Moisture glittered in droplets on his dark hair as he lowered his head to her neck and grazed the sensitive skin with his teeth. Her breath shot out in a rush. Down her spine went a shiver, bolting across her breasts and belly.
“You want it too, Gwyn, don’t you?” he asked in a husky rumble.
“God in Heaven,” she whispered, feeling surrender reach for her, drag her under.
“Don’t you?” he whispered, taunting her with her own raging need. “’Tis why you came looking for me, isn’t it?”
He pressed her against the wall with his body, pushing her legs apart with his knee, bending her head back with his lips. In a smooth, practiced, breathtaking move, he lifted her up so she was astride his muscular thighs, her legs dangling on either side. He shifted and unlaced his codpiece. It fell away, leaving his arousal throbbing between them. Hot, like a velvet rod, he fell on her and she threw her head back. Her hands entwined around his neck and her body began moving, sliding against him as small explosions of heat sent her dizzy. His fingers searched along her folds and came away drenched.
With a smile damaging to her sanity, he looked at her. “Do not tell me no when your body says ‘aye.’”
In a perfect move, he slid himself inside her with a satisfied growl. He pressed his palms against the stone above her head. She was supported by the wall and his powerful thighs, held between his arms. She ran her fingers down the wet fabric that clung to his torso, feeling muscles flexed with exertion. Her head dropped against the wall, dying in watching him. He was a magnificent beast in his sexual prime, all his impressive skill focused on her. His head was thrown back, eyes closed, neck straining as he moved deeper inside her, sending wave and after wave of wicked pleasure shuddering through her body.
Suddenly he looked down, fixing her in his unfathomable eyes. He leaned his torso back slightly, lifted his hips in a long, slow slide, tilting her pelvis out from the wall. Locking their gazes, he lifted his throbbing erection into her higher.
“Would you like a fair?”
“What?”
“A market, a fair. Here at the castle.”
She tried to focus, but he was keeping up a slow, steady rhythm of thrusts and the way she straddled him, his length never left her much. He was a constant, perfect pressure deep inside her, nudging her up into the second circle of sexual bliss. Tormenting her by making her talk.
“No fairs here for years,” she managed to gasp.
“I know there’s been none, Gwyn. I’m asking if you would like one.”
Another slow penetration. The shudders passed down to her thighs before could she respond. “Very much.”
He bent by her face and lapped a path of hot desire from her shoulder to her ear. “They’ll be here for the wedding.”
“Who?”
“The merchants. And artisans. A fair, a celebration, to fill the week after our wedding.”
“Griffyn, there’s no one—”
“There are many. And they’re coming to line the Nest. For you. Would you like that?”
In years past there had been fairs and markets at the Nest, great, rambling, festive affairs that brought merchants and peasants from miles around. Weekly markets, special markets, and a great annual fair come Yuletide, when no one could get anything fresh and the luster of summer was but a faint memory, and the whole world, it seemed, crowded into the Nest and, for a time, there’d be peace in the world.
But that had all stopped years ago. The wars had been too long, the money too short. Then Papa died. And for too many seasons the booths had been empty, the fields that once rang with the hawking of wares and the laughter of children were silent.
Could he bring that back too?
He was transforming her world. Everything was different. Every part of her, body, mind, soul was being touched, stilling old aches and stoking new fires.
She dropped her forehead onto his shoulder. “Aye,” she murmured. “I would like it very much.”
“Bien,”
he said into her hair, then lifted his hips again. Deep inside her, he touched something, pushed into some deranged region of erotic pleasure that sent her bucking between him and the wall.
“Griffyn, please,” she moaned.
“Tell me what you want,” he whispered in her ear. “Say it.”
“Please,” she was crying now, her body trembling at the edge of a sheer cliff, begging to jump. He slowed his pace.
“Say it,”
he growled in her ear, his voice low and husky as he thrust into her again, burrowing into the sensitive, pulsing flesh high inside. Waves of pleasure rippled down her back, shot through her spine, charged along the backs of her legs.
Clinging to his shoulders, her head fell back as her body bounced with the cadence of his penetration. His hands were tight on her hips as he immersed himself in her, fierce and possessive, thrusting and hard.
“Griffyn.” It was a pant, begging for release.
“Tell me, Gwyn.”
She whispered the words he taught her last night, “Make me come,” and then she tumbled over the cliff, crying out his name.
When she opened her eyes a few moments later, he was watching her. He tightened his hold, and nuzzled into the warmth of her neck.
“For me?” she asked. It was a winsome, fragile thing, her question. He held her tighter.
“Just yourself, love.”
They walked back to their chambers while mist fell like a single wet kiss on the world, his arm slung over her shoulder. Gwyn was certain she was experiencing the first peace she’d had for twelve years. It lasted five minutes.
They were drawing near one of the rooftop doorways that opened from ramparts to the keep. He dragged open the heavy door and held it. She slipped beneath his outstretched arm, just as he said, “Gwyn, there’s been news.”
It may have been his tone, or some other way of communicating beyond words, but Gwyn knew immediately the peaceful respite had been just that, a small, short break.
She pasted a false smile on her lips. “What news?” She aimed her brittle smile in his direction. His face grew watchful.
“Perhaps we should talk in our chambers,” he said warily.
“Of course.”
She swung away, her spine hitched straight as a spoke on a wagon wheel. She did not wait for him, and upon reaching their room, began immediately straightening the manuscripts and cups and other items left out last night. Last night, when he’d reminded her heart it was not yet dead. Too bad.
She heard his footstep at the door. She pushed the edge of a manuscript so it was even with the others on the shelf.
“Gwyn.”
She began tidying already tidy clothes sitting on the shelves.
“Gwyn, there’s news.”
She picked up one of his tunics and smoothed it. “What sort of news?”
“News of Stephen.”
A small sound of terror escaped her mouth. He looked at her oddly. She pulled the tunic in her hands taut and folded it in a rigid line down the middle, making a crease so tight it would never come out. “What of him?”
He laid one of his hands atop hers. His touch was warm. “He is signing a treaty with Henri. Early November, in Winchester.”
She slipped her hands free and walked to the window. “What sort of treaty?”
“The sort that makes Stephen king in name only. He will yield the country shire by shire, and seek Henri’s counsel on all matters of state. All adulterine castles built during his reign will be razed.”
She nodded, as if he’d told her they needed fresh rushes in the hall. “So Henri will be king.”
“Aye.”
She looked out the window. The roofs of the buildings below were slick and bright with wetness. A boy in tattered breeches was rounding up an escaped chicken.
Her head felt immense, as if all the notions in the world could not fill it up. Every thought she had floated up and she couldn’t catch hold of it again.
“’Tis for the best, Gwyn.”
Someone came to help the boy. They herded the animal out of sight. “But how do you know that, for certes?”
His deep, resonant voice rumbled across the room. “Because it has to be.”
She nodded dully, not looking around.
She heard his boots start across the room in her direction, then stop. After a moment, they retreated and the door closed behind him.
A few minutes later came the sound of running footsteps. Shouting. Someone calling for Griffyn. Muted voices. Another messenger had arrived.
Gwyn stared out the window for perhaps half an hour. The misting rain slackened, then stopped.
King Stephen knew his son was not dead. Any agreement or treaty would simply be a ruse, a strategy to buy time, time for Guinevere to heal the prince and set him loose, to save her king and kingdom.
She’d made a promise. She’d given her word. What was different now? Nothing. Her duty remained, unchanged by sentiment. Unchanged by having a heart.
She felt it rising up inside her like a scream. To ward it off, she lifted her chin delicately, as if it were a glass phial.
She needed help. She must visit Marcus.
Slanting, sparkling sunlight began bursting through the clouds. It was going to be a beautiful day.
Griffyn loped down the stairs, Alex on his heels. William of the Five Strands hurried over as they entered the hall.
“A messenger, my lord. I took the liberty of putting him in your office.” He gestured to the long corridor of offices that ran along the first-floor level of the castle.
Griffyn started forward, Alex directly behind. William brought up the rear, the sleeves of his overtunic wafting back in the breeze. They drew up at the door. William leaned forward and murmured, “He said ’twas exceedingly private, my lord. I hope I did not overstep?”
“You did well,” Griffyn said, and touched him on the shoulder. He looked at Alex. “Wait here,” he said, with a significant nod in William’s direction. Alex’s face tightened, but he nodded and took a step back, setting up by the wall outside the office chamber, with a suspicious eye on a nervous, flustered William.
It was dim and windowless inside the office chamber, lit only by several candles on the walls and tabletops. The young messenger had perched the edge of his rump on a bench beside the table, as if afraid his full weight would collapse the four-inch-thick oaken legs. He was begrimed and haggard, and looked like he hadn’t eaten in days. He leapt to his feet as soon as Griffyn entered.
“My lord Everoot!”
“Your name, son?” Griffyn asked, striding forward.
“Richard, sir!”
“Sit, Richard.” He picked up the jug of ale William had put in the room, and splashed some into a wooden mug. He thrust it at the boy, who took it and gulped down half.
“What news?” Griffyn asked when the boy’s throat stopped moving.
Young Richard yanked the mug from his mouth in a frenzy of obedience. A wave of brown ale splashed over the rim, onto his tunic. “I carry a message from a knight in the north, my lord,” he said briskly, pausing neither to wipe his mouth nor his drenched tunic.
“Who?”
“I’m given leave to say only that you do not know him.”
“The message?”
Richard flung himself at the pouch hanging by his side and wrestled it free. He yanked the flap over, and drew out a crumpled roll of parchment. “My master asked only that if you did not wish to hear more after reading his missive, you would not hold it against me. Not,” he gulped, trying to be inconspicuous, so it actually looked like he swallowed a bug, “make me eat the message.”
Griffyn glanced up from the parchment. “That would taste awful.”
“Aye, sir,” Richard agreed with solemnity.
Griffyn checked the blotted seal, then broke the heavy red wax and rolled the scroll open.
My lord Everoot,
I hear you have ridden north to take the Nest, and all that lies within. I have come upon something you may want. Or need. ’Tis a small thing, small enough to fit inside a keyhole. Young Richard has orders to await your victory, then deliver this message. Hold any arrogance perceived herewith to my self, not his.
Thankfully and in God, yours,
Someone with something you want
The humming started inside Griffyn’s chest, strong and whirling. As if he’d held this very possibility in the back of his mind, and now it was unfolding before him.
It could be a trick, of course. By someone who knew too much.
He looked up. “Where is this master of yours?”
Richard had small beads of sweat on his forehead. “Ipsile-upon-Tyne, my lord,” he stammered. “The Red Cock Tavern. Awaiting your reply.”
“Awaiting me.”
“Aye, my lord, if you saw fit to—”
Griffyn was already halfway out the door. “Look alive, Richard. We ride.”
He swung under the office doorway and ran smack into Alex. “I have to see to something,” he said, and clapped Alex on the back.
Alex looked wildly between Griffyn and Richard, who was buzzing like an adolescent bee in his wake.
“Ready my guard,” Griffyn said. “I’m going to Ipsile-upon-Tyne.”
Alex looked at him in shock. “Pagan? Ispile? But what—”
He was already striding down the corridor, issuing orders over his shoulder. “We leave in an hour. Rations for forty on the packs. Thirty men off the fields, on the walls, full armour. Pull the Everoot men.” He loped across the great hall. William and Alex followed in his wake. “Feed young Richard a shovelful of food and give him a new mount. He rides back with us. Tell Fulk I want him too. Alex, I need you to stay here.”
Alex pulled up like someone had yanked on his reins. Griffyn stopped beside him.
“Pagan,” Alex said, his voice low and urgent. “I should be with you. If this is related in any way to—” He glanced at William, who had stopped just behind them. “Everoot’s
cache
, I need to know of it. ’Tis of the utmost importance.”
“So is having someone at the Nest whom I trust, Alex. We arrived here two days ago and required an army to get in. I cannot leave it unprotected. The men must be arranged, orders given and followed. The Sauvage presence must be felt. Shall I trust that to anyone but you?”
Alex’s throat worked. He stared at the ground and shook his head. “No, my lord. I will see to it.”