Chapter 15

T HIS WAS NO FINE , gentle kiss bestowed upon a new and tender bride! Kat determined, reeling beneath the passion of the man's touch, of his hold. It wasn't as if he sought to hurt her, for he did not. But neither was there any give whatsoever in his grasp, for his arms were firmly around her.

"Bravo!"

Kat was dimly aware that the Queen cried out, laughing softly. But then, as the kiss continued, as she felt the fire of his touch engulf her from head to toe, she was aware that the priest was clearing his throat. "Lord Montjoy—"

But the priest needn't have worried. At that moment, one of the guards rushed down the inner steps from his position atop the high tower.

"Riders coming, my liege, my lady."

Then it seemed that Montjoy was quickly distracted. He let go of her and looked to the man who had brought the message.

"At what distance?"

"They're still quite far. But, my lord, you ordered that I warn you the moment I saw anything at all—"

"And quite right. I thank you," Montjoy told him quickly. "Can you tell what colors they wear?"

"I believe it is the Prince who comes, my lord, though even from the tower, we cannot see the pennants and colors clear as yet."

Then Montjoy was quickly issuing orders. "Marie, help your mistress in her chambers. Sir James, I'll speak with you now. Eleanor! Thank God that you arrived when you did!"

"How very lovely to be so appreciated!" Eleanor said delightedly.

"And one and all!" Montjoy's voice rose to include all who were present in the hall—mainly his own men, a few of Eleanor's ladies, and some of Kat's own people. "Enjoy the food and festivities!" He turned to walk away.

This was her home! Kat thought irritably. "If you don't mind, my lord—" she began.

But he swung on her then, his brow arched in surprise. "I said that you must go to your chambers!"

"But this is my home!"

He lowered his voice. "And you are still determined not to see the danger!"

"Danger stands before me."

"Go to your room with Marie like a good little bride, else I will see that you are taken there."

"Take care, Lord Montjoy," she warned, "lest you should awaken minus that arrogant tongue of yours!"

He arched a brow to the challenge. A smile curled at his lip, and he moved a step closer to her. "You take care. This is a rowdy enough crowd we have on hand here. One word from me, and I'm quite sure they could be convinced that a traditional bedding might take place here. They could sweep you up those stairs for me, strip us both, and stand about like drunken gawkers while—"

The blood had drained from her face. That last thing she wanted at this moment was a pack of witnesses!

Without another word, she spun away from him. Then she swirled back to him. "I swear, Montjoy, I will make you very, very sorry for this marriage!"

To her surprise, she had touched upon some sore spot. An anguish seemed to leap swiftly through his silver eyes. "I am sorry for it, madam, and for us both! Now go!"

Kat did so, seething. She took the stairs two at a time and burst into her room well ahead of Marie. Her dear friend and servant followed her, silent at first, wringing her hands while Kat paced the room like a caged tiger. "Ah, look, my lady! Flowers. Beautiful flowers on the trunk by the bed. Bless the Queen that she thinks of such things! See the exquisite red roses, bright yellow daffodils!"

Kat vaguely saw the flowers, strewn attractively over the trunk. Under other circumstances she would have been delighted with their beauty and wonderfully pleased with the touch of scent they gave the air. She would have plucked one up to feel the softness of the bloom's delicate petals.

But now she barely glanced their way.

Marie kept trying. She pointed awkwardly to the bed. "Katherine, you must see this gown! Eleanor had it sent during the service. She told me about it. She acquired it in the Middle East some years ago. The fabric is the softest you can imagine. It is cool against the skin. Let me help you—"

"I want no gown in which to meet this man."

"Kat! You are a bride tonight—"

"With no love for her husband!" Kat said. Husband. It had happened; they were wed. Nothing that she could do would change that now. And even the thought made tremors run hotly along her spine.

"Lord! What will I do?"

But even as she spoke, her heart leaped and then catapulted back to her feet. Someone stood in their now-opened doorway. But it wasn't Montjoy. Not yet. Eleanor was there, smiling, her eyes shimmering with amusement—and sympathy, and understanding.

"What will you do?" she inquired lightly. "Ah, youth and beauty are their own reward. I believe a great deal will be done for you!" She laughed softly. "Come now, Katherine! Chin up. Let me help you again."

Kat swallowed down her tension and the feeling of being so desperately trapped. "Nay, Your Grace! It is not right for a queen to aid a countess—"

"Dowager Queen," Eleanor said. "And a very, very rich young lady!"

She made a motion to Marie, urging her away. She knew that Kat would not fight her, and she quickly helped her discard her wedding finery and don the ivory gown that she had given as an impromptu wedding present.

The material barely clung to Kat's shoulders and fell against her like cool hands. The feel would have been exquisite, had she been able to feel anything at all. "Sit now, and let me unwind this blanket of hair," Eleanor told her.

She sat. The gown slipped from her shoulders. "It's wonderful, thank you, Your Grace," she said very properly. "But it won't stay on!"

"I do believe that is part of the very idea of the gown. It came across long trade routes from Persia, so I was told. And the fabric is wonderful. Ah, if I were just a few years younger!" She laughed softly. "Maybe not. I think I'd need to be a few decades younger!" She bent and kissed Kat's cheek. "He'll adore you. You'll wrap him around your finger in no time at all."

Montjoy? Never!

After tonight, he would probably want to kill her!

"If the Prince is coming, we must be ready. No matter what, he must be entertained. I—" Kat began.

Eleanor rose. "Don't worry about a thing, my dear.

I do believe that it's that young monster of mine arriving quickly here. And I shall entertain him, I assure you. Enjoy yourself. John remains my son, though had I been the father rather than the mother, I might have questioned the relationship!"

Kat leaped up. Eleanor was heading toward the door. "Wait!" Kat cried out. "This is all wrong. Montjoy and I should greet guests together—"

"Not this evening, my girl! You may greet my son in the morning, Lady Montjoy. That will certainly do well enough." Eleanor smiled suddenly. "Oh, I can't wait to see his face when he arrives!"

Eleanor disappeared despite the wild plea in Kat's eyes.

It was only then that Kat realized that Marie had already escaped her room.

She had been deserted by everyone!

"All those years of loyalty and concern, and he steps in, and even Marie runs like a mouse!" Kat said aloud. She started to pace the room again. There had been no way to fight this. He was coming here, and coming very soon. She didn't dare try to run again. She might give away the secret of the tunnel. And John was coming, he would be there any minute, and—

She heard a quiet sound. She spun around, her breath catching.

Montjoy was there. In her room. Standing against the doorway. So very tall, and so casually, arrogantly assured. Arms crossed over his broad chest, his stance easy. Silver-gray eyes glittering as he watched her. And waited. With the lazy regard of a great animal that toyed easily with its prey, knowing full well that the prey was trapped, and had nowhere else to go.

Was he amused, or filled with that deep-seated anger that so often seemed to fill him when he spoke with her? She couldn't tell. Not from the way he watched her. Not from the curious, mocking smile that curled so slightly into the curve of his lip. Not from the cast of his hard, handsome face, or that cool speculation in his eyes.

She stopped dead still, one hand fluttering to her throat. As she stared at him she could feel the very fierce pounding of her heart. Perhaps he could see it himself against the form-hugging softness of Eleanor's beautiful garment.

"Well, this is it!" he said, his voice surprisingly low and soft. "The moment of truth!"

Truth! Oh, he couldn't imagine the half of it.

He hadn't been there when she had come to know the Silver Sword. Oh, the Silver Sword had been equally arrogant and determined, but there had been something between them …

Maybe because she had known that he had saved the girl in the woods. Or more probably, because she was so certain that he had been the archer to save them all that long-ago day. Maybe she had just come to know his touch. Maybe it had been that first kiss in the water, the one that had made her feel warm from head to toe …

Yet even now she could still feel Montjoy's wedding kiss upon her lips. Feel the force, and the power, and even the persuasion. The startling heat of that kiss, too. Eleanor was right. He was not a horrible man. Not in the physical sense. He was every bit as tall as the Silver Sword, as broad, as tightly muscled.

As powerful.

And his face was striking, despite the small scars that nicked it above one eyebrow and across one cheek. His ebony-dark hair and silver eyes enhanced that rugged, masculine appeal. If all she had to do was look upon him …

But that was not all that she had to do. One look at his very speculative features and she knew well that her waiting game was near over.

The moment of truth …

She shook her head fervently. If she could just buy a little time! Time to know him better. To learn to control her own temper, and therefore manage his!

She quickly decided that dignity and reason were her best weapons now. "Sir, you have what you wish. We are wed before God and man. The castle is yours—"

"As are you, my lady."

Trying to keep her temper under control, she quickly lowered her lashes. He was watching her, waiting. She didn't speak quickly enough, for suddenly he was walking toward her. She sensed his movement and looked up, walking away from him. "Love, sir, cannot be forced!"

"My lady, the number of men and women who are man and wife and most certainly not in love would reckon into very high numbers indeed!"

She backed away further. "Truly, you are the most magnificent of Richard's loyal knights. With strength and power tempered with justice and mercy. The Prince is coming. We should both be downstairs, hands entwined, strong together against any trickery he might devise!"

Montjoy paused, a sparkle to his silver eyes as he rubbed his chin. "How passionately, how beautifully spoken!"

"Then, if you will just listen—"

"You do flatter me well, my lady. Had I time, I would be tempted to let you go on."

"We haven't time, so you must listen to me!" she insisted. "We must go downstairs together now—"

"No!" The smile left his face. She suddenly found herself pinned against the cold stone of the castle wall. He leaned against it casually, a hand on either side of her head. "The Prince is coming. I will not risk an annulment of this marriage I am sorry to alarm you—for you do seem to be very alarmed. You were eager for a confessor before. Have you something to tell me now?"

She swallowed hard and shook her head fiercely. Just what did men know about women? It didn't matter. She couldn't confess a thing to him.

Dignity was not working, she saw. His eyes were as sharp as blades. He had no intention of letting her be.

"Confess? To you? I owe you nothing!" she hissed. Perhaps she surprised him. She pushed against his chest with an energy born of fury. "This place will be filled with guests and you intend to idle away the night—"

"I will not be idle."

"Everyone will know—"

He sighed watching her walk by. "That, my lady, is exactly my intent. Aye, everyone will know. With any luck whatsoever, the Prince will burst in upon us. Therefore, we will make haste."

She spun to face him. "Nay! I will not do it—"

"Lady, off with that gown, and onto the bed! Else you want it ripped from your person."

She gasped, her eyes narrowing. "The gown belongs to the Queen! You wouldn't dare—"

"Oh, I would dare with astonishing pleasure," he assured her cordially. He stood five feet away. He said he wanted to hurry, but he seemed in a leisurely enough mood himself. Of course. She was trapped. He knew it well. He did nothing but toy with her now.

She stared at him in an absolute fury.

And it was then that her stomach growled again, giving her a whole new argument.

"I can't possibly do—what you want me to do. I am starving to death. What chivalrous man would want a maid who hungers as I do?"

He laughed out loud, sweeping her a deep bow. "My lady, I swear that I will most chivalrously teach you a new hunger."

"You've an amazing conceit, sir, but I will not remain here to foster it!" she announced coolly. "I intend to have something to eat!" With those words she turned from him and started for the door.

She had not gone two steps before she felt him at her back. He was amused no longer. Catching her arm, he swung her around. With a determined grasp he caught hold of her gown and ripped.

The elegant, beautiful fabric gave way and drifted like clouds to her feet. Naked, alternately searing hot and icy cold, she stared at him. Jesu, was there no way to best him, no way to shame him?

Nay, for he stepped back then, in his eyes as he looked her over from head to toe. "The castle was what you wanted most!" she snapped furiously. "Did you pay too great a price in a bride to achieve it?"

He met her eyes squarely. "I know, my lady," he said flatly, "that you are very aware of your own beauty, and your own assets. You are painfully wild, willful, and determined, but even I grant you this, madam, you are a very beautiful woman. And you are my wife. Mine!"

Something in that last word seemed to send the most awful fear of retribution racing through her. Stark naked but heedless of it, she turned to bolt.

She barely even moved. His arms were around her naked form, and before she had even caught her breath, she was losing it again, swept up into his arms to be cast wildly upon her bedding.

Her heart thudded fiercely. She stared at the ceiling, stunned for a moment, then realized that he was stripping himself.

Boots fell hard against the cold stone. The dark-matted and muscled breadth of his chest was bared as the tunic in the Montjoy colors was cast heedlessly atop them.

Her face flamed.

It had been dark when she had been with the Silver Sword. She hadn't even seen her lover's face, much less … anything else.

Now she was seeing. Chausses were gone and the man approaching her was clearly visible in the candlelight. Naked bronze shoulders glistened. She could see the flex and pull of every muscle. He was hardened from head to toe; taut, sleek, fine.

And ready. Ready and determined. Her eyes flew unerringly to his large, fierce shaft standing so boldly.

She leaped from the bed, to the side opposite him, and stood there shivering.

"Jesu, lady, do you ever quit?" he demanded in a soft roar.

Her eyes narrowed fiercely. "No!" she exclaimed. "See how very sorry you will be? An annulment would be the kindest grace to befall you, sir!" She started to move, but even as she did so, he pounced across the covers, and his fingers wound into her hair. She cried out softly, wrenching her golden tresses from his gasp. Tears stung her eyes. "All right! Be so wretched and vile and horrible." She threw herself down flat upon her back, and stared up at the ceiling. "Go ahead. Act like de la Ville. Rape me."

She closed her eyes and crossed her arms over her breasts, just as if she were dead and ready for burial.

And still she did not dissuade Montjoy. She felt him lie down beside her.

Then he laughed. Loudly, bluntly, and with true amusement.

She felt his fingers winding a strand of her hair.

"Poor little maiden!" he whispered very softly. She felt the heat of his words at her earlobe. "Am I truly so very wretched—threatening your … innocence?"

Her eyes flew open. What could he know? Why that so very subtle shade of mockery to his tone?

Confess now, she thought. But she could not. And she could never tell him about the Silver Sword.

He might decide to slay the man …

She moistened her lips, wishing that he were not so very close, and wishing even more fervently that he did not seem to take her nudity—or his own—so very casually.

Silver eyes touched hers. A smile curled his lips so slightly and wickedly once again. He ran a finger over her lower lip. "I told you," he said quietly. "I do not wish to hurt you."

"Well then, don't! Let's not do this!" she whispered in reply. He was very silent, which unnerved her, and she turned to see his face fully. "You could be chivalrous, sir, truly! I would swear to anything below. You could be the great knight in truth, so strong that you dared be gentle and tender—"

He was smiling again. Touching her cheek. "I do intend to be gentle."

"You could be so very heroic—"

"My lady, your head is just filled with romantic notions," he said softly.

"Then you won't—"

"Nay, lady. I will."

She flung around, giving her back to him. But it was a bare back. And in just seconds, she felt … something along her naked flesh.

Just a touch. A gentle, near-elusive touch. So very soft against her skin. And a sweet smell was suddenly on the air.

The smell of a rose.

She closed her eyes. He held one of the flowers, she realized. And the bloodred soft petals of the rose were just brushing over her. Along the length of her spine. Down lower. Trailing over the rise of her buttocks, sweetly over her thighs.

"Perhaps you're right," he mused. "Love cannot be forced. Perhaps it is even like the bud of a rose. Petals closed so very tightly, yet suddenly bursting into a most magnificent bloom!"

Kat swallowed hard, amazed by the sensations caused by that stroke of the rose. So soft! She did not want to feel it. It was so very light that she had no choice. Where it touched her her flesh seemed to become acutely alive! Alive, and vibrant. And then so warm.

She rolled again to avoid that stroke of the rose against her, forgetting then that she gave her front, rather than her back, to his touch.

Her eyes fell first upon his form.

He was stretched out lengthwise by her side, raised upon an elbow. The muscles of his chest and shoulders, though not constricted, remained taut and hard. Sleek. To her amazement, she was tempted to touch him. To feel the flesh and body that was so very honed and corded.

She swallowed hard and quickly looked to his eyes. Startlingly silver eyes. The emotion within them was neither amusement nor anger now.

Nay …

It was rather a shimmer of passion. So intense that it caused her breath to catch within her throat. She delicately wet her very dry lips to speak, finding it difficult to breathe.

"I will not—burst into magnificent bloom!" she told him.

He smiled. The rose he held suddenly fell between the valley of her breasts. He lifted the soft petal to encircle one breast, rubbing the petals over her nipple. She gasped softly, yet discovered herself too bewitched to pull away.

At his command, the rose continued a slow descent. His eyes followed the trail the petals took then, falling down to her belly. Teasing, just barely brushing the golden triangle below.

"Roses need time!" she gasped out suddenly, trying to catch the flower and stem. "A bloom will not open today if it is not meant to do so until tomorrow!"

She caught the stem, and he released it to her. She cried out softly as a thorn caught her fingers.

Then she would have cried out again, had she sufficient breath, for he had suddenly crawled over her. He took the rose from her and cast it aside, sweeping up the thumb that had been barbed by the thorn. "A good gardener can coax a flower to bloom," he assured her, and his lips closed over the small injury to her finger. His tongue was hot and wet. Slowly, seductively, he sucked the wound.

And she watched him. Just watched him. Wide-eyed, amazed at what the feel of the hot tug upon her thumb seemed to be doing to the rest of her body. Her eyes seemed captured by his, prisoner to his silver gaze.

And then she became more and more aware of his body. The hard-muscled thighs around her hips. The heat of the burnished shoulders above her. The soft teasing of his dark hair against her flesh.

The great pulsing protrusion of his sex lying so hotly against her belly …

"Nay! You are not a gardener at all, but a knight!" she whispered, trying to twist from his touch. "Certainly not a good gardener—"

"Ah, my lady, I do protest!" He leaned toward her. "I am the very best!" he whispered, his lips just over hers.

And then they fell upon her lips.

Her fingers pressed against his rock-hard chest; she was determined to elude his kiss.

But his hands were upon her head, and she could not twist from his questing tongue.

And neither did the force of her hands seem to mean anything at all against his muscular body. A whimper of protest sounded softly in her throat. She could not speak. She could only feel the determined sweep of his tongue within her mouth. Tasting. Ravishing. Coaxing.

She could scarcely breathe. The room, she was certain, was spinning.

She didn't know where or when she ceased to fight, but she must have done so. His hands were upon her body. Stroking the rise of her breasts, his fingers curling around the fullness there, then seeking the detail of her nipple, playing there, making the peak harden, making streaks of silver heat through her. His hand moved. Curving over her midriff, finding her hip. Slipping beneath her to cradle her behind. Exploring, demanding. Seducing.

And all the while, she felt the potent hardness and length of his shaft against her. So warm. Rubbing against her belly. Insinuative, sensual.

His stroke moved again. Falling too against her belly. Below.

Aye, somewhere she had ceased to fight.

Because this was inevitable, she told herself.

No …

His hands no longer secured her head to his kiss. She could have twisted from his kiss. She had not. His lips touched hers again and again. They teased at her eyes, at her earlobes, at her throat. His whispers touched her ears. She heard no words, but knew the tenderness of their cadence. Alarm filled her. Not that he hurt her, for he did not.

Nay …

Slowly, surely, his touch was evoking …

Fire.

She wanted to think, she wanted to fight … not so much Montjoy anymore, but the tremoring he awoke. It seemed almost good that he touched her so. Almost natural. Aye …

He was an exceptional gardener.

For it seemed that she knew him. That she had come this way before.

Were all men so similar? Did the kiss of one so equal in intensity the kiss of another?

Her thoughts fled. A gasp escaped her as she felt the sudden parting of her thighs. Felt the bold touch of his fingers, intimately. Inside her. Stroking. His hands forced apart her thighs, and she cried out in protest.

Then he was there, above her, the whipcord length of his body between her thighs. His eyes met hers and he smiled. "A very good gardener is most nurturing of those soft red petals of that rose. Caring for them with the utmost tenderness."

She started to speak, but gasped instead for he was suddenly on his knees, his hands around her legs. She could not imagine being spread so far, nor could have ever imagined the searing jolt of sensation that ripped violently through her as he …

Tended to the petals of his rose.

A scream tore from her throat, her fingers plowed into the rich darkness of his hair. Her touch meant nothing to him. She couldn't move for his knight's length.

And dear God! He was determined to tend those petals!

Gently parting them with thumb and forefinger, lathing there with his tongue, more and more intimately. She shrieked and struggled against him, a fierce panic seizing her that she could feel his touch with such …

Such sweet abandon.

For as he mercilessly held her to his whim, she felt desire growing within her. That which she had so briefly touched once before now seemed to come cascading down upon her. She didn't want to fight him. She wanted to feel him. She wanted to reach and reach for the crystal glory before her. She was keenly, achingly aware of every sensation about her. She knew the feel of her back against the linen bedding, knew the softness into which she sank.

She knew the scent of the flowers, the roses on the air. The coarse, masculine feel of his hair beneath her fingers. And she was so aware of that blinding, building fire within her.

Centering …

Then he was over her again. She briefly caught sight of his eyes, burning with such a shattering intensity.

But then she closed her eyes, crying out again, for the fierce pulse of him was suddenly inside her, deep, deep inside her. She braced herself, tensing for the pain that would come to wipe away the magic. She shuddered, her fingers winding into the bedding and then into his shoulders as he thrust himself into her. For the briefest moment, it seemed that she would shatter in two.

But there was no pain. There was the intrusion, swift, demanding, incredibly intimate. She could not take all of him.

But she could. And for a moment he was there, poised above her.

Her eyes had been closed. She opened them. Met his.

Panic seized her. The time had come. The moment of truth indeed. He knew. He knew women, he knew her.

He knew that she had had a lover.

Sharp silver eyes impaled her just as his shaft did.

Then a great shuddering seized hold of him. He closed his eyes.

And he began to move.

Once again, with all her heart, she wanted to cry out. She wanted to protest. But she could not.

There was no more subtlety about him. No tender stroking of the rose.

The desire that swept him was like a storm. It was like the high shriek of the wind, like the tumult of the rain. He moved so fast. Demanding that she come with him. Bronze muscles flexed with strain, and a fine sheen of perspiration began to break out on them. She did cry out, stunned at the force of him, entering deeper and deeper inside her, again and again …

But his tempest had swept inside her. She wanted so badly to fight him. But it was there, so close. That crystal glory that had beckoned her before. That she had so nearly touched.

She closed her eyes tightly against him. She felt the fury of the storm.

And she was part of it. Hips writhing to his command. His mouth seized hers as he moved. Lowered. Captured the rouged peak of her breast even as he thrust with greater demand. And each touch brought new streaks of fire and light cascading down upon her. Before she had known something.

But not like this!

Not this rising, soaring wonder. Twisting, undulating, wondering, seeking more. More and more of him. Reaching …

The climax exploded throughout her. Wild, violent. There was a scream, and she dimly realized it to be her own. A rush of heat flooded her as magic touched the length of her. She didn't know if the liquid heat came from her or from him.

Tremors shook and seized her. Bit by bit she became aware again of the things around her.

The feel of the bedding against her back. The scent of the rose, now musky and sweet. The coolness of the air.

The hair-roughened thigh of the man who stared at her.

He'd eased his weight from her. His thigh remained cast casually over her lower limbs. His hand lay just below her breast.

She bit into her lower lip, longing to cast that hand away.

Yet at this moment, she didn't dare. And so she lay there with her eyes downcast, waiting. Feeling the silver edge of those eyes trying to pierce into her heart.

"Poor, sweet damsel, eh? Dreading this encounter with all the purity of her heart?"

Her eyes lifted to his, issuing a challenge. He wasn't going to frighten her, she swore it.

"Dreading you with all my heart!" she said softly.

"Ah! So not this other lover, eh?" he demanded.

Her heart seemed to slam against her chest.

"His name, madam."

"You must be insane—"

"His name."

She shook her head violently. "It is ended. It never began."

"I would know—"

"He is dead!" she claimed wildly.

"Who?" His voice hardened.

She waved a hand airily before her. "Perhaps there were a score of others. Would you slay them all?"

To her amazement, he laughed softly. His face lowered over hers. "I didn't intend to slay any man, my lady."

But with those words he suddenly pushed away from her and walked the distance to his discarded clothing and rummaged there. Kat watched him warily and started to rise, trying to draw the linen sheets around her. Then she stopped, a scream forming on her lips, and freezing there.

He had taken a sharp dagger from the ankle sheath that lay with his chausses.

He didn't mean to slay any man. He meant to slay her!

She managed to gasp, backing away from him as he pounced upon the bed again, kneeling before her with the dagger drawn. "Jesu!" she breathed, closing her eyes.

No blade touched her. She opened her eyes, and a sharp breath caught in her throat again. He stared at her as if she had gone insane.

He had used the dagger against himself, slicing a small nick into his wrist. A few drops of brilliant red blood fell upon the sheet.

Kat looked from the blood to his eyes. "What—?"

He arched a black brow dangerously. "Don't you hear the clamor beneath us, my lady?"

She hadn't heard it. She had been too busy watching him, worrying about his actions. But now she was aware of the sounds beneath them. Music—her wedding music—played on. But voices rose above it. There was a certain clattering. Hard footsteps, the clang of metal. The sounds of men; their boots, their swords.

She stared at him with a certain alarm. The footfalls were coming up the stairway.

"The Prince!" She tried to leap up from the bed. He caught hold of her wrist, and she fell. His arms wrapped around her.

"Let me up!" she commanded. "You've had what you wanted. And people are coming. Let me dress, let me get a robe—"

"Nay, lady!" he said, smiling with grave amusement. "There's far more at stake here than dignity. The best you'll have now is a sheet and the bulk of my body. Get beneath the bedding, if you wish."

"But—!"

"Do it!"

The sounds of the footsteps were at the door. He rolled with her, his bulk atop her. He caught hold of the bedding, sweeping the linen sheet up high around them, that and his body covering hers as the door suddenly burst open.

Montjoy lifted up, keeping her covered and a bit behind him, just as John burst into the room. "Jesu!" Montjoy swore irritably, as if he hadn't realized that he was being disrupted until the form of a man actually entered the chamber. Then he sighed softly. "Why, 'tis the Prince! John, how come you here?"

"Montjoy!" John seethed as he stared at him. Kat dared to look around the huge bronzed shoulders of her new husband. John was furious—and perplexed.

"I came for the Lady Katherine. I had decided she should wed Raymond de la Ville. And I come here to find—you! By what right is this? The girl is my brother's ward—"

"You came for her?" Montjoy feigned surprise. "I am well aware that she is your brother's ward. I have his papers, the license, and the bishop's dispensation, all upon me! Surely, Eleanor informed you—"

"Eleanor informed me that you were upstairs with the Lady de Montrain—"

"Lady Montjoy," Damian interjected softly.

"I will see to the validity of this marriage!" John thundered.

"It is valid in word and deed," Montjoy said, and an edge of steel that could not be missed rang clearly in his voice. Even Kat could read so many things in the words that passed between them! Damian did not forget that John was a Prince of England. But that would not sway him while he still honored the King. And if John persisted, he would find himself a very formidable enemy.

"It would seem that the papers are valid," Father Donovan said lightly. "And that the marriage has been consummated," he added, pointing to the drops of blood upon the sheets.

Kat felt herself redden to a hot crimson. "My lords!" she cried out, "Could we all not discuss this in my bedchamber?"

"The lady is mine," Damian said firmly, watching John, as if she had never spoken. She wanted to strike them all, yet just as she was about to speak again, reminding them that she was a person, an heiress herself, the door suddenly burst further open and Father Donovan was shoved out of the way.

Raymond de la Ville strode furiously into the chamber, staring at Montjoy and Katherine. His eyes seemed to bulge, an erratic pulse beat furiously at his throat. "Montjoy!" he spit out, flecks of foam flying from his mouth with his fury. "You! I swear, I'll kill you!"

He drew his sword. Naked still, Damian leaped from the bed, agile as a deer despite his hard-muscled size. He caught up his own sword from the floor and circled around, heedless that he held no protection whatsoever save that sword.

"De la Ville, you may well try! For if you ever come so near my bride again, I will slice every extremity from your body!"

De la Ville swore, and swung. Damian returned the parry, his sword meeting de la Ville's midair. There was an ear-splitting clash of steel.

Then de la Ville's sword flew and fell to the ground.

Prince John stepped between the men. "My lords, I command that you end this—"

"Whatever is going on here?" a new voice interrupted. A feminine voice. Intrigued. With an edge of cunning.

Eleanor's voice.

"Pray, John! Father Donovan, my lords! What does go on here?" Suddenly she, too, was in the room, her eyes upon them all. "Did you doubt the marriage to be real? Why, John, I told you that it was so!"

"Mother, cease your meddling in my affairs—"

"Your affairs?" Eleanor said sharply. "Why, last I heard, your brother was still alive, and quite hale and hearty. Matters of the crown are his affair!"

"There is no matter here," John said. He bowed deeply, some of the rich Plantagenet sense of politics and dramatics showing through. "I have told these lords. I believe these lords wished to pierce one another through. I have told them that the matter is ended."

"And it is ended," Damian said, his tone sharp. He stared at de la Ville. "For the moment." Then he bowed toward Eleanor. "Your Grace, I am not dressed—"

"Truly, Mother! Show some shame!" John reprimanded her.

"Ah, that coming from you!" Eleanor replied lightly, her eyes narrowed. "At my age, my son, my pleasures are not many. Don't begrudge me a sight of such finely honed male perfection. I don't see a one of you having the least difficulty ogling Lord Montjoy's bride! But now, shall the lot of us voyeurs leave them both in peace?"

De la Ville looked as if he would rather die.

"Out!" Eleanor commanded him.

He gritted his teeth. His eyes still looked as if they would bulge out of their sockets.

Kat couldn't help but feel a certain pleasure. She remembered the look of that poor, terrified girl in the forest.

"De la Ville!" John thundered. Then he whispered to the man, but the whisper carried. "You fool! Had I not stopped him, Montjoy would have skewered you."

De la Ville didn't say another word. He turned and exited the room, his feet stomping hard on the floor. "So it is legal, Montjoy," John said. "But don't forget—I am the Prince!"

He followed de la Ville. Donovan turned and followed him.

Eleanor blew them both a kiss, smiling. "Good night, children!" she said sweetly.

Kat stared at the door as it closed. She smiled, remembering de la Ville's look.

"Oh, you could have skewered him through!" she said, then realized that her new husband was staring at her, his sword still in his hands.

She tossed back a length of hair, in a show of bravado. "If you wish to skewer me with that sword, then pray do so! I am weary of being threatened by your kind!"

"My kind?"

"Men!"

"What other men threaten you?"

Her eyes met his. He came closer to the bed. She prayed that she wouldn't choke on her words. "Why, de la Ville. The Prince. Of course."

He smiled and gazed at his sword. "Ah, lady! This is not the weapon I would take to you! But skewer you, madame? What an invitation. I shall accept it readily, I think."

She flushed, despite all that had been. She edged away on the bed. "Why did you do that?" she whispered suddenly, heatedly, casting her eyes on the droplets of blood. "What if there were another? What if I—" She needed all of her courage to continue. "What if I were to bear a child? All the world would claim it to be yours!"

He hesitated just a moment. Then he shrugged. "Lady, I promise, if you conceive a child, I will know the father!"

"But—"

"Lady, come here. The night has just begun."

Her eyes widened. "But we've already—"

He laughed, catching her, sweeping her hard into his arms. She struggled against him. He kissed her, hands delving into the mass of her hair. His husky whisper touched her lips.

"As I've said, lady, the night has just begun. And the rose has just started to bloom!"