With a man, he would feel confident in his ability to get at the truth. But women were so much trickier, especially this one. Nicola had been used as a pawn by men all her life. She’d obviously developed skills of subterfuge and deception. The only way she could have gotten the better of Mortimer was by being cleverer and more ruthless than he was. Now she might well use those traits against him. Especially if she had betrayed him and feared he meant to punish her for her treachery.
They reached the top of the stairs. He hesitated a moment, recognizing the oaken door as the same one he’d stood agonizing before on that fateful afternoon. Nay, he would not think about that day. Would not let his memories cloud his judgment. He jerked the door open and moved aside to let her in ahead of him.
As Nicola had said, the old maidservant was there, preparing for them. The bedclothes were pulled back and lighted beeswax candles were arranged around the room.
The plump elderly servant gave a stiff bow. “Milord.” She straightened and gestured to a pitcher and two silver cups on a table by the bed. “I had a page bring wine.”
“Thank you,” Nicola murmured. “You may go now.”
The maidservant bowed again, then waddled to the door, and closed it behind her.
Nicola went to the table and picked up the ewer. “Wine, milord?”
Fawkes nodded. The room smelled of the bewitching scent that was Nicola. For so many years merely thinking of her had evoked this fragrance. Now he was surrounded by it. His wits seemed to leave him, wafted away on the exotic essence. As he watched her pour the wine, he struggled not to become enraptured all over again. He wanted to feel those graceful white hands on him. Experience that silky ebony hair brushing against his skin. He wanted, oh, he wanted…
He fought back the fierce urges of his body. Before he gave into them, he had to know what kind of woman he was dealing with. He’d told himself that questioning Nicola could wait until the morrow. But he needed answers now. Before things went further between them and he was completely lost.
Nicola handed him a cup of wine. He took a swallow, imagining her on her wedding night with Mortimer. Arrogant, smirking, brutal Mortimer. For years he’d seen her as Mortimer’s helpless victim. Now he questioned whether that was true. At this point, it wasn’t even clear she’d been afraid of Mortimer. He might have misread the situation from the very beginning. Which meant his dream, the burning goal that had driven him through all the horror and suffering of the last four years, was based on an illusion.
“What do you think of the wine, milord?”
He turned to see her watching him, her silvery gaze as cool and inscrutable as ever. “The wine is excellent. As was the meal, and everything else I’ve experienced since we arrived. You are a gifted chatelaine.”
“I was trained from birth for this.”
Did she seek to remind him she had been born in a castle, while he came into life in a simple village cottage? Or, were her words merely a polite response? Somehow he had to cross the icy river of tact and decorum and learn the truth of her relationship to Mortimer. As well as her feelings and expectations for this new marriage.
He put down his cup and approached her. “Lady, I must know. Are you pleased to have wed me?”
She didn’t hesitate. “Of course, milord.”
The words told him nothing. Her composed and elegant countenance told him less. And standing this close to her, he could again feel himself slipping under her spell. His cock leapt up, rigid and aching, like an eager, obedient hound. It took all his will to stop himself from taking her in his arms.
But thankfully, his brain still functioned. He returned to where he’d left his wine and took another swallow, hoping it would unfreeze his thoughts and allow him to converse in a rational manner.
He fidgeted with the cup. “I’m pleased you’re content to marry me. It’s an awkward circumstance. You have no say in this, and are transferred from one man to another like a dumb beast sold at the fair.” He dared to meet her gaze again. “I would have given you a choice, but I have a duty to my men, and to your knights and villeins. These are precarious times. The people of Valmar and Mordeaux are better off with a strong lord who asserts his right by wedding the woman who holds the ancient writ to the properties.”
It sounded as if he was apologizing. If he kept on babbling, she would think him weak and a fool. If she did not already think that. She was so cool and composed. He’d never known anyone, man or woman, so damnably hard to read.
He took another swallow of wine. Clearly, he was over his head. He knew how to fight and kill. How to seize power, but not how to keep it. Somehow how he must learn to strategize, and to take control with words rather than weapons.
“Milord?”
He looked up to see Nicola watching him, as elegant and unknowable as a jewel-eyed cat.
“Other than me, did Mortimer have other enemies?”
She frowned. “Milord?”
“As soon as I arrived, Mortimer immediately led a force out to meet me. How did he know there was a threat to his hold on Mordeaux?”
“I don’t know.” Her expression was innocent, but he sensed a subtle tension in her body.
He pressed on. “He was well-prepared to do battle. Someone must have alerted him an enemy force was on the way.”
She said nothing, merely looked at him. If only he could read her thoughts. If only he’d had a chance to take her measure before they been so inextricably bound together.
“Do you think that’s what happened?”
“I don’t know, milord.”
This was hopeless. He had no way of determining if she told the truth. The heightened alertness in her expression could mean anything. It was entirely reasonable of her to regard her new husband with wariness. The source of her tension might not be guilt, but fear of displeasing him.
****
If only he’d get on with it! Nicola took another sip of wine, taking care to keep her hand steady. It felt as if Fawkes was interrogating her. She worried she would give the wrong answer and make him angry. This business about Mortimer riding out to meet him—how she was to know how Mortimer got his information from the outside world? He must have had contacts in London, men who overheard something regarding Fawkes and his plans and sent a message to Mortimer. What did any of this have to do with her?
It must be the rumors. She knew there were those at Valmar who whispered ugly things about her. That she was a sorceress who’d cast an evil spell on Mortimer. That she’d been slowly poisoning him.
She watched Fawkes pour more wine. As he drank it down, she felt a twinge of warning. Having endured one drunken husband, she didn’t want another. Although it seemed unlikely Fawkes made a habit of over imbibing. A drunkard would never have won such acclaim on the battlefield nor attracted a whole troupe of war-hardened knights to his cause. Fawkes was probably drinking because he was nervous. Not that he had any reason to be nervous. He had all the power.
That thought increased her sense of foreboding. Mortimer had been cruel and brutal, but she’d managed to find a way to deal with him. By taking advantage of his craven, fearful nature, she’d been able to regain some control over her life.
But this man… Fawkes was not someone who would be easy to manipulate. He clearly possessed great force of will and was used to being in control. If he were like most men, he would expect her to be obedient and agreeable in all things. How was she to manage that?
The tower room seemed much too small. It was like being caged with a wild creature.
He left the table and approached her. Nicola fought the urge to draw back. He seemed to sense her apprehension, for his fierce expression softened. “I don’t want you to fear me, Nicola. Unlike some men, I don’t believe in striking women. Or children. Or anyone smaller and weaker than myself. If I were ever to feel the need the discipline you, I would choose other, more civilized means.”
Discipline her? What did that mean? His words sounded reasonable and reassuring, but there was
an edge of warning there. She must find some way to convince him she wasn’t his enemy. She must make it clear she would never deal with him as she had with Mortimer.
Body rigid, her heart pounding wildly, she said, “Milord, you must understand. Mortimer was a brute. There were many times I feared for my life at his hands. Whatever you may have heard of me…” Her hands trembled as she gestured and this time she was glad he saw. “I did what I had to do to survive.” And for Simon to survive.
His expression softened. His dark eyes again flared with violent emotion. “You forget. I knew Mortimer. He tried more than once to kill me. I have no sympathy for him. None at all.”
She let out her breath. Perhaps now they could begin again, and he would stop playing this game of cat and mouse with her. She nodded. “I’m very grateful you understand. I’d worried you might have heard tales of me, stories meant to portray me as wicked and manipulative.”
He watched her intently. “Aye, I have heard tales. ’Tis good you saw fit to reassure me. Perhaps now, perhaps we can…” He let his words trail off and the atmosphere between them shifted. His dark eyes no longer seemed stern and implacable, but smoldered with frank sexual desire. The tension between them changed, erupting with blazing arousal.
Fire started in her loins and spread outward, making her skin ache for his touch. She tilted her head, awaiting his kiss.
He hesitated, as if even now he feared to take this final step and give into what his body obviously desired. Observing his forbearance, she thought for the dozenth time of how different he was from Mortimer. Mortimer had been a slave to his emotions. This man sought control at all times.
But at last he brought his lips to hers. The blaze took them both.
****
An explosion. Like the walls of Acre crashing down as the final missile from the trebuchet shattered the ruined tower. Every nerve and muscle alive. His skin pulsing with desire. She was naught but skin and hair and flesh, and yet she was magic. A triumphant dazzling dream come to life.
He sucked life from her lips. Drowned in her scent. The sheer pleasure of holding her overwhelmed him. He could not think, only feel. And obey his body’s command. The imperative to be joined with her.
But her gown thwarted him. He clawed at it, trying to get it off. The fabric was silky and fine but naught but scratchy homespun compared to the soft skin that lay beneath. Damnable laces! How the devil…
“Stop, milord!” She slipped from his grasp, breathing hard, her gray eyes incandescent. “If you wish me to be naked, give me a moment.”
He sought to relax a bit as he watched her delicate fingers struggle with the laces under her arms. Not a task for one. At least not the one wearing the gown. “Milord.” She gazed at him in helpless frustration. “I can’t do it.”
He nodded and again moved close, forcing himself to patiently untie the lacings and loosen them so the gown was no longer bound tightly to her body. She turned so he could do the same on the other side. As he undid the second set of lacing, he considered there might be benefits to slowing down. Having waited for this coupling for so long, he shouldn’t rush, but savor each exquisite moment.
With his help, she pulled the gown over her head. Her nearly transparent shift only enhanced the splendor of her body. Her hair swirled around her like a cloak of midnight silk. Blessed Jesu! How was he to control himself? He stepped away, holding himself rigid as he waited for her to finish undressing.
She hung her gown on the clothing pole, then took off the jeweled circlet and carried it to the wooden coffer on the far side of the bed. Returning to where he stood, her eyes met his. With one fluid motion, she pulled her shift over her head and dropped it to the floor.
He inhaled sharply. A dazzling vision stood before him, all silken curves and glowing ivory skin. She was perfection; he wanted to devour her.
She fixed him with her gem-bright gaze. “Should you not undress also?”
He nodded and jerked his tunic over his head. Then sat on the bed to remove his boots. His hands trembled as he untied his chausses. He pulled them down, then his braies. Naked, he stood and faced her. Her gaze moved over him, etching him with fire. This was no meek maid he had wed. This was a woman.
****
She could not believe she was doing this. Standing naked before this fierce implacable warrior and perusing his body with such aplomb. A few moments before she had feared him. Now she felt only desire. The change had come when she realized the power she had over him. After Mortimer, who regarded her with distaste, it was a revelation to be naked with Fawkes. He looked at her as if she was an angel tumbled down from the heavens.
Her response to him was no less intense. From the moment he kissed her, it had all come back. His smell. Dark and male. Animal warmth and sex. She remembered the passion shimmering between them that afternoon. The way he had made her limp and weak with desire. Until she had arched her back and moaned like a cat in heat. She remembered the feel of him inside her. Impossible pressure, almost pain, then full-out ecstasy. The memory made her realize how much she wanted this man, yearned for him. She felt as if he possessed her.
For long moments, they stared at each other. Then he moved near. He was practically quivering with taut, pent-up energy, like an animal ready to spring. He grasped her around the waist and pulled her against him, then brought his mouth to hers.
They plunged off the precipice into a sea of fire. Except this fire did not scald them but produced exquisite pleasure. They kissed as if breathing life into the other. Gasping and breathless. Inhaling scent and taste. He broke off the kiss with a groan and pulled her closer. His hands and mouth were everywhere. She writhed and moaned as he stroked her body and nuzzled her neck. Now she was the one who trembled as the aching need overcame her.
His hands on her buttocks. The feel of his shaft against her belly. Huge and alive. “Oh, please.” She touched his phallus to make certain he understood. He let out a sound, half groan, half growl. Then he picked her up and carried her to the bed and laid her down. She took hold of his arms and pulled him on top of her.
He kissed with her slow deliberation. Her desire built until she felt she would go mad. Finally, he touched between her legs. She moaned and arched her hips. “Please,” she whispered. His tormenting hand moved away. He guided himself into position and pushed into her.
Impossible fullness. She was relieved he didn’t move, but waited, his body taut as a bowstring. Her own body adjusted, melting around him. He pushed deeper and began to thrust. With each stroke, she was impaled, shredded and shattered. Excruciating pleasure. Mind-numbing satisfaction. He carried her soaring into the heavens, like a great horse with wings. She floated there as the pressure built inside her again. Flashed away into the heavens. And then again.
Somewhere in the haze, she heard his harsh cry and felt his body spasm.
They returned to earth slowly. Sweat-soaked limbs. Damp, fevered skin. Blood surging in their veins. Hearts hammering. Transcendent, magical passion returned to heavy flesh. She sensed him drawing back into himself as his mighty sword withered. He slipped out of her, then rolled onto his back and lay beside her. Again they were two separate people, and the uneasiness between them returned as swiftly as it had left.
She was reluctant to open her eyes lest the faint memories of ecstasy that danced across her inner vision fade completely. He’d bedded her, as law and tradition demanded. But had it changed anything between them? He couldn’t deny that their lovemaking had been exceptional, their bodies perfectly matched.
She finally opened her eyes and glanced at her new husband. Her languorous contentment ebbed away. Fawkes didn’t look like a man who’d experienced great passion and pleasure. There was a faint crease between his eyes, the hint of a frown. He appeared unmoved by the splendor of their lovemaking.
She’d always heard men were thus, that for them coupling was only a physical act. An itch to be scratched. An ache to be soothed. They didn’t need to feel anything for their bed partne
r to enjoy sex. She was no more to Fawkes than the mare was to the stallion that covered it.
Disappointment settled on her like a weight. For a few moments she’d thought she might have a tiny bit of power in this marriage. That she might—as Old Emma had advised—use her feminine wiles to bend Fawkes to her will and make him care for her. Clearly, there was no hope of that. Although Fawkes might find her desirable, her ability to affect him was limited to what happened between them in bed. She was as powerless as she’d been with Mortimer. Perhaps more so, for Mortimer had been weak, and like most bullies, deep-down, a coward. This man was not like that, not at all.
She exhaled softly. He probably imagined she sighed in repletion and contentment. In fact, she sighed to think the truce between them was over, and now they returned to their familiar roles of conqueror and conquered.
****
I cannot do this. If I lay beside her all night I will lose any objectivity or control I yet possess.
Nicola’s allure surrounded him. Her scent, mingling with the musk of his passion. A miasma of remembered ecstasy that robbed him of reason and will. Their lovemaking had surpassed all his expectations and left him stunned. Vulnerable, almost helpless. He could not afford to risk himself that way. Not when he knew so little of Nicola’s mind and motivations.
Fawkes forced himself to get up from the bed and seek out his clothing. He heard her take a sharp breath as she realized what he was doing. Her obvious regret was like a knife blade in his chest. If he chose to stay, they could make love again. He could take it slower this time, now that the edge was off their lust. He could explore her beautiful body at his leisure.
Nay, he could not. If he spent any more time with her, he would become as weak and powerless as Mortimer had been at the end.
Although he had little worry Nicola would poison his wine. She had no need to do so. Nicola herself was the potion that addled his wits and confused his judgment. Somehow he must avoid being alone in her company, at least until he knew more about who she really was. He’d fallen in love with a phantom, a dream. Now he must discover the reality of Nicola of Valmar. Was she the calculating viper Mortimer claimed? Or the abused and tormented lady he’d vowed to rescue?
Lady of Steel Page 7