Lady Fortune

by Anne Stuart

  Was it martyrdom? Was she taking her punishment for putting a curse on him? He supposed it should matter, but it didn’t. It made no difference why she let him kiss her, only that her nipples grew hard beneath her clothing and her cheeks grew flushed, only that her breath caught in her throat and her eyes looked both dazed and dreamy. Reasons didn’t matter, only that she liked it.

  He pulled her down onto the bed with him so that she lay facing him, that bewildered, panicked expression on her face, but she didn’t resist, didn’t fight him or push away. She kept her hand pressed against the warmth of his chest, a small reminder, a small warning. He picked it up and placed a kiss in her palm, then placed it back against his stomach. She let it stay.

  The chalice. The soft, insistent voice at the back of his head sounded very much like King Henry at his most petulant. The chalice, fool!

  But he didn’t want to hear King Henry. He wanted Julianna’s soft, choking little sigh.

  And he would have it.

  SHE WAS LYING in bed with a man. Lying there of her own free will, Julianna, thought dazedly, though whether she had any will of her own left was a moot point. She was lying in bed with a fool, a clown, a man seemingly incapable of modest, discreet behavior, a man she had cursed into muteness, and her hand was pressed against the bare skin of his stomach, and he’d just kissed her.

  Why didn’t she run?

  She had no notion. It seemed as if her very bones had melted into the soft mattress. Perhaps her curse had backfired, punishing her as well. It would be nothing more than she deserved, and yet it didn’t seem like a curse, it seemed like a blessing.

  His skin was warm beneath her fingers, and there was a sprinkling of golden hair across his chest. Her husband had been matted with dark fur, like a bear. Nicholas was sleek, and she let her fingers slide up, through the hair, waiting for her inevitable disgust.

  Ah, but golden hair was finer, silkier than the rough mat that had covered Victor. It lay against smooth, hard, muscled flesh, not soft, pouchy, white skin. Indeed, everywhere she looked and touched, Nicholas Strangefellow was extraordinarily pleasing.

  “I need to leave,” she said, not moving.

  He didn’t answer. After all, he couldn’t. She’d seen to that with her wicked wish. He simply caught her hand in his and pressed it against his chest, flattening her palm against his skin so that she could feel the deep, steady pounding of his heartbeat against her hand. Slow, sure, compelling.

  Her own heart was racing. She knew it, and there was nothing she could do about it. He knew it too.

  He put his other hand between her breasts, pressing, and her heart thudded even more wildly. “You shouldn’t do this,” she said in a quiet warning.

  Perhaps he’d been struck deaf as well. Her gown had been fastened loosely, and it was simple enough for him to tug it down, exposing the drawstrings of her chemise. His fingers were long and deft, dark against the whiteness of her chemise, and she jerked her face upward, refusing to look as he slowly loosened it.

  He tugged the neckline down, and she closed her eyes as the cool air touched her breasts. He made a sound then, something between a sigh and a choke, and she made the very dire mistake of looking at him.

  She’d somehow gotten turned on her back on the bed. Her hair was spread out around her, her clothes were tugged down almost to her waist, and he leaned over her, his long silken hair shadowing his face, his expression rapt.

  No one had ever looked at her like that in her entire life. As if she were the moon and the stars all wrapped up in one. And she wanted to weep in guilt and despair.

  “I cursed you!” she cried, but he put his hand to her mouth, silencing her with his long fingers. And then he tugged her lower lip down and put his mouth against hers, as his hand touched her breast.

  He’d kissed her before, and she’d let him, finding unexpected pleasure in it, but this was something else, something dark and possessive. Something that moved her, frightened her, called to her. She had to hold on to something for fear she might fall swirling into space, so she held on to him.

  There was no sweetness in his kisses, no gentle teasing this time, to lure her into indiscretion. There was no sly seduction. There was only his mouth, his teeth, his tongue, possessing her, and she caught the material of his shirt that hung loosely around him in her fists and kissed him back.

  There were no words to coax her. No promises of love, or even pleasure. He slid her skirts up her legs, slowly, languidly, as he kissed her, and she wondered when he would stop. If he would stop. If she wanted him to stop.

  She didn’t think she did.

  The feel of his hands against her bare thighs was shocking, cool hands against heated flesh. She tried to move away from him, uneasy, but he levered his body over her, holding her still, trapped beneath him.

  She wanted words, she wanted coaxing, but he could give her neither. No lies either, which was a blessing. He gave her his mouth, kissing her deeply, and he touched her between her legs, his long fingers sliding through the unexpected dampness.

  She went rigid in absolute panic, trying to tear herself away from him, but he simply ignored her. She didn’t want to think about the way he was touching her, didn’t want to think at all, just to feel his mouth, his hands, the panic that was softening, melting, turning into a slow, sweet, restless fire. She whimpered against his mouth, but whether it was a protest or a plea she wasn’t quite sure, only that strange, burning sensations were racing through her body at his wicked touch, and she wanted more, needed more. Maybe he was right after all; maybe the touch of a fool carried a special blessing.

  And then, abruptly, he broke the kiss, rolling away from her, onto his back, staring at the ceiling, his chest rising and falling rapidly as if he were trying to regain his sense.

  But a fool had no sense. Neither, that day, did Julianna of Moncrieff, but she could at least make her escape before she descended too far into his seductive madness.

  She tried to scramble off the bed, but he was too fast for her, catching her arm and pulling her back, down against him, into the rumpled bed, against his sleek, hot flesh. She froze, pushing away from him, staring at him for a long moment. Leave, her mind told her.

  Stay, said her heart.

  She cupped his face with her hands. “You make me crazy,” she whispered. “That’s your gift, isn’t it? To drive people to distraction. If you can’t do it one way, you’ll do it another. What do you want from me?”

  No words to lure her. He didn’t need words. He took her hand and drew it down his hard, naked chest. Across his flat stomach. And put it against the part of him that most terrified her.

  She tried to jerk away, but he was stronger than she expected. His eyes never left hers as he pressed her hand against him, and he needed no words. Take me, his eyes said. Ease me. Love me.

  Her hand was clenched in a frightened fist, but slowly, slowly she relaxed it, opened it, to touch that steel-hard flesh beneath his breeches.

  Surprise chased away some of her fear. “You’re ill,” she said. “Something’s wrong with you. That’s what you were trying to tell me. You’re swollen and misshapen, and you need a poultice . . .”

  He made a choking sound, and for half a moment she thought he’d speak to her. But no words would come, the curse still held, and she looked up into his astonished face . . .

  “Jester, I have had enough!” A voice thundered from beyond the closed door.

  A moment later Julianna was unceremoniously dumped off the bed, scrambling beneath it as the door slammed open. She lay there, huddled in silence, as someone marched up to the bed and stood directly beside it. Wearing leather boots. Hugh of Fortham.

  “You’ll speak, fool, or I’ll have your tongue, and no one will ever wonder why you’re silent again!”

  Julianna barely managed to muffle her little cry of pro
test, but Nicholas shifted in the bed above her to cover the noise. He said nothing.

  Lord Hugh’s response was suitably, impressively obscene. “The family relic has been stolen, and I don’t think it a coincidence that you’ve chosen now to be silent. Either you stole the Blessed Chalice of the Martyred Saint Hugelina the Dragon, or you know who did. I’m a generous man when it comes to most things, but not in terms of family honor and holy relics. I’ll have you tortured until you speak.”

  Julianna started to crawl out from hiding, ready to prostrate herself at her furious stepfather’s feet, when Nicholas swung himself out of bed, his legs blocking her exit, and she hesitated, realizing how undignified her appearance would be. Her gown was still untied, and she quickly fumbled with it before Hugh dragged her out from beneath the furniture.

  It took too long. “By midnight, Master Nicholas,” Hugh warned him. “You’ll find your voice by midnight, or by morning I’ll have my answers the hard way.”

  He didn’t slam the door behind him, but Julianna knew he was gone. Nicholas reached beneath the bed and eased her out, an odd expression on his face as he looked down at her. She was still fumbling with the ribbon ties of her gown, and he moved her hands away and tied it himself, patiently, like a parent.

  She sat back on her heels and looked at him. She was kneeling on the floor in front of him, an odd, subservient position, and she knew she should scramble to her feet. She was having trouble moving.

  “I can fix everything,” she said after a long moment. “I can bring your voice back, and perhaps I’m to blame for what’s wrong with . . . with the rest of your body. We’ll go back to my room.”

  He raised an eyebrow in question. The door stood open to the empty hallway, and Brother Barth seemed to have disappeared.

  “I have the chalice hidden in my room,” she said. “We can both ask for you to be cured. I’m sure Saint Hugelina would do it for us. But I need you to be very, very quiet.”

  What a stupid thing to say, she thought, scrambling to her feet. He had no choice but to be quiet. There were no bells on the loose linen shirt he wore or on the soft slippers on his feet.

  “I’ll take care of everything,” she said earnestly. “I promise you.”

  But for some reason his faint, wicked smile was far from reassuring.

  Chapter Seventeen

  IT WAS JUST as well he’d chosen silence, Nicholas thought as he followed Lady Julianna down the hallways. He would have been roaring with uncontrolled laughter. As it was, he’d been half tempted to send her on her way in order to indulge himself. But common sense stopped him. She would take him to the chalice. He could hardly afford to wait.

  Her innocent face would haunt his dreams for a lifetime, he thought. Her innocent words. For all that she was a widow, her knowledge of men’s bodies was woefully lacking. If she didn’t know a stiff cock when she felt one, then she’d clearly never felt one. The elderly Victor of Moncrieff must have been past the point of deflowering his child bride. Julianna of Moncrieff wasn’t barren, she was still virgin—or close enough. And she didn’t seem to have the faintest idea that she was.

  He would be most happy to explain her condition, but he didn’t think he’d have the time. Hugh of Fortham was beyond tolerating Henry’s “gift,” and the sooner he brought the chalice to King Henry, the happier his monarch would be. And a monarch’s happiness was always a prime concern.

  No, it would be for some other lucky man to demonstrate Victor of Moncrieff’s inadequacies. He could only hope it would be someone skilled in the arts of lovemaking.

  She’d crammed the veil and circlet back on her head, but it hung lopsided over her thick, honey-colored mane, and she didn’t look back at him. Now that she seemed convinced he suffered from a strange malformation, she must have told herself he was no longer a threat. And she was absolutely right that she was to blame for his bizarre condition. He was mortally tired of getting hard around her and doing nothing about it.

  Perhaps he could indulge himself. She’d present him with the chalice, he’d be miraculously cured, and he’d simply shove her down on the bed, throw up her skirts and have at her. Even with speed and discretion he could make it good for her, and it would serve to destroy the power she’d begun to have over his every waking thought. After all, women were all alike between their legs, and that was what he cared about, wasn’t it? Once he’d reduced her to groans of pleasure, satisfied her, then he could leave without regret.

  She turned to look at him. “Are you having trouble walking?” she asked anxiously.

  Indeed, he was, and if he didn’t stop thinking about beds and Lady Julianna, he’d end up hobbled. He simply smiled at her, shaking his head.

  “Then we’d best hurry.”

  He watched her small, luscious backside beneath the heavy folds of her gown as he followed her. No, perhaps he wouldn’t be satisfied with simply tossing up her skirts. He wanted to touch every part of her, taking his time.

  He was out of his mind, and Bogo would tell him so if he had half a chance. He’d have Bogo lecture him during their journey back to court. It would take a while—Lord Hugh would be bound to send his men in pursuit, and they’d be forced to take a circuitous route. By the time they reached court, Nicholas would be well past any momentary weakness.

  Odd—he’d never considered women to be a particular problem. They were easily won and almost as easily discarded. He had yet to encounter one who could upset his careful plans. Until this one.

  He knew exactly where they were going—he had an excellent sense of direction, and he’d already managed to scout out the entire keep. At one juncture Julianna paused, uncertain whether to turn right or left, and he had to control his impulse to show her the way. It would probably be better if she didn’t realize he was more familiar with the path to her sleeping quarters than she was.

  Of course it was entirely possible that she wasn’t taking him to her room, that she’d hidden the chalice elsewhere. But he wasn’t counting on it. For all Julianna’s secrets, she was quite straightforward in other matters. He knew her, better than she ever expected.

  It had grown dark by the time they reached her room, with only the firelight illuminating it. There was a world of difference between this place and the sparse quarters he was allotted, and he observed the rich hangings, the carved furniture with interest. The bed, however, was smaller, and he was a big man. He would have preferred to take Julianna in his own bed.

  She went directly for it, kneeling down on the far side. “It’s right here,” she said. “I took it last night and hid it so no one would find it.” She fumbled around, then her head disappeared as she reached farther underneath. There was no telltale sound of metal against stone floor, and Nicholas had a sudden, sinking feeling that he wouldn’t be leaving Castle Fortham this night after all.

  She popped up again. “I can’t find it,” she said, not bothering to disguise the panic in her voice. “I know I put it there, and there’s no one who could have found it. I’ve only been gone for an hour or two, and no one would suspect me . . .”

  Her words trailed off, and her face crumpled. “I won’t be able to save you,” she said in a broken whisper. “It’s all my fault, and I can’t fix it.”

  He stood in the shadows, silent, unmoving, as he pondered his fate. He was always brutally honest with himself, and there was no denying he viewed this recent delay with less than total disappointment. So the chalice had already been stolen from the original thief. It was no great disaster—he would find it. And it would give him enough time to take his pleasure with Lady Julianna. Aye, and give it too.

  He took a step toward her, but she was oblivious to the danger she was in. “I’ll go to the chapel and beg the blessed saint to heal you,” she said. “I’m sure she’d listen—it was my own selfish wickedness that made me long for such a boon in the first place. Indeed, I�
�m surprised that she granted such a flimsy request when I only thought about it. The chalice must be powerful indeed.” And then another thought struck her. “And what about the Abbot of Saint Hugelina?”

  What about the Abbot, of Saint Hugelina? Nicholas thought, moving closer to his goal. Had he stolen the chalice? Or directed Julianna to do so? What possible power could he have over Julianna of Moncrieff?

  He was, ostensibly, unable to ask the question, and she wasn’t about to volunteer the information. “Perhaps the chalice is back in its niche,” she went on, half to herself. “I’ll go make certain, and then I’ll prostrate myself in front of the altar and stay there until the blessed one assures me of a miracle. I won’t eat, I won’t sleep until she grants my boon.”

  This was getting tiresome, Nicholas thought. He wanted her to sleep with him, and he liked his women nicely plump, thank you very much. He didn’t care for anyone starving herself for him.

  Nevertheless, he needed to get rid of her, at least for the time being, so that he could look for the chalice himself. He halted his approach, waiting quietly in the shadows.

  “I’ll go,” she said. “You can come with me if you want, though perhaps you’d better stay here. I wouldn’t want anyone to see you, and you might . . . er . . . be distracting.” She wouldn’t be able to see his wry smile in the shadows. Distracting Lady Julianna was one of life’s great pleasures. “I don’t think you should go back to your room,” she added hurriedly. “Lord Hugh seems devoid of patience, and the blessed saint will have a harder time restoring your powers of speech if my stepfather has had your tongue cut out. Not that she couldn’t do it,” she added hastily, clearly afraid she’d committed some dire blasphemy. “But we won’t try her skills too much. You could speak before; surely with her help you can speak again. And maybe she could do something to spare us the rhyming,” she added doubtfully.

  He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to beguile her head with erotic rhymes that made her blush and grow damp, but he could say nothing. He nodded, retreating into the shadows until he found a chair by the fire. He sank down into it, silent, watching, waiting.