The Temptation (The Medieval Knights Series)
Page 23
Edward said no more. He swallowed hard and did not let himself think beyond the pleasures to be found with Jovetta. Tomorrow would take care of tomorrow, as it always did.
* * *
He had only to wait where she must return, like a snare set for a rabbit at its hole. There was one place to which Elsbeth must come, one place she could not avoid. Hugh awaited her there, his foot upon her bucket of bloody linen floating in stained water, his mind leagues away with Baldwin in Jerusalem. Away from the foul stain of Gautier and his smirking accusations. Silent accusations that his daughter might share. Was this why Elsbeth ran from every beat of desire he roused in her? Did he disgust her for the sin she thought she saw in him, or was it only that she feared the trial of childbearing? Was ever any woman such a maze as Elsbeth of Sunnandune?
No matter. He had to take her, no matter her fears or her disgust. He would prove to them both that the tales they'd heard of the Poulains were false.
Raymond came to him quietly, ducking his fair head into the room, his glance expectant.
"What?" he asked in gruff preoccupation.
"My lord, there is something about Warkham, about the maids of this place," Raymond said.
"Do not talk to me of the maids of this place. I have a wife who is still a maid. I cannot think of aught else tonight. Leave me, Raymond, until the morrow. I am not fit to talk of anything now."
"Aye, my lord, it is only that—"
Hugh shook his head and waved him out.
They thought him guilty of sodomy.
Hugh grunted and ran a hand through his hair. Let Gautier think what he would, he would breach Elsbeth, finding his way inside her, turning her will to his, branding her with passion, ruling her heart. Let them think what they would; he knew what was said of the knights of the Levant. They were soft, unused to war, unused to women unless they be behind thick walls and many veils—such were the tales. No tale could have been more false.
No wars? The Holy Land of Christ was ripped by wars, ceaseless wars, with enemies on all sides, allies changing sides, men changing alliances. He had breathed war from his infancy; he was bred on war. He had no fear of war. These Northern lords in their squalid mounds of mossy rock knew only raids and threats; he knew war against the very army of the devil himself.
No women? Nay, he knew women. Women as soft as cashmere with voices like gently ringing bells had surrounded him all his life. Women who had the world and its treasures in the next street or on the next caravan. Women who understood that men ruled the world and that women were the feast upon which the conquerors feasted.
Elsbeth knew none of that. She had a will that did not bend to his and a heart set upon God when it should be set upon her husband. Elsbeth was not a woman as he knew women to be.
Yet he liked her. His task would have been easier if she had remained only a woman instead of a person who had managed to claim his regard and his respect. He had not expected that of her or of himself.
What was it about her that caught at his heart? It was more than her refusal to fall into the temptation he laid out before her. It was more than her beauty, more than her reluctant smiles, more than the sharp, sweet edge of her tongue. Nay, it was all of that and yet still more. She was like no woman he had ever known. She was a maze, and though he felt himself growing lost in her, still he could not turn from her. Such fascination was dangerous because it did not serve Baldwin. His very life was given over to serving Baldwin. Elsbeth must not stand in the way of that service. He could not and would not fall into that temptation.
Hugh shifted his weight and went to stand at the wind hole. The night was full upon the earth, stealing all color and form until only the black weight of darkness lived on. Elsbeth was like the night. She encompassed all, consumed all, her dark beauty a weight that pressed against his plan and his duty. But even the night must pass, giving way to the sun. Jerusalem was the sun, the light of the world, the home of God's Son; all must be sacrificed to the light. Even the soft beauty of the encompassing dark.
Even Elsbeth, who had a mind of her own and a heart and a will she guarded against all but God Himself. Elsbeth could not stand between his love for Baldwin and his duty to Jerusalem. He would not hurt her, but he could not spare her.
He heard her foot upon the stair, light and firm and quick. She had need of her bucket and clean linen. She had no need of him, or so it was now. He would teach her to want him, to want his will, to give herself into his desires and plans, her will submitted wholly to his. He had begun it well, and tonight he would continue her lessons in need, blood or no.
She opened the door and stopped when she saw him, her dark eyes going wide and wary. And then she was calm and composed, putting on the face she wore for the world. But not for him. Not any longer.
"My lord," she said on a sigh of air. "I did not expect you."
Hugh laughed softy. "I am certain you did not or you would not have rushed so quickly here, would you, my wife? 'Tis the bucket which calls to you, stronger than a husband, more urgent than desire."
"I desire to use the bucket. I need to cleanse myself," she said, shutting the door behind her. It closed with a thud that echoed softly around the stone walls of the chamber. It was a sound of portent and of purpose; even Elsbeth seemed to sense it.
"But you have no desire for me," he said lightly, leaning against the far wall, studying her.
What did she think? That he had practiced sodomy and would have no inclination for her? What did she think about anything? All he knew of her was that she yearned for a life of prayer sequestered from the demands of men, and that she had no great love for her father. Perhaps the two were bound more fully than he had yet considered.
Was it her father she longed to escape by hiding herself away in the convent? Gautier was a hard man, and Elsbeth must have battered herself against the stone of him for year upon year. It was certain that her father knew her well, having given him the battle plan to win his way with her. Gautier had not guided him amiss; Elsbeth was all he had predicted and more. Very much more.
"I do not know what you mean," she said, stepping into the room, "and I do not have the leisure to ferret it out. I have need of the bucket and require privacy. Please, leave."
"Oh, but I will not leave, though I am more than eager to give you what you need. All that you need, my little wife," he said, straightening from his slouch and taking a step toward her. She watched him, unmoving, refusing retreat. She was a brave little thing, most valorous considering his present mood. "Use the bucket and the linen, I will only aid you. But privacy? That you shall not have. Not again. Not from me."
Her gaze was wary and shuttered as she said, "My lord, I do not comprehend you. This is no insult to you. I merely ask for what all women in their monthly time must ask. I cannot do otherwise."
"Can you not?" he said, smiling. "I think you can. I think you can lift your skirts and crouch down upon your heels and unwind your binding linen from your waist and from between your legs. I even think that I can help you, which is all I want, Elsbeth, to help you in all your tasks." Help her? He wanted to devour her.
"Not in this," she said, her eyes huge and dark.
"Aye, even in this," he said softly, reaching out to brush his fingertips over the smooth waves of her hair.
"My lord, nay, do not," she said, her voice a whisper of entreaty and longing tied in a knot of confused desires. He was lost in the depths of her, even now when he wanted to punish her for refusing him. Even now, when she suspected him of sodomy. Even now, when she stood so alone and so resolute in the face of odds she could not best.
What an odd, precious warrior she was. What a rare dignity she held about her soul. Even now, when she insulted him with every breath and every thought, he was drawn to her.
"Can you not say my name? Even now? Even as we are alone, the darkness pressing against our heat, our bodies pulsing with longing?"
"Nay, I do not pulse with anything beyond the measure of my womanhood. My lord, I
must unwrap and cleanse myself."
"Nay, you must not," he said. "I must, I will. I will perform this act of devotion and intimacy, since you deny me all other ways into you. This one I shall take. This road is open to me."
"It is not," she said, pushing his hands away from her. "This way is not open. This is perverse, my lord. I will not partake of it."
Hugh smiled and shook his head as he knelt before her. "You English. So much of the world and its people are perverse to you. Did you never think that it is you who are perverse?"
"Nay, I never did," she said, batting away his hands while pressing her left hand hard against the soft mound of her womanhood.
"Then think again, little wife. Think of what I will do to you," he said, his breath brushing against her legs as he lifted her skirts with a single hand. "I am lifting your skirts, admiring your pretty legs. Tell me—I have wondered—does it hurt a woman to bleed so much and so often?"
"It only hurts when I am made to talk of it," she said, turning her back on him, twisting her heavy skirts upon herself in a woolen trap, straining to reach the bucket and her clean linen.
Hugh laughed. "Then I will not hurt you. Keep your secrets, woman, and I will keep mine."
Aye, he had secrets, she thought, secrets that he shared with Baldwin and Raymond and even Gautier, but not with her. Surely that was perverse. Perhaps it was that his secrets were perverse. She could not but think it. He smiled and laughed and charmed, but told her nothing of himself. She knew as little of him as she had at the moment of their bonding. He played this game as all men played it, holding every weapon and asking a woman to trust in mercy. But she would not trust. She knew there was no mercy in a man, and she had taken up weapons of her own.
"Release me, my lord."
He sat on his heels, his hand clutched in her jumbled skirts, smiling up at her.
"Only if you say my name, Elsbeth. I have a name, you know. A good name from a good family."
It was the moment when her composure broke. Surely she was justified. Even as she felt the words tumbling into her mouth, her mind swirling in anger and frustration, she could only think that she was more than justified. He had pushed her hard and long and over nothing. She bled. She had needs. He mocked all.
"Tell me of your family and your life, my lord. I would know of this distant kin in fabled Outremer. When do you return to them? You long for Jerusalem with every breath. Tell me again of her winding streets and markets and ever shining sun. Tell me how your destiny is bound by Jerusalem's walls and Baldwin's will."
"Every man's destiny is bound by his liege lord, Elsbeth. There is little to tell beyond that," he said, dropping his hold on her skirts. They swung free and settled about her ankles.
"Little to tell? I think there is much to tell," she said, her voice as cold as fractured ice.
"What of your blood?"
"My blood is mine. I will tend to it. Until I do, speak to me of your family, your holding, your life."
"You are fierce, Elsbeth," he said, standing and taking her in his arms. "What cause have I given you for fierceness? Am I not a man who has yet to find his way into his wife? Should I not be fierce?"
"Aye, you should, if you would act the man," she said stiffly, holding his gaze.
"If I would act the man?" he growled, releasing her. "I am a man and I have been none but gentle with you. Have I played false? Or have I shown you that men are other than what you have known in damp and dismal England?"
"It is not gentleness to hound me at every turn. I have needs which I must attend. How this is an insult to your manhood I cannot see."
"See to your needs or let me attend. I will tell you whate're you wish, another night. Another time. I would have us share everything."
"Except your life, or the knowledge of your life," she said.
"You make much of little," he said, handing her the clean linen and woolen padding. "There is time for talk. We have the night before us. Do what you must now."
"Will you leave me?"
"Nay, I will not, yet. I will not provoke."
"A first," she said, turning from him, her back a shield as she lifted the front of her skirts.
And then she thought better of her modesty. Let him watch. He wanted this? Let him have it, then. And by watching him watch her, perhaps she could see if perversion truly dwelt in his eyes. It was a thing to know about a husband, if he carried the stain of sexual perversion on him. It was a thing to see, if one was not afraid of seeing.
She turned back to him, the fire between them a timid flicker of flame and smoke. Hugh raised his brows in surprise, but said nothing. It was wise he did not, but she had never thought him a fool.
Elsbeth lifted her skirts about her waist, clutching the heavy fabric in both hands. Her private parts were wrapped in linen stained bright red with her blood. She bled still. Let him see it. There was no way into her, not now. Let him see and understand that truth.
He could not touch her.
Not with his hands. Only with his eyes. 'Twas more than she wanted, but she could endure it.
* * *
He did not know how much more he could endure with his smile still sitting easy on his face. In his heart, he did not smile. Nay, for she was not a woman to smile upon. Not Elsbeth. She was a woman to make a man pant with longing, to make his heart pound. She was a woman to take and hold, her very breath captive to his.
Her legs were slender and pale in the smoky light of a room lit only by fire. He wanted her blood, wanted to see the mark of her maidenhood on her thighs and on his. Wanted to rip past her composure and her pride and her questions, leaving all behind in the hot silence of passion spent and subdued.
He wanted her.
Her dark eyes met his, challenging him, mocking him. It was her blood which mocked him. That blood barrier that stood between them, holding her away from his hand and his control.
He wanted to control her. He had never wanted that with a woman before. But then, she was unlike the women of his land. She was bolder and harder, her mettle fired by forces he could not see and little understood. Her life in this cold, damp land had been clutched from the mists of rain and snow, starvation and death.
It was tenacity, that was what he sensed in her, pure and undiluted tenacity. She clung to her dignity and her independence the way other women clung to husbands or fathers. She clung not to her father. She refused to cling to her husband.
That would change.
She stared into his eyes as she unwound the strip of white linen from her waist, holding her skirts high with her left hand. It was awkwardly done.
Slowly she was revealed to him. She dropped the sodden fabric into the water-filled bucket, grabbing up the end of the soiled linen, damp now, to scrub her legs and private parts. She did not lower her eyes. She did not blush or smile or twitch. Nay, she watched him watch her, daring him to look away. Daring him to touch her with her blood still shining upon her skin.
It was a dare he would take.
He walked to where she stood by the bucket just as a cold wind sliced through the wind hole into their chamber. She refused even to shiver as that chill shaft of air lifted the ends of her hair.
She looked a wanton, a warrior maid with the blood of the kill fresh upon her.
She looked as if she could kill and find no need for repentance.
In that moment, she looked more perfectly like Elsbeth than he had ever seen her. This was the woman, the prayer warrior, the stalwart and stony heart he had heard tales of. This was a woman to achieve sainthood if ever any mortal soul could. This was the woman who held his future in her bloody hands.
Her hand still held her skirts, smeared with dots of blood. He looked down into her eyes. This time, he did not smile. This was no woman to wash with smiles. Nay, he would wash her with kisses and bites and caresses until she knew no name but his. Until she spoke no name but his.
If he could have wiped the name of God from her soul in that instant, he would have.
Soon. Soon her blood would stop and he would thrust his way into her, bleeding her again. He wanted that. He wanted her blood on him. Even this blood. Even though it was forbidden. He wanted her. Even now.
He heard her intake of breath, felt the stiffening of her body, and made himself release her. Made himself follow the commandments of God and church. Made himself deny his want and his need for her.
He began wrapping the cloth about her hips and between her legs. Her skin was smooth and cool beneath his fingertips, the smell of blood and water strong on her. It was as perfume to him, the smell of her.
Without a word between them, he wrapped her up against his touch, keeping her blood away from them both. When he was finished, she dropped her skirts, covering herself. A wasted effort. He would not forget the look and feel of her.
"Are you content?" she asked, staring down at him as he knelt at her feet.
He looked up at her. Her black eyes flashed with... what? Annoyance? Victory? She had won no victory, not over him. Not over herself. He would prove that to her before the night was done.
"Nay, I am far from content," he said, rising to tower over her. She was a small woman; only the strength of her will made her formidable. "Yet I will be."
She said nothing to encourage him. She did cross her arms over her breasts. Good. He made her wary. That was good. He was sick unto madness of making her easy in his company.
"How will you be content?" she asked. Very wary. Very good.
He closed the distance between them and stood over her so that her arms brushed his chest.
"Your blood is upon you, yet it is not upon me. There are no impediments for you."
"I do not comprehend you."
"Of course you do not," he said, lifting a twisted strand of her hair and running it across his cheek. "You are a maiden. I will tell you what you will do."