Lord of My Heart

by Jo Beverley

  His eyes opened, more black than green. His mouth came down on hers, hot and hungry, devouring her, and she sought to be devoured. They lost themselves in this new union.

  His mouth slipped off hers to her ear. Her hand cherished his smooth neck, his sweat-slicked, scarred shoulder beneath thin, damp cloth. Her fingers found the valley of his spine and wandered down it to his hard buttocks.

  She wished he were naked.

  His lips trailed gently down her neck, gathering her sweat as she wanted to do to him, causing her to shiver, heat on heat, wet on wet Then his mouth went further, to her breast to nuzzle softly at her sensitive nipples through the cloth. At the first touch there she shuddered, and when his teeth closed gently on her, she tensed.

  He was still inside her, and hard.

  “Sweet Jesu!” she gasped, and was not sure herself whether it was delight or trepidation. “Again?”

  “Again,” he said, looking up at her with hooded eyes. “Chastity does strange things to a man.”

  Madeleine lost her doubts. Delight, definitely delight. She wrapped her legs back around him possessively. “It does strange things to a woman, too.”

  “What sort of things?” he asked lazily as his clever hand wandered up and down her body and his hips made small, tantalizing movements against her.

  “Oh, things,” said Madeleine shyly, looking away.

  “Tell me, Madeleine,” he coaxed. “A man likes to know how a woman feels. Sometimes,” he added dryly.

  Her head was spinning, her body aching. “It feels wonderful. I like it.” After a moment she admitted, “I thought we’d be doing it every night.”

  He choked on a laugh. “Perhaps we will. It seems a terrible shame not to. Who knows how long we have?”

  A chill drove away some of the fever. His words echoed all too closely her own fears. Madeleine tightened her legs on him protectively. “What do you mean?”

  He looked up. “Life’s a chancy thing at best, that’s all. I could be called upon to fight at any time.” He lowered his head to drop kisses along the line of her jaw. Then his mouth lowered slowly to her breast again.

  There was more to his words than that. Madeleine took a grip on his hair and pulled. He tightened his teeth and resisted. She felt herself stretch to the point of pain, gave a little cry, and let go. He looked up, laughing. “You wanted something?”

  How strange that the small pain could bring back the fever so strongly. Madeleine certainly wanted something. She wriggled her hips against him, encouraging him to feed the hungry ache, but he went still. Hard inside her, but still.

  “What did you want?” he insisted.

  “Later. I can’t think now!”

  “Yes, you can,” he said. His fingers began to torment her nipples again, causing her to whimper.

  He grinned. “I’m not going to pleasure you until you tell me.”

  Then what did he think he was doing?

  But she knew what he meant.

  She struggled to organize her dizzy mind, even as her body shuddered and her breath wavered. “Who?” she gasped at last. “Who will call you to fight? The rebels?”

  His fingers pressed painfully on her, then left her. He pulled out of her and out of the bondage of her legs.

  “No!” she wailed, scrambling to her knees and reaching for him. How could she feel so icy-cold on a hot summer’s day?

  He knelt before her. “You think me a traitor? Then you surely don’t want to give your body to such as I.”

  Madeleine ached and throbbed with a need she could never have imagined. It left no dignity. She begged. “Please!”

  He was half gone in passion, she could tell, but far more in control of himself than she. He gripped her wrist. “Am I a traitor?” he demanded fiercely.

  Madeleine wanted to say no, but honesty is a hard habit to break. “I don’t care,” she whispered, tears falling down her hot cheeks. In the face of his implacable silence she added, “I don’t know.”

  He gave a sigh and released her. “Nor do I,” he said. “But I won’t fight for the rebels. You have my word on that.”

  He pushed her gently back down and moved above her, holding himself high on strong arms. Madeleine’s entrance felt like a hungry mouth, aching to devour him, yet he paused there against her. She could feel him at the opening and raised her hips, but he moved back a little.

  “Please,” she begged. “I need you.”

  “Remember me,” he said softly and eased down into her, filling tight the aching void. Madeleine gave a great, shaking shudder of relief and closed her eyes. Nothing existed in the world for her except him in her. She worked with him fiercely, matching thrust for thrust until she succeeded in obliterating the feverish pain and replacing it with shattering, fear-devouring delight.

  She lay limp and exhausted, felt him leave her, rearrange her skirt, felt the sun bake her. Through her closed lids she saw endless red.

  A fly landed on her nose. She brushed it away. It returned. She opened her eyes to see him, sitting cross-legged beside her, tickling her with a scarlet poppy. “You’ll burn,” he said lazily, “and there’s work to be done.”

  There was none of the cold indifference that had followed their last mating. She felt joined to him as never before. And he’d given her a promise. He wouldn’t fight for the rebels. She took his hand and kissed it.

  She smiled and received a smile back. It wasn’t full and open, but it was far better than cold indifference.

  She remembered that moment when it had all been threatened, but then smiled again. He’d given her a promise. He wouldn’t fight for the rebels.

  He rose smoothly to his feet, extended a hand, and pulled her up, then picked bits of grass from her hair and gown. He put a finger beneath her chin. “Feel more like a wife?”

  She tilted her head. “I thought wives were for bed. What does a whore feel like?”

  He grinned. “They’re all different. Some hard, some soft . . .”

  She playfully slapped his hand away, then turned to pick up her basket.

  She gave a tut of annoyance when she found all her herbs scattered. He moved to help her. “Do you need more herbs? We should be able to buy some in Lincoln or London.”

  “Can we afford it?”

  “No, but it’s doubtless a necessity.”

  They began to amble toward the castle, savoring a sweet moment and each other.

  Madeleine hated to disturb this time together, but she wanted to be rid of all the doubts that hovered between them. “What did he want?” she asked.

  “Who?”

  “Golden Hart’s friend.”

  He gave her a considering look. “It was just a message. Nothing to bother you.”

  He drew her into his arms. “I gave up Golden Hart some time ago. There could be trouble if that all comes out, but it’s unlikely now. After all,” he said with a smile, “you were always the one most likely to expose me.”

  An answering smile tugged her lips and turned into a grin. “Mmm,” she murmured, looking him over. “Speaking of exposure . . . I want to see you naked again.”

  “I’ve never seen you naked,” he said. “Will you stand in the sunlight in just the glory of your hair and let me worship you?”

  Madeleine blushed. “If you want,” she said shyly.

  He grinned. “If you’d understood English that day in the woods, you’d know what I want.”

  “What did you say then?”

  He swung her around so that her back was against him and held her as he had then. There was no cloak to confine her, but Madeleine had to give a little thought to her poor herbs.

  “I told you how beautiful your curves felt,” he said in English, running his hands over her. “How sweetly heavy your breasts. How I wanted to lick their fullness all over and tease your nipples to aching, then suck them soft, suck them hard until you were wild for me.”

  Madeleine’s body leaped within his confining arms. “You didn’t do that then,” he said. “That’s
how I knew you didn’t understand.”

  “My body didn’t understand then,” she said.

  “I confess, I thought you knew the language of love.”

  “What else did you say?” she asked breathlessly.

  He laughed and slid his hand down to her thighs. “I told you how warm and moist you were, just waiting for me. I promised to be slow in loving you, to stroke you softly to your pleasure, then when you couldn’t bear it anymore, I’d take you hard and strong.”

  Madeleine pressed back against him. “I can’t bear it anymore . . .”

  He laughed against her neck, kissed her nape. “Insatiable wanton. Have pity on the poor male.”

  She could feel the bulge of his desire and shifted her bottom against it, heard his breathing falter. He turned her slowly. Madeleine heard the herbs fall but didn’t care.

  Their heated kiss was interrupted by a shout. They broke apart and saw one of the castle guards trotting over to them.

  Madeleine was flooded with embarrassment to be caught in such an embrace. Then she remembered she’d recently made long, desperate, passionate love at the edge of a path where anyone could have seen them.

  Aimery glanced at her red face and laughed. “If anyone did see us, they doubtless only felt jealous. I’d better go and see what’s amiss while you take time to recover your composure.” His eyes were warm and loving, and he touched her cheek gently. “Later,” he promised.

  Madeleine watched him stride away. She welcomed the chance to accustom herself to the wonderful thing she had found, a union that went beyond bodies to hearts and souls. She was reluctant to return to the castle and disrupt this idyll with day-to-day concerns. She picked up her herbs, then wandered a bit more, gathering a few more plants but mostly gathering dreams of a golden future.

  When, much later, she entered the bailey of Baddersley Castle she asked the guard where Aimery could be found.

  “He rode out, Lady,” said the man.

  She stared at him. “Out? Where?”

  “Don’t know, Lady. He went on a journey with three men.”

  An icy foreboding assailed Madeleine. But no. She wouldn’t think that of him.

  “Just three men?” she demanded of the guard. “He didn’t take Lord Geoffrey?”

  “That’s right, Lady.”

  “He must have left a message,” she said.

  “Doubtless with Lord Hugh, Lady.”

  Madeleine hurried to the training grounds, desperate for reassurance. “Hugh, what message did my husband leave for me?”

  He raised his sweaty brows. “None with me, Lady Madeleine.”

  She deliberately summoned the memory of Aimery’s tender parting like a ward against evil. “Do you know where he’s gone?”

  “No. He said he’d likely be gone a sennight, maybe longer. He may have left word with Geoffrey.”

  “A sennight?” Madeline echoed with horror.

  The squire was her next quarry. “Geoffrey,” Madeleine demanded, “where has Aimery gone?”

  The young man paled. “Er . . . he didn’t say, Lady.”

  “Doesn’t that strike you as strange?”

  She saw him swallow. “He said earlier he thought of visiting the other manors . . .”

  “Without you? With only three men?”

  He bit his lip, then offered hopefully, “It was doubtless something to do with the messenger, Lady Madeleine.”

  Madeleine’s fears abated. At last. An explanation. She poured herself a beaker of ale. “What messenger?”

  “A messenger passed through from the queen en route for the king. He spoke to Lord Aimery.”

  The beaker never reached Madeleine’s lips. “The messenger didn’t bring a written message to Baddersley?”

  “No, Lady Madeleine.”

  Madeleine put the beaker down untouched and went into the solar, remembering at last that when she’d admitted she didn’t know whether he was a traitor or not, he had not affirmed his loyalty, but said, “Nor do I.”

  The whole golden scene fell into a new, bleak pattern. As soon as she’d moved to thwart his plan to join the rebels, he’d turned her up sweet and rutted her senses clean out of her. What a fool he must think her.

  How convenient that a royal messenger had passed through at such a time, doubtless just stopping for refreshment. What would Aimery claim the message had been? A request for some vague minor service which would cover his journey to meet Hereward and Edwin? What a fool he must think her. No royal message came by word of mouth and he wouldn’t go on legitimate business without Geoffrey.

  Tears of betrayal burst in her eyes and she threw her much-abused basket at the wall just as Dorothy came in. The woman hurried to pick up the spilled herbs.

  “I’ll gut him!” Madeleine muttered. “I’ll put teasels in his braies so he’ll dance from here to London.” She tore off her kirtle and shift. “He won’t have to worry about the king gelding him, I’ll do it myself!”

  “Who? What?” The woman stared at her.

  Madeleine realized she was standing stark naked and grabbed clean clothes from a chest and put them on. “Aimery de Gaillard, the low, scheming bastard.” She scrubbed at the tears streaming down her face. “He played on me like a lyre—a right pretty tune, too—then sneaked away . . .”

  “Lord Aimery rode out in armor with three men and two packhorses, Lady.”

  Madeleine swung on her. “And what has that to do with anything? He said he wouldn’t go!”

  Dorothy rolled her eyes and poured her mistress a goblet of wine. “Drink this, Lady. You’ve been too long in the sun.”

  Madeleine took a deep draft. She felt painfully used. Then she had a worse thought. All his recent thaw dated back to the time she’d threatened to betray him to the king. Was that all it had been, a way of besotting her out of her honor? Her misery was as sharp as a blade.

  There was a rap on the door. Dorothy opened it, and Geoffrey entered hesitantly.

  “Yes?” said Madeleine curtly.

  “Lord Aimery did leave a message, Lady Madeleine.”

  Hope burst in her, full-blown. “What?” she demanded. “How could you have forgotten?”

  “It is not to do with his journey,” Geoffrey said. “Or not about where he’s gone . . .”

  Madeleine could have screamed. “What is it?”

  Like a boy repeating a lesson, Geoffrey said, “He said he was sorry. And he’d pick up where he left off on his return.” The squire looked at her and added warily, “He departed in a mighty hurry, Lady.”

  Geoffrey, too, left in a mighty hurry, a hair’s breadth ahead of a flung goblet.

  “Oh, he will, will he?” muttered Madeleine. “Over my dead body . . .”

  “Lady Madeleine!” moaned Dorothy, wringing her hands.

  “He’ll never do this to me again,” said Madeleine fiercely. “No matter how my body clamors, I will not be used like this again.” She seized the carved crucifix from the wall. “You are my witness, Dorothy. I promise—nay, I vow—never to lie with Aimery de Gaillard again until he proves he is true to the king and me both!”

  Dorothy went pale and crossed herself. “Oh, Lady, take it back. You can’t deny your husband.”

  Madeleine hung up the crucifix again. “It is done. Well. Let’s get back to work.”

  As she checked the kitchens and the pens of poultry awaiting death, Madeleine’s thoughts were all of Aimery.

  He’d ride into Baddersley in a week or so, and she’d be able to tell him then just what she thought of him.

  He’d ride into Baddersley with a perfect explanation of his absence, and she would happily beg his forgiveness for her wicked doubts.

  He’d be sent back to Baddersley in pieces . . .

  A wave of nausea passed over her at the thought of him blind, or without hands or genitals. She sent up fervent prayers for his safety. “Only send him safe home to me,” she whispered, “and I’ll make sure he does not stray again.”

  How she was to achieve t
hat she didn’t know.

  Someone cleared his throat. Madeleine looked around to see a soldier. “Lord Hugh sends to say Odo de Pouissey approaches with four attendants. Are we to admit him?”

  Odo? What more shocks could the day bring? He was someone she’d rather not see, but she couldn’t refuse hospitality. “Of course. I will come to greet him.”

  The man trotted off. Needing something to bolster her dignity, Madeleine took the time to enter the solar and drape a wimple over her head and shoulders. By the time she reached the hall doors, Odo was swinging off his horse in the bailey. He came over and gave her a familiar kiss on the cheek, then looked around. “I see you and de Gaillard have been working on the place, but it’s not much even so. A proper stone castle and walls. That’s what a man needs these days.”

  As she led him into the hall, he went on about the glorious campaign underway to crush the English rebels once and for all, and to build castles to keep them in order. “The king’s ordered one built at Warwick and is giving it into the charge of Henry de Beaumont. I have no doubt I can soon win such an honor.”

  Madeleine ordered food and ale for him and his men, and provisions for his horses. Odo’s was a clear case of sour grapes and wishful thinking, but she didn’t ill-wish him. If he could achieve glory and win himself a castle, she had no objection, as long as it was in another area of the country.

  One part of his monologue did interest her, however. “So the rebellion is over?” she asked. If so, Aimery would be in no danger.

  Odo tore a large lump of pork off the bone with his teeth and washed it down with ale, half-chewed. He wiped his mouth and belched. “All but. William has only to appear before a city for it to open its gates and beg pardon. If I were him, I’d lop a few heads and stick them on pikes and have done with this once and for all.”

  Aimery’s head on a pike . . . “And what of that Hereward?” Madeleine asked, refilling his flagon. “I heard he was to join Earls Edwin and Gospatric.”

  He turned on her with surprising alertness. “Where heard you that?”

  “Rumors, no more,” said Madeleine cautiously, praying he would say something of what was on his mind.