Peony

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Peony Page 24

by Traci E Hall


  Payen grinned. “Her garden. It is clever. Sarah is the orange of a lily. Mamie the red rose. Catherine, pink like a peony. Fay, bright yellow. A daisy? I wonder what the flowers signify.”

  “Eleanor is not one I care to match wits with. She runs circles around me. If she wishes to have a bevy of spies, I can hardly complain. And if you are married to one of those ladies? Perhaps we can finally get to the root of the Raymond mystery. What does he want? Eleanor has alluded to great power but whatever for? And she always stops before telling me too much.”

  Payen elbowed Louis, changing the subject to a happier one. “Did you see Conrad onto the Greek ship yourself? Or did you send Odo and the cavalry?”

  The king grimaced. “Conrad really did take Hector’s head in a basket. He says he plans on gifting it to Manuel, so he can see his reaction!” Louis sighed. “If Manuel is guilty? Conrad just might get to keep those dower lands. Crafty.” He yawned.

  Eleanor looked up at once. As soon as the song was finished, she clapped. “Thank you for celebrating the day’s victory! But it has been a very long day. To bed, to bed.” She ushered everyone out, calling good nights and giving hugs.

  Catherine met Payen’s eyes, then looked away, a smile gracing the corner of her mouth.

  The ladies milled around, and Larissa gathered goblets and blew out lamps.

  He wasn’t ready to leave, not without Catherine.

  Louis and Eleanor took a seat close together on a trunk, whispering.

  At last, Catherine headed toward the tent flap, her fiddle in hand and a small bag over her shoulder.

  His heart hammered in his chest. She’d avoided him all night.

  “Catherine? Will you walk with me?”

  She looked up. “I have a surprise for you. If you are free for the evening?” Her perfectly pink lips glistened.

  His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, and he forgot how to speak.

  She took his hand, her skin soft, her touch inviting. She led him out of the crimson and white tent, away from the small row of tents where the ladies normally slept when not taking a turn on guard.

  He didn’t question as they crossed the small stream.

  “Don’t worry,” she whispered. “I know where I’m going.”

  He would follow her anywhere. Who needed to plan? Or overthink? Catherine was a beacon of light in his gray world. He didn’t like gray so much anymore.

  They reached a trio of evergreen trees, and she ducked beyond their surprisingly soft branches. “Like dark green feathers.” She laughed and pulled him farther in. Catherine had woven crisp-scented pine branches for walls, which acted as protection from the wind and added a cozy layer of privacy.

  Payen’s body heated.

  Slivers of moonlight crept between the tall tree branches. The subtle sweetness of Catherine’s perfume teased his senses as she finally turned to face him.

  “I have wine and fruit.”

  “I am not hungry for anything but you.”

  “Direct, as usual.” She paused, nibbling her lower lip as she eyed him from head to toe. “You will need your strength.” Catherine laughed. “You will thank me later.”

  Payen removed his cloak, laying it on the carpet of grass. He didn’t feel the least bit chilled, and he wanted Catherine in his arms. Preferably naked. Soon.

  Catherine opened the bag she’d brought, shaking out a length of thick velvet. “Use this,” she said. “We can use our cloaks for pillows. We are taking our time. I have all night.”

  His kicked the cloak to the side, helping Catherine lie down on the velvet. He sat in the center and pulled her onto his lap. “You love me?” He couldn’t help but ask, though he knew the answer.

  “Yes. I love you. I am sorry I took so long to say the words.”

  “Does this mean you will marry me?”

  “I won’t make any promises I might not be able to keep. What if the priests decide to punish me? What if I am not absolved by the pope? What if Ragenard never stops haunting me?”

  “I told you I would slay that ghost. And no priest will sentence you for a crime committed in self-defense.”

  She tilted her head, daring him to be honest.

  He knew that it could happen. “Don’t confess.”

  “Ragenard burns in purgatory, as does George. I love you, but I cannot live my life with guilt eating at what is left of my soul.” She held her hand over his lips. “We have tonight, Payen. Let me show you how much I love you.”

  Catherine put her arms around Payen’s neck, interlocking her fingers. She pressed her mouth to his. He hesitated for the briefest of moments, knowing the heartache would be worse tomorrow.

  As if she sensed his uncertainty, she pulled back. “Should we return?”

  “Take off the necklace. I am not ready to go back to gray.”

  “What?” Her smooth brow furrowed as she slipped the gold and diamond off, tossing it into the bag.

  “Nothing.” No ghosts tonight.

  Payen took her in his arms and rolled her to her back, demanding her lips, which parted slightly, immediately, giving him what he wanted. He was determined to show her with each kiss, each touch, that he loved her more than he’d ever imagined possible. How was it that he needed to feel her hands on his skin? He had to have her mouth, the weight of her breast cupped in his palm, or he would die. She arched into him, eagerly offering whatever he wanted.

  The passion between them smoked like a banked fire suddenly stirred to flame. He kissed her, his tongue sweeping the inside of her mouth, tasting wine, spice. Catherine.

  The heat came off his body, and a light mist of perspiration dusted her throat. He pulled back, breathing heavily, bound to take his time. Even if it killed him.

  She reached for him.

  “Wait.” This could be fun. He took off her embroidered slippers with the small heel, lifting each foot to kiss her delicate, pale toes.

  She giggled, then propped herself on her elbows to watch his progress.

  He liked that she didn’t pretend indifference, that she enjoyed their play. He wanted to make her squirm. “Thank you for this surprise. You were thinking of me?” He inched the gown upward, stopping to tease the soft skin in the hollow of her knee with a knuckle. “You aren’t wearing any hose.”

  “I’m not wearing anything under this gown.” She slightly parted her legs, covered to the knee in fragile pink fabric.

  He gripped the hem and tore the pink cloth slowly, insistently. Victoriously.

  Catherine’s smile dared him to go all the way.

  With more control than he realized he had, he paused at the juncture of her thighs, revealing her sable-covered secrets.

  “I have nothing to hide. Would you care to finish your inspection?” She touched the top of her thigh, resting her hand against her hip, bringing her knee up, not at all shy but confident and beautiful beneath his gaze.

  He finished ripping the gown, baring her breasts. As she’d promised, there was nothing between him and his desire: taut white globes, pink tips tight with arousal. He was starving, and this was a feast. His mouth watered.

  She shifted, lifting a breast, caressing the pink tip. “Come taste.”

  He needed no other invitation, and he leaned down, taking the nipple into his mouth.

  She hummed.

  He lightly bit down.

  Her back arched, and she pressed the other breast against his chest.

  “You are still clothed,” she whispered, her breath hot against his hair. “That doesn’t seem fair.”

  “My clothes are the only thing keeping me focused on you. If I—”

  Her hand slipped inside his chausses, and he sucked in a breath.

  “I want you. We have all night,” she said, squeezing lightly at the base of his manhood and caressing his length and the aching, wet tip. He kneeled back, letting her slide his chausses down far enough that she could climb on top of him.

  Heaven could not be so sweet.

  She fit him like the soft
est leather glove. He grabbed her hips, angling her, lifting her, pumping upward as she ground down, head back. Faster. His mouth dried. Faster. His heart would burst.

  Then he felt her body tense, heard her sharp cry of release.

  Their bodies trembling, she fell against his chest, her glorious hair covering them both.

  “I may not last all night,” Payen murmured against her ear.

  “Wait, my lord, and see. I believe in miracles.”

  By dawn, Lady Catherine’s faith proved correct.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Thunder woke Catherine from the first sound sleep she’d had in almost a year. A crack of lightning illuminated a dark morning. Frightened squirrels chattered as they hopped from branch to branch, and Catherine realized it wouldn’t be long before their cozy love nest became a pool of mud.

  “Wake up, Payen.” Catherine leaned over to kiss his forehead. She felt like a new woman.

  Another crack of lightning. The ground shook.

  “Did you hear that?” She sat up, naked and now chilled without Payen’s warmth.

  He half-opened an eye. “I don’t hear anything.”

  Thunder clapped.

  “That, I heard. We should go.”

  Lightning struck again. Close. The smell of burning wood got each of them moving.

  Catherine had to make do with her cloak, her gown torn in two.

  She turned for the cloth serving as their bed, only to find Payen folding it neatly before rolling it into the bag.

  They were so opposite in many ways, but last night they’d fit together perfectly. Love like this went directly to the soul.

  It wasn’t fair to pretend this might have a happy ending.

  “Quick!” She ducked from beneath their hidden nest, then turned around, thumping into Payen’s broad chest. “I forgot my necklace.”

  “Here.” He pulled it from the bag, draping it over her head and kissing the pulse at her neck. “I knew you’d want to wear it.”

  “Thank you for understanding.”

  Just because she was in love with Payen didn’t mean she was through with her obligation to Ragenard.

  “Once we reach Jerusalem, we will know.” He kissed her, his mouth warm, loving, possessing.

  Another roar of thunder, a flash of lightning.

  Real fear tickled her shoulders. “It feels like morning but looks like midnight.”

  “The air is heavy.” Payen took her hand.

  They ran without words back toward camp. The stream seemed a little wider.

  When they reached the row of tents, most everybody was still in bed.

  “You find the boys,” she said. “I will dress and meet you at your tent.”

  “They’re with the horses, remember?” Payen grabbed her for a last kiss before she dashed inside her tent. “With the other squires. Protecting our mounts from the Turks. They were probably up all night telling stories.”

  “Fine. I will get them on my way to you. But if you make one remark about my poor storytelling, I won’t come back out.” She pulled away from his arms. “Remember, we are not a couple. For both of our sakes.” She patted her heart and slipped inside the tent flap.

  “You aren’t a couple, but you stayed out all night?” Mamie shook her curly red hair and grinned from her pallet in the dim light. She was the only guard in the tent. “Am I influencing you for the better?”

  Catherine sighed. “I have my reasons.” She took off her slippers.

  “I know.” Mamie sat up, tucking the cover close. “Dear dead Ragenard. How was the necklace?”

  “I didn’t wear it.” Guilt stabbed her.

  “Smart girl. And?”

  “I slept through the night.”

  With sudden clarity, she realized wearing the necklace signified her own guilt, the ghost haunting her. She had to let it go. Ragenard’s death was not her fault.

  George’s death gnawed on her conscience.

  “Please tell me you did not waste hours snoring when you had that beautiful man all to yourself tucked away in the forest?” Mamie rose.

  Catherine slipped off her cloak, reaching for another tunic and her hose.

  “You are naked! Where is your gown?” She laughed. “Never mind. I am happy you were well served.”

  “Dress warm.” Catherine smiled as she donned her own clothing. She considered taking the necklace off and putting it away, but she couldn’t. It just didn’t feel right. Now that she acknowledged the cause of the heated gold, perhaps it would stop. “I want to find the boys before it starts to pour.”

  “Do what you like. I am going in search of food.”

  Catherine followed Mamie out, then headed toward the makeshift stables. The Franks patrolled the area.

  She found the boys snoring, curled up between Payen’s black stallion and the wall.

  “Wake up.” She laughed nervously. “Couldn’t you have picked a nice fat mare? Have you seen the size of that beast’s hooves?” Catherine sighed. “Hurry.”

  She took Gaston by the hand while Jacques led the way to Payen’s tent.

  He was inside, dressed in fresh clothes, freshly shaved, hair brushed. Catherine swallowed and looked away. His sleeping pallet didn’t have a single crease, but that didn’t stop Gaston from falling onto it, still half-asleep.

  Jacques, wide awake, stared out at the lightning. “What would happen if that hit us?”

  “We would catch fire,” Gaston mumbled. “My father said lightning was God’s way of punishing the guilty. He thought it funny that the church was hit more often than any peasant home.” Gaston sat up, his mouth downturned with sadness. “He said God knew what He was about.”

  “We must be in a lot of trouble then,” Jacques said.

  A bright streak shot across the sky, followed by a series of roars. “He raised you from birth, Gaston?” Catherine wondered if there was any chance the pope knew of his lost lamb of a grandson.

  “Oui. He paid an old woman to care for me. We lived outside the monastery in a hut with a garden. She taught me to weed and say my prayers.”

  She and Payen exchanged a glance. Chances were the pope had no idea his son had a son.

  Thunder cracked and Jacques jumped, his skin pale. “Could it hit us? Would we burn?”

  Catherine stood next to him just as rain sputtered, then poured. “We will be fine,” she said as reassuring as possible.

  It rained all morning, saturating the ground.

  By noon, Payen spoke with the king and queen, suggesting they move their tents to higher ground.

  It took hours to dismantle the royal tent while trying to keep the contents dry in other smaller tents.

  Catherine could see Payen’s frustration of not being able to make the simple chore go faster. Each time he voiced an opinion, Odo and Thierry were louder.

  At the end of the second day, the ground was soggy and the tents at the bottom of the valley flooded. The stream, which had seemed so idyllic and harmless, was now a torrent raging down the hill. There was no way to build a fire or dry anything.

  Catherine and the ladies of the guard stayed with Queen Eleanor in her tent, where it was safe but still cold. Catherine worried about Payen and the boys.

  On the third day, Catherine stepped outside of the queen’s tent, which was soaked through. She trudged through the mud to find Payen, Gaston, and Jacques digging a small ditch around their tent to divert rainwater from the tent floor. They were covered in mud.

  “You look like bears.” She crossed her arms, wishing she had it in her power to make the rain stop. “This is awful.”

  “It snowed overnight,” Payen said, pointing at the white mountaintops. “We are fortunate we weren’t crossing them before the storm.”

  “You found the best in the situation.” Catherine touched his arm. His cloak was sodden, his hair a mass of wet, dark ringlets. It was all she could do to keep from kissing a raindrop away from his cheek.

  “Truthfully, I fear what will happen if we have even one mor
e storm. The ground can’t absorb any more. I spoke to the king. We’re trapped. We can’t move anything because of the mud. Two different soldiers lost horses trying to haul themselves up the hill. We have to wait until it stops.”

  A roaring crested the hill. Catherine turned to see brown water surge over, tearing out trees and bushes as it rushed toward them.

  Catherine screamed, grabbing Gaston’s arm as she ran, slipping in the mud.

  The brownish river carved a wider and wider path down the hill.

  She pushed Gaston up the opposite hill, her heart pounding as she heard the crashing of trees, the sucking down of tents, and the screams of the horses. Soon people’s cries joined in.

  King Louis, along with a dozen of the Knight Templars, tied a rope to a giant pine up the opposite slope and threw it down to Payen. He grabbed it, then guided Jacques before taking Gaston. She felt useless watching from near the middle of the hill, but Payen’s strength was greater. All that mattered was their safety. The boys climbed with the aid of the rope and scrambled the rest of the way.

  Catherine breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Give me your hand, Catherine.” Payen reached down.

  She did, but then she heard a shout.

  Behind her, a woman struggled, her boots thick with mud. Catherine stretched out her opposite hand to help her, lifting the woman until her feet found purchase. Others hauled her up to safety.

  Catherine’s hand slipped out of Payen’s grip, and she tumbled down, down, down until she swallowed muddy water. Inhaling, she choked on thick silt.

  The raging water sucked her into the torrent. She strained for something, anything to hold on to. Keeping her nose above water, stealing breaths, she reached out and realized she wasn’t the only person in the raging river.

  She grabbed the knight’s forearm, pale, limp. Dead. Catherine let go, too stunned to do anything but react.

  React. Which is how she’d killed George.

  Survival. His life. Or her life. The most primitive need to live rather than die. Think!

  What would Payen do?

  A rock struck an elbow, the sharp pain clearing her head.

 

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