John twisted in the saddle, smiling. “Welcome to your new home, my lady.”
Peter gestured for John to leave them be for a moment. Shrugging, he reined his horse alongside the wagon.
“We should have been more careful,” she said.
“What’s done is done.”
“It was my fault.”
“Stop.”
“You would have sensed Gilburn’s presence if you were stronger.”
He eyed her.
“Nay. That is not what I meant. If we were . . .” She winced and lowered her voice, presumably so John wouldn’t overhear. “It happened before you left on Crusade. Remember when you were knocked unconscious training? You were sick for days, concussed. You were injured because you needed to be with me. That was the reason why I let you back into my bed in the first place. And it is exactly what I was talking about earlier.”
“Zipporah stop. I have not died yet. I am not about to start now.”
“This is no jest.”
“I was not jesting.”
“If we were together . . . at night, then you would . . . I have had enough of this.” She reined her horse to a stop and slipped from the saddle, walking into the forest.
Peter followed. “What are you doing?”
“Running away.”
He followed her as she crunched through undergrowth. Her hem snagged and she yanked it free. She brushed a branch out of the way. When she let go, it slapped Peter in the face.
“Will you stop.” Peter caught her sleeve and turned her around to face him.
There was a scratch on her cheek, blood surfacing in a line of droplets. He wiped them clean with his sleeve. “You cannot run away.”
“Aye, I know.” She rolled her eyes. It made him smile.
“And even if you did,” he told her, ducking closer, “I would go with you.”
“I am going to lose my mind once and for all, aren’t I?”
“You are not. I know for a fact, because I have lost mine many times, and it always comes back to me.”
“You’re jests are still not helping.”
“I have to try.”
“You need more from me than I can give, and it weakens you.” Her blue eyes searched, as if trying to read inside his skull.
“I am really not that complicated, love. I already told you how I felt.”
“You want me.”
“Obviously. But that has been going on for years.”
“You would have heard Gilburn approaching if it had not been for me. Or the lack of me.” She frowned as if trying to organize her thoughts. “You are sharpest when you are with me. Aye?”
“I survived Crusade, did I not?”
“But I was not there,” she hesitated, “teasing you with my . . .” Zipporah stopped, then waved her hands. “With whatever teases you.”
Aye, he had tolerated their separation until he returned home. He wasn’t sure he should admit to the extent of his needs out loud or not.
“There is nothing in particular that you do,” he said.
“There must be.”
“All you have to do is breathe.”
“Oh.”
“I want you, aye, but I can wait. It isn’t as if I have not waited before.” Peter brushed a fresh line of blood from her cheek. “We should clean this scratch when we get home.” He leaned in and kissed the mole on her temple. She smelled good, as always, like juniper, and some nameless scent that was all her own. She wrapped her fingers around his tunic front, lifting worried eyes to his.
It would have been wise to back away, or to tuck her head under his chin where he didn’t have free and easy access to her mouth.
But he didn’t.
He kissed her instead. And it rivaled the way he’d kissed her in the alcove after the Mêlée. Gluttonous and possessive. Lacking the restraint he’d built like a fortress around himself. He bit her lips and she gulped air like it had been sucked forcibly from her lungs.
He’d promised himself just that morning in the church that he would never do this to her again. But she smelled and looked and tasted too good.
“You might want to stop me now,” he said, running his hands down the curve between her waist and her rounded hips.
“Nay. You need this.” She kissed his neck.
Peter caught up her kyrtle, working it between his fingers. They were doing it again. History was going to repeat itself.
“I cannot stop now,” she said. He felt her fingers on his belt buckle. “Too late.”
She freed it, then struggled with the weight of his sword. He drew the weapon and stuck it in the ground where he could reach it should he need to, then tossed the belt and scabbard aside.
Zipporah watched him for a moment, her breath short, forcing the laces at the front of her kyrtle into soft flesh. Her face was flushed and her pupils dilated.
“I am going to save your life, Sir Knight,” she said, coming forward. “You would do the same for me.”
Fingers fumbling, she undressed him. Somewhere, in the back of his fogged-over-consciousness, Peter thought he really should stop her. She must have been terrified, or she wouldn’t give herself to him like this.
Peter watched his own fingers loosening the laces on her kyrtle. Disjointedly, he lifted it over her head and dropped it aside. He reached for her shift but she stopped him.
Finally.
At that point, he was sure he would go mad. “Zipporah,” he pleaded.
“We’re in the forest.” She pressed one palm over his heart. “And your brother is not far away. I want to keep my shift on.”
It had slipped off one creamy shoulder already. Peter kissed it. “So soft,” he murmured.
“Answer me, please.”
He wasn’t sure why it was so important. His brother would never disturb them like that, despite what he’d told Gilburn about watching out for her reputation.
“Aye. I will leave it on you.” Peter lifted her into his arms, laying her down in the moss and ferns, stretching out naked alongside her. He brushed her braids off her shoulder, then loosened the tie at her breastbone, and dipped the collar of her shift further down.
“Leave the rest of me covered.”
“I promise.” He shifted over her, shielding her upper body with his.
Zipporah traced her fingers over his jaw, his eyelids, his mouth. “Promise me one more thing.”
He kissed her fingers. “Anything.”
“Do not ask me why I cannot remove my shift.”
She had already told him it was because they were outside. Perhaps rational thought had escaped her.
It had certainly escaped him.
So he agreed.
* * *
Peter had hoped to begin their new lives together with vows said before a priest, not a hasty coupling in the woods.
Zipporah pulled her kyrtle over her shoulders, arranging folds of fabric around her hips. She was avoiding eye contact, and that bothered him. Peter moved toward her as if she were a skittish hare. When she didn’t move away, he took up the laces on her kyrtle and tightened them for her.
“You did not have to do this,” he said.
“Aye I did. I will not have you getting yourself killed.”
“Nice to know you do not want me dead.” He knotted the ties on her gown, then lifted her face to his. Her scratch was scabbing over. “You’re beautiful.”
“You seem to think so.”
“Aye.” He kissed her, slow and soft. He wanted her to know how much she meant to him in ways that words could not account for.
She pushed away, regret crossing her face.
This was exactly what he’d been afraid of. A woman who felt the need to petition Mary Magdalene for forgiveness should not be bedding her knight in the forest.
“What’s wrong?” he pushed through a tight throat.
“Nothing is wrong.”
“Zipporah?”
“Stop. I am fine. Just fine.” She flattened her hand over her stomach, her exp
ression changing, almost like a woman who thought she could be . . . with child? Did she want that? She had never mentioned it before.
She turned her back to him, scanning the ground. “Have you seen my coin pouch?”
“I was not exactly paying attention. Was there much coin in it?”
“Nay. Your missive is in it.”
“Did you not burn it?”
“Nay, I started to, but I could not do it. It is in my pouch.”
Peter caught her sleeve, turning her to face him.
“I know, I wasn’t supposed to,” she said.
“It makes no difference now.”
“I must have left it in my chamber.” She pulled her sleeve free.
“Gilburn has no reason to go into your chamber. If anything, a maid will find it and give it to your mother.”
“Or find it and give it to him. What if he figures it out? What if he discovers that I am not pure?”
Was she jesting? There was no way he was doing this with her again.
“It’s too late for that,” Peter said, forcing himself to remain calm. “It does not matter what he knows. Not now.”
“Do not tell anyone about this. I only . . . we only . . . because I did not want you to be distracted. I thought that if you had access to my, well my body, then you would be able to think more clearly.”
Oh, he was thinking clearly all right. Whether Zipporah liked it or not.
“It is done. I am having John marry us. This may not be the way we wanted it, but there is no turning back.”
“It is not as if we can show proof, since you broke my maidenhead long ago.” She crossed her arms over her chest.
Peter felt like hauling her over his shoulder and dragging her home.
She pressed her hand over her stomach again. “Go find my pouch, please?”
“Now?”
“Nay. Next year. Aye, now, Peter!”
It was impossible to say what was going through her head, but he was sure she was acting out of fear. And fearful people act purely on instinct.
Peter took a breath, letting it out before continuing. “I am taking you home. To my home. I can look for it later.”
“I do not deal well with change. This is a lot of change.”
“I know. Just let me take you home. I have to.” The sooner he had her moved into his chamber, with John as witness, the better. They didn’t have tell anyone else yet, but he needed to do this.
“Do I look,” she whispered the last part, running her hands over her braids, “tumbled?”
Peter took his time perusing her. “Aye, you do.”
“I was afraid of that.”
“I like the way you look.”
She eyed him.
“John will keep quiet about it.”
“Maybe I do not want him to know.”
“He will anyway. Trust me.”
She groaned.
Peter reached for her, but she waved him off and walked away. His hand hung in mid-air for a moment before he lowered it to his side. As he followed her out of the forest and onto the road, everything about her body screamed at him. The curve of her hips, the way she brushed aside branches with slender arms. Even though he’d just had her, he wanted her more than ever.
Without a word, Zipporah took up her horse’s reins and mounted. The wagon was gone.
“I sent them on ahead,” John said. “Your mother’s maids were not happy, but I reminded them of who was in charge.” He glanced from between Peter and Zipporah. “By the way, I now pronounce you man and wife. I would ask you to kiss the bride, but I think it is a little too late for that.” He sighed and patted his stomach. “I am hungry. I’d like to go home now.” John nudged his stallion with his heels and cantered away.
“Wait,” Zipporah called, uselessly, since John was already gone. “He cannot do that.”
“Aye he can, and he did.”
“Not without my consent.”
Peter lowered his voice. “I do believe you already gave it, my lady.”
Chapter Fourteen
By the time they reached Ravenmore, menservants were already unloading Zipporah’s things from the wagon. Peter watched her walk past her mother’s maids and into the castle keep with her head held high, even though he knew she was breaking down inside.
“Take her things to Sir Peter’s chamber,” John was telling a servant as Peter entered the great hall behind Zipporah.
“You will do no such thing,” she said.
John lifted his brows in challenge. “I will not?”
Her gaze narrowed. She looked ready to give John a piece of her mind. Peter took her hand, pulling her aside. “Let me do this for you,” he whispered.
“No one knows save John, and you said that he would tell no one.”
“Some of the servants will know. That cannot be helped. John and I will swear them to secrecy. You do not need to worry about your mother, or Gilburn. Let me handle everything.”
“And what am I supposed to do?”
“Clean that cut on your cheek before it becomes infected.” Peter smiled. “And be with me. You wear down my defenses, remember? Do not part from me now.”
Peter wasn’t sure if reminding her why she had done this in first place would make things better, or worse, but he had to try something, and it was all he could think of.
“Take away access to my body,” she whispered.
“It is more than that, and you know it. Earlier, in the forest, you said you were saving me.”
She nodded.
“Then save me.”
She twisted one of her three braids, then pulled a leaf out of it. “I cannot marry you. Not yet.”
Why could she not just say it? Admit to him that neither of them could function without the other. She was pushing him over the edge. He could feel it, building inside. He wanted to lock her up in a tower and keep her there until she opened her stubborn heart to him.
Peter knew she was still angry about the way he had left her three years ago, and understood completely, but it was clear they belonged together, and he had the rest of their lives to make up for past mistakes.
“You have to be patient,” she said. “You waited three years for me. Now you can wait a fortnight.” Her voice cracked. “Or however long it takes for my father to die.”
He scrubbed his face with his hands. There was two of her for a moment as his eyes adjusted. “You can still go back to see your father. This changes nothing in that regard.”
“Sir Peter?” A lad appeared at the doorway to the great hall, a rolled missive in his hand. “This came for you today. It looks important.”
Peter dragged his attention away from Zipporah and took the parchment. He noted the king’s wax seal. His pulse quickened.
“Peter?” John asked. “What is it?”
He forced himself into motion. “I will be back.” He brushed past John and Zipporah, then crossed the great hall to the stairs.
“Where should we put her things?” John called. Peter took the steps two at a time. “Need you ask?”
“I told you,” he heard John say to Zipporah. He ignored her subsequent protest, leaving her arguing with John.
Reaching his brother’s impeccably neat solar, Peter closed the door and sat behind the desk. He placed the scroll before him, wondering how he could have received a reply so soon.
With hands that felt numb with shock, Peter broke the seal and unrolled the parchment. The first sheet was a brief letter to him, signed by one of the king’s advisors acting in the king’s stead. That explained the speed of the response. He turned to the next sheet. And stopped short.
It was a betrothal agreement.
Lady Zipporah of Havendell was to marry Sir Peter of Ravenmore, by order of King Richard. No matter that the king didn’t know of it yet. His advisors had permission to make such decisions based on what they believed the king would do.
Peter’s head pounded as he flipped to the third sheet. It stated that the succession of Havendell was
to pass through Zipporah. Upon the death of her father, Peter was to become lord.
There was a knock at the door and John stuck his head in. “I was worried about you.”
Under milder circumstances, Peter would have accused him of checking to make sure his little brother hadn’t ruffled any of the leather-bound manuscripts on the perfectly straight shelves, or tilted any goose feather quills in a northward direction when they should all be facing east.
Or something like that. Peter knew he was exaggerating. But John’s straight lines had been fodder for sibling rivalry for years.
“Come in.” Peter slid the sleeves of parchment toward John so he could look them over.
He read them in silence. Then he rolled the papers up. Pulling out the key to the coffer chest he kept behind his desk, John placed them inside, locking them safely away.
“Peter,” he said, straightening.
“Aye?”
“Go and claim you bride.” John smiled.
Peter came to his feet. “Should I tell her?”
“Why would you not?”
“She is not ready.”
“Little late for that.”
“She does not like change. This has been a big day for her.”
John clamped a hand on his shoulder. “This was meant to be. The land is yours. Congratulations.”
Peter wished he could share in the expression of pride in his brother’s eyes, but all he felt was numb shock. Like jumping into cold water. He was to be Lord Havendell, taking her father’s place after his demise. Was he prepared for that?
Peter’s mind was a whir of conflicting thoughts. “You are right. I should tell her. Give me the key to your coffer.”
John nodded, handing the large iron key over.
“This way she has some time to think about it before we take action.”
“It will come together. The king trusts you. Should you not trust yourself?”
Everyone seemed to have more faith in him than he did.
They made their way downstairs. Zipporah approached, looking wane. She blew loose strands of hair out of her face. “What is it? Why did you walk off?”
“I need you to come with me,” Peter said. “We have to talk.” He led her up the stairs and into the solar, closing the door behind them.
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