Wings of the Storm

by Susan Sizemore

  "Tantrum?" she asked, stiff and cold, trying to ignore the feeling she was just the prize he'd gained after a long quest. Was the quest more important than the prize? It often proved to be. She kept her tone cool and tried to hide her thoughts as she went

  on, "I don't recall any tantrum."

  He conceded her a nod. "A fit of nerves, then. One of several. I don't blame you for any of them. The scene with Lilydrake was probably the most trying."

  She almost laughed at this bit of understatement, She didn't laugh. She wasn't going to be entertained by him. Besides, the most "trying" thing had been finding out the man she loved didn't exist. Or existed

  in another dimension. Or something. She didn't understand anything.

  She didn't want to talk to him. Why shouldn't she act childish if she wanted to? "Attempted murder can be trying," she answered, unable to keep from replying. She wished she could just turn her back to him and sulk. She wished she knew how to sulk. It came in handy in situations like this. A person shouldn't have an urge to communicate with someone they hated.

  It was just because he was the only one here she could communicate with, she told herself. If she had a wider choice of acquaintances who knew about airplanes and computers and chocolate ice cream—oh, God, she missed chocolate ice cream—she wouldn't have to talk to Wolfe.

  "You never quite get used to it," Wolfe said. "I never have, at least." He lapsed into silence.

  The room was growing darker. There was a large, warm hand resting on her hip. She didn't know how long it had been there, or why she was noticing it now, but she wished it would go away. Or maybe move just a little bit farther down around the curve of her—

  "Go away, Wolfe," she told him. .

  He edged closer, which wasn't really possible, but he managed somehow. She could feel all of him, from the chest hairs tickling her collarbone to the flat expanse of his stomach to his muscled legs. He was warm all over, especially around his groin.

  He said, "You wouldn't tell Daffyd to go away."

  "I might," she answered. It was ambiguous, but honest.

  "I fell in love with Jehane, you know," he said. He sounded about as confused as she felt.

  Go ahead, be honest, she thought, trying to deny her own conflicting emotions. See if she cared.

  Then she kissed him. She didn't know why. Maybe to keep him from saying anything else. Maybe because she wanted to. What was there to talk about? He was a man and she was a woman and her body craved him like a drug.

  He reacted first with surprise, then passion. She felt him whisper, "Jehane," against her mouth.

  She thought. Yes, I'm Jehane. You're Daffyd. I wouldn't tell Daffyd to go away. I couldn't. I so desperately love the man I thought you were.

  His sex was already straining against her as their lips parted. She opened her legs, rubbing against him, the hot ache inside her growing by the second. She felt the pulsing tip of his manhood between her thighs, and she thrust her hips forward, impaling herself. He shuddered at the entry, called out her name as he was buried deep inside her. She was hot with need, flesh quivering, out of control. She thrust forward, again and again, taking him into her. He growled something, heaved himself to his knees, and grabbed her hips with bruising strength, forcing the rhythm of her movements. She wrapped her thighs around his waist and gave up all control as a hot spasm of completion took her. She felt his shudder, and his seed filled her a moment later.

  It wasn't over. She was too hungry to stop. She held him close, biting at his shoulder, his throat. His mouth took hers, tongue thrusting, then withdrawing. She craved his kiss, her response equally demanding.

  They rolled over, off the narrow bed. Then their hands and mouths were all over each other, savoring heat and salty, sweat-moistened flesh. They were too

  frantic, too fast, too hungry, to be gentle. Within minutes they were coupling again.

  The pleasure was incandescent. With her body splayed beneath Daffyd's on the storeroom floor, Jane begged for it never to end, cried out when the world exploded around her in ever-increasing intensity. Four or five times. She was breathless, with passion and a hint of laughter, by the time he collapsed on top of her. Laughter at herself, the situation, the sheer joy of being alive after the last day and a half.

  She felt his silent laughter breathed into her ear. Knew it was for the same reasons. He lifted his head and kissed her nose. "The king was right about one thing," he informed her.

  She barely had the strength to lift her eyebrows inquiringly.

  "You are a hot bitch," he supplied.

  "Kings can't be wrong all the time. Even John."

  "I hope that's the last we'll ever see of him," he added. He shifted his weight until he was lying close by her side again, in much the same position as when the recent incident started. He felt a mark she'd left on his throat. "Bloodthirsty, aren't you? Or just hungry?"

  She didn't answer. He was the one who shed blood. On a regular basis. Efficiently. Remorselessly. It was something she could understand of Daffyd, a man in his own time. But Wolfe .. .

  He got up, padded toward the door. He seemed to be searching for something. Finally he said, "Ah."

  He came back to her, sat down cross-legged beside her, and tugged her head in his lap. She didn't resist. All the confusion was still there. Sex didn't change anything. Complicated it, maybe. Wasn't sex supposed to bring a couple close? Enhance communication? What they'd just done had felt wonderful. It still felt wonderful, all over, even the bruised spots. It hadn't helped anything. It had just been sex. She sighed unhappily, her heart the most bruised spot of all.

  "Open up." She opened her mouth because it saved having to say anything. Something sweet was dropped inside. She chewed. It was a blend of honey, nuts, and pastry. As she chewed happily he said, "It was the closest the cook could get to baklava. It turned into mush when you threw it against the wall."

  She didn't remember throwing anything. "I'll take your word for it. This is good."

  "Say, 'More, please.'"

  This was all too comfortable, too cozy. He was too in control. She didn't like it. "I'm not hungry."

  He stroked her hair. "You're never hungry."

  He didn't know her at all. She was always hungry. Hungry and scared and lonely and uncomfortable. One bite of baklava after three months of garbage wasn't enough to change anything.

  He'd tried. She had to acknowledge it. He'd tried to give her a present of something she'd really wanted. Daffyd had done it. For Jehane.

  She sat up and rubbed aching temples.

  He asked, "What's wrong?"

  "Nothing."

  "Or everything?" he asked softly. When she didn't answer, he repeated something he'd said what seemed like days before. "What am I going to do with you? With us," he added.

  He didn't bother asking what she wanted to do.

  She didn't know, but it might have helped if he'd asked. It might not. She didn't know.

  "Why do you love Daffyd?" he asked.

  "I don't!" she snapped back. It was a lie, but she had to protect herself somehow. She couldn't love Daffyd, because Wolfe came along as part of the package. All she loved was the shell. What it contained was full of poison.

  He didn't pay any attention. "And why do I love Jehane? I miss Jehane, you know."

  "Thanks."

  He went on, still talking as if she weren't there. "I miss a great many things." He shrugged tiredly. "I don't know... ."

  His words trailed off. A long silence stretched between them. Darkness settled comfortably into the room. Moonlight came sneaking hesitantly in the window.

  The inhabitants of the room did not settle comfortably with each other. The room grew cold. Jane eventually got up and put on her undershift. Wolfe waited until she was done, then dressed by the moonlight.

  He buckled on his sword as he told her, "You need some more rest."

  She lay down on the bed. It seemed.large without him in it. The door opened, then closed. She didn't call aft
er him. Didn't ask where he was going.

  After he was gone she rather wished she had.

  31

  After Wolfe left, she found the flint and lit a candle. She used the light to find the linen-wrapped pastry. She sat on the bed, gulping it down hungrily. It was slightly stale, but wonderful. She was glad she'd brought in a couple of barn cats to help cut down the rat population, otherwise there wouldn't have been any left for Wolfe to find.

  Rats, she thought. Rats and wolves. Wolfe was a rat. But she already knew that, no reason to beat it to death. She rubbed an ache on her shoulder, the mark of his hand, she thought. She had to concede one thing about him: the man was great in bed.

  A pang shot hotly through her. It might be nice if he was in love with her and not Jehane.

  On that unhappy thought she blew out the candle and settled back on the bed, pulling the covering tightly around her. She couldn't deny she missed his presence in the bed beside her. His absence didn't prevent her from falling quickly back to sleep, though.

  She woke up thinking, Iam Jehane.

  She sat bolt upright, repeating, "I am Jehane!"

  She was also an idiot.

  It was full daylight once more. Another breakfast missed. Work to do. Whatever would the peasants think? Not that she cared. She threw off the covers, muttering to herself as she dressed as quickly as possible. Once more garbed in linen and blue silk, her hair tucked decently under a wimple, she felt much better, much more herself. Much more capable of coping with the world at large and one of its inhabitants in particular.

  She rubbed her hands together briskly as she said, "All right, where is that man?" Full of confidence, she marched down to the hall.

  He wasn't in the hall, but she didn't really expect to find him there. The only people in the hall were a couple of servants sweeping up the old rushes in preparation for putting down fresh. She was glad to see the cleanup needed after the king's visit was proceeding without any direct orders from her. The whole thing had been a nightmare. Maybe only the least of it was the castle's depleted larder and ruined housekeeping.

  There was nothing, she told herself, that couldn't be set to rights with a lot of hard work. Nothing.

  She gave the workers a pleased nod as she passed them. One of them gave her a knowing wink and jerked a thumb in the general direction of the stables in reply. It was a firm reminder that everyone at Pass-fair was aware of everyone else's business. It was a community, she thought. A family of sorts. She hurried out.

  It was raining, more of a gentle English mist than real rain. The dampness felt good on her face. She could hear the ring of hammer on metal coming from the smithy. There was a smell of baking bread from the big outdoor ovens. The bakers weren't letting a little shower get in the way of needed work.

  She supposed the geese must have gotten loose again, because the goosegirl's shrill young voice was floating up from near the gate. Why couldn't those birds hang out by the pond where they belonged? Jane wondered as she crossed the courtyard to the stables. Leave it to Stephan to have adventurous geese. That poor girl was going to have a nervous breakdown by the time she was nine if the birds had anything to say about it.

  She looked around anxiously as she entered the stable. She didn't see David anywhere in the big building. She saw the well-kept stalls, noticing only two were occupied. She assumed the rest were either turned out to graze or being exercised in the paddock. Stephan kept more horses than a knight of his rank should be able to afford. The horsemaster had told her Stephan's father liked to breed the animals, selling them to his neighbors and at horse fairs. Stephan had inherited his father's love of horseflesh. She wished he could settle into horse breeding as a viable occupation instead of going through life as a head-bashing warrior.

  She sighed and shook her head. It couldn't be. The world was the way it was. She was resolved to face the world as it was, not as she wished it to be. Stephan was who he was. So was David.

  So was she.

  She didn't find David anywhere in the stable. She did see Stephan, leaning casually against a post,

  watching carefully as Michael worked a curry comb gently over the hocks of his big black stallion.

  Stephan turned his square-mouthed smile on her as she approached. "Up at last," he called. "You've had a merry time, I trust?"

  "I slept through most of it," she replied honestly, then added with a slight, reminiscent smile, "but not all. Do you know where my lord husband might be?"

  Stephan came away from the post and guided her outside. They paused beneath the overhang of the stable roof. "Gone to Reculver," he answered. "Then on to Lilydrake. He didn't tell you?"

  There was only one word to describe the feeling settling in the pit of her stomach and suddenly weighing down her heart: bereft. He'd left her.

  "No," she answered, her voice little more than a whisper of shock.

  Stephan shook his head, the black silk of his hair swinging gently on his shoulders. "I can see Wolf's going to be a high-handed sort of husband."

  He took her shoulders. With his black eyes looking deeply into her own, he advised, "Be patient with him. He'll be back in two days at the most. Greet him gently when he returns. Offer him a cup in welcome, and a wifely kiss." He shook a finger at her. "No man likes a nagging wife."

  Two days. That wasn't so bad. The fist clenching her heart eased a little. She could almost smile at Stephan's solemn admonitions. Ah, the wisdom of the long married—it must be at least a week, now.

  "Yes, my liege," she responded, lowering her eyes meekly to hide the amusement in them.

  He gave a pleased sigh. "You two will deal very well together," he predicted. "Now, go on to the bower and keep my lady company. If she isn't running around the fields grubbing for medicinal roots in the rain, that is." He gently directed her footsteps

  back toward the castle.

  Sibelle, she thought. Yes, she would talk to Sibelle. She didn't find her in the bower, sewing with the women, but with Switha in the chapel. They were sitting on the floor beneath the altar in the full light of the window, sorting some kind of dried berry from a willow basket.

  Melisande was lying close enough to have her head on Sibelle's thigh. The girl was feeding her the occasional berry. The dog's tail thumped happily on the stone floor as Jane approached the group.

  Back from her poolside vacation, I see, Jane thought of the wisewoman. She settled down with the pair. "How's Melisande?" she asked.

  "Mending," Switha answered. "The shoulder will remain stiff. She'll never chase deer again."

  "She never did that anyway," Jane answered. Melisande was distinctly a house pet in a time when such a privileged position was rare. Passfair, she knew, was a rare and precious haven of peace and kindness in the midst of a frighteningly brutal world. She was a lucky woman to be a part of Stephan's small domain.

  "We've so much to talk about," Sibelle began eagerly. "There's so much I must learn from you before you leave."

  Leave? She stared at the girl uncomprehendingly, Leave? Were they sending her away. "Leave?"

  Sibelle's gentle laugh echoed against the stones of the little chapel. "I would love to have you with me forever—perhaps someday we can be together at

  Sturry when all our estates are secure and well managed. Meanwhile," she went on, "you can't be a proper chatelaine for Lilydrake if you remain here. Besides, I don't think Sir Daffyd would want you out of his sight."

  "Bed," Switha added succinctly. "Or protection," she added with a shrewd look at Jane. "I thought he might be the cure you needed when I led you to him," she added smugly.

  Jane refrained from answering this statement, but she felt strangely happy. She and Switha understood. each other, somehow.

  The berries went click, click, click into separate piles. Rain pattered in and ran in a slow stream down the wall. After a time, Jane let her historian's curiosity get the better of her. "Granny Rosamunde," she said. "Was she Rosamunde Clifford?"

  Sibelle nodded. "Yes, tha
t's who Granny was. I miss the dear old lady."

  "'A sweeter creature in this world could never prince embrace,'" Jane quoted. No wonder Sibelle's father was proud to style himself LeGauche. Being half Plantagenet by Henry II's beloved mistress wasn't such a bad thing.

  "What a pretty thing to say," Sibelle said.

  "It's from a poem about her."

  "There's lots of those. She didn't like hearing about them. She tried to forget such worldly things."

  "I thought she died about thirty years ago?"

  Sibelle smiled brightly. "So did the queen. Granny Rosamunde ran away from Woodstock after a nasty fall down the stairs. She was afraid Queen Eleanor was trying to kill her. She told me that later she supposed it was just an accident coupled with her own guilty conscience. She wasn't very good at being a mistress. Said she would have been much happier as a wife. She stayed in several priories before she settled at Davington and I met her." Sibelle gave a happy little domestic sigh. "Now I understand what she meant about being a wife."

  Jane leaned back on her hands, feeling quite pleased at all this information. What a story. Too bad this footnote to history would never make it into anybody's monograph. Be a shame to wreck the romantic legends, anyway, she supposed. Not that it was possible to wreck legends, she thought. People believed what they wanted, despite what the thoroughly researched facts told them. Maybe you couldn't change history in some ways no matter what you did.

  "About Passfair . . ." Sibelle drew her attention back to the original subject. "You must teach me as much as you can about running the household before Sir Daffyd returns."

  When Sir Daffyd returns, Jane thought with a sigh. "Of course," she answered. She didn't want to leave here, she thought. What was she going to do at Lilydrake? Alone. Alone with Daffyd.

  She was going to make the best of it, she thought with adamant determination. She'd learned at Pass-fair that her one special quality was making the best out of a situation. She knew how to cope. She could cope with Daffyd. And David. And anything else the world threw her way.