Castles in the Air

by Christina Dodd

  The serving boys gasped, and Valeska clicked her tongue in disgust. “Get on with you, you pudding-heads.” The lads scurried around the edge of the screen, and she grumbled, “You would think they’d never seen a scar before.” She confided to Juliana, “Although those whippings would have killed him without my herbs.”

  Raymond met Juliana’s gaze with an ironic smile, and lifted the chainse away. The scars were dreadful; deep, ridged with white, and flecked with red. She saw now a scar circled his throat, and Felix’s story returned to haunt her.

  Could it be the mark of an iron collar? A protest rose in her. Could someone—an infidel—actually have chained this magnificent man?

  She shivered, and he said, “Your eyes are as big as a sleepy child’s. Snuggle down in the blankets. I’ll join you after my bath.”

  Weariness and shock exaggerated her surprise. “Your bath?”

  He nodded toward the tub of snow. “There’s my bath.”

  “There’s your bath,” she repeated stupidly as he rubbed his chest. She couldn’t take her eyes off the long slow strokes of his hand, and her own hand tingled as if she massaged the crinkled hairs.

  Assured of her attention, he stripped down till he stood in nothing but his goosebumps. She didn’t want to stare, but her eyes couldn’t turn away from the body of her Raymond. All of him was brown, a legacy of his southern ancestors. All of him was big, a legacy of the Viking raiders who’d settled in Normandy. All of him was muscled, a legacy of his knightly training.

  She glanced with quick embarrassment at Valeska, but Valeska had whisked away.

  “I wouldn’t do this tonight, but” —he plunged headfirst into the tub and scrubbed snow into his hair— “my parents make me feel dirty. I have dreamed of snow, white, pure, and cold, melting on me, cleansing me.”

  “I can understand that.” She challenged him with the memory. “I felt used last night when the master castle-builder arrived.”

  “I have the cure.” He started toward her with a handful of snow. “Would you wish to join me?”

  “Nay!” she shrieked. “I’m not mad.”

  Halting an arm’s length away, he grinned. “Do you forgive me for my grievous deception?”

  He stood, so proud and unbowed, after shielding Juliana from his parents. What was her injured pride when those dreadful people sought, through any means, the hurt and humiliation of their own son, their heir?

  In her hesitation, he lunged toward her; she hastily said, “I forgive you.”

  Packing the snow a little tighter in his fists, he teased her. “Goodness delights to forgive.”

  “I delight,” she assured him.

  “You are too good,” he said mockingly.

  “I know.”

  He lifted the snow threateningly, and she recoiled. With a laugh, he plastered it over his shoulders.

  She shuddered violently as he wiped handfuls of the white stuff along his ribs and hips. Sliding fully clothed under the blankets, she closed her eyes against the sight of him, but contrary to her behest they popped open. Her gaze examined him and lingered. How thin her young husband had been! How easy to disdain masculine contact when temptation had never been offered! Wanting to distract herself before she lost all her pride, she asked, “Did you scold him about hurting Eleanor’s pride?”

  Arrested in mid stroke, he demanded, “What? Who?”

  “The king. Did you scold him about hurting Eleanor’s pride?”

  “Oh.” He dug out another handful of snow and scrubbed his thighs. His long, sleek, muscled thighs. “Aye, I scolded him.”

  She pressed her palms to her eyes until she saw colored stars. “Perhaps that’s why he gave you such a poor castle to wed.”

  “You’ve been listening to my parents. Nay, there’s no truth in that. Henry gave you to me long before he was displeased with me. This castle is important to the kingdom, and will sustain us well until I inherit from my—”

  He said nothing else, she looked up, and he jerked his head, indicating the couple outside the screen. And once she had looked up, she couldn’t again deny herself the sight of him. “Is your inheritance as large as they say?”

  “Aye, for all the good that will do me. Can you see either of those two demons dying before they please?”

  Restlessness afflicted her, and she fought the feather mattress to find a comfortable spot.

  The long muscles of his thighs flexed, his toes curled, and his teeth chattered as he scoured himself. “Why do you display such consternation?”

  “I…because you’re taking a snow bath, of course.”

  “My people in Normandy brought this from the North long ago, and use it as a ritual cleansing before the great events of their lives. ’Twould refresh you, should you try it.”

  “May the sweet Virgin prevent it,” she said with fervent piety.

  He chuckled, a rich sound originating deep in his chest. She’d grown to like this sound that warmed her with its vitality.

  He shook the melting drops off and used his cloak to briskly rub himself dry. He came toward her, and she shrank back, threatened by his size, threatened by his nudity. He smelled like fresh air, like air she hadn’t breathed for too long. She inhaled in a gasp.

  “Scoot back,” he ordered, pushing her to the wall, lifting the covers, and lying down.

  The cold came in with him. The cold was him. His body begged for her heat from across the inches that separated them. She tucked the blankets tight around his neck, and scolded, “That was a mad thing to do. You’re chilled.”

  They faced each other on the feather bolster. He was so handsome, he made her breath catch. Her lips parted. She wanted to taste him, to see if he tasted as glorious as he smelled, as he looked. She wanted to kiss him, but her courage evaporated when confronting a large obstacle.

  Like Raymond.

  He’d come to her bed because he wanted to prove to his parents the marriage lacked only the last of the vows. He was a lad, cocking his nose at authority and saying, “See? You can’t touch me.”

  She knew that. But she also suspected he’d come to her because he wanted comfort. He’d been hurt by the people who should love him most and who cared the least, and the same lad who cocked his nose must have cried bitter tears about their indifference. All day she’d watched him do battle, and now she’d give him the comfort he wanted.

  But at what price?

  They were betrothed, they were alone in the master bed, she’d have to touch him, and he’d like it. He’d consider it encouragement, and he’d seek the ultimate comfort from her. Could she give it? Just thinking about touching him made her breathe in an erratic fashion.

  Once a coward, Sir Joseph would say, always a coward.

  She shook thoughts of Sir Joseph away. Since he’d discovered Raymond’s identity, she’d not seen him at the fire. He, and his taunts, were best forgotten. Or, even better, she could prove him wrong.

  “For shame.” She scolded Raymond in a wavering voice. “Foolish man, what if you catch a fever? What will I do then?”

  “Dose me with potions?” he suggested.

  “I have more faith in the power of prayer.”

  “Then I pray you come closer.”

  Beneath the blankets, her hand twitched and moved. It seemed to have a life of its own as it crept close to him. It settled on his waist; the cold of his flesh made it jerk back. He didn’t move, watching her with his jewelled eyes, and her hand settled back at his waist. Like a treasure, his smile flashed free of his restraint, and he sat up and leaned over her.

  He wanted her. In the hut, she’d feared it with the panic of a virgin. Now she feared it with the reservations of a woman. How could she, cursed by this nightmare that haunted her, satisfy a man who looked like stardust and moonbeams?

  Her eyes hurt from holding them so wide, and when he leaned to touch his lips to hers, her eyes crossed. She didn’t try to fight and scream, nor did she shudder with revulsion. She gave Raymond the same obedient response she’d g
iven her husband so long ago, and for that she was thankful.

  Raymond did not seem equally thankful. He kissed her cold, still lips for a moment, then flung himself back on the pillow.

  She waited, but he made no further move and she asked, “Am I not to your liking?”

  “Not to my—”

  He folded his arms across his chest and made a sound like an offended boy. “Why do you hold your lips so tightly closed when I kiss you?”

  “How else should I hold them?” She laughed a little. “Open?”

  His arms slid apart, and his head swivelled toward her. “’Tis the usual way.”

  Sitting up in one straight-backed move, she cried, “Say not so.”

  He seemed to be struggling with some emotion. Amusement, perhaps, or disbelief. “’Tis the French way.”

  “The French eat snails, too,” she replied tartly.

  His chuckle was a seduction in itself. “Some French customs are more enjoyable than others.”

  She struggled, but vulgar curiosity won. “Do you kiss like that?”

  He didn’t answer her directly, only his lids drooped in sensuous remembrance. “French women kiss in that manner. French women are experts at kissing.”

  Raymond seemed like a dream she’d had once, a dream that had slipped away but had never been forgotten. If he were a dream, perhaps she could touch him without fear. Perhaps…

  She put her hands to his neck, but he caught her before she could touch that ridged scar where an iron collar had dug a groove in his skin.

  “Don’t. I don’t like”—his tone was too emphatic, and he modulated it—“to be confined in any way.” Abashed, she bit her lip, but he placed her hands on his chest and said, “Here, instead.”

  With a lopsided smile that couldn’t mask his intensity, he used her wrists to stir the hair that grew in a black froth. It crinkled beneath her sensitive palms, a curious texture and one that soothed and distracted her.

  She wanted to kiss him.

  She couldn’t. No one had ever kissed her in the way she’d seen the groom kissing the milkmaid. No one had ever kissed her in a loverlike way. She’d shared the kiss of peace with her father, her tenants, even her husband—but this strange method he urged? Never.

  Never was too long a time. Cautiously, she laid herself against him lengthwise. He moved his arm to wrap her in a hug. The sensation of his body against hers wasn’t intrusive or demanding, but gave the impression of a tremendous patience, and that patience lent her courage. Resting her cheek against his, she whispered, “Sir Raymond.”

  “Lady Juliana?” he whispered back.

  “Sir Raymond, this may sound rude or even demanding.…” She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t do it.

  “Demand what you wish.”

  He watched too closely. He saw too much. “It’s nothing.” She tried to crawl off the top of him, but he held her with his arm across her back.

  “I am yours to command.”

  A simple phrase, much used by cavaliers, but when spoken in his deep tones it convinced her.

  “I’d like to kiss you.”

  “I would be…honored.”

  Honored? Honored wasn’t what he wished to say, she suspected. She wet her lips, wet them again, took a breath, and swooped on him like a bird of prey. The impact shook her—and what should she do now?

  Her panic eased as his cold lips layered themselves on hers. Although he let her kiss him, he expected to participate. A conundrum occurred to her. Was her own lack of participation the cause of his earlier vexation? He learned her in degrees, and she let him, encouraged him until his sweet breath entered her mouth. She tried to shut her lips against it, but he insisted in unspoken direction. She broke away with a gasp and stared wildly at him.

  He touched his mouth with his finger. “Again,” he suggested.

  It wasn’t so odd this time. She liked it this time. It made her move against his chest. When his tongue touched hers, she chased it out with her own, and he encouraged her with his own deep groan.

  She jerked back, and stared at him.

  His chest heaved as if he’d been exerting himself, and he reached for the ties on the side of her cotte. “What do you think of the French now?” He had her out of the garment in less time than it took to skin a peach, and his very expertise inhibited her. The linen of her chainse matched his in age and softness, and he must have seen her nipples through the gauze, for he took one in his mouth without fumbling or groping.

  The heat of it flattened her like a runaway cart. When she opened her eyes, she was looking at the ceiling with handfuls of black hair clutched in her fingers. Life moved in her womb, but it wasn’t the quickening of a child. It was the quickening of Juliana. It was lust, forbidden and absolutely delicious.

  This clawing confusion of passion and fear, of desire and revulsion brought a little moan to her lips, and Raymond eased away. “You’re sensitive. Don’t be embarrassed. Tell me what you like.”

  “I don’t like any—” she gasped as his thumb stroked her through the wet cloth “—any of it.”

  “I do recognize pleasure when I see it.” He cupped his breast. “This is a symptom of arousal.”

  Her nipples puckered so tightly they ached, and her head whirled so swiftly it ached. She didn’t understand these emotions Raymond plucked from her as easily as he would pluck the petals from a rose, but she did understand her own gripping dismay. “I’m cold.”

  “Aye.” He blew on the wet cloth. “So you are.”

  Flushing, she pulled her chainse away from her chest and wished she had remained unresponsive. Too much had changed too rapidly, and her voice quavered as she confessed, “I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to satisfy a man who has…kissed so many French women.”

  His hands tightened briefly on her. “You’ve made an excellent start.” Then he relaxed. “I would not have you believe I find you unattractive.”

  “Oh, nay!” She blushed. “You watch me, and I suspect…that is, I realize you will gladly perform your martial duties.”

  “Nor would I consider them duties,” he said. “Still, your reluctance doesn’t surprise me. Not when I think about it.” He tugged on his earring. “Not that I like it. If I had known I would be unsatisfied, I would have saved that snow bath. This is my reward for thinking I’m irresistible.”

  He laid a hand against the side of her head and pushed it against him. She rebelled briefly, then yielded. Her cheek and ear rested in the hollow of his shoulder, and, by some magic, his skin had heated until it welcomed her with its warmth. He snuggled against the length of her, and she discovered he’d warmed in other ways, too. She found it daunting to be so close to an aroused man, yet equal parts of curiosity and that mercuric quickening made her fidget.

  He clamped a hand on her hip. “Gently, my girl,” he advised. “I’ve been watching you, wanting you since the day I took you to that snowbound hut, and celibacy is”—he laughed softly—“difficult. So we’ll sleep now, and my pleasure will wait on your surrender.”

  Turning her until her stiff back made contact with his chest, he nestled them together like the cup of two spoons.

  She couldn’t resist asking. “What if I don’t surrender?”

  “I will do all in my power to bring you to rapture,” he promised.

  “But if I still don’t?”

  He sighed; his breath ruffled the wisps of hair on the back of her neck. “Then we shall make an end of it on our wedding night.” His arm weighed across her hip. “Are we agreed?”

  “You are too good,” she said formally.

  “I am,” he said with equal formality and a great deal of conviction.

  His hand lay too close to the bottom of her chainse. In a sudden flurry, she dragged the hem down to her knees.

  “Are you through?” he asked.

  She said nothing, rigid with suspense.

  “Then go to sleep. No love tonight. No matter how you beg me.”

  11

  �
��I hear you heeded my advice and eased your stone-ache.”

  Raymond glared at Keir. “How would you know? You failed to appear in the great hall last night.”

  Keir finished pounding a glowing plowshare and plunged it into water before he answered. “I’ve met your parents.”

  “So has Juliana, now,” Raymond said gloomily.

  “Will she still wed you?”

  “On Twelfth Night.”

  Keir put his tools aside and wiped his hand on a cloth. “In a hurry?”

  “I cannot let her get away from me.” Raymond walked to the door of the smithy and grasped the frame with his hand. “I woke this morning and found her gone, and leaped up like any crazed man who thought he possessed a fairy.”

  “Did you find her?”

  With a disgusted look at his friend, Raymond said, “She was packing Felix’s nose in snow to slow the swelling. She didn’t want me to know for fear I’d tear him into little bits.”

  “Did you?”

  Raymond smiled an evil smile. “I made him think I would. He fled the hall most precipitously, and I think I’ll find him and…suggest he leave Lofts Castle just as precipitously.”

  “Sir Joseph has been living in the stables. You might start your search there.”

  Raymond rolled around until his back rested against the wall. “What do you mean by that?”

  “They’re a cozy trio,” Keir replied as he removed his leather apron and hung it on a peg. “An earl, a baron, and the puppet master who controls them both.”

  “An earl, a baron…are you saying Hugh is under the control of…?” Keir watched Raymond steadily as he thought aloud. “Now Felix, I can believe, but Hugh…and a puppet master. Is that what you see when you look at Sir Joseph? Not an old knight, disgruntled at the power of which age has stripped him, but a man who pulls the strings?”

  “I see what I see.” Keir stepped outside and took a breath. “Look now.”

  Raymond stepped to Keir’s side. Hugh stood before the open stable door, talking—arguing, mayhap—with someone just inside.

  “From what I know of Hugh, he would not do harm to Juliana,” Raymond argued, his gaze fixed on the stable.