Authors: The Baron
Discordant sounds assaulted her as soon as she entered the
hall, pausing in a doorway flanked by armed guards to let her eyes and ears adjust. Where was she to find Guy in this throng?
But then he was there beside her, a tall, lean presence that reminded her of Devaux though they were so dissimilar in coloring and nature.
“My lady Jane, you have joined us after all.” A low, gallant bow, a sweep of one arm in an expansive gesture that disguised his soft question: “Where is he?”
Taking her cue from Guy, she dropped in a graceful curtsy, one leg bent and her head dipping as she replied, “Outside the hall in the bailey. I know not where. We were followed.”
Guy straightened; a broad smile did not diminish the sharp glitter in his hazel eyes. “Your lady cousin seeks your companionship, milady. She won the egg dance, and now strives to win the heart of every man here. Shall I take you to her, or do you see her near the dais?”
“I see her,” Jane replied, though she did not.
Guy smiled, murmured something about seeking respite from stuffy air, smoke, and spilled perfume, and was gone, moving past the guards and out the hall door.
Jane took a cup of wine proffered by a servant, sipped distractedly at it while she thought of Tré and elusive danger. Was it more than Gaudet that made him so wary?
Yet the reasons eluded her.…
“Jane.”
She turned, pewter cup at her lips, lowered it to greet her cousin. Perspiration dewed Lissa’s forehead, dampened the pale hair at her temples. Exertion colored her cheeks while sweet, intense perfume surrounded her. Jane smiled at her cousins enjoyment.
“You have been dancing, I can see—and smell.”
“Yea. I won the egg dance … when it broke, the perfume went on me as well.”
Bits of eggshell speckled Lissa’s gown, evidence of the broken egg filled with perfume. Jane reached out, brushed away a few remaining pieces from her shoulder, murmured, “Sir Guy told me you were here.”
Lissa looked away, gave a careless shrug. “He is a nithing.”
“A nithing?” Jane’s hand paused; her cousin’s muscles
tensed beneath her fingers. “Not long ago, you were enamored of him.”
“I was not.” Another shrug removed Jane’s hand; Lissa’s eyes did not meet hers. “Never enamored. It was a fleeting fancy.”
“Just as well, I trow, since Walter can hardly approve if he learns of it.” She paused, then added, “Though Walter is hardly a monk.”
Lissa’s gaze snapped back to her face. Her lips parted, eyes wide enough to mirror the hall in their startled depths. “A monk.…”
She sounded so strange, choked … Jane put a hand on her arm. “Are you well?”
“Yea.” She backed away a step; when she nodded, light danced in the gilt threads of the caul holding her hair. “I am well … I must … the garderobe.…”
Turning away, Lissa left Jane staring after her. Yet, she did not go in the direction of the garderobe but toward the dais. Perplexed, Jane watched as her cousin disappeared behind a latticed wooden screen. It must have been the reminder of Walter that unsettled her. A pity, and little wonder that Lissa would seek love elsewhere when her husband thought more of tavern trulls than he did of his wife.
Music swirled; she moved through the crowd, loath to linger. The hall was thick with barons, knights, wealthy merchants from the town—tables had been pushed back, upended and stacked against the wall to leave the center of the hall clear. A torch dance began. She leaned against a round column, spine pressed into cold stone as a wine-bold knight staggered into her.
“Grant pardon, milady,” he slurred, breathing wine fumes into her face. “I’m drunk as a fiddler’s bitch.…”
Before she could reply, a Saxon voice intervened: “Begone, varlet.” With a surprised glance, the knight moved on, steps unsteady.
She looked up, smiled at Gilbert of Oxton. He nodded to her stiffly, red hair aflame beneath torchlight. Two tapers were clutched in his fist; he held out one.
“Join the torch dance, Lady Neville.”
She glanced at the ring of dancers forming. Tapers had already been lit, tiny tongues of light flickered erratically. It was tempting; under different circumstances, she would not hesitate.
A regretful smile, shake of her head, and softly: “Nay, I must return—”
“Do you fear your taper will be blown out first?” He smiled at her, waggled the candle. “I recall your victories in past dances very well. You should allow the rest of us a chance for redemption.”
It seemed churlish to refuse; she hesitated, cast about for a polite excuse, and was rescued by Sir Guy.
He suddenly loomed at her side, intent, ignoring the resentful glance from Gilbert.
“If you will accompany me, milady, your servant needs you.”
“Dena? Is she unwell?”
One shoulder lifted, impatience in his tone as he met her gaze briefly: “I only bring the message, milady.”
Jane turned, put a hand on Gilbert’s arm, saw his gaze shift away from Sir Guy, deliberate coolness in his eyes as he regarded her. “Gilbert, I cannot stay. Dena is alone here save for Enid, who is too young to be of aid. She is my old nurse—”
“Milady, you owe me no explanation.” Stiff words, remote and cordial, disavowing their long acquaintance. He bowed slightly in dismissal of her apology.
Regret formed, but she said nothing beyond a murmur of farewell, then put her hand on Guy’s arm. Tension vibrated beneath her fingers; she stole a quick glance at his face, a question trembling on her tongue.
Once they had passed through the doors and out onto the steep flight of steps, she asked it: “Is all well, Sir Guy?”
“Yea. Your servant is fine. The sheriff sends for you.” Reassurance imbued the quick smile he gave her.
He gave her no more chance to fret, urging her down the steps and across the bailey to pass under the fitful light of torches and lamps hung on stave walls. A light rain began to fall. He reached around her, swung open a door, stepped back
to allow her to precede him inside. Soft gloom closed around her, obscuring most of the chamber.
Inside, a rack of candles provided the only light; she brushed droplets of rain from her sleeves, shook her skirts a bit, sucked in a deep breath. A soft noise snared her attention, and she turned in time to see the door close between her and Guy, leaving her alone.
Her hands clenched in her skirts, and she shivered. Was she to wait?
The smell of spices was strong; a flagon of wine and two goblets stood in the middle of a small table. To occupy her hands and her mind, she moved to pour the wine. It tasted of cinnamon, honey, and ginger—sweet, cloying on her tongue.
The silence grew stifling. At last another door opened across the chamber; she curled her fingers around the stem of the goblet as Tré entered. He saw her, and shut the door softly behind him. A strange tightness constricted her chest, almost painful; her hands felt cold, her face hot. To hide her reaction, she kept her tone light.
“Is all well, milord?”
A lift of brow and one side of his mouth lent him a wicked look. “In Nottingham, all is rarely well.”
“No—” She put out a hand to touch him, paused with an awkward shrug. “I meant, I see you are not hurt.”
“No. I am not hurt.” He unbuckled his sword, set it on the table with a faint metallic rattle. “We do not have much time. The tourney begins on the morrow. There is much yet to be done before the king arrives.”
When he paused, she poured wine for him, held it out. He took it, letting his hand brush over hers, heat against ice a scalding contrast. He sipped the wine, studied her in the gloom.
“After the tourney, I have arranged for Captain Oliver to escort you to Ravenshed. He is one of the few here I trust besides Guy.”
“Why are you so determined for me to leave?” Her hand shook slightly, so that some of the wine spilled onto her hand. “Am I so unsafe? A burden?”
He still wore the black and gold silk tunic; it fitted him perfectly, spanning broad shoulders and chest, reaching to mid-calf. He moved to take her hand, lifted it to his lips, holding her gaze until she felt light-headed, barely remembering to breathe.
“You are no burden, Jane of Ravenshed.” His tongue flicked out, washed heat over the back of her hand where the wine gleamed red. Her breath came more swiftly. Light caught in his hair, dark as a raven’s wing … she gently touched it.
Like black silk
.…
Distracted, fumbling for clarity, she whispered, “Then what am I, my lord, if not a burden?”
He looked up; his thumb pressed into soft flesh, rubbed over her palm. A faint smile quirked his mouth. Darkly beautiful, a sardonic archangel.…
“Lovely,” he said after a long moment of silence. “And dangerous.”
At her quickly drawn breath, he smiled with no trace of mockery, set down his wine. “A danger to any man who would keep you safe. You defy my efforts.”
She held her tongue. It would do her no good to tell him that she wanted only to be near, that she did not want to go back to Ravenshed because she could not bear the thought of leaving him. She was besotted; a fool. He had bedded her, yet spoken no words of love, only of need.
And yet … and yet, she could deny him nothing, offered no protest when he pulled her to him with a rough sound of frustration, spread his fingers behind her head to hold it still, his mouth brushing over her lips in an urgent kiss. She tasted ginger, cinnamon, and desire. His tongue was a teasing rhythm in her mouth, strokes summoning delicious response. A pulse started in the pit of her stomach, moved lower; spread fire in exquisite torment.
When he lifted his head at last, she curled her fingers into his tunic, held him tightly. The muscles in the back of her knees weakened, yielded. She sagged on his arm, and he held her hard against him.
Against the top of her head, he rasped, “Lovely lady, you undo my best intentions.”
She pressed her face into his chest, reaching up, fingers lightly exploring the contours of his mouth, jawline, throat. He smelled of wind and exotic scent; his heartbeat was loud against her ear.
Wild thoughts tumbled through her head, fragments of memory, vague yearnings, uncertainties. He called her lovely, yet female worth was measured by children. She had none. A barren womb, unable to perform a function even the lowest churl could manage with ease. Did he know that?
He has lost a child, a beloved daughter—will he want another? Will he even want me for more than a few moments of pleasure?
Emotions waged war within her, spawned by his touch and nurtured by revealing glimpses of the man beneath the fierce outer shell. Carnal love subtly expanded comprehension of the complex man who held her in his embrace: He was more than just sheriff or baron. So much more.…
Her hand shifted, stroked a path over his chest. She felt his muscles tighten as he drew a swift breath. Her skin tingled with awareness of him; her breasts were sensitive, nipples aching and taut where they rubbed against two layers of silk.
He moved, hand sliding from her back to her shoulder, then to her chin to lift her face for a kiss. The movement separated them, allowed room for his free hand to touch her breast. Instant heat blossomed. Her thighs quivered, pressed tightly together to stem the blazing tide. She shuddered.
His breath was harsh against her mouth. Thumb and finger teased her breast, plucked at the nipple as sweet pleasure coursed through her body. A moan, stifled under his lips, signified surrender.
“Yield to me, sweet lady.” Husky and yearning: “Yield all to me.…”
Tré slid his other hand lower, lifted her skirts to gather them in a fist and draw them up. He leaned into her; his weight pushed her back against the table’s edge. Candle glow washed over him, gleamed in his black hair, lit his face in stark play of light and shadow. He bent slowly in front of her, pulled her to him to press his mouth on silk-shrouded breasts.
With a faint sigh, she put her hands in his hair, let strands
curl around her fingers. He went to his knees on the wooden floor, both hands at her hips, pushing up blue samite to bare her thighs. Cool air whisked over her, made her tremble. Breathless intimacy as he touched her, finger sliding over damp crevice in slow strokes that dazzled and delighted.
Weakly, she leaned on the table, arms braced behind her, palms against solid wood. Wicked and dangerous, erotic expectation beat through her veins. Then he slid the silk higher, shocking her as he leaned forward to touch his tongue where his hand had just been.
“Oh … what … are you doing?” Gasping, she grabbed at him, curled her hands in black hair, pushed feebly.
He ignored her, lifted her with both hands to set her on the table’s edge, his head between her spread thighs and tongue lashing her intimately, sending spirals of heat through her belly and breasts. Quivering, a gasp of shock and pleasure; she shuddered in reaction.
His tongue delved deeper, sought and found the source of pleasure that rendered her boneless; she collapsed back on her elbows, thighs spread wide in surrender and wonder. Abandoned goblets tilted, fell, spilled wine over the table, onto the floor.
Her entire body felt as if it were scarlet with excitement and chagrin. She should stop him, but all strength she possessed had deserted her. It was provocative and erotic, his head so dark between pale thighs, the wicked rasp of his tongue producing shivering torment. She moaned protest and complete surrender in a single breath, lifting her hips to his seeking tongue.
Sensation coalesced into a tight knot under his heated strokes, a brief moment of unbearable tension that crashed in waves, threatening to suck her under, to drown her in ecstasy. Her moans escalated to a single wild cry of release that echoed from walls and ceiling, surrounding her with the sound of her own pleasure.
Vaguely, she was aware of him over her, blocking light and ceiling, his face sharp with passion. He kissed her cheek, then her forehead, nibbling his way down to her mouth a little at a time, bringing her slowly back from weightless completion.
“My wits have deserted me,” he whispered against her cheek. “All around me danger awaits, yet I think only of you … of this … and this.…”
He shaped her breasts in his palms, teased sensitive nipples with kisses and tiny nips of his teeth, summoning heat again. She twisted, agitation curling in her belly; a sense of urgency began to rise, the ache inside her grew strong and sharp. His arousal nudged between her thighs, hot, hard. No more preliminaries before he lunged forward, a rough thrust of his body into hers, breathtaking. She pushed into his movement with back arched.