by Jo Beverley
Water from his hair formed a rivulet in the cleft of his spine. It ran all the way down to his buttocks. Madeleine found herself imagining catching those drops of water on her tongue, running her tongue up that sensuous valley to the nape of his neck . . .
She clapped her hand over her mouth and shut her eyes. What a thing to think!
She heard something and opened her eyes. He was gone, leaving only ripples, and so were the deer. Had such a little noise alarmed them?
The spell was broken. Madeleine hurriedly retreated and leaned against a tree—weak, breathless, and ashamed of herself. How extraordinary and dreamlike that had all been, and how wicked her thoughts. She would have to confess them.
She wouldn’t dare!
Who could he have been? There were no noble Englishmen left in this area. She could almost believe him of the faery world—a river prince, a forest king. Hadn’t she seen dark marks on his body which were surely magical?
She didn’t dare investigate the river plants today. She might be enchanted and dragged down into the water to live as captive to a faery prince.
It wasn’t fear she felt.
To be such a man’s captive . . .
She tiptoed away from the river back toward Dorothy and Conrad. And safety. Safety from faeries and her own wanton weakness—
She was seized. A hand clapped over her mouth. She was entangled in a cloak. In a second, Madeleine found herself pinioned by a strong arm with her back against her captor, silenced by a large, calloused hand.
Her fantasy had become terrifying reality, and this was no faery prince. She struggled and tried to scream. He was Saxon. He’d slit her throat!
He said something she could not understand, but the gentle tone calmed her, and she stopped her futile struggle, though her heart still raced and tremors shook her.
He continued to speak in the soft, burred English Madeleine heard all day but hardly understood as yet, despite her lessons with the local priest. Looking as she did, he doubtless thought her one of the castle maids. She must keep up the pretense. He was surely an English outlaw, and if he realized she was Norman he would slit her throat.
It was hard to believe he was the enemy, however, for his soothing voice smoothed away her fears. The voice, the cloak, the heat of his body behind her, his arm around her, all made her somnolent, as if he were casting a spell.
Perhaps he was.
Was he still naked? She imagined him naked behind her, his wonderful body separated from hers by only two layers of cloth. Trembles started which had nothing to do with fear.
Held as she was, she could see nothing of him, just the path ahead—ground kept barren by the regular wearing of feet, the arch of trees in leaf, yellow and white flowers blooming among the undergrowth. She heard the singing of birds, the humming of insects, and the murmur of his entrancing voice.
He said something else, and cautiously slid his hand from her lips. She guessed he had told her not to cry out. She licked her lips and tasted him upon them. His hand slid down her neck, then up again to gently press her head back against his chest. Still she could see nothing of him, but beneath her hair she felt cloth. It disappointed her that he was dressed. At that thought heat rose in her cheeks . . .
He laughed softly and murmured again as his hand stroked down her stretched neck like a trail of fire. Then it traveled further, to rest hot over her right breast.
Madeleine gave a breathy moan. Even through her kirtle and the cloak she could feel the heat from that hand as if it lay against her bare skin. Her nipple swelled into a point of unbearable sensitivity, and his hand moved in slow butterfly circles as if he knew. She imagined that deep murmuring voice was speaking of love and sinful delights . . .
She ached with a need to respond, to reach up and hold his hand against her, to turn and kiss him, but she was caught in the cloak. She wanted to speak but dared not, for then he would know she was Norman.
His right hand moved again, leaving her breast bereft. Now, following the path of her desire, it slid down to the juncture of her thighs, cupped and pressed her there. She made a wordless protest and moved back, but there was nowhere to go, and her wicked body did not really want to escape . . .
She stifled a betraying plea even as her body moved against his hand.
He laughed and blew softly over her heated cheek.
Then he picked up his spells again as his hand slid up her body, over her left breast to her neck. His fingers trailed to her nape, and he lifted her damp, heavy hair. The murmur of his voice stopped. The brush of his lips at her hairline trickled a shiver of delight down her spine as the river water had run down his.
His tongue against her skin was moist, hot, then cool as the breeze found the trail he left. He was doing as she had imagined and running his tongue down the top of her spine, but the moisture he would find there was not cold river water but hot perspiration.
Hot. So hot.
A shudder passed through her, as if she were taken by a fever. The rumble of his laughter vibrated into her. She laughed, too, enchanted into madness. She was going to speak, to turn, to seek the kiss she hungered for.
Then, “Farewell,” he said. She understood that.
He flipped the back of the cloak over her head. By the time she had disentangled herself he was gone.
Madeleine collapsed on the ground. He was surely of the faery world to be able to entrance her so. For all she knew that had been faery language, not common English at all.
But the cloak in her hands told her he was human and his magic was human, and all the more dangerous for it. The garment was fine green wool, woven in two shades and trimmed with red and a darker green. Not a poor man’s garment. Unlikely in an outlaw unless stolen; certainly not faery.
She would like to keep it, but she would be questioned. She folded it neatly with cherishing hands and left it there, then returned dazedly to her attendants.
She had not called out. The Bible said that if a woman did not scream she could not claim assault.
How strange. How strangely wonderful.
How sad that such a man was not for her.
As far as she was concerned, he might as well be a prince of faery. Such men didn’t exist in the real world, the world from which she would have to choose her husband.
But still, she could not resist a prayer that when finally she found herself in the marriage bed, her husband would touch her as the faery prince had touched her, and take her to the end of the magical path he had opened before her.
Aimery de Gaillard chuckled as he escaped. When he’d ambushed the secret watcher, he’d not expected to find such a delicious armful. He wished he’d been able to pursue the matter further—a great deal further. She had a lovely, luscious body, and a responsive one.
At first he’d assumed she was a local wench, but he’d soon guessed she was Norman, probably one of Dame Celia’s women. Few English had that dusky tone to their skin. Blood from southern France or Spain lay in her somewhere.
Clever of her to stay silent and conceal it.
And she didn’t understand English. If she did she would have reacted when he described all the wonderful things he wanted to do with her body. He laughed again. If she ever learned the language and remembered some of the things he’d said, she’d be after him with a gelding knife.
He’d not even been able to steal a kiss for fear of her seeing him up close. Aimery de Gaillard had no business on Baddersley land, and he wanted no connection made between him and a certain Edwald, an outlaw who helped the people against the Norman oppressors.
An older, bearded man emerged from among the trees. “Taking your time, aren’t you? Why’re you grinning like a fool?”
“Just the pleasure of the swim, Gyrth,” said Aimery. “It’s a joy to be clean again.”
Gyrth was Hereward’s man, but he’d been appointed to attend Aimery during his youthful visits to England. It was Gyrth who’d taught Aimery English skills and English ways—the reverence for custom, the
importance of discussion, the stoical acceptance of wyrd.
When Gyrth had turned up at Rolleston, Aimery had known Hereward was back in England and planning resistance. Aimery’s duty to William said he should hand Gyrth over to the king, but instead he had accepted him without question. Gyrth was doubtless part missionary and part spy, but he was also Aimery’s link to the English way of thinking. He needed that as he tried to explain the new Norman laws and customs to the ordinary folk to help them to survive invasion.
It had been Gyrth’s idea, for example, that they go around this part of England disguised as ragged outlaws. It was a dangerous plan but had proved useful. Though Aimery de Gaillard looked English and spoke the tongue, the English knew him for what he was—a Norman, an enemy. As Edwald the outlaw he was accepted and heard the truth. Many places were doing well under Norman lords, but some were suffering, as here at Baddersley.
“What you going to do about this place then?” Gyrth asked.
“I’m not sure what more I can do.” Aimery buckled on his belt and knelt to cross-lace his braies. “I’ve explained the villagers’ rights to the headman. If abuses continue, he should make petition to the king.”
“And de Pouissey’ll let him go off to Winchester and complain?” said Gyrth with a sneer.
“William’s always on the move. He’ll come this way.”
“And treat that devil as he deserves?”
“And correct injustices,” said Aimery firmly as he stood. “William seeks to rule his people in justice. Constant unrest is not making that easy.”
Gyrth grinned. “It’s not supposed to make it easy. It’s supposed to send the Bastard back where he belongs.”
“Dreams, Gyrth. William’s fixed in England like a mighty oak, and he’ll bring hell on it before he gives up an acre. But he’s dealing fairly with all who accept him. If Hereward swears allegiance, he’ll receive some of his land back.”
“Receive back,” Gyrth echoed in disgust. “A man’s land is his land. Not the king’s to give and take.”
“Not under Norman law, and a rebel’s land has always been subject to forfeit. William is respecting the rights of loyal men.”
“What of a man’s right to be free? I hear tell a lord over Banbury way’s making slaves of any freemen he finds and setting them to work. Where’s your just king in all that?”
Aimery faced him. “William can’t know everything.”
“He can be told. By you, perhaps. If you insist on living on both sides you can make yourself useful at least.”
It was a challenge. Aimery nodded. “Indeed I can. We have time to visit Banbury before returning to Rolleston. We’ll go there tomorrow and see exactly what’s going on.” He looked down ruefully at his clean body and clothing. “I wouldn’t have washed if I’d known, though.”
As he bundled up the rough clothing he wore as an outlaw, Aimery noted the satisfied look on Gyrth’s face. “We go to observe and report, not to take action. I’ll not be pushed into committing treason, Gyrth.”
“So who’s pushing?” asked Gyrth innocently.
Aimery shook his head and turned to lead the way to their camp.
“You’ve left your cloak somewhere,” Gyrth said.
Aimery grinned. “So I have. Hold on.”
As he returned, Aimery pressed his cloak to his face and smelled the same soft perfume he’d inhaled from her skin. Rosemary and verbena, perhaps.
Gyrth looked at him and leered. “So that’s what took you so long. You must be a fast worker, lad, but was it worth the risk? I thought you didn’t want anyone here catching sight of Aimery de Gaillard, Norman lord.”
“She never saw me.”
Gyrth slapped his knee and hooted with mirth. “By Woden, I should watch you in action sometime! Come on, though, before her husband turns up with an ax.”
Wrapped in the cloak against the night chill, Aimery lay tangled in thoughts of the dusky maiden even as he sought sleep. He tried to turn his mind to plans of action, but they wove back to the curve of her hip, the silk of her hair, the heated perfume of her skin.
By the Chalice, it hadn’t been that long since he’d had a woman!
He turned restlessly and pulled the cloak tighter. Wisps of verbena and rosemary wrapped around him. He surrendered and allowed his mind the path it desired.
She was comely. Unfortunately their position had given him little more opportunity to see her features than she’d had to see his, but the sweet curve of her cheek was fixed in his mind, and he had studied the back of her neck at leisure. Smooth, sun-gilded skin over subtle flesh, warm and spicy on his tongue . . .
He stirred restlessly. These thoughts were not adding to his comfort. He rolled on his back and stared up at the stars. Perhaps he should just present himself at Baddersley as Aimery de Gaillard and take the pleasure the wench was so eager to give. Aimery de Gaillard had every right to stop in at Baddersley and request hospitality . . .
This was madness. Baddersley hadn’t been Hereward’s principal estate, but Aimery had visited it often enough to be known. His disguise was effective, but if the Baddersley people saw Edwald the outlaw and Aimery de Gaillard within days, some of them would make the connection and talk of it.
It must have been too long since he’d had a woman if he was letting a comely wench tempt him into such danger.
Aimery awoke the next morning believing himself cured. He and Gyrth breakfasted on fish, bread, and water and set out for Banbury.
The clothes they wore were those of poor peasants—a coarse homespun tunic belted with braided leather and, for a cloak, a heavy woolen cloth with a hole cut for the head. They were bare-legged with leather sandals on their feet.
They carried large packs so as to appear to be petty merchants. If their path crossed that of a Norman patrol, it was as well to have reason to be on the road, and reason to be carrying a better quality of clothing than what they wore.
Aimery had to assume his disguise—dirty his skin and grease his hair again—and so the sun was well up by the time they left the camp. He soon pulled off his cloak and bound it on top of his pack, muttering a profanity.
“You’re like a hungry boar this morning,” said Gyrth.
“I could be clean and on my way home to Rolleston,” Aimery complained, “instead of on a hot, dusty two-day walk to Banbury.”
Gyrth grinned. “Or back beneath a certain wench’s skirts. Kept me awake last night you did with all that tossing and turning.”
Aimery laughed off the idea, but it was true. His ill temper was because of the unfinished business between him and a certain dusky maiden. If he’d had his pleasure with her, he’d doubtless not give her another thought. Well, they’d soon be off Baddersley land, and the memory would fade with distance.
They traveled alert for every hazard, for these were poor times to be abroad in England. Because of this, as they walked along a ridge path, Aimery quickly spotted a flash of white down near the stream. He halted, grinning. There she was again, and well away from yesterday’s meeting place. He found her prudence appealing. He’d have thought less of her if he’d found her haunting the same spot.
“What’s up?” Gyrth asked, hand on knife.
“A hind down by the stream.” Aimery slid off his pack.
“We’ve no time for hunting . . .” Then Gyrth found what Aimery had seen. “Especially not that kind.”
“I have a mind to meet with her face to face.”
Gyrth took a grip on Aimery’s sleeve. “Give her a good look at you, boy, and she’ll remember you another time.”
“I doubt it. We see what we expect to see. Anyway, we’re not likely to meet another time.” Aimery pulled free, but he took care that the dirty bandage he wore covered the tattoo on his right wrist. That was always the thing most likely to betray him.
Aimery slipped down the scrubby hillside toward the stream. He’d been well-trained in woodcraft, and he was within feet of the girl without her being aware of him.
She
was nimble and graceful as she hopped across stones in the shallow stream, studying the water. She had both kirtle and shift tucked into her belt, and he relished the sight of her long, shapely legs. Her hair was bound today in a thick plait which swung heavily across her back. He imagined unraveling it and losing himself in the chestnut cloud.
He deliberately stepped on a twig.
She jerked around, wide-eyed, a scream hesitating on her lips.
“Good day, Lady,” Aimery said.
Gyrth was right. He was mad. Was he just going to throw her down and rape her? They couldn’t even communicate unless he revealed his knowledge of French. She was as lovely from the front as he’d imagined, though, with a smooth oval face, clear dark brows over beautiful eyes, and soft, sweetly curved lips.
“Good day,” she said with a horrendous accent.
“You speak English,” he said approvingly.
It was the same voice, thought Madeleine, with a thrill. And yet she was disappointed. She’d imagined her faery prince to be a little more glamorous than this. She’d spent many sleepless hours picturing him as a noble, daring warrior. Her mind had drifted ever closer to the entrancing notion that he might be a potential suitor. After all, it was rumored that Judith and Agatha were to be used to buy the allegiance of noble Englishmen.
But now here he was before her, a peasant in rags.
They were staring at each other like simpletons.
“I speak very little English,” she said haltingly.
He stepped closer. “Lucky then that I speak a little more French.” His French was the coarse peasant tongue, but he seemed fluent.
Madeleine realized with a chill that she had revealed her nationality and she wasn’t even sure he was her faery prince. His greasy hair was quite dark and his skin was grimy, not gold. His smile began to look wolfish to her.
She backed away . . .
“Don’t be afraid,” he said. “What’s your name?”