Blue Heaven, Black Night

by Heather Graham

  Lazily . . . leisurely . . . that gossamer touch moved along her. She felt him with each rib . . . drawing idle patterns along her waist . . . making her burn deep within as the strokes crossed low over her belly. She heard his whisper, close to her ear.

  “Am I hurting you?”

  “No . . .”

  Bryan smiled, watching her mouth form the word. Until that moment, he had been almost afraid to touch her. Stretched beneath the tree, one long leg angled slightly at the knee, her nakedness entirely free of blemish, she had appeared so pure and innocent that he had felt it almost irreverent to touch her. Surrounded by the golden haze of her hair, cast into shadow and then clarity by the ever-drifting leaves above them, she seemed ever more untouchable: a virgin nymph of the forest; some creature of a distant Camelot.

  It was now that he felt the despoiler; not on that night when he had taken her so unknowingly. Perhaps, because although he had touched her physically that night, the woman had eluded him, and therefore he had, in a way, left her innocent. Today he meant to take more. He had to have more; the obsession that had stirred within him that night remained with him. It grew like the winds of the storm that night, and he would know no peace until he had grasped her elusive quality and held it in his hands.

  Now, the scarce-heard whisper of a single word had changed her. The beauty was still there; the innocent perfection. But her mouth remained slightly parted; she moistened it with the tip of her tongue, and the soft, rising mounds of her ivory breasts heaved slightly with the quickened intake of her breath. He bent over her, nuzzling against the valley between her breasts, teasing the flesh with his tongue. He traced a wet path to a nipple that crested with a crimson challenge to the dawn. He felt her shudder, and he knew that he shuddered himself as he savored the sweet succulence of her flesh, swathing her with his tongue, then nipping gently with his teeth, then drawing her hard into his mouth.

  Soft sounds were coming from her parted lips. Whispers. . . moans . . . whimpers—or maybe it was just the breeze, rustling and seeming to whirl like a tempest about him, within him. His hands tangled in her hair as they splayed over her midriff, holding her to him. He rolled onto his back, bringing her with him, groaning softly as he felt that silken web swath all about him, each tendril, each strand, a burning caress to his flesh.

  Her eyes were open now; she gazed at him, startled by the movement. He slipped a hand around her neck and drew her face to his, kissing her forehead, the tip of her nose, and then her lips. Again his kiss was long and passionate. His left hand cupped her head, his right moved along her back, caressing her with the teasing strands of her own hair that so enchanted him. He explored the length of her spine, grazed the curve of her waist, and enjoyed the firm, swelling rise of her buttocks. Then he rolled again, pinning her beneath him. His touch was no longer feather-light, nor slow. He needed to feel her, to soothe the fever in his palms with the soft femininity of her flesh. His hands were rugged and calloused; yet where they touched upon her roughly, he soothed her with the gentle healing of his kiss, with the soft stroke of his tongue. He wanted to arouse her, but more than that, he was fascinated by her scent; she was like the sunshine; like the verdant beauty of the forest. She tasted as sweet.

  She no longer lay still; she writhed and arched to the play of his hands and lips. He gloried in her motion, and felt the strength of his desire thunder within him. He moved lower against her, driven by some demon of the wind to know that she would welcome him. She started, gasping as she shuddered. But she didn’t fight him, and he savored the triumph as he savored her tender intimacy, knowing that he had taken from her all will to resist, and given her the crystal beauty that was nature’s gift.

  He rose above her, laughing as her eyes met his, then fell as a rose flush touched her cheeks. He caught her with his kiss again, and she tasted the fervor of his passion. She did not remember wanting him there, yet he was between her thighs, and she had wrapped her limbs around him. The sweetness had invaded her completely; it burned, it raged. It was so wonderful that it was a strange agony, yet she did not want it to end. Her fingers dug into his arms, and she was awed by the hardness and power of them. She returned his kiss with a fervor that also awed her; she wanted to taste him, to feel him against her. Even now he teased her, moving against her, hard and potent, yet not coming into her, not soothing that center of the burning sweetness . . .

  She ran her fingers over his back and faltered at the bandage. She trod tenderly there, touched flesh once more, and found his buttocks. They, too, were hard and firm and rock-muscled. She pressed against them, and at last he moved. The essence of pleasure itself could be heard in her shudder, her gasp.

  She had welcomed him, wanted him, craved him. A liquid, warm, embracing shield. He wanted to go slowly, to assure himself further that she would know the exquisite joy they could reach together. But his own need, held in careful abatement for so long, rose to engulf him. Desire drove him to a hell-bent rhythm, with shuddering strokes that invaded and sought. But it didn’t matter, for she was ready to meet him. He knew with a satisfaction that was ambrosial that her hips writhed and undulated beneath his. Her soft cries were the loveliest melody; her hands, so uninhibited upon him, were the closest thing to heaven that he had ever known.

  And then he felt her tense beneath him; shudder after shudder gripped her. Her cry was almost startled, yet it was a gasp that tapered to a soft moan. He allowed all that was within to explode like burning oil, and then the guttural groan of replete satisfaction that he heard was his own.

  She was curled quickly to herself with her back against him, but not away from him. He lay staring up at the leaves again, glad that she was not looking at him, for he could not wipe the grin of smug pleasure from his face.

  Elise shivered slightly; the breeze had suddenly become cool. She could feel things again, things other than the flesh and substance of the man beside her. She needed the breeze to cool her, yet she did not want it to sweep away the lingering sensation.

  Sweet, sweet promise had been fulfilled. The wonder was awesome; it was the most delicious thing she had ever known. It had left her exhausted, and so contrarily feeling wonderful, powerful, complete in a way she had never even imagined. She felt drunk with it, drunk with the pleasure and satiation. He had been the wine, the nectar. Magnificent to touch, to feel. She had forgotten their quarrel, forsaken her resentment. That he was Bryan Stede and she his unwilling bride had lost all truth. She had only known that he was beautiful as only a man could be, and he had been totally hers to enjoy and admire and hold; all of him with all of herself.

  It was only now that she could begin to feel regret. Now that the magical colors of dawn had faded to the cool, clear brilliance of naked day. Nothing had changed; he was still the king’s hardened warrior, a knight eager for battle, taking time out to assuage his lust for lands and wealth.

  It was little more than a pleasant boon that he could assuage his lust for his rebellious wife at the same time.

  She was wrong, she thought bitterly. Things had changed. She could no longer call herself his “unwilling” bride. She couldn’t have fought him any further, but she might have been “resigned” rather than been torridly eager.

  Yet she knew even then, deep in her heart, that it was not the easy conquest of her senses that plagued her. She loved the new feeling and the new knowledge; that sense of promise had teased her for so very long. What hurt, what grazed so roughly against the fabric of her heart, was jealousy. They would go on to Cornwall. Bryan would see to his affairs with stern determination. And then he would be gone. Being with God only knew how many women, just as he had been with her. Then, of course, there was Gwyneth. Gwyneth . . . who had shared an affair with Bryan that had never been a secret. An affair which, it appeared, neither of them saw any sense in ending . . .

  Elise closed her eyes in sudden misery. She didn’t want to think of Gwyneth and Bryan. Not the way that they had been. Not sharing intimacies that she had never even imagin
ed. . .

  She swallowed, forcing herself to open her eyes to the day. She was not a timid fool; she was a duchess in her own right, and she would not tolerate an affair conducted before her eyes. The future seemed to loom ahead with new misery, but she would take it a day at a time, and she would never allow Bryan to know her feelings. If he had found her stubborn and difficult so far, he would learn that she could be even more so.

  The sun began to burn into his flesh. Bryan idly touched the lock of hair that waved over the rounded curve of her hip, then stroked the flesh beneath it. He wanted to pull her around to face him, but then thought better of it.

  “Elise?” he said quietly. She either murmured or grunted an acknowledgment, and he continued with the question that had never ceased to haunt him. “Why did you steal Henry’s ring and tell me all those absurd lies?”

  He felt her freeze against him, and then she laughed softly, the sound barely hinting of her bitterness. “Do you know, Stede, that the truth wouldn’t matter in the least now?”

  “Then tell me,” he urged.

  “Stede,” she replied to him in a tone so low it was a whisper, “you have everything: land, titles, wealth. You . . . even have me. Submissive, quiet. Montoui . . . all that was mine, mine to give, you have taken. But the answer to that secret . . . it is something that you cannot take. It is still mine; it is a secret that I intend to keep, which I must keep.”

  He was still and silent for a long moment. Then she felt him roll away. She closed her eyes, wondering how she could have known a pleasure beyond imagination one minute, then find herself cast into despair the next. She felt numb. She heard the sounds of his movement as he dressed and went to the horses, yet they did not touch her mind . . .

  Until he returned to her, planting one booted foot on either side of her hip as he stared down at her, his eyes blank. She started, staring up at him, wishing that she could hide more of her nudity with the cloak of her hair.

  He dropped something before her. Stunned and uneasy, she followed its fall.

  It was the ring. Henry’s sapphire ring.

  “You bartered a lot for it,” he told her bluntly. “You might as well wear it.”

  “Where—” she began, but he cut her off curtly.

  “I found it in one of your trunks before you returned to Montoui.”

  “How dare you go through my things!”

  He shrugged indifferently. “I felt I needed to know more about you—and I wasn’t expecting a pleasant conversation.”

  Elise clenched her jaw tightly and stared up with her silent hostility burning brilliantly in her eyes. Remorse set in again. How could she have allowed this . . . cold, arrogant—ruthless!—warrior to touch her as he had! At that moment, she wanted desperately to crawl away with shame. She hadn’t allowed him, she had invited him, giving way to his every intimacy.

  “Wear the ring,” he repeated.

  “I can’t wear the ring!” she snapped. “Have you forgotten? There are others who know it belonged to Henry.”

  He laughed with no humor. “You can wear the ring, Elise. When you so hastily departed London, I felt obliged to explain our first meeting to Richard. Our king had a rather strange reaction. He was totally silent, quite unlike Richard. Then he bade me to go with Godspeed—after telling me when I must return to his service, of course—and he said something rather peculiar. He said that you should wear the ring; if anyone should ask you about it, you are to say that it was a wedding gift from him.”

  She tore her eyes from Bryan’s and stared at the ring. She picked it up and slipped it on her finger.

  “Get dressed,” he told her curtly. “We’ve lost half the morning.”

  “Not by my choosing,” she bit out in return. “And if you want me up, I suggest that you move.”

  He stepped over her and walked back to saddle the horses.

  Elise rose and hurried to her shift. It was sopping wet, and without the packhorse, she had no other. She sighed, rang it out, and donned her tunic. The rough wool chafed her skin, flesh that seemed especially tender and sensitive now.

  She would endure the discomfort, she decided wryly. She was going to learn to endure a lot, and somehow she was going to come out of it with her dignity and pride restored.

  Her hair was badly tangled. She tried to smooth it with her fingers and braid it, but the tendrils kept escaping. She felt him behind her, and she stiffened, but did not protest against his touch. In a matter of minutes he had tamed the unruly mass and she wondered at his proficiency with a woman’s hair. “Let’s be on our way,” he told her. “We will stop to eat after we’ve traveled a distance.”

  “I am not hungry,” she said tonelessly, and stepping away from him, she mounted her mare and gazed down at him coolly, waiting.

  They did not stop until they reached the cottage where Elise had mounted his destrier to escape, and Elise marveled at the difference in herself between then and now. Then . . . she had made her last, desperate bid for freedom, and learned that worse things could happen to her than her marriage. And now she was resigned.

  The old crone who owned the cottage fed them a meal of wild hare roasted over her fire. The meat was tough and stringy, but it was hot, and Elise discovered then that she was very hungry. But they did not tarry long; Bryan paid the old woman for the meal and for her care of the packhorse, and they were on their way once again.

  They stayed that night in an inn by the Channel at Barfleur. The room was a small, stuffy cubicle in the loft, but it was all that was available. Elise fell upon the lumpy straw bed, utterly exhausted. She was asleep before Bryan had doused the single candle allotted them. When she awoke, he was gone from the chamber. He returned to tell her that their passage was arranged.

  The Channel was calm that day. Dead calm, and silent. They crossed in a matter of hours. Bryan was anxious to move onward, so they did not linger at all, but started riding the northeastern trail. That night they were welcomed into the manor home of Sir Denholm Ellis. Sir Denholm was nearing his eightieth year; he had ridden on a Crusade with Eleanor of Aquitaine when she had been the Queen of France, and he enlivened their evening meal with stories of Eleanor’s courage.

  The manor was small, but well kept, and staffed with efficient servants. Elise was able to indulge in a long bath and wash the leaves and forest dust from her hair. “’Tis good you’ve come here, milady,” Mathilde, Sir Denholm’s young housekeeper, told her. “Ye’ll not be enjoying much luxury in the days to come.”

  “Why do you say that?” Elise queried.

  Mathilde chuckled. “The lands in Cornwall be vast, milady, and rich, but . . . the old lord has been dead a long time now, and his steward was a lazy chap to begin with. You won’t find much of a welcome awaiting you.”

  Elise silently digested Mathilde’s words, easing herself more deeply into the water. What were they coming to?

  She was still in the bath when Bryan entered the room, his presence filling it. Apparently he had bathed elsewhere, for he was dressed in a fresh white tunic, and nothing more. Mathilde blushed and chuckled and made a hasty exit.

  “We leave early,” Bryan told Elise. She heard him doff the tunic and climb into the large bed that awaited them. Elise hesitated, but heard no sound from him. She rose from the bath and wrapped herself in a linen towel, then dragged a chair by the fire, where she combed her hair, allowing the warmth to dry it. She stayed at the task, becoming involved with it, until she jumped, hearing Bryan’s voice.

  “Come to bed, Elise!”

  She did, and when his arms reached out for her, she had no wish to turn away. The room darkened as the fire burned lower and lower in the grate, and in the darkness she gave way to temptation to touch him in return. Their lovemaking was all the sweeter, yet when he held her close in the aftermath, she again knew a feeling of dismay.

  She found comfort in the strength of his hands upon her. It was good to lie beside him, to feel his hair-roughened legs entwined with hers.

  She was
going to be empty when he left her.

  * * *

  It was well past midnight, the witching hour, Elise thought when they came upon Firth Manor. Elise didn’t think she had ever been so tired in the whole of her life; they had been riding since dawn. With their land in reach, Bryan had been loath to stop, and Elise, determined to match at any endeavor, had stubbornly refused to ask that they stop and rest. The rain, a slow, miserable drizzle, had begun at about dusk, and now, as they came upon the home he had so persistently dragged her to, she did not know if she longed to laugh or cry.

  The moon—when it broke through the drizzle and clouds—was full. The house rose out of wild and overgrown shrubbery like a dark monster, empty and lifeless. It was a Norman edifice, built of stone, half castle, half manor, and in daylight it might boast a pleasant architectural grace with its high arches and jutting towers.

  But now, it appeared nothing less than harsh and forbidding, a reminder of the time more than a century ago when the Normans under William the Conqueror had battled hard to quell the Saxons.

  Bryan began to swear softly beneath his breath. He stopped at the gatehouse, but no one answered his knock, and when he barged inside, he found nothing but a filthy hovel. He came back outside to his bride, waiting upon her horse, sodden and weary.

  “We’ll go up to the main house,” he told her with a scowl.

  They rode in silence. The path was overgrown with weeds. The door hung open. Bryan entered and worked in the darkness while Elise leaned wearily against the door. At least here she was out of the never-ending drizzle.

  The kindling was as damp and dreary as the night, but Bryan at last managed to get a sooty fire going. Acrid smoke filled the hall with a dismal glow.

  Once . . . once the manor had been grand. The hall was large; the fireplace had been sculpted of stone. Many glass-paned windows, some in beautifully stained colors, still remained.