by Stuart, Anne
He was too startled to do more than hold still, motionless, as she pressed her untutored lips against his. She pulled back, a faint frown wrinkling her brow beneath the tumbled hair. “Didn’t I do it right?”
He was past resisting her and his own desperate need. Without thinking he rolled on top of her, pressing her down into the soft furs as he cradled her neck in his left hand. “You need practice,” he said, and set his mouth against hers, feeling her open to his pressure, the softness of her lips, the smoky, drugged taste of her. It should have distracted him, but he was beyond that, his appetite was fully aroused, and he needed her, needed her mouth, needed her soft, sleep-drugged body, needed the sweet forgetfulness she could give him.
He was rock hard, wild with wanting her, and she moved beneath him, warm and trembling, needing him as well. Her laces were already loose from her disordered night’s sleep, and it was simple enough to pull the gown down her arms, to her waist.
Her breasts were small and round and perfect beneath the thin linen of her chemise, and he put his hands on them, cupping them, feeling the nipples harden against his fingers. He lifted his head to watch her, and her eyes were lost, dazed, dreamy. She was his for the taking; they were married and alone in his big, soft bed, and there was no way he could deny himself. Whatever reasons he had for keeping away from her had vanished in the heat and the darkness. He knew he wouldn’t stop.
He put his mouth on her breast, sucking the sweet flesh through the thin material, and the sound she made was a soft cry of pleasure as she arched beneath him, restless, seeking what her instinct told her she needed.
She slid her arms around his waist, pulling him closer to her, and her drugged eyes were wide and confused. He put his hand between her legs, and she jerked, startled, frightened, still needy, and she pushed against his hand with her hips, silently begging for more.
He pulled up her skirts and she whimpered suddenly, the small sound of a frightened angel. She stared up at him in mute fear and longing, as a bit of reality began to pierce the drugged cloud that surrounded her. He knew he should stop. And he knew that Grendel, the monster, would not.
Her hands slid up his chest, pulling the loose shirt away from his body. The room was dark and her eyes were now closed. The feel of her hands on his skin was exquisite torment, and in sudden impatience he ripped his shirt off, throwing it across the bed.
She was no longer frightened of him, and he could blame the drug for that, but he didn’t care. Drugged or not, conscious or not, she was his, and he would take her, and deal with the consequences tomorrow.
He wanted to seduce her, arouse her, please her, but the feel of her hands on him set a kind of madness upon him, and all he could think and feel and taste was her soft skin, her voice, her warm, clinging body.
He would have her, and there was no room for the tears she wept as she clung to him. He cursed his ungentle hands but he couldn’t stop himself from wanting her, taking her. He moved between her legs, pushing in deep, breaking past the frail barrier of her innocence. He hurt her, and she cried. He kissed her, and she kissed him back. He touched her, and she came.
Tight around him, damp and breathless and lost, she lay beneath him, holding onto him with a possessive fierceness that managed to shock his tangled brain. He expected rage and sorrow and recriminations. A thousand curses on his head for his rough passion.
Instead he got love.
Her face was wet with tears. He gently brushed them away, wondering what words he could find. Should he ask her to forgive him? Or should he demand more?
She hiccupped, a soft, lost sound that cut him more deeply than her faint protest. She opened her eyes to look at him, and in their glazed depths he could see a mass of tangled emotions.
“I hate you,” she said.
“I know.”
“If you touch me again I’ll see to it that you really are unmanned.”
“I know.”
Her furious eyes met his. “I love you,” she said, her voice rich with loathing.
“I know,” he said, and kissed her.
Her eyes fluttered closed, and she began to snore very delicately.
He froze, staring down at her in disbelief. And then he collapsed beside her on the bed. And then he began to laugh, out loud, as he hadn’t laughed in years. His bride slept on beside him as he laughed, at himself, at her, at the complete madness and unpredictability of life. She wouldn’t die, his sleeping bride.
Nor would he kill a boy-king for the sake of power and money. He was twice as smart and nearly as ruthless as Richard the Fair, and Richard was no match for him. Simon would figure a way out of his current predicament, with Richard none the wiser that his plans had been thwarted. With any luck, Simon would be able to convince him it was his own decision.
Alys moved closer to him in her deep sleep, murmuring beneath her breath, and he reached out to caress her face, smoothing her long, thick hair back. She sighed, nuzzling against his hand like a sleepy kitten, and he knew it was too late. She would probably try to kill him when she awoke and remembered her rude deflowering. He didn’t care. He was lost, captured by an innocent, destroyed by a would-be nun, and there was no way the monster, Simon of Navarre, Richard the Fair’s Grendel, would ever be the same.
Claire lay alone in the bed she had shared with her sister, dry eyed and desperate. Sir Thomas had left her at the door, coming no further, and there was no sign of her serving women, including faithful Madlen. She was alone, with no one to attend her, no one to come to her rescue if her lecherous brother should once more decide to ignore the laws of God and man.
She had reached out a hand and placed it on Thomas’s strong right arm, feeling the bone and muscle and heat through the rough wool of his tunic. “Stay,” she pleaded. “I’m frightened. Help me.”
But Thomas had withdrawn his arm with hasty gentleness, looking at her as if she carried the pox. “No one will come near you, my lady. I’ve given my vow to keep you safe, and nothing will stop me.”
“I don’t want to be alone in that room,” she said desperately. “I need you to guard me. There’s a trundle bed that Madlen…”
“No!” He took a step away from her, and she half expected him to ward her off with the sign of the cross. “I’ll keep you safe, I’ll fight for you, I’ll die for you, but I won’t lie at your feet like a tame dog. I won’t be led into temptation.”
“Temptation?” She stared at him in amazement. “Are you telling me I tempt you?” The very notion was absurd.
Except that she met his wintry eyes, and they were no longer so cold. They were hot with pain and longing, and she took an instinctive step backwards, shaken by such naked need.
“You tempt me to my complete destruction, my lady,” he said in a harsh voice. “And even if I had no care for my immortal soul, I could not destroy you as well.” And he turned and walked away from her before she could stop him.
The night was endless. She could hear him pacing beyond the door, his heavy boots steady and reassuring and maddeningly distracting on the stone floor. Every now and then he would come closer, and she would hold her breath, waiting for the door to open. But it never did.
She dreamed of him. She had never heard him laugh, but in her dreams he did. He put his arms out to her, and she went to them, gladly, weeping with joy, only to have him turn to ashes in her arms. She looked up into his face, calling for him, but all she could see was Richard with his lecherous, blood-shot eyes, and she woke up screaming.
“There, there, my lady.” Madlen scurried to her side, her plain face knit with worry. “You must have had a bad dream, and no wonder. Sit up and I’ll help you out of that accursed dress.”
It was morning, gray and overcast, and somehow Claire had managed to sleep. “Have you seen my sister?” she questioned, turning her back so that Madlen could unlace her.
Madlen shook her head. “She’s with her husband still. If it were any other bride I would say we won’t see her for a day or two, but there’s n
o telling with Grendel… Lord Simon.” She hastily corrected herself. “But don’t you worry, my lady. I’m certain she’s fine. These things are difficult for convent bred ladies, but she’ll grow accustomed to it eventually.” Madlen looked more doubtful than her calming words. “In the meantime, you need to eat something, and you need some fresh air. Sir Thomas said I was to accompany you to the stables where you might see your brother’s horse, but by no means was I to leave you unguarded.”
Claire froze. “Where is Sir Thomas?” she demanded. “He swore he’d watch over me, protect me…”
“He’s left, my lady. He’s been called away. Who would he be protecting you from, my lady?” Madlen asked with deliberate innocence. “No one wishes to hurt you.”
“Except my brother,” Claire said bitterly.
“Nay, my lady. Lord Richard wouldn’t harm a hair on your lovely head, I’m sure of it,” she said earnestly, ignoring the faint bruising that still remained on her mistress’s neck. “And Sir Thomas should return by late today, I’m certain. In the meantime I expect Sir Hector would be happy to keep you company…”
“Sir Hector is no match for my brother.”
“No one is, my lady,” Madlen said softly. “He’s the lord of this castle, and no one is going to stand up to him.”
“Except Sir Thomas, who’s abandoned me.”
“He had reason.”
“And what was that? A prayer retreat?” Claire didn’t try to contain the bitterness in her voice.
“He had to see to his wife’s burial.”
Claire dropped the brush she was holding. “What?”
“Word came last night, and Richard sent for Thomas to tell him. His lady wife died in childbirth two days ago at Hawkesley Court and her babe with her.”
” Oh, no!” Claire cried, shocked out of her own panic. “To lose his wife and his child… !”
“Not his child, my lady. Nor his wife in anyone’s eyes but the law. Gwyneth of Longmead ran off with Baron Hawkesley, and she was carrying his child when she died.” Madlen shook her head. ” ‘Tis a sad thing, but Brother Jerome would tell us it was God’s judgment.”
“God wouldn’t kill a child to punish a woman,” Claire said firmly.
“I’ve seen it happen too many times to doubt it. He’ll be back tonight, after he’s taken Lady Gwyneth’s body back to her family holdings. You can keep yourself safe that long, can’t you?”
“You’ll take me to see Arabia?” she asked, her mind turning feverishly.
“Aye, my lady.”
Claire smiled, a devious, obedient smile. She could do nothing for her sister, trapped with the demon in the north tower. And Sir Thomas could or would do nothing for her. He would be mourning his fallen wife.
But she could do something for herself. She could climb on Arabia’s back and escape this place, and this time she wouldn’t come back. She could disappear into the thick forest, survive on nuts and berries and wild game if she were clever enough, and no man would ever touch her again.
Not even the man she longed to have touch her.
“Just let me change, dear Madlen,” she said sweetly, “and we’ll take the air.”
And Madlen was fool enough to take her at her word, nodding comfortably.
She awoke in his arms. She couldn’t move—her limbs felt bound by velvet ties, her head was stuffed with feathers, and her mouth tasted of rabbit’s feet. She opened her eyes and then quickly shut them again, as searing pain lanced through her skull. Even in the dimly lit tower room it was far too bright Even her teeth hurt.
She forced herself to breath lightly, slowly growing accustomed to her circumstances. He lay up against her side, warm and strong and oddly comforting, and one arm rested across her waist, possessive, protecting. He was wrapped in a fur coverlet. She could see his shirt lying on the floor and a sudden foreboding filled her. He slept on beside her, despite the lateness of the morning hour.
He looked like a different man when he slept. No monster at all, with his golden eyes closed, his thick lashes resting against his tawny cheeks. Without the force of his personality to cloud things, he seemed oddly vulnerable, something she would never have thought of Simon of Navarre.
And beautiful. She hadn’t realized it before, but his forbidding face had a kind of unearthly beauty. His cheekbones were high, his nose thin and strong, his mouth wide and surprisingly generous. If he weren’t so intent on terrifying everyone into submission he could have probably charmed them into doing his will.
The room was chilled, but no one had come to see to the fire. They probably didn’t want to interrupt the bridal couple in the throes of ecstasy. Not that Alys had been in the throes of anything, ecstatic or otherwise. She had slept like the dead, and her memory of the night before was filled with strange and incomprehensible dreams.
She glanced down at the bare arm lying across her body, scarred, muscled and strong. And then she realized that her glorious rose colored gown was tangled about her, pulled down to her waist, rumpled up to her hips. She turned to stare at him in shocked surprise but he slept on, oblivious to her reaction.
She was able to slip from underneath his arm. The rushes were damp beneath her feet, and she had no notion where her thin slippers were. She wasn’t about to look. Her head hurt her so badly she thought she might weep with the pain, and for some reason the sight of Simon of Navarre, sleeping so peacefully, so chastely in the bridal bed, wounded her deeply. If he didn’t want her, why had he married her?
Silly question. He’d married her for the settlement Richard had given him, for the power of being brother-in-law to his liege lord. He’d married her out of boredom and spite, most likely.
If only she had a similar excuse.
She’d married him because she wanted to. Because she wanted him. Because she was enchanted and terrified, fascinated and bewitched. She’d married him because she wanted him to kiss her again, to tell her he’d lied, and that she was beautiful. She’d married him because she’d fallen in love with the monster in the cave, and no amount of common sense could talk her out of it.
She needed to find her sister. She needed some of the comfort and wisdom she’d dispensed so generously to Claire; she needed to regain some of her distance. She had no illusions about Simon of Navarre—he was a cold, dangerous man. He would destroy her if he had to, even if he regretted it. He had more of a conscience than he pretended to have, but not enough to ensure her safety.
She tried to pull her gown around her, but the results were less than impressive. She couldn’t reach the lacing, her hair was an impossible tangle, and her shoes were missing. Her mouth felt bruised, swollen, and her breasts ached. She felt strange and damp between her legs as well, something the nuns had taught her to ignore. Her monthly courses must be upon her again, though it seemed as if she had just finished with them. She glanced back at the sleeping man with sudden doubt, but he didn’t move, seemingly innocent. He couldn’t have debauched her without her knowing, could he? He couldn’t have deflowered her while she slept?
In truth, she had no idea. She couldn’t remember a thing. Perhaps he’d done all he was capable of doing. Perhaps he really was less than a man, incapable of bringing her children, or the pleasure he’d talked about the night before.
But she didn’t believe it for one moment. Simon of Navarre was a trickster, a liar, a charlatan and a cheat. He was a man who did exactly what he wanted to, no more, no less. She only wished she knew what it was he wanted.
Her foot knocked against something in the rushes, and she bent down to pick up the jeweled goblet she had seen the night before. It was dented, as if someone had flung it against the wall, and there was a faint, sticky residue at the bottom of the bowl. She stared at it, trying to remember, but her aching head made her mind numb. She’d, held that goblet the night before, and he’d shouted at her. The rest was a blur.
She set the damaged goblet down on the table, lifted her skirts and ran from the room, ignoring her stockinged feet, ignoring
the fact that a good deal of her chemise was visible above the drooping dress. She needed her sister, and she needed her now.
When Simon woke he was alone in the bed. It still smelled of her, musk and roses and soft skin. He was so hard he almost reached down to take care of it himself when something stayed his hand. He could lie on his back, think of Alys, and bring himself some ease. But that would only increase her hold over him.
Besides, he had more important things to attend to. He had to destroy that foul draught and the written page of instructions he’d inserted in his herbal before anyone could get their hands on it. His decision was finally clear, and he wanted no chance to change his mind. He pushed himself out of the tumbled bed, reaching for his abandoned clothes, and headed for the work table and the silver vial of precious liquid.
It wasn’t there.
He didn’t bother searching the room—it would have been a waste of time. He didn’t summon Godfrey to question him—Godfrey wouldn’t have the answers. Simon already knew the truth. This time Richard the Fair had chosen the proper tool. Someone had made his or her way into the wizard’s forbidden room and stolen the sleeping draught, and Simon had either been too enmeshed in his sleeping bride to notice or foolishly asleep himself.
And if he didn’t do something about it, a child would die. There was enough of the draught in that vial to kill at least half a dozen people, and he had no doubt Richard would use it sparingly. Six more people on Simon’s conscience, when it had already been so heavy-laden that it had snapped and broken.
Somehow it had rebuilt itself. Somehow he had regained a troubling sense of honor. He could keep his mouth shut, knowing that Richard would say nothing, knowing that his future was, for the time being, secure. Chief advisor to the king of England was a position that was both powerful and dangerous. He was afraid of nothing—surely this would fill his needs.
Unbidden, the memory of Alys of Summersedge came to him. Alys of Navarre, with her trusting eyes and her fierce nature. She deserved a peaceful life, a home in the countryside, surrounded by trees and flowers and children. She would be a good wife, a good mother, a kind and fair lady of the manor.