Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Cenric . The dog had his father's middle name.

It could not be an accident.

And the dog itself was the image of the hound Bartholomew had known as a toddler. Hours before, he could not have described the beast for he recalled only its loyalty, but one glimpse of this dog, and he knew it to be his Whitefoot's twin.

Perhaps his descendant.

He had to take the dog with him on the morrow.

Along with Percy and the reliquary. There would be cause for celebration if their party managed all three, that was for certain. He knew more of the keep's defenses, which was good, though he still had need of a plan.

Leila's suggestion had been a most sensible one. He hoped that taking Anna to her prayers on this night would give him the opportunity to discover the location of the reliquary, which might provide a better idea of how to retrieve it. He spoke to a servant of their scheme, and that man ran for the priest. He took Anna to the chapel, and they found the heavy wooden portal locked securely.

"Too many keys," he said under his breath.

"She will have them," Anna replied, flicking him a hot glance. "You might put her interest to good use."

"I already have learned the layout of the keep from her, sweet wife," he murmured, then bent to kiss her forehead. "She wishes for more, but I fear you will exhaust me with your passion this night."

Anna stiffened as if dismayed by this prospect, but Bartholomew had no opportunity to reassure her. Again, he sensed that she had known abuse by a man and would have reaffirmed his own intent, but he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. He had to content himself with squeezing her hand, then turning to greet the priest.

*

Anna was disconcerted by Bartholomew's words, and might have argued his assertion, but they were no longer alone. When Bartholomew released her from his embrace, he turned a smile upon the approaching priest.

Anna caught her breath. It was Father Ignatius.

From the village.

Of course, it was. There was no other priest closer than York.

Anna's heart leapt for her throat, then plummeted. Father Ignatius had been priest in the village all of her life. He had baptized Percy and buried her parents. He likely had wedded them and baptized her. There was no soul more likely to recognize her than Father Ignatius.

And no soul with less capacity for deception.

Anna bowed her head, her heart hammering. Surely he would not reveal her? Anna averted her face, that her veil might conceal her features, even as her panic rose. Was it too much to hope that the change in her garb would keep the priest from looking too closely?

Anna feared that it was.

"I do apologize for so troubling you, Father," Bartholomew said smoothly as the priest sorted through his keys. Father Ignatius carried a ring with five keys of various sizes. What would they open? Anna could account for two. The chapel here in the keep and the village chapel. What of the others? There was no gate on the cemetery and Father Ignatius did not lock the portal to his own home, as a matter of principle. He might have a key to some entrance to the keep.

Did she dare to hope that one key might be for the dungeon?

As her thoughts flew, Bartholomew continued to charm the priest with the false tale of Anna's background, and her enthusiasm for prayer. "Morning, noon and night," he confided in the priest. "She prays most frequently."

"I am not one to find fault with that," Father Ignatius said with his usual amiability.

"Again, I am sorry to trouble you so late," Bartholomew said.

"It is no trouble to administer to the faithful, my son. It is my calling." The priest unlocked the portal, revealing a chapel of simple elegance. It had high windows, though at this hour, no light came through them. The priest strode forward to light beeswax candles. There was clean linen on the altar, but naught else.

Not a relic to be seen.

There must have once been one, to see the chapel blessed. Had it been lost? Stolen? Sold? Or was it hidden here? Perhaps beneath the floor.

There was no other door and the windows were too high to be reached easily from outside. They were also small, undoubtedly due to the cost of the glass.

"Come, come, my child," Father Ignatius encouraged. "God's house is always open."

Anna dropped to her knees before the altar and folded her hands. She did say her prayers, asking first for their safe escape from the hall and the retrieval of Percy, for the future welfare of all of them, and the restoration of the knights' prize. She was distracted by the possibility of their carrying an item of such value. How would it be retrieved from a locked chapel, even if they could find it?

Was it not wrong to steal from a chapel? She had to think it would be.

She had to think it would be worse yet to deceive Father Ignatius, a man who had only been kind to her.

Bartholomew was on his knees at her right, making every sign of praying himself. Perhaps he was. Father Ignatius knelt on Bartholomew's right, saying his own prayers. After this had continued long enough for Anna to repeat her prayers three times, Bartholomew nudged her with his foot.

She thought it an accident, but he did it again. Harder.

She was supposed to do something.

Ask for saintly intercession, she supposed.

Bartholomew stood, genuflected and thanked Father Ignatius again. "I leave you to your prayers, my lady," he said with a bow, then retreated, leaving her alone with Father Ignatius. Anna heard the doors close behind her, and knew that she was supposed to ask after a reliquary, if not find it.

Without knowing what it was.

Without revealing that she fully expected it to be in this chapel.

And she was to trick a man who had only been good to her. A priest !

Curse Bartholomew again!

*

Anna took a deep breath. "Father," she said, speaking in a high voice that Father Ignatius might be less likely to recognize. "I would ask for your aid."

"Indeed, my child."

"I fear to disappoint my husband."

"Why would you fear such a situation, my child? He seems most amiable."

"But I grew up in the company of nuns, Father, and know little of a man's needs and desires."

"I am certain that your noble husband will make his expectations clear. You have only to cede to his requests."

Anna had the urge to grind her teeth. Father Ignatius was also one of the most tolerant and understanding people she knew. Now that she considered the matter, he always counseled patience. She let her voice rise a little higher. "But I know little of administering a secular household, Father. What if I err?"

"But I am certain the nuns taught you of such duties. Did you have no tasks while in their foundation? I know that the sisters of Saint Mary cleave to the rule expecting each to contribute to the welfare of all."

"I helped in the tending of the gardens, Father," Anna lied, halfway expecting that some higher authority might smite her for lying to a priest in a chapel.

There was no bolt of lightning.

"And doubtless your husband's holding will have gardens, too," Father Ignatius continued in a soothing tone. "You will find solace and familiarity there."

"But, Father, I am so fearful. I have no one, neither kith nor kin, other than my lord husband. If he turns me aside, what shall I do? Where shall I go?" She tried to sound even more agitated. "What if I anger him, without knowing what I have done? What if I fail to conceive his child? What if I bear him only daughters? Father! I am so afraid!"

The priest laid his warm hand over hers and Anna ensured that her fingers shook. "You have led a sheltered life thus far, my child. It is only reasonable that you should feel trepidation on this change in your circumstances." He paused for a moment before continuing. "Is your husband cruel to you?"

"Nay, Father. He has been only kind." Anna could not lie about that. She let her voice tremble. "But still, that could change if I err."

Father Ignatius gave her fingers a little squeeze. "Let us pray together, my child," he said with his usual calm confidence.

"I wish I could ask for the aid of a saint," Anna whispered, hoping she sounded desperate. "The sisters would have let me kiss the finger bone of Saint Mary. Even the prospect of her intercession always soothed my fears." She shook her head and bent more deeply over her hands, pretending to weep. She could feel the priest watching her.

Anna had time to think that her efforts had been for naught when he abruptly stood up.

One key on his ring proved to open a door set into the wall to the right of the altar. Anna had not even discerned it, for it was so well crafted that it was nigh invisible. She could not see its contents when Father Ignatius opened the door, for his figure blocked her view, but when he turned, she saw something gold in his hands.

It was not small.

It was studded with gems and gleamed in the candlelight.

She ducked her head to hide her astonishment. Was this what Bartholomew's party had carried? Where had they gotten it?

Was this what Percy had stolen? No wonder it was missed!

"Do you know the legend of Saint Euphemia?" Father Ignatius asked.

Anna shook her head for she did not have to lie. "Nay, Father."

She peeked to see that he regarded the reliquary with some wonder of his own. "She was a virgin sworn to purity in her love of Christ. At her father's command, she was tested and tortured, but she refused to worship false gods as he so desired. She died a martyr, but her relics have done wonders. She defends the righteousness of good choices."

Anna stole a look through her veil as Father Ignatius paused before her.

"This treasure is lately come to us, by some divine design, but perhaps you are the reason why."

She feared then that he had guessed the truth. "I do not understand, Father," she said in that high voice.

"That you might ask for her aid, of course. That the saint might give you confidence in your choice of husband. But a day ago, I could not have offered you this solace, my child." He held the reliquary before Anna. "Perhaps Saint Euphemia will give you strength."

"I thank you, Father," Anna whispered. She leaned closer, her eyes downcast, her gaze flying over the marvel before her. She had never seen an item so richly adorned or so precious. It must contain the saint's head, for it was of the right size.

It was also the right size to account for the bulk of the stolen saddlebag.

How had Bartholomew's party come to carry this prize? Surely they had not stolen it?

Anna watched her breath fog the surface of the gold, knowing she had never seen any thing so fine as this. She bent and touched her lips to one large amethyst. She could smell the scent of roses, which was said to emanate from holy relics, and felt awe to be in the presence of Saint Euphemia herself. Anna prayed in truth then, that Bartholomew and his companions were not thieves, that they might succeed in freeing Percy, that they might all escape unscathed.

Father Ignatius leaned closer.

"Lady Anna, are you certain you have confided all of your concerns?" he asked softly. "You seem most troubled and I would be of assistance."

"I am much recovered, Father. Thank you."

And Anna made the mistake of looking up.

She met Father Ignatius' gaze and saw that he had recognized her. He frowned and her mouth went dry.

"Anna?" he asked, clearly astonished.

"Father Ignatius," she managed to say, an entreaty in her tone. She felt her cheeks heat as she flushed in guilt.

Before she could defend herself or request his support, the door creaked at the other end of the chapel. Father Ignatius straightened, and the door was flung wide just before Royce's voice filled the chapel.

"What is this?" the baron demanded. "I told you to keep that secured!"

Anna heard his footsteps as he strode toward her and she closed her eyes, praying for salvation in truth.

*

It was here.

Bartholomew followed Royce into the chapel, relief flooding through him at the sight of the reliquary. His first reaction was profound relief that the reliquary had been located.

His second was the realization that something had gone awry. The priest was staring at Anna, as if he had seen a ghost. Anna was utterly motionless, apparently frozen in place.

There was only one possible explanation: the priest had recognized her.

The priest took a cautious step backward, his gaze still fixed upon Anna, and opened his mouth.

Bartholomew had to do something to keep him from uttering the truth.

"Zounds!" he cried heartily. "What a prize you have hidden in this place!" Royce turned to look at him. Bartholomew cast up his hands and kept talking. "What a marvel! Sir Royce, you are indeed blessed to have the custody of such a treasure. No wonder your estate prospers as it does!" He laughed heartily. "We should all have the blessings of the saints upon our worldly deeds." He marched forward and dropped to his knees before the priest, narrowing his eyes as if he read the inscription. "Saint Eu…."

"Euphemia," the priest said. "It contains a relic of Saint Euphemia." He cleared his throat, his gaze sliding to Anna again. Her eyes were wide and she shook her head minutely. The priest frowned.

The sooner that man was left alone, the better.

Bartholomew kissed the reliquary, stood, then genuflected, his hand locking around Anna's elbow. "Come, my dear wife, you have had a long day and are in dire need of your sleep. Your morning prayers will come soon enough."

He gave the priest a hard look and to his relief that man seemed to have composed himself.

"Sir Royce, surely your lady wife awaits you?" Bartholomew continued in the same jovial manner. To keep Royce from speaking to the priest, he seized the baron's elbow and urged him from the chapel. He set a brisk pace, compelling both Anna and their host to make haste across the bailey.

And away from both priest and chapel.

"What a day this has been!" he enthused. "We shall sleep well this night, my lady, thanks to our gracious host. Sir Royce, I must thank you for your hospitality. Never have I seen such a marvel as this keep, or that sacred treasure you hold in trust. You should send word to the king that he might come and worship in your chapel, for surely he would be glad to cast his eyes upon such a prize."

"Perhaps…" Royce began but Bartholomew interrupted him.

"Of course, you might be concerned that such a marvel would tempt him, and so it might tempt many a man. I would be so bold as to suggest that you invite the archbishop as well as the king, along with all their retinues, that they might each ensure the other's good conduct. You might host quite the festivity at Haynesdale." He gave a laugh as if anticipating that event with joy. "Indeed, my dear wife, we might have to return to Haynesdale for it. You have not yet seen me joust and I do not doubt that the king would appreciate such entertainment."

"I do not think," Royce managed to utter at the base of the stairs.

"Oh, the revenue," Bartholomew mused, interrupting the baron. "One thinks often of the cost of hosting such a venture, but one must expend coin to earn it."

"Truly?" Anna prompted.

He beamed at her. "I have never told you, my lady, of the coin that flows into the coffers of those barons who host tournaments. It is true that the events come with expenses, for there must be feasting and there must be wine, and there must be ransoms paid, but the bounty that is earned in taxes and wagers. I knew a lord who hosted a tournament, invited all the best knights, then put a high toll on all roads leading to his gates from his borders." Bartholomew laughed. "He told me he had earned tenfold the cost of the event before it even began! Can you imagine? Tenfold!" He paused before the portal to their chamber and wagged a finger at the very interested baron. "And his repute!" Bartholomew gave a low whistle. "The bards sang of him. The ladies yearned for him. The knights honored him. The king favored him. Truly, there was naught he could do wrong. 'Twas clever beyond all." He leaned closer to Royce, his manner confidential. "When I have a holding, you may be certain that I will host such a tournament, for I know it would be a sound venture."

Royce frowned in consideration of this. "My wife might enjoy it," he allowed.

"Indeed, she might." Bartholomew smiled down at Anna. "And now, my lady wife, your duties are done by God but not by husband." He winked lewdly at her. "To bed! Good night to you, Sir Royce." He swept Anna into the chamber, only to be greeted by Cenric. He leaned back against the door for a moment and dared to meet Anna's gaze.

She smiled at him, a twinkle in her eyes. "I have never known you to be so fulsome, my lord," she whispered, then reached up to touch her lips to his cheek. The press of their softness against his skin sent a surge of heat through him and made his heart pound.

"Well done," she whispered, her eyes glowing. "Thank you."

Before Bartholomew could savor her rare approval, Anna pivoted and walked toward Leila. "Dare I hope the water is yet warm? It was always cold when I lived with the sisters, but truly, husband, I grow spoiled in your company." She sat on a stool and unfastened her stockings, as if he were not watching her with such interest.

But then Anna lifted the hem of her kirtle and granted him a fine if fleeting glimpse of her legs. It must have been unwitting, for her gaze flew to his in sudden dismay. Their gazes met and held, and a bewitching flush rose over her cheeks. She untied the garter and removed the stocking with haste, then smoothed down her kirtle to hide her legs again. She turned her back upon him so abruptly that he wondered whether her fears of men—of knights—were restored.

The bed was curtained. They could draw the drapes and make a great deal of noise, as if vigorously making love. It was the sole way to keep from offending Lady Marie, Bartholomew reasoned, for then he could argue that his wife had exhausted him.

The trick would lie in convincing Anna to cooperate. It would have been untrue to say that he had no desire to lie with her, because he did, but he knew what was right and what was not. He could not touch Anna in that way. He had given his word.

But that did not mean that Marie had to know the truth.

Were they being watched even now?

Had Royce gone to his wife or retired alone?

There was a rap at the door, and he found Timothy on the threshold. The squire bowed and entered the chamber, for he had come to help Bartholomew disrobe. All set to the business of making ready for bed, although Bartholomew's thoughts were spinning.

There would be little slumber this night and a hard race on the morrow to escape.

And what then? If they succeeded, would he ever see Anna again? Or would their paths part forever? If naught else, he wanted to leave her with one good memory of a knight.

And he had this night together to grant it to her.

*

Father Ignatius had learned long ago to keep his counsel when he was uncertain of his situation. Prudence was a necessary trait for any who would survive in this holding when it was under Sir Royce's command.

Indeed, Father Ignatius' nature was such that he could weigh the merit of two competing possibilities for months on end, if not years. He preferred to make as few decisions as possible, and ignored the conviction that doing naught was a choice in itself.

Truly, the only thing Father Ignatius had ever known without doubt was that he should take holy orders.

He had, for example, been troubled for years by the departure of so many from the village of Haynesdale. That they were compelled to take to the forest and live like outlaws, when few of them had committed any crimes worthy of such a punishment, would have been of sufficient concern. That he, by remaining in the village, was losing the flock he had been charged to tend was even more troubling. There were days when he thought he should follow the survivors into the woods, seek them out, and ensure that they were provided with the services of his office. He knew there had to be some of them out there, even after the great fire.

Father Ignatius knew however that if he did as much, he would be in violation of the baron's express orders to forget their existence. There would be no return to his home and hearth, even if he went once. This might have been one thing, but he in his role as village priest was responsible for the tithes being submitted on time from Haynesdale. He feared that Sir Royce would simply add the tithes to his own treasury, for that man had offered several times to do as much.

Caught between the tending of his flock and the defense of tithes owing to the church, Father Ignatius was not certain what to do. He believed that the ultimate administrator would value souls over tithes, but he was far less certain of the bishop's preference. So, he lingered, and he debated, and he did not choose.

And now, here was Anna, the smith's daughter, in Sir Royce's private chapel, dressed as a noblewoman and apparently wed to a French knight. He would have given the young woman the benefit of the doubt, for she was pretty and he had not had tidings of her for two years—indeed, he had feared her dead, as had many others—but Sir Royce's comments revealed that he believed her to be Anna de Beaumonte.

She was no more Anna de Beaumonte than he was the Archbishop of Canterbury.

Father Ignatius said nothing, because he did not know what to do. He had wondered whether the arrival of these knights had any connection to the sudden appearance of this remarkable relic in Sir Royce's collection. Both the knights and the reliquary seemed exotic, too exotic for Haynesdale. He had shown it to the lady because he had thought she might know something of it.

She had seemed to be hinting.

But he had been so surprised to recognize Anna that he had failed to notice much else. In mere moments, he had been left alone with the reliquary to lock it away, while the knight and Sir Royce left with Anna.

How had Anna conspired to arrive as the knight's wife?

And why?

"While you are here, you might as well give last rites to the prisoner in the dungeon," the Captain of the Guard said to him when he would have returned to his modest home.

"I did not know there was a prisoner in the dungeon," Father Ignatius said with a mildness he did not feel.

"Well, there is, and he dies tomorrow," Gaultier snapped.

Father Ignatius fought against the horror that rose within him, even as he inclined his head.

That another prisoner should be executed was deeply wrong, for there had been no court, but it was also a warning of the price of dissent.

Father Ignatius believed he could make more difference in Haynesville alive. "Then I shall be glad to visit him," he said, bowed and made for the dungeon.

So it was the Father Ignatius finally found himself making a decision. For him, it was remarkably impulsive. But when he unlocked the dungeon and found young Percy alone in tears in the darkness of that dank cell, his resolution was made.

This was the fearsome villain who was condemned to die?

Percy was but a boy, and a frightened boy at that. Father Ignatius then understood Anna's appearance in the keep, if not her disguise. He knew her to be fiercely protective of her younger brother. Was the knight she accompanied in league with her? Why would he aid her?

"Father Ignatius!" Percy cried in amazement, his face streaked with tears. "Can you help me?" He must have been terrified to be confined here in darkness, with only rats for company.

Rare anger rose inside the priest, an outrage that was only awakened when the strong abused those weaker than themselves.

The priest crouched down beside the boy, who seized his robe. Father Ignatius dropped his voice to a whisper. "Of course, I can help, Percy," he said with newfound resolve. "But first, tell me how you came to be in this place."

*

Exhaust him with her passion.

Anna could not push Bartholomew's suggestion from her thoughts. He had pledged to keep their bed chaste this night. Had he changed his intent? That kiss might have been a hint of what was to come. Leila had said he was honorable. Was it true? He had caressed her in the hall. Had that been a feint or a hint of what she could expect this night? It was her nature to simply ask for the answers she desired, but her awareness that they might be watched—and overheard—precluded that.

Anna wished she knew him better.

She wished she had some experience of expecting good from knights, instead of the pursuit of their own interests.

Her hands were shaking when she folded away the fine stockings, and she knew she took too much time with disrobing and washing. She thought it likely a lady might linger over the task and did not wish to reveal her truth. She also wanted to delay the inevitable as long as possible.

She did not dare to look at Bartholomew as his squire aided him in removing his mail and garb, though there was little reason for shyness. She had seen him nude in the river that very morning, but the chamber was more intimate. She felt herself in greater peril where there were fewer witnesses, and fewer to respond to a cry.

Not that she had gained much aid when she had cried out on that fateful night. Anna shuddered in recollection and realized Leila was watching her closely. The other woman pressed her hand briefly, as if to encourage her. Anna took a deep breath and smiled for her. She wished she was not so easily read, but it was her burden.

Bartholomew meanwhile had been divested of his hauberk. She was keenly aware that he was shedding his boots and chausses. It was hard to believe she had met him less than a day before, but Anna reminded herself of it repeatedly.

She knew so little of his nature.

He was kindly to the boy and thanked him, then drew the curtains on the bed on the side of the common wall. Did he mean for them to have privacy? Or that none could see his deeds? Anna wished she knew! He placed a lantern on the far side of the bed. The dog returned to sleep by the brazier, which now burned low, and Leila dragged a pallet alongside it. Anna's hair had been combed out and she wore only her chemise. The chamber was cold but she stood there, hesitating to join Bartholomew in that great bed. Though she yearned to seize her cloak and curl up on a pallet alongside Leila, she knew that any observer would find the choice curious.

She lifted her own crossbow from the neat array of Bartholomew's belongings and rounded the bed on silent feet. Both Leila and Cenric watched her.

Was Bartholomew nude in the bed? Was he asleep already? Her mouth went dry.

"Husband," she said softly. "Do you not always sleep with your weapons nearby?"

"I have both sword and knife, my lady," he said. When Anna took another step, she could discern him in the shadows of the bed. He was sitting, his back braced against the wall behind the head of it, his eyes glowing as he watched her. The sword was on the floor, in its scabbard. The knife, she could not discern. "But if you would prefer I have the crossbow as well, then I will keep it to hand. Did you bring the bolts?"

She had and offered them to him, keeping one herself. He was watching her and she could not guess why he smiled when he saw what she did. The weight of the bolt was reassuring in her hand, cold and solid. She could stab with it, if necessary.

Bartholomew had to know as much, but he appeared to be untroubled. His chemise was open and he had shed his boots. His chemise covered him to his thighs, which she found encouraging, and she could see the tanned flesh of his chest. His sleeves were rolled up, and he smiled at her, as if knowing her trepidation. The light from the lantern painted him in shades of gold. She had never seen a more alluring man, noble or common.

"You must be cold, wife," he said. "Come and let me warm you."

A part of Anna longed to do just that.

The greater part of her was more sensible. She would not begin what she could not halt. She would not give encouragement to any urges. She eased into the bed, ensuring that she was at the foot of it. She placed the crossbow on the mattress between them. It was not loaded, but still she thought its presence would make her feelings clear.

Indeed, Bartholomew smiled. He lifted the bedclothes and patted the mattress beside himself. "Come and be warm," he invited again. When he leaned forward, Anna saw his shadow on the closed curtains on the far side of the bed.

Would the silhouette be visible to anyone watching from the other room?

He beckoned to her, the motion of his finger clearly displayed on the drapery. Anna crawled toward the empty spot beside him and saw how it appeared that she moved into his embrace. He rolled over, as if pinning her beneath him, though in truth they were alongside each other and not touching at all. "Oh, my lady," he murmured, then kissed the pillow and moaned in pleasure. He embraced the pillow in apparent rapture.

Anna had to bite back a giggle. He did mean to trick Lady Marie!

And he did not touch her, just as he had pledged. Relief flooded through her.

He winked at her and moaned again. "My lady, how I have longed for you this day!"

"My lord!" she replied in kind, his game restoring her confidence. "Cease your chatter and kiss me!"

Bartholomew dropped his face to the pillow to smother his chuckles. Again, he embraced it with ardor. Anna clapped a hand over her mouth and had to avert her gaze from his dancing eyes when he braced himself on his hands. The shadow made it appear that he was looking down at her.

"Have you lost your passion for me, my lady?" he asked as if perplexed. "Methinks you are uncommonly shy this night. Do you yearn for another?"

"Nay, my lord. Never!"

"Then what is amiss, wife of mine?" he growled. "Tell me what I can do to feed your pleasure."

Anna shivered at the intent in his tone. "I prefer such deeds be done in darkness, sir," she dared to say.

"The sisters cannot see you now."

"But I, sir, fear to look upon nudity."

"Your every wish is my command," Bartholomew replied, then leaned out of the bed. He licked his fingers and pinched the wick on the lantern. The flame hissed as it was extinguished, then they were plunged into darkness.

Anna had a moment to fear that she had erred, then Bartholomew groaned anew. She could not feel him or even his heat, and knew there was distance between them.

"Oh!" he cried. "Oh!" He began to move so that the mattress rocked, and Anna blushed in the darkness at the familiarity of the rhythm he set.

She had heard that sound many a time, to be sure.

But it was an illusion, and she should do her part to help.

"Oh!" Anna gasped, ensuring her cries were in time. She had heard her mother cry out thus and tried to mimic the memory. "Oh, oh, oh !" The ploy felt ridiculous to her and she feared she did it badly.

But Bartholomew seemed to understand. He seized her hand, the warmth of his fingers closing over hers. "Slower then faster again," he whispered, his voice close to her ear. "'Twould not be mortal to endure long at this rate." Then he raised his voice to a roar. "My lady, you will ensure my demise this night! Oh, oh, OH!"

Anna giggled. She could not help it. The notion that she might kill him with passion was as preposterous as his performance.

Then she had to account for the sound she had made. "Sir! That is a treacherous tickle!"

Bartholomew laughed. "Atop me, my lady," he commanded. "I will show you a treacherous tickle."

He began to rock again, his motions making the bed thump against the floor. He grunted and groaned with his apparent pleasure, then gave her fingers a quick squeeze.

She had to say something or make a similar sound.

"Sir, you are as vigorous as a boar!" she cried, and she felt Bartholomew shake with laughter. His rhythm faltered and she feared she had ruined all.

"My lady, you are insatiable," he retorted. "I fear I will not survive the month in your bed."

"That is why we will not spend the whole of the month abed, sir."

"Who would have imagined an innocent to be so lusty?"

"Who would have imagined a bold knight would so complain?"

"I do not complain, lady mine. I simply savor the marvel that you are."

Anna was surprised by his words, for his tone had dropped low. She wished she might have believed them, and even so a warmth suffused her heart. He held fast to her hand and kept his pledge, which gave her great pleasure. She was close enough to smell his skin and to feel his warmth.

Rather than considering the intimacy of their situation, she thought about their plans. What would happen in the morning? How would they save Percy? How would they escape? She wanted to ask him but Bartholomew's finger suddenly landed over her lips.

"Moan," he advised quietly.

"I do not know how," she confessed quietly.

"Everyone knows how," he countered and moaned with gusto to prove his point.

Anna listened, then tried to do the same. She was certain she sounded more like a lowing cow than a woman in raptures.

Or a sheep with bloat.

That Bartholomew was trying to disguise his chuckle did little to help. She could feel him shaking and swatted him. "Oh my lady, you are demanding!" he cried, and she swatted him again.

"I feel foolish," she whispered. "I like it better when we bicker."

"We cannot bicker all the while we pretend to make love."

"I am certain there are those who do."

"Should I silence you with kisses?"

He was teasing her and Anna knew it. Her face burned. "I think not!"

"Shall I compel you to moan, then?"

Anna caught her breath. "You would not."

"Not unless you asked me to."

She could imagine how he would look in this moment, his hair tousled and his eyes sparkling with mischief. His confidence was clear, and she wanted to challenge him in return. "You cannot do it," she insisted. "And you will not do it."

"I will. I pledge it to you." His lips brushed across her knuckles. "You have only to ask, and your wish will be my command."

But Anna did not dare. "You wish only for me to agree so that you can see to your own pleasure."

"Nay, I will ensure yours alone."

"It cannot be done."

Bartholomew chuckled. "Then dare me to do so, Anna," he whispered, his suggestion making her shiver with desire. "Or moan on your own. The choice is yours."

Did she dare to trust him?

She was surprised by how much she wished to do so.

But that would be folly. She fell under his spell, no more than that.

"Nay," she said, and heard the tremor in her own voice. "Not that, sir. I cannot."

There was a moment of silence then and she feared she had revealed too much.

"You must tell me who so injured you, Anna," Bartholomew murmured finally and with heat. "And I shall see you avenged."

It was a promise to thrill her heart, but not one to make her lose her good sense. Anna closed her eyes and recalled all the lovemaking she had ever overheard, then tried once again to moan with supposed pleasure.

They had an agreement, after all, and she would do her part to see both Percy saved and the reliquary relieved.

In the darkness, at least, Bartholomew could not see her blush.