by Janet Lane
A fluttering sigh reached her ears, and Sharai recognized a new quality in her voice, a sound she had never before uttered.
He moaned in return, sucking gently on her flesh, taking nips that made her want to crawl outside of her skin and jump into his.
He brushed his right hand over her belly, like a whisper that caused her to arch her body to him.
He met her gaze; his brown eyes a soft cinnamon in the sun, trance-like, so connected to her they seemed like reflections of her own. The corner of his mouth raised in smug pleasure. “You like that.” His voice, low and sure, caressed her as surely as his hand. “How about this?”
His hand traveled up her skirt.
Breathless, she adjusted her leg, welcoming him.
He stroked her, touching her in new, unknown ways.
Her bones seemed to melt into something hot and liquid. Because it was Tabor, she pushed the fear aside, delighting in the sensations he drew from her.
His finger entered her slowly.
A sigh trembled out of her mouth.
His movements quickened.
Her breathing became ragged, and she felt as if she were ill and well and hot and needy. Desperation rose within her, and she pulled away.
He followed her. “Nay, Sharai. Stay with me, Sweetling. This is your time.”
The movements were natural as breathing now, she could not escape, never wanted to leave his arms, his touch.
Something pooled inside her and she began falling, falling. Joy overwhelmed her, and she cried out. Waves of pleasure pulsed through her.
He kissed her hard.
Her body shuddered, then relaxed. She gasped for breath, threw her arms around his big shoulders and hung on.
He pulled her tight to his chest, rocking her gently in his lap. “You’re free now, Sharai.”
She melted into the warmth of his embrace. No, Tabor, she thought. You have claimed my body and soul. I will never be free again. Rejecting concerns for the future with a toss of her hair, she claimed the moment for her own, showering his face with kisses, savoring the salty tang of his skin under the hot summer sun.
Chapter Twelve
Sharai exited the great hall into the stifling midday heat and crossed the cobblestones to the empty kitchen. This time, it was deserted. The rotating spits stood empty; the overhead utensil hooks were filled with implements, and the enormous wooden tables cleaned of their flour and pans. The smell of bread lingered, bringing thoughts of childhood and her mother, and the safe feeling she enjoyed when in the circle of her arms. From the plaited rush mats on the floor the smell of bacon grease rose, partially masked by sprinklings of lavender and mint. From a cage on a corner table several chickens clucked softly, oblivious of their fate.
Butterfly wings fluttered in her stomach. She had never before been inspired to make this love potion, and she wanted it to be perfect. She opened a small package and retrieved the frog bones she had painstakingly collected from the weeds. The ants had picked the bones spotlessly clean. Sliding a wooden mortar closer, she withdrew the pestle and deposited the bones. Grasping the top of the pestle, she broke the bones then ground in a circular motion, gently at first. Covering the top of the mortar with her left hand, she kept the bone fragments from flying out of the bowl as she worked.
She hummed a summer dancing melody and contemplated the new awareness of her body. She recalled her extraordinary experience by the stream with Tabor. ’Twas quite the greedy thing, this lust. It made her abandon all caution, forget all but desire.
Sweet wonder, Tabor had awakened her in ways she had never imagined.
He’d had his way with her. Or, had he? He waived his pleasure for hers. What did that mean? She could never endure the embarrassment of asking such questions of the pleasure dancers, so she still knew little of such things. By the saints, she missed her mother, who always had the right answers, and Etti was forever lost to her now because of Count Aydin. If a woman was pleasured but not the man, did it still make the woman a whore? Of course, the title itself meant nothing to her. She, who had been sold as a slave and raised in the Gypsy tents at regional fairs had been called much worse than that. She’d learned to ignore the condemnations; besides, each fair lasted but weeks and she could always move on.
But would she now? She no longer had a tribe, and she yearned for a home. These weeks with Tabor had reminded her how desperately she wished to settle, to belong. Create her own family.
Tabor was not meant to be hers. The pain of that thought rendered her weak, but she could not ignore it. She knew she must leave, but before she did she would know his love. At least she could then hold those memories of him, long after he had wed Emilyne and fulfilled his obligations.
She touched her fingers to her lips, blowing a kiss of wishes into the mortar, and in that moment she wanted nothing more in the world than to be in his arms.
She checked her progress. The bones had reached a state of fine powder. She pulled a small vial from her waistband and, measuring by eye, sprinkled a dash of dried bat’s blood into the rounded vessel. She blended it, and turned to a small torte she had prepared earlier. Forming a small trough, she nestled her ingredients in the middle and folded it over three times for luck, sealing it shut. She slipped the concoction in the oven, still hot from the earlier bread-baking.
A pot clanged behind her.
Sharai jolted upright and turned around.
Maud, the cheerful whore from Hungerford, swung a huge pot into the fireplace, securing the handle on a hook above the fire pit. Her face now bruise-free, she wiped a tendril of red hair off her wet forehead and smiled. “Oh, ’tis good to see you again, miss.” She focused on the oven and the small cake that baked there, her blue eyes sparkling with curiosity.
Sharai stood between Maud and the oven, blocking her view. Even Maud would laugh if she explained about the love potion. Laugh or, like Lady Anne, accuse her of sorcery. “Hello, Maud. What are you doing here?” She softened the question with a smile.
“Master Erwin had no need for more girls in his inn, so Lord Tabor brought me to serve in the kitchen. I’m strong enough to lift these pots without swooning in the heat, and I can fetch heavy loads from the buttery.” She laughed. “Men have always said I’m good with my hands, and now the womenfolk will learn this, too.”
Since Sharai had last seen her, Maud had acquired a light brown tunic the color of aged wood. It fit her stout frame and better contained her large breasts, and it provided a nice contrast to her fair skin. She broke pieces of kindling on her knee and stirred the coals, reviving the fire. “I told Lord Tabor I’d make him right proud.”
Sharai sat on a stool near the fireplace. “I’m sure you will.”
Maud blew on the fire and added wood. “Thank you for speaking so kindly to me that first day. I’d like to have swallowed my teeth in fear, what with that Lady Emilyne staring holes in me and her ma and Tabor’s ma, ooh.” She shivered. “I thought they was going to send me right back to Hungerford, and God knows, I’m afeared what Rauf will do if he ever spies me.”
“Rauf?”
“Lord Hungerford’s son.” Her face darkened. “He killed my brother, Harry, a cripple, you know, no fault of his. Rauf thought his disease would rub off, but all Harry wanted was to stay warm by the fire.”
“I’m sorry, Maud.”
“I helped Sir John escape, and Rauf swore he’d cut out my tongue for it. ’Tis why Tabor brought me here, you know. He saved my life.” She gave a little laugh. “Well, leastwise my tongue.”
“I know Rauf. He has no honor. If it makes you feel better, Maud, he carries a scar from me.”
Maud’s eyes widened. “Little as you are? He's an ox. You must have caught him unaware.”
Sharai smiled. "I had help. He tried to kill…" She hesitated, not wanting to embarrass Tabor. "…a gravely wounded man while he slept. I stopped him.”
“Just before I came here, he flogged my cousin because he startled Rauf’s horse during a formal process
ion for the Good Duke.”
“The Good Duke.” She remembered Father Bernard’s bewilderingly complex story about Humphrey, who ruled England for the child king. “Was the king with him?”
“Nay, but he brought enough others. Ooh-wee, were his men hungry and I don’t mean for food. Old Lord Hungerford, he was all puffed up about the duke staying and all. We was all busy as fish at sunrise getting ready for his arrival, slaughtering pigs, sweeping the streets, brewing fresh ale.”
“What was the purpose of his visit?” Sharai asked.
“I found out the real story from the men.” She winked. “When Gloucester’s men hit the pillow, they talked like the priest at Eastertide. There’s this big meeting of the nobles called Parliament, some sort of royal business that sounds like begging. The king needs more money for war; the nobles give it to him. Gloucester runs these big meetings, and Lord Tabor attends them, too, right along with Lord Hungerford. Holy spitballs! Think of them two men in the same room.”
“When did he arrive?”
“Two days before Lord Tabor.”
She became concerned. “Did Tabor—Lord Tabor—meet with the duke?”
Maud fidgeted with her tunic. “Aye, and you know what he smelled like. Rauf’s guards threw him in the dungeon, and they slopped a chamber pail on him and dragged him from the dungeon to the great hall, where the duke was breaking his fast. That must have for sure ruined his appetite.”
Sharai’s nose wrinkled from the memory of how Tabor stank for days after that. She thought of Tabor’s pride, and she hurt for him.
She removed her cake from the oven.
“A little treat for Tabor?” Maud asked.
Sharai didn't respond. So the Hungerfords were that close to royalty. A sick feeling crept over Sharai. They were more powerful than she had thought. And Father Bernard is more optimistic than he should be.
“So how goes it with Lady Anne’s dresses? For the harvest festival, I mean.”
“They’re done.”
“Wait until the festival. There’s music and games and—”
“Kadriya and I will leave before then.”
“What?” Maud’s voice rose in surprise. “Lord Tabor would not have you leave. He treasures you, my lady. It’s in his eyes.”
“The betrothal ceremonies will take place at the harvest festival. He is spoken for.”
“But you’re the woman of his heart. Surely he will take you as his mistress.”
“To be his whore?”
“Whore, wife, mistress, what be the difference? All women are chattel. Is that not the word they use? My mother wed my father, but after she birthed Harry, he said her womb was foul and sold her to another man at market, like some goat or pig. What good came to her from being a wife?”
Sold at market. The phrase splashed panic on Sharai, and she could not find words to respond.
Maud gave Sharai a purposeful glance. “Men can spout and quote and preach and bequeath titles, but in the end, a man is guided by what lies between his ears—may be impressive or sad—and his legs, same story. My da, he had lots between his legs, little between his ears and even less in his heart.”
She formed a basket with the fabric of her skirt and filled it with turnips. Snipping a green top off, she paused, knife in the air. “Folks here at Coin Forest are so much better off than at Hungerford, and I’ve heard from enough men to know why. Because of Lord Tabor. He’s a good man. He can provide for you. All this, it will pass. He just needs some time to figure out how to beat Rauf at his own game. And now he has you, my lady.”
“But I cannot—”
“I see it in your face. You’re as smitten as he is.”
Maud patted her hand. “You know Rauf. He must be stopped. Pray help Lord Tabor. He has lots up here. And here.” She tapped her chest. “Pray don’t leave him when he needs you most.”
* * * * *
Sharai climbed the steps to the solar. She heard the murmur of Tabor’s voice from above.
“Very well, then, quintain practice at first light. And be sure to rouse that rascal, Thomas.” Tabor’s voice sounded, low and resonant. It made her heart beat faster.
Sir Cyrill grunted. “The lad is a trial.”
Tabor laughed.
She continued climbing. The glowing wall sconces became visible, then the top of Sir Cyrill’s head. His grey hair revealed an indentation from wearing his helmet in the summer heat. The table where she sewed during the day had been cleared, and was covered now with candles and parchments. The two men stood at opposite sides of the tall table and Cyrill had backed up, as if concluding their conversation. Tabor rolled a parchment closed with his big hands, tying it with a leather strap. The candlelight cast a warm glow on his wide shoulders. He wore the green doublet she’d sewn for him. His hair gleamed, black as the night sky against his collar.
His gaze touched her, soft as a caress.
She no longer felt the pressure of her feet on the steps, and seemed to float to the solar level.
Cyrill cleared his throat. “I’ll see to it then, my lord. Good eve.” He nodded to Sharai and left.
Tabor’s gaze never faltered. She had come here seeking his attention and indeed, his brown eyes burned, rich with a simmering sensuality that made each breath a trial. She could not decide whether to bolt or rush into his arms, and the thrill in the core of her body when he looked at her thus made her want to cry out.
He smiled. “Sharai. I missed you at the evening meal.”
Struggling for air, she approached the table. “After Lady Anne’s words of anger, I thought it best to avoid her.” She placed a package on the table. “I made you a confection.” Her fingers bumped into each other, presenting the small cake. “I hope you like it.” She patted one side that had crumbled a bit in the unwrapping, and cursed her clumsiness. She had wanted it to be perfect. “I hope you like cherries and walnuts.”
His big hand covered her wrist, stopping her fidgeting. He lifted her hand, kissed it, then nestled it between the two of his.
Her insides jangled. “Won’t you try it?”
“What are you offering?” An easy confidence touched his voice. He had learned the secrets of her body, and his eyes raked boldly over her, exposing the secrets of her heart, as well.
She shivered inside and withdrew her hand. “The cake,” she answered simply, sliding it toward him.
“Cherries. Aye, I like cherries.” He broke off a corner of the cake and popped it in his mouth. “Hmm, sweet.” He broke off another chunk and chewed a bit more slowly. “Interesting texture.”
His mouth moved rhythmically, transfixing her, and his tongue swept lazily across his upper lip to retrieve an errant crumb.
Faeries danced in her stomach, creating a soundless din that brought her close to swooning.
His chewing became audible. He’d reached the center of the cake. “Ow.”
Her breath caught. “What?”
He struggled to speak. “Something sharp.”
Her heart stopped. She hadn’t sufficiently ground the bones.
His eyes grew large, and he explored his mouth with his tongue.
She grabbed his flagon. “Here, take a drink.”
“Thank you.” He swallowed some wine then coughed again.
She hoped for resolution. “Mayhaps a cherry pit?”
He coughed again, harder. “Can’t breathe.” He stepped backward, seized in a convulsion, and sank to a chair, gasping for breath.
“Here.” She pounded him on the back. “Does this help?”
He lunged forward, arms outstretched and eyes wide in distress. He collapsed on the rug and, with eyes closed, lay still and silent.
Sharai cried out. “Tabor, breathe!” She shook him, her heart racing. She’d been so careful. She moved him to his side, the dead weight difficult to budge, and pounded on his back with all her strength. She placed her hand under his nose and felt warm air. He was breathing. “Oh, blessed saints, you’re alive.”
He turned h
is head and smiled at her.
“What? Did you swallow it?”
His smile spread into a mischievous grin. “Poor frog. Though he died for a noble cause.”
Realization made her scalp tingle. “How could you know—”
“Kadriya shed light on that mystery, though I admit, it cost me a trip to Coin Forest.”
“I cannot believe she—”
He laughed. “Oh, be not so earnest about it, Sharai. I impressed upon her that I sought only to understand. And now I do. The cake is a . . . um, charm that will make me love you.”
Appalled, she clutched her throat. He knew. She turned away from him.
He caught her at the waist. “Fret not, Sharai. I’m not angry.”
She reached the table, grabbed a chunk of cake and threw it in his face. “Well, I am. You scared me half to death, laughing at my expense. Choke on it. ’Twould serve you right.”
“Where’s your sense of humor? I thought it was charming, and I want to tell our children this story some day.”
He dodged her weapons of flour and sugar. “’Tis a delicious, fine cake, my sweet, though your efforts are wasted.”
“What mean you? I worked hours on this . . ..” She left the sentence unfinished, realizing whatever she called it could be her undoing.
“This spell?”
“I am no witch. ’Tis more like a potion, a special combination of ingredients mixed with hope, not sorcery.”
His face lost all trace of humor, and his brow creased in concern. “But some might call it such, and you must needs remember that and refrain from such practices in the future. I will not condemn you, though your skills in the kitchen are as suspect as your palm reading.” His large hands framed her face, holding it gently. His eyes brimmed with tenderness. “I have loved you since you danced for me at St. Giles’ Fair.”
“I did not dance for you.”
He touched her lips to silence her. “You did. You just did not know it at the time.”
She recalled what passed between them that night, the power in his eyes, the desire. She had seen it, but didn’t understand it. Until today, after the way he awakened her body, she understood. But remembering his patience, his gentleness, the way he sacrificed his satisfaction for hers, she knew that his love was real. There could be no other explanation for his behavior or his steadfast protection and concern since that night at the fair.