Chapter 36

36

E llyn had never been so happy to sink into a steaming hot bath. It did not matter that the tub was a wooden barrel or that she had been tended by a brace of rosy-cheeked noviciates in nun's robes who scrubbed her hair so hard she felt her scalp afterward to make sure they had left some strands behind.

From the riverbank, they had been provided with horses and escorted by the small army of knights to a secluded convent on the outskirts of Troyes. There, behind the high stone walls, Terrowin had been hustled away to have his wounds looked after. Baldor had laid siege to the kitchen, Rennwick had left Ellyn in the care of the nuns, while Roger arranged for the nuns to give Bethy a proper burial.

After bathing, Ellyn sought to lay down for just a few moments to enjoy a real bed with soft, clean linens and pillows stuffed with feathers. She had no idea how long she slept… it might have been days or weeks… but she woke to the sight of dark, emerald-green eyes watching her.

She stifled a yawn and pushed herself up on her elbows. Logs were crackling in the fireplace and candles were lit on the tables and mantel, their flames casting shadows on the walls and beamed ceiling.

"How long have you been sitting there?"

Rennwick leaned forward in the chair he had moved beside the bed. "A while. You make the queerest little sounds when you sleep, did you know?"

"How could I? I am asleep." She looked around, remembering where she was. "Is it permitted, in a convent, for a man to visit a lady's chamber?"

"Very likely not."

"Then why are you here?"

"I wanted to be certain you were comfortable and well looked-after."

She glanced at the window, which was shuttered, then back at Renn. "Is it day or night?"

"After midnight."

"The others?"

"Doing what you were doing, I imagine. Sleeping. The whole convent is as silent as a tomb; I feel guilty speaking out loud."

"You could whisper."

"I could."

"Or you could come closer so we do not have to shout across the room."

Renn frowned through a smile, for the chair was placed no more than arm's length from the side of the bed. Despite this, he stood and moved closer, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"How are Terrowin's wounds?"

"The nuns are taking good care of him."

"And Roger?"

"He has mourned the loss of loved ones before. He will come through it. "

She stared at the fire and her thoughts lingered on Bethy for another moment before she looked at Renn again.

"Is the lady here? The one who sent you to find me?"

Renn nodded. "She is. It would seem she grew impatient—and somewhat anxious—waiting for us to arrive at Dijon. She moved her party here then sent men out to watch the roads and the river. I am to take you to meet with her in the morning, after you break your fast."

Ellyn watched his beautiful mouth moving to form words she barely heard. His hair gleamed blue-black in the candlelight. It had been trimmed and coifed to tame the wild curls, and his jaw had been shaved clean. He was wearing a plain white chainse made of some silky cloth that lay easy on broad shoulders unencumbered by padded tunics or leather vests. The garment fell below his hips and was belted at the waist, over hose the color of a fawn's nose, snug enough to show every muscle and sinew when he moved.

Ellyn's mouth was suddenly dry. "Is there any water to be had?"

"There is wine. I helped myself earlier to a cup and can attest to the wondrous taste that is unique to the grapes grown in the mountainous regions of Burgundy."

"If it is so wondrous, then perhaps I may have some?"

He stood and went over to a small table in the corner where there were several plain wooden goblets beside a tall green bottle. He poured wine into two cups and carried them back to the bed.

Ellyn stretched out a hand to take one and realized she was quite naked beneath the bedcovers. Rennwick's smile acknowledged it as well when the cover slipped down almost exposing her breast.

She adjusted it with her left hand while she sipped wine from the right. "Is there a reason you have come into my room after midnight? Surely not simply to watch me sleep."

"I have watched you sleep before," he admitted.

"As I have you, Sir Knight," she said. "You make sounds like a bilious goat."

He smiled and raised his cup in a toasting gesture. "I will have to take your word for it, though I've not heard that complaint before."

"Most men are reluctant to admit to having any faults or giving cause for any complaints."

"Ah, but I readily admit to having a thousand faults, most of which have resulted in you complaining about my lack of courtly manners and my arrogance."

She took a sip of wine. "If the sword fits the scabbard…"

He locked his gaze with hers for the span of two heartbeats, then leaned forward, his hand cradling her neck, his mouth covering hers. The taste of wine was on both their lips and when the kiss ended, her senses felt fully intoxicated.

"What was that for?" she asked on a hushed breath.

"That was because… every time I close my eyes I see you just like this. Your hair scattered in disarray from sleeping, your shoulders bare and gleaming in the candlelight, your eyes telling me you want what I want, need what I need."

She felt a prickling flush of goose flesh ripple down her arms and looked down at the wine cup she had clasped in both hands, glad it was wood and unable to be crushed. "And… what is it that you think we need?"

"To set aside the arrogance, to stop pretending we are stronger, harder, colder than we are. That we do not need to rely on anyone, or that we are better off living inside ourselves, afraid to show emotion lest it be deemed a weakness. That admitting we need more is somehow wrong." His hand slid up from her cheek and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "I assumed that the moment I delivered you here and fulfilled my obligation, I would be able to bid you a sweet farewell and that would be the end of it."

When there was no response, he brushed the back of his fingers against the soft, rising blush in her cheeks. "But I was wrong, Ellyn the Fletcher. I was so… very… wrong. I have no idea what tomorrow will bring, how you will feel about me or anything else, for the unknown is always frightening and comes with a measure of uncertainty. But the one thing you need to absolutely know and can be certain of is that you have worked your way under my skin, into my blood, past the walls I keep around my heart, and I doubt I will ever be free of you again… or ever want to be free of you again. If that is a weakness, then so be it."

She let go of the goblet, uncaring if the wine splashed across the bedding. She pressed cool, trembling fingertips to her lips, then reached out and pressed them to his. She flung her arms around his neck and threw herself against him, tears springing into her eyes as she buried her face against his throat. She had built those same walls around her own heart and she had feared it might be her fate to never trust anyone again, to never feel safe or protected in someone's arms. But she too was wrong. With Rennwick de Beauvoir's arms around her she felt secure, loved, shielded from the evil that lurked in shadows.

When he was able to coax her face away from his shoulder, he saw the tears standing in her eyes and wiped them gently away with his thumbs. All of her trust, hope, and desire went out to him through those crystal blue eyes and he kissed each lid, then each warm cheek before he found her mouth again and stayed there until the blood was surging through their veins. The bedsheet slipped down and his lips followed, laying a path of caresses down the curve her neck, onto her shoulder, and from there down to the swell of her naked breast. His tongue brought her nipples up, taut and proud and her head fell back. Her hands gripped his shoulders, and she sank back onto the pillows as his mouth roved lower, onto her belly, then lower still when his hands chased the sheets aside.

Neither shyness nor shame had any place in the bed that night. Renn's lips went where they wanted, his tongue swirled and explored and teased until she was clawing her fingers into his hair and arching her hips into shivering waves of pleasure. Breathless, she watched through hooded eyes as he stripped off his clothing and came back to her hot and hugely distended. She cried out as he pushed up inside her, then cried out again as the ecstasy gripped her. His thrusts quickened with the rhythm of their bodies, arching, sinking, arching again into waves of pure pleasure.

His hands slid beneath her hips to lift her, to hold her where she could not withdraw and Ellyn grew tense, stretching, straining into the friction of his thrusts. Her hair was everywhere, beneath them, around them, binding them in a golden cocoon. As his flesh moved inside her she could feel her own wetness slicking them both, making her cry out, shudder, and cry out again. The sweet agony washed through her, the sensations intense enough for her nails to leave little scratchmarks on his shoulders, yet continuing to build, to spread, to gather and strengthen until their bodies came together in one last disbelieving clutch that had them both crying out, twisting, writhing together.

When the shattering orgasm passed, Ellyn fell back onto the bed, her whole body trembling, her legs and arms as limp as jelly. Renn collapsed on top of her, panting like a man who had been saved from drowning .

Her head was tipped far enough back on the pillows that she could see the crucifix hung on the wall above the bed and she wondered, absently, if God would regard what they had just done as a sin.

How could it be?

She closed her eyes to block out the sight in case her thoughts were blasphemous, although she thought her gods, those shared by her mother and grandmother, would be more tolerant.

After a time, when some of her strength had returned, she lifted a hand and skimmed her fingers along the muscles on Renn's arm. She could feel his breath against her neck, slow and measured now, and his heart beating calmly against her own.

His head came up off her shoulder and he lifted the heaviness of his torso up onto his elbows. He took a moment to drink in the loveliness of her face, the scattered web of her hair, the clear shine of her eyes.

"This was not why I came to your room tonight," he murmured through a smile. "But I shall be forever thankful that I did."

The black locks of his hair were fallen forward over his brow and cheeks, some still damp from their exertions. She pushed some back with her fingertips, then traced the faint, healed line on his cheek where she had cut him with a sword that first night in Nottingham. Had he been a day late to the castle, she would likely have been escorted by Luther de Vos to London by now, and become…what? A prisoner of the king.

"What do you suppose the king wanted with me?"

"Do you not know it is impolite to be laying under one man, looking well satisfied and debauched, while asking questions about another? "

He shifted his weight slightly and she realized with a soft gasp that they were still joined, he was still inside her.

"Is that how I look? Satisfied and debauched?"

"So much so my lady will know something is amiss."

"You keep referring to her as your lady? Should I be jealous?"

He smiled easily. "She is my liege lord. I have been in her service for the past fifteen years. I have estates of my own in Burgundy, thanks to her generosity, thus when she calls me to her side, when she requires my help and my loyalty, I give it to her without question. She is also as old as the mountains themselves, so there is no reason for your pert little bosoms to be jealous."

She lifted her head and kissed him. "Thank you."

"For what, pray?"

"For making me believe there is such a thing as loyalty and honor again," she whispered. "For making me believe I can trust you with my heart."

"And you with mine," he murmured.

He drew her into another kiss. Her body was wet and warm where it enveloped his flesh, and as the kiss deepened, her silky little muscles tightened around him, seducing his thoughts away from anything more important than filling her with pleasure again.

In another part of the convent, another chamber was alight with scores of candles. The woman who had taken such extraordinary steps to have Rennwick and his three companions travel from the mountainous region of Burgundy to the forests of Nottingham in order to find Enndolynn Ware had recently celebrated her ninety-seventh birthday. With each passing day she heard another new creak in her bones, found another wrinkle on her neck or face, discovered another task that had been rendered more difficult with weak hands and arms that had once been as strong as iron.

These days she needed both claw-like hands to guide a cup of wine to her lips and hold it steady.

Her husband had been dead thirty years, almost too long to contemplate having gone without his big body lying next to hers. They had been wed the same year John Lackland had conceded defeat on the field at Runnymede. They had witnessed his signing of the Great Charter then they had departed England, vowing never to return.

So much had happened in the intervening years. So many births, so many deaths, so many wars and conflicts, so much strife between the kings of England and France—two great countries that had once been united under Norman rule but were now divided by greed, arrogance, and bad judgement. The current king of England, Edward I had been wearing the crown for eighteen years but it sat crookedly on his head. He had joined the barons in a rebellion against his father, Henry III, but when it looked like they would lose, he had changed his coat and fought for the king. Such an easy sway with his honor did not sit well with those same nobles and barons when he took the crown, and he was forced to raise an army to fight in Wales, and then to Scotland, which threw the country back into a conflict with France.

It must run in the blood of kings, she thought, to never be content with peace, to always want more and more and more.

It had made her mission to find Enndolynn Ware even more urgent.

She sighed and stared into the fire. There was a tightness in her chest, not all of it brought on by the excitement and anticipation of finally meeting the girl. Impatience had brought her away from Dijon, where the Duke of Burgundy had provided lavish accommodations. Here in the convent, the walls were bare stone and the beds were hard. Drafts came out of every nook and cranny and even though the nuns had hung tapestries and put carpets on the floor, she missed her castle in the clouds.

Regardless of the chill in her bones, she had a task to perform and a promise to keep.

"Forgive me, my love," she whispered into the flames. "I must do this one last thing before I come to lie by your side for all eternity. She must be told the truth and she must be protected. I am the only one left who knows all of the secrets."