By Design

by Madeline Hunter

  He removed her hand and placed it back on the sill. “No more. It is not your hand that I want surrounding me.”

  The position left her poised over him, vulnerable and passive, hungry and waiting.

  His mouth and hand aroused her more specifically. The need centered low, where he had caressed before. She imagined that touch again, and more, and needful pleas breathed out of her. Begging words and declarations of desire poured out with abandon.

  His other hand caressed her inner thighs with commanding firmness. Anticipation consumed her mind and she cried with impatience. His caress lined higher in response, and stroked deeply. Relief groaned through her. Out of her.

  It was only a brief respite. His slow, knowing touches made her body come alive. The focus of her pleasure pulsed with astonishing sensitivity. It quickly turned frantic. The hunger possessed her until her legs wobbled and she cried from the intensity. All of her, her body and soul and heart and mind, all of the alertness and awareness and experience of the present, joined in a totally consuming, desperately insistent craving.

  “Now,” she begged. “Now, like this, do not wait. I want you now. Now.”

  “Aye, Joan. Now.” His low voice sounded as tight as hers, and his breath as ragged and short. He took her hips firmly in his hands and lowered her.

  There was the briefest hesitation just as he entered her, as if he checked her body's reaction. The pleasure did not die. She knew it would not, but tenderness poured through her at the sign that, for all his warnings, he still worried for her. She did not doubt that he would have stopped if he had sensed the old fear.

  She nestled lower, absorbing the wonderful fullness, floating in the sudden calm in their passion. It still cried for fulfillment but they both waited, motionless, entwined in the closest embrace, savoring what this finally was.

  Finally. Aye, that colored it. Deepened it. Her heart absorbed the mutual sorrow that made this night more important than it should be. She sensed his determination to know it all with her, since there would be no other chance.

  He kissed deeply. He lifted her gently, and showed her how to move. “Now come to me, love. Let me feel you lose yourself in it. I want to be buried in your body like this when your passion sets you free.”

  It began slowly, a luscious savoring of their unity, a joining of more than their bodies, and saturated with connections so profound that her heart almost burst. Love and joy and sorrow and regret poured through her. Out of her. Into her. Their hearts journeyed together, and the fullness and friction and building need only brought them closer.

  The pleasure grew anxious and demanding. Her senses soared and flew away until only one remained. All of her consciousness centered on him and an aching, searching reach for completion. She lost control of her body, but he did not. He held her hips, stopping her abandoned rocking, forcing her still just when she thought she could not take the torment of need any longer. And then his passion demanded more from her. The power of his desire sent her higher, pitching toward the freedom he spoke of. The pleasure tightened painfully, deliciously, and his thrusts pushed her the rest of the way. Screaming and begging, she clawed onto the reality of him as the ecstasy broke through her.

  He joined her there, in the ultimate freedom. Together they knew all that this might be.

  Finally.

  He held her to him, in a floating, blissful world of contentment. His sated breath poured in her ear and his firm embrace bound their bodies in the glory. She experienced him very specifically, very alertly. Peace drenched her heart as she gave thanks for the gift of knowing him.

  She nestled against him in the feather bed where he had eventually carried her. They had made love in the garden, under the hawthorn tree, and again on the workbench. He had led her to the places that mattered, to complete what had started at each of them, to finally know fulfillment of what had been shared.

  She did not sleep, and neither did he. They did not speak, though. Their embrace held back the waiting world. She was more grateful for that than he could guess.

  He turned silently, and pushed off the bedclothes that warmed them in the cool night. He moved on top of her and bent her legs and entered her again.

  Weight braced on his arms, shoulders and chest hovering above her, he looked down in the flickering light of the gutting candle. She saw his expression, and knew that his mind had not been restful this last hour.

  He spoke while he slowly stroked into her. “You will not leave at dawn. You will not run away. You will stay with me for whatever time we have left. I will deal with this man now, and the rest will be resolved soon.”

  He was not making a request. She was grateful that she did not have to respond. She did not want to speak of the dawn, and of parting, and of how thoroughly she would leave him. She did not want to think about just how little time they had left.

  She encouraged his passion so that he would not guess what her silence really meant. She urged him with her touch and words to let the pleasure obscure the truth a little longer. She lost herself in the pure freedom, and lured him to do the same.

  Rhys slept after that. She lay turned into him, her face pressed to his, swallowing his breaths. She filled the last hour with the beauty of this night, and drew strength from her love. It filled her heart, swelling it with joy and sorrow and gratitude and poignant regret. She lived as completely as she ever had. A whole lifetime passed in that feather bed.

  She sensed when dawn drew near. She eased from beneath Rhys's arm, and savored a long look at his face. Anguish washed through her, but the fear revived to give her courage.

  She dressed silently in her simplest garments. She pinned a wimple and veil around her head in the hopes the obscuring fabric would help, even though it would not. She turned one last time to the bed, and brushed the gentlest kiss on his cheek.

  Walking away proved much harder than she had ever imagined. She had to tear herself from the bed, and a part of her refused to go. It ripped from her soul and stayed there, to remain forever in that sweet unity.

  The pain vanquished her composure, but not her strength. Blinking back the sorrow, embracing the empowering fear, she turned away.

  She left him, finally, to go and do what she had to do.

  CHAPTER 22

  JOAN MIGHT HAVE BEEN invisible, so easily did she move through Westminster. Her visits to the palace with Rhys had made her a familiar enough figure that she raised no notice.

  She pretended to head to the King's chambers, but darted in a different direction when the way was clear. Holding her basket close to her body, keeping her head lowered, she made her way to the little garden.

  Mortimer's garden. His private retreat where he plotted his ambitions, and met with spies and messengers. And masons, sometimes.

  She peered through the portal. A silk canopy stood in the center, to protect the great man from today's hot sun. Colorful flowers spread out in spokes, and all paths led to the cushioned chair on which he would sit.

  He was not there yet. But he would come. The day was fair, and he would seek out this place.

  The lush beauty disturbed her. Evil should recoil from the bountiful goodness found in nature. Its private places should be dark and gloomy. This garden suggested that Mortimer's soul was not all bad.

  For a moment her resolve wavered. She reminded herself of the stakes. Her brother's life and future, and maybe those of Rhys, too. The barons of the realm might be too weak to stand against this man, but she dare not be.

  She spied a tall hedge where she could hide and wait. She eased the portal open wider.

  For Mark, and for Rhys. For her father and Piers. For all of the lives trampled and crushed these last few years. For herself.

  A hand slid up her back, shocking her. Fingers closed on her shoulder, stopping her. She froze, staring at the flowers.

  She scrambled to find an excuse for why she tried to enter this garden. She clutched the basket harder, praying this guard would not look inside.

  “A
re you lost, sweet lady?”

  The voice turned her blood to ice. Not just because it belonged to Guy Leighton, but because of its dangerous resonance.

  She would have preferred being caught by Mortimer himself.

  She pulled her composure together. She dare not let him see her terror.

  She slowly turned. Guy appraised her suspiciously.

  “Aye,” she said, feigning relief.

  “I have been following you, Joan, while you skulked about. Whom do you seek?” His lids lowered over ominous fires. “The King?”

  Saints, he suspected that she had come to demand justice. He thought that she sought out Edward, to pour out her story and beg his intercession.

  “What would I want with the King? He would just think me a servant, trying to claim the place of a dead woman.” She forced a sweet smile. “In truth, I was looking for you. A page directed me to your chamber, but I lost my way. I thought this garden might offer a short path to the part of the palace beyond it.”

  The danger dimmed a little. Just enough to give her hope. “Why did you seek me?”

  “I thought about our conversation in the market, and was sorry for how we parted. The shock of seeing you unsettled me, and I was not myself. I came to thank you for forgiving my rashness, and for offering to continue to protect my brother. You risk much in doing so, and I wanted you to know my gratitude.”

  Her faced warmed while she said the words. She prayed that Guy assumed it was feminine delicacy that caused her to blush, and not the inner disgust that she battled.

  His vanity responded as she hoped it would. Different fires ignited in his eyes. Bile rose to her throat as his lust began burning.

  He had a hungry look, like that of an animal spying prey. So different from what she had recently known. So ugly compared with the beauty of last night.

  She would not think about that now. She could not afford to. But the comparison caused a touch of pity to poke into her terror. Guy, for all of his power and beauty and wealth, would never know what might be.

  The alertness to the present had not left her, and now she looked into those eyes and saw more deeply than she had in the past. Amidst the lust, she perceived another tiny hunger. A sad one. She suddenly knew him even better than she had before. Better than she wanted to.

  Guy Leighton suspected what his dead soul denied him. He recognized the void. Her comprehension of him was perhaps the closest he had ever come to a true human connection. That was why he relished her hatred, and goaded it. That was why he wanted her, and had kept her alive, and had bothered to try to make Mark's death look like an accident.

  Her new insight did not soften her heart. Pity mixed with the hatred and fear, but did not assuage them. He was lost, and she could not save him, even if what was left of his humanity wondered if she could.

  His arm slipped around her, and he guided her away from the portal. “You should not be seen here. It is Mortimer's place. Come with me.”

  She held down the shiver of dread so he would not feel it rack her frame. She forced her feet to move. She let him lead her through the palace.

  For Mark and Rhys and herself, she went with him.

  She could not do it. As soon as they entered Guy's chamber, she realized it. Not for anything, not even to survive to finish this day's work.

  It was a well-appointed chamber. Mortimer valued the man he had put in it.

  She could not look at him. Memories invaded her head, but not of him. A different face and a different touch and a peace soaked with caring filled her thoughts and heart.

  Guy had once taken from her all that was good. He had destroyed everything that made her who she was. She could not let him do it again. She would not give up what she had claimed for herself last night. She would not let the freedom be shackled again by that numbing shame, not even as a ploy to achieve the great goal.

  He took her hand and drew her toward the richly draped bed. She dug in her heels.

  “Nay. I did not come here for that. Not yet. I only wanted to speak with you, and let you know how glad I am that we will be together again.”

  Her words rang through the silence. She heard the panic in them. She cursed herself for revealing that.

  Guy liked her resistance. He always had. The contest had begun. His delight in the inevitable victory, assured by his command over life and death, made him smile.

  His fingers tightened, like a reminder of how easily he could crush all she held dear. “Of course it is why you came. Our bargain was never sealed with words.”

  She yanked her hand free and backed up, holding the basket to her stomach like a shield. “Take the words this time, and wait one day more.”

  She had dared to refuse him only once, long ago, and had paid dearly for the insult. He advanced on her with an expression that said that she would do so now again.

  She moved away but he kept coming. Slowly, horribly. She glanced frantically around the chamber, searching for a way to get free, looking for the dodge that would thwart him.

  There was none. She was trapped. Cornered. She had avoided his cruelty in the past with submission, but she could not do that today. The womanhood reborn in Rhys's arms would not accept a new death so easily.

  Finally there was nowhere else to move. Her back hit the wall and he stood an arm's span away.

  “I warn you, do not touch me. It will not be as you think. Not now. Not yet.”

  “Of course it will, if I command it. I am glad that you have tried to toy with me, sweet Joan. I considered hiding my anger at the insult of your betrayal, but I will not have to now. It will give me great pleasure to break your pride again, as I did when we first met.”

  He reached for her. She shrank against the wall and plunged her hand into her basket.

  His grip closed on her neck.

  Hers closed on the handle of a kitchen knife.

  Rhys awoke abruptly and knew immediately that something was wrong. He lay motionlessly with his eyes still closed, hoping his other senses would reassure him.

  His skin detected the void by his side, and his heart took on a slow, heavy rhythm. The scent of their lovemaking surrounded him, but no others intruded. No bread baking down below. No leeks frying for soup or pottage. The house was soundless, too. Empty. The melody of her breathing was long gone from this bed.

  He forced himself to look, and to move. He got up and pulled on some clothes. While he did so, he noticed how vacant the chamber suddenly seemed. Not just because she was not in it. All of her belongings, every item, had been removed.

  He went down to the kitchen, his boots making very loud steps in the silence. No signs of the usual morning ritual waited for him there. No ale or domestic mess. No water warming. No Joan peering in the oven. Nothing.

  The garments that she had slipped off last night had disappeared. He pictured them in their heap at her feet, like the froth of the sea giving birth to a goddess. He saw her again, both bold and shy, deciding for them both how it would be.

  Other images invaded his head. Wonderful ones, of her free passion and breathless abandon. He felt her body again, heard her words of love tumble into him between her begging cries.

  Joan's absence pressed on him as tangibly as her presence ever had. He held down the outrage trying to take control of him. He paced out to the garden, to be sure. He searched the workbench, and the ground around it, for the tools he had found last night.

  They were gone, like everything else. Staring at that bench, he finally accepted the truth of it.

  He experienced a few breaths of utter, unnatural calm. And then his head split with livid resentment.

  She had actually done it. She had made it whole, given all of herself and taken all of him, and then walked away. She had let him know paradise, and then had thrust them both back into purgatory. Only it would be worse now, since he knew for sure what he had lost.

  He remembered their last lovemaking. He had interpreted her embrace as acceptance. He had told her that she had to stay, an
d he had thought that she agreed. Every kiss, every touch that they had shared had seemed to speak a promise of tomorrow. Not forever, but some time at least. More than one night, damn it.

  He paced furiously, incapable of keeping his body at rest. He wanted to hit something. He would gladly tear the tree up by its roots if it would ease the heat in his head.

  She was out there, God knew where, running and afraid. She had put her terror aside for a few hours, she had tasted freedom, but now the past enchained her again. Hadn't she understood him last night when he had said that he would deal with the man?

  He strode back into the kitchen, immersed in chaotic, conflicting emotions. Anger at her and worry for her. Heart-ripping love and mind-scathing bitterness. Stark resignation and hot determination. They all crashed together and mixed and merged, leading him to one crystallized decision.

  Joan would not accept his help, but this was bigger than she was. She might not let him protect her, but he was not powerless to do so anyway. He did not need her permission to finish this.

  She ran from Guy Leighton, but that man stood on another's shoulders, and it was time for that support to fall. Rhys had sworn to it, and only protecting Joan would have diverted him from the cause. Since she had refused him that honor—that right, damn it—he would set in motion the plan that Addis and Edward would complete.

  He washed and shaved and prepared himself to attend on the great man. He rehearsed the words with which he would convince Mortimer to leave Westminster. He would make the usurper fear for his safety, and thus make him more vulnerable.

  The whole time that he forced his thoughts to the matter, images of Joan, of last night, of what he had briefly held and just as quickly lost, hovered in the back of his mind.

  He headed outside again, to get the horse saddled. At the threshold he paused, and looked back to the kitchen. He had expected her laughter and scent to haunt the house after she left, but nothing of her remained. Nothing at all.