by Diana Rubino
"Then let us hope this trail does not go cold."
They both grimaced at his unintended pun.
"Rest now, my dear."
"Valentine, please stay?"
He looked surprised, but nodded. "Aye, I will. It's snowing again, and now that you are safe, I could use some rest myself."
He started to settle into his chair more comfortably, but she shook her head. "Do you think you could come here and share your warmth? I feel chilled to the bone, and well, truth to tell, 'tis my own coldness toward you I regret the most in all this."
"Oh?" he said, watching her warily.
"I'm sorry, Valentine, for all the mistrust and suspicion. And above all, I'm sorry about me. About you being saddled with a wife who doesn't know what it means to truly love."
He took her hand to kiss it. "Then that makes two of us. For while I have certainly lusted after you until I thought I would go mad, I never knew what real love was until after the fire. And then, like an addle-pated fool, I allowed worldly concerns and my own pride to stand between us, rather than make the most of my second chance.
"Now I nearly lost you again, Dove, and the mere thought of your light going out of my life chills me to the bone as no blizzard ever could."
She nodded. "Aye, it was the same for me. I prayed so hard for a second chance, and now God has granted it to me. I can't promise you everything you could ever hope for from our marriage, but I do want to try."
He stroked her cheek and bent to kiss her lightly, testingly. "It's all I could ever hope for. Thank you. Now, my lass, let's both try to get some rest."
She patted the bed beside him. After a moment's hesitation, he got in beside her carefully, held her stiffly for a moment, then finally relaxed and held her in his cocooning warmth.
Exhausted by their exertions and tumult of emotions, they drifted off into a dreamless slumber.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
When they arrived home the following evening, he refused to leave her side. He had their supper sent up to her chamber and they dined together. He hadn't paid her this much attention since he had been free spirited and unattached.
She finally got round to showing him the miniature from Foxley Manor and he showed no recognition.
"But we'll find them, Dove, I promise. Let me take this with me for a while. I'll show it to the other lords round Yorkshire. You never know."
She didn't want to let it out of her sight. It was the only possible link she had with her identity, but he was her husband and she had to trust him. Besides, she'd shown it to everyone she could possibly show it to.
So she handed it to him and he promised he'd keep it safe.
I must tell him how much I love him, I must tell him...she said to herself as she drifted off into yet another exhausted sleep.
But she never got the chance, for Richard's call to battle came the very next day; King Edward was getting ready to invade France. Richard was raising an army of one hundred and twenty men-at-arms and one thousand archers. As indentures raised the army, Valentine was ready with all his tenants and their weapons. Richard's chief officer of arms arrived at Lilleshal with a stack of banners and badges displaying Richard's emblem, the white boar, for each soldier to wear.
"Valentine, must you go so soon?" Denys begged her husband, who was rounding up his contingent on the grounds amidst a cluster of shiny armor, plumes, and banners. She still had so much to say... So much she longed to share with him once she had healed from her ordeal…
"Aye, I must. I expect King Edward is already in Calais by now, and we must get across the Channel as soon as possible. Charles the Rash is counting on us!" A wide grin spread over his face, bronzed from a lifetime of riding and training in the sun, and she knew she could hold her knight back no longer. She'd long ago realized that he would move mountains to rush to the King's colors any time they were raised, no matter how much he cared about her.
He pulled her to him and kissed her deeply, with pounding hooves, clanging armor and shouts of eager men all around them. "I shall be back before you know it. Keep well for me, and if you are to engage in any more quests for your family, do it by carrier pigeon!"
"I would have you back safely."
"God willing," Valentine replied. "Some things aren't up to us."
She watched as his squire handed him his helmet. He fitted it over his head and slammed down the visor, raising his gauntlet in farewell.
A stab of horror tore through her and she ran after him. She had to tell him she loved him, she couldn't let him ride off into battle thinking she didn't care if he returned.
"Valentine!" she shouted after him, but she was still too weak to continue running. Dropping to her knees, she began sobbing softly. "Valentine, I love you," she whispered, as his imposing figure disappeared round the curved path, leading his men to the far shores of France.
"Why do you want France?" she asked after him, with no one to hear her now but the cawing crows in their nests among the bare branches that lined the path. "Is she so beautiful that she is worth fighting for? Why do you not fight over women with such exuberance?"
She received one letter from him during that entire month, telling her he'd arrived in France and was about to set off for Peronne with the King and his army. The cold clutches of fear grabbed at her heart as they always did at the thought of battle. Oh, why did he have to fight every battle? He had nothing to prove!
Then she stopped. There it was again—he had to prove himself as a great soldier so she would love him. Finally she forced herself to read on:
I am confident that the French will not put up much of a fight; the memory of their disastrous defeat at Agincourt is still fresh in their minds.
Her eyes skimmed the letter to the very end, where he'd written, in smaller lettering, "Please keep well for me. I need you."
He'd signed it, "Your loving husband, Valentine." She held the letter to her heart and prayed that he return to her, quickly and safely.
In the long days that had passed since he had departed, she'd had time to think over all that had happened to her, and come to terms with her dreadful ordeal. Tragedies had taken place on both her trips. Someone was out to thwart her and she was convinced it was Elizabeth. But why? There had to be a reason other than her natural cruelty and spitefulness. Elizabeth Woodville always had a reason. There had to be something behind it all. The name that Owen uttered with his last breath held the final clue.
She knew by now that Elizabeth's motive for thwarting Denys' wish went deeper than the desire to keep Denys miserable. But what, oh, what was it? she asked, slamming a fist on her writing table in a fit of despair.
The pounding of hooves on the ground under her window one fine spring day filled her with relief and she flew down the stairs to greet her husband on his return from France. He was at the entrance to the stables, handing his mount's reins to a groom, his back to her. His tight hose outlined the muscular buttocks peeking out from under the short doublet. She anxiously waited for him to face her, for the frontal view was twice as tantalizing.
The groom led the mount to a stall. Valentine's triumphant smile shone more brilliantly than the sun as they embraced tightly. He held her to his heart and stroked her hair, and she cried with joy of his having returned safely to her.
"Oh, Valentine, ‘tis so good to see you!" she whispered into the bulk of his doublet. Her hands were everywhere, in his hair, on his cheeks, stroking those powerful arms that wielded battle axes and swords, felled soldiers, and decimated enemy armies. She nearly melted at his touch, though layers of clothes and furs separated them.
Now is the time; I shall make him feel more welcome than he ever did before, she thought, having rehearsed word for word her declaration of love for him, thrilling at the thought of joining with him, finally, after such a long frustrating time. She'd missed him terribly and most of all, wondered if he'd missed her just as much.
The groom led a sleek white palfrey to the stable along with Valentine's mount. She knew
this was the gift Richard had promised her. "You are so cold, dear. Do go inside and warm up by the fire. I personally made you lampreys in galytyne, with no one's assistance! I shall tell the marshal to lay our table with the best plate and there are some beautiful apples the cooks baked into luscious pastries! Then I want to hear all about your triumphant battle!"
"Magic," he said wearily, then turned and walked up to the house.
She gave her orders to the marshal, butler and pantlers about the evening's meal and went up to his bedchamber. She'd never set foot in this sumptuously decorated room until now. There were no servers about, and she stood in the doorway silently. Red silk coverings adorned the walls, the red ceiling was trimmed with gold leaf, the bed hangings matched the red velvet curtains shot with gold threads. The red coverlet shimmered in gold embroidered swirls. The inside of his gold tub was lined with red cushions. Even the chamber pot was red and gold. The rug was delicately woven in such exquisite design, she was afraid to step on it.
He'd shucked off his clothes, tossed them onto the floor and bathed. He was down to his undergarments, and retrieved a satin robe from his wardrobe chest, belting it about his waist. The groom of the chamber had just laid a fire in the hearth and Valentine sat by it, massaging his temples with his thumbs.
"I can do that for you, Valentine. I am very good at headaches." She knelt before him, gently moved his hands away and began massaging his head with a circling motion.
"I think I died and went to heaven!" His weary voice barely reached her ears. "Are those human fingers or the wings of an angel?"
She felt the delightful warmth of a grin spreading across her face as he opened his eyes and the deep blue caught the fire glow like a pair of sapphires. "It looks like the face of an angel before me," he whispered, reaching up and encircling her slender wrist in his warm calloused hand.
"Valentine!" She threw her arms round his neck, pressing her cheek up against the smoothness of his robe. He'd just fought a battle, beating back enemy soldiers with swords meant to plunge through hearts—his blood was boiling, his eyes still glazed with rage and fatigue, his body weary and aching from sleeping on the hard earth. But she had to tell him tonight, it could not wait another day.
She brushed his hair back off his face, in order to study the strong features, the curve of his nose, the delicate but determined ridge of his brow, the thin but expressive lips. And those eyes—although it bothered her to admit it, his eyes were the most beautiful when he was troubled. They were deeper and silently implored with their air of helpless innocence—gone were the lines etched around them from squinting in intense concentration, they were more liquid and languid, bringing out the womanly urge to soothe him, an exciting prospect for her.
Slowly she walked him to the bed and laid him down, lying beside him. She ran her hands over his chest and he sighed with a mixture of fatigue and contentment.
"Valentine, facing death makes you look at things very differently."
"You needn't tell me what facing death entails, my dear."
"When I thought I was dying, I prayed for a chance, not for a second chance at life, by that time I was beyond hope, but just a chance to tell you..."
She faltered and swept the white lock of his hair back from his face, smoothing it over the pillow.
"Tell me what?" he asked as she hesitated.
Astounded at the calming affect her soft voice was having on him, she could actually feel his heart slow to a steady beat. His muscles began to relax and his eyes softened, their familiar glow returning. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and began kissing her lightly.
"Valentine, I was as worried about you at battle as you were about me freezing in the forest. I know you never doubted my ability to take care of myself."
"Even the most rugged highwayman would find difficulty surviving in the ordeal you went through. I went to battle thoroughly prepared."
She tried to turn sideways, so he could not detect the thudding of her heart, but he pressed her closer to him.
"So what did you want to tell me?"
"That I no longer felt the sorrow of my own life ending, but that I was leaving you behind. Without ever having told you..." she whispered as he planted feathery kisses on her neck, causing her to shiver with delight. Her husband was touching her for the first time.
"Tell me what? That you are beginning to appreciate my overbearing presence?"
"Perhaps."
"You are beginning to tolerate my boorish inclinations?"
"Haven't I been?"
"You are beginning to enjoy my company?"
She turned to face him and his grin gleamed in the moon's pearly light as she matched it with one of hers.
"I have been known to on occasion."
"Does all this mean you are falling in love with me?"
"Now are you not being a bit presumptuous?" she teased in return.
"Never have I been invited to be bathed by a woman who loathed the sight of me, so I think not."
She gave him a playful slap and his mouth descended upon hers lightly, becoming more insistent as she attempted to back away.
"I did loathe the sight of you! You were filthy!" she said when he broke their kiss and began tracing a finger down her neck and over each breast through her satin chemise in a slow circular motion. "I..." she sighed under his touch, the dancing flames beginning to ignite deep within her.
His eyes glowed with earnestness. "Tell me what is in your heart, Dove."
She reached inside the unlaced front of his shirt and began stroking his chest, her lips upon his earlobe, her tongue darting out and flicking it playfully, her breath matching his with increasing intensity.
"Valentine, I..." She was aching to tell him, but he had her so bathed in passion she could not speak.
She lay prostrate as he quickly but patiently slipped her chemise over her head. Then her legs were bare as he slid her skirts up to her waist and she wriggled out of her undergarments.
His lips and tongue were nipping at her nipples, erect by now, engorged with desire as she thrust her hips forward to meet his.
"Tell me what you have been afraid to tell me, and God knows you must have said it in your head enough times to...oh, just tell me, Dove!" he commanded between kisses and the hot blasts of his breath in her ear as his body covered hers and her legs parted, bending to wrap around his waist as they moved together in an exquisite tempo. "I know what you want to tell me, so tell me! Tell me you are in love with me!"
Their mouths locked together, she reached down and touched her husband for the first time, exploring, stroking, caressing. Her hips began a primitive circular motion as of their own free will and she never, in all her wistful fantasies, ever imagined she could ever move this way. She shifted over to feel his hardness and she arched her hips to meet his.
He moved to enter her; she thrust forward to meet him, to take him into the depths of her soul. He pulled back out and she writhed under him, whimpering in the heat of the intense fire burning inside her.
"Tell me!" Once again he plunged forth, entering her bit by bit, easing himself in slowly, and she arched her back, clinging to him with her thighs, determined not to let him go this time. She was beyond words, her breath coming in such rapid gasps, she could not even speak.
He yanked his hips away once again and she moaned in frustration. "Please, Valentine, please..."
"Not until you tell me." He propped himself up on his arms, his hair brushing her cheek, their lower parts now barely touching and she strained to meet him, to join him again, but still he did not move. "Tell me and I shall finish what I started. But if you do not love me, I shall get up right now, walk away and leave you like this until your flames diminish to embers on their own."
"I love you, Valentine, oh, I love you so much!"
She pulled him back down to her, and he was there. After a stabbing pain, he gently broke through to the core of her female essence and their bodies moved, slowly at first, rose and fell together in t
he rhythm of a graceful piece of music. He was in her, with her, and she could feel a million stars exploding throughout her body, from the tips of her breasts to the delicate flesh in her loins, and he plunged into her, and she rose to meet him, again and again, until they both cried out in unison, their bodies sliding in their mingled sweat, glistening in the pale moon, and they were one body, one soul, of one earth, soaring to the pinnacles of one heaven, and she cried out again and again, "I love you, I love you..."
Oh, how rich and right it felt on her lips, like a luscious delicacy, and he echoed her cries until they blended into the depths of the night that swept them into its star-strewn skies.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Denys awoke to find her husband snuggled next to her. A hot wave of desire shot through her, nestling between her thighs. She wanted this man who was her liege lord, who had come back to her, whom she loved more than she ever thought she could love anyone.