Desired (13 page)

“Perhaps tomorrow we can find a private glade in the forest away from the hawking party,” she whispered. They made a secret plan to meet at a place where they had played as children.

Edward kissed her good night, keeping an iron control on his lust. “Go! Go from me now while there is still time. I’ll follow you discreetly and keep in the shadows to see that you are safe.”

Joan had no will of her own. She would obey him no matter what he demanded of her.

Brianna sat at her desk long past midnight. She found that the concentration required to script a legend blocked out her troubles. She invariably felt better after an hour or two of writing. A sense of well-being came to her when she created something that would bring pleasure. When she put the legends into her own words, she tried to evoke her readers’ emotions, either making them laugh or cry.

She was working on a book of saints and patiently retold
the story of St. George and the Dragon that young Randal had ruined. She made the capital
T
’s into magnificently ornamented swords. All the great warriors of history had treated their swords with reverence and given them names as if they were human. Roland’s was named Durendal and Charlemagne’s had been Joyeuse. King Edward’s favorite broadsword was named Invincible.

As she cleaned her quills and brushes she found herself wondering about the dark knight with the hawk’s face and the hawk’s name. He was most likely a warrior who would have names for his weapons. How strange that he was a De Beauchamp! If she wed Robert, the Arabian would be her brother-within-the-law. She shuddered. Her old nurse would have said a goose had walked over her grave. Brianna shook herself mentally. If she wasn’t careful, she would lose her tranquil mood and slip back into her earlier depression.

She had been so disappointed in Robert tonight. Her head had been filled with romantic notions. She had breathlessly anticipated each delicate step along the road of courtship that led to love and fulfillment. Somehow she felt cheated of the looks, the sighs, the hand-holding, and the long talks where they explored each other’s likes and dislikes, dreams and hopes. Surely a first kiss should be tentative, delicate, not an onslaught! She felt as if Robert had left out too many stages of the wooing, jumping ahead to total intimacy. An intimacy she was not ready for. Both his actions and his attitude had left her feeling somewhat violated. Suddenly, he was no longer her knight in shining armor nor her
gentil parfait
knight.

Then she began to rationalize. He was a flesh and blood man, training for warfare. He had no time for reading romantic epics. Men and women were brought up in two entirely different worlds. His lust tonight had been brought on by anxiety about the coming confrontation with the French. The arrival of an older brother with such striking looks, who was already knighted, made him fear loss of face. It was a human-enough emotion.

Perhaps the fault lay with her. Her ideas were silly and romantic and probably very unrealistic. She must learn to be more of a woman.

When Robert de Beauchamp opened the door, Prince Lionel fell into the room. With all he had imbibed, the stairs proved too much for his rubbery legs. He was accompanied by Lady Elizabeth Grey, who was none too steady on her own pretty legs.

“Can’t manage, Rob. As usual, you’ll have to help me.”

Robert hauled him to his feet, wrapped Lionel’s arm about his broad shoulders so that he took most of his weight, and led him to the massive curtained bed.

Lionel fell upon it, laughing like a clown. “Lift her on the bed for me, Rob. Can’t manage her myself.”

Elizabeth was so tipsy that when Robert picked her up, she mistook him for the prince.

“Get her some of my special wine,” Lionel said with an owlish wink.

“By the look of things, she’s already had a bellyful,” Robert said, laughing.

“Not yet she hasn’t, Rob, but she’s going to get a bellyful,” Lionel said with a leer, patting his cock. A crease came between his brows. “Limp as a bloody lamprey,” Lionel muttered.

Robert watched Elizabeth closely for the effects of the verbena and calamint, as she sat on the wide bed and sipped from the goblet. It had always had a marked effect on the serving wenches and he was most curious to learn how it affected a virgin. He didn’t have to wait long.

Lionel fumbled with his codpiece, finally managing to get it unlaced. “Shit, why can’t I get it up?”

Robert knew it was his extreme youth, combined with the heavy drinking. The insatiable urge was there, but his ability to perform was nonexistent tonight.

Lionel’s good nature returned. “Can’t manage, Rob. As usual, you’ll have to help me.”

Robert grinned as he stripped off his chausses and climbed onto the wide bed.

Elizabeth’s giggles turned to tears. Even though she was intoxicated and inflamed with the verbena and calamint, she knew she shouldn’t be on this bed with these two men.

Robert pushed her back and mounted her.

“Christ, when I watch you fuck, Rob, it excites me more than doing it myself!”

Brianna’s candle burned so low, it almost extinguished itself by the time she blew it out and climbed into bed. Her dreams began with fragments of sights, sounds, and words from the day just lived out.

“Hasn’t he made love to you yet?” Her friend mocked her chastity, but then Joan had a vast experience with many different men. Brianna’s dream changed. She was holding hands with Robert. She reached up to touch his wheat-colored hair. He smiled into her eyes and bent to whisper a little romantic nonsense. Suddenly, the chamber door flew open to admit the dark, dangerous warrior who claimed to be brother to her betrothed. They could not be brothers; they were opposite in every way. One fair, the other swarthy; one good, the other evil; one kind, the other cruel. He advanced upon them with his drawn broadsword.

Hawksblood pierced Brianna with his pale, ice-blue gaze. “Name my sword and I will spare him.”

“Its name is Mortalité!” she cried.

Hawksblood began to laugh as he advanced upon her. “I only promised to spare
him
.”

She fell down before him. He raised his sword on high. Then it plunged down into her. It was not his sword, however, that entered her body. It was his male center. He had taken her virginity!

Brianna awoke with a scream upon her lips. Her eyes flew open to see Adele standing in the doorway. “Oh, it cannot be morning,” Brianna protested.

“You must hurry if you don’t wish to earn Princess Isabel’s wrath,” Adele urged.

Christian Hawksblood, astride an Arabian with Salome upon his wrist, surveyed the scene before him and thought it was like a magnificent hunting tapestry he’d seen upon a palace wall. Then the tapestry sprang to life, engaging all his senses.

The princess, with nine young ladies in attendance, was resplendent this morning. She was adorned in royal purple, her palfrey draped with a silver cloth beneath its saddle.

Hawksblood’s eyes sought his lady immediately. She wore crimson from head to foot. Her glorious hair was
plaited and bound tightly with ribbons, her tabard had wide sleeves with slits up each side to ease her movements in mounting and riding. Even her boots were crimson leather and around her neck hung an ivory hunting horn, chased with gold.

Prince Edward’s hunter was glossy black, his saddlecloth black silk with the dragon of Wales embroidered in gold. His boots and chausses were black, his doublet, deep forest green. As well as the prince’s gentlemen, grooms, squires, falconers, and servants were in attendance, all wearing their own liveries.

The hoods on the hunting birds were as splendid as the finery of their owners, all embroidered, bejeweled, and brightly plumed. Above the shouts and laughter, Hawksblood heard the winding of the horns, the bells on the harness of the princess’s palfrey, the piercing shrieks of the falcons and hawks, and the neighing and stamping of the impatient horses as they milled about the pack of baying retrievers.

Christian Hawksblood stood out from the others, as he intended. He wore a sleeveless shirt of Saracen chain mail so fine it was the envy of every warrior. It was polished so highly, it dazzled the eye. Beaten silver bracelets adorned with uncut amber were clasped about his biceps, and his long black hair was drawn tightly back and fastened with a silver clasp, emphasizing his sharp, slanting cheekbones. His weapon belt held an ax, a spear, and a long, curved scimitar. He wore one plain black leather gauntlet. His black kidskin boots came up to his thighs. In contrast, his squire, Paddy, wore sober Lincoln green, like the other squires in Prince Edward’s household.

Princess Isabel stared with hauteur at the foreigner. “Edward, he breaks the rules. He carries a gerfalcon. Only royalty has the right to fly such a bird!”

“Christian’s mother is an Arabian princess.” Edward hid his amusement as his sister’s attitude did an about-face. The light of speculation kindled in her eyes and she walked her palfrey toward the newcomer. “I am delighted you are joining us this morning. Any friend of Edward’s is a friend of mine.”

“Thank you, Your Highness.” Though Hawksblood’
bow was deferential, his air was superior. He piqued her pride, yet at the same time piqued her interest.

“Where the devil is Elizabeth Grey?” Isabel demanded of Joan of Kent.

“I don’t know, Your Highness, she doesn’t confide in me,” Joan replied. To Brianna she whispered, “She’s her bloody friend!”

The princess eyed Brianna’s crimson with a sulky mouth. “Lady Bedford, go and find her. You may catch us up.” She lifted her silver hunting horn. “Joan, you go with her.”

Prince Edward took a firm hold of his sister’s bridle. “Obviously Elizabeth doesn’t wish to hawk, but Brianna and Joan do. Let’s be off, ladies.”

Joan sent him a secret smile of thanks and in return Edward winked at her.

Brianna kept her lashes lowered to avoid eye contact with Christian Hawksblood, but as they headed out through Windsor’s park she found him at her side.

“You haunted my dreams last night,
my
lady.”

Her lashes flew up and her cheeks became crimson as her ribbons as she recalled her dream of
him
. Logic told her their dreams could not be the same, yet he seemed so intense and compelling, he defied logic. What was this strange power he had over her? With effort, she concentrated upon her horse and her merlin, perched upon her wrist.

Christian removed his falcon’s hood. “This is Salome, my
other
lady.”

Brianna glanced angrily at his bird, ready to make a disparaging remark, but the sheer beauty of the raptor prevented her. Her plumage shone with the subtle hues of almost indescribable colors. Her head had the proudest curve she had ever seen.

As they neared the river, a heron arose from the water and half a dozen falcons, tercels, goshawks, and lanners were cast into the air. Christian rose in his stirrups to cast Salome. Brianna caught her breath as the bird flew straight up, then began her dive, speeding past the other hawks in just seconds. She struck the heron with a balled-up foot, then grasped it with her sharp talons and sped back to her master. After Christian put the offering in his saddlebag,
he praised her lavishly and rewarded her with a morsel fished from his weapon belt.

“Why is she superior to our birds?” She fully expected him to proudly boast of the way he had trained her.

“She was captured along the Persian Gulf in the wild. She did not need to be taught to hunt.”

To her dismay, Brianna found him fascinating. She looked about for Joan, but saw her disappearing through the trees with Prince Edward. Up ahead, Isabel was causing a scene. Her tercel had flown to the top of a hundred-foot oak and would not return. It had caught a fish crow and was devouring it. Isabel was in the midst of browbeating a falconer, a groom, a squire, and two servants. The falconer swung a lure and whistled a three-note call over and over. The bird ignored it. The princess threw a tantrum.

As Hawksblood approached, the princess appealed to him. “The servants are useless, could you help me, sir knight?”

He frowned. “It is a fallacy that only a starving bird will hunt. As you see, a starving bird fills its craw.” He rode to the far side of the oak for an unimpeded view of the hawk. Brianna followed him, yet stayed a distance back to keep her merlin unruffled. She wondered what the princess expected him to do, climb the damn tree? She observed him closely as he quietly walked his horse beneath the branches and held out his free arm.

Hawksblood stilled to gather his power, then projected his entire focus upon the raptor. It took two full minutes of silence before he managed to merge with the creature long enough to subdue its will. It flew to his wrist like a tame dove.

Princess Isabel was fulsome with her praise, yet demanded over and over to know how he had done it.

“It was just chance, Your Highness. The bird simply decided to return at that moment.”

Brianna knew this was not true. Even Isabel rejected this possibility. Finally the princess pressed so persistently for an explanation, he said, “Your falcon is a male; mine female. It was Salome who lured him down.” The mystery was solved for Isabel, but Brianna suspected the dark Arabian had more to do with the bird’s behavior than his falcon
had. When he handed the hunting bird back to the princess, Brianna noticed that though it had landed upon his bare wrist, it left no mark with its razor-sharp talons. Then she noticed that though he was a warrior, he had no scars. At least none on his face or magnificent bared arms. That was unusual. Every man she knew, old or young, displayed scars as badges of courage.