Blue Heaven, Black Night

by Heather Graham

  His quick laughter did little to ease her anger or dismay. “’Tis the first complaint I’ve ever had,” he told her, grinning easily. “But I doubt that you should describe it so for long. Since I was unaware that you fought me, it would surely be true heaven to bed you when you felt the true heat of passion. I doubt, too, milady thief, that it would take you long to learn the heights of passion and desire. You were created to grace a man’s pleasure, sweetly sensual even when the bedding was all a lie.”

  She stared at him for a moment as if he were truly insane, then heard the grate of her nails against the bedding. “I swear to you, Stede, as God in heaven is my witness, I’ll—”

  “I know, I know,” he said, the strong sting of exasperation and impatience deep in his voice, “you’ll skin me alive, feed me to the wolves, and so on. But for now, Duchess, I suggest you shut your mouth—or take a strong chance of finding a gag about it. I wish to get some sleep.”

  She was silent for a second, again giving him that stare that labeled him a lunatic.

  “Just like that?”

  “What?”

  “You’re going to go to sleep just like that? You abducted me, threw me about, ravaged my person, and ruined my life—and you’re going to go to sleep?”

  “Precisely.”

  “Son of a—”

  He moved like lightning, clamping a hand over her mouth, and leaning dangerously near once more. “I warn you, and I warn you, Duchess, yet you persist in testing me! One more word, a scream, a cry, a whisper, and the tatters of your shift can quickly become a gag and bounds. Or . . .”

  Elise stared wide-eyed and belligerently into the dusky orbs of indigo, noticing that when he stopped speaking to grin wickedly, his smile could change his countenance. His birthright had been a handsome set of features; the years had added power and ruggedness. Yet when he smiled, there was a hint of youth about him, and Elise was bitterly certain that many a maiden would find him devastating beyond measure. His physique, she well knew, could not be more finely honed or muscled; and his arresting height and dark blue eyes could surely draw tremors of fear upon a battlefield, as well as tremors of longing from the smitten hearts of women . . .

  “Or . . .”—His grin broadened, and she felt a disturbing flutter within her own heart—“. . . if you are so determined to keep me from sleep, I would not wish to waste the time.”

  Elise felt her breasts suddenly swell firm against the expanse of his chest; they both felt the rose crests instinctively harden as he pressed his chest against her. Even through the fabric that covered the rippling muscles of his chest, she felt the flesh with her own. Her cheeks reddened with horror as he shifted and used his hand to slide between them, finding the fullness of her breast and the tempting peak of the betraying nipple to massage each gently. His palm, calloused and rough, moved with a disturbing tenderness, and even as she sank into a sea of helpless outrage and humiliation, she felt that touch throughout her. Her body suddenly seemed empty without him; a hint of the fire scorched through her in little ripples . . .

  He laughed again and rolled from her. “Go to sleep, Duchess, before I have a chance to set myself up for more lectures on brutality.”

  It was too much. Even knowing she would lose, Elise was ready for battle. She spun about, managing to bring her palm in cracking contact with his cheek. His laughter died as he gripped her arm, twisting it to force her to her back once more. “I’ll try to understand that one, Duchess. But you are too late now for protest and indignity; too late to avoid my eyes on your nudity; and too late to begrudge my touch on that which I have already had. Go to sleep, and leave me in peace. I promise I will care for you as well as any king, and I will save you from the gallows or sword.”

  “I would rather die—” Elise whispered, her defenses draining as her strength gave out.

  “No—I also promised that you would not. In the years to come, you will know that your life is far more valuable than any consort between a man and a woman. Rest, little vixen. It will all look better in the morning. And don’t try to escape me. I wake with the rustle of the wind.”

  He lay down beside her once more, keeping an arm about her waist, and pulling her close. Elise heard only the now soft crackle of the fire, and the gentle whisper of the dying wind.

  “I assure you, Stede, that I will never be a consort of yours! Not even should hell below freeze. I will shortly be another’s wife; and you will be called to answer for this abominable outrage—”

  “Shut up, Duchess . . .”

  The voice held deep and husky warning. Elise closed her eyes and pursed her lips tightly together. No more impotent threats! she told herself. Wait . . . wait . . .

  Seconds passed, and then long minutes, during which she felt nothing but misery. Then she heard his deep, even breathing and she chanced twisting her head to see his face.

  His eyes were closed; his features relaxed. She bit her lip, willing herself to remain still.

  Not yet.... Not yet . . .

  She was sure he did wake with the breeze, his senses acutely attuned from the moment he opened his eyes. But he was truly exhausted. He had dozed so quickly. If she just gave him time to fall into a deep, deep sleep . . .

  She closed her eyes again, now willing time to pass quickly. She hated his touch upon her; the hand so casually upon her bare waist, the arm that draped against the edge of her breast. She hated that he lay beside her so easily when she felt so vulnerably naked; she hated that he assumed such an intimacy with her.

  And she hated that he had been inside her, hated that she felt his mark within and upon her still.

  Hated his strength, and his power, and the masculinity that had so overwhelmed her.

  Hated the fact that this night had changed her so.

  She had been the fool, all along. Life had sheltered her; Henry had nurtured her to believe herself powerful.

  Tonight she had learned she could be defenseless, that all her wiles had led her to enter a battle with the weapons of a child . . .

  She had expected him to behave like a man. And he had. But she had not realized that there were certain men who could not be goaded or beguiled—except to their own means.

  It was a hard lesson. Bitter and hard And the seeds of vengeance would still simmer and grow within her. Prayerfully, when she did meet Stede again, she would know fully well the man she was up against. Never would she underestimate such a man again.

  Elise’s thoughts raced through her mind again and again as she waited. Waited until the fire burned low in the hearth, and the wind gave up its hold on even a whisper.

  Then she slipped carefully from beneath the hold of his arm. Waited again. Slid her weight slowly from the bed.

  Still he slept.

  If she hadn’t hated him so, she could have felt a sympathy for the exhausted lines of his face, only now beginning to ease. She might have admired the warrior’s frame, at ease, but still so vital.

  If...

  She came upon the remnants of her tattered shift and tunic, and she wanted to scream aloud. They were proof of the night, just as the male scent of him that still lingered about her, as the life fluid that clung to her thighs, as the memory still burning betwixt aching joints that ached as if they had been torn asunder . . .

  She could not scream. Her hurt and fury would have to be taken with her; at another time and in another place she could find privacy to vent her rage and lick her wounds.

  Her clothing was almost useless, but she slipped quickly into it. Her cloak, at least, was encompassing, and only a little damp now. As she swirled it about her, she noted Stede’s hose and boots, and his cloak. On impulse, she picked them up, nervously watching him all the while.

  His mantle . . . it was laid upon the table near hers. She took that, too, and glanced longingly at his sword. What a lovely thought to imagine she might slide it through his gullet—or hack off the surging, invading steel of his masculinity!

  She didn’t touch the sword. Experience had tau
ght her to stay as far from him as possible.

  It was a pity, too, that he hadn’t bothered to doff his tunic and shirt. She would have loved to have left him as stripped and vulnerable as she had been. But . . . at least he would have to see his way back barefoot and on foot.

  She glanced at his form once again, feeling another sweep of fury ride over her so hotly that she began to tremble. No . . . he hadn’t even bothered to remove his tunic . . . she had been the one to be totally stripped and vulnerable. Stede . . . Stede had merely been in a fevered hurry!

  Swift sport had been his only concern, and when that had been achieved, he’d had the despicable arrogance to turn to her and tell her that she had not resisted.

  Her eyes looked longingly to his sword; but a heated argument within her own mind at last convinced her that she would rather leave him alive than risk awakening him if she should falter in either her aim or resolve.

  Just as she was about to leave, something glinted, a streak of blue fire from the bench, catching and crystallizing the glow of a low-burning ember.

  It was the ring.

  Her father’s sapphire ring.

  She strode quickly to it and picked it up, slipping it onto her middle finger. The fit was loose, but it would stay.

  She had paid a high price for the ring, a very high price. Bitterness welled within her, but she was not about to leave it behind now.

  She watched Stede as she opened the door carefully, and barely breathed as she closed it behind her. Then she gnawed at her lip as she hurried around back and found his massive destrier beneath the cottage overhang, protected from the storm by the shelter of an enclave.

  Could she control the massive warhorse? she wondered desperately. She would have to . . .

  Thankfully, the horse was still bridled. His saddle had been removed, but she would rather try her luck without it anyway. She would cling low to him, giving her commands with her thighs and heels, and hopefully convincing him that she was in complete control.

  Elise whispered soothingly to the stallion, gripped the bundle of clothing she had taken, and breathed a prayer as she dug hard at his mane to swing herself over his back.

  She made it. She nudged her heels into the stallion’s flanks, and to her joy, he responded.

  Without gazing at the hunter’s cottage again, she turned and rode into the night.

  VI

  July 7, 1189

  The Palace at Winchester, England

  Freedom . . .

  For a moment Eleanor of Aquitaine closed her eyes and savored the sound of the words within her mind.

  She was free. Henry was dead, and she was free. After sixteen years of imprisonment, she was free.

  “Your Majesty, are you—”

  Eleanor opened her eyes and smiled softly upon her jailer. He was a squat fellow of thirty or so who looked much older, heavy-jowled, florid, and half bald. But he was a decent man. His heart and conscience were good. He had been given no direct orders to open her door, but he was doing so, and perhaps taking a risk upon his own head. In all the manors and castles where she had been kept over the past decade and a half, he had been the kindest keeper.

  And he had just hurried in to tell her that news had reached him that King Henry II of England was dead.

  “I am fine, milord.”

  “If you care to leave—to hurry to London, for surely it is there that Richard will go—I will make arrangements.”

  “Nay, nay, good sir. I shall wait here—for, surely, Richard will send someone for me. I thank you for your concern, and for the kindness you have shown me. Now, if I might impose upon your hospitality a bit longer—”

  “Of course, Your Majesty! But of course!”

  “And milord,” Eleanor added, a smile again curving her lips, “if you wouldn’t mind . . . well, I would that you would close that door for me again, for right now I would prefer to be alone.”

  “Oh, yes, yes, Your Majesty. Of course . . .”

  The door closed quietly. Eleanor closed her eyes once more, then turned and walked to the rear of the chamber. Upon the wall was a tarnished silver mirror, beautifully wrought. Will Marshal had brought it to her.... What was it now? Two years ago? Three? Time was lost so easily.

  Time. Sixteen years she had been a prisoner! It was so easy to lose track of a year or two.

  She opened her eyes wide and smiled at the old woman who returned her stare.

  “You are free,” she told her reflection. “Free—and nigh upon seventy years old. Your youth is gone; Henry is dead, and, admit it, Eleanor, Henry was your youth . . .”

  Her eyes suddenly looked sad and weary. The eyes of an old woman. Because Henry was dead. She could still remember the day when he had ridden to claim her. She had been a decade older than he, and quite in control of her own future at the time, but he had come to claim her nevertheless. His speeches had not been of love, but of dynasties, and yet she had known how badly he had wanted her. As a woman. When she had still been married to Louis of France, Henry’s eyes had followed her, coveted her . . .

  He had been her knight gallant. Handsome, beautifully strong, fierce, and proud. His gold and copper hair a flame of glory in the breeze. How she had loved him. How she had longed for him. His ambition had been great, his vitality enormous. Between them, their empire could stretch from Scotland to Toulouse. The Angevin empire. They were ambitious; they were strong; she was in love and there was a lifetime to be shared in burning triumph . . .

  “Ah, Eleanor!” she told the old woman who faced her. “You love him just a little bit still. He could be cold and brutal, selfish and cunning, but seldom has there been such a king as Henry! He lived upon his horse and by his sword, and never could I bemoan his lack of courage!”

  And now, Henry was dead. She was free.

  What would an old woman do with such freedom? The lines about her eyes were as numerous as the roads to a market; her once luxuriant hair was almost entirely gray. But . . .

  A spark returned to her eyes and a smile came to her lips as she straightened her shoulders and spine. She was really quite remarkable for a woman her age.

  Certainly, Eleanor, it is remarkable that you are alive at all.

  Her smile went deeper and she patted at the coif of her hair. An old woman, yes, that you might be. But the most remarkable woman of your day. The richest heiress in Christendom, wife of two kings. She had known envy and scandal, passion and love, bitterness and pain. But she had lived. Ah, yes, she had lived. She and Henry had brought London alive; she had brought poetry and grace to England, just as Henry had brought law and justice . . .

  And the world was once again waiting for her . . .

  Richard was going to need her. The English people had always loved her. They would rally to her now. She would pave the way for Richard’s coronation.

  Then there would be John to look after. Eleanor sighed as she thought of her youngest son. She had often wondered if she was an unnatural mother, because she knew his faults so clearly. He was sneaky, conniving, and self-serving. He would surely be a thorn in his brother’s side.

  But perhaps it was hard to live in the shadow of such a brother. Despite the fact that Richard had his own dark secrets to endure, he was the picture of a king. No one could doubt him in combat and courage, while John . . .

  John. What could be said? John would be the first to run from danger. The first to cower. The first to claim victory and prowess by the blood of others.

  Henry, how did we whelp such a pup? Eleanor wondered.

  He was her son, and, yes, she was not enough the unnatural mother not to care for him. She would have her hands full. Richard on the one, John on the other.

  And Geoffrey . . . Henry’s bastard. She could never forget Geoffrey Fitzroy. She didn’t want to forget Geoffrey. She had lost two of her own sons. William, and then Henry . . .

  Geoffrey Fitzroy. She thanked God that he accepted his bastardy! He was bright and powerful and cunning—more cool of head than Richard, no
t untrustworthy like John. Pity he hadn’t been born to her . . .

  But they would get on fine. Geoffrey—she would see to it—would climb his ladder of ambition with the Church. She would help him all that she could. They understood each other.

  Ah, life! So much to do. And then there was the girl.

  Eleanor smiled. She loved her daughters so dearly. It was easy to extend that love to the precocious little creature who had so enchanted her! Elise was no longer a child, but surely she had grown to be a lovely woman.

  She, too, would fall beneath Eleanor’s powerful wing. There would be court again, poetry again, music again! Politics spoken of politely and wittily; monks and clerics would be welcome, the greatest theologians of the day. Literature could flourish . . .

  Freedom . . .

  Such a beautiful word.

  Eleanor suddenly spun from the mirror and whirled about on her toes, clapping her hands together. A bone made a slight creak, but it only caused her to smile.

  She paused before the mirror once again, laughing at herself. The lines seemed to fade a bit, with her eyes sparkling so. Her features were pleasant; she had dignity, and grace. Beauty might fade, but the vestiges could remain within the heart. She could walk proudly on Richard’s arm. She didn’t need to be afraid to meet the people. “Yes, Eleanor, you are old. But freedom is precious at any age. It is an elixir of youth . . .

  “And though you are old, you are still Eleanor of Aquitaine. Queen of England. Still proud, still straight. Still vital!

  “Still alive!”

  You know the world. Marriages, alliances, warfare, and law—they are all your training, your life.

  And they are yours once more.

  Oh, Henry, it hurts. No matter how bitter the past, a part of me lies with you now. You were my knight gallant, once, and still are in dreams. Yet you and I fought; I paid my dues with these past sixteen years; you pay yours now with your death.

  And I am alive and free . . .

  Once, she had been stunning. She was, at the very least, still regal. Wise—she had already lived more than a lifetime. And they needed her. They needed her.