By Royal Command

by Laura Navarre

  Her chest tightened. “I don’t intend to form the habit of lying to you.”

  “Touch me,” he whispered. “Your hands on my body. Then I’ll know.”

  Hesitant, she touched his chest, warm as a banked fire and still damp from passion. “I too will know if you’re lying.”

  Under his breath he laughed, but it held a hard edge. “No man or woman on earth knows when I’m lying. I’ve had far too much practice.”

  She rubbed her palm against his chest, as she would have eased Arianrod when the mare fretted. He purred with pleasure, tension leaking out of him.

  Idly she traced a scar that snaked around his ribs. “How were you injured?”

  “Why would you know?” he countered.

  “I would know you. You’re like a language I can’t read.”

  “You can read me now.” He trapped her hand against his abdomen, as if he couldn’t bear her touch. “When I was but a child, our traveling party was attacked. Mine is a contentious clan—as perhaps you’ve gathered—and these were men sent by a cousin with a grievance. My escort was slain, and I feigned death to survive. I was only a lad and easily overlooked, but one of the brigands came back to make certain. I recognized him for a kinsman with whom we’d feasted the night before. Yet I waited until his knife was at my throat, then struck with my own blade.

  “That was the first man I ever killed—my own kinsman. I was nine years old.”

  “Sweet Jesus! How many men have you killed?”

  “Far too many for any hope of salvation, though I’ve carried out every penance laid upon me. For my entire childhood, the le Senays of Anjou warred with our Italian cousins. But that’s ended with an uneasy truce, for now. Perhaps you can comprehend why I’m so careful of Borovic. It would take no more than a squabble to upset the fragile balance of this family—a catastrophe we must avoid at any cost.”

  And this fragile balance was jeopardized when I drew Borovic’s eye.

  “I understand you, monseigneur.”

  After a moment, he said in a different tone, “This is heavy talk for the bridal bed, madame.”

  “So it is,” she murmured.

  He drew her against his taut body, until her breasts grazed his chest and one leg spilled across him. Self-conscious, she tensed as her damp thighs brushed his, but he pulled her closer until she parted against him. She’d thought herself spent beyond any hope of stirring, yet a tingling warmth coursed through her.

  “We’re a well-suited pair,” he said, on a ragged breath. “You’re beyond anything I dared hope for.”

  Her nipples tightened against his skin. When she shifted to rub against him, tendrils of desire coiled inward to her belly.

  “Witch,” he said huskily. As her fingers trailed downward, his breath hitched. Below his navel, she stilled, overcome by embarrassment, hand resting lightly as a feather against him.

  His body arched in obvious invitation. Still she held back, resisting what he so clearly wanted, wishing to ignite the same powerful response that he’d wrung from her. When she wavered, uncertain, he captured her hand and guided her where he wanted it.

  Already he was hard beneath her tentative touch, smooth skin stretched tight over heat. When she tightened her fingers around him, a groan rasped from his throat.

  Fascinated, she slid her fingers along the rigid column. His fists clenched as he strained to lie passive beneath her. With growing confidence she caressed him, concentrating on his response, finding her rhythm, breath coming fast and harsh between his teeth. Her own body pulsed in reaction, slick moisture coating her anew, until passion overcame restraint and she rubbed against him.

  “Enough.” Swiftly he rolled to cover her body with his, slipping a hand between their bodies to open her. With a helpless moan, she convulsed around him.

  “For the love of St. Sebastian,” he whispered, fitting himself against her.

  Beyond all decorum, she arched into the shock of penetration and let go of everything except him…this…the two of them coming together in a quickening tempo driven by need. She thrust against him, frantic as he to complete it, urging them both with ragged cries. Falling from her peak, she clung to him, trusting him to catch her.

  Trusting him, at least, for this fleeting moment in time.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The world coalesced around her: breeze brushing her skin, music rising from somewhere below. Lazily Katrin stretched, savoring the unaccustomed sense of contentment and security that cradled her.

  She’d slept without dreaming, tethered beneath Rafael’s body, surfacing once during the night to his silken heat and the perfume of cloves and arousal. Yet now she awakened alone.

  Someone had flung wide the windows, admitting laughter and the ring of steel from the courtyard. Banners of sunlight unfurled across the bed’s azure blaze. Vivid memories of the night flooded through her.

  How could she face her husband—the would-be bishop—after writhing shameless to his touch? Stifling a groan, she buried her face in the pillow.

  A discreet tapping made her snatch the bedclothes to her chin. When Gwyneth’s apple-round face poked around the lintel, disappointment and relief rushed through her.

  “Well now,” Gwyneth said in satisfied tones, lugging in a bucket of steaming water. “I’ll not mind saying that was a fine wedding and no mistake. It beats that cheerless affair when ye wed Maldred, aye?”

  “I dare say it does, but that wouldn’t take much,” Katrin said dryly.

  She’d always been heedless of nudity before her trusted friend, yet felt shy about it now—as if the night’s sins must be branded on her flesh. Gwyneth thumped down the bucket, then saw the nightgown’s shredded remnants.

  “Oho, milady! Lord love us, that gown cost yer uncle a fortune.”

  “I assure you nothing would please him more than to see it. We’ve no sheet stained with maiden’s blood, but the marriage was indeed consummated.”

  “I didn’t expect it—and him all but a bishop, for shame! Did he please ye?”

  “Aye.” Heat flooded her skin. “He…pleased me.”

  “God be praised for it! I doon’t need to ask if ye pleased him, to see the look of that nightgown. Maybe this match will be lucky.”

  Katrin flung the chamber robe around herself and washed away the traces of passion, smiling at the fragrance of cloves and oranges. How long before she found herself with child?

  Not long at all, if Rafael remained as vigorous in her bed as he’d been last night.

  Before the silver mirror she lingered, caught by the face she saw there: familiar and strange at once. Her reflection was flushed, ale-colored eyes wide with wonder, softness hovering around her parted lips. For now, all her secrets were good ones.

  Gwyneth cocked her head and planted hands on her hips. “Lass, ye have the look of a woman in love.”

  Katrin started. “La, that would be in exceeding poor taste! What woman falls in love with her own husband?”

  Gwyneth eyed her shrewdly as she laid siege to Katrin’s tangled hair. “I don’t mind tellin’ ye I had my doubts. Raised for a priest or not, there’s something unholy aboot the man. The castle folk say he’s more warlock than bishop, like the pope himself.”

  “Oh, for the love of God! Pray don’t encourage such gossip of my lord—nor the pope, for that matter. It’s easy enough for ignorant folk to cry witchcraft at any man who dares think his own thoughts. Sweet mercy, didn’t we see it in our own Courtenay priest? He would have burned me for a witch if he could.”

  “That old fool!” Gwyneth snorted. “Still, yer baron gives me a fair turn with them eyes of his. He always looks like he knows something but won’t say what it is.”

  “We all have our secrets, Gwyneth.”

  “Nay, now, don’t fret. I won’t say no more. I can
see plain as day ye’re in love with him.”

  Katrin’s startled eyes flew upward. Dear God, I am not!

  Gwyneth wound the russet hair into a thick rope. “I daresay we came out of it alright, Lord love us! I was that worrit, with ye pinin’ away after that Viking—”

  Her breath hitched. “If you love me, Gwyneth, don’t mention him again. Longing for him could have destroyed me, and in the end he failed me. He chose the king’s service over mine.”

  “Ye waited too long on the rood to have him.” Gwyneth twisted Katrin’s braid around her crown. “Ye’d have yer way, lass, despite all I could say. Mercy, the way he looked at ye with them eyes—”

  “That’s all past now,” she said firmly, chin lifting. “Who is my true love—the man who turned me away, or the one who took me in? We must put it behind us, and be grateful the outcome’s no worse.”

  “That’s plain good sense. Yer mother would have said the same. Of course, she was never one to love where she should either, that one…”

  Katrin lifted curious eyes. “She loved my father until he died, and the king arrived. Isn’t it so?”

  “Ah, Mary and Jooseph, this rheum in my bones.” Gwyneth stooped to retrieve a fallen pin and grunted as her knees popped. “If yer worried for yer good name, lass, ye’d do well not to cast yer big eyes at Borovic. No woman under fifty’s safe from that man.”

  “I have not—”

  “Ye have,” Gwyneth said flatly. “And the man all but pants like one of his bloody hounds whenever ye walk past. Yer husband won’t like to see it.”

  Mortified, Katrin jumped up and strode to the casement, grateful for an excuse to avert her face.

  Below, a band of mummers cavorted around the humping coil of a painted dragon—a St. George play, tradition for the week between Easter and Hocktide. As she watched, a mounted knight clattered forward to “slay” the beast with raised sword. The crowd cheered the actor and shouted good-humored advice.

  She glanced up at the sun. “I’ve slept through the Mass. Why didn’t you awaken me?”

  “Milord said to let ye sleep.” Gwyneth puffed up beside her, lugging the heavy bucket. Thrusting her head out to bellow a warning, she pitched the dirty water through the window. “Seeing the state of that nightgown, I suppose he had the right of it.”

  As if they’d summoned him, the door swung open to admit her new husband. Clad starkly in black wool, mantle sweeping to his boots, crossed silver spears gleaming at his shoulder, Rafael’s appearance threw her into confusion. He was beguiling in austerity as he was in princely splendor, leashed vitality crackling from him, with no less impact on her senses. Her heart gave an unsettling thump of recognition.

  Overcome by sudden shyness, she clutched the chamber robe to her throat and curtseyed with lowered eyes.

  Gracefully he inclined his slender frame. She glanced up at him through her blushes in time to see his green eyes sweep from her head to the bare toes peeping below her hem. Her body kindled as if to a physical touch, nipples tightening against the cloth. He rocked back on his heels and studied her beneath hooded lids.

  For a moment, she was certain he meant to dismiss Gwyneth and bed her in broad daylight. Then a mask dropped over his face.

  “Do I disturb you, madame?” he asked coolly.

  Beyond reason. “Marry, these are your apartments. Where spent you the morning?”

  “At confession.” He lifted a sardonic brow. “While my brother’s guests wallow in drink and gluttony.”

  Gwyneth faded discreetly into the background to hunt for a fresh shift. Privately Katrin was dismayed by his reserve. It seemed Rafael trusted her no more now than before, despite their intimate congress.

  Carefully she matched her tone to his. “Our guests are like to linger for days.”

  “Oh, they’ll dance and dice like merry fools, rather than prepare for the Vikings. The villeins will do no work, although the shire’s fallen short in the tithe and can poorly afford the indulgence. Then Whitsunday will be upon us, and bringing in the May, and my brother will smile and turn a blind eye when the churls worship their pagan goddess in the fields.”

  “They can’t work the year through without a holiday,” she said quietly. “We cannot all be monks, monseigneur. I’ve long been chatelaine of my own estates, so you may trust me when I say they work better for it.”

  “Why, as you say. I’ve no such experience playing lord of the manor, so I won’t disagree.”

  Throughout their exchange, she’d sensed his mind was not fully upon it. Yet he was watching, eyes lingering on her body.

  “I have something for you, madame,” he said softly.

  Suddenly she felt breathless. “Have you?”

  “Come down when you’re ready.” He turned away. “And dressed for riding, if it please you.”

  When he’d slipped out, Gwyneth eyed her with resignation. “Will ye eat something before ye go haring off?”

  “I will not.” Flinging the chamber robe impatiently from her shoulders, Katrin dove into the aumbry for a gown. “Send Alix to the kitchens for bread and a flagon of ale. I’ll dine with Belmaine.”

  Soon Katrin skipped down to the bailey, clad in riding boots and a russet kirtle edged with bronze. Near the gate the baron waited, with Arianrod and his black Ajax saddled and fretting for their morning gallop.

  She skirted the crowd around the mummers, who’d abandoned St. George slaying the dragon for an energetic sword dance with stamping feet. Curious heads and shoulders protruded from the casements, but only Rafael watched her approach. Was she now free of the king’s spies?

  Then she glimpsed Cate’s sullen features framed in her tower window.

  Nay, there were always eyes upon her; she’d be a fool to think otherwise.

  As Katrin caressed Arianrod’s milk-white muzzle, soft as moleskin, she spotted the small golden jewel of a falcon perched proudly on her saddle block. Stitched on the falcon’s hood, the silver spears glinted.

  “Why, she’s lovely!” Katrin dipped into her hawking bag as he’d taught her, for a feather to stroke the falcon. “How is she called, this proud beauty?”

  “I’ve left it for you to name her.” Rafael watched with shuttered eyes. “For she belongs to the lady of Belmaine.”

  “To me?”

  “Don’t look so surprised,” he murmured, mouth quirking. “Doesn’t a man owe his bride a gift after the wedding? Or have I mangled another English custom?”

  She laughed at his wry expression. “Nay, ’tis the custom. But my mind has been so occupied with other matters I’d forgotten. May I gather you’re pleased with your bride?”

  He circled behind her, hands closing around her waist, ready to boost her up. And even this casual contact sparked that crackling awareness between them. She stood very still beneath his hands.

  “I think you must know the answer to that, madame. Would you have me spout poetry like a lovesick swain?”

  “I would, for it sounds most pleasant,” she said, breathless.

  “Then you’ll gobble up all your pleasures at once, like a greedy child.” Lightly he tossed her into the saddle. “Nay, wife—for that you must wait a little.”

  As he swung astride and settled his goshawk before him, she nudged Arianrod to trot toward the raised portcullis. They emerged into sunlight and clattered across the drawbridge.

  Gossamer insects circled above the moat; a green frog croaked. A sparkling rain had fallen last night, washing the world clean, edging blades of grass with silver dew. Dancing as though she trod upon eggshells, Arianrod pranced through the gatehouse to the road.

  Normally the bracing prospect of a morning ride lifted her spirits. Yet Katrin was preoccupied by the blade-slim shadow riding silent at her side—her husband, but still a stranger.

  He’d excelled in his
studies and risen through the ranks like a comet flaming across the sky. He claimed the pope for a mentor, yet he’d killed his first foe when he was no more than a child. Disguised in plain sight as the Black Fox, he’d trounced one of England’s most formidable warriors, yet chose to conceal his dangerous prowess. He indulged shocking sins in her bed one day and confessed them to his priest the next. And he told her she dazzled his eyes by night, yet appeared sublimely indifferent by day.

  Gwyneth said she was falling in love with him, this enigmatic lord of secrets she could scarcely conceive of trusting. Impossible. Yet Katrin could think of nothing else.

  They flew the birds on a green hill in a circle of standing stones, crumbling and mossy with age. Below them spread the bucolic vista of the shire. Smoke curled from thatched cottages tiny as children’s toys, wound about with ribbons of sparkling water from canals and streams. High against the sky the turreted castle rose, pennants streaming.

  The golden falcon flew true, bringing down quail and pigeon, a small deadly fury of striking beak and exploding feathers. Katrin lost herself in the flight as the bird raked fiercely across the sky, bells chiming like fairy-music. When the falcon stooped to her hand, she felt a thrill, pleased to demonstrate the competence she’d developed while Rafael was away.

  He watched her adjust the falcon’s hood. “She seems to suit you. I thought she might.”

  “You’ve given me a kingly gift.” She was grateful to concentrate on the bird rather than the baron’s distracting beauty. “I’ll call her Sigrid, like the Danes’ haughty queen.”

  He lifted an ironic brow. “Certainly she’s fine enough to bring kings to war. Have you heard that splendid tale of doom and passion? Sweyn Forkbeard fought King Olaf for Sigrid’s favor, and sent Olaf’s entire fleet to the bottom of the sea. I trust this bold beauty of yours will wreak no such havoc among her admirers.”

  Shivering, Katrin knew he wasn’t speaking of the bird.

  Rafael spread his mantle over a fallen column where they broke their fast, spreading heels of bread with amber honey, sharing the flagon of ale between them. The sun climbed in the sky and the day warmed around them as the sated birds drowsed on their blocks. She could almost believe they’d stumbled on an enchanted circle among the standing stones, a place where time stood still.