by Lisa Hendrix
She chattered on proudly about the babe. Gunnar tried to listen. Much as he wanted—needed—to keep his mind on the lady, the day’s chill weather and travel had left him as hungry as ever, and the aroma of the food being carried in made him slaver like a mad dog. As a pair of men entered with a spitted goose, his stomach rumbled even more loudly than it had before.
Lady Eleanor glanced up at him, her eyes sparkling with humor. “I must be ware that my hand does not come between you and that gander, monsire, lest I lose it.”
“You have your bobbing, I have my belly. They both betray us.” He held up his hands in surrender while Lady Eleanor broke off a piece of bread, smeared it with butter, and handed it to him.
As he popped it in his mouth, she leaned near and lowered her voice. “’Struth, my stomach often rumbles as loudly as yours. My lady mother despairs of it. She says a lady of royal blood should not make noises like a peasant.”
Gunnar almost choked on his bread. He swallowed quickly and wiped away the crumbs with the back of his hand. “Royal? But …” He wracked his brain for what little he knew of Ralph de Neville. “The earl is not a Plantagenet. Or is he?”
“No. ’Tis my lady mother who carries the line.” She raised an eyebrow. “Ah, you do not know her, and I did not make a good introduction last time. She is Lady Joan de Beaufort. Her father—my lord grandfather—was John of Gaunt, God rest him.”
“Of course. I should have remembered,” muttered Gunnar, stunned. John of Gaunt! It was a fruitless task, trying to keep track of the English and all their marriages and alliances from the forest deeps where he hid, but even he knew John of Gaunt, the third Edward’s middle son, who had been Duke of Lancaster. It was Gaunt’s son and heir, Bolingbroke, who’d deposed his uncle Richard to steal the throne and become the fourth king called Henry, but Gaunt had also sired a pack of bastards with his mistress in France. If the countess was one of those Beaufort by-blows, that made Eleanor …
Ballocks. “King Henry is your uncle.”
“So he is. Or half an uncle, at the least.” Her lips thinned as she buttered a piece of bread for herself. “Or better said, an eighth part of an uncle, since he is only half uncle to half of us, and only acts like uncle to half of those. He has always greatly favored my sisters and me over my brothers.”
Gunnar shrugged. The reason was obvious to him. “You and your sisters cannot claim the throne.”
“Nor can my brothers. Parliament has said it.”
“Nor could Henry, himself, by right,” pointed out Gunnar. “Richard was the one born king. And yet there Henry sits.”
Lady Eleanor’s expression went flat. “Be careful of what you say, sir. Richard’s supporters are not well suffered here. Nor Mortimer’s.”
“I supported neither of them. But truth is truth. If your brothers grow powerful enough, one of them might attempt what Bolingbroke himself succeeded at. Perhaps he keeps your brothers at a distance for fear he or Prince Harry will find themselves obliged to go to war against them one day. It is difficult to fight a man once you’ve coddled him as a child.”
She looked down to where her brothers sat, and a crease formed between her brows. “My Beaufort uncles have certainly given the king cause to consider such a possibility. You surely have it right.”
“I wish I did not, if it makes you frown so. I should have held my tongue and kept your smile.”
“As you say, monsire, truth is truth. And your explanation does help me better understand the king. And my father,” she added softly, almost to herself.
They both dropped silent as the varlets approached to fill their trencher. Despite the bread and butter, Gunnar’s stomach rumbled even more loudly as the pile of food before him grew.
Lady Eleanor’s face cleared, and she snatched up a sliver of roasted goose and held it up to him. “Here, Sir Gunnar, quickly, before you frighten the dogs.”
Chuckling, he leaned forward to take the morsel and, with barely a thought, closed his lips over the tip of her finger and sucked.
It was something he’d done scores of times through the centuries, letting a bite of food shared with some wench lead to the “accidental” contact of lip to finger. ’Twas always an enjoyable moment, whether it led to more or not. But this time …
The surge of Gunnar’s pulse was mirrored in the slight widening of Lady Eleanor’s eyes. Yes. He released her finger before anyone could notice, but not before he ran his tongue around the tip. He grinned as he caught that sound again, that little catch in her breath he’d heard when he’d collected his victor’s kiss. A warm, rosy glow flowed up from the neck of her gown, making her look less embarrassed than … aroused.
Beddable.
He’d thought of that all week, that wooing and winning her also meant bedding her. At first it had given him trouble; the image of her as a smoke-smudged child remained in his head. But she was eight-and-ten now, or very nearly so, a woman full-grown and more than ready for marriage. A fair, spirited woman who would surely be just as spirited abed.
A woman of royal blood.
Now there was a twist. He hadn’t known that while he sat alone in the night forest, planning his campaign for her heart and body and spilling blood to thank the gods for this chance. He had no business considering a woman so high, not when he was what he was.
But even as the hairs on his neck lifted in warning, Gunnar found himself reaching to cut a slice of the goose, holding it out like a lure to a falcon soaring high over his head. “You should try a bit of the gander yourself, my lady. I am certain you will enjoy it.”
Her color rose higher. She understood his meaning.
As Gunnar held his breath, she hesitated a moment, then slowly leaned in to take the bite. Her lips never touched him, but just before her teeth closed on the meat, her tongue brushed the tip of his thumb in a caress so subtle that he wasn’t certain he’d truly felt it.
His blood was certain, though. Danger or not, it sang to life in his veins and rushed to his tarse, where he could easily imagine her tongue performing the same trick. By the gods. Did she have any idea?
Of course she did, her modestly lowered eyes notwithstanding—a conviction that was confirmed when she delicately licked a droplet off her own fingertip—the same fingertip he’d suckled—then looked up at him through those thick lashes of hers in a way that nearly made him groan aloud.
By the gods, if he didn’t know better, he’d think she was out to seduce him. Perhaps winning her truly would be an easy thing.
But not if his lust got ahead of him. He needed her love, not merely her desire. He needed to take his time, to woo her, to make certain he had not just her body, but her heart. He needed to slow down.
A glance toward where her father sat beside his lady wife’s empty chair provided some of the chill he needed: Royal blood. Powerful father. King’s niece. If he fouled this, the whole of England would be after his balls.
Even so, it took him a while to shepherd his wayward thoughts back into line. Eventually, though, the weight at his crotch eased, and he managed to turn the conversation to safer subjects for long enough to get through supper. News of the waning campaign in Wales. The chill weather. Court gossip she might have heard.
He must have kept things too safe, however, because as they finished the wedge of gingerbread that ended the meal, she rose, apparently ready to retire.
“Forgive me, my lady,” Gunnar rose, too. “I am too seldom amongst gentlefolk to recall how to be good company to a lady.”
“What? Oh, no, you mistake me. You do not escape so easily.” She lifted a hand and crooked a finger, and Screaming Lucy abandoned her place at the table with the fosterlings, collected a brace of serving women, and hurried off.
“My lord?” Lady Eleanor turned to her father. “I readied a gift for Sir Gunnar all those years ago and had no chance to give it. I would like to do so now.”
“Of course. Have it brought.”
“’Twould be better given in the solar. Do we have you
r pardon to leave?”
The earl frowned. “Will others attend you?”
“Of course, my lord. Lucy goes now with servants to fetch things and meet us there.”
“Fine, then.” Lord Ralph waved them off. “We will be along shortly.”
Eleanor put out her hand. “Come, monsire.”
As before, he found he had little choice but to obey. He rose in surrender, and let her lead him upstairs.
The solar of Raby Castle was larger than the hall of most manors and far more pleasant, what with ell upon ell of heavy tapestries lining the walls and what looked to be acres of thick rugs upon the floor. Enough candles lit the chamber to make it glow like a clear dawn, but as they entered, a servant, apparently stationed there for no other purpose, hurried to light more. As he worked, they stood silently, Eleanor rocking up and down on her toes in a way that belied the bland look on her face, until at last the man finished and vanished with his lighting rush, leaving them suddenly and unexpectedly alone.
Alone.
“Your woman is not here yet,” said Gunnar.
“No.” She lifted her chin to look directly into his eyes, challenging him with the slightest curve of a smile. “My lord father will not be pleased.”
His pulse pounded in his skull, silencing everything but the voice that urged him toward her.
“Then we will not tell him,” he murmured, and then somehow she was in his arms, her lips sweet and hot on his. With a groan, he lifted her against him, and her body melded perfectly to his, as he’d known it would.
“I dreamed of you,” she whispered against his mouth. “So many nights, I wished you would come. Wished you would take me—” Muffled voices in the passageway made her stop short. “Ah, curse it. She is too quick.”
She pushed out of his arms, whirling to face the hearth just as Lucy came in, followed by two maids whose arms were laden with clothes.
Gunnar stood there half stupefied, Eleanor’s taste lingering on his lips, her words ringing in his skull. Wished you would take me. Oh, yes, he would happily do that. But the sane part of him, the part not in rut, said she hadn’t finished the thought. Surely she hadn’t been so boldly asking him to take her. Trying to regain control, he stalked over to the table and poured himself a cup of wine.
Eleanor turned to Lucy with an easy smile, the roses in her cheeks looking like they might well come from the heat of the fire. “You were quick.”
“I knew you were anxious, my lady.”
“Aye, I am. And so, Sir Gunnar, I may at last give you your gifts.” Eleanor motioned one of the maids forward, her cool manner giving no sign of the heat they’d shared, a fair measure of which still clung to Gunnar like cobwebs. “First these. I began them when I heard that you had left without waiting for new clothes from the duchess. I knew yours were burned and that you would need something warm for your travels. However, I did not know it would take so long to give them to you.”
Garment by garment, she showed him a heavy winter traveling cloak and a full set of clothes to go with it, draping each piece in turn over the high-backed chair that Lucy pulled near. Then the other maid stepped forward, and Eleanor showed a second set of clothing, finer this time, cut from velvet and figured silk rich enough for a great lord. Together, they made up more clothing than Gunnar had owned at one time since he’d left home. They must represent months of work. Perhaps years. His lust faded away as he absorbed it all.
“You sewed all this?” he asked, stunned, when she had finished. “For me?”
“For no one else.”
“Every stitch by her own hand, monsire,” added Lucy. “She would not accept even my help, beyond the measuring and cutting.”
“My lady,” said Gunnar, and then could say no more. She’d sewn for him. No one had sewn for him except for pay since before he’d sailed. He swallowed hard, trying to clear the lump that clogged his throat, but it only thickened.
She rescued him by taking the wine cup from his hand. “Come. I had to guess at the size from what I remembered and what Lucy could add. Let us see if I came close, or if I must make changes.”
“But I—”
“Try them, monsire,” urged Lucy, and Gunnar found himself shedding his worn gown. Lady Eleanor stepped forward holding his new chemise. Ever aware of his scars, he kept his back to the wall while he stripped off his old one and pulled on the new in a single motion.
He smoothed and tested it and nodded in approval. “If you guessed as well with the other things, they will fit very well.”
“I used ties rather than hooks or buttons, as they are more forgiving if I guessed poorly,” explained Eleanor as he reached for the long-sleeved doublet that Lucy held out. “And everything fastens in front, to make it easier for you in your travels.”
“It will be that,” he assured her. With each tie he tied, the doublet formed itself to his body, until it fitted more closely than any garment he’d ever worn. It was time, he supposed. He’d been avoiding the new style of clothes in the fear they would bind, but the old, loose gowns were more and more the mark of cottars and not knights. When he flexed his arms and shoulders, testing, he found more than enough ease. “It is comfortable.”
“You sound surprised. Have you no faith in my skills? Let me see.” She stepped around behind him and ran her hands over his shoulders to check the fit of what she’d made, a common gesture made uncommon by the way her hands lingered. Gunnar closed his eyes and let his imagination play for a moment.
“It will do, I think. Lucy, the cote-hardie, if you please. I tried to leave enough room for a second doublet beneath for winter, but it was difficult to be sure without having you there. I had to mark your height and the width of your shoulders against the frame of the door where you stood beside the duchess. I had Lucy do the same, and we had nearly the same marks, so I chose the larger of each.” As she chattered, she helped him into the cote-hardie, then came around to tie the ties, deftly working her way down his chest. “Do I hear my father coming?
Lucy went to peer through the grillwork that overlooked the hall. “Not yet, my lady. He has called for the chessboard.”
“Keep watch and tell me when he starts up. You two fold everything.” Eleanor smiled up at Gunnar. “See if the cote pulls across the shoulders, monsire.”
Ah. Grinning, he obliged, thrusting his arms forward. “A excellent fit, my lady. You guessed very well.”
“Test it fully, sir.” She glanced to his arms on either side of her and stepped closer to take hold of the hem of the cote-hardie and tug it down.
The gesture put her hands parlous close to his crotch, and a fresh wave of desire washed over Gunnar. Wishing you would take me, she’d said. Perhaps the thought had been complete after all. A glance over his shoulder told him that the maids were busy and that Lucy was still at the grill, watching. None of the three paid them any heed.
A slight shift put his back fully to Lucy, blocking her view of her mistress. Thus shielded, he crossed his arms midair behind Eleanor, enfolding her, embracing her without actually touching her. She tilted her head back to meet his eyes, and a slow smile curved her lips. She laid one hand on his chest, exactly over his heart. Her lips parted, ready for another kiss. Take me …
“Aye,” he murmured. “A very comfortable fit indeed.”
They stood there, his arms encircling her, her smiling up at him, hovering on the edge of that kiss, until Lucy cleared her throat. “The earl comes, my lady.”
Eleanor’s smile fell away with Gunnar’s arms. “I think it will do.”
She stepped away to retrieve the belt that hung on the chair, presenting it to Gunnar as her father and the other women came trooping through the door, then, as though nothing at all had passed between them, she drifted off, leaving only a whiff of her perfume in her wake.
Westmorland walked over and looked Gunnar up and down. “You made all these clothes yourself, Eleanor?”
“Aye, my lord. His were burned in saving me.” Eleanor lowered her eyes, s
trangely tense. “Her Grace thought it a good gift.”
“Mmm.” As the women and girls began settling on the various stools and cushions, Lord Ralph stepped past Gunnar to finger the velvet houpelande and brocade jacket that lay over the chair. He picked up the other chemise and squinted at the stitching. “You have your mother’s skill with a needle.”
Eleanor’s relief was plain, though the tautness remained around her eyes. “I am pleased you think so, my lord.”
“And you, Sir Gunnar. Are you pleased as well?”
Fully aware of the obstacle Westmorland could present to his plans, Gunnar carefully kept his eyes off Eleanor as he buckled the belt. “Very much, my lord.”
“Good.” Lord Ralph took his seat and, as the maids cleared the trove of clothing and set it to one side, motioned Gunnar toward the other chair. “Go on. My wife has no need of it tonight, nor for some time to come.”
“Your lady is well, I hope,” said Gunnar, easing down. Lady Eleanor took a seat beside Lucy on the far side of the room. Good. It was safer that way.
“Aye, she brings children forth with little trouble, thanks be to God.” Lord Ralph sighed with an odd heaviness. “And so I have another son who will need lands.”
“There is always the Church,” offered Gunnar.
“If he chooses it for himself. Otherwise, I must marry him to a title, which means finding yet another heiress. With so many children, it is nearly as difficult to find good wives for sons as it is to find good husbands for daughters.”
“How many children do you have, my lord? I have been trying to count, but I think some are not here.”
Lord Ralph chewed the end of his mustache as he considered. “Let me think. With Margaret there were Maud, Alice, Philippa, John, Elizabeth, Ralph, Margaret, Anne, and, um, Anastasia.” He ticked them off on his fingers as he named them. “And then with Joan, there are Catherine, Eleanor, Joan, Richard, Thomas, Cuthbert, Robert, William, and now Edward. That makes eight and ten so far, and one other who died young. Plus we have her two from Ferrers with us now that their fostering is done. An old woman once told me that I would sire two dozens. I thought her mad, but look at me.”