XVII

XVII

He felt her movement as she twisted slowly from his grasp, but Bryan made no move to stop her. He opened his eyes, barely, allowing his jet-black lashes to shield them as he watched her.

Dawn was breaking; sunlight,. gold and crimson, streaked against the gray of the dying night. The clear water of the brook was reflected in its glow like thousands of sapphires glittering to greet the day.

As Bryan watched, Elise cast off her boots and tunic and waded into the stream dressed only in her thin linen shift. She gasped slightly at the shock of the cold, then bent, heedless of her clothing, to cup the clear water in her hands and splash it over her face. Just as the sunlight caught the water in magic, it touched upon her hair, making the tangled strands appear like silken webs of purest gold and copper.

She stood, shivering slightly, then began to unwind the coil of her hair, allowing it to fall about her. The tips of the longest tendrils swept over the water. She combed through it with her fingers, and when she released it, it was like a cloak of sunlight itself streaming about her with a rich and radiant glory.

Bryan opened his eyes fully and leaned upon an elbow, and drew in his breath. She turned around suddenly and stared at him, her eyes startled and wide, crystal blue today, along with the color of the stream.

The water in which she had recklessly played dampened her shift and molded it to her form. The linen had become taut, enhancing the full rise of her breasts, the dip of her belly, the swell of her hips. He smiled suddenly, thinking of how capable she usually was of appearing aloof and . . . regal. A duchess born: proud, distant, judicial. Beautiful, but untouchable.

But now . . . with her hair in silken disarray, fluttering softly to her knees in tangled splendor, her eyes so wide, her young figure so clearly outlined, she looked like . . .

A magical, legendary creature. A child of legend. Some sweet creature created for the delight and reward of a man. A "Melusine," to haunt and possess the soul . . .

She wouldn't much like the description, he thought dryly.

His smile began to fade, although his eyes remained riveted to hers. The morning was cool; he felt uncomfortably hot. His limbs were tense, his muscles coiled and tightened—and damn if he didn't feel his breath coming hard and fast from lungs that seemed to burn! His desire for her was painful, tearing at his gut like a gnawing hunger, tightening him, hardening him, when he hadn't even touched her except with his eyes.

Be patient, Marshal had told him. Be gentle. Let her come to you . . .

But Marshal did not live with a constant longing that was never abated. She was his wife. And now, she had sworn not to leave him again.

He lifted a hand to her, palm up and open. "Come here," he said softly.

She hesitated, and in those moments he prayed silently that she would not refuse him. His pride would demand that he go to her, and magic would fade to battle once again.

He stood, unwilling to let it come to that. She was proud, too, he knew. And he could not forget the broken way she had cried out to him when he had lost his temper and thrown her down.

He walked to her slowly, ignoring the water that soaked his hose and boots. Not once did he stop gazing at her eyes; it was imperative that he hold her so; he did not want her to run.

She did not run.

She watched him come, shivering against the morning cold.

He stopped before her. Her arms were bare, glistening with water. He set his hands upon them. His eyes at last left hers as he watched the gentle movement of his fingers as they caressed the soft flesh of her shoulders.

Was it the cold that she shivered from? Or did she shrink from his touch?

His eyes met hers again. "It is inevitable that you come to me," he told her quietly.

She did not answer him, but neither did her eyes waver from his.

"I hurt you once," he continued, not pleading, but speaking truthfully. "For that, I am sorry. The union of a man and woman should not be a hurtful thing." He offered her a crooked smile. "It should be a . . . touch of heaven, for the lady as well the lord."

Such a dubious glitter touched her eyes that he laughed. "I swear by my sword, it is true, Duchess!"

She sighed softly, casting her lashes over her eyes. "I have learned that it is futile to fight the . . . inevitable."

Bryan's lip continued to curl with a secret amusement. No, she wasn't going to fight him. But neither was she going to offer a simple acquiescence. Coming from her, the words were as close to a willing consent as he was ever going to get.

"You're injured," she reminded him a little breathlessly. "You must be in pain."

"A nick in the flesh, nothing more. I am, indeed, in pain—but the pain has nothing to do with a minor wound to the flesh. And," he murmured, "it seems rather ridiculous to put off until tomorrow what is going to happen anyway . . ."

He moved his fingers to the straps of her shift, peeling them from her shoulders, then slowly tugging the sodden garment lower. A flush rose throughout her when her breasts, their peaks rosy and hard from the cold, were bared. The material abetted his effort at that point, falling free to wind about her ankles in the water.

She was like the dawn, flame and pastels. Shrouded in innocence, yet not innocent.

"I'm going to freeze," she told him nervously, and he knew that it embarrassed her to stand naked before him. He took her into his arms, freeing her from the look of ardent hunger in his eyes.

"I will make you warm," he assured her, and his mouth was hot with that promise as he took hers in a deep, thirsting kiss. Instantly, she thought of that kiss in the chapel. His lips seemed to meld with hers, widen, taking the whole of her mouth. Moist . . . velvet . . .

She felt the same sensations. The weakness. The sweetness. Invading her bones, her blood. Her breasts were hard against his chest. The coarse hair there teased her. His chest was so hard . . . she pressed her palms against it, not to push him away, but to feel him with her fingertips . . .

He stepped away. Elise was afraid that she would waver and fall. She did not, and he reached out a sun-browned hand to cup the fullness of her breast. She lowered her lashes, unable to meet his eyes.

It was so like that distant day at a different stream. She was cold; where he touched her she was hot. Fire and water, heat and cold, and that feeling . . .

The promise that if she just reached out, something infinitely fine and sweet would tumble into her hands.

How long had she been fighting him? Since that black, rainswept night when they had met. Even then she had felt the promise, but then she had been dreaming of Percy, and now...

She couldn't even summon a likeness of Percy's face to her mind's eye. The name was a confusion. Memory of him was nothing more than a misted haze.

Someone moaned softly; it was Elise. She had stepped toward him, burying her face against his shoulder, slipping her arms around his neck. She stumbled in the tangle about her ankles that was her shift, and she didn't mind at all when he slipped his arms around her, carrying her from the stream. Elise closed her eyes and rested pliantly against him. She didn't know how to reach out and seize that elusive promise, but she felt drugged by the beauty of the morning, and the tenderness of his touch. A dazzling mist of magic seemed to encompass her; if she allowed the mists to swirl, the sweetness that rendered her limbs so very weak could grow and . . .

Her shift was discarded upon the bank, and she found herself lying upon the bed of blanket and earth that was still warm from the hours they had slept. She opened her eyes. Far above her, the leaves of the old oak spattered across the soft, glowing, now crimson morning sky. A breeze wafted through the leaves, creating dappled patterns of light shadow upon her flesh. She closed her eyes. She could hear him removing his boots . . . his heavy wool hose. She felt him stretch out beside her, but still she did not open her eyes. She knew that he was propped upon an elbow on his side; his naked flesh brushed against hers.

His fingertips, light and feathery, touched her cheek, caressed and outlined her jaw. That soft touch followed along her throat, and long before he did so, she was craving that he touch her breasts. Still, it was that feathery touch, circling, as elusive as the breeze. She tried so hard to remain still.

Lazily . . . leisurely . . . that gossamer touch moved along her. She felt him with each rib . . . drawing idle patterns along her waist . . . making her burn deep within as the strokes crossed low over her belly. She heard his whisper, close to her ear.

"Am I hurting you?"

"No . . ."

Bryan smiled, watching her mouth form the word. Until that moment, he had been almost afraid to touch her. Stretched beneath the tree, one long leg angled slightly at the knee, her nakedness entirely free of blemish, she had appeared so pure and innocent that he had felt it almost irreverent to touch her. Surrounded by the golden haze of her hair, cast into shadow and then clarity by the ever-drifting leaves above them, she seemed ever more untouchable: a virgin nymph of the forest; some creature of a distant Camelot.

It was now that he felt the despoiler; not on that night when he had taken her so unknowingly. Perhaps, because although he had touched her physically that night, the woman had eluded him, and therefore he had, in a way, left her innocent. Today he meant to take more. He had to have more; the obsession that had stirred within him that night remained with him. It grew like the winds of the storm that night, and he would know no peace until he had grasped her elusive quality and held it in his hands.

Now, the scarce-heard whisper of a single word had changed her. The beauty was still there; the innocent perfection. But her mouth remained slightly parted; she moistened it with the tip of her tongue, and the soft, rising mounds of her ivory breasts heaved slightly with the quickened intake of her breath. He bent over her, nuzzling against the valley between her breasts, teasing the flesh with his tongue. He traced a wet path to a nipple that crested with a crimson challenge to the dawn. He felt her shudder, and he knew that he shuddered himself as he savored the sweet succulence of her flesh, swathing her with his tongue, then nipping gently with his teeth, then drawing her hard into his mouth.

Soft sounds were coming from her parted lips. Whispers. . . moans . . . whimpers—or maybe it was just the breeze, rustling and seeming to whirl like a tempest about him, within him. His hands tangled in her hair as they splayed over her midriff, holding her to him. He rolled onto his back, bringing her with him, groaning softly as he felt that silken web swath all about him, each tendril, each strand, a burning caress to his flesh.

Her eyes were open now; she gazed at him, startled by the movement. He slipped a hand around her neck and drew her face to his, kissing her forehead, the tip of her nose, and then her lips. Again his kiss was long and passionate. His left hand cupped her head, his right moved along her back, caressing her with the teasing strands of her own hair that so enchanted him. He explored the length of her spine, grazed the curve of her waist, and enjoyed the firm, swelling rise of her buttocks. Then he rolled again, pinning her beneath him. His touch was no longer feather-light, nor slow. He needed to feel her, to soothe the fever in his palms with the soft femininity of her flesh. His hands were rugged and calloused; yet where they touched upon her roughly, he soothed her with the gentle healing of his kiss, with the soft stroke of his tongue. He wanted to arouse her, but more than that, he was fascinated by her scent; she was like the sunshine; like the verdant beauty of the forest. She tasted as sweet.

She no longer lay still; she writhed and arched to the play of his hands and lips. He gloried in her motion, and felt the strength of his desire thunder within him. He moved lower against her, driven by some demon of the wind to know that she would welcome him. She started, gasping as she shuddered. But she didn't fight him, and he savored the triumph as he savored her tender intimacy, knowing that he had taken from her all will to resist, and given her the crystal beauty that was nature's gift.

He rose above her, laughing as her eyes met his, then fell as a rose flush touched her cheeks. He caught her with his kiss again, and she tasted the fervor of his passion. She did not remember wanting him there, yet he was between her thighs, and she had wrapped her limbs around him. The sweetness had invaded her completely; it burned, it raged. It was so wonderful that it was a strange agony, yet she did not want it to end. Her fingers dug into his arms, and she was awed by the hardness and power of them. She returned his kiss with a fervor that also awed her; she wanted to taste him, to feel him against her. Even now he teased her, moving against her, hard and potent, yet not coming into her, not soothing that center of the burning sweetness . . .

She ran her fingers over his back and faltered at the bandage. She trod tenderly there, touched flesh once more, and found his buttocks. They, too, were hard and firm and rock-muscled. She pressed against them, and at last he moved. The essence of pleasure itself could be heard in her shudder, her gasp.

She had welcomed him, wanted him, craved him. A liquid, warm, embracing shield. He wanted to go slowly, to assure himself further that she would know the exquisite joy they could reach together. But his own need, held in careful abatement for so long, rose to engulf him. Desire drove him to a hell-bent rhythm, with shuddering strokes that invaded and sought. But it didn't matter, for she was ready to meet him. He knew with a satisfaction that was ambrosial that her hips writhed and undulated beneath his. Her soft cries were the loveliest melody; her hands, so uninhibited upon him, were the closest thing to heaven that he had ever known.

And then he felt her tense beneath him; shudder after shudder gripped her. Her cry was almost startled, yet it was a gasp that tapered to a soft moan. He allowed all that was within to explode like burning oil, and then the guttural groan of replete satisfaction that he heard was his own.

She was curled quickly to herself with her back against him, but not away from him. He lay staring up at the leaves again, glad that she was not looking at him, for he could not wipe the grin of smug pleasure from his face.

Elise shivered slightly; the breeze had suddenly become cool. She could feel things again, things other than the flesh and substance of the man beside her. She needed the breeze to cool her, yet she did not want it to sweep away the lingering sensation.

Sweet, sweet promise had been fulfilled. The wonder was awesome; it was the most delicious thing she had ever known. It had left her exhausted, and so contrarily feeling wonderful, powerful, complete in a way she had never even imagined. She felt drunk with it, drunk with the pleasure and satiation. He had been the wine, the nectar. Magnificent to touch, to feel. She had forgotten their quarrel, forsaken her resentment. That he was Bryan Stede and she his unwilling bride had lost all truth. She had only known that he was beautiful as only a man could be, and he had been totally hers to enjoy and admire and hold; all of him with all of herself.

It was only now that she could begin to feel regret. Now that the magical colors of dawn had faded to the cool, clear brilliance of naked day. Nothing had changed; he was still the king's hardened warrior, a knight eager for battle, taking time out to assuage his lust for lands and wealth.

It was little more than a pleasant boon that he could assuage his lust for his rebellious wife at the same time.

She was wrong, she thought bitterly. Things had changed. She could no longer call herself his "unwilling" bride. She couldn't have fought him any further, but she might have been "resigned" rather than been torridly eager.

Yet she knew even then, deep in her heart, that it was not the easy conquest of her senses that plagued her. She loved the new feeling and the new knowledge; that sense of promise had teased her for so very long. What hurt, what grazed so roughly against the fabric of her heart, was jealousy. They would go on to Cornwall. Bryan would see to his affairs with stern determination. And then he would be gone. Being with God only knew how many women, just as he had been with her. Then, of course, there was Gwyneth. Gwyneth . . . who had shared an affair with Bryan that had never been a secret. An affair which, it appeared, neither of them saw any sense in ending . . .

Elise closed her eyes in sudden misery. She didn't want to think of Gwyneth and Bryan. Not the way that they had been. Not sharing intimacies that she had never even imagined. . .

She swallowed, forcing herself to open her eyes to the day. She was not a timid fool; she was a duchess in her own right, and she would not tolerate an affair conducted before her eyes. The future seemed to loom ahead with new misery, but she would take it a day at a time, and she would never allow Bryan to know her feelings. If he had found her stubborn and difficult so far, he would learn that she could be even more so.

The sun began to burn into his flesh. Bryan idly touched the lock of hair that waved over the rounded curve of her hip, then stroked the flesh beneath it. He wanted to pull her around to face him, but then thought better of it.

"Elise?" he said quietly. She either murmured or grunted an acknowledgment, and he continued with the question that had never ceased to haunt him. "Why did you steal Henry's ring and tell me all those absurd lies?"

He felt her freeze against him, and then she laughed softly, the sound barely hinting of her bitterness. "Do you know, Stede, that the truth wouldn't matter in the least now?"

"Then tell me," he urged.

"Stede," she replied to him in a tone so low it was a whisper, "you have everything: land, titles, wealth. You . . . even have me. Submissive, quiet. Montoui . . . all that was mine, mine to give, you have taken. But the answer to that secret . . . it is something that you cannot take. It is still mine; it is a secret that I intend to keep, which I must keep."

He was still and silent for a long moment. Then she felt him roll away. She closed her eyes, wondering how she could have known a pleasure beyond imagination one minute, then find herself cast into despair the next. She felt numb. She heard the sounds of his movement as he dressed and went to the horses, yet they did not touch her mind . . .

Until he returned to her, planting one booted foot on either side of her hip as he stared down at her, his eyes blank. She started, staring up at him, wishing that she could hide more of her nudity with the cloak of her hair.

He dropped something before her. Stunned and uneasy, she followed its fall.

It was the ring. Henry's sapphire ring.

"You bartered a lot for it," he told her bluntly. "You might as well wear it."

"Where—" she began, but he cut her off curtly.

"I found it in one of your trunks before you returned to Montoui."

"How dare you go through my things!"

He shrugged indifferently. "I felt I needed to know more about you—and I wasn't expecting a pleasant conversation."

Elise clenched her jaw tightly and stared up with her silent hostility burning brilliantly in her eyes. Remorse set in again. How could she have allowed this . . . cold, arrogant—ruthless!—warrior to touch her as he had! At that moment, she wanted desperately to crawl away with shame. She hadn't allowed him, she had invited him, giving way to his every intimacy.

"Wear the ring," he repeated.

"I can't wear the ring!" she snapped. "Have you forgotten? There are others who know it belonged to Henry."

He laughed with no humor. "You can wear the ring, Elise. When you so hastily departed London, I felt obliged to explain our first meeting to Richard. Our king had a rather strange reaction. He was totally silent, quite unlike Richard. Then he bade me to go with Godspeed—after telling me when I must return to his service, of course—and he said something rather peculiar. He said that you should wear the ring; if anyone should ask you about it, you are to say that it was a wedding gift from him."

She tore her eyes from Bryan's and stared at the ring. She picked it up and slipped it on her finger.

"Get dressed," he told her curtly. "We've lost half the morning."

"Not by my choosing," she bit out in return. "And if you want me up, I suggest that you move."

He stepped over her and walked back to saddle the horses.

Elise rose and hurried to her shift. It was sopping wet, and without the packhorse, she had no other. She sighed, rang it out, and donned her tunic. The rough wool chafed her skin, flesh that seemed especially tender and sensitive now.

She would endure the discomfort, she decided wryly. She was going to learn to endure a lot, and somehow she was going to come out of it with her dignity and pride restored.

Her hair was badly tangled. She tried to smooth it with her fingers and braid it, but the tendrils kept escaping. She felt him behind her, and she stiffened, but did not protest against his touch. In a matter of minutes he had tamed the unruly mass and she wondered at his proficiency with a woman's hair. "Let's be on our way," he told her. "We will stop to eat after we've traveled a distance."

"I am not hungry," she said tonelessly, and stepping away from him, she mounted her mare and gazed down at him coolly, waiting.

They did not stop until they reached the cottage where Elise had mounted his destrier to escape, and Elise marveled at the difference in herself between then and now. Then . . . she had made her last, desperate bid for freedom, and learned that worse things could happen to her than her marriage. And now she was resigned.

The old crone who owned the cottage fed them a meal of wild hare roasted over her fire. The meat was tough and stringy, but it was hot, and Elise discovered then that she was very hungry. But they did not tarry long; Bryan paid the old woman for the meal and for her care of the packhorse, and they were on their way once again.

They stayed that night in an inn by the Channel at Barfleur. The room was a small, stuffy cubicle in the loft, but it was all that was available. Elise fell upon the lumpy straw bed, utterly exhausted. She was asleep before Bryan had doused the single candle allotted them. When she awoke, he was gone from the chamber. He returned to tell her that their passage was arranged.

The Channel was calm that day. Dead calm, and silent. They crossed in a matter of hours. Bryan was anxious to move onward, so they did not linger at all, but started riding the northeastern trail. That night they were welcomed into the manor home of Sir Denholm Ellis. Sir Denholm was nearing his eightieth year; he had ridden on a Crusade with Eleanor of Aquitaine when she had been the Queen of France, and he enlivened their evening meal with stories of Eleanor's courage.

The manor was small, but well kept, and staffed with efficient servants. Elise was able to indulge in a long bath and wash the leaves and forest dust from her hair. "'Tis good you've come here, milady," Mathilde, Sir Denholm's young housekeeper, told her. "Ye'll not be enjoying much luxury in the days to come."

"Why do you say that?" Elise queried.

Mathilde chuckled. "The lands in Cornwall be vast, milady, and rich, but . . . the old lord has been dead a long time now, and his steward was a lazy chap to begin with. You won't find much of a welcome awaiting you."

Elise silently digested Mathilde's words, easing herself more deeply into the water. What were they coming to?

She was still in the bath when Bryan entered the room, his presence filling it. Apparently he had bathed elsewhere, for he was dressed in a fresh white tunic, and nothing more. Mathilde blushed and chuckled and made a hasty exit.

"We leave early," Bryan told Elise. She heard him doff the tunic and climb into the large bed that awaited them. Elise hesitated, but heard no sound from him. She rose from the bath and wrapped herself in a linen towel, then dragged a chair by the fire, where she combed her hair, allowing the warmth to dry it. She stayed at the task, becoming involved with it, until she jumped, hearing Bryan's voice.

"Come to bed, Elise!"

She did, and when his arms reached out for her, she had no wish to turn away. The room darkened as the fire burned lower and lower in the grate, and in the darkness she gave way to temptation to touch him in return. Their lovemaking was all the sweeter, yet when he held her close in the aftermath, she again knew a feeling of dismay.

She found comfort in the strength of his hands upon her. It was good to lie beside him, to feel his hair-roughened legs entwined with hers.

She was going to be empty when he left her.

* * *

It was well past midnight, the witching hour, Elise thought when they came upon Firth Manor. Elise didn't think she had ever been so tired in the whole of her life; they had been riding since dawn. With their land in reach, Bryan had been loath to stop, and Elise, determined to match at any endeavor, had stubbornly refused to ask that they stop and rest. The rain, a slow, miserable drizzle, had begun at about dusk, and now, as they came upon the home he had so persistently dragged her to, she did not know if she longed to laugh or cry.

The moon—when it broke through the drizzle and clouds—was full. The house rose out of wild and overgrown shrubbery like a dark monster, empty and lifeless. It was a Norman edifice, built of stone, half castle, half manor, and in daylight it might boast a pleasant architectural grace with its high arches and jutting towers.

But now, it appeared nothing less than harsh and forbidding, a reminder of the time more than a century ago when the Normans under William the Conqueror had battled hard to quell the Saxons.

Bryan began to swear softly beneath his breath. He stopped at the gatehouse, but no one answered his knock, and when he barged inside, he found nothing but a filthy hovel. He came back outside to his bride, waiting upon her horse, sodden and weary.

"We'll go up to the main house," he told her with a scowl.

They rode in silence. The path was overgrown with weeds. The door hung open. Bryan entered and worked in the darkness while Elise leaned wearily against the door. At least here she was out of the never-ending drizzle.

The kindling was as damp and dreary as the night, but Bryan at last managed to get a sooty fire going. Acrid smoke filled the hall with a dismal glow.

Once . . . once the manor had been grand. The hall was large; the fireplace had been sculpted of stone. Many glass-paned windows, some in beautifully stained colors, still remained.

But many had been stolen or broken. The floor was littered with stale and dank rushes. No furniture remained; it appeared that what had not been part of the structure itself had been carried away.

Elise at last began to laugh. She walked into the hall, sweeping her arms about as if to encompass it. "Here we are! The great home of that magnificent warrior, King Henry's champion, King Richard's right hand—Bryan Stede! The earl, the duke—the mighty lord! For this! For this you cast aside Montoui! My God, but it is amusing!"

Had he not sensed the beginning of a weary hysteria in her voice, he would have been tempted to slap her.

"Shut up!" he told her harshly instead. He stood slowly, staring at the fire while anger filled him. The wound that had not pained him at all during the day suddenly ached. He noticed absently that Elise had moved to the built-in window seat. Once, he assumed, it had overlooked a fine garden. He was certain that, now, the darkness concealed nothing but weeds. He slammed his fist hard against the mantel and muttered to himself rather than to her.

"By the blessed Virgin, these lazy serfs shall pay! I've the time to tear a good number apart, limb by limb! By the rood, they will know the extent of my wrath!"

He had all but forgotten Elise. He started when she spoke, her voice soft and weary.

"If you deal with the situation as you say, milord, you will find yourself with nothing but dead serfs. You are a warrior, Stede, trained to do battle. But you cannot joust with undisciplined serfs. That will not bring you the prosperity you desire."

"Oh? And what will, madame?"

"Nothing at the moment," she told him. " 'Twould be best to sleep as well as possible through the remainder of the night. Morning can better bring order to chaos."

He rested his head against the mantel. She was right. What was he going to do? Run like a lunatic to the village, rousing the peasants from sleep and earning nothing but their hostility?

He didn't know how much time passed before he lifted his head to tell her that he would bring in their blankets and their packs.

She was gone. But as he turned around, he saw that she was already bringing in their travel blankets, arranging them before the fire. She gazed at him, a little uncertainly.

"If you would like me to tend to your wound—"

"My wound is fine. Go to sleep."

She curled up before the fire.

Bryan stood by the mantel, listening to the damp kindling crackle as it fought to stay ablaze. At last he walked outside and discovered that Elise had already relieved the horses of their trappings. They were tethered beneath the overhang. The overhang leaked no worse than the manor. The saddles and the packs were drawn as tight to the building as possible.

Bryan carried the packs inside. He delved into their supplies until he found a skin of ale, which he proceeded to drain as he sat and stared morosely at the fire.