Clare stared for some time into her cup, glassy-eyed. “I threw myself at him,” she said hoarsely. “God, I’m such a fool. Everyone says it, and it’s true.”
“Nay,” Martine insisted, knowing how it felt to be exploited by a man. “‘Twasn’t your fault.”
Shaking her head, Clare said, “I thought he was... different. But he was...” She bit her lip. “He defiled me. He...” She glanced nervously toward Martine and Felda, then whispered, “I’m not pure anymore.”
“Oh, Clare,” Martine said. “It’s not your fault. Men have this way of making one lose one’s senses. You’re not to blame.”
“My father won’t think so,” she rasped. “He’ll... oh, my God, he’ll kill me. He will, he really will, when he finds out.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“You don’t know him, my lady.” Her eyes refilled with tears. “I can’t go home. Not now that I’m... that I’ve been... I can’t!” Leaning over the table, she cradled her face in her arms and wailed.
Martine looked toward Felda, who frowned and shook her head. Felda had never liked Clare—for that matter, neither had Martine—but to let those base feelings stand in the way of simple human compassion would be unforgivable.
Martine stroked Clare’s hair. “Would you like to stay here, my lady—”
Clare seized Martine’s hands and squeezed them, looking into her eyes with teary gratitude. “Oh, my lady, thank you, thank you!”
“For a while, at least,” Martine amended. “Until we can—”
“Anything!” Clare gasped. “Anything! Oh, my lady, I’ll do anything you want! I’ll be your slave.”
Felda rolled her eyes.
“That won’t be necessary,” Martine said. “I’m just happy to be able to help.”
* * *
“Do you know what day it is?” Thorne called out in English, sitting up in their enormous bed and pulling aside the curtains.
Martine, having already arisen, sat with her back to him in front of a window in the dressing alcove, brushing her hair. It shimmered like fire in the early morning sunlight that flooded the master suite—fire reflected in the gold silk of her dressing gown and the jeweled tones of the new tunics hanging on the alcove walls. Thorne smiled to himself, remembering how she had tried to dismiss the seamstresses he’d summoned... I don’t have time for fittings. I have gardens to sow! But he’d insisted, wanting not only to adorn her, but to give her something personal, something most women seemed to love. Her eventual concession had been less than gracious... All right, all right! But no tight laces, and none of those damned barbettes!
Martine stopped brushing and sat still for a moment. He knew she was struggling to translate his question and compose an answer in English. Finally, “Is it... May the first?” she asked without turning around.
Her accent was so charming that he laughed. “Aye, Mayday,” he said, swinging his long legs over the side of the bed. “The first day of summer.” He stood and stretched, rubbing the kinks out of his arms and raking his fingers through his hair. She looked over her shoulder at him, flushing when she saw that all he had on were the drawers he’d slept in. Turning back toward the window, she resumed her brushing.
He started to reach for his shirt off the carpeted floor, and then stopped. He’d been patient with her. They’d been married for nearly two months, and not once had he pressed for his husbandly rights. He’d hoped, of course, to ease her into acceptance of him, to regain her trust, perhaps even her affection, so that when he did come to her, she would want it as much as he... and she would not, afterward, feel manipulated. But she revealed so little of her true feelings that he honestly didn’t know how much progress he’d made toward mending the rift between them. Perhaps this morning would be a good time to find out.
“Do you know how the Saxon peasants celebrate Mayday?” he asked as he entered the alcove. Loki lay curled up on the cushioned bench next to his mistress. Thorne tossed him off, straddled the warm spot where he’d lain, and took the brush from his wife’s hand.
“Wh-what?” Was it the question or his nearness that flustered her so? he wondered.
He ran the brush through her satiny hair. Quietly he said, in French, “Do you know how my people celebrate this day?”
“Nay,” she murmured, her head falling back as he pulled the stiff boar bristles across her scalp. With his free hand he gently massaged her nape.
“They spend the night in the forest.” Still brushing, he trailed his hand down her back and curled it around her waist. “Making love.”
Her head came up. He put the brush down, encircled her waist with his other hand so that he held her in a loose embrace, and kissed the top of her head. She sat perfectly still, offering no encouragement, but no resistance. He kissed her temple, inhaling the scent of her hair and skin, his body responding with an urgency born of long abstinence. He tightened his left hand around her waist and glided his right up, between her breasts, to rest on her upper chest. Her heart tripped wildly against his palm; her breathing raced. Slowly lowering his hand beneath her dressing gown, but over her satin shift, he cupped a deliciously soft breast, lightly thumbing the nipple until it puckered.
“Martine...” he breathed into her ear.
She stood, turned, and walked toward the bedchamber. “I would appreciate it if this didn’t take too long,” she said coolly, tossing aside her dressing gown and sitting in just her shift on the side of the bed. “I have a great deal to do this morning.”
He just stared at her for a moment. What was she telling him? That she was willing, but only grudgingly so? That she had no choice but to do her wifely duty, but he’d best be quick about it? That stung. He’d been patient to a fault. He’d taken his time, hoping she’d come around—but it clearly hadn’t worked. Perhaps he’d been too patient, too tentative. He couldn’t take her by force—that was for animals like Edmond—but he could make her want him. She responded to his touch at hotly as he to hers.
Rising, he followed her into the bedchamber, noting how she glanced down at his erection, beneath his loose linen drawers, and then quickly looked away. She backed up and lay down on the bed, but as she began to gather her shift up, he reached out to close his hand over hers.
“Not yet,” he said, joining her on the bed and stretching out on his side next to her. He smoothed her hair off her face, then trailed his fingers softly down her throat. “Let me look at you first.”
He saw her swallow. “I really would appreciate it if you were—”
“If I were quick about it, but I have no intention of obliging you. I’ve waited too long for this, and now I’m going to take my time.” He touched a fingertip to a pebbly nipple, and she drew in a breath. “I may keep you in this bed all day, and all night, and then all day tomorrow.” He smiled, and smoothed his palm over her flat belly, bringing it to rest on the feminine swell between her legs. “It’s Mayday, Martine, and I’m going to celebrate it by showing you how it can be between us. Let me show you. Tell me you want me to.”
She closed her eyes and curled her hands into fists. “I don’t want you to. All I want you to do is get it over with.”
He rolled onto her, careful to rest his weight on his elbows so as not to burden her. “I’ll get it over with in a day or two,” he whispered. “And I promise you’ll feel wonderful afterward. Happy and satisfied. And not in the least manipulated.” He closed his mouth over hers and kissed her deeply, reveling in the warmth and softness of her lips. He touched the tip of his tongue to them, slipped it between them to taste her sweetness, and then withdrew, knowing he had to take his time, had to coax her slowly into responding in kind.
He kissed her throat, his hands tangled in her hair. Gradually he settled down onto her, molding himself to her curves and hollows. The feel of her breasts, warm beneath their satin covering, crushed to his bare chest, aroused him to the point of pain. Parting her legs with his knee, he pressed his swollen sex to her own, and felt her shiver. His muscles tig
htened of their own accord, crushing his hard male need against her, then released and contracted again and again, without his willing it. His big body ground sinuously against hers, driven by an age-old instinct he couldn’t control.
He’d been too long without her. His mind told him to wait, but he was already on the verge of release. If he tried to hold off much longer, he’d spill his seed before he could even enter her—an ignoble way to initiate the promised marathon of passion. Claiming her mouth in another hungry kiss, he let his hands roam over her with abandon, caressing her through the liquid-smooth satin in all the ways and in all the places that he knew would most excite her—but she merely lay still beneath him, her face averted, a fistful of sheet in each hand.
“Relax,” he softly urged. “Give it a chance.”
“I feel trapped,” she said tightly, her voice quavering. “I have no choice in this. I’m powerless.”
“Powerless!” He took her right hand, opened her fingers, and pressed it to his throbbing shaft. Her touch almost sent him over the edge, but he gritted his teeth and strained for control. “You have the power to do this to me.” She tried to wrest her hand from his, but he gripped it firmly, guiding her fingers up the length of him. “Feel me,” he said raggedly. “Feel what you do to me. Feel how ready I am for you. It hurts, I want you so much. And I know you want me.”
“I don’t.”
“I don’t believe you.” This time, when she pulled her hand away, he let her. Whipping up the skirt of her shift, he reached between her legs. She flailed at him, but he seized both of her wrists in one iron fist and held them above her head while his other hand sought and found the damp heat that betrayed her own arousal. “You’re body says you want me.”
“That’s my body, not my heart. You make me feel worse than manipulated. I feel violated.”
“Violated?”
“Look at us!” she demanded, her voice cracking with emotion. “How can I feel otherwise?”
Christ, he thought, gazing down upon the trembling woman beneath him, her arms pinned above her head, struggling against the tears that filled her eyes. He had meant to be gentle, to ease her into his arms, to bring her closer to him. Instead, he had lost control—and driven her further away.
He released her, stood, and grabbed his shirt. “I didn’t mean it to be this way, Martine. I meant to—”
“You meant to seduce me.” She sat up, rubbing her wrists. “But you needn’t have gone to the trouble, and I wish you wouldn’t. By law I can’t deny you. ‘Twould be much simpler if you just tupped me quickly and got it over with.”
“I didn’t want a quick tupping. I wanted to make love to you.”
“Why me? Why not one of the kitchen girls? That’s the type you prefer, isn’t it?”
“It has to be you, only you. Don’t you understand?”
She met his gaze, her expression thoughtful, and he thought for a moment that perhaps she did, at last, understand... but presently her eyes narrowed a bit, and then widened slightly, as if she had suddenly figured something out.
“You want to get me with child!” she said. “That’s been the whole point all along. Your little attentions, your kisses... ‘twas all a kind of slow seduction. Just more manipulation.”
“Martine, what are you—”
“You’re a baron now, and a baron needs sons, legitimate sons. Any woman can give you pleasure, but only your wife can give you heirs.”
“Heirs?” He shook out the chausses he’d worn the day before. “Is that why you think I...” Shaking his head, he tunneled his legs into the woolen hose and tied them. “God, Martine, I’ve been too busy to give any thought to heirs. ‘Twas you I wanted.” He pulled on his boots and yesterday’s tunic.
Wrapping her arms around her updrawn legs, she said, “Nay, not me. If it’s not heirs you seek, then it’s simple sexual release. Any woman would have done.”
“If any woman would have done, I’d have spared myself some bother and paid a visit to Fat Nan.” She looked puzzled. “She runs a brothel in the harbor. No whore has ever accused me of manipulating her.”
“Go, then,” she said with a tone of studied indifference, rising and reaching for her dressing gown. “I know you have... needs. If that’s the only reason you came to me this morning, because you’re frustrated, then by all means go to—”
“I didn’t say that!” Christ, she was exasperating!
“I know perfectly well what—”
“You know nothing!” He took a step toward her and tried to pull her into his arms, but she flinched and shook him off. Something hot and unstoppable rose within him. Wheeling around, he sighted on the big, glazed window and, without thinking, hauled back and slammed his fist through one of the panes. The glass shattered. He heard her gasp as he withdrew his bloody hand. She ran to the dressing alcove and came back with the sleeve of one of her cotton chemises, which he took and wrapped around his throbbing fist. He felt suddenly light-headed and very weary, his mind as curiously numb as his lacerated hand.
For a few long moments they stood in silence, and then he said quietly, “Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps I should go to Hastings. I’m not doing either of us any good here.”
She opened her mouth to speak, and for a moment he thought, from the expression in her eyes, that she might beg him not to go. But she bit her lip and looked away, her arms wrapped tightly around her chest.
He grabbed his mantle and sword belt off their hooks. “I’ll be back tomorrow evening.” She nodded, facing away from him.
He swung the door open and collided with Clare, upsetting the tray of wine and bread in her hands.
“Oh, my lord, I’m sorry!” she squealed, kneeling to clean it up. She was always underfoot, that one. Always lurking about with food and drink no one had asked for. Not trusting himself to utter a civil response, he turned and stalked away.
* * *
Martine awoke that night to a furious knocking at her bedchamber door. She turned to the other side of the bed before remembering that Thorne wasn’t there; he was in Hastings. It was surely well past midnight. Who would disturb her at such an hour?
“Milady! Milady!” The door banged open and Felda rushed into the room, dressed, like Martine, in nothing but her shift, and carrying a lantern. “Milady, it’s Bernard! He’s here!”
“Bernard?” Martine whipped aside the covers and leaped out of bed, following Felda to the window. She looked down and gasped. Dozens of mounted men in chain mail surrounded the keep, some leaping down from their horses and running inside with torches. She heard thunderous footsteps on the stairs, and a familiar voice shouting commands—Bernard.
She ran to the door and locked it, then remembered the door that led to the chapel and secured that as well.
“What’s happening?” Felda cried as the footsteps neared. “What does he want?”
“Me, I think,” said Martine in a shaky whisper.
“Sweet Mother of God,” Felda muttered. “I wish Thorne was here.”
Martine heard Bernard’s voice on the other side of the door— “It’s this one” —and then the doorknob turned. “Open the door, my lady,” he bellowed.
Felda crossed herself. “Milady, what are we going to—”
“It’s me they want,” Martine said, feeling a cold calm descend upon her. “You can get away if you don’t draw attention to your—”
“Nay!” Felda exclaimed as Bernard banged fiercely on the door. “I’ll not run away. You need me with you.”
“I need you to go to Hastings and find Thorne.”
Bernard ceased his pounding, but the blessed silence was short-lived, for presently there commenced a series of deafening blows that rattled the door on its hinges. He’d graduated from his fist to his foot, it seemed, and from the sound of it, he’d enlisted a few of his men to help.
Martine grabbed Felda by the shoulders. “Saddle up and ride to Hastings as fast as you can,” she yelled over the explosive pounding. “Go to the harbor. There’s a
person named... I think it’s Nan...”
Felda’s mouth flew open. “Fat Nan?” Martine nodded. “He left you alone here so he could run off to—”
Martine shook Felda hard as the wood of the door began to splinter. “Just find him, Felda. Find him! Tell him what happened.”
Another deafening kick, and another, and finally the door crashed open and dark forms swarmed into the room.
Chapter 23
Martine screamed “Go!” to her maid as armored and helmeted men grabbed her and hurled her onto the bed. They flipped her facedown and held her there, kneeling on her back so hard she could barely breathe. Gloved hands yanked her arms behind her back while others encircled them with rope, pulling it so tightly that it bit into her skin. At the same time, someone else brought her ankles together, and they were similarly bound.
This isn’t happening. Martine shivered violently, her eyes squeezed shut. This can’t be happening. Her nostrils flared as she breathed in the odors of oiled steel, leather, and unwashed bodies. The feel of all those strange hands on her, of mail-clad knees and elbows digging into her, wrested a sob of helpless fury from her throat. Nay, don’t cry! she commanded herself. All you’ve got now is your dignity. Don’t give them the pleasure of seeing you cry.
Two men jerked her roughly to her feet, whipped her around, and held her there.
Bernard stood before her in the dim glow of the lantern, serene as usual amid the brutality he’d spawned. He alone wore no armor, but was clad instead in a tunic of black brocade embroidered in gold. He smiled that deathly smile that never reached his eyes, and then he said simply, “Lady Falconer.”
“What do you want?” she asked, struggling to keep her voice from quivering.
“That should be fairly obvious, my lady. I want you.”
“You’re too late,” she said. “I’m already married.”
Bernard chuckled, and his men followed suit. “I’m hardly here to ask for your hand, my lady.” He gestured, and a figure emerged into the light—Father Simon, a sheet of parchment in his hand.
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