by Nina Merrill
“Boudin,” she whispered, “please be all right.”
The door began to gape open and Jennie lunged to add her weight to the table. The movement ceased and a man spoke outside. “Madame, open the door.”
Jennie was silent, trying to recall the voice. Hadn’t she heard it before?
“You must let me in, madame.” The door moved again. Jennie slammed hard against the table and succeeded in pushing the door closed, but only momentarily before the gap began to widen again.
“You haven’t given the sign,” she panted.
The movement stopped and there was silence.
There was no password that they’d told Jennie, but she hoped he had no way of knowing that. She stooped, groping for a shard of broken crockery—it looked like the rim of the ewer—and hefted it in her right hand, while she held the table hard against the door with her left and all her weight.
“Sophia,” he said softly.
“Wrong.” But his word made her gasp, recalling as it did her discoveries in her apartment just before the world spun off its axis. Someone come, someone please come…Tibald, Napier, I don’t care, someone!
“Madame, open the door. I must take you to safety. Commander de Payraud has sent me.”
“What have you done with Boudin? I won’t leave without him.”
“I’ve relieved him. His days have been long of late.” The door moved again, and this time she saw his fingers sliding around the edge of the door as soon as the gap was large enough. She lurched forward, but her weight was not enough to close the door on his fingers now that he’d gained leverage.
With a frightened, sobbing gasp, she slashed at the fingers with her broken crockery and was gratified, though horrified, when blood began to flow and he let go of the door with a curse. Jennie shoved it closed again, holding her weapon at the ready.
She wasn’t sure how much time passed before she finally heard a noise outside her door. She’d been leaning against the table all that time, ready at any moment to fight again. Maybe it hadn’t been necessary, maybe the knight had been sent by Payraud, but she couldn’t believe it, not when Boudin hadn’t returned. Jennie wanted desperately to open the door and hurry down to him, but she couldn’t for fear the man was still out there.
“Open the door!”
Napier. She tipped the table upright again and nearly pulled the door off its hinges getting it open. “Napier! Quickly, quickly, I think he hurt Boudin!” She had never been so glad to see anyone in her life. She tried to get past him to find Boudin for herself, but Napier took hold of her shoulders and held her in place.
“Tibald has taken Boudin to the hospital.”
“Then he’s alive? Oh, Napier, Boudin had time to warn me, but I was so afraid someone—someone h-hurt him—”
“Did you see who it was?”
She shook her head, gulping, only moments from sobbing, and actually glad of Napier’s steadying grip. “I only heard him. It’s a voice I’ve heard before. But I…” She held up the bit of crockery and was startled to see blood on it. “I cut his hand to make him let go of the door.”
Napier’s peaky eyebrows went even higher with wicked delight. “Then we shall be able to find him. Well done.”
Jennie was unpleasantly startled to feel warmed by Napier’s praise. But before she had time to examine that feeling, from the stairs came a hasty stamping—someone running up them. Napier drew his sword and pushed Jennie behind him. The sword made not a single whisper as he drew it, which chilled Jennie to the marrow. She had no doubt that Napier would kill—and soundlessly, without a grimace of regret—if he felt he must. Boudin had drawn quietly, too, but he’d had to do it slowly and with his hand to muffle the noise. Napier’s skill was nothing short of dreadful.
“Alain?” came the voice from without.
Jennie’s knees went weak. Tibald was coming up those stairs. Tibald, Tibald. Napier was already on the move, and the two knights met on the landing.
“She wounded his hand. I’ll find him. We’ll have him at last.”
“Go carefully, my brother. Boudin is under guard—when he rouses, he’ll name his assailant.”
Then Napier was gone, and Tibald was striding through her door, his gray eyes blazing, looking nowhere but at Jennie. His right hand shot out to slam the door behind him and then she was in his arms, crushed and crimped by the chain mail he wore, and his mouth was on hers, hard, so hard, desperate and consuming. The kiss hurt, but she would have it no other way. She had to fight to free her arms to wind around his neck, but once they were there, she held so tight he lifted her off her feet when he straightened.
Chapter 16
When they broke for air, he lowered her to the floor again and shifted to catch her face between his hands, staring down at her with the most intense gaze she had ever seen. “Are you well, Jeanne? Were you hurt?” His voice was urgent, his speech rapid.
“I was not—but what of Boudin?”
“He’ll live.” Tibald’s mouth hovered above hers. “I spent the longest minutes of my life just now, not knowing if you were hurt or killed or captured—” His hands roamed over her, as if confirming for themselves that she was whole. There was an instant where his fingers clenched in the slubby wool of her dress and it was clear he fought his instincts, then he gathered the fabric in his hands and bunched it over her hips so he could spread his fingers over her skin. “Christe, Jeanne, tell me to stop.”
Shuddering with heat and the last of the adrenaline rush from her struggle with the intruder, Jennie linked her hands behind his neck and pulled his head down. He leaned against the table, which skidded away until it crashed against the door, Tibald staggering after helplessly and towing her with him. He leaned there, his hands fighting her clothing, finding the soft fabric of her panties and shoving it aside. Jennie cried out urgently when she felt the rough skin of his muscular fingers pushing between her legs. She knew he could feel for himself how aroused she was, how wet, how hair-trigger ready. The eagerness she felt astonished her. She was hungry for him, hungry to feel more than just his fingers pushing into her, wanting to ride him or be ridden, to feel his body going so deep she would be branded by its touch.
“Stop me,” he groaned.
“No.” She crowded against him where his legs separated to keep his balance, lifting her knee to wrap her calf around his thigh. Her hands were free to struggle with the mail and fabric covering his crotch, and beneath the layers she could feel his penis leaping, fighting the constraints. “You want me.”
“God help me, yes.” He caught her mouth with his, his tongue shoving roughly past her lips. As her frantic hands at last found the fastenings that concealed his erection and brushed over the turgid flesh, he groaned into her mouth. “Jeanne, stop me.”
“No,” she said again. He hitched himself onto the table, dragging her body between his legs. She pulled away just long enough to strip off her panties—marveling briefly that Tibald hadn't shredded them in his eager, inexperienced roughness, and stepped close again, cupping his erection in both her hands. “Don’t ask me to be your conscience when I have wanted you every day I’ve known you.”
His head fell back at her touch, and when he lifted it again to stare at her, his eyes were nothing but pupil, bottomless and blind with desire.
He reached for her, his hands sliding under the dress and her soft cotton nightie to catch her beneath her buttocks and lift her onto the table with him. She scrambled awkwardly, bending her legs to kneel astride his hips, her dress a pool in their laps. His hand fumbled between them, grasping his penis and groping for her moist, too-warm opening. She tried to help, but the angle was awkward for them both. She could feel the tip of his penis, like the new growth of a spring plant pushing from its frilled sheath, where she was hottest, wettest, most aroused. She shifted and that seemed to be all he needed for he brought both his hands to her hips and seated her firmly over his erection. Tibald stared into her eyes and worked her pelvis over him once, twice, a third time,
and then he arched and she felt his penis convulsing like something swallowing. His eyes closed in his bliss, but even as Jennie continued to move, seeking her own satisfaction with friction against his body, his erection quickly flagged.
He had come, and it was over.
Jennie nearly sobbed in frustration. His semen, what felt like copious quantities of it, drained slowly from where they were joined.
“Just a little longer,” she pleaded. “Tibald. Please. Help me—” She saw the pleasure ebb from his face to be replaced by consternation when he opened his eyes to look at her.
And guilt. Don’t forget the guilt, Jennie. You’ve had him—or rather, he’s had you—and now he’s guilty, guilty, guilty for you're a wicked woman, and he’s but a breath away from being a priest.
As easily as he had lifted her into his lap, now he unseated her, his penis sliding from her wetly. She stood shaken and sick with unsatisfied desire in front of him as he hastily tucked himself out of sight in his clothes and stood up.
“Tibald.” She couldn’t help it—his name came tumbling out of her, filled with desperation and unhappiness. The joy she’d felt in seeing him, in being held, kissed, taken, vanished like fog before the sun. “Don’t look at me like that. I only wanted to take my pleasure, as you took yours.”
He stared at her, desire and confusion mingled on his features. “A decent woman does not take her pleasure from the flesh.”
Of course. Back to the demonization of women. I’m a temptress. Fury flashed over her like the blue flames of gasoline fumes, hot and intense, and her French came out spotted with English. “What? Are you so inexperienced that you think women don’t feel pleasure during sex? Do you think we endure—that—because it’s our sacred duty?”
Tibald’s cheeks pinkened. “I am not inexperienced.”
“You could’ve fooled me.” She didn’t care how much she wounded him now. He was a chauvinistic idiot. “Where I come from, the man strives to please the woman as much as she strives to please him.” She looked him up and down. “Clearly you took your pleasure.” She paused. “Or perhaps you truly share Napier’s low opinion of me, despite all your protests to the contrary.”
“I’ve broken my oath for you.”
“Yes, your sacred oath as a Templar, a man among men who hoard treasure and deny they take pleasure with women where they will. What hypocrites you all are. How many squires running around this preceptory are bastards and not apprentices by choice?”
She’d gone too far, and she knew it. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, but she refused to take a step back out of range.
“You know nothing about us.”
“I know enough, it seems. Enough for someone to try to take me away from here. Enough for your commander to put me under guard.”
“’Tis true there are some who profane the name of Templar, but until now I wasn’t one of them.” His head swung away from her. “What have I done?” He was no longer speaking to her. He was denigrating himself.
“You can tell yourself all you like that you’ve profaned your order, that most sacred order. Just by fucking me.” Tibald flinched when she used the harsh word, but said nothing. “What you’ve really done is profane me, and profane yourself by denying what you truly feel and what you truly want. Get out. I want nothing more to do with you if you can’t face that tiny bit of truth about yourself.”
Jennie turned her back on Tibald and walked to the window, where she stared unseeing at the rags of white clouds that scudded on the late summer wind. It wasn’t until she heard the door close—quietly this time—that she allowed the tears to flow, hot and stinging.
Chapter 17
Hours later, her door opened again. She was sitting on the bed, staring at nothing, thinking of nothing except how she’d once again ruined her chances with Tibald. Instantly she was on her feet, groping for something, anything, to use as a weapon, when Napier spoke and her heart slowed its frantic pace.
“It is only I. But it’s good to see you’re learning not to trust everyone.” He bent and lifted the usual dinner tray and brought it inside. “I will be your evening guard. Tibald is with our commander.” Napier’s dark eyes searched her stricken face. “He appears distraught, as do you.”
Jennie said nothing. Tibald is doubtless confessing all to his master. It won’t be long before they come for me, scarlet woman, witch, demon. She imagined him on his knees in the preceptory chapel, saying his rosary, babbling his infatuation and their mutual sin earlier that day.
“We’ve found the king’s agent and locked him away.” Napier put the tray on her table and saw where the wine jug lay broken and spilled near the door. “I forgot your crockery—shortly I’ll fetch replacements. It was Maillet’s hand that gave him away. He had wrapped it and feigned a cut in the practice drill today.”
“Maillet!” Jennie exclaimed, startled out of her silence. “That’s whose voice it was! I know him. He accosted you my first night here and spoke with Tibald days ago.” She sat at the table, hungry despite her anguish. “Has he been questioned? Does he admit he’s a spy?”
“Commander de Payraud and Warden de Bergère are speaking with him now. What will happen next, I know not.”
“If he’s truly King Philip’s agent, we must proceed with caution.” At her response, Napier’s mouth quirked in a knowing smile, and she stifled her huff of annoyance. Of course they’re being cautious, you idiot! They’re military men. At least now they’ll have confirmation that what I’ve been saying all along is true, and can begin to plan. “What of Boudin?”
“Awake now, and very angry and concerned about you. Though why he should bother, I don’t understand.”
“You don’t understand because Boudin is a friend.” Jennie ripped a chunk from the bread and sopped it in the stew. Stew. Always and ever, stew. If I ever get home again, it’s going to be steak six nights a week, and chocolate cream pie the seventh.
Napier tilted his head. “And I am not?” He held out his empty hands, palms up. “I come to you with news, I fetch your meal, I am unarmed. Am I not a friend?”
“You do as you’re bidden, not because you want to.”
“’Tis true, what you say. You're a danger here.”
“Why should we lie to each other? You hate me, Napier, because of Tibald.”
“Nay—hate is too strong a word.” He looked at her for a long moment, and Jennie was surprised by the conflicting emotions that crossed his face. Perhaps he truly didn’t hate her after all. “You make me fear for Tibald.”
“For his immortal soul.” Jennie was tempted to copy his trademark snort or his Gallic shrug, that supremely insulting and yet courteously indifferent jerk of the shoulders that Frenchmen had made famous for centuries. She settled for prodding a bit of stringy meat in her trencher instead. When he didn’t answer, she spoke more quietly. “I love him, if that matters.” Despite his medieval viewpoints. Ha-ha-ha. We can weep for each other, Napier, we who care for an honorable man.
The words came easily to her lips and were all the more stunning in their impact because of their simple truth.
Napier turned sharply back to the door. “That is why I fear for him.” With a screech, the door closed behind him.
It was still Napier on guard duty the next morning, though Jennie opened the door cautiously, hoping for a glimpse of Tibald, or perhaps even Boudin, should he have improved so quickly. Napier was toying with his dagger, balancing it on his index finger. At her look of disappointment, he smirked, but tiredly.
Jennie determined she wouldn't allow his animosity to taint her day and settled herself on the topmost stair the way she might have done with Boudin. “You need someone to relieve you. The circles grow beneath your eyes and the hours crawl by, Napier. What have you learned from Maillet?”
“I should let you writhe in curiosity, but instead I will tell you what was told to me after compline, long after you were abed.” The dagger lay sleek and flat across his finger.
Jennie w
as impressed, despite herself, when he gave it a slight toss and caught it between two fingers by the blade, tossed it a second time and caught it by the hilt, hardly watching. The dagger was an integral part of him.
“Maillet has been sending weekly missives to the king. I wondered where he was the night you appeared, why he was not at our convocation after the disturbance.”
“No doubt he was meeting a courier somewhere outside the preceptory, informing the king of—”
“Walls have ears,” interrupted Napier. “But you are correct.”
“Then Commander de Payraud will take action!” In her excitement, her whisper nearly became a shout. There was hope for the Templars, but most especially Tibald, Boudin and even Napier.
Napier was silent, but a moment later, he nodded. “Go within. I will fetch your meal, but I’ll have your solemn promise that you’ll open that door only to admit me, or I will not go at all. I well know your penchant for going where you should not.”
Jennie nodded, rising.
“Your promise.” Napier met her gaze firmly.
“I promise.” She closed the door, wondering what Payraud had in mind, and whether it included her. She couldn’t help but be frightened for herself, even as she was relieved for the men she had met in this century.
With darkness, at last, came the guard change. Through her partially opened door, Jennie heard Napier descend the stairs and exchange words with Tibald below. Her heart raced painfully. What could she say to him? She’d spent the day worrying over their last meeting, wondering if she should apologize for her behavior, and yet feeling that her reaction had been perfectly justified.
With Harrison, the discussion would never have arisen because the situation was so different. Not to mention she wasn’t in love with Harrison. She knew that now, after imagining for the past year that their comfortable camaraderie would eventually develop into love. Another sword-stroke to her academic’s soul, dividing books from reality, demanding she participate in life instead of watching it flow past her. Harrison belonged to that other life, the life of books and observation, but real life—and love—belonged here with Tibald. Real life, with all its uncertainty and rough edges.