"No!" Dazedly, desperately, Liliane pressed him away. "Jean, we must not—" She took a sharp, horrified breath, trying to clear her head. Alexandre's caresses had stopped; he was lying back, his head propped on his hand, staring at her with a look of passion and quizzical frustration. '
Liliane closed her eyes. She was still disoriented, but shame had swallowed all but one realization. "I called you Jean," she whispered. "I am sorry. I meant to put him out of my mind."
Unexpectedly, he gently touched her hair. "Do not be sorry. I would not have you faithless to any man, so that should you ever smile at me, I shall know that you smile for none other."
Liliane opened her eyes, and studied him carefully. "I am beginning to know why your people love you," she said softly.
"I love them," he said simply, "and you."
"A little time ago . . . was that you . . . loving me?"
"Did your lover seem to be a dream?"
"Yes."
"Then he could not have been me," he replied sadly, "for I have only reality to offer. I pray that honest day and near delight will soon prove sweeter man your elusive night of phantom memory."
Liliane touched his face and then, resting her hand on his arm, stood up slowly. With his assistance, she tried to steady herself. She could barely rift her head, for it was still spinning, yet at the center of her growing perception lay a certain knowledge. She knew of but one way to exorcise the phantom of Jean. From the steady look in Alexandre's eyes, she saw he knew of but one way, too.
Their ride back to the castle was silent, and when Alexandre helped Liliane to dismount in the courtyard, she was still unsteady on her feet. Even so, her voice was sure as she looked up at him. "Tonight, I will be yours ... if you still want me. Be certain of that, Alexandre. I would not have you court more unhappiness for some illusion. I came into your life but a short time ago; my yesterdays belong to Diego. Although he is dead, I carry old loyalties. Whatever may pass between us after tonight will alter nothing of the past. I will never dishonor you, but if ever I must choose between allegiances, know that I must be true to the one who first gave me life and protection."
"Then Jacques's hold on you is through Diego," he murmured. "That explains a good deal." He put his hands on her shoulders. "I agree to your terms, but ask only one thing. Never feel that you cannot turn to me in difficulty. Come to me before you go to Jacques."
"I will," she answered gravely, then added to herself, if I can. Jacques had a viper's stealth and quickness; he also had Louis, who was scarcely less deadly. If Alexandre were ever caught between the two of them, she might not be allowed the luxury of discussing defense.
"Wait for me at sunset," Alexandre whispered as he walked her up to their chamber. "I want to see its blaze in your hair." Just inside the door, he kissed her—a tantalizing echo of the kiss they had shared by the river. Then he left her.
Liliane touched her lips. Par less assured than she outwardly seemed, she was afraid, bewildered. How could she have loved Jean, yet be so quickly captivated by Alexandre's touch? Was she going to Alexandre's bed out of duty to Diego or for another reason that made her flush with guilty excitement?
Alexandre had dinner brought to their room that night. Dressed in pale gray velvet that made his eyes seem startlingly vivid, he arrived just as the maids finished arranging the little table he had ordered set up by the window. Liliane saw him catch his breath as he looked at her, and she was glad she had worn the gold-trimmed cream samite Almansor had given Diego for her. A rose mantle of gold- and pearl-embroidered samite was gracefully draped over her shoulders. The airy chemise was the most graceful garment she owned. Her hair was caught up in a pair of ivory pins and cascaded down her back to her waist. Long, gold Moorish earrings jingled like tiny chimes in her ears; aside from those, she wore no jewelry except the gold ring Alexandre had placed on her finger at their wedding. The maids gave her sly peeks and whispered to one another that she looked heathen, but they were also greatly impressed ... as was Alexandre.
Giving an appraising glance at the table and nodding his approval, he dismissed the servants. Then he stood, gazing for a long moment at Liliane as if he were closeted with a beauty worshiped by the Persian poets. Her hair and the gold that touched her body shimmered with the sun's last slanting russet rays; her amber eyes were liquid honeyed fire, her lips palest coral. She saw that he wished their dinner were finished and their night of discovery richly upon them. His impatience passed like a quick breath between them as he murmured, "You are fair as lilies upon the water of wishes men make in their most still and desperate moments, until their dreams gain a quivering, fearful clarity. Thou wonder . . . thou woman."'
"I thought I had lost poetry when I came to France," Liliane murmured faintly, "yet I find it again on the lips of thieves, priests and warriors. You make me such fair compliments, sir, as harpers sing. I wonder that any mortal maid can be worthy of your sweet words,"
Alexandre laughed softly. "Fear not. Whether bakers or bishops, we Frenchmen love poetry and women. If our loves are somewhat overscented, their flaws beflowered and pasted o'er with mirrored gilt, we are fond of them no less. True angels must prove tedious, while earthly creatures are warm and quick and varied as the wild birds that herald our springs. Welcome to France, my lady." He kissed her fingertips. "May love's summer soon show its fur sun so brightly that winter will prove shy and spend its force in a distant clime."
A twinkle glinted in Liliane's amber eyes. "At the very least, as faraway as my uncle's demesne. Imagine his surprise at being up to his third chin in hoarfrost."
At mention of Jacques, she sat that Alexandre was considering questioning her about him. However, he obviously thought better of the idea, probably because he knew she would give him no answers. The less he knew, the more freely she could maneuver without his interference. If he were aware of all she intended, he would most definitely intervene.
As he had done that afternoon, Alexandre made sure that the wine was to his liking. He poured Liliane's brandywine and served her much as the courtly Diego had always done. She enjoyed his pampering and the familiar, little touches of a man's concern. At the last moment, Alexandre diluted her brandywine with water. "Until you grow accustomed to our wine, we had best not dizzy you before the soup course is ended." As the soup was turtle laced with more wine, she was glad of his foresight, yet curious.
He noticed her quizzical look. "Is something wrong?"
"No, nothing, only . . . most men . . . well, do you not think the brandywine might make me more . . . acquiescent?''
"I need not leave that to the wine," he replied calmly. "I want nothing to come between us tonight: no haze of wine, no memories, yet much of this must be left to you. A man's possession of a woman comes not through her obedience, but her desire. All others become shadows beyond the flame of the beloved."
"Have you loved so deeply?" she whispered with a touch of sadness.
He was silent for a moment, then he answered gravely, "I have loved so. My heart is fed upon by longing and the nearness of one who may mean my destruction, yet from whom I can no more turn than the wind from the first promising sparks of a holocaust."
Liliane felt a tremor of fright at the growing intensity in Alexandre's eyes. Sharply aware of her sudden uncertainty, he frowned slightly, then carefully folded his napkin and rose from his chair. "I will leave, if you like. You will be forced to nothing."
Anxiously, she stood and moved swiftly to him. Almost without thinking, she took his hand. "Alexandre, for your sake and that of your people, send me away. I am wrong to put innocent people at risk, whatever my reasons. I believe now that I may bring you only disillusionment and unhappiness. You ask too much from me that I may never be able to give. I promise nothing, yet you would offer me all. I cannot in good conscience accept so much."
" 'Tis already given"—he gently pressed her hand—"yet if you wish to leave now, I will not hold you."
Liliane shook her head in distress. "I made a sol
emn vow upon Diego's death to undertake a mission of great importance. I cannot in honor abandon this demesne of my own wish with my mission unfulfilled, yet I would not bind you to that duty, as well."
"So you seek to escape on a technicality." Alexandre laughed softly. "Nay, my sweet, I shall not make your choice easy by sending you away." His hands cupped her face. "Hold this one certainty in your uncertain mind. If you stay with me this night, I shall never willingly let you go."
And then he kissed her, his mouth sealing her decision like a brand. His arms held her surely, yet did not tighten, still allowing her the freedom to move away. His lips held both heaven and the devil. Bewildered by the deja vu of his embrace and her fiery reaction to it, Liliane's mind made a last struggle of resistance and lost. As if she were melting, she swayed, her mantle sliding to the floor. His arms closed hard about her, his kisses now merciless in his knowledge that he could make her his.
His hands caught the back of the chemise, tightening its filmy samite against her breasts, then his mouth seared against her. The lacings parted beneath his quick fingers to leave her shoulder bare, porcelain-white against the heat of his mouth. The samite slipped still farther, offering the undercurve of her arm and a shadowed, mysterious vale where he roamed ardently to find the full swell of her breast. His breathing came fast, his heart pounding under her trembling fingertips. "Ah, my love," he breathed against her flesh, "I am too much in haste. What folly not to savor the riches of our joining.''
Reluctantly, he put her away a little. "Come, Liliane, slowly, slowly; come to me as I will to you. Cast away our first restraint." He eased away the covering of her shoulders, and the samite slipped low to barely conceal the full-bloomed tips of her breasts. "What sweet, shy flowers," he whispered, "to remain yet unseen, yet pout at their neglect." With a slow slide of his tongue, he bared a high peak, and his mouth closed upon its flushed crimson. Liliane gasped at his delicate, knowing torture. The peak of her breast felt his teeth as he sent a current of liquid fire coursing to her belly. Suddenly, she wanted to feel his bare skin, to touch and explore him as he did her. Her fingers lingered beneath his collar.
Realizing her wish, Alexandre slowly stripped off his tabard. The tanned skin of his wiry, finely formed torso was irresistible, even where white scar lines clawed its smoothness. As she tentatively traced a scar to his breast, his manhood swelled, yet he made no effort to undress further. His intent gaze locking hers, he pressed her chemise to her hips, then let it fall to the floor. The rigid thrust of his arousal brushed the vee of her thighs, teasing with a slight, undulating lift of his hips.
Half startled by her own rising eagerness, Liliane slid her hands down his buttocks to caress their firm undercurve, then pulled him against her.
"Liliane," he whispered, "Liliane, I want you. Free me now." As her fingertips brushed against his swollen shaft, her lips parted at the promise of him. At her wondering touch, he groaned, "Ah, please . . . please ..."
Her fingers fumbled at the fastening of his hose, then she felt his virility spring forth, warm and ripe. She kissed his chest lightly, ardently, as she explored him, caressed him until his head rested upon her shoulder and he trembled with desire for her. He lifted his head, his eyes inky with passion. His mouth came down hard upon hers, his tongue probing until she felt faint. Then he swept her up and carried her to the bed.
He cast aside the last of his clothing, and she thought he would finally take her, but as he lay with her upon the cool linen, his mouth found her between her thighs. Startled, Liliane tried to close her legs, but he pressed her open, his tongue probing her. She was burning, burning, and yet the scorch of his mouth was relentless. . . . She cried out, shuddering, but still his wildfire played over her bare body, her breasts, until she could bear waiting no longer. At that moment, Alexandre plunged within her in a single, deep thrust that drowned her in a wave of ecstasy and desire. She heard moaning as his body moved over hers and realized dimly that she was making sounds like a pleading animal. She only knew that she wanted him to fill her again and again. The slow, sensual movement of his slim hips was sweet agony. All life, all existence seemed to issue from him and become powerfully imbedded in her. The tantalizing glide of his sex was elusive, his brown body imbued with a primitive grace. His muscles were corded with his effort to control his own need as he strove to fulfill her so utterly that she would never want another lover.
Like Jean .... who was inside her now. Liliane was not quite sure when she knew, but inexperienced as she was, she was certain that two men might be physically alike in every way, but not the same in bed. They would not, simply could not be identical in the way they kissed and felt inside a woman's body. After she parted from Jean that last time at the hunting lodge, Alexandre had seemed increasingly like him in manner and speech to the point that had she closed her eyes she could not have told them apart. Now her eyes were closed and the lilting drive of his hips, the passionate urgency of the man who was making love to her was as familiar as her own racing pulse. Her body arched beneath Alexandre, her senses singing, scattering her dazed fury even as it bubbled up.
Then, fragile reality was shattered as he moved deep within her, taking them both to a high, brilliant place where lightning raged and the firecloud of their desire engulfed them in a roiling burst of passion.
Afterward, Alexandre lay with his head upon her breast. Blissfully contented, he was at peace, while Liliane, her mind clearing, was increasingly, vehemently at war. Alexandre had lied to her from the beginning! He was Jean! She wanted to rip his hair out, strangle him, hit him until he howled! She was so furious she did not dare speak, but lay there under him and considered a thousand ways of revenge. After finding that forty-two of them would work nicely, she began to calm down. After all, even a guilty man deserved a trial, did he not? Then, in good conscience, she could torment him at her leisure.
Curling a tendril of his hair and toying with the idea of ripping it out, she judiciously considered Alexandre's probable reasons for lying. They were complicated and various, but finally Liliane had to admit there were several points that mitigated his guilt. Oh, she could make him pay for his perfidy, if she wanted to make the next twenty years as unbearable as the last three months. If she had learned little else from their time together, she had found that pride and suspicion exacted a terrible price. The wicked slant to her laps softened as she finally reached a decision. With rueful fondness, her fingers wove through his shining curls. No, she had not the heart or the stupidity to punish the deceitful rogue as he deserved, but she would exact one pleasant tweak of revenge. She would not tell him she knew.
Alexandre stretched luxuriously and rolled over on his back. "You were magnificent," he whispered.
Liliane moved atop him and softly bit his underlip. "And you, darling, were never better." Beneath her lashes, she saw his eyes widen in confused alarm, and she kissed him as she had never kissed him before.
Chapter 7
~
Kings May Meddle
Castle de Brueil
Fall and winter of 1189
For Liliane and Alexandre, the last days of summer were like a garden of flowers, each a fresh revelation of love's blooming. They were careful to take the time for themselves to let their love grow naturally and fully. In stolen moments from their duties as lord and lady, she and Alexandre picnicked, fished and hunted, although they never returned to the hunting lodge. Then fall winds stripped the trees of their leaves, touching their branches with winter's, first, light snows. Winter closed the castle upon itself, with only a rare visitor or wandering merchant stopping at its doors. The distant wood rang with the sound of falling axes as the woodpiles of the villages and castle rose high against the biting winds from the Alps. In the highest turret of Castle de Brueil, the fire in the grate always burned brightly late into the night.
The castle folk saw the affection between their master and his lady, and although some distrusted the glow in Liliane's face, others swore that she loved the
ir liege lord and would be faithful. At Alexandre's side, she worked among them, tending their injuries and sending them food. She was happy—happy as she had never been, and Alexandre was as proud as a young stag who has at last come into his own, with his chosen mate and a peaceful mastery over his domain.
As the months passed, even Jacques de Signes's cloud hardly darkened their horizon. Although she usually rode with Alexandre, Liliane was now able to roam without hindrance. "I believe that no man of yours will harm your lady now," Father Anselm assured Alexandre in September. "They will not risk their souls as well as your disaffection."
Taking care not to abuse Alexandre's trust and the serfs' tolerance, Liliane went to the message tree only three times all that glorious fall and dark winter. No doubt Jacques's man, who normally visited the tree every other sabbath afternoon, had more trouble during the winter snows, and she found nothing after the first visit.
Upon that visit, she found Jacques's brief inquiry. "Is there trouble?" Her answer that the problem had been solved seemed to satisfy him, for in November the cylinder was empty. She was not surprised that Jacques had heard of her being caught after her foray to the lodge. Castle gossip might be expected to travel; on the other hand, someone might have carried the news to Jacques, yet so far, he had not contested her lies about Castle de Brueil's defenses. If Jacques did have an observer in his pay, the spy might either be playing him foul, or Jacques could be playing her.
Liliane became doubly careful. She was strongly tempted to confide in Alexandre, yet she knew he could not permit her to keep playing such a dangerous game. No doubt his inclination would be to bait Jacques, quickly ending the game, yet the risk of an open attack on the undermanned castle was becoming increasingly possible as spring drew close. Alexandre had seen enough of war; he wanted no more of it. Word drifted down from Paris that Philip planned to leave on crusade with King Richard in the spring; if so, he might soon be years absent from France, leaving Alexandre without him as a vital ally to contend with Jacques.
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