by Jane Feather
Imogen, her hands shaking, was sitting on the window seat. Her eyes were blank with shock and the aftermath of hysteria. She looked at her brother. "I did it for you, Gareth," she said in a low voice. "Only for you. I did it for you."
"I know, Imogen," he said, and there was both sadness and a great weariness in his voice. He came over to her, took her hands, and gently drew her to her feet. "When will you realize that I don't need…" Then he shook his head. "Never mind. What is, is. Go to bed, now." He touched her cheek with his fingertips as if in benediction, then escorted her to the door.
"Were you sleeping in Miranda's chamber, Maude?"
Maude raised her head from the cushion. "I wasn't sleeping, sir. I couldn't possibly sleep when I was waiting for something to happen."
"No, well, perhaps you can now. I suggest you return there for tonight."
"Why, do you think Lady Imogen will try again?"
"No, but I wish to have private speech with Miranda, so do as I ask, please."
Maude cast a startled look at Miranda, then she turned and left the chamber.
Gareth walked to the high bed. Reaching up, he hooked Miranda's waist and lifted her down. He held her off the ground and away from him, looking into her face. She regarded him gravely, trying to read his expression, but it was completely impassive, offering no clues to his thoughts.
"God help me," he said finally, sounding perfectly affable. "If I'd known how you were going to turn my life upside down, firefly, I'd have run from Dover as if all hell's hounds were on my heels."
"You wouldn't have expected me to stand aside and let your sister do her worst, though. Not when I knew she was planning to force Maude."
He shook his head equably. "No, I wouldn't have expected you to do that. Knowing you as I do. I wouldn't even have expected you to have stayed with Maude as protection until I returned." A fleeting smile tugged at his mouth." That would have been really too simple."
Miranda wondered if he was ever going to set her on her feet again, but she made no protest. His hands were warm and firm at her waist, and there was an intensity in his eyes that belied his casual tone. "In truth, milord, I didn't think of that."
He nodded. "Of course you didn't." There was silence again. Chip, who was now sitting on the pillows, began to comb his hair with his fingers, but despite this absorbing activity, his eyes darted watchfully toward the two figures in the middle of the room. A green log flared in the fireplace. The clock chimed the half hour.
Miranda touched Gareth's mouth with her little finger. It was a light, delicate little brush that brought a tingle to his lips. He snapped at her finger, drawing it into his mouth, and she laughed softly, bringing her other hand up to trace the line of his jaw, before moving her head and kissing his eyelids. She fluttered her eyelashes against his cheekbones and her breath was a warm rustle on his skin. She kissed the point of his chin, her tongue rasping over his nighttime beard.
Slowly, he allowed her to slide through his hands until her feet were on the floor. Cupping her face, he brought his mouth to hers. With a delighted little sigh, Miranda closed her eyes and yielded to the leisurely arousal of a kiss that engulfed her so completely that her mouth became the focus of all sensation, a warm crimson pool of pleasure.
Gareth finally raised his head. His eyes, where reason and passion fought for supremacy, were almost black. Then Miranda moved against him and he could smell her hair, her skin, the powerful fragrance of arousal mingling with the delicacy of rosewater and jasmine. And reason lost the battle. He tucked her neatly beneath his arm and strode from the chamber, Chip scampering after them.
Gareth raised the latch on his chamber door, pushed it open, marched in, and kicked it shut behind him. Chip gave vent to an outraged jabber on the far side of the door.
"Your pardon," Gareth muttered, opening the door again. The monkey leaped inside and jumped onto the mantelpiece where he resumed his grooming, bright black eyes darting around the room.
Gareth tossed Miranda onto the bed and stood looking down at her, his hands on his hips. "My sister may have had a point about witchcraft," he mused. "I can think of no other explanation for this madness."
Miranda smiled up at him. The atmosphere was very different from last night, when everything that had happened had taken place in a mystical, dreamlike circle of enchantment. Here, in the earl's chamber, there was no mystery and no magic. He was a man of flesh and blood, intent and desirous, and she was more powerfully aware of her body and its hungers than she would have believed possible. Last night, she had had no words to describe what had happened to her or what she wanted, but tonight she knew with a wondrous, shameless clarity.
Gareth began to throw off his clothes, his movements deft and economical, but his eyes burned and his breath came fast as if he had been running.
Miranda pulled her chemise over her head and tossed it aside. She kneeled up on the bed, regarding his movements with candid curiosity. Her tongue touched her lips as his hands unlaced his hose and Gareth almost laughed at a gesture that was as salacious as it was innocent. He propped a foot on the edge of the bed and rolled down his netherstocks. Miranda followed every movement as intendy as if her life depended upon it. She had seen naked men many times, but never this one. And naked, he was so very beautiful.
She reached for his lean hips, sitting back on her heels as she brought her mouth to the spike of flesh jutting in a slight curve from the black curly hair between his legs. She inhaled his dark male smell as her mouth moved along the shaft, her tongue stroking, teeth grazing lightly, as assured as if the knowledge of how to pleasure him had been hers from birth.
Her fingers curled into the hard, muscled contours of his buttocks and she felt his hands move to her head and shoulder, the quickening in his flesh against her tongue, the ripples in his belly.
"Not so hasty, sweeting." His voice was a low throb as he raised her head, stepped back slightly.
Mischievously, her tongue followed him, darting to lick the moist, salty tip. "Why not?" She kneeled up again, running her hands over his chest, pressing her belly to his, feeling his hardened flesh quiver against her loins. She parted her knees, taking him between her legs, pressing tightly, enclosing him in the soft, satiny inner skin of her thighs.
His hands moved to the small of her back, supporting her. Her body bent backward as she worked her thighs, pressing, releasing, until his soft groans of delight filled the room. Her head fell back, the white column of her throat arched, and her eyes were closed beneath paper-thin blue-veined lids. He bent his head to take her parted lips with his, tasting himself in her mouth.
Sliding his hands down to cup her bottom, he lifted her on his palms from the bed. Unerringly, she curled her legs around his waist, her arms holding his neck, her body opened to receive him.
Her eyes opened and she laughed joyously into his transported face as he slid within her and her loins joined with his in a fusion so complete, it felt that nothing could ever separate them. Her body rode the thrusting shaft and she laughed again.
Gareth smiled, his fingers curling into her backside, watching her face. He was filled with a great joy, a sweeping tenderness, a profound astonishment that this inexperienced innocent could so unerringly play the game of love. She caught her lower lip between her teeth and her eyes took on the dark and misty hues of a dusk sky. She was suddenly very still in his hands, all movement concentrated on the ridge of her inner muscles tightening around him. Her lips were slightly parted, her eyes widening as the spiral coiled ever tighter in her belly.
He was buried deep in her body, every ripple of the enclosing sheath translated into his own flesh. The world shrank to the small space containing their fused bodies. He felt himself slipping away into the waiting maelstrom, and as he clung for a minute longer, a deep shudder ran through her and her body convulsed around him in waves of ever-deepening intensity.
He held himself taut, unable to breathe until her climax peaked and finally drove him over the edge with a g
reat and savage cry of astonishment and joy.
Her head dropped onto his shoulder, her arms clinging to his neck as her now-limp body relaxed and he took her slight weight.
"Dear God, sweeting, where did you learn such wicked magic?" he murmured against her damp neck.
"I don't know," she muttered. "But it was magic, wasn't it?" She uncurled her legs and he let her slip to the floor. She tossed her head back so that her disordered hair fell once again into its shining cap and regarded him with such an air of smug triumph that despite the languor of fulfillment he gave a shout of laughter.
He scooped her into his arms again and kissed her, brushing her hair back from her forehead, smiling down at her. Then a shadow chased the smile from his eyes, his mouth lost some of its softness.
"I'm very hungry." Instinctively, Miranda shattered the stretched silence with the banal comment. " There was no supper at court. Why is it that there are never any refreshments?"
"The queen is somewhat frugal," Gareth responded. "Some might say parsimonious. But there's food on the tray." He gestured to the tray that as always awaited him. He watched her pad across to the table, bend over the offerings. He ran his hands through his own hair, absorbing the smooth, pale lines of her back, the nipped-in waist, the slight flare of her hips, the taut contours of her bottom, the long, muscled slimness of her thighs.
His nostrils flared as desire grew again, overpowering the moment of regret, the shadow of foreknowledge that had just gripped him. She turned with a cold chicken leg between finger and thumb. Her eyes darted down his body, widening in mock astonishment.
"Goodness me, milord. Are you something of a satyr? I think that's the word I want." Gnawing on the drumstick, she padded back to him, her eyes glinting with her own quickly stimulated passion. "Is there a different way to do it, perhaps? Just for variety, you understand." She tore off a piece of meat with her teeth and offered it to him, placing her fingers right into his mouth.
Gareth took her wrist and very slowly drew her hand from his mouth. He licked each finger with long strokes of his tongue, before leaning over her shoulder. He filled a wineglass with the deep red burgundy from the flagon, took a deep draught, then caught the back of her head, bringing her face close to his. His mouth took hers and the warm red wine flowed over her tongue, mingling with the juice and taste of him.
She savored the liquid, her tongue dancing with his as the wine swirled around her mouth before lingeringly she swallowed it. "More."
He nodded, took another drink, and repeated the process, drawing her down onto his lap as he sat in the armchair, feeding her the wine in sips as she selected succulent morsels from the tray and pushed them between his lips with delicate, dawdling fingers.
It was cockcrow before they tired of the game. Miranda leaned back against his shoulder, her legs shifting on his lap as he covered the soft mound of her sex, indolently playful fingers stroking the little nub of passion, fingertips delicately nipping the soft lips. She lay sprawled on his lap as his hand brought a wonderful, spreading, languid pleasure, and offered only the sleepiest of satisfied smiles when he lifted her against him and carried her to the bed, laying her down before climbing in beside her.
"I hope we wake up before the duke arrives," Miranda mumbled with a sleepy chuckle, turning onto her side, fitting her bottom into the curve of his hip. Gareth did not respond. But he was no longer sleepy. He lay looking up at the brocade canopy, following the familiar pattern of interlocking vine leaves as the room lightened with the dawn and Miranda's breathing deepened.
All his misgiving returned in full measure, bringing with it bitter guilt and anger. What kind of weakling was he, yielding to temptation like this?
He lay sleepless for a time, his body aching and restless, as acid self-recrimination turned his stomach.
Finally he slept, restless and fitful, his sleep punctuated with erotic dreams that were flavored with loss.
Chapter Eighteen
It was close to eight o'clock when Gareth left the house. Miranda was back in her own chamber, her nighttime's absence undetected by any member of the household, and now he had one task to perform, one door to bolt, before Henry of France arrived.
He found the cobbler's shop without difficulty. It was a stone's throw from where he'd come upon the troupe putting on their show. The cobbler was already at work at his awl but he looked up with an inviting smile when the nobleman entered the small dark shop, ducking his head beneath the low lintel.
The man jumped to his feet. Such customers were few and far between. "What can I do fer ye, m'lord?" He bowed, his nose brushing his leather apron.
"My business is with your lodgers. Are they abovestairs?"
The cobbler looked disappointed, but he hastened to the bottom of the narrow staircase leading to the upper floor. "I'll fetch one of 'em down, m'lord."
"No… no, I'll go up." Gareth gave him a nod and brushed past him. The cobbler hesitated, then he took three silent steps until he reached the tight bend in the stairs. There he waited, listening.
Gareth knocked at the door at the head of the stairs but received no response. A burble of voices swelled through the oak, interspersed with thumps and bangs and the occasional curse. With a shrug, he raised the hasp and pushed open the door.
The crowded room seethed with activity. Its occupants were rolling up bedding, repairing the precious individual tools of their trade, tending to their personal needs. Mama Gertrude, her shift pulled down and bundled at her waist, was washing her massive torso in a bowl of water. She dropped the washcloth with an exclamation.
"Lord love us! It's Lord 'Arcourt." Her huge breasts flopped over the rolls of flesh at her waist as she straightened from the basin. Her face was concerned. "Is summat the matter with Miranda, m'lord?"
"No, not as of half an hour ago," he said, discreetly averting his eyes. "Forgive me for disturbing you, but there is something very important I need to discuss."
"Concerns Miranda, does it?" Raoul demanded, setting a leather tankard down on a coffer and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.
"'Course it does," Bertrand rumbled.
"Where is M'randa?" Robbie piped up from the stool where he was grooming Luke's little dog. "She said she'd come back." He struggled to his feet. "She is comin' back, in't she, sir?"
This was going to be more difficult than he'd anticipated. Gareth became aware of Luke's eyes fixed upon him in a less than friendly fashion. The youth set down the horsehair hoop he had been replaiting and waited for the earl's answer.
"I think this is a discussion I should have with Bertrand and Gertrude," Gareth said, with an interrogative glance toward those two, noting with relief that the latter had hauled up her shift and was busily set-ding her breasts beneath the dingy material.
"You say she's all right?" Gertrude demanded, eyes suddenly very sharp.
Gareth nodded. "I have a proposition-"
"We'll not be sellin' the girl into whoredom… Beg-gin' yer pardon, m'lord, fer speakin' me mind, but she's good as me daughter an' I'll not-"
"Madam!" Gareth held up a hand. "I assure you that that's not what I am proposing."
"Best take this to the tavern," Bertrand declared, laying down the flute that he'd been cleaning. "You comin', Mama?"
Gertrude was lacing the bodice of her puce gown. "There's nothin' to be discussed about our Miranda wi'out I'm there. She's good as me daughter." She glared at Lord Harcourt, who tried a placatory smile.
He opened the door. "After you, madam."
Gertrude moved past him in a rustle of puce and scarlet. "Eh, you there. Can't keep yer big ears to yerself!" she cried as the cobbler, caught off guard, made haste to retreat down the stairs. Gertrude swept him ahead of her as if he were so much dust to her broom. "Right cheek ye've got, listenin' to what don't concern ye."
The cobbler scuttled back to his awl. To add insult to injury, he hadn't heard anything of interest anyway.
The Cross Keys tavern was quiet at this hour of
the morning. Gareth ordered a flagon of best canary and Bertrand nodded with approval as they sat down in a secluded corner of the taproom. Gertrude looked suspiciously into her wine cup as the earl filled it to the brim.
"We celebratin' summat, m'lord?"
"In a manner of speaking," he said, taking a leather pouch from his doublet pocket. He laid it on the table, then casually lifted his wine cup to his lips.
"What's this, then?" Bertrand poked at the pouch. "Fifty rose nobles."
Silence greeted this. Bertrand ran his tongue over his lips. Mama Gertrude stared at the earl with something akin to hostility. "What d'ye want from us, m'lord?"
"I want you to leave London today and return to France." Gareth drank his wine.
"Wi'out Miranda?" Gertrude demanded, turning suddenly on Bertrand, whose hand was now protectively covering the leather pouch, although he hadn't quite picked it up. "Eh, Bertrand. Leave it alone. It's blood money."
Bertrand moved his hand, coughed, spat on the sawdust at his feet, and picked up his wine cup again.
"Not quite," Gareth said. "I have a tale to tell you."
His audience listened, rapt and incredulous, to the story of the night of Saint Bartholomew, twenty years earlier. "So you can see that it's in Miranda's best interests for you to leave her to her new life," he finished.
"Aye," Gertrude said slowly. "So the other lass is 'er sister." She shook her head. "Like as two peas they are. But why 'aven't ye told Miranda the truth?"
"Because I'm not sure how she'll take it," Gareth said frankly. "And I need her cooperation. Once my plans for her future are in place, then I'll tell her, and I'm hoping that by then she'll be so used to living the life of a noblewoman it won't come as quite such a shock. But…" He leaned over the table, his expression intent. "You must understand that while her old life is still here for her to slip into whenever she feels like it, she won't get used to her new life."