Where Love Has Gone

by Speer, Flora

  “I’m trying not to hurt you.” He sounded as if he was the one in pain.

  She looked up to see his jaw clamped grimly, his face tight. Then she felt the hardness of his manly part pressing where his hand had been. Slowly he began to ease into her and she relaxed, wanting him, longing for him, certain he would resolve her longing for something more. When he pushed against her most heated ache, she pushed back, seeking the relief she was sure only he could provide. She gasped at a sudden stretching sensation. Then Desmond was completely inside her, filling her.

  “Elaine, my dear, are you all right?” Still that pained, tortured voice.

  He wasn’t moving, yet he stretched and filled her until she marveled that she wasn’t split in two from the sheer size of him. And strangely, considering how huge he was, it wasn’t enough just to have him inside her. It felt wonderful, but she wanted more. So she began to move, rubbing herself along his embedded length, testing the novel sensation of Desmond as part of her body. It was glorious, it was sweet and tender and fierce. It was what flying must be, as if she had burst out of herself and into the air high above. She was a falcon, soaring through the sky, almost touching the sun.

  She felt Desmond begin to move within her, faster and harder, until the heat between their bodies became too great to bear. She heard his cry as he, too, touched the sun at the same instant she did, and they dissolved into each other. Elaine gave up her heart to him and felt him pouring his essence into her. For a few, heart-stopping, singing moments, they were one person, one heart, and one soul.

  Chapter 18

  It was the madness that comes after battle, the result of facing death and surviving. Desmond had experienced the exaltation and relief before, and on those previous occasions he had celebrated his vaulting emotions in the same way, by taking a woman to bed. He lived by his own definition of honor, so he had always confined himself to willing widows or women who sold themselves.

  Never before had he taken a virgin noblewoman. It didn’t relieve his conscience a bit to understand that Elaine had been suffering from the same post-battle relief and exhilaration, coupled with an attack of very natural grief at realizing that she, the sweetest and most innocent of women, had been the cause of a man’s death. Never mind that the villain who had attacked her would have taken her life without a second thought. Without losing his latest meal afterward, either.

  As a result of what Desmond had done, Elaine was no longer innocent. She might even be carrying his child. He’d been too avid for her embrace to consider the possible consequences. He had lived for years without close ties or a home to call his own, refusing to love any man, including his own brother, or any woman, because he believed keeping his heart untouched was the best way for a spy to survive. He had resisted his growing desire for Elaine for weeks, only to give in at last and take what he so desperately wanted. In the end, Desmond knew in his heart that all of the excuses he made to himself were irrelevant. Nothing that had happened gave him the right to take advantage of Elaine.

  The object of his guilt lay curled beside him, relaxed in sleep, her brown hair tousled on her shoulders, with the white bandage showing through the heavy locks. She possessed more courage and far more intelligence than many men. She had given herself to him with a joy that nearly stopped his heart to remember. And he had ruined her by roughly seizing a maiden’s most valuable treasure.

  No, not roughly, not entirely. He knew he had been slow and careful, until Elaine’s eager response had driven him beyond the borders of sanity into a realm he had never dreamed existed. The glory of what he had found with her was too much to bear. She deserved a better man than Desmond of Ashendown. He didn’t want to think about all the wicked deeds he had committed during his spying career. Just remembering them soiled Elaine. He wasn’t worthy to touch her little finger, let alone possess her sweet, pure body.

  But, God help him, he wanted her again with a hard, aching need that drove him out of the bed they shared to splash cold water on his face while he wished for an icy pond where he could stand up to his neck in freezing water until the fever departed.

  “Desmond?”

  Elaine sat up, all tumbled brown hair and sleepy eyes. The blanket he’d drawn around her during the night dropped to her waist to reveal her creamy skin, her perfect breasts, and the white bandage at her shoulder, the badge of her valor. Seeing her thus, Desmond knew the fever would never leave him. He would want Elaine until the day he died. The way she looked at him heated his blood until it was all he could do not to return to their bed and have her again.

  Reminding himself sternly that nothing about his circumstances had changed, that he possessed nothing in a worldly sense that would give him the right to claim her, he sought refuge in brusqueness.

  “It’s almost dawn,” he said. “We have a long, tiring, and possibly dangerous day ahead of us. Dress yourself and let us be gone.”

  She didn’t even avail herself of the cover of the bloodstained sheet when she rose to approach him. Desmond tore his horrified gaze from the evidence of how much he had stolen from her.

  “Do you regret what we’ve done?” she asked, her eyes solemn and huge in her pale face.

  “Regret?” he repeated, buying time while he prepared a harsh remark that would distance him from her. The words never came, for the touch of her hand on his wounded arm reduced him to honesty. “Never. But you must regret what I did to you.”

  “You did nothing to me that I did not also do to you,” she said, still serious. “Don’t blame yourself for what happened between us. It was the most beautiful experience of my life, and I thank you for it.”

  She left him speechless. All he could do was put his arms around her and hold her close, while he tried to ignore the urgent stirrings of his body. They were skin to skin, as they had been all night long, though he had taken her only once before they both succumbed to sleep. He brushed his lips across her forehead and felt her soft mouth against his chest. He wanted her again – and again.

  “We don’t have time for this,” he said at last. “We must be on our way.”

  “I know.” She sighed, her breath a warm caress on his skin, then stepped back, out of his embrace. “Shall we take the bread and cheese we didn’t eat? We will want it by midday.”

  “That’s a good idea.” He didn’t say what he was thinking, that he would want her by midday, and by evening, and the next morning, and the morning after… He allowed his gaze to linger on her naked beauty for one dangerous heartbeat before he closed his eyes against temptation. “When King Henry is safe and the plot against him is revealed and stopped, we will talk again.”

  “You and I know we will never be together so privately once we reach Caen,” she said with quiet finality. Her fingers traced the contours of his mouth and when he opened his eyes, her smile was sad. “One night is all I expected, all I dared hope for. Now, we must forget ourselves and attend to duty.”

  Desmond saw with rueful admiration how she squared her slender shoulders and began to dress. He threw another handful of cold water on his face before he pulled on his own clothes. When Elaine came to him to act as his squire and help him with his chainmail tunic, he tried not to look directly at her and he spoke only a hasty word of thanks when she was finished.

  They left the room together, saddlebags in hand, and headed for the stable. The sky was still dark and the inn was quiet.

  A single lamp burned outside the stable door. By its dim light they found and saddled their horses. Elaine, in the stall next to Desmond, had finished with the saddle and had just begun to secure her saddlebag when she heard a faint, stealthy sound. Desmond was talking softly to his restive horse, calming it while he finished preparing it for the journey ahead. The sound hadn’t come from him; it was farther away, near the stable door. Someone was walking very softly toward them in the darkness.

  Elaine peered around the stall entrance. Her eyes were accustomed to the shadows, so she was able to make out a bulky, masculine shape lurking o
utside the stall where Desmond was working. She saw the faint glint of metal and heard the soft clink of chainmail. The man was wearing armor and carrying an unsheathed sword. It was impossible to see his face.

  Elaine believed if she cried out to warn Desmond, the man would flee, leaving them vulnerable to another attack from him. Whoever was skulking in the shadows must be stopped before they left the stable and before he could hurt Desmond.

  She reckoned without Desmond’s finely honed senses. The faintest, sliding whisper reached her from the next stall. Over Desmond’s continued murmuring to his horse, she recognized the sound of a weapon being withdrawn from a scabbard. The intruder heard it, too, for he stopped just outside the stall.

  “Will you meet me in here?” Desmond asked softly. “Or shall we fight in the stableyard?”

  Hoping to divert the attacker, if she could do nothing else to help Desmond, Elaine boldly stepped out of the stall just as their swords clashed. To her ears the sound was thunderous, though likely no one inside the inn could hear it. Neither man looked in her direction.

  The oil lamp outside the stable door cast a narrow, concentrated shaft of light into the building, allowing Elaine to see Desmond’s attacker more clearly. He was short and wide, a typical, heavily muscled man-at-arms, encased in chainmail and for all the weight of his armor, he moved with deadly efficiency. She knew the knife she once again wore at her belt would be of little use against such an opponent.

  Elaine looked around in desperation, seeking something, any object she could use as a weapon. Perhaps a pitchfork, she thought, or a scythe. Her eyes lit upon a heavy shovel, the utilitarian tool used by the stable boys for mucking out the stalls. She ran to it, grabbed it in both hands, and returned to the stall where Desmond and his attacker were fighting in a silence that terrified her.

  Desmond was facing the stall entrance, which was not a desirable position. His horse was becoming disturbed by the unusual action and might lash out at any moment. Into Elaine’s mind flashed the image of the man-at-arms who had been raked by the slashing hooves of her horse during the previous day. She could not let Desmond be hurt in the same way.

  She did not try to be quiet. She just lifted the shovel, ran forward, and brought it down hard on the unknown man’s shoulders. With a foul curse on his lips he began to turn, but Elaine raised the shovel again and struck him on the side of his head. He fell to his knees, dropping his sword. She hoisted the shovel once more, ready to hit him a third time.

  “Enough.” Desmond caught her wrist, halting the downward swing of her makeshift weapon. “Leave him conscious. I want to talk to him.”

  Desmond gave his enemy’s sword a hard kick, sending it out of the stall. Elaine twisted away from Desmond’s grip on her wrist, threw down the shovel, and went to pick up the discarded sword. She rejoined Desmond, standing beside him with the heavy sword in both hands, holding it in much the same manner as she’d held the shovel.

  “Who are you?” Desmond demanded of the defeated attacker. “Who sent you to kill us?”

  For answer, the man spat, aiming at Desmond’s boots but missing.

  “You are remarkably rude,” Elaine said, tucking the tip of the man’s own sword under his chin. “Lift your head and turn your face toward the light. And do not spit at me, fellow, unless you want your throat cut. My temper is short this morning.”

  She heard a quiet chuckle from Desmond, though she wasn’t paying much attention to him. She was watching the defeated man as he slowly turned his head.

  “I know you,” she said. “I saw you in the great hall at St. Lo when we were there. Did Sir Edmund send you after us?”

  “You said it, not me,” the man responded.

  “We have the answer we wanted,” Desmond said. “Sir Edmund must be part of the conspiracy against King Henry.”

  “Wha’s goin’ on here?” A stableboy, tousled and obviously newly wakened, strolled into the stable.

  “This man attacked us while we were saddling our horses,” Elaine said.

  “They’re thieves,” the man cried, trying to stand. Elaine’s firm hand with the sword kept him in place. “They stole my horses.”

  “Huh?” the stableboy said dully. He rubbed his hand through his hair. “That can’t be right. This here’s a lord and his lady. They paid handsomely to keep their horses overnight and they paid my Dad well for their room. They ain’t no thieves. More likely, you’re the thief.”

  “Exactly,” Desmond said with smooth assurance. A few coins appeared in his palm as if by magic. “Young man, my lady and I are in a hurry. We cannot stay to wait for an official to hear the facts in this case, so here’s what I want you to do. You and I will tie this man up and tuck him into the back of the stable, perhaps under a pile of hay, and leave him there until well after noontime. Then, you may summon the local mayor or magistrate to sentence him for attempted murder and robbery. He’s a dangerous thief, so you won’t untie him unless one or two other strong men are nearby. He tried to kill us and he won’t hesitate to attack you.”

  “We ain’t never had a murderer at this inn,” the stableboy said, staring at the armored man in open fascination.

  “I believe you are the ideal person to take care of this matter,” Desmond said.

  “Aye, sir, that I am.”

  A short time later, with the would-be murderer securely tied, gagged, and consigned to an unused stall, and with the stableboy in possession of more coins than he had ever seen in his life, or was ever likely to see again, Desmond and Elaine rode away from the inn.

  “You are a formidable comrade-in-arms,” Desmond said, grinning at Elaine. “I’ll never attempt to attack you in a stable.”

  “Thank you, sir.” She smiled back at him, glad to see his unhappy mood of early morning was gone. “Let us hope we meet no more men who’ve been sent to prevent us from reaching Caen.”

  “You and I, together, will make sure no one stops us,” he said. “But, it will be a long day. Can you do it?”

  “Certainly. We must do it.” She was a bit sore after his lovemaking, so riding a horse was not what she most wanted to do that morning, but she knew the urgency of their mission. Resolved not to complain, she kicked her horse and set off at a steady gallop.

  They reached Caen when the sun was sinking low in the hazy sky of the last day of April. Golden rays illuminated the pale, creamy Caen stone from which William the Conqueror had built his citadel. The royal banners floating above the ramparts showed King Henry was in residence.

  The castle sat on the highest point of land for miles around, so it dominated and protected the town and the countryside. Below the stone walls the River Orne meandered peacefully on its way to the Narrow Sea through salt marshes and sand dunes. Because the river provided easy access to the sea, Caen was a busy port. Elaine thought she saw ship masts jutting through the mist. She squinted and strained her eyes, seeking the Daisy.

  “I already looked,” Desmond said, noticing the direction of her gaze. “She hasn’t arrived yet. Or, if she has, she’s tied up where we can’t see her.”

  At the South Gate they paused while Desmond showed the guards the letter he carried. King Henry’s seal, and that of the baron of Wortham, were instantly recognized and the travelers were waved past a round tower and into the town.

  Their progress was slowed by the press of people. Men and women on horseback, or driving carts piled high with wares for the market, parents with children likely to dart into the street, a half dozen men-at-arms marching toward the gatehouse, all seemed meant to keep them from reaching the castle. Finally, Elaine gave up trying to ride next to Desmond and fell back, allowing him to forge a way through the crowd while she followed close behind.

  She knew Caen fairly well, having spent time there after her father died, before she and Aglise were sent to Jersey, so she spared only passing glances for the great abbey the Conqueror had founded, or for the Church of St. Etienne, with its twin, octagonal towers. In fact, she paid little attention at all to
her surroundings. Desmond, in his eagerness to reach Caen before some new attempt to halt them could occur, had permitted only two brief stops during the day. As a result, Elaine was close to falling out of her saddle from sheer weariness. She pitied the horses, who must be as tired as their riders.

  At the main gate of the castle, Desmond again flourished his very useful document, which gained them immediate admission with no questions asked.

  Inside the bailey, Desmond handed over their horses to a squire with instructions that they should be rubbed down, fed, and watered, before they were returned to the owners who had left them at St. Lo.

  Elaine was swaying on her feet until Desmond put an arm around her waist to steady her. Keeping his arm around her and with their saddlebags slung over his other arm, he guided her to a side entrance some distance from the great, ceremonial door of the keep.

  Once they were past the entrance she quickly lost her way as he led her around corners, up a series of staircases, and through several doors, not pausing to greet any of the men and women they passed. She was aware that they were steadily moving to higher levels of the castle, but still she gaped in surprise after Desmond showed his letter one last time and a guard flung open a door admitting them to a large chamber flooded with pink and gold evening light.

  Two tall, narrow windows opened to the western sky and a view of distant hills. Two matching windows faced north, overlooking the river and the docks. Elaine could see a blue line across the northern horizon and guessed it was the sea.

  The room was sparsely furnished. A large table sat in front of the west windows, with a carved wooden chair drawn up to it. The chair was cleverly placed so the person sitting in it had his back to the light, while anyone facing him at any time after late morning or midday would be forced to look into the sun. A pair of stools were placed in front of the table. A couple of baskets in one corner of the room contained neatly rolled parchments with identifying tags affixed to them. A fine tapestry on an inner wall completed the simple arrangements.