“Aye.”
“I do not hold your lack of standing against you,” the bishop continued. “Indeed, it makes the man who wants you that much more admirable that he will take you with the little Nat may offer. So, it is settled, then. I give my approval. I think the match a fine one and will bless it myself by officiating at the service.” The bishop curved his lips, but the smile did not reach his eyes.
She felt numb.
Mathilda said, “I think the marriage should take place as soon as the tournament is over—if Oswald is agreed, that is.”
Mathilda approved.
The room tilted a moment, the bishop’s face wavered. A sick dread filled Joan’s belly. How could she escape this?
“Call Oswald here, will you?” the bishop said to the hovering servant.
Joan remained rigidly upright, her hands clasped before her, trying desperately to think of how to refuse this offer with the weight of the bishop and Mathilda behind it.
It was but a moment before Oswald entered the chamber. He knelt and kissed the bishop’s ring, his red hair falling across his cheeks. He then rose and bowed to Mathilda.
“Joan,” Oswald said and took her arm. “I am pleased that the bishop and Mathilda approve our match.”
His fingers locked about her upper arm where she’d bruised it at the fish gate. She pulled away, though the defiant gesture cost her dear.
“Forgive me, my lord Bishop,” she said, going down on her knees before Gravant. “I am honored by this man’s kind offer, but must refuse.”
The bishop frowned. Mathilda merely looked at her blankly.
“What reason have you for refusing?” Gravant asked.
Oswald shifted at her side. She could only see his shoes, fine leather shoes, stitched with red and yellow thread as if he were a lord.
Joan took a deep breath. “I do not wish to wed, my lord Bishop. I wish only to serve my father in gratitude for his care of me when my parents died.”
“Nonsense.” Mathilda tossed her head. “Nat can fend for himself.”
“You can fend for yourself also, my lady, but you have women devoted to your every need. I wish to devote myself to Nat’s needs.”
Oswald placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “Perhaps it is Nat we should be speaking to. I shall go and—”
“I would prefer you do not.” Joan slipped from under Oswald’s fingers and stood up. “He will feel as Lord Guy did for our lady. Nat will want me to choose my own husband.”
But would he? Had not Nat said ‘twas foolishness to allow a woman to decide such an important matter?
The bishop frowned. “You are very sure of yourself. You will find it is best if a man guides your decisions. And I find no fault with this match. Reconcile yourself to it.”
“My lord Bishop,” Joan said. “You force me to speak more plainly.” She could feel Oswald’s gaze upon her, but speak she must lest the bishop prevail on Nat and doom her to a life she would abhor. “I do not need anyone to choose my husband or point out Oswald’s advantages. I already know what I need to know to make my decision; I know Oswald treats his dogs ill. How a man treats his animals indicates how he will treat people. I will not have him.”
Oswald started. “My lord Bishop, we are speaking of people, not animals.”
The bishop nodded. “I find no fault in Oswald’s behavior, and I have often hunted with him whilst visiting Lord Roger. You are a proud young woman, Joan Swan. Your father and I shall decide this matter.”
Oswald displayed no animosity, but his words chilled her. “When another is lord here, you may not be so haughty, for your father may not be hunt master then.”
“Then I shall serve him wherever he goes.” She curtsied to the bishop. Mathilda took her from the chamber. In the corridor, Mathilda gave her a pat on the arm and left.
Oswald caught up with her at the bottom of the steps. He gripped her arm and swung her about. “You insulted me before the bishop and Lady Mathilda. It is not an attractive quality in a wife.”
Joan took a deep breath. “I cannot apologize for speaking the truth. To do otherwise might have led you or the bishop to think I might change my mind. I thank you for your offer of marriage, but we would never suit. I am sure we would both be miserable. Now, I must go.”
He made a grab for her hand, but she jerked free, pain radiating from her wrist to her shoulder.
She felt another pain when she saw Adam. He was sitting beside Mathilda at the head table. Joan’s body, still sore from Adam’s lovemaking, mocked her.
He is a beautiful man, she thought with regret.
Nay, he was not really beautiful. His was a hard face. One sculpted on the battlefield. He had high cheekbones, a strong jaw, stubborn in appearance, but his features worked in concert to draw the eye and hold it.
She had lost her virginity to a man she really did not know. If she were honest, she knew naught of him except she had been drawn to him for all the wrong reasons—physical ones.
The same ones that had drawn her to Brian. Luckily, Brian had dashed cold water in her face with a few choice words. And his men had completed the drowning of the allure by their mockery of her in the village alehouse so long ago.
Now, in trying to save Adam’s life through her precipitous leap into the fish pond, she had proven that the visceral pull of the man was greater than any power Brian had ever exercised.
And like a small cinder, like one that leaps from the hearth and makes a hole in one’s gown, every touch of Mathilda’s hand on Adam Quintin’s sleeve burned a hole in Joan’s middle.
Mathilda. Sun to Adam’s night. Gold to his ebony.
Mathilda’s laughter ran through the hall and straight to Joan’s heart.
What ailed me that I thought he might want such a one as I? Joan thought. A woman not much above a servant? A man this compelling, this powerful, will want his match.
Chapter Twenty-One
Joan waited until the bishop, his clergy, and a few faithful, left the chapel after Matins. A wind fluttered the banners on the many tents, snapping them in a sharp staccato tap, tap. Some men, dicing before a fire by one tent, laughed with a touch of drunkenness that made her hasten her steps.
A woman that Joan occasionally saw in the village left one of the tents clustered by the stables. Now that Joan knew what truly went on between men and women, her cheeks heated.
She lingered in the shadows by the castle wall for the man guarding Adam’s tent to walk away. Surely, he must be cold, she thought, and would take advantage of a nearby fire to warm himself. If he did not do so soon, she would have to approach him and seek admittance to Adam’s tent on some pretext. That pretext escaped her.
Her wait was long, more than a quarter hour, and her hands and feet grew cold. But her patience was rewarded. The guard stepped away, hands to the fire, which put his back to the tent entrance—and her. She slipped behind him and lifted the flap.
Adam turned around. His face evinced no surprise. Nor any welcome. In his hand he held a small package the size of a meat tart. He had just sealed it, if the wax and ring that lay nearby on the table were anything to judge by.
“Joan,” he said. “How did you get past my guard?”
“I waited until he went to the fire.”
He frowned. “I should take you into my company. You could slip into an enemy camp, take their measure, and none would be the wiser.”
“Oh. Will you punish him? I could not bear it if you—”
Adam clasped her outstretched hands between his. “Do not fear I’ll draw my sword as I did at the fair. I shall merely remind him to be vigilant. After all, if I told him you were here, it might not be to your advantage.”
The heat of his hands warmed her, but his words cast a different chill than that of the outdoors. Of course, this would be the second night visit to his tent. Once did not have much meaning, but twice said far too much. To whomever might have seen her. To him.
“I had to speak to you,” she said.
&
nbsp; Adam held a finger to his lips, then drew her past the partition to the back section of his tent. This space had only a brazier that warmed the space without giving much light. The darkness added to the sense of privacy. The scent of a man, leather, metal weaponry, and the damp furs that covered the floor, made it a foreign place for her.
He drew her close, encircling her waist and bringing his lips to her ear. “What is it you wish to say, Sweet Joan?”
His presence was too alluring for clear thought. She pulled from his arms and went to the foot of his bed, warming her hands at the brazier as his guard had done outside.
“I know you asked me to trust you,” she began. His face was in the deepest of shadow, and she found it easier to speak now she could not see his piercing blue eyes. “It was so easy to ask no questions, express no concerns when we were in each others’ arms, but when we were in the hall…when you were walking arm in arm with our lady, I could not so easily set aside the fears I have.”
“Fears? Of what are you afraid?”
“That you toy with me. And if you do not, that you are misled that there is some way to have this,” she swept her hand out to encompass the castle they could not see, but within whose precincts they stood, “without Lady Mathilda.”
He no longer looked at her. He might be in contemplation of his boots…or be thinking of some way to explain himself. Or…he might be stifling his anger that she did not blindly offer trust.
Then he looked up. “Come,” he said softly. He held out his hand. A tempting, strong hand. One she could so easily take and within its grasp, forget her cares. Yet he had held Mathilda’s hand in the hall.
She shook her head. He came to her. He locked his fingers in hers and put her hands behind her, making her his prisoner.
His lips moved over hers, warm, firm, commanding though they claimed her with great gentleness.
“I have taken an oath that will not allow me to say more than these two words. Trust me.”
“An oath?” she said.
“Aye.” His lips traveled along her jawline to her ear. “Would you have me burn in hell for breaking a sacred oath made at the feet of the Virgin?”
Although his words were whispered, his mouth warm at her ear, she shivered. What possible oath could he have made that would have aught to do with Ravenswood or Mathilda?
His fingers released hers, sliding around her waist to draw her tightly against his body.
She could not help encircling his neck. The scratch of his beard on her throat as he kissed down to her shoulder replaced the shivers with a flush of warmth. It sped from her breast to her loins as he moved his body subtly against her. He left her in no doubt of his needs.
His breath had grown short, or was it hers that filled the tent? A warmth within her became the wet heat of arousal.
She disentangled herself. “I cannot think when you do that,” she whispered, afraid the guard might hear her. “I must be able to think.”
“Think about what?” He sat down on his bed, fingers curled on the edge of the mattress, legs spread.
She could step between those long, muscled thighs and wrap her arms around his head, bring it to her breast—
“Sweet Mother of God.” She swallowed hard, whirling away from him, covering her face with her hands. She heard him stand up behind her. He settled his hands on her shoulders and turned her. Dark as it was in this part of the tent, this close, she could not avoid his eyes.
“What is it, Joan? Is your distress thoughts of Christopher? Of Ivo? Or is it because I am a hated mercenary and you cannot forget it? Cannot trust one such as I? Is this what you must be separate from me to think on?”
How could she tell him that all thoughts of dead men and mercenaries had fled with the ache of desire? How could she tell him Oswald wanted to marry her?
“I thought of none of those things. I thought of how much I wanted you just now, and then, I thought of Mathilda.” It was not completely true.
“Jesu. I want you, too, Joan. Enough that I would—” He stopped speaking.
“Enough that you would what?”
“Nothing. We speak of you, not me. What can I do, or say, to make you trust me? Ask anything of me, save that I break my oath.”
“Tell Mathilda you are no longer a suitor for her hand.”
“That I cannot do.”
A knife-edge of pain filled Joan’s breast. “Then we have naught to say to one another. I must go.” The words caught in her throat, they were so hard to say. Nausea almost spilled from her lips with them. “By all the saints, what have I done?”
“Joan, you have done naught that is wrong.”
Pain in her middle held her prisoner as much as his hands on her shoulders.
“How can I make you understand that courting Mathilda is part of what I must do. It may appear to be heartless, this seeking her hand, but trust me that no wedding vows will be said between her and me. But I must play this game.”
Adam drew her back toward the bed, sitting down and setting his hands on her hips, looking up at her. The brazier coals were dying and the shadows cast by their dim glow on his face smoothed some of the hard edges of his jaw and cheekbones.
It was a noble’s face she saw. No peasant had forged this man. A baron’s by-blow, Brian thought—a man whose face was so fine in this half-light she could so easily see him standing, arms crossed on the dais, dispensing judgment beneath an ancient banner.
Did Adam work to attain the honors of Ravenswood because a father did not acknowledge him? It was common enough. Bastards often envied their legitimate brothers.
“Who are you?” she whispered, doing as desire dictated, stepping within the embrace of his thighs. She slid her fingers into his thick black hair and combed it off his face, traced the lines of his brow, his high cheekbones, the bridge of his nose, the full curve of his lips. “Who are you?” she repeated when he did not answer.
“A man in love.” He pressed his mouth hard against her breast.
The flame of desire flared into a conflagration of such need, she fisted her hands in his hair and gave a strangled cry.
Instantly, he set her aside. “We cannot do this here. Come, perhaps if I trust you with a secret of mine, you will be able to trust me.”
Curiosity warred with a need to flee.
Curiosity won.
She followed him, for he had thrown back the partition curtain and tugged her along by the hand. He set her to one side of the tent flap and pressed his finger to his lips. He took a step outside, and she heard him speak to the guard, though his words were indistinguishable.
A few moments later, he was back. He picked up a black mantle lined in black fur, and wrapped her in it. “Hide your face,” he cautioned her.
He took her hand and led her out of the tent. The guard stood with his back to them, and she realized Adam must have told him he had a guest he preferred to remain anonymous. She kept the great hood of his mantle close about her face.
To her utter surprise, he took her to the crypt. The low ceilings in the crypt and the many souls resting here caused her to shiver despite the heavy weight of his cloak.
“Adam, what is this?” she asked in disbelief when he lifted a section of the floor.
“A simple key and a canny hinge. Nothing magic, nothing to fear. Follow me.”
And she did. She held his sleeve and stumbled after him, tripping on uneven stones in the meager light of the candle, his mantle’s hem dragging behind her.
“Stay here.” He smiled when she shook her head. “Nothing will harm you; I just want to close the trapdoor lest anyone see where we’ve gone.”
Reluctantly, she let go of his sleeve. It had been an ordinary key he had held in his hand, one she’d seen about his neck the night Matthew had leapt upon him in the river.
So, he had this key in his possession on the first day at Ravenswood. That meant he had been inside this castle. Or knew someone who had.
“Follow me,” he said. It was less a command than
a request, and he waited for her compliance.
“As you wish,” she said. “I have come this far—I must confess to a curiosity that will not allow me to turn back.”
But she held his arm tightly lest he disappear into one of the dark archways they passed as they walked along a corridor with smooth, rock walls, not made by nature, but hewn by man.
“What is this place?” she asked.
“I believe it was part of an old Roman fortress at one time. There’s a honeycomb of corridors down here. Most have collapsed, but this one, with its vaulted ceiling seems to have lasted. There is but one chamber I wish you to see, the others being empty and naught but cold cells suitable for storing foodstuff.”
“Where does this end? And how did you know this was here? Where did the key come from?”
“It ends at the river. As to how I know of its existence—” He hesitated. “I found the other end—a cave—by the river while exploring the castle’s defenses. I could see no man had come through here for many years by the amount of dirt and debris lying about. As for the key, that was hanging on a simple hook on the back of the door to the crypt.”
There was a note to his tale that told her it was not all of the story, but all she would get this day.
He led her forward and then stopped at an arched opening not much different from the others they’d passed.
“Take my candle and follow the path,” he said.
With only a slight hesitation, she took the candle from his hand, looking down. There she did see a path—a mosaic way crafted untold hundreds of years before. She held the candle aloft, fascinated now. She set foot on the path. Hand at her elbow, he led her forward. She had an impression of walls coated in blues and greens, foliage and animals, but had no time to see much more before they had left the room for another corridor. This one was narrower than the one leading from the crypt, its walls crumbled in places, roots protruding from the ceiling.
He led her along more corridors, each one successively more deteriorated in condition the farther they walked. They passed into a cave. It was concealed by a thick mat of roots that hung like a curtain across its back.
LordoftheHunt Page 19