“Mmm, it tastes quite smoky. Is this the dandelion honey?”
“Yes,” Hugh said, though in truth he neither knew nor cared. She still had her eyes closed and he could stare at her without restraint. Her tongue was small and pink and she lapped like a little cat. He wanted her tongue to lap him, to taste and suck and kiss, and his tongue do the same to her in return.
“Bees feed each other honey,” he said, and now he lied, quite shamelessly. “They smear it on their bodies and let their hive fellows taste. Look you now: like this.”
He unlaced his tunic drawstrings, tugged off his tunic and undershirt. Her eyes were open again and as wide as milk pails as he took a generous dab of the bronze, fragrant honey and drew the sign of the cross on his breastbone.
For an instant he lay still, feeling the wicker pricking through the blanket and cloak, listening to a cheeping of sparrows and a low buzz of bees. What do you expect her to do, fool! his conscience goaded, but then she lowered her head and her body and kissed him lightly, over his heart. A spasm of delight jerked through him, threatening to undo him altogether.
She smiled, the little evil elf, and licked his chest, first one nipple and then, passing a finger over the drizzle of honey in the middle of his torso, brushing the honey drop onto his left nipple and gently sucking.
“You taste of sweetness and salt.” Gently she nipped his swirl of chest hair between her teeth. “You are hairier than a bear, Hugo.”
“More randy, too,” Hugh growled under his breath, praying then she did not hear. She could drown him in honey if she kept on kissing.
Lower her tongue worked, tasting and licking. When she reached his navel, Hugh raised his hips slightly, wishing he was naked and at the same time longing for Joanna to strip off and for him to do the same to her.
Back she came, her hands now joining in the caresses; up and across his belly, over his ribs, up to his shoulders. With his eyes still closed he sensed her hovering above him, sensed her shy and tender anxiety. He smoothed his own hands down her narrow face and along the slender column of her throat, cupping her small, perfect breasts, then gliding to her softly flaring hips.
He heard her breath catch and opened his eyes.
“You are grinning at me!” she protested.
“Smiling, my lady.” Surely he was smiling? His whole body was a smile. “Eager to serve.” He kissed her on the mouth, slipping his hands about her flanks and rolling so she was beneath him. “Joanna.” Her name was sweeter to him than the honey. “Truly you are a grace of God.”
She colored but did not look away, her eyes calm and trusting, with specks of fire in their depths that he would kindle more, if he could.
“I did not know you were so glib with words, Hugo.”
He let the jibe go: it was a feint, nothing more.
“I have used honey on grazes,” she added, now cooperating with him, the contrary madam. “Have you?”
“Many times.” He dipped his finger into the small jar and touched the corner of her mouth. “You have a small cut here.”
Her face glowed at the contact and she turned her head and sucked his finger. Looking at him, she looked above him and now she raised her arm. “How lovely.”
A little aggrieved she did not mean him, Hugh turned and saw the low brilliant star, winking in the southwest above the dark blue twilight, textured as a starling’s wing.
“What star is it?” he asked, although he thought he knew.
“Venus,” she confirmed. “The goddess of honey and copper.” She rubbed at her elbow. “I think I have a graze here.”
Hugh kept his face straight. “Let me see.”
He dabbed her flawless elbow and then tugged at his leggings, exposing a small, scabbing wound on his calf. At once she bent to it, her hair spilling from its golden net as he “accidentally” pushed the net free of its pins.
“Forgive me,” he said quickly, but she only smiled and pooled a drop of honey on his leg, smoothing it slowly, as if it was the rarest and most costly of unguents.
“By all that is holy—!” He craved more of her touch, her scent, her skin. In moments they were tearing off their clothes and pitching into each other’s arms, fitting together as close and tight as a key into a lock.
“You are burning!” she exclaimed, and he laughed, kissing her naked breasts, glorying in their dark, pert nipples.
“Grace, such grace,” he murmured, shivering as her hands skimmed down his back. He brushed her dark bush between her sleek, taut thighs, delighted, as she ran her hands over his buttocks. She moaned and opened her thighs and he fingered her intimate softness, her own sweet honey-spot.
“Come to me, come!” she urged, clawing at his shoulders, but he wanted her to have pleasure first, see the rapture on her pretty face. He kissed her mouth and breasts again, all the while tickling and stroking her, running his fingers through her dark intimate curls and her glossy fleshy folds, hearing her breath quicken and watching her begin to soar.
He quickened his fingering, darting his hand across her womanhood, placing one finger and then two within her, turning her so he could have her lie on his thigh and he might caress her bottom.
She began to plunge and rear like a frisking filly and then she stiffened and shuddered, a word he did not know breaking from her lips, a cry of exultation. He cuddled her, reveling in her open responsiveness, sensing the moment was new to her, seeing the wonder on her face.
“I—I…” A tear spilled from her eye and he kissed it away.
“Be at peace, we have all night,” he whispered, ignoring the urgent ache in his loins. He was no callow youth, to grab what he wanted: women were gentle, soft creatures, his Joanna most of all.
But she opened her thighs again and now drew him inside her, hissing in his ear, “Come now, please: I am lonely without you.”
She was snug in his arms and snug about him, and her heat and sweetness and passion were too much. He pounded into her, losing himself in a great rush of blazing feeling, knowing a desire and need he had never known before and a roaring sea of pleasure he had never experienced.
She nipped his earlobe, and the taut, tingling pain sent him over the edge. Rearing, he bucked and gave himself, shouting out his release.
Chapter 18
Joanna stirred, finding Hugh draped over her like a heavy flag, an arm wound like a huge adder about her middle and a massive leg threaded through both of hers. She felt replete in a way she had not known before, but then she had not known making love could be like this. She touched herself, remembering, wondering when she and Hugh might make love again. She was tempted to wake him, tease him, beguile him, but he was so boyish, so peaceful in sleep. She kissed his ear and murmured, “Roll over, Hugo,” hugging herself when he grunted and did as she asked, thrusting his hips back toward her so that they might cuddle together.
She snuggled against him, tracing old scars on his arms and a deeper, old wound on his right flank. For a warrior he was almost unmarked, but then she knew he was a skilled fighter. When she recalled the joust he had taken her to, she felt only pride, recalling the wary men and avid-eyed women.
Happy and content as she had not been since a child, she dozed again, then came awake in the darkness, blinking up into the night sky and spotting the waxing moon, half hidden behind gray clouds.
The moon!
Joanna’s spine cracked as she snapped up into a sitting position and found herself unable to stop her forward momentum, rolling out of their makeshift bed onto the hard-packed earth. Ignoring her dirt-encrusted knees, she stumbled to her feet, her breath coming in sharp, shallow bursts as she fought down a searing rush of panic and shame.
How had she forgotten her deadline, even for a day? And here surely was her chance: she must steal away while Hugh was sleeping, while the villagers were sleeping.
She dressed with fumbling fingers, putting her shoes on the wrong feet and having to change them about. She kept glancing at Hugh, telling herself she was ensuring he was stil
l deep in slumber. She replaced the net on her hair, taking pains with the pins. She brushed down her skirts, making them hiss. Still he slept, his arms now raised above his head. It pierced her to think of leaving him without saying good-bye. He would never know how much he had touched her.
She was sniveling again. Swiftly, before her tears became sobs, she turned and ran softly out of the enclosure, leaving Hugh with the sleeping bees.
Hugh yawned, stretched, and reached for his woman. Finding her gone, he leaped up with a curse.
But no, she had not left him. She was standing with the village elder and two lanky young men by the gate to the bee enclosure. As Hugh scrabbled for his leggings and cloak under the rough horse blanket and began to dress, Joanna raised her hand to the three and started walking toward him.
“I lost my way in the dark and these gentlemen found me wandering and guided me back,” she said.
“That was kind of them,” Hugh answered, not believing a shred of it. He was glad, though, that these fellows had been more wakeful than himself, or his disruptive little hostage would have escaped his custody.
Well, he was wakeful enough now, and when he saw the trace of tears on her pallid face and marked her drooping shoulders, he said nothing. He knew what it was like to be scolded and berated when already heartsore and weary. He raised an arm in greeting and farewell to the men, then turned his full attention to Joanna.
“Are you hungry? I am.”
She chewed at her lip, a rare gesture of nerves. “We have the honey…” Her voice trailed into silence, as if she did not know what to say, how to interpret his mood.
Sweeting, I am not going to scold, Hugh thought, producing the honeycomb, together with some cheese and rather hard bread—a day’s travel in a cloth had done little to keep it fresh.
“I did not know if the villagers would have anything for us to eat, so I brought some provisions,” he said, spreading the meager offerings on their bed. “’Tis well the bees are asleep or they would be after this.” He broke off a piece of comb and stretched out his hand to her.
She took it with a precision that reminded him he was still naked and she was still nervous. He wanted to prove to her that she need not fear him; that he would save her and her father and David.
He sat again on their couch and lifted the blanket. “Get in. No, do not trouble with your shoes; you are shivering like a wren in a gale.” He gulped down his piece of honeycomb and folded her firmly into his arms, holding her until her trembling stopped.
“Eat. You will feel better.”
“Are you a healer now?” she asked, between mouthfuls of cheese and honey.
“If my lady requires me to be so.” He watched her trying not to wriggle with pleasure at the sweet comb. “They work well together, do they not? Cheese and comb? Will you have more mead, too?”
“Thank you.”
He rejoiced at the thanks. “Are you warm enough?”
“Can we…? Can we make love again?”
He was delighted at her blushing directness. “For sure, if you are sure!” He did not want her offering herself as a peace offering, but could think of no elegant way to say as much. “If it pleases you, Joanna.”
“It does,” she said quietly. “Unless it is now too late? You were sleeping…”
He wondered why she felt it needful to give him a means to refuse her and again wanted to strangle Bishop Thomas. He put down the flask and wrapped his arms tightly about her, knowing she would feel his desire.
“You are my pretty lady, my hazel-willow woman, brown as the hazel and slender as the willow.” He touched her hair and waist and kissed her. “I have ached and lusted for you for weeks! I would love you for a week and not be sated.”
She ran both hands over his chest. “Only a week?”
Two can tease, squirrel. He turned her onto her stomach and fondled her beautifully plump backside and pert breasts, alive to her squeaks and gasps, lifting her skirts and caressing afresh as her whispered, “What if someone comes?” became a moan of “Oh, yes!”
“You have a saucy tongue, lady.” He patted her bottom and, as she raised her haunches higher, slipped his hand between her legs.
When Joanna stirred it was still dark, but this time Hugh was up and dressed. He gave her a flask of ale and nodded to the clear skies.
“We can ride now by the moon, and I think it is time we left. The village elder knows we are going and we can leave with his blessing.” He shrugged. “It saves them having to find us more food for a breakfast.”
“May I thank the elder?” she asked.
Hugh gave her a very knowing look. “The villagers here have welcomed you in ways far better than others have elsewhere, I warrant. Yes, I think he will be delighted by your thanks. I have to gather our things and collect Beowulf and Lucifer, so you have time.” He pointed back to the village. “If you follow the track you will see him sitting under the church porch, feeding scraps to a young pig.”
He paused. “You will not rush ahead?”
“You have my word,” Joanna answered firmly. “I will not stray.”
They both knew what that meant.
Chapter 19
Joanna stared at the bishop’s messenger, a man unknown to her. She and Hugh had scarcely returned to Castle Manhill when the messenger appeared. Joanna was still trying to understand what had happened to her; how she could respond so completely to Hugh. She was his hostage and he was her captor. How was it that, riding with him, she was so at ease in his company? So glad of his touch? So happy?
The messenger, Sir John Woodvine, clad in the blue and purple of the bishop’s entourage, woke her out of her girlish daydream. She was inside again, trapped within stone walls again, and with work to do. Hugh might speak of loving her for a week, but he was not soft enough to release her to Sir John.
Not that Sir John was asking for anything so overt, merely to “have words” with her in private. A dapper, older man with smooth fair hair and a baby-fine complexion, he reminded Joanne of a ferret: sleek and dangerous. She would not want to meet him in any street in West Sarum alone: not with the burning looks of interest he kept giving her. Standing in Sir Yves’s private solar behind the great hall, straddling a wolf-skin rug and occasionally touching the coat of arms emblazoned on the front of his surcoat, Sir John seemed all courtesy. But each time he glanced at her, sitting on a stool beside the fireplace with a scrap of another woman’s embroidery on her lap—provided by Sir Yves, who thought it made her look “aptly feminine”—Sir John stripped her with his eyes.
Standing at the other end of the fireplace, fanning his long tunic by the flames, Sir Yves looked bored and embarrassed. Hugh meanwhile prowled around the solar, asking if she needed a drink, or a cushion, or a maid: any question to claim her attention and make it clear to Sir John that if he so much as breathed on her, Hugh would rip out his heart and roast it on a spit. The tension crackled between the pair as much as the roaring fire in the grate, an opulent, showy fire that Joanna longed to escape. Her left side felt to be scorched and at one point she was certain she could smell her own hair singeing.
“I see from your sword belt and its repair that you have fought in Outremer,” Hugh was saying, pacing relentless beside the couch on which his father sat and threw scraps of old bread to his dogs. “Did you go on crusade?”
“I am with a military order,” Sir John replied, glancing at Joanna as she tried to lean away from the fire. “Are you too hot, my lady?” Somehow the tone of his question suggested she would be cool if she allowed him to peel off her gown, and his sharp brown eyes were a fire in themselves.
Before Joanna could answer Hugh was beside her, lifting the stool off the floor timbers and moving her and her seat away from the blaze. He touched her hand and then confronted the messenger afresh.
“Templars or Hospitallers?”
“The Templars, Hugh Manhill. And before you ask”—Sir John held up a narrow hand on which his third finger was missing—“I am here as friend
and herald of my lord Bishop Thomas, not as the emissary of my order.”
There was an astonished silence, but only for a moment.
“By all the teeth in hell!” Hugh smacked his thigh in frustration. “David is in your order, man! You will have known him in Outremer! You will have fought beside him! He is your brother-in-arms!”
Sir John stiffened. “I did not know him. I never saw him or met him anywhere and I have not seen him in West Sarum. All I do know is that the charges against him are heavy—”
“False!” Hugh spat.
“—and as such, reflect badly on my order. Sir David is obdurate,” he went on. “My lord bishop had ordered him placed in the lowest prison of the donjon but he has lately allowed Sir David back into the first-floor chamber. Still your brother refuses to deny these charges.”
“Hell’s teeth! He put David into that hellhole!”
“He is out of it now, Sir Hugh, so save your protestations.”
Joanna clutched the scrap of embroidery in her lap and willed herself not to be sick. David trapped in that foul lower prison, beneath the trapdoor, in the darkness…She gagged and swallowed a bitter mouthful of bile.
Sir Yves raised his eyebrows at this exchange but said nothing. He seemed unconcerned at the fate of his middle son and the pain of his youngest son. “State your terms, Sir John,” he remarked, motioning to a thin, limping page—not the lanky, curly-haired Peter, this time—to refill his wine cup.
Sir John glanced at his own empty cup, deposited by him on one of two great chests, but when no wine was forthcoming, he sighed and spoke. “My lord bishop shall, as a gesture of his goodwill, release his prisoner into the care of the Manhills.”
On what terms? Joanna wanted to yell at him, but Hugh was already asking that vital question.
Sir John appeared surprised. “Why, that my lord may see this lady for himself, on neutral ground. That, and some other minor issues.”
A Knight's Enchantment Page 15