Castles in the Air

by Christina Dodd

  “Now there’s a picture.” Raymond’s grin was wicked.

  She asked in alarm, “What are you carrying?”

  From beneath his cape, he pulled two buckets, heaped with snow.

  Her euphoria died—almost. Lifting both her hands in firm denial, she said, “Nay.”

  He grinned even wider, shedding his cape and surcoat, pulled a linen towel from his shoulder, and laid it on the bed. “But you trust me.”

  “Trust you?” She raised her wary gaze to him.

  He flirted with her like a lad with a maid. “You do trust me. Don’t you?”

  Bracing herself against his charm, she answered sternly, “As much as I trust any man.”

  “That’s a start, then.” He stepped closer and started unwrapping her as briskly as a mother with a child.

  He allowed no struggling, giving her a swat on the rear when she protested, “But I trust my dogs more.”

  “What an unscrupulous tongue you have,” he teased. “You try to drive me away when I plan only the best for you.”

  “You’re thinking of giving me one of those snow baths.” She held her breath, hoping he would deny it.

  He did not.

  “I won’t do it,” she whispered. She hadn’t impressed him. Indeed, she hadn’t impressed herself with such a weak objection, for she wasn’t sure she did object. Raymond had taken such pleasure in it. She remembered how he’d worshipped the snow, frolicked in it, had made it look like child’s play. A snow bath seemed somehow symbolic, a baptism for her soul.

  Standing at attention, she put her arms straight down at her sides. “You have my permission,” she said grandly.

  He seemed to take that for granted. As he disrobed her, he said, “You’ll like it.” Her short cape flew into the corner, her shoes clattered after them. “These snow baths are a tradition my ancestors brought from the north to cleanse the spirit and the body.” Her cotte wrapped around the bedpost. Her hose he flung at the ceiling; one caught on a beam and hung there like some bizarre decoration. Her chainse he tucked under the covers. “For the morning,” he said. Then he stripped himself, and she no longer noticed the chill of the air. Something about the sight of his brown muscular body prepared her for warmth.

  He moved her away from the bed to stand next to the buckets and plunged his hands into the mounds of soft snow.

  Second thoughts struck her, and she cried, “Raymond?”

  “Trust me,” he said.

  Those might be his last words, she thought. Then she thought no more. Cold punched her so hard she screamed. He piled snow on her shoulders. She swung her fist and connected with nothing, but the force of it turned her in a half circle.

  He scrubbed her back. She tried to scamper away, but he caught her wrist, swung her around, and her chest met a handful of snow.

  She lost her breath and couldn’t scream again. He washed her arms. He spoke, but she couldn’t hear him. He scrubbed the skin away, so only nerves were exposed. He knelt before her. She would kick him.

  She couldn’t move her legs. He stood up, said brightly, “Almost done,” and with a handful of soft snow, washed her face.

  She kicked him.

  “Ooh.” Those tortuous hands left her, and he leaned over with a grimace of pain. “If you were a little faster, we’d have no children.”

  “Well, here.” She scooped up snow. “Let me cure the pain.” He jumped aside, but not quite fast enough. His bellow shook the rafters as she rubbed him with an intimate handful of snow.

  “You wretched child.” His eyes gleamed as she skipped away. “Do you think you can get away with that?”

  Flinging her arms wide, she asked, “What are you going to do? Throw snow at me?”

  He picked up a cloth. “Nay. I’m going to dry you.”

  “Why does that sound like a threat?” she said, wondering aloud. He grinned and reached for her. She rounded the corner of the bed. “Now, Raymond.” He stalked toward her. “Now, you deserved it.”

  “And you deserve this.”

  She shrieked when he caught her and flung her on the furs. Pouncing on her, he straddled her and began the chore of drying her. Slowly. With great precision and a concentrated attention to parts of her body he deemed important.

  When he had finished, she wasn’t cold anymore. Flames licked at her—or was that his tongue? “You make me want too much,” she said.

  “Not too much.” The rich timbre of his promise pleasured her ear. “I’ll give you everything you desire, then give you more.”

  Her hands tangled in his hair; she held his head as if he would try to escape. He didn’t try. He acceded to her when she leaned into him.

  “I like your hair,” he said. “I like the thickness. I like the length.”

  Her gaze clung to his as he salved old wounds.

  He lifted a strand to his lips. “It’s the color of copper, alive in the candlelight. Look.”

  He spread her locks across his chest, and she looked. The black of his hair mingled with the red of hers, and she agreed. It was alive. She was alive. And she would love him even when their hair had turned to gray.

  In slow increments he moved her back down to him. “Warm me. Warm me with your hands.”

  Her hands. With care, she loosened them from his hair and brought them along his arms. “You’re so handsome,” she murmured. Inane words for the emotion that stoked the fire deep inside her. He was handsome, but she would have loved him if he’d been an old man or an elf from the woods. He’d given her everything. He’d been lover and friend, mate and adversary, and out of gratitude, she would be bold. She rubbed up, down, and the ripple of his muscles made her explore further.

  He watched her from half-closed eyes. When she hesitated, too unsure to go on, he imitated her. He rubbed up and down her arms, worked his way across to her chest. His fingers circled her nipples. “I’ll kiss you here.”

  She blurted, “With your mouth open?”

  “I promise.”

  The arousal she’d experienced the first time she ever saw him had never faded completely. His words, his touch brought it back to painful intensity. Lifting, he sucked her breast into his mouth. His tongue tormented already tender skin. She shivered and chewed her lower lip. Waves of heat, waves of cold crashed around her. His breath puffed beside her breast.

  “Tell me what you like,” he demanded.

  He’d wanted to know that before, and she’d denied liking anything. Now, buffeted by the maelstrom of sensation, she didn’t answer. His hands stopped; his mouth no longer shredded her faculties.

  “Tell me what you like. Or I can make suggestions.”

  “Please.” She’d waited too long for this. “Please.”

  “Your legs are so long.” He stroked her buttocks, her thighs. “Wrap them around me. Hold me close.”

  Selfconsciousness returned as she snaked her leg over him.

  “This way, lady of my heart. Turn this way.” Grasping her ankles, he pulled himself deep into her embrace, and turned so they rested on their sides. Confused, she struggled to lie on her back, but he restrained her.

  With light touches, he explored her.

  She didn’t know what she liked, what she relished, what she wanted. She strained away from her own responses, but he followed her, relentless. “Is it the light touch you enjoy? Or is it the massage of my palm?”

  She whimpered as he used the heel of his hand against the bones of her hips.

  “I pray you tell me. How can I know without your words?”

  His teasing swirled with undercurrents, dark as the sea on a moonless night, and she didn’t know how to navigate. She could only clutch his waist and plead with her gaze.

  “Is this what you want?” His finger tickled her curls, slipped into the folds of flesh.

  A moan rose from her, unstoppable, and she could hardly see him for the heat wavering in the air between them. Moving in reflex, her body undulated against his, but still he murmured and caressed. She reached for him.

/>   He laughed a tortured laugh and caught her wrist. “Do you want me inside of you?”

  “Aye.” She took a breath. “Now.”

  “My lady, whatever you want, I’ll do.”

  He should have sounded subservient; he did not. Yet he moved into her at once.

  It forced her attention, made her aware of more than her desire. To some women, this act created more than satiation; it created emotions.

  She was such a woman, and she wanted to give him everything, love him until they were one.

  To some men, this act symbolized more than release; it symbolized possession.

  Raymond was such a man. He observed her with such rapt satisfaction she knew a stab of fear. What did he expect from this mating?

  Then he moved, and she forgot to wonder. They were the still axis of a twirling sphere. All things centered on them; all things rotated around them. Her awareness wound so tight she twisted and sobbed, fighting to free herself. He held her close, restrained her, encouraged her, until with a silent moan she spasmed. She flew out into the sphere, dissolved, became one with him.

  “I will never betray you,” he vowed. “Nor you me.”

  “Never,” she whispered.

  Triumphant, he rose on his elbow, locked his eyes with hers, and poured his seed into her body.

  15

  A shriek of outrage pierced the solar door and woke Juliana in the half-light before dawn.

  “Bartonhale is mine!”

  Sir Joseph? In the great hall? At this hour? She blinked and tried to gather her wits.

  “You can’t send this overgrown mute with me to Bartonhale! I’ve been the castellan of Bartonhale for years.”

  Raymond’s measured tones interrupted. “Keir will check the accounting and give you your just reward.”

  “Are you accusing me of stealing the profits?” Sir Joseph screeched.

  “Not at all.” Raymond’s voice sounded clipped now. “Why would you think I’ve accused you of such a heinous vice?”

  In the pause that followed, Juliana groped for her chainse. Donning it and the clothes piled neatly atop the furs, she staggered into the great hall. Four figures were silhouetted against the fire. Raymond sat on a bench, back to the flames. Layamon and Keir flanked him, and Sir Joseph faced the tribunal.

  “You did not accuse me of thievery, of course, my lord.” He tottered dramatically. “But I’m an old man, leaving the place where I’ve lived and served most of my life. I reserve the right to worry about the future of Lofts”—he glared at Layamon—“especially when I’m uncertain about its leadership.”

  “Of whose judgment do you complain?” Raymond asked. “Lady Juliana’s, for appointing Layamon, or mine, for allowing her to?”

  “I did not complain about anyone’s judgment,” Sir Joseph said sharply. Keir put his hand to his knife, and Sir Joseph added, “My lord.”

  From where Juliana stood, clad in shadows, she could see the defensiveness that tightened Sir Joseph’s features. His bushy white eyebrows shadowed, but could not hide, the craftiness of his bulging blue eyes. He leaned on his stick, pretending he depended on its stout strength.

  Or perhaps he didn’t pretend. He’d carried the staff for years, using it for intimidation or to emphasize his age. But through those years, he’d grown old, although she’d not truly realized it. After all, he’d always been a presence in her life. When she was a young child and her mother still lived, he’d been a shadowy figure hovering in the background. Later, he’d been the one her father turned to for companionship. She’d tried to please her widowed father, and learned she must please Sir Joseph, too. Only after her young husband died had Sir Joseph stepped forward as an enemy.

  And when she’d been kidnapped! She closed her eyes and pressed her fist to her stomach. She’d never forgive him for encouraging her father in his actions.

  She opened her eyes when Sir Joseph said, “As a man who’s watched Juliana grow up, I would warn you about the defects in her character. She was ever a sly, lying creature, given to unbefitting mirth and pagan celebrations of nature. Watch her, my lord. Watch her closely.”

  “Or what?” Raymond asked.

  Sir Joseph raised one finger and in the voice of a prophet said, “Or you’ll find yourself wearing the horns of cuckoldry.”

  Raymond chuckled.

  With a swish of robes, Sir Joseph turned on him. “She seeks to hold her lands in unwomanly possession, and she refuses counsel generously given. If any man thinks he can take control of her property, she’ll soon break him. Beware, my lord, beware, or you’ll be a victim, like her first husband, or die of a broken heart, like her father.”

  Before Juliana could leap forward in indignation, Keir asked, “Is it your contention she killed her husband?”

  “Much is not known,” Sir Joseph answered.

  “Or that she broke her father’s heart?” Keir insisted.

  “It was a lamentable day when he died,” Sir Joseph intoned.

  Infuriated, Juliana cried out, but Layamon cried louder, and his indignation overrode hers. “’Tisn’t true. None o’ it’s true!”

  “We know it’s not, Layamon,” Raymond soothed, but Layamon would speak his piece.

  “Her husband died o’ th’ wastin’ sickness. He wouldn’t have lived so long if Lady Juliana hadn’t nursed him tenderly. An’ ’twas a shame, a shame that m’lady’s father was so lackin’ in affection, was so concerned wi’ his bloated pride, that he treated her as he did. M’lady’s mother must have turned in her grave, t’ see that happy woman destroyed by her own father.”

  Shocked, Juliana said, “That’s enough, Layamon.” The men swung around as she moved into the light. “Don’t talk about my father in such a manner.”

  “As you wish, m’lady.” Layamon subsided, but he muttered, “But ’tis all true.”

  Juliana ignored his outburst, saying to Sir Joseph, “I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve such contempt from you.”

  “You’re nothing but a Looby Lumpkin, so stupid you can’t see the nose before your face.” Sir Joseph sucked his lower lip into the gap left by his rotting teeth, then spat. “I’ve groveled to you my whole life, and this is what I’ve come to? Exile to a lowly position in a paltry castle?”

  Keir’s calm tones interjected, “I do not believe Bartonhale is a paltry castle, nor have you been exiled to a lowly position. My experience as a castellan is untested, and I would profit from your help. If you consent to—”

  With eyes still bent to Juliana, Sir Joseph took a step forward. “Everyone heard you screeching last night. Did you finally find a man who could satisfy your voracious appetites? Does he know you’re a bloodsucker who uses men, then drains the life from them?”

  The guilt inside her relaxed. She was exiling an old man from his home, but he’d brought it on himself, and she’d never allow him to intimidate her daughters the way he had intimidated her.

  But her refusal to answer infuriated him. His staff clicked on the floor as he paced nearer. Raymond rose from his bench, but halted at her shake of the head. Sir Joseph whispered, “You pretended to be too good for the local lords, waiting and baiting your trap for bigger game. So you have him, your mighty lord, and may you find pleasure in each other.”

  In a husky, early morning voice, Juliana replied, “My thanks, good man.”

  Her condescension broke his feeble control. “Rolling in the grass like a green skirt. Like a whore!”

  Without thought or repentance, she kicked the staff out from underneath him, and he stumbled forward. “You are a carbuncle on the ass of my existence,” she declared in ringing tones. “Get you hence to Bartonhale before I forget our shared blood and throw you into the street like the turd you are.”

  Sir Joseph regained his balance and started toward her. Raymond, Keir, and Layamon rushed forward, but somehow Denys was there before them. In a voice cracking with youthful zeal, he proclaimed, “Go away. Remove your evil self from here.”

  Juliana gaped at
Denys, perplexed by this unexpected defense, but Sir Joseph recognized the youth. He bent toward him and coaxed, “Stand aside, boy. This is between me and the woman.”

  “Nay!” Denys’s fervor seemed all the more excessive for its incongruity. “You shall not touch her.”

  Valeska slipped in front of Sir Joseph. “The lad’s right.”

  Dagna, too, pressed close. “Get thee gone, old man. Your time is done.”

  Craning his skinny neck, Sir Joseph tried to see beyond the women, but he hadn’t the courage to raise his stick to them.

  Raymond took his arm in a punishing grip. “A cart awaits your departure.”

  “A cart?” Sir Joseph cried. “I’m a knight. I would ride!”

  “Nay,” Raymond said. “We wouldn’t want you to lose your way to Bartonhale.”

  Sir Joseph drew himself up and shook Raymond off. “I’ll not lose my way. You’ll not be rid of me so easily.”

  As he stumped off, Denys said, “He’s the devil.” His young eyes burned with a fever he could only have caught from Sir Joseph, and he wrapped Juliana in a hug. “He’s been talking to me, tempting me, offering me things that aren’t his to offer, or mine to have.”

  Caught by surprise, Juliana struggled to handle the emotion his long arms and skinny chest roused in her. Once she’d had a husband who hugged her thus, but Denys’s hug imitated that of a son for his mother. His head burrowed into her shoulder, and he sought comfort from despair. Patting him gingerly on the back, she said, “He’s gone now. Put him behind you.”

  “Aye.” Denys unwound himself from her. He wasn’t even embarrassed, didn’t even seem to realize the inappropriateness of his action. Obviously dazed by the morning’s events, he said, “I’ll put temptation behind me.” He glanced around the great hall, now stirring with excitement, and his gaze rested on Margery and Ella. “I will put temptation behind me.”

  “Aye, that you will, lad.” Valeska took a grip on his arm. “You can start after you break your fast. There’s bread and cheese awaiting, and good ale and new milk. Lady Julian has commanded we put some meat on those bones, and Lord Raymond says you’ll not sit a destrier until you weigh at least nine stone. Defending her ladyship is hungry work, eh?”