Crusader Captive (16 page)

“No more than you’ve filled mine.”

“I ache for you, Jocelyn.”

He more than ached. He was damned near doubled over with wanting her. Every tendon and sinew in his body taut with need, he took her down atop their scattered clothing.

She opened for him eagerly. Lips. Arms. Thighs. With his blood roaring in his veins, he had to force himself to take the time to prepare her for his entry. Within moments she was panting. Moments more, and she was hot and wet and so slick he was able to thrust home with ease. Hooking her calves behind his, she canted her hips and took his full length with a clench of her belly muscles that popped beads of sweat out on Simon’s brow.

Jocelyn welcomed him eagerly. Her head went back. Her breath rasped in her throat. His rigid length thrust in, out, in again.

He would not regret that he hadn’t fulfilled his father’s thrice-damned pledge, she vowed as pleasure gathered low in her belly. He would never regret it. She would not let him!

Then all thought fled. All ability to think fled. There was only his hard, slick body crushing hers. The hands buried in her hair to anchor her head as his mouth ravaged hers. The fierceness of his thrusts as he drove her higher, harder, faster.

“Simon!”

She tore her mouth from his, gasping as the tight swirls in her belly became dark, undulating waves. In the next breath, they built to a wild crest, then crashed and foamed and roiled, taking her with them. Her back arched. A groan ripped from far back in her throat. Every muscle in her body went taut with a pleasure so intense she near sobbed with it.

When the earth stopped swirling and righted itself again, she opened her eyes to find Simon staring down at her. He was still inside her. Still filling her. Muscles quivering, jaw working, he brushed the tangled hair from her face.

“That troubadour. Blondin. He didn’t come near to capturing your beauty in his verses.”

She managed a smile through her boneless lethargy. “Most like because he has not seen me as you have. With seaweed in my hair and my lips ablush from your kisses.”

“Whatever happens,” he said on a husky note, “whatever the years bring, I’ll always remember you thus.”

“Oh, so?” She willed her limp, satiated body back to life and wiggled provocatively. “It seems we’re not done yet. Perhaps I’ll provide you with other ways to remember me.”

With a wicked glint in her eyes, she rolled atop him and splayed her hands on his chest. His tawny hair glinted with sweat. His blue eyes gleamed up at her.

She would remember this moment always, Jocelyn thought, silently echoing his words. Whatever came, whatever the years brought, this was the moment they joined forever. Slowly, so slowly, she raised her hips and brought them down again.

This time it was Simon who slumped limp and breathless to their scattered clothing. When his chest stopped heaving, he opened his eyes and almost glared at her.

“Will you ever surprise me like that, woman?”

“I’ll do my very best. Now come.” Imbued with energy, she slapped his thigh. “We must needs return to the keep or Lady Constance will have our heads as well as Sir Guy’s.”

Chapter Sixteen

T
he queen who rode through Fortemur’s gates alongside her son just before noon the next morning looked far different from the one Jocelyn had last spoken to. The Melisande she’d left at Blanche Garde had carried the ravages of a brutal battle on her face and in her voice. This one sat erect in her saddle. No worried grooves were etched into her face. No shadows darkened her eyes. A gem-studded coronet anchored her gossamer veil. Her gown was of the finest brocade and only lightly stained from travel. Its sleeves were so long their tasseled tips reached past her stirrups.

Jocelyn had dressed with no less care. Her maids had pinned her silvery-blond hair back in an intricate arrangement of braids and curls. She, too, wore a veil of the sheerest silk crowned with a circlet of beaten gold. Her gown was the one she’d had sewn for just this occasion. Cut square and low across her bosom, the moss-colored pile fell in graceful folds over an undertunic of golden, shimmering cloth.

Simon stood to her left. Jocelyn had set her ladies to sewing feverishly on his raiment as well as her own. They’d altered several of her grandsire’s richest surcoats, but the one he wore this day she’d had cut and stitched especially for him. It was of red, trimmed at the neck and sleeve with the blackest ermine. Too hot for this sunny morning, mayhap, but he’d insisted on wearing Fortemur’s colors when he took her to wife. The sight of him so tall and broad of shoulder, his sun-streaked hair freshly trimmed and his head held high, had her swelling with pride as they received their royal guests in the inner bailey.

Baldwin dismounted first and turned to assist his mother. While Melisande shook out her skirts, the king acknowledged Jocelyn with a gracious kiss on both cheeks.

“I didn’t get to speak with you before you left Blanche Garde,” he said to her, his expression serious. “My lady mother tells me you want this match as much as you did not want the last we’d arranged for you. Tell me now, before witnesses, if that’s true.”

“It’s most definitely true, Majesty.”

Nodding, he turned to Simon. “What about you, de Rhys? There’s still time for you to change your mind. Are you sure you want to bind yourself to my ward?” A wry smile curved his lips. “If you haven’t noticed it as yet, the Lady of Fortemur has a most stubborn will.”

“I’ve noticed.”

The drawled response drew a bark of laughter from the king. “And you still want her?”

“I do.”

“Then I guess there’s no hope for it, or for you.”

Still chuckling, Baldwin offered his arm to his mother and gestured for Jocelyn to lead them inside. She’d prepared the lord’s chamber for the king’s use. The queen and her attendants she escorted to the ladies’ bower. Lady Constance, bless her efficient soul, had ordered wine brought from casks in the deepest, darkest cellar. It was cool and light and perfect with the dish of olives, figs and cheeses she’d readied for their guests’ refreshment.

While squires carried in the queen’s traveling chests and her ladies busied themselves unpacking brushes and pots and gowns, Melisande sipped her wine and wandered to a recessed window embrasure. The shutters had been thrown back to let in the sea breezes. The wide ledge topped with the thick cushion that doubled as a sleeping mat provided a convenient resting spot.

Breathing in the clean, crisp air, she seated herself and patted the cushion beside her. “Come, girl, and sit with me. I would hear how you convinced de Rhys that he is more suited to marriage than to Holy Orders.”

“I didn’t, Majesty.” Jocelyn sank down beside her on the thick cushion. “Simon was fully prepared to honor his vow. He completed every one of the initiation rituals,” she related with a shudder she didn’t try to repress.

“So I understand. The Grand Master could not speak to me of the matter, of course. God forbid I should tempt him to sin,” Melisande said dryly. “Nor were any but the Templars present during the secret rites. But from what my son told me, de Rhys had to be carried from the chapel when they were done. And we think the Saracens barbarous,” she added under her breath.

She shook her head before taking another sip of wine.

“If de Rhys completed the rituals, why is he here?”

“I don’t know. He swore on his immortal soul never to reveal what occurred.”

“And you, girl? Are you satisfied he didn’t forswear himself? Do you believe in your heart of hearts that he still retains the honor you claim runs deeper in him than blood?”

Jocelyn’s chin lifted. Absolute conviction rang in her reply. “I may doubt many things in this world, Majesty. I will never doubt Simon de Rhys.”

A sigh feathered from the queen’s lips. She let her glance stray to the sunlit waves outside the window embrasure. It lingered there for long moments before she brought her gaze back to Jocelyn.

“Would that I’d been given to a husband who would endure as much as de Rhys has for you. Count yourself beyond fortunate, lady. There are not many like him.”

“Well do I know that, Majesty.”

“Good. Now get you gone. I must rest a bit before I witness your exchange of vows.”

When the king, too, had rested and refreshed himself, he instructed his chief scribe to produce the marriage contract he’d drawn up. The lengthy document detailed which rents and revenues would come to Simon and which Jocelyn would retain in her own name. As the king’s ward, she would not ordinarily have been included in a review of this document. Baldwin possessed sole and legal right to dispose of her and her lands where he would. After Blanche Garde, however, the king suggested—and she heartily agreed—that she’d more than earned the right to know the disposition of both her person and her properties.

Then her vassals had to be gathered in the great hall to witness the signing of the contract. She’d invited every one of her knights and their ladies to Fortemur for the event that would affect their lives as much as hers. They would swear fealty to Simon in a separate ceremony following the marriage ritual. For now, it was enough that they stood witness to this most essential transfer of rights and responsibilities, and that the three most senior among them signed or put their X below the king’s signature.

They would witness, as well, the bedding to follow the wedding. Although Jocelyn didn’t doubt that everyone from Sir Guy to the lowest stable boy knew Simon had shared her bed since his return to Fortemur, she wanted no question in anyone’s mind that their union had been full and legally consummated.

Before going above stairs, she took time for a last, hurried conference with Lady Constance. Heads close together, they thrashed out the thorny questions of who to seat where at the boards and whether the parade of roasted swans should precede or follow the king’s toast.

Finally it was time to ready for the exchange of vows! Breathless, she rushed up three flights of stairs to the ladies’ bower. The queen awaited there, as did Jocelyn’s ladies and maids.

Wielding comb and boar’s-tooth brush, her maid attacked her braids and curls. Both she and the queen knew well she was no blushing virgin to so present herself, but appearances must be observed. When her gleaming, white-gold mane spilled down to the small of her back, one of Jocelyn’s ladies pinched her cheeks to heighten their color. Another hastily stuffed wood chips soaked in costly musk into the gold pomander dangling from her girdle. Lady Constance rushed into the bower just in time to place a circlet of glossy green leaves interwoven with late-summer snow asters atop her veil.

“There,” she decreed, swiping at an errant tear. “You’re ready.”

Queen Melisande looked the bride over from head to foot before nodding in assent. “She is indeed. Shall we descend to the chapel?”

With a rustle of skirts, the women made for the door. Before they reached it, a panting page burst through.

“Sir Simon sent me, lady. He asks if he might have private speech with you.”

Jocelyn’s stomach dropped. A tiny frisson of fear rippled along her veins.

“Now?” she asked.

“Yes, lady.”

She flicked a quick, questioning glance at the queen. Melisande shrugged her assent.

“We’ll await you below.”

The page scurried off, the ladies filed out, and some moments later Simon appeared in the arched doorway.

“What is it?” Jocelyn asked, a tremor in her voice. “What’s amiss?”

“Nothing’s amiss,” he hastened to assure her. “I came only to give you a bride gift.”

She let out a shaky sigh. Her mental picture of smoke rising from the new watchtower and a horde of heavily armed Saracens hurtling down the road toward Fortemur faded. Almost as quickly, another took its place.

This one was of a man chained and bruised and all but naked on the auction block. No one knew better than Jocelyn that he’d lost all on his journey to Outremer.

“Oh, Simon,” she breathed. “I expect no bride gift.”

“Nevertheless you shall have one.”

He held out a hand and uncurled his palm. On it sat a glass pendant threaded on a black silk ribbon. It was in the shape of a chambered seashell, she saw with astonished delight, and crafted of the finest Venetian glass in the design known as
vitro-di-trina.

The making of it was a closely guarded secret. Some said it resulted from fusing milk-white rods into clear glass. Others maintained the blower threaded tubes or canes into a bubble of molten glass. Whatever the method, the result was a delicate, lacy crystal that was prized by kings and queens throughout the world.

“Where did you find this?” Awed, she fingered the delicate shell. “And however did you get the funds to purchase it?”

“I saw it and others like it in a market stall in El-Arish, when we were being herded through the streets to the slave pens. It must have been booty taken from a captured Venetian galley. So when Queen Melisande gifted me with a hundred gold beasants for saving her life, I sent a troop of your men to El-Arish to purchase it for you. They returned but moments ago.”

“Simon! Never say you paid a hundred beasants for a bit of glass!”

“Not quite. I have enough left to buy you a few gold and silver trinkets, as well.” His mouth curved, then tipped in the wicked grin she’d come to know so well. “But every time you wear this particular trinket, I will think of our hours together in your crystal cave. So wear it often, wife.”

Laughing, she bowed her head so he could tie the black ribbon around her throat. “Were it not for the hundred or more guests waiting for us below, I would thank you as you should be thanked.”

The glint in his eyes deepened. “I’ll remind you of that tonight, when the bed curtains rattle shut around us.”

The shimmering pendant occasioned more than one envious glance when Jocelyn made her way to Fortemur’s chapel. Father Joseph awaited them at the door, his seamed face wreathed in smiles. He’d yielded to her insistence that the banns didn’t need to be posted for the full three weeks, but wouldn’t be hurried in the reading of them now. His voice wavering and thin, he cited each condition that might prevent their marriage. After each, he paused for them to confirm the ban did not exist. Then he peered at the crowd gathered behind them, waiting to see if any objected to the union.

None did, but Jocelyn grew more nervous with each question. Surreptitiously, she fingered her crystal shell and dreaded the reading of the last of the banns.

“And are either of you bound by monastic or religious vows?” the priest asked, peering at them with his watery eyes.

“Not I,” she answered swiftly.

Her fingers tightened on the delicate glass shell as she waited for Simon’s response. He gave it in a clear, ringing voice.

“Nor I.”

Jocelyn gulped and released the breath she only now realized she’d been holding.

“Then let us proceed to the vows.”

Wetting his thumb, Father Joseph used it to fumble through his well-worn prayer book. His faded eyes squinted at first one page, then another, until the crowd shifted restlessly and an almost feverish impatience overtook Jocelyn.

Fate—or Satan in the form of Simon’s dissolute father—had brought them together and come near to keeping them apart. She would be damned if she would allow fate or Satan in any form to play havoc with their lives now. As a result she said her vows in a feverish rush that made Father Joseph blink and Simon glance down at her with surprise.

Yes, she would take him to husband.

Yes, she would keep him and only him unto herself.

Yes, she would hold him for better or worse, for richer and for poorer, in sickness or in health, to be bonny and buxom at bed and board, to love and to cherish, till death them parted, according to God’s holy ordinance.

And thereunto she plighted her troth!

“Er, well…”

Blinking owlishly, the castle priest turned to the groom. Simon said his vows in a more ordered fashion, and after he’d finished Jocelyn felt as though the weight of the world had been lifted from her chest.

It was done! Well and truly done! He was hers and she his. She could enter the chapel for the nuptial Mass with a light and joyous heart. Beaming as broadly as Father Joseph, she took her husband’s arm.

The feasting that followed stretched for nigh on seven hours. The procession to the bridal bower that came later that night involved much laughter and hoots of encouragement. These lasted until Simon had removed his bride’s jeweled garter, tossed it over his shoulder, and rattled the bed curtains shut amid ribald suggestions of how best to handle a wife as bold as his.

The celebration continued for several days. Jocelyn and Simon had arranged activities that included hunts, archery contests, jousts and boat races on sun-kissed seas. Before the guests departed, they showered the newly wedded couple with gifts. These ranged from a set of eighteen solid-gold goblets from Queen Melisande to a curved eating dagger from the lowest-ranking of Jocelyn’s knights. She and her lord accepted all with equal gratitude.

Their most precious gift, however, did not arrive until almost six months later. It came in the form of a lean, dark-haired knight who appeared unannounced at Fortemur’s gates with a squire and two spare horses.