The Mistress Of Normandy

by Susan Wiggs

  Humor flared in Rand’s eyes. “Jack said you were cold, hard-hearted, arrogant. I’m afraid he was a bit too put off by your cannonade to admit that you’re also angelically lovely.”

  “His wits are as numb as his master’s,” she snapped.

  “You did spin a fair tale yourself.” His calm, steady eyes, flecked with gold from the lamp, held hers like the mesmerizing flame of a conjurer’s lantern. He laid a warm hand on her cheek. “The castle orphan, true. But a gunner’s daughter, a gently bred companion to the demoiselle? You were convincing. How could I have believed otherwise?”

  “You knew,” she said, twisting in her bonds to escape the firebrand of his touch.

  “I did not.” He leaned forward. “Besides, you are forgetting the most convincing evidence of all.”

  “What might that be?” she asked loftily.

  “The Demoiselle Belliane was a married woman by the time I arrived in France.” Ever so gently, his hand coursed down the length of her. “But the woman I made love to at the place of St. Cuthbert’s cross was as virgin.”

  A dreadful darkness pressed in on her. God, he knew her so well; he struck so close.

  “No,” she denied wildly, struggling. “I was not, I—”

  His fingers drew a pattern on her thinly clad thigh. “Even before I saw your maiden’s blood, I knew. Don’t pretend you’ve forgotten. Even in my own inexperience I recognized your purity.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut to stave off an onslaught of memories. Yet she couldn’t forget. His hesitation, her ignorance. His tenderness, her response. His gentle hands teaching her untried body the ways of physical love.

  “Tell me why,” he quietly urged. “Tell me how it came to be that you were married, yet chaste.”

  She gazed at him through narrowed eyes and strained against her bonds. “I’ll not be interrogated like a prisoner on the rack. I owe you no explanation.” A sudden dark suspicion barreled into her mind. “But you owe me one.”

  “I hold no secrets from you. Not anymore.”

  Oh, Rand, she thought with silent pain, I was so much happier when you did. Her voice cold, she stated, “I find it entirely too convenient that Lazare Mondragon happened to die at the moment you sought to force me to wed you.”

  He gave her a furious, scorching look. For long moments he seemed not to breathe. Finally he said, “You go too far in accusing me of murder.”

  “Do I, Englishman? You sneaked into my home, abducted me, braved Gaucourt’s hobelars. You do much in the name of King Henry. Why not murder?”

  “Your uncle assured me a hasty annulment was being secured.” Bitterness tinged his voice.

  She couldn’t control a twinge of empathy. Her uncle of Burgundy had taken in kings and emperors with half-truths and empty assurances. Why should she have expected Rand to see into the intrigue-ridden soul of Jean Sans Peur?

  Yet she couldn’t allow her thoughts to show. “You went away for a fortnight in March. How do I know you didn’t journey to Paris, that Lazare didn’t die by your own hand?”

  He traced his finger over her jawline, her throat. She tried to imagine that hand in a murderous grip around a defenseless man’s neck. Tried...and failed.

  “You will only know that for certain when you decide to trust me.”

  “Then I will never know. For I shall never trust you.”

  He toyed with the cord binding one of her wrists. “Can I trust you?”

  Although she knew he offered her a chance to be loosed from her bonds, she couldn’t help retorting, “You can trust that I will do everything in my power to thwart you.”

  He sat silent while she tried to tear her gaze from the entrancing motion of his bare chest, rising and falling with each breath he took.

  At last he spoke. “We’re together now. Isn’t that what we wanted all along?”

  “I wanted Rand, not Enguerrand Fitzmarc!”

  “We are one and the same.” He leaned down; his lips lay but a whisper away from hers. “It is our wedding night.” His tongue traced the curve of her ear. “You may rail at me ’til kingdom come, but in your heart you know our destinies are entwined. I wanted you as my wife. Now I have you.”

  Appalled at the tangle of desire and fear roiling within her, she forced herself to regard him squarely. “You wanted my castle, not me.”

  He smiled; clearly he heard the lack of conviction in her voice. He touched the pulse at her throat. “I want you, Lianna. Always.”

  She tried to pull away. “Then you’d best keep me shackled with ropes, else I’ll never bear your advances.”

  “I’d hold you with affection, not bonds,” he said, kissing her face, her neck.

  The light flickered, limning his princely features in gold. The commanding beauty of his face, the compelling power of his caresses, raised a tingle deep in her center. The sensation radiated outward, filling her breasts, softening her woman’s flesh.

  “You are lovely in the lamplight,” he murmured, his kisses fast and merciless on her face. “In sooth I always likened your coloring to silver, but tonight you look as precious and shining as new gold.” He caught her face between his hands and laid his lips upon hers. Fiercely she vowed that if her hands were not bound, she’d slap him away. Or would she?

  Seared by the heat of his mouth, she found herself a prisoner of bonds stronger than velvet cords. His voluptuous kisses grew keener, sharp with sensual abandonment, and heavy with an allure that threatened to claim her wholly. Summoning her will, she turned her head aside. “Do not do that,” she said unsteadily.

  His hands coursed down her sides, touching her with fire. He found her breasts through the fabric of her tunic, his fingers moving in ever-tightening circles. An intolerable ache rose in her. She bit her lip to keep from crying out.

  A certain ruthlessness lay beneath the tenderness of his caresses, as if he sought to prove his sexual power over her.

  “We’ve never made love in the dark before,” he mused. “Always we celebrated our love in sunshine.”

  “It is doomed to be mourned in the dark now,” she snapped.

  Briefly he pressed his lips to hers. “We need not be adversaries.”

  “We are, and ever shall be. Think on it, Enguerrand. You are English and would give my castle to King Henry. I am French and would hold it until my dying breath.”

  “I love you.”

  “I despise you.”

  “Do you?” He shook his head, smiled, and took her breath away with the swift and knowing stroke of his hand on her thigh. “Tell me you despise this.” His fingers played a familiar tune upon her flesh. “You love me. Someday you’ll tell me about it.”

  “Never,” she swore, and would have launched into a fierce tirade had his mouth not stopped hers. He took her lips in a deep, drinking kiss while his hands—hands that knew her so well—aroused her body to an overwhelming level of sensitivity. His fingers made a slow, meandering path up her bare leg, under her tunic, stealing her will to resist him as his thumb brushed her softness.

  Her body played the traitor, warming to an adversary’s alluring touch. Despite a growing sense of despair, she let her limbs go limp upon the bed while his hands and lips teased her thighs and breasts to burning arousal.

  Deep in some hidden part of her she was glad of the bonds at her wrists; they took the decision to fight away from her.

  “Oh, love,” he murmured, his lips following his fingers as they unlaced her tunic, “I’ve dreamed of making you my wife...you taste so sweet....”

  Vaguely her mind took in the fact that he’d spoken in French. We battle in English, but make love in French, she thought fleetingly. When his hands parted her tunic and bared her breasts, she ceased to think at all.

  She could feel only the fire of his caresses as he removed the rough garments she’d stolen from the laundry. He touched and teased until her every nerve went taut.

  Naked and bound, she should have felt humiliated. Yet instead she felt wild and free, wanting him so ba
dly she nearly wept.

  His powerful body loomed like a craggy mountain, luring her to the summit.

  “You want me,” he whispered against her mouth.

  “Yes...” she breathed.

  He braced himself above her. The heat of his kiss went straight to her core. He reached for her bound hands, laced his fingers with hers, and joined their bodies with a slow, aching stroke.

  She arched toward him, meeting his thrusts, forgetting he was her enemy, bedding her as a conquest. She thought her hatred had banished the knight in the glade. But he was still there, turning her from intrepid dreamer to a woman fulfilled. She closed her eyes while her body drank in the essence of him—his powerful movements, his vibrant warmth, the taste of the love words that spilled from his lips.

  His body covered hers; their hammering hearts beat as one. Sighing, she brought her arms around his neck.

  And froze.

  “Damn you.” She tried to squirm from beneath him. Humiliation misted her cheeks and neck with red. At some point during their lovemaking he’d untied her bonds. She could have fought him; the old Lianna could have resisted. But the person he’d made her had succumbed, too spellbound by his ardor to notice. Now she realized she was bound by something more formidable than velvet cords.

  She summoned anger, but the fury was directed more at herself than at him. She’d dubbed him her enemy, yet she was a prisoner of desire, She’d vowed to resist him, yet she’d become his willing bedmate. He’d achieved his domination over her—not by force, but by tenderness.

  You love me, he’d said. Someday you’ll tell me about it.

  “Get off me, Englishman,” she commanded.

  He moved aside, although he cradled her in his arms. She knew she should pull away, but she felt weary, lethargic. His body was so comfortable, circling hers with masculine warmth.

  Propping himself on an elbow, he stared into her eyes. “I do mean to be husband to you.”

  “And vassal to King Henry.”

  “Aye, that too.” He gripped her shoulders. “Henry has brought order and prosperity to England. He can do the same for France.”

  “So could the devil himself. But France will not countenance a foreigner on the throne.” She narrowed her eyes. “And I will not countenance an Englishman at Bois-Long.”

  “You do not have a choice.”

  The cold certainty in his voice jarred her. A vision of Burgundy’s implacable face swam into her mind. “What does my uncle mean to do?”

  “He leaves for Compiègne at dawn, taking all his men with him. The Armagnacs are on their way to besiege the town.”

  A shiver rippled through her. Damn Bernard of Armagnac and her uncle for ripping France into splinters with their ceaseless bickering. And damn Rand for having the knowledge before her. Then a satisfied smile curved her lips. “So my uncle leaves. I counted but ten men wearing your colors. Gaucourt will hold Bois-Long for me yet.”

  He eyed her sharply. “For you, Lianna? Or for Gervais?”

  She suppressed a twinge of alarm. “Gervais Mondragon has no claim on Bois-Long.”

  “Save for the fact that he is Lazare’s heir, and installed at the château. Possession is the better part of the law.”

  “So. You’ve styled yourself Baron of Longwood. What do you propose to do about Gervais and Gaucourt?”

  “I propose to send them fleeing into the salt marshes.”

  “With ten men against Gaucourt’s fifty? Your male pride is prodigious.” Her sarcasm seemed to make no impression on him. He merely smiled and toyed with a discarded velvet cord. He lifted it, watched it spin slowly, then dropped it on the floor. “I’m sorry I tied you,” he said. “I’ll not do it again...unless you force me to it.”

  She tried to pull away. “It is the only way you’ll get me to submit to you again.”

  He bent his head, brushing his lips over the peaks of her breasts. “Is it, Lianna?” he asked softly. His hand strayed downward, heating places on her body that had barely cooled from the last time. “Is it?”

  Every wanton part of her strained toward his stroking hands and moist lips. Every rational part of her dredged up all the agony he’d caused her. He’d taken her innocence, deceived her heart, and had set his sights on her home. His body offered but fleeting moments of passionate forgetfulness, hardly enough to excuse his betrayal.

  “Stop,” she said, but he seemed not to hear as he nuzzled her throat. She put her hands flat against his chest and pushed with all her might. He drew back, his handsome face framed by hair of beaten gold. His masculine beauty was intolerable.

  “Don’t fight me,” he said.

  Ice formed around her heart, and suddenly she wanted to hurt him with all the fury she felt. “I never wanted you, Englishman, not even when I thought you were Rand the Gascon.”

  “You did,” he countered. “’Twas you who invited—”

  “Did you never wonder why, you great fool? Or were you so self-important that you thought yourself irresistible?” She lashed him with the words, watching his face, seeing the certainty of his domination waver. Hurting him gave her disappointingly little satisfaction.

  “You wanted to know about Lazare,” she forced out. “Then I shall tell you about him. He refused to lie with me, his wife, because he didn’t want to get me with child. Aye, he wanted his beloved Gervais to inherit.” Tears coursed down her cheeks and sank into the baudekin bolster. Angrily she wiped her face dry. “I needed an heir for Bois-Long. That was why I sought your attentions.” The incredulous look on his face nearly silenced her. Cruel words didn’t come as easily as they should. “It was my only reason,” she finished.

  With a swift motion he clasped her wrists in his two hands. His eyes glinted fiercely. “You can lie to yourself, but the heart doesn’t lie. You may claim I played stud to your mare, but I know better. I’ve seen your face ablaze with rapture, felt your legs wrapped hard around me, heard endearments spill from your lips—”

  “Only because I didn’t want you to know my real reason for trysting with you.”

  His fine, mobile mouth suddenly hardened. He released her, turned away, and yanked on his smallclothes and undertunic. “And did you,” he said over his shoulder, “achieve what you set out for? Are you carrying my babe?”

  She kept her face impassive, her voice even. “I do not know. But I wonder if any budding life could have survived the perils you’ve foisted upon me in the past two days.”

  The hiss of his indrawn breath sounded like an arrow slashing through the air. “What of your foolish climb down the tower?” he shot back.

  She turned toward the wall. It should have felt good to hurt him as he’d hurt her. Yet a cold well of emptiness opened in the pit of her belly—and a rattle of nothingness echoed where her heart used to be.

  Eleven

  His tabard flapping around his torso, Rand crossed the yard of Le Crotoy and headed for the barracks. The wave of unseasonable heat that had baked Picardy gave way to a swift bluster of chilly air from the north.

  A curlew wheeled overhead, greeted the morn with a plaintive cry, then beat its wings toward the sea. Idly he watched the curlew battle the wind. He had not eaten. His stomach was clenched in knots. Lianna’s resentment ran as deep and strong as a dangerous tide, straight to his heart. She was convinced he’d duped her from the first, and she had tried to convince him that she’d done the same in using him to produce an heir for Bois-Long.

  An ambitious monarch divided them. Loyalty to King Henry compelled Rand to secure and hold Bois-Long for England; her loyalty to mad Charles obliged her to retain the château for France. Setting his jaw, he vowed to win her back. All of her.

  Today his goals were twofold: he had to set about wresting Bois-Long from Mondragon and Gaucourt and he had to prove to Lianna that their love was mightier than political disputes. The former he hoped to accomplish within a fortnight. The latter could take weeks, months, even years.

  He’d left her sleeping—or more likely feigning
sleep in order to avoid him. Simon and Batsford were stationed outside her chamber. The window had been shuttered. He’d told his men to permit her the run of the keep but cautioned them not to allow her out of their sight.

  Just as he reached the barracks, one of his men-at-arms came hurrying through the main gate.

  “Good morrow, Dylan,” Rand said. Seeing anxiety in the Welshman’s dark, pointed features, he asked, “You’ve seen something?”

  Dylan nodded. The arrows in his baldric bobbed. “Gaucourt’s men. The woods beyond the town fester with them.”

  No doubt the Frenchmen had seen Burgundy leaving Le Crotoy with all his men. “The walls of Le Crotoy have never been breached.” Rand eyed the row of cannon on the battlements. “Go get something to eat. I’ll send Piers Atwood to relieve you.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” Dylan shouldered his longbow and started toward the hall.

  Rand made for the steps to the barracks. A feminine giggle issued from behind a sheaf of wheat straw in the stables beneath the raised soldiers’ quarters.

  “Jack,” he called out. “I would speak with you.”

  He heard a high-pitched gasp, a masculine oath; then Jack and Minette emerged from the stables. Jack fumbled with the laces of his trews while Minette finished stuffing her bosom into the bodice of her homespun blouse. “What’s this?” she asked in her nasal, peasant French. “La baronne has released you from her bed so early? I’ve heard it said blue blood is cold. Now I know it must be true.”

  Battling annoyance and ignoring Minette’s nearness, Rand forced a laugh. “Speak not of what you know not.”

  “La barbe,” she swore. “You are handsome as the sun, mon sire.”

  Jack chased her off with a none-too-gentle slap to the backside. “Later, my little bird,” he said in mangled French. “I’ll make you forget my master’s pretty face.”

  “You won’t be here to scratch her itch,” said Rand.

  “I want you and Dylan to go to Eu. I mean to engage our friends there to help us take Bois-Long.”

  Jack started to laugh; then he bit back his mirth when he saw Rand wasn’t smiling. “You be in earnest, my lord.”