’s father was in the shed to the north of the manse cleaning some of Rod’s armor and the younger boys headed straight for him. He was their next target.
Carys was only glad that they left her alone. Renard was bigger and could swat them if they became too annoying, where she could not. Moreover, she wanted to finish her chores so that she could beg her father to take her into town. She had heard there was a new vendor from Ireland with the most marvelous materials and she wanted to go and see them before all of the women in the area bought them up. She was nearing the end of her grain when a shadow suddenly fell across her path. Looking up, she saw that it was Conrad.
Immediately, her cheeks flushed scarlet. Conrad smiled timidly; he had been watching her over the past two days, a pretty slip of a girl with glorious hair. He was infatuated with her hair. He was not very good at speaking her language but he had been practicing. He hoped it was enough.
“Good morning, my lady,” he said in his very heavy accent. “It is a fine day.”
She was blushing so hard that she was beginning to sweat. “Aye, it is,” she nodded, keeping her focus on the birds.
Conrad could see she was either embarrassed or wanted nothing to do with him. But he would not give up so easily. “This country… it is not like mine.”
Carys looked up at him, then. “Oh? What is so different?”
He shrugged, looking around the landscape. “Where I come from, there are great mountains. I see only hills here.”
Carys pointed to the north. “There are great mountains that way. And snow, too. Do you have snow?”
He nodded. “We do. Do you like snow?”
She nodded, gradually becoming more at ease. “I love it. We play in it in the winter. My father lashes boards together and we use it to slide down the hills.”
Conrad grinned. “Me, too,” he said and the conversation died. He kicked at the ground nervously, thinking of something more to say. “Your brother… the big man? Have you heard any word from him?”
Carys shook her head. “Nay,” she said. “Rod has not sent
word if he has found Rhys and the lady. And if you think Rod is big, wait until you see Rhys. He’s enormous!”
“I see,” Conrad looked out over the lush Welsh landscape but his gaze kept coming back to Carys. “Do you think it will be long before Rod sends word?”
By now, the entire family knew about the ruse. It had been impossible not to tell them once Conrad and his men arrived, although it had been something of a shock to Orlaith. Being a woman, she had been very intuitive about how Rhys was behaving around his wife. She had been thrilled for her son after his horrific first marriage. But knowing the lady, with whom he seemed to share such a bond with, was not truly his wife, had thoroughly depressed her. And then there was Carys; she had been immediately attracted to Conrad until she had learned his true purpose. Now she was dejected and discouraged knowing he was meant for the woman her brother had called his wife. Therefore, Conrad’s attention had her nervous because she did not know how to react.
“I do not know,” she replied after a moment. “We do not know where Rhys has gone. He thought you were assassins so he must be in hiding.”
Conrad nodded in agreement, kicking at the dirt again as the conversation lagged. “The lady… you have met her?”
Carys dumped the last of the grain. “I have. I like her.”
“She is beautiful?”
“Very beautiful. And she is very sweet.”
Conrad tilted his head as he gazed into her pale, porcelain-like face. “You are very beautiful also.”
Carys’ cheeks flamed a deep red and she averted her gaze. Conrad laughed softly. “You do not like to hear that, do you?”
Fathers and Sons: A Collection of Medieval Romances Page 18