Blue Heaven, Black Night

by Heather Graham

  Elise raised herself above him. “He never did touch me or harm me, Bryan.” It was only a slight lie. He had touched her . . . but never as Bryan had. “That was why . . . I’m glad you didn’t kill him.”

  Bryan exhaled a long breath. “Then I am glad I didn’t kill him, too.”

  “Gwyneth stayed with him.”

  “She did?”

  “She’s says she’s an excellent nurse. Is she?”

  “Gwyneth was good to me,” Bryan told her, reading the unspoken question in her eyes. “Good to me—that was all.”

  He stared into her eyes, and the happiness that filled them rewarded him for the small extension of the truth. He kissed her very lightly and murmured, “Elise . . . I believe you, and in my heart, I have never been happy to kill a man. But I would as soon not hear about Jalahar’s kindness.”

  “And I,” Elise replied, pressing a delicate kiss against an uninjured spot on his throat, “would prefer not to hear about Gwyneth’s expertise as a nurse!”

  “Agreed. Now, take off your clothes.”

  “Bryan! You are one mass of blacks and blues and nicks and—”

  “I am one mass of ardent yearning—for my wife.”

  She should have argued with him. He had so recently been carried from battle . . .

  But she was also a trembling mass of ardent yearning. His eyes, his touch . . . the beauty of knowing that he loved her . . . really loved her, as deeply as she loved him . . . all increased the hungers that she had leashed in so many dreams.

  With only a slight demur of disapproval, she stripped away her tunic and shift, then lay against him once more. “Bryan . . .” She gasped, her mind swirling with delight, as his palms slid with longing over her naked flesh. “Bryan . . . I love you . . .”

  “Duchess,” he murmured, “I do love you . . .”

  Elise rose above him before she could burst into ridiculous tears of happiness. She stared at him with a wicked smile. “I intend to prove, milord, that a wife can far better nurse her husband than any other.... Tell me, milord . . . where does it hurt?”

  He grinned, restraining himself from flinging her down and easing the torment of need for her that had afflicted his days and nights for so long . . .

  “Here . . .” he murmured, pointing to his lips. She kissed, proving a delicious expertise. Then she raised above him again. “Here . . . and here . . . and here . . .”

  A warm breeze caressed them with the coming dusk. The sheets were swept from the bed . . . and she eased all his hurts tenderly until they might have been imagined . . .

  If not imagined, they didn’t matter anymore. In between taunting endearments, she worried about causing him pain, but he would have none of it, and the moment came when he could bear it no more, when he had to enter into her with the sweet rage of desire . . .

  He was sore, and he was in pain . . .

  But the ecstasy by far exceeded the agony.

  In the end, he knew it had been a night he would never forget. The embrace of the night, soft breezes, swirling gauze, his sleeping babe . . .

  His wife. Elise. No longer elusive . . .

  His love . . . a bastion against the past, against anything the years could bring.

  * * *

  In June, Richard and Saladin signed a truce.

  The Third Crusade was over, and Bryan and Elise—and their babe, Lenore—were able to sail for England.

  Neither of them really thought of it as sailing home.

  They both knew they had already come home.

  EPILOGUE

  April, 1199

  Firth Manor, Cornwall

  The rider was gaining upon her. With each thundering moment that passed, she felt the shiver of the earth more thoroughly, heard the relentless pounding of the destrier’s sure hoofbeats come closer and closer . . .

  Her own mount was sweating, panting, gasping for each tremulous breath that quivered through flank muscles straining to maintain the insane gallop over the mud and through the forest. Elise could feel the sinews of the animal working furiously beneath her, the great shoulders flexing . . . contracting. . .

  Elise chanced a backward glance as the wind whipped about her in the darkness of the night, blinding her with loosened strands of her own hair. Her heart suddenly seemed to stop, then to thud more loudly than even the sound of the destrier’s hooves behind her . . .

  She smiled.

  He was almost upon her. The mare hadn’t a chance of escaping the pursuit of the experienced warhorse.

  And she hadn’t a prayer against the dark knight who rode the midnight-black stallion. She had seen him mount the horse. He was even taller than Richard the Lion-Heart, as broad of shoulder, as lean of hip. And, if anything, his agility was greater . . .

  She had never had a prayer against him; he had been destined to capture her heart, and it was as securely his now as it had been almost a decade ago when she had discovered herself to be a wife very much in love with her husband . . .

  “Minx!” he roared to her, and she knew he had caught her. She slowed the mare, and felt his arms sweep around her as he lifted her from the mare to sit before him on the destrier’s large saddle. His eyes were bright in the night as he smiled with warm memory and kissed her... lingeringly. He had been away on the Continent again; each time he returned he was awed anew at the depth of the love he felt for her.

  His smile faded and he feigned a fierce scowl as he lifted his lips from hers. “What is this behavior on your part, Duchess? A man returns to his home after a month abroad—and his wife races from his manor before he can dismount from his horse!”

  Elise chuckled, hooking her arms about his neck and playing with the brooch that pinned his mantle at the shoulder.

  “This . . . behavior . . . as you call it, is because your wife longed for minutes with you alone! Had I stood sedately on the doorstep to greet you properly, I would also have been required to entertain Will and the others who rode with you. And the children would have crawled all over you. Neither of us would have had the heart to send them on to bed! As it is, Will shall make himself at home and entertain the others, and Jeanne and Maddie shall supply them with whatever hospitality they require. And you and I . . . can join them shortly.”

  The last was said with a sultry smile that made his heart seem to quiver like an arrow. After ten years of marriage, and now a houseful of five children—three brothers and a sister for Lenore—she could still merely whisper, or smile in a certain fashion, and his blood would simmer to fire just as it had from the first.

  Ten years, by God, yes; September would mark the tenth year of their marriage. Good years, for them, years of building and reaping. It was difficult to remember now that Firth Manor had once greeted them as a place of forlorn decay. They had made it a manor and a fortress; their little corner of the world offered good harvests and plenty, villeins who served with vigor and willingness, for the rewards of their labor, the justice of their Lord and Lady. There was quiet here; serenity and beauty.

  Ten years . . . so much time, so much growth.

  Time that had brought them ever closer together, yet never robbed them of that first beauty and excitement. Always, to Bryan, Elise would be his Melusine. The magic in his life. Never could he tire of her—only long for her more fully. The blood of kings was in her veins; a lion’s pride ruled her heart. She was still golden and beautiful and seductive and he would find her so all the days of his life. She remained his enchantment, eternally.

  Ah, but the years!

  For England, they had been tense years, years in which a tug-of-war, with neither side gaining or losing, had taken place. After the Crusade, Richard had been taken a prisoner by Leopold of Austria, then turned over to that ruler’s overlord, Henry of Germany. England had been bled for an enormous ransom, and Richard’s men had fought long and hard to keep John from taking total control of his brother’s crown in his absence.

  Yet even when he had been freed, Richard, the handsome and mighty king who had
been so hailed and revered by his people, had spent little time in England. Inevitably, he had gone to battle against Philip of France.

  And now . . .

  His scowl had been feigned, but the weary sadness that filled in his eyes was not pretense. She had made him forget in those minutes when he had thundered after his temptress . . . forget that he carried news that was the most disheartening a man could bear.

  “What is it, Bryan?” Elise cried, knowing the nuances of his face so very well. Through the years, he had fought to spend his time by her side, and often he had succeeded. But there had also been those times when he had been required to ride at Richard’s side. She had learned to endure those absences, because she had learned that despite the scraps two temperamental people were bound to come to, Bryan’s longing for her was as strong as the steel of his sword, as sure as its aim. In a faithless age, he was a faithful man. He always returned to her with gladness, sometimes thundering, usually demanding . . . but always with gladness.

  His arms about her, as he walked the destrier through the trees, were as strong and sure as ever; she felt his love and his need in his touch. But she knew him well, and she knew that his heart was heavy, though he had greeted her with a taunting drawl.

  “Bryan—?”

  “The king is dead; a crossbow at Chaluz brought him down, followed by a fever for which there was no cure,” he told her.

  “Dear God!” she cried, and for a moment she was silent. She had never been close enough to her great giant of a half brother to feel pain at the news, but a poignant sadness gripped her, for Richard had always cared loyally for her welfare.

  The news was astounding . . . and horrifying. For England. For all his absences, Richard, after Longchamp, had left the country in the hands of capable administrators—very capable men, since they had managed to keep John somewhat in check. Yet now . . .

  “John will be king,” she whispered.

  “God help us, yes.”

  “Oh, Bryan! What will happen?”

  He sighed, and she saw the fatigue in his features as the moon shined down upon them. Her beloved warrior was a battle-scarred man, yet time had dealt gently with him. He hadn’t gained an ounce of fat on his sinewed body; his shoulders were as broad as ever, and he stood straighter than an arrow. But a trace of gray now silvered his temples, and tiny lines etched his eyes, growing deeper when he was troubled, like now.

  “The likes of Will and I shall try very hard to steer him toward a decent rule. But I’m afraid, Elise. In my heart, I’m very afraid. John with a crown upon his head... ’tis a frightening thought indeed. There will be hard years before us, my love.”

  She smiled at him tremulously. “I do not fear the future, Bryan. Nothing shall be so hard that I cannot endure—not when I have you at my side.”

  He pressed his lips against the golden hair at the top of her head. “You are,” he told her tenderly, “my fortress of peace and beauty when all else is havoc.”

  Elise accepted his words, loving him for them. Then she asked him, “Does Eleanor know?” The queen had so dearly loved Richard.

  “She was at his side.”

  “For that, I’m glad.” Poor Eleanor! Nearing eighty, all that she, too, sought was peace. Now . . . now she would be forced to set the best pressure that she could upon John.

  “Dear Lord, but I am weary of war and politics,” Bryan said.

  “The king is dead, long live the king,” Elise murmured softly. Yes, Bryan was tired. And the days and months ahead—and possibly the years—would be hard. So hard. He might seek to retire; men would draw him back. Such was the curse of men with character, strong of mind and body.

  He had not said so yet, but he was probably not home for long. He would have to report to John. Then he would have to attempt to keep John at bay, or side with Richard’s barons and the people against him. It would be a hard time; straining. . . tiring . . .

  She touched his cheek impulsively.

  She could travel with him . . . but their youngest son—named Henry for a secret past—was but two months old, and she was loath to leave him, or bring him to London. And in London, Bryan would have little time for her. People would be flocking to him for justice. He had served Henry; he had served Richard. The people knew and loved him.

  Perhaps she would go to London. If he stayed too long.

  But for now . . .

  “Bryan, can we not let the future wait until tomorrow?” she asked him wistfully.

  He stared down into her beautiful eyes and felt the sultry warmth and hypnotism of their pull. She was soft and pliant in his arms, yet her whisper eluded to a promise of strength, of a tempest of passion that would spur him on to distant shores, and bring him sweetly back to a peaceful harbor.

  “Have you been to the cottage as of late?” he inquired huskily.

  “Of course.” Her eyes dazzled in the moonlight. On their return to Firth Manor from the Holy Land all those years ago, one of their first enterprises was to build a hunter’s cottage on a hill in the surrounding woods. It was a place they had often come when the world had seemed too crowded.

  “I didn’t lead you on a merry chase at the moment of your return without reason!” she informed him indignantly. “There is warm mulled wine heating on a low-burning fire that sheds a soft and glorious glow over the room. The bed is dressed with fresh and fragrant linen sheets, and should the night turn bitterly cold, we’ve warm wool blankets. Freshly baked bread, should we be hungry. Creamery butter, and venison stew. Bryan, sometimes kings must wait upon men—and women!”

  He tossed back his head and laughed, marveling at the way she could ease his mind of even the deepest tensions.

  Yes, the will of kings could wait.

  “And to think!” he said excitedly. “I once spent a night trying desperately to keep you in a cottage. And it was a night for which you hated me so deeply!”

  Elise flushed. “You were a despicable tyrant.”

  “But I believed you to be a thief of the worst kind. And you did try to seduce me; you simply didn’t realize the full portent of your power.”

  Elise closed her eyes and leaned against his chest. For tonight, he was completely hers. Will Marshal would understand. Will loved his wife dearly, and would understand.

  Tonight . . . she would be content.

  “Did you say, milord Stede, that I possessed great power . . . of persuasion?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Then shall you mind—if I seduce you?”

  “Mind? No. But you shan’t have the chance, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh?”

  He gave her a wicked, crooked smile that sent her limbs to quivering.

  “For I intend to seduce you without delay.”

  “Oh.”

  He suddenly spurred the destrier through the trees, following a well-known trail. And as the destrier flew through the night, a sudden streak of lightning touched the sky, followed by a roar of thunder.

  Pellets of rain began to fall upon them.

  Elise glanced up at Bryan to find his eyes upon hers.

  Together they burst into laughter.

  The destrier raced on, galloping toward the distant glow of a fire that burned in a cottage deep in the woods.