Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

Why had she invited Bartholomew to join them on this errand?

Anna could not explain her impulse and in hindsight, she wished she had not made the offer. She supposed that she wanted to ensure that she knew where Bartholomew was, just as he had vowed that they would remain together inside Haynesdale keep until their respective ends were achieved. Those goals had not been won, so their paths remained bound together.

But this was a moment she dreaded.

Her breath was hitching in her chest, and her pulse was unsteady. Her tears were rising and threatening to spill, and this long before they reached the old burn. She felt him watching her and more than once, he offered his hand to her as they climbed over logs or crossed a stream. How much did he discern?

She was weak enough to accept his assistance, even though she did not need it. She had fended for herself for years and had no need of a man. Perhaps it was the garb that betrayed her and made her comport herself more like a lady than was her usual manner.

"I have not been to the old burn in years," Father Ignatius said, his manner so jovial that he might have been trying to lighten the mood.

"What of the place in the forest that was burned two years ago?" Bartholomew asked.

Father Ignatius exchanged a glance with Anna. "That is the new burn," he said.

"No one goes there," Anna contributed flatly. Who could go there? She was sure that she could still smell burning flesh, the residue of those lives lost for no good cause other than a nobleman's thirst for vengeance.

"When else were these woods burned?" Bartholomew asked.

"You have seen that the hall of Haynesdale is newly built," Father Ignatius explained. "The old burn is the lost keep, the fire that Sir Royce struck when he invaded Haynesdale and claimed it for his own."

Anna did not miss Bartholomew quick glance at the priest. "When was that?"

"In the year 1169, almost twenty years ago," Father Ignatius said. "Few of us have been on this holding since that day."

"Old Esme," Anna said. "The one you were talking to. She was the miller's wife then."

"I arrived a few years later," Father Ignatius said. "When Sir Royce wed the first time, God bless the lady's soul." He beamed at Anna. "I remember Anna's birth."

"And Percy's birth," she amended.

"Of course, I recall his birth very well." Father Ignatius smiled. "Never has a child come into the world with such a ruckus. He was both welcome and unexpected."

"How so?" Bartholomew asked.

"All knew the smith's wife was with child, naturally, for she ripened most vigorously. But smith and wife were of such an age that they did not anticipate another babe." Father Ignatius nodded with satisfaction. "Percy was a child destined to challenge expectations from the very first."

"And still he is," Anna said, even as she came to a halt.

They had stepped through the last of the trees into an area that had been burned clear. A few trees grew in the soil, which was still blackened with the ash of that fire, and a line of crosses adorned the ground. Beyond this field, the ruins of the old keep could be seen, its foundation stones washed clean in spots and stained with soot in others. The village could be discerned in the ruts in the ground and far to the left, the open fields were still rutted from furrows long left fallow. Beyond the keep was a sparkling expanse of water where the stream made a mill pond.

Bartholomew stared like a man struck to stone.

Father Ignatius crossed himself as he looked sadly at the new graves. "And still you use the consecrated ground of the old cemetery. That is most wise. Even without my blessing, they are safely in the hands of God." He beckoned to her. "Come, Anna, and tell me who lies in each grave that I might pray for their immortal souls."

Anna brushed away her tears and indicated the first grave, barely aware that Bartholomew strolled away from them. She supposed he could not be expected to grieve for strangers, and in a way, she was glad that he would not hear her own confession.

Father Ignatius, she knew, would not share it with another living soul.

*

Against all expectation, Bartholomew was home.

Anna had set a brisk pace to this "old burn" and had not followed a clear path. She had ducked under low hanging boughs and slipped through the bracken, her route tending ever downward. The priest had not so much followed her as walked alongside her. It was evident they both knew how to find their destination. The forest seemed to be denser and darker in this place, and Bartholomew could not hear many woodland creatures.

He realized why when they burst abruptly from the undergrowth into a clearing. Vegetation was remarkably scarce, especially given the lush growth of the forest behind them. There was a body of water that shone in the distance, its surface as smooth as a looking glass. He spied a wheel on the building at one end and realized it was a millpond.

Esme. He stared at the mill and recalled the miller and his wife, a plump woman with a ready smile, then recalled the woman who had spoken to him this very day. Surely she did not recognize him. She could not see, after all.

But she might recognize something about him.

Just as he recognized this spot. Once again, he could not have described it an hour before, but now that it was before his eyes, he knew it well.

The keep had been on this spot. The bailey had been there. The stables where Whitefoot had been born, one of eight wiggling puppies, had been over there. The miller had been a kind man with a round belly and a jolly laugh. Bartholomew could see him in his mind's eye. He felt again the grain running through his fingers and the vibration of the mill stones as his mother visited the miller's wife after she bore another child.

Esme.

Aye, Esme.

Memories flooded into his mind, as if a dam had been opened. Bartholomew walked like a man in a dream to one spot on the barren land and surveyed the scene before his eyes, his memory filling in the gaps. He had played on the floor in that mill, with the miller's older boy, a child of an age with himself. Oswald. Far to the left were fields, many of which were in fallow. To his right had been the village.

The window of the solar had looked this way. His mother had held him at this window to watch the sun rise, to look over his father's holding. Each and every day, he had come to her and as he grew larger and older, he had stood upon a stool for these precious moments together. Whitefoot had braced his feet on the sill, to look and apparently to listen as well.

He closed his eyes and could feel her heat by his side. He could smell the floral scent of her skin and hear her murmur in soft Norman French. "See, the miller is at his labor, Luc, for the wheel is turning even so early in the day. It is good for the miller to have too much to do, for then those in the village will eat well. The harvest has been good this year. See how the last of the wheat is touched by the sunlight. It is golden and ripe, ready for the villagers to make the harvest. We will have a fine feast in a week, to celebrate the goodness of the year. Look! Your father rides out to hunt, that there will be venison aplenty on the board."

He could see the white-haired knight on his destrier below, saw now the smile on his father's lips and the affection in his expression when he waved to his wife and son. He could remember that feast, the warmth of the hall, the sound of laughter and music, the conviviality of his father's keep.

He recalled another day, when snow touched the land before them. "Look at the smoke rising from the huts in the village," his mother had said that day. "There is comfort in the homes of those beneath your father's hand, for he is just and his holding prospers because of that. His lands extend to that far hill, the one that is touched first by the morning sun."

He felt a tear ease from the corner of his eye, for this was these were the memories he had desired above all others, but they had been elusive. His throat was tight and he found Cenric nuzzling his hand, beside him as Whitefoot had always been.

Bartholomew scratched the dog's ears, then he turned, filled with marvel, to see Anna weeping. He was so surprised to see her show such vulnerability that he doubted his own eyes. But there could be no doubt—her cheeks were streaked with tears and she held one hand to her lips as she stared at a grave. Father Ignatius was blessing whoever had been laid to rest there, and Bartholomew wondered who it had been.

Someone Anna had loved well, it was clear.

One of her parents? A sibling? A good friend?

It did not truly matter. This warrior maiden wept, and he would console her.

*

Bartholomew came to stand silently beside Anna as Father Ignatius finished his prayer. He did not touch her, but she felt his heat close by his side.

It was odd how reassuring she found his presence. She had vowed never to rely upon a man, never to desire a partner, and yet this man, with his beguiling combination of humor and strength, struck a chord within her. She had yearned to trust him from the outset, and it was her own history that had made her distrust her own sense of what was right. Yet, as he continued to do as he had sworn to do, as he kept his word and acted with honor, Anna knew that her initial response to him had been right.

That made her want to trust him more, to share with him all the secrets that burdened her and to have one living soul know all the truths that she did.

On impulse, she slipped her hand into his, recalling how he had held her hand in that great bed the night before, as they had feigned passion.

His fingers closed resolutely around hers, giving her that enticing sense of security. Aye, a woman would be safe with this man by her side, no matter what ill fortune came upon them.

Anna found herself wanting to be that woman with a fervor that shook her with its power.

Yet was pleasing all the same.

She swallowed and stared at the grave, wanting to confide in him but not knowing where to start. It was comforting to realize that he would wait until she chose to do as much, if she did so.

The priest spared them the barest glance as he finished his prayer. He moved to the next grave.

"That is Oswald, the miller's son," Anna said quietly. She felt Bartholomew start.

"Esme's son?" he asked.

"Aye," Anna acknowledged. "And beside him, his wife Rheda and their son, Nyle."

"All of them," Father Ignatius whispered and caught his breath.

"All of them," Anna agreed, knowing that the loss had torn Esme's heart in half.

Bartholomew squeezed her hand as the priest began his prayers for Oswald.

"He cannot have been that old," he said.

Anna shook her head. "Not yet thirty summers, but older than me."

"I meant his son."

She frowned and glanced up at her companion. He had met Esme and knew she was aged. Indeed, Oswald had been the oldest of her sons. How could Bartholomew assume the age of a stranger? But the knight's expression was thoughtful, so she only replied to his query. "Aye, Nyle was of an age with Percy. They were great friends."

"And they all died in the new burn?"

Anna nodded and shook her head. "It was my fault," she whispered, her voice uneven, and found herself relieved when Bartholomew gathered her into his embrace. He was warm and strong, and he simply held her, offering solace with his heat and his presence.

"It cannot have been your fault," he chided quietly, his words a breath in her hair.

"It was," she insisted. "I had a scheme and it went badly awry. The new burn was Sir Royce's retaliation for my audacity."

He pulled back, holding her shoulders in his hands as he looked down at her. "You provoked him to burn his own forests? And yet, you had the courage to enter his hall willingly again yesterday? Did you not fear he would recognize you?"

"Of course."

Bartholomew shook his head in awe, and his eyes began to dance. She knew he would tease her, and her mood lifted in anticipation. "You must have thought to kill me when I left you alone with him in the hall."

"I did curse you thoroughly," she admitted with a smile.

He grinned. "You should have warned me."

"I am not so quick as that to confess my secrets."

Bartholomew sobered. "Nay, you are not." He turned her around so that she faced the grave that Father Ignatius had already blessed, holding her shoulders in his hands again. Her back was against his chest, though, and he leaned down to murmur in her ear. "Tell me this, though, Anna. Who lies here?"

"A child," she admitted.

"As young as Nyle?"

"Younger yet. A mere infant." Her tears rose again and she was embarrassed to feel one splash on her cheek. Her words were thick when she continued. "She did not survive her first winter, not here in these woods." She took a shaking breath. "We dare not light a fire when the baron hunts us, for the smoke would reveal us all. That winter, he hunted ceaselessly, for he wished to rout us all, and it was cold. Cursed cold." Anna's words faded as she remembered her efforts to keep the babe warm.

Futile efforts, for she had not been warm herself.

She swallowed, the pain of loss enough to rend her heart.

"Had she a name?" Bartholomew murmured.

"Kendra," she admitted, her words thick.

"Kendra," he repeated. "I suppose you blame yourself for this, as well."

Anna could only nod. It had been too cold for one so young.

Again Bartholomew gave her a moment to compose herself, and when he continued, his tone was thoughtful. "It seems to me that you have paid little heed to the sermons of Father Ignatius. Does he not teach that our days on this earth are chosen by the great creator himself, that He alone shall choose when a babe comes into the world, and how many breaths each of us shall take?"

Anna nodded reluctant agreement. "I should have taken better care," she admitted.

Bartholomew, to her surprise, kissed her temple. "And so it might not have mattered. Her days might have been planned to be short, by some scheme we cannot discern."

"But…"

"Did you do your best to warm and defend her?"

Anna nodded.

"Then no divinity can ask for more." Without waiting for her agreement, he dropped to his knees then, in the snow at the foot of that small grave. He bowed his head as she watched him and prayed for Kendra's immortal soul.

Anna found herself powerfully affected by this gesture of respect. Her tears flowed anew, but she, too, knelt in the snow beside him. Again, her fingers found his hand, and she had the sense that their prayers together were stronger than both uttered in isolation.

She assisted Father Ignatius by naming the rest of the fallen, well aware that Bartholomew watched and waited, Cenric seated by his side. Each time she glanced his way, he gave her a small smile of encouragement. She felt less alone than she had. She felt a tentative healing begin. She wondered whether she might not be completely responsible for all the woe that had fallen upon the villagers of Haynesdale two years past.

When Father Ignatius finished blessing the graves, she found herself once again putting her hand into Bartholomew's warm grasp. She knew how she wanted to repay him for this gift he had granted to her. She did not doubt that he would soon be on his way, and that she would not see him again once he departed, but there was a memory that Anna particularly wanted to have of this knight.

That it would help her to heal yet more was only an indication that it was the right choice.

She would welcome him abed, surrender to him the pleasure that they had feigned the night before, and perhaps abandon her fear of all men. It was a bold choice, but one more characteristic of the maiden she had been, not that long ago.

And Anna wished to be that intrepid woman once again.

She might well conceive Bartholomew's child, but that would offer only more solace. She would like to have a child to remember him by, a boy with his father's dancing eyes and dark hair, a son with his father's sense of honor.

Aye, that would suit Anna well indeed.

*

Something had changed in Anna.

She seemed softer to Bartholomew, and less wary. Perhaps her telling him of Kendra had removed a barrier between them. He did not care. He welcomed the chance to know her better.

The company was awaiting them, and he could smell the stewed meat. His belly growled as they drew closer to the camp. The fire had already been doused, although Anna strode forward with concern.

"It had been burning before you arrived," said an older man, obviously anticipating Anna's query. "It was in coals and we doused it, but used the rocks from the fire pit to heat the stew from yesterday."

"Smells like venison," Bartholomew noted.

"Naught but the baron's best for us," agreed the man with a grin.

"You will hang if caught," Bartholomew noted, for he could not help himself.

The man shook his head. "We are outcasts already. We have lost our homes, our hearths, many of our kin and neighbors. There is little more that can be taken from us."

"You would not say that if you were in the baron's dungeons," Anna noted.

"I might at that," the man countered. He passed a hand over his brow. "I weary of this life, Anna, though that is not an accusation. I would see it change, one way or the other, rather than endure more years of mere survival." He glanced up at Bartholomew. "Understand me, sir. If I had done more than protest the cruelty of an unjust baron, I would accept my punishment as due. I would rightly be outcast and criminal. But all I did was raise my fist against the imprisonment of the innocent, and in so doing, found myself accused, as well." He shook his head again. "It is a sorry excuse for justice offered by Sir Royce, and were the king not so inclined to live all his days in Normandy, an honest man might petition him for aid. As it is, I would die or see our village restored."

"Indeed," agreed another man, for there were many tending the man's words with interest.

Anna appeared to be taken aback by this, but Bartholomew did not release her hand. "You have done well for yourselves here," he acknowledged, seeing that praise was due. "For there is more comfort in this forest than I would have expected."

"Aye, there is that, thanks to Anna." The company saluted her, but Bartholomew saw that she was still troubled.

"But the true son would find a willing army in his forests, if he deigned to return," said the man and the company cheered as one.

Could Bartholomew so imperil these former villagers with a quest to reclaim his legacy? It was not the place of such men to fight, though he saw that they had the will to do as much. He feared that he found his desire mirrored in their resolve, and that to take them at their word would be unjust, for many would die.

He noted that they were thin, much like the dog, and knew the time in the forest had been hard upon them. Their garb was threadbare and their shoes worn through. They looked older than their years, even the children, and he imagined that the force of their will might not be enough to make strong opponents of them.

The man meanwhile turned to face the company. "Let us dance then, this night, as if it is to be our last. Anna and Percy are returned, and that is a matter to celebrate."

"It would be folly," Anna said. "The baron's men may hear us."

The man was dismissive. "You may rest assured that they are back in the baron's hall, feasting themselves, for they are not men to sacrifice the comfort of a warm bed."

"Or a warm wench!" cried another and the company laughed again.

"A cup of mulled wine," sighed a woman and others nodded.

"A feast at Christmas in the baron's hall," added another.

"It is our right, and one withheld these many years," grumbled another.

"But we may yet dance!" cried the first man and a ripple passed through the company.

There was a wildness about them, a recklessness that Bartholomew saw was born of desperation. He felt sympathy for them and dared to hope that he might be able to change their circumstance. On the morrow, he would try to free Duncan. In less than a fortnight, his fellows would return.

On this night, though, there was naught to be done but take the man's suggestion.

"Then let us dance," he declared and spun Anna around. Someone had a flute and began to play a tune, the others clapping their hands to the beat. They had no ale and only a thin venison stew in their bellies. They would sleep in the forest, on platforms built in the trees, and it might well snow again this night. Many would be cold. But they would take merriment where they could find it and Bartholomew admired their spirit.

He turned Anna before them all, and many whistled at the change in her garb. She flushed a little but he liked the sparkle that lit in her eyes. Then the tune became faster and she picked up her skirts, granting him a glance of pure mischief before she began to dance the jig.

It was a challenge, and one Bartholomew was inclined to take. He gestured to the musician, who played even faster, placed his hands on his hips and danced opposite Anna, daring her to best him at this. The company hooted, bets were undoubtedly laid, hands clapped and feet stamped, but there was only the merry sparkle of Anna's eyes and the flash of her feet for Bartholomew.

Had he ever met a more beguiling woman? He was certain he had not.

*

The sky was filled with stars, when Anna took Bartholomew by the hand. The wind was rising and she knew that clouds would come before morning. She could smell the dampness of snow in the air and felt the pending change in the weather.

They would be safe and warm in the cave, though.

She liked that he did not ask her questions or make demands. He simply let her lead him away from the company. It was that cursed confidence to be sure, and the realization made her smile.

Many had retired, and still others made preparations for the night. They had danced vigorously and would sleep well. Wooden platforms groaned overhead as the villagers rolled themselves in cloaks and blankets and furs, whatever they could find, and huddled together.

But Anna led Bartholomew away. She was warm from their dancing, but her heart raced because of the admiration in Bartholomew's eyes. The dog padded silently behind him, and she liked that he had won the beast's loyalty so quickly. Her mother had always said that dogs were the best judges of men.

That she had reminded them all of this after a hound in the village snarled at Sir Royce had not been appreciated by the baron.

The land became rocky as they approached the cavern where she and Percy often took refuge. She paused in the last cluster of trees to listen and look. There were no footprints outside the cavern's opening, and the snow gleamed in the starlight. She and Bartholomew crossed the river on the stones placed within its course, and she was impressed that the dog managed to do the same.

They ducked into the shelter of the cavern and she was glad it was high enough that Bartholomew did not have to bend. She continued alone to the hiding place at the back, locating the tinder and stolen candle. She lit it, then turned to face him, watching the golden light play over his features.

"Your own refuge?" he asked, looking about himself with curiosity.

"In a way. When Percy and I have stolen from the baron before, we have hidden here."

He arched a brow. "Do you often steal from the baron?"

Anna shook her head. "Not since the new burn. There was a time when there was more traffic upon the road to Haynesdale, and a passing merchant could be relieved of his coin or his provisions without much trouble. When there were fewer of us in the forest, sometimes one would ride to Carlisle on a stolen steed and buy more provisions with that coin." She shook her head. "But two years ago, so many more came to us. At the same time, far fewer travel to Haynesdale."

"You must have thought we offered salvation."

"I thought that fat saddlebag might contain the most food."

Bartholomew's gaze was knowing. "And Percy paused to peek, because he was hungry, and so he was both disappointed by his prize and caught."

Anna nodded.

"Was he caught here?"

Anna shook her head. "Nay. It is undisturbed. His curiosity must have compelled him to look sooner." She smiled. "He is a curious boy."

"He is that." Bartholomew took a step closer to her. She gripped the candle, her valor slipping away now that the prospect of intimacy was upon her. "And so all went awry with our arrival." He paused directly before her, his gaze searching.

"For your company as well," she had to point out.

He smiled a little. "And yet, I cannot regret our arrival at Haynesdale." He reached out with a fingertip and touched her cheek, his light caress sending a shiver through her. "Why did you bring me here, Anna?" he asked quietly.

"Because I would challenge you to make me moan."

Bartholomew's smile flashed in his surprise. "You are a bold maiden," he said, and that admiration filled his tone.

She was no maiden, but when she opened her mouth to tell him as much, the weight of his finger fell upon her lips. His gaze was sober and locked with hers. "I know," he continued with heat. "That you have known unkindness from men."

Anna's heart fluttered.

"And I would vow to you not only that I will not injure you, but that you can halt me with a single word, at any time."

Her mouth went dry. She felt warm and flustered, yet knew that her choice was utterly right. She claimed his hand and lifted his finger away from her lips, pausing to kiss it. "I know," she whispered. "You defy my every expectation of French knights, and that is why I have brought you here." She licked her lips. "Bartholomew," she added, hearing a reverence in her own tone.

He smiled and stepped closer, framing her face in his hands. He bent, studying her for a long moment, then captured her lips beneath his own. His was a sweet hot kiss, filled with passion, yet requesting her participation, not demanding it.

That he asked, even after her invitation, was all the evidence Anna needed that she had chosen aright. She dared to put her arms around his neck to draw him closer and rose to her toes, surrendering completely to his touch.

*

Bartholomew knew he had to take matters slowly. Though Anna gave every appearance of being her usual fearless self, he could feel the tremor within her. It betrayed the uncertainty she would clearly prefer to hide. He moved slowly, ensuring that her pleasure was served first.

She seemed to know that he was determined to see her pleased, and that appeared to feed her confidence. Her kiss became bolder the longer they embraced. He opened his mouth to her and she mimicked him, her tongue daring to tangle with his own. She pressed against him in silent demand, wanting more of what he gave, and Bartholomew caught her close.

She was intoxicating, her passion and fire heating him to his marrow. He wanted her as he had never wanted a woman before. His fingers were untying the laces of her kirtle before he realized what he was doing, then he halted and stepped back. Her cheeks were flushed and her lips reddened from his kiss, but her eyes widened in uncertainty. "What is amiss?"

He surveyed them both and grimaced. "Too much garb."

She laughed in surprise, then blushed. "You might fix that."

"Nay, I would have you do it." He lifted his hands and smiled at her, hoping to reassure her that she was in control of their union.

Her cheeks burned brighter, but as he had anticipated, she did not delay in taking his dare. She unbuckled his belt and set it aside with care, her respect for his weapons nigh as great as his own. "I still cannot believe you carry a fragment of the true cross," she whispered, her fingertips sliding over the pommel of his sword. "Your friend must be affluent."

"He is generous, to be sure."

"You have known him long?"

"Most of my life. He took me into his care when I was younger than Percy, and taught me all I know of life."

"A strange choice of companion for a knight," she mused.

Bartholomew found himself grinning. "He oft said he would have preferred to have left me behind, but I would not allow it."

She smiled up at him. "Aye, I can imagine you to be so stubborn as that."

"At least we have a trait in common."

Her smile turned knowing, then she tugged his tabard over his head. She folded it with care and laid it beside his belt. She wrinkled her nose as she surveyed his hauberk.

"Over my head," he said. "I will bend over and you must ease it to the ground. Do not attempt to catch it. Just get it off my back."

Anna nodded and he bent as he had said. As was oft the case, the hauberk caught on his padded aketon. Anna tugged it free and it fell to the ground with a clatter of steel. Bartholomew rolled his shoulders once he was relieved of its weight.

Anna, of course, tried to lift it. She swore softly but with vigor. "All day, you bear this burden?"

"It is better than a blade between the ribs." Bartholomew scooped up the hauberk, putting it alongside his belt.

Anna was frowning when he turned. "You said you came from Outremer."

"Aye. My friend was sworn to the Templars, and he was dispatched to serve in Jerusalem. I went with him as his squire, almost fifteen years ago." He turned his back on Anna that she might unlace his aketon. He felt her fingers tugging on the lace.

"But he left the order?"

"His older brother died, and he became heir to his family holding in France. It was a surprise to him, to be sure."

"Did he take a wife?"

"Aye, for he desired an heir with all haste. To be sure, he knew little of women after his years in the service of the order."

"One might not lead to the other for many men."

"True, but it did for Gaston. He is a knight of much honor and merit."

"You admire him." He heard the smile in her voice.

"How could I not? He was all I knew a knight should be, and as soon as he had the right to do so, he dubbed me a knight."

"Granting you rich gifts."

He turned and helped to tug the aketon forward.

Her gaze was assessing. "He must have thought well of you."

"I hope so."

Anna arched a brow.

"You are right," Bartholomew acknowledged with a smile. "I know so."

"Yet there was no place for you in his new household?"

"Why do you ask as much?"

"Because you are here and he is not. Further, this is not France." She propped her hands on her hips to regard him as he removed the aketon and set it aside. "Or did you lose his favor?" She shook her head. "I cannot believe it. A man such as you and a man such as he would find no points of disagreement. It would be honor and integrity on all sides."

Bartholomew smiled at this assessment of his nature and that of Gaston, not just its accuracy but that Anna thought well of him.

She snapped her fingers and turned upon him. "Fergus said aught of this," she said, evidently just recalling as much. "That there was little point in his offering you a post as you had declined Gaston's offer."

Bartholomew felt the back of his neck heat, for he neither wished to confess his secret nor deceive her. "I declined the post Gaston offered to me," he admitted.

"Why?"

"Because I would seek my own fortune. It is possible for one man to be too beholden to another." He lifted the circlet from Anna's hair, then removed her veil and wimple. It was simple to find the pins that bound her braid in place and when he had removed them, the plait fell to hang down her back.

"I suppose," she ceded as he unbound her hair and pushed his fingers through its thickness. "But where do you expect to find your fortune?" She glanced over her shoulder. "In Scotland, among the kin of Fergus? Or maybe you seek an heiress?"

"Why are you so curious?" he demanded in a teasing tone, wanting to deflect her interest.

"Because they said you had chosen this road through Haynesdale. I cannot imagine why. There is not an heiress to be found within a week's ride of here."

Bartholomew shrugged, aware that she watched him closely. "It looked more fair than the alternative, no more than that." He beckoned to her, his manner playful. "Now you are the one overdressed."

She smiled and lifted her hands, giving him access to her belt and the laces on her kirtle. Once they were unfastened, he slid one hand beneath the crimson wool, holding her gaze as his hand slid up to cup her breast. She stared at him, then licked her lips.

He bent and kissed her lightly, then teased her nipple with her finger and thumb. She could step away if she so desired, for he had one hand on her breast and one on the back of her waist, but Anna held her ground. She gasped as he tugged the cloth over her head, bending to kiss her nipple through the cloth of her chemise. She arched her back and shivered, then he caught her close and flicked his tongue across the turgid peak.

"Your boots," she whispered and he halted to look down at her with a grin.

"Truly? You were thinking of my boots ?"

Anna laughed, her eyes sparkling in a most alluring way. He took their cloaks and made a nest on the floor of the cavern, noting that Cenric had taken position as sentry at the opening. He tugged off his own boots and unlaced his chausses, then removed his braies. He turned to Anna clad only in his chemise, and pointed. "Your shoes and stockings."

To his delight, Anna sat on the pile of cloaks and leaned back on her elbows. She lifted one foot toward him. "I think you should aid me, sir."

Bartholomew knelt before her and unlaced her shoe. He eased one hand under her chemise, trailing it up her leg. Her eyes widened and she inhaled sharply, but she did not pull away. He eased aside the chemise, baring her calf to view, and inclined his head to unfasten her garter with his teeth. She giggled and squirmed.

"Your breath tickles!" she protested.

He touched his tongue to the tender skin behind her knee and she wriggled anew. It took some time for him to see both garters untied and both stockings removed, and by then, Anna was flushed.

He stretched out alongside her, his hand upon her breast and kissed her with leisure. She rose to his touch and her nipple tightened beneath his fingers. He kissed her ear, her neck, the hollow of her throat, then closed his mouth over the sweet bud of her nipple. He kissed it and teased it, coaxing it to a tighter bead, then grazed the tender flesh with his teeth. When Anna was writhing beside him, he leisurely turned his attention to the other breast. He could feel the heat emanating from her and smell her arousal, but he wanted to be certain she was fully pleased.

His hand was beneath her chemise, moving from her knee up the smooth flesh of her thighs. She arched her back and opened her mouth, offering an invitation he could not refuse. He kissed her, even as his fingers slid into her slick heat. He swallowed her first gasp of surprise, then her quiver of delight. His fingers moved against her, conjuring more desire and he smiled into their kiss when she clutched his shoulders.

"Bartholomew!" she whispered and he grinned at her.

"You granted me a dare," he reminded her.

"But surely this is sufficient."

"Surely we have only begun." He caressed her with the end of his thumb, loving how she gasped in pleasure, and knew what he had to do. "Before I make you moan," he whispered. "I think we should explore the treacherous tickle that so surprised you."

"I but concocted a tale," she argued, clearly not understanding his intent.

"And I would show you the truth," Bartholomew vowed. He winked at her, savored her confusion, then tugged back her chemise. He slid between her thighs and granted her a more intimate kiss.

The way she gasped in astonishment was most satisfying, but Bartholomew would strive for more success than that.

The lady, after all, had yet to moan.

*

Who would have guessed that a person could die of pleasure?

Anna certainly had never imagined as much, but Bartholomew's kisses—his tongue, his teeth, his caresses—made her both burn and tingle. She was aroused and desperate for some satisfaction she could not name.

He tormented her without cease—nay, he did cease, each time she thought she drew nearer to some culmination. He teased her and she knew it, but she could scarce complain. It was incredible to have such a man conjure her pleasure with such diligence, putting himself in her service, so to speak. Anna thought it could not be right, but then, she could find naught amiss with what he did.

She found herself lying back in the furs and savoring the sensations he awakened.

It was a curious balance, for while he paid homage to her with his touch, she felt that she was in his thrall. She had no notion of how to reciprocate, and he gave her no opportunity to do as much. His amorous attention was relentless.

And more than welcome.

Still, Anna fought the urge to satisfy him with that moan. She feared that when she did moan, he would halt, and she did not wish for that. She called herself selfish, then reasoned it was all part of his scheme. She could not have named how many times he ushered her to some nameless summit, then tugged her back.

She was panting and flushed from head to toe when he fed her desire to a crescendo again. She knew she could not hold out much longer, but she tried. Anna bit her lip as her heart pounded. She gripped his shoulders as the quiver began deep inside her, and she locked her thighs around his head. Bartholomew gave her no quarter, his touch feeding her need steadily, his wicked tongue making her want to roar. His hands gripped her buttocks, ensuring she could not escape the sweet torment he inflicted upon her.

She finally surrendered and moaned, feeling that the sound came from the very core of her being. It also lasted far longer than she could have expected. Bartholomew chuckled then touched his teeth to her, the sensation making her cry out as the tumult passed through her like a great wave.

Anna found herself in Bartholomew's protective embrace when the tremors passed and she opened her eyes to find his own eyes twinkling in close proximity. "So, it is a treacherous tickle that will make this lady moan," he teased. "That is worth the knowing."

"I am no lady."

He caught her chin in his hand and turned her to his solemn gaze. "This night, you are my lady," he murmured with heat and kissed her with such thoroughness that she was left breathless. She felt his erection against her hip and knew his pleasure had to be won, as well.

She might have rolled to her back and spread her thighs, bracing herself for the deed, but Bartholomew locked an arm around her waist and rolled to his own back so that she sprawled atop him. He pulled up the hem of his chemise and placed his hands on her waist. "I am yours to command," he whispered, his voice husky.

There was a lump in Anna's throat that he so understood her fears. She rose to her knees and straddled him, her concern rising anew. His hands moved to cup her buttocks and he lifted her into place, so that she could feel his heat against her.

"As slowly as you like," he murmured and Anna eased lower. She watched him inhale sharply as he was drawn within her and savored how he closed his eyes.

Did it give that much pleasure to him? There was a satisfaction for her, as well, particularly as she watched him being as tormented as she had been.

She moved steadily and slowly until he was completely within her and felt his hands flex. He whispered her name, and she felt powerful to have such a man as this in thrall to her. She moved, savoring his reactions. He was shaking beneath her, struggling to maintain control, and as soon as Anna realized as much, she knew she had to test him further.

"Perhaps I should try to make you moan," she whispered.

His smile flashed. "Temptress," he accused and Anna was emboldened.

She teased him then, moving slowly and then quickly, setting a rhythm then breaking it. His eyes opened and she liked how they glittered, how he studied her as if she were a marvel, as if she were his lady, as if they were the only two souls in all the world.

He smiled at her and she cast off her chemise and shook out her hair. She displayed herself to him, liking that his admiration was so clear, proud of her femininity as she never had been. She rode him hard, drawing him deeper with each thrust, and was surprised to find her own desire rising anew.

She knew from his sudden smile that he had more torment in store for her. She gasped when his fingertip slid between them and touched her in that most tender spot. He grinned at her gasp of delight, teasing her with that fingertip even as she rode him harder and faster.

Anna braced her hands on Bartholomew's chest, her hair spilling all around them, and smiled down at him. She saw the fire in his gaze, felt the spark within herself and moaned in truth when they found exultation together.

She tumbled into his arms then and he flicked the fur-lined cloak over them, his arms locking around her even as he kissed her temple. His fingers were in her hair, and she was both safe and warm, snared in the embrace of the finest man she had ever known.

What a gift he had given her this night, in teaching her not only to moan but to find pleasure in such intimacy.

To her own astonishment, Anna fell asleep, nude and atop Bartholomew.

Truly, in all of Christendom, there was no better place to be.