Crusader Captive (7 page)

She wanted him. Ached for him. Yet he played with her, damn him. Gliding his fingertip over her inner thighs. Brushing his thumb against her most sensitive folds. All the while his tongue danced with hers. She was near panting when his mouth moved lower.

With tongue and teeth he explored the underside of her chin. The heated skin at the base of her throat. The slopes of her breasts above the square neckline of her bliaut. Then his busy, clever hand shoved her skirts up higher and found her linen bellyband. He toyed with the tucked ends before raising his head to examine it in some puzzlement.

“You wore this the night you took me to your bed. Is it an Eastern garment?”

“My…” She gulped in several shuddering breaths. “My nurse bound me thus as a child. It… It gives me some measure of protection from the saddle when I ride.”

The soft, sheer linen came nowhere close to the coarse linen trews some ladies of rank wore to shield them while ahorse. Nor did it compare to the cruel iron belts some Western lords were rumored to lock their wives in before departing on crusade. Yet the mere glimpse of the thin linen strip running between Jocelyn’s thighs seemed to stir some primitive urge in Simon.

His jaw tightened. His breath got shorter. With a low grunt, he nudged her thighs apart and ripped away the linen.

“What…?” Racked by sudden, staggering sensations, she arched her back. “What are you doing?”

“Showing you but one of the ways a woman may come to pleasure.”

De Rhys’s mouth came down on hers. Hard. Hot. Shutting off all protest. While his tongue plundered her mouth, his hands roamed her taut body. Was that the roar of the sea in his ears, or his clamoring blood? He couldn’t tell one from the other. Nor did he care. His world, his entire being, had narrowed to the eager, panting woman in his arms.

When he ceased his depredations, Jocelyn almost sobbed with dismay. Her entire body screaming in protest, she opened her eyes to find de Rhys smiling down at her.

“Don’t fear, lady. We’re not done yet.”

She couldn’t fathom what he was about when he shifted and grasped her stockinged calf. Still grinning, he draped it over his shoulder. When he did the same with her other leg, Jocelyn flamed with embarrassment. She tried to free her legs and move away, but he stayed her easily.

“Let me taste you, sweeting.”

“Simon! This…this must be a grievous sin. You must not… Oooooh!”

Her head thrust back against the wool-covered kelp. Her thighs went as taut as bowstrings. The swirling sensation she’d felt low in her belly the night she’d taken him to her bed gripped her again. But tighter this time. Faster. Like the whirling waterspout she’d once witnessed after a violent storm far out to sea, the vortex carried her up and up and up. So high she thought she would scream from the terrifying intensity of it. Then, without warning, it set her spinning in a spiral of dark, searing pleasure.

Her spine arched. Her womb spasmed. She heard herself give a hoarse shout, or thought she did, while the waves of sensation crested, one atop the other. Then slowly, so slowly, the world righted itself again.

Even after the vortex subsided, it took Jocelyn several moments to gather the courage to open her tight-shut lids. The combination of tenderness and triumph she saw in de Rhys’s blue eyes made her smile and lift her hand. Stroking his cheek, she could not but admit the truth.

“That was nothing like I imagined it would be. No wonder my ladies giggle when they whisper of the mindless torture to be had abed.”

Her reluctant admission brought a wicked grin to his lips.

“You’ve tasted but a small portion of that torture. Here, let me stretch out and hold you close while you catch your breath. Then I will show you other ways you may find release.”

More? There was more?

Still awash in the aftermath of those incredible sensations, Jocelyn could not imagine anything that would bring her more pleasure than what she’d just experienced. And yet…

She had but to nestle her head on Simon’s shoulder. Lay her hand atop his taut stomach. Breathe in the mingled scents of leather and horse and healthy male. She wanted more than the eruption of a waterspout. She wanted this man inside her, as he’d been the night she’d brought him to Fortemur.

No! Not like that hurried joining! This time…

This time what?

The question bedeviled Jocelyn as she turned and buried her face in the warm skin of his neck. What did she want of him? And what could she give him in return for what he’d just given her?

It was blind instinct that had her easing out of his arms. Some deep, female need that brought her up on her knees. Without stopping to question the urge, Jocelyn straddled his thighs.

His lids flew up. A startled question leaped into his eyes. “Do you know what…?”

She stilled his questions the same way he’d stilled hers, by laying a finger on his mouth.

“You’ve shown me how a man may pleasure a woman. Now…” She slicked her tongue across her lower lip. “Now I would return the favor.”

She had to smile at his confounded expression.

“What? Do you think me so dull of wit? So ignorant because I am—” She stopped, breathed deeply and corrected herself. “Because I was a maid? When my ladies talk among themselves, I listen.”

“But…”

He made as if to rise. She planted a firm hand on his chest.

“Say me no buts, de Rhys. Lie still and let me return some measure of what you’ve given me.”

The urge that grabbed Jocelyn by the throat went against everything her castle priest preached most earnestly. No man should lie with a woman not his wife. No woman should think lustful thoughts, even about her lord and husband. God forbid they should indulge in unbridled passions. The one purpose, the sole purpose, of concourse between man and wife was to produce a quiverful of children. All else was sin in the eyes of the Lord.

And yet… And yet…

How could this be sin? How could she ache in every part of her as she did for this man? How could she bend to take him in her mouth, without so much as a fleeting care for her immortal soul?

“Ahhhhh.”

The groan ripped loose from deep inside Simon. His entire body rigid, he drew in a long, ragged breath before thrusting her away from him. He turned to his side, but not before she’d gotten her first taste of a man.

When he turned back to her, his chest heaved and he glared at her almost angrily. “I’m sorry, Lady Jocelyn. I did not intend to spill myself like that.”

“Did you not?” Surprised, she swiped her tongue along her lips. “That was my intention.”

The frank admission took everything Simon thought he knew about women and turned it upside down. The well-born ladies of his acquaintance were wont to play the tease, promising with sideways glances and pretty pouts what they had no intention of delivering. Women of the lower orders tended to be more forthright in their sexual desires. But even with them a man must needs exert himself to understand their confusing and often contradictory signals.

This one played no games at all. She spoke her mind and suited deed to thought. She was also brave and strong and true to her word. And well above the touch of a lowborn knight such as he.

That thought sat heavy on Simon’s heart as he pushed himself to a sitting position. “You are a woman such as I’ve never known before.”

Lips red and swollen from his kisses turned up at the corners. “Oh, so? And have you known many women?”

His brains might still be addled from what she’d done to him, but he retained enough sense to sidestep that particular bear pit.

“No more than my share, milady.”

She gave a disbelieving huff and reached for her shift. When it fluttered down to settle around her hips, she cocked her head and regarded him with a curious look.

“So tell me, Simon de Rhys. Why would one who rises so readily and takes such pleasure of a woman give himself to the Church?”

His first thought was to shrug aside the question. But she’d shared her secrets with him. He could do no less with her. Still, he had to force himself to tell her what he’d told no other soul, save the saintly Bishop of Clairvaux.

“I did not give myself.”

The memory of his last meeting with his gaunt, wasted father rose in his mind. Gervase de Rhys’s lips had twisted when he’d laid eyes on the youngest of his sons who didn’t bear the label of bastard. There were plenty enough of those, Simon knew. More than his unrepentant sire could count.

Unrepentant, that is, until sickness had laid him low. As his flesh had withered and death had drawn closer with each rattling breath, his sire had felt the weight of his many transgressions pressing on him like an anvil. He’d confessed those sins to a priest, or so he’d said. Done penance and been given absolution. That gave assurance he wouldn’t burn forever in the fires of hell, but so black was his past that he must needs take extraordinary measures to lessen his time in purgatory.

He’d sought every indulgence, promised what little he still owned to the Church. He’d promised, as well, his fifth—and last surviving—legitimate son. Simon had ignored his earnest pleas to make good on that oath until the Bishop of Clairvaux had said gently, sorrowfully, that the oath bound him as much as his sire.

The fact that the bishop was Europe’s most vocal and passionate advocate of the Second Crusade only added to his persuasiveness. It was Simon’s duty, he’d argued, as it was that of all men of true belief, to ensure the infidels didn’t recapture the most holy sites in Christendom.

Simon couldn’t tell this woman of the agony of conscience the bishop’s words had roused in him. Or how close he’d come to telling his black-hearted sire he could burn in hell. Instead, he boiled the matter down to its nub.

“My father took sick. His physicians told him he would not last the year. So he pledged me, his youngest son, to the Knights Templar as penance for his many sins.”

“As penance?” Jocelyn’s brown eyes widened. “Surely the Church would not hold you to such a vow!”

“I hold myself.”

“You cannot. You must not. You are too much a man to…” Flushing, she broke off and began again. “Listen to me, Simon. My grandfather fought alongside the one who is now Grand Master of Templars on more than one occasion. By all accounts, Bertrand de Tremelay is a wise and learned man. He’ll understand that this vow is not of your making.”

“It doesn’t matter who made it. My father’s soul hangs in the balance.”

She sat back on her heels, frowning. “Do you truly wish to give your life to the Church?”

“I gave my word.”

“Hmm.”

Her frown deepened. Lips pursed, she regarded him with troubled eyes. “You must know this is folly. You’re placing honor before reason.”

“Honor is all I have.”

A look of impatience crossed her face. “Why is it that some men put such stock in the notion that a vow once given may never be broken, while others forswear themselves whenever it’s convenient?”

“I’m not such a one,” Simon said stiffly.

“No?” She couldn’t keep the bitterness from her voice. “Wait until you’ve spent more time in the East. You’ll see how often Christian turns against Christian and kings align themselves with their sworn enemies in order to protect their lands and fiefs.”

“It’s no different in the West.” It shamed him to admit the kind of seed he’d sprung from, but her comment drew a reluctant truth from him. “My father is such a one. Always grasping, always ready to forswear his oath and switch allegiances when it suited him. That’s not my way.”

She regarded him for long moments. “No,” she said at last, “I can see it is not. Well then, Simon de Rhys, you’ve held to your end of our bargain. I will hold to mine. You will leave Fortemur on the morrow fully armed, with my grandsire’s warhorse to carry you into battle.”

“He’s a gift worthy of a king, lady. Worth far more than what you paid for me.”

She arched a brow. “What are you saying? A horse is not a fair trade for my maidenhead?”

“No, of course not. But—”

She cut him off with a dismissive wave of one hand. “The deed is done, the bargain struck. Now…” She drew in a long breath. “Now we’d best return to the keep.”

He got to his feet and dressed in his borrowed clothing while she gathered hers. When he’d belted on his sword, he reached down to help her up. She put her hand in his and rose. They stood for a moment, each gazing into the other’s eyes.

He needed one final taste of her to carry with him, Simon decided. One touch of his mouth to hers. The memory of it must needs last him the rest of his life.

He bent and brushed his lips over hers. When he raised his head again, he had to work to keep his voice steady.

“I will pray that God keeps you safe, lady.”

“And I you, Simon.”

She drew her hands from his and led the way out of the cave. He followed her up the treacherous path, braced to catch her if she slipped or stumbled. Their mounts waited patiently in the shade of the cypress. Her smaller, swifter barb was near obscured by Avenger’s muscled bulk. The warhorse, in turn, was dwarfed by Fortemur’s walls.

The massive fortress dominated the view from the cliffs. Within shouting distance, as Jocelyn had said, but worlds away from the sparkling cave that was her own special place. And Simon’s now. He knew the hour or so they’d passed there would remain emblazoned in his heart for all the years to come.

He untied the reins of her barb and held it steady while she mounted with the lithe grace he’d come to think of as hers alone. He was about to mount, himself, when a shout rang through the air.

“Lady Jocelyn!”

Simon spun around. His hand went instinctively to his sword hilt, but the page that came running along the cliff’s edge wore the red and black of Fortemur.

“Lady Jocelyn,” the boy panted when he drew closer. “Sir Hugh sent me to find you.”

“Why?” Her glance flew to the ramparts, as if searching for a spiral of smoke or some other signal of disaster. Seeing none, she asked the boy sharply, “What’s amiss?”

“Blondin has arrived!”

Chapter Seven

“B
londin!”

Jocelyn’s heart took a quick leap. This was all she needed to set the seal on a day she knew she would never forget. Eagerly, she turned to Simon.

“Have you heard of him?”

“No.”

“He’s well known here in the East. His verses are most lyrical and filled with biting wit.”

“Ah! So he’s one of the troubadours we spoke of just moments ago?” A smile creased his cheeks. “One who will sing songs to your face?”

The reminder sent heat into her cheeks.

“He spends most of his time at the court of his patron, the Prince of Antioch,” she related as they mounted, “and only rarely travels this far south.”

When he did, it was an occasion for great laughter and a chance to hear the latest juicy bits of gossip.

“How fortunate that you don’t leave until the morrow,” she told Simon. “Blondin’s visits are always an occasion for everyone to dress in their finest feathers.”

Except he had none, she remembered belatedly. Besides his borrowed breeks and coarse wool tunic and the hauberk Sir Guy was even now having altered for him, he possessed no other garments. Not that he would need them when he was inducted into the Knights Templar. Whatever he brought to the order would belong to the order.

But tonight, Jocelyn decided, she would see him clothed as befitted a knight. He rode her grandsire’s destrier. He could wear one of his mantles, as well. The idea took hold of her as she and Simon rode through Fortemur’s mighty gates. They parted at the stables, since he insisted on currying and feeding Avenger from his own hand so the warhorse would imprint his scent.

As Jocelyn hurried across the bailey, she saw at once that Blondin’s unexpected visit had wrought as much excitement as de Rhys’s conquest of her grandsire’s destrier had earlier that afternoon. Cook fires flamed bright in the kitchen sheds. Geese and boar roasted on spits. Two maids hurried through the garden, pulling up turnips and leeks by the fistful to throw into baskets. Even Lady Constance looked flustered when Jocelyn encountered her on the stairs to the great hall.

“Where in heaven’s name have you been?”

“On the cliffs.”

“You’ll fall to your death there one of these days.”

The older woman clicked her tongue in disapproval but was as excited as the rest of the keep’s residents. Too excited, thankfully, to comment on Jocelyn’s disordered hair and clothing.

“Did you get word that Blondin has arrived?”

“I did.”

“He and his assistants are taking wine and meats in the great hall with Sir Thomas and his wife. You’ll wish to greet them, I’m sure.”

“I do indeed. But first I must tend to another matter.”

Lady Constance nodded, clearly preoccupied. “In the meantime, I must see to the puddings and boiled bacon. I ordered two cauldrons fired. The foodstuffs should be cooked in time to use the hot water to wash with before we sup.”

Thankful she had such an efficient lady to tend to these chores, Jocelyn slipped down the stairs to the cellars. Even in the heat of summer Fortemur’s massive walls kept them cool and dry. Bypassing the locked chambers that stored precious spices and the one holding salted meats, she made for the counting room. It was here she reviewed rents and revenues thrice monthly with Sir Thomas. Here also where she kept the castle’s supply of gold beasants and the trunks containing her most precious belongings. The keys to the room were on the ring that hung from her girdle.

One key opened the lock on the door, another the chest where she’d stored those of her grandfather’s things she hadn’t given away after his death. She knelt beside the chest and stifled a familiar stab of grief.

Sir William had been big and bluff and swift to exact retribution for any crime, be it large or small. Jocelyn had learned the fine art, and often crushing responsibility, of governance at his hand. And from him she’d inherited the absolute determination to hold what was hers.

Her aching grief had dulled in the months since his death, but the pangs sharpened as she lifted the trunk’s heavy lid and the costly scent of sandalwood drifted from the carefully folded garments. These had been her grandfather’s finest. Some of the robes were trimmed with the fur of lynx or fox, others lavishly embroidered with gold or silver thread.

They were supposed to have gone to her husband as part of her dower. Not that the Emir of Damascus would deign to wear them. They were too heavy for the heat of the desert, and too Frankish in design. So it was only fitting, she thought with a touch of defiance, that she should gift one of these robes to the man she’d taken to her bed in a deliberate and most desperate scheme to avoid being sent to the emir.

She dug deeper into the chest and found the garment she sought. Ironically, the soft, fine wool was dyed a color called Saracen blue—so named for the brilliant skies of the East. The hue matched almost exactly that of Simon de Rhys’s eyes. She pulled the robe from the bottom of the pile and held it to her face with both hands. Part of her knew she should be shamed to her depths to kneel here, clutching one of her grandfather’s prized garments, and think of the eyes that had skimmed over her naked flesh just hours ago.

Another part shivered with a forbidden thrill. She might never have experienced that thrill if not for Simon de Rhys. She doubted the emir, if she were given to him, would take the time to pleasure a frightened virgin. Or even believe that she should be pleasured. Jocelyn had heard whispers of dire mutilations to suppress all carnal desires. And not just to the eunuchs who served in harems.

That would not be her fate!

It could not!

Shuddering, she dug out a lavishly embroidered undertunic, slammed the trunk’s lid, locked it and left the counting room. She hurried up the tower stairs and almost burst out onto the steps that led to the bailey. So precipitate was her ascent that she had to take a deep breath before calling to the gangly youth making his way across the bailey.

“You! Will Farrier!”

The youngest son of her farrier bobbed his head. “Aye, milady?”

“Have you seen the one called Sir Simon?”

“I have, lady. He’s in the stable. I just spoke with him,” young Will added in his solemn, wide-eyed way. “He says he leaves on the morrow to join the Knights Templar.”

“So he does.”

“Would that I could go with him!”

His fervency didn’t surprise Jocelyn. The Knights Templar had earned their reputation as the foremost and most fearsome warriors in the land. Every young page or squire in training viewed them as models to be emulated on the field of battle. Not all, of course, wished to join them in their Holy Orders.

Jocelyn considered that as she crossed the bailey. She’d intended to consult Sir Hugh about which of the squires in training at Fortemur might act as Simon’s squire until he acquired one of his own. Will Farrier might do instead. Quite well, in fact.

The boy was not yet eleven but tall and overly serious for his age. And so very, very devout. He served the castle priest assiduously at morning Mass and sang every Pater Noster and Ave Maria in a high, clear voice that would no doubt change with age. Jocelyn had already discussed with his parents and with Father Joseph sponsoring the lad’s entrance as an oblate into one of the monasteries here in the Holy Land when he came of age.

Mayhap he could join the Templars instead. Will hadn’t trained for battle, but he had assisted his father at the bellows. He knew how to forge a blade and shoe a horse. Since he was from the lower orders, he could train to become a sergeant. In that capacity, he could care for Simon’s weapons and ride into battle at his side.

She would speak to his parents, Jocelyn decided. But first she would—

“By all the saints!”

She stumbled to a dead stop just outside the thatch-roofed stable. The familiar odor of horse sweat and manure filled her nostrils. The sight of Simon stripped to the waist filled every other sense.

He stood beside the horse trough, his muscles rippling as he washed himself with a rag and a handful of the soft, squishy soap the laundresses brewed from mutton fat, wood ash and soda. One of the stable boys balanced precariously on the edge of the wooden trough with a bucket in hand.

At Simon’s nod, the lad tipped a bucket over his head. Water sluiced down his chest and wet his breeks, molding them to his powerful flanks.

Jocelyn’s fingers tightened on the folded robe she held in her hands. As she stared at the bulge at the jointure of his thighs, the sensations from the crystal cave came sweeping back. The wild joy of it. The glorious licentiousness of it.

Then Simon turned so the stable boy could sluice his back and every wicked, sinful thought flew out of Jocelyn’s head. His stripes were healing, but were still so red and vicious that she wondered how he could bend, much less have been able to service her as he had.

How selfishly she’d used him! How thoughtlessly! The realization shamed her, and made the gift of her grandfather’s warhorse and robe seem paltry by comparison. Chagrined, she waited until he turned again and saw her to explain her errand.

“I brought you one of my grandfather’s robes,” she said with a huskiness she couldn’t keep from her voice. “He had not your height, but he was broad of shoulder.”

“I thank you for the loan, but—”

“It’s not a loan. I gift you with it.”

“You’ve already given me all I need. All I could desire of you,” he added slowly.

This wasn’t a conversation she wished the stable boy to hear. She sent him a stern glance. “You, lad. Give Sir Simon a cloth to dry himself with and leave us.”

The boy scrambled to obey, and Simon used the cloth on his head and torso. Jocelyn followed its sweep over ropy muscle and smooth flesh. Wrenching her gaze from his chest, she shook out the robe so he could see the embroidery decorating the sleeves and hem.

“I set these stitches myself.”

He lifted one of the sleeves to inspect the intricate floral design. “They’re finely done.”

“No, they’re not,” she countered with a rueful smile. “You don’t need to bend the truth with me. I know I have many skills. Putting needle to cloth isn’t one of them. But I labored over these stitches for many an hour. They’re a mark of the love and respect I bore for my grandfather. I would… I would that you have this robe, Simon, and wear it while yet you may.”

That would not be long. When he completed his initiation, he would don the simple robe of a monk. Or, when he rode into battle, a white surcoat emblazoned with a red cross. The realization lay heavy between them as his eyes skimmed over her face.

“Then I thank you, Lady Jocelyn. For this robe, and for all else you’ve gifted me with.”

She nodded and spun on her heel. Moments later she plunged into the frantic bustle of a keep preparing for a lively night’s entertainment.

By the time she’d greeted Blondin and his assistants and consulted once more with Lady Constance on preparations for the hastily assembled feast, she barely had time to wash and have the tangles combed from her hair. While one maid hastily rubbed crushed rose petals into her cheeks, another whisked one of Jocelyn’s best gowns from the clothes chest and shook out its shimmering folds.

“No! Not the damascene.”

She would eat pig slop before she would don the bliaut of costly figured silk, woven on two sides to give it a sheen so special that it was named for the place where it had originated. Tonight she wanted nothing to remind her of Damascus or its emir!

“I’ll wear the ruby bliaut.”

The gown was sewn from Venetian silk. As soft as a spider’s web, it boasted a square neckline cut low over the breasts and sleeves so long they dragged the floor. Beneath it Jocelyn wore a tunic trimmed with cloth of gold that showed at the sides when she walked. A chin band in the same paper-thin gold emphasized the long line of her throat and held back hair her maids brushed to a gleaming shimmer. She topped the headband with a circlet of beaten gold studded with garnets.

As she pirouetted in front of the mirror, Jocelyn tried to convince herself that she hadn’t taken such pains with her hair and dress on Simon’s account. The effort was fruitless. The moment she entered the great hall, her glance swept its length and breadth until she spotted him.

He was seated at the lower boards, as befitted his rank. And as much as she longed to have him join her at the high table, there he must needs remain. She’d no doubt stirred gossip already by gifting him with her grandfather’s robe. She dared not raise Sir Thomas’s brows further by inviting a lowly knight to share the high table.

Lady Constance’s efforts had ensured that Fortemur rose to the occasion of a visit by the realm’s most renowned troubadour. Silver plates and gem-studded goblets graced the linen-covered high table. Gold saltcellars marched between them. Even the trestle tables where the lower orders ate had been scrubbed free of grease stains and sported precious wax candles instead of bowls of tallow belching their usual brown smoke.

Sir Hugh, Sir Guy and Lady Constance were already in their seats. So were Sir Thomas and his pinch-faced wife. Jocelyn gave an inner sigh. The woman’s expression was so set in those dour lines that her cheeks would crack if she ever once smiled.

And who could
not
smile at Blondin’s clever verses? After scurrying squires delivered the first course of boar’s head with brawn pudding, sugared partridge and venison shank with stewed turnips, the bard strolled the hall. He was a small man, thin and shorter by a head than most of those around him, but richly dressed in the latest fashions. He obviously took great pains with the luxuriant mane of hair that fell in shining brown waves well past his shoulders. Rings decorated the fingers of both hands and the heavy gold chain draped around his neck bespoke the worth in which his patron held him.

But it was his voice that was his most precious possession. As clear and pure as the song of a lark on a bright spring morning, it soared through the great hall as his so-skilled fingers plucked the strings of his mandolin and his underlings accompanied him on flute and lyre.