“My lord,” inquired Matthew with a rasp of outrage, “how can this help her? ‘Tis not enough to feed an ant.”
“Sufficient for now, Matthew. She cannot drink too much, too quickly or her body will rebel. Without food and water for days, a human cannot begin again at once. She would spit it out. We want her to retain this to gather strength.”
“But she does not even know we are here.”
Beneath his fingers cupping her neck, Geoff felt an imperceptible flexing of her muscles. A reaction to Matthew’s name or voice, perhaps? A heartening sign. “In fleeting moments, I think she does.”
“And can she know who we are?” his young knight asked, his tenor reflecting his age of nineteen, his timbre cracking with tension of their quest.
“I cannot say. No matter. Our first priority is to move her.”
She groaned deep in her throat, then coughed with the effort. Geoff brought her close to his chest, fearing that her racking movement might injure her delicate frame or her internal organs.
Within minutes she lay limp in his embrace, her face to his doublet, her hands lax in her lap. If she was unconscious, Geoff could not say, but he had to charge onward with his plan for her.
Geoff motioned for Domine James to come closer. “Now, we are ready for you.”
The monk grew surly. “‘Tis my calling to give comfort, Geoff.”
“Then do it.”
“Communion is one thing. This other that you demand of me is not well done here in this hideous place.”
Geoff scowled at the priest. “You will perform this rite for me.”
“She may not wish it.”
“God’s blood, man!” Geoff wanted to shake his old friend. “She needs my protection. Can you not see that? What better way to do that than to make her legally mine?”
“Since when,” asked young Matthew, “must a woman agree to a marriage?”
Geoff nodded, casting a proud grin to the monk. “The boy is right. You know it, James. Taking me to husband is the least of her worries. Do this. Now. For if she dies at John’s or Ferrer’s hands without my succour, I will send you to your Maker with my own sword.
“Forgive me, James.” Geoff regretted his threat. “In another life, you and I fought side by side, hacking others to pieces, listening to their death rattles as we skewered them with our swords like animals on spits. We served for years with Richard, murdering thousands, praying for forgiveness and breaking more rules of the Church than we would admit to even on Judgement Day. I told you what I wanted on this journey. Never have I asked anything of you, save these cloaks and robes—and this one service. Never will I ask anything of you again. Now, as you love me, I beg of you, do this.”
With a sigh and a shrug, James extracted a crucifix from beneath his robes and holding it, began a litany that soothed Geoffrey’s troubled mind. But on Matthew’s face, acceptance rivalled relief.
When the Domine had finished and rose to walk towards the door, Geoff cupped Katherine’s cheek, brushed her lower lip with the point of his finger and urged her awake. “We would have you drink more, my pet,” Geoff crooned to her, brushing back her tangled tresses. “You must do this for yourself. I know you hate to hear it, but dawn comes and before that, we must be well away.”
She breathed sharply again, a moan her complaint.
He shifted once more, to hold her more securely, for he truly expected her to fight him if he fed her more. “The cup, Matthew. A sip or two now, Kat.”
He placed the vessel to her lips. Slowly, she parted her lips and in the slim shaft of light, Geoff saw her eyes meet his, dart wide and hold. She was not interested in the sustenance, but fixed on his countenance. One of her fingers moved along his thigh and dug into his flesh. A desperate communication, it was one he understood.
“I will take you with me, Katherine.”
Another scratch.
“Aye. Drink up, my love. You come away with me tonight and no one takes you from me ever again.”
Chapter Three
Road to the River Severn
She screamed, the torment of being jostled gnawing at her bones and sending raw pain of a thousand needles through her flesh. What hell was this?
She saw stars, a velvet sky. Moonlight seared her eyes and she clamped them shut. Too long in the dark. Too long without hope of light. What use to take her away if she could not see? Or could not talk? Or, worse, had lost her mind?
Some strange ties bound her arms. She struggled and stilled, knowing the fight useless.
Dreaming. I fantasise. I wish for release and find it only in my mind!
Did men whisper? Aye, she heard footsteps. Boots, men’s boots tromped across sodden grass, the sucking noises reminiscent of her watery cell. The clank of swords, the stomping of horses’ hooves in that same wet earth that met her ears. Someone manhandled her.
Christ, let me go! She tried to beat upon the broad chest that bound her tightly to a wall of warm flesh. But she could not lift her hand and her head lolled back.
“She’s fainted,” a man murmured.
No, no! She worked at words and found no sound possible.
“She drifts in and out of her mind,” said another.
Was that the same man who had spoken Latin? The same one who had urged her to speak?
“Here, hold her while I mount.”
No. That is another man, his voice so familiar and so dear. So hated. Geoffrey?
Bounced from one tight embrace to another, she gritted her teeth to quell the pain. Let me die, she urged whoever was her newest captor. Her limbs afire, her heart racing, she panted for breath. No more, she begged.
But whoever he was, he did not listen. Instead, she felt herself passed from one set of bonds up into the grasping arms of another. The first man who had held her, found her and spoken to her in the dungeon held her again. Geoffrey? No. This cannot be he.
She dared to lift her eyelids a fraction.
Dark hair, shining oddly auburn in the moonlight. Hair, curling at his ears. The eyes, the same soft solace as Geoffrey’s. His face, lined with years and worries.
Her heart pounded with the similarities. Hope, so brittle, broke inside her, a hundred fragments, sharp and small.
No, this is not he. Impossible for this man to be Geoffrey. He is an angel of death, please be to God, come to claim me.
“To ride will hurt like the hounds of hell, ma cherie,” he told her, his lips to her ear, his arms like iron straps around her shoulders and her knees. “A litter would slow us. We have no alternative.”
She felt a jolt of his massive body. Envisioning a man who rode his horse like wind upon water, she gazed at a man with tousled hair and a strong jaw. She felt the jolt as he dug his spurs into the flanks of his stallion. And off she rode with him, clasped to him as if forged. A thrust, a bolt, a gallop tore at her insides, yet she was clutched to him by his rope-like arms while the ground thundered beneath his animal’s hooves.
The breeze was raw, crisp in her hair and against her skin. She shivered, yet inhaled the fresh air of night. The stars danced above her. The moon darted between menacing clouds. The night stretched out around them, for indeed there were more to this party than simply she and her abductor. The others were no fantasy. She heard their mounts. The hooves as they struck the ground, churning, clinking on stones. She heard the men. Their grunts as they dodged tree limbs and shouted to their companions of dangers ahead. She felt the care of the man who held her and above that pain that seared her mind, she remembered one man who had held her so tightly, so dearly, so briefly. Strange. He had felt the same as this man. And smelt the same as this man.
But he had not cared for her as well as this man.
She whimpered.
No man cared for her. Not father, husband, king or lover.
Not even her older son who hardly knew her.
She should die and have done with this agony.
Why can I not die?
* * * *
Cloths and cups a
nd milk and water. She was so weary of it all! She drank what she could, humoured the man with the thick auburn curls and the iron jaw. Persistent, hovering, too damn attentive, he was at her constantly. Tearing off her clothes. Sponging her body. Feeding her again and again. Cutting her hair. Pressing his warmth to hers and curving her flesh against his own rock-hewn body. In that cocoon, she would drift and sink to black oblivion, only to have him at her once more, making her drink. Drink. Then she would push him away and slip down into the frothy down that surrounded her.
“She still has no idea where she is,” a youthful man said.
“That will come. She needs to drink more.”
“Nooo,” she rasped and curled into a tighter ball.
* * * *
Gruel and bread and cups and spoons. She licked her lips, the goods dribbling from the corners of her mouth. She wanted more and her captor would not give it.
She cursed at him.
“Ah, good news. She can speak,” her tormentor proclaimed.
Another man, whose voice held less timbre, rejoiced.
“We’ll let her rest, then try again, Matthew. Meanwhile, get the maids to fill the wooden tub in my lady’s solar.”
“No maid can lift her,” the young man objected.
“I will do this. She is still full of lice and filth, Matthew.”
She put her fingers to her nose. Aye, I smell ripe as a garderobe pit.
“But it is not seemly, my lord, that she would be aided in her ablutions by a man.”
“It is not right that you do it, Matthew. And only I can lift her as gently as she needs. Now go. Do as I tell you.”
“You will come down to the hall for supper?”
“No. My apologies to Lord Marshall’s steward, but I remain here. Bring mine up, please.”
She had heard both men’s voices these past few days. She had not looked upon them fully, for her eyes were burned by any light after so many days in the dark. She knew the one man was a youth. Twenty years or so. And the older man? Much older. His father, it seemed from the familiar tones of their resonant baritones. Yet neither man nor lad addressed each in that manner. Who were they?
And where was the man who had spoken Latin to her in the shadows of her dungeon? The man with the shaven head and worried voice. Where was he? And what had he asked her to say in the dark?
Her head spun with all her questions—and once more wearied by it all, she stopped seeking answers for yet another day.
She heard footfalls, the jangle of spurs and the swish of a sword as one man crossed the room and closed the door with a thud. His mien was rigid, commanding, solicitous of her.
Alone again with this man who does not leave me. This man who reminds me so of the one I should not want.
* * * *
Broth and water. Hot and cold.
Warmth infused her flesh, her bones melting in the liquid serenity. She sighed, sinking backward against furred sinew. She lolled, surrendering to the solid form behind her, around her, enfolding her. Security like this had not been hers for how long? Tender strokes of a nubby towel along her arms and over her breasts and belly. Her hair swirled in the water. Her scalp, massaged by careful fingers. She sank, grateful, melting into the warmth of it.
Her captor sighed in satisfaction. And beneath her hip, his arousal stirred, thick, hard and insistent. Squirming, she summoned her strength to peel her body from his. The effort made her light-headed. She reeled and she fell backwards.
“You felt that?” he asked, his deep voice full of surprise and desire. She was used now to his musings, whispers of his hopes to make her well, help her eat and have her walk once more. Forever he cajoled her, entreated her and scolded like a doting papa. She gauged her recovery by his sonorous monologue, at once consoling, less despairing each day.
She forced her eyelids to open, slits only lest her body rebel. Her mind warred over her effort, battling against disappointment, yet surrendering to the need to see if what she heard or felt was some heaven she had not envisioned, peopled by this one man who never left her side.
Grey walls of stone surrounded her. Ah—she fought tears—another dungeon. Yet…it was not. This one seemed sweeter. In truth, light streamed from a small window in the far wall. Candles glowed upon sconces. Flashes of warmth and hope radiated through her.
She licked her cracked lips, curiosity besting her disappointment and outrage. In tiny increments, she opened her eyes wider and caught her breath at the sight of a man’s corded arms, two stalwart hairy legs and huge feet pressed along the planes of her own and braced at the curve of the wooden tub in which they sat.
No man bathed a woman like this.
Not husband. Surely, not abductor.
She bent forward, the effort costing her heartbeats of fear.
Strong hands cupped her shoulders, stroked her arms and grasped her wrists. Firm lips pressed to her nape. “You have no need to fly from me, ma cherie. You are safe. I merely wish to help you wash away the remnants of your imprisonment.”
Geoffrey. She had not conjured his voice, had not hallucinated that he had saved her. Her heart picked up a fierce tattoo. Her panic sapped her. She fell back against him, drained of tension and yet consumed by doubts. She had no strength to fight him, had no wish to try. His presence, his embrace was too enchanting, too welcome to her feeble mind and body. And he felt too marvellous, too solid and secure, for her to repel him.
She examined his large hands upon her, his muscular arms enfolding her. Huge in his youth, he was now brawny as a warhorse. She had never been a match for his height or power. Now? She had not the strength to lift a pin, let alone fight him. Indomitable, he was at this moment the only sturdy comfort in her world. Her weak body could not run. She let him embrace her, awed by his tenderness as he hugged her backwards more firmly into his care. Trembling with joy at his succour, she wanted to cry. In relief or surrender, she could not decide.
With one shaking hand, she covered her mouth to stop the tremors.
“I know not what you can recollect of your imprisonment and rescue. I tell you each day. Now, in this tub today, you seem more aware. Shall I repeat my litany?”
She nodded, her muscles tight with expectation of what she’d hear, what she’d feel in his arms.
“I came three nights ago to the hellhole where those nuns had thrust you. I arrived with a retinue of my men and we escaped with you across the channel to Chepstow. Here, we are with friends who have welcomed us into their gates and drawn the bridge.”
Friends. Chepstow. Her thoughts dissolved and formed anew. She had noble friends at Chepstow. So did Geoffrey. He had been born here. She turned her head to one side, as much a move of endearment and thanks as it was a caress of her cheek against the wall of his chest.
She heard him sigh, revelled in the way he squeezed her to acknowledge her sign of gratitude.
He dropped a kiss to her wet scalp. “I have been a pest, I know, to make you sip and drink. But it was the only way to save you, slowly and in small measures.”
“Starved,” she said, the word more sob than statement.
He cupped her jaw, his fingers stroking her cheek. “I know, my dearest. Word has it the nuns earned a fee. They will all rot in hell. But they failed and you recover. We shall soon hear what earthly reward they earn for that.”
“The King?” she managed, horrified at the ghostly sound of her own voice.
He snorted, his disdain suffusing his torso as once more he cuddled her nearer to him. “John? You must not think of him. Only of you.”
She summoned every ounce of strength and twisted her face up to him. With her eyes wide open, she gazed upon him. So close, so alive, so dear, so hated and forbidden to her, Geoffrey St Claire appeared hazy and ethereal, a phantom of her past. Blinking, she examined him more closely. She had last seen him in London more than a year ago, but here in his arms, naked and vulnerable, ill and needy, she saw what he had been and what he had become. His auburn hair was still curly and bright
, but along his temples, threads of grey appeared. His sultry eyes were still verdant green, large and sweet, but lines crinkled the corners. His cheeks were ruddy, sharp and stern, kissed by the wind and cold. His jaw was rigid, his teeth clamped tight as she surveyed him. He was Geoffrey, her Geoffrey, serving kings, fighting their wars and today, saving her.
As much Norman as Saxon, Geoffrey sprang from a line of cousins loyal to the Conqueror. The St Claires had intermarried at the first William’s orders, combining their blood with Saxon princesses and bringing forth men known for their extraordinary height and heft and loyalty to the English kings. Aye, this is Geoffrey.
Marvelling at her deliverance and that it should be by him, she reached up to curve her palm against his cheek.
He smiled at her as she held him, then pressed a kiss into her palm. “I am real, and you are alive and improving in health, I see, by the minute.”
Swallowing hard, she fought tears. Pride would not let her show him such weakness. He was her saviour, but to what end? He was at core, by lineage and temperament, John’s man. Despite occasional breaks with their Sovereign and frequent stays in the dungeons of the White Tower, Geoffrey had pledged his fealty to John Plantagenet. How could she believe Geoffrey’s words that she was safe? And how long did she have before he changed his mind and ransomed her to his ruler?
She leaned away. Tried to sit. To stand.
He pulled her back. “Kat, to test your strength is not wise. Nor even necessary.”
She elbowed him. To no avail.
Grasping her wrists, he bound her arms across her bare chest and clutched her to him. His words blew hot against her ear. “Stop this! We have no idea how strong your bones are. You are not whole, not yet! Do not fight me!”
She writhed.
But he clamped her to him. “You have no need to run from me. Do you not see that I have condemned myself in John’s eyes by abducting you?”
“Or you could ransom me.”
With Her Kiss (Swords of Passion) Page 4