Infamous (25 page)

Warwick stood rooted to the spot.
Holy Christ, is it possible her lover was Robert Bruce?
He felt as if a boulder had smashed into his solar plexus. He stared at his wife. In the azure riding dress with her lovely hair billowing about her shoulders, she was exquisitely tempting. No man could see her and not want her. The more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that Robert Bruce was the whoreson who had seduced her.
How could I have been so fucking blind and obtuse?
He closed his eyes and saw a sea of dark crimson red. Warwick knew it was bloodlust.

 

The ride to Hertford Castle took little more than an hour. Jory rode beside Ralph Monthermer, who answered all her questions about Joanna and Margaret. She was completely unaware that Warwick, flanked by his two knights, rode in aloof silence totally immersed in his own private torment.

Raging jealousy almost consumed him. Robert Bruce, Earl of Carrick, was in his prime, no more than twenty-three years old, the exact same age as Jory. Moreover, he was now a
king
no less; apparently an exceedingly virile king, who had planted his seed without thought, then abandoned the lady shamelessly because of his driving ambition for a crown.
I'll kill the whoreson!

They arrived at the castle, and Ralph helped Lady Marjory from the saddle. Filled with excitement, she lifted the hem of her riding dress and rushed inside to surprise Joanna. A servant directed her to a private walled garden, and as she stood on the steps that led out to a green lawn with a splashing fountain, she saw four ladies playing ball with a little girl, who could only be Margaret of Gloucester. The ball rolled toward her and she scooped it up and tossed it back to them.

“Jory?” Joanna shaded her eyes. “Yes, it is Jory!” She hurried across the lawn with open arms. “I thought you had dropped off the face of the earth.” She embraced her friend, then stepped back to observe her from head to toe. “My God, I once predicted that someday you would exude sensuality and, lo and behold, that day has arrived.”

“Oh, Joanna, it's so good to see you again and know that you still say exactly what you think.”

“I warrant such a transformation must be the result of exploring and indulging your sexuality to the fullest. I cannot wait to hear all the details. Eleanor de Leyburn and Maud Clifford will be grass green with envy.”

“Eleanor, Maud, how wonderful it is to see you both again.”

“Jory, you look radiant,” Eleanor declared.

“How do you always manage to look so elegant?” Maud asked.

The little girl ran up to her. “Are you an angel?”

Joanna hooted. “She does have angel tresses, but the resemblance stops there, poppet!” She took her daughter's hand. “It's been so long, I don't think Margaret remembers you, Jory.”

“I remember you, Margaret. How could I forget the prettiest girl in the world?”
She still has the dear little freckles.

Joanna turned and motioned for the other female in their group to come forward. “This is Catherine, youngest sister of Roger Mortimer, whom I'm sure you must remember.”

“Of course I remember. We attended his wedding at Wigmore. I'm delighted to meet you, Catherine.”
Her dark beauty is entrancing. She is so young and vividly lovely, I'm surprised Joanna doesn't resent her.

“I remember you from the wedding, Lady Marjory. I was only ten at the time and completely in awe of you.”

“Out with it, Jory de Warenne, you are fairly bursting to tell us your news,” Joanna guessed shrewdly.

“My name is no longer de Warenne, nor de Bohun. I happen to be Marjory de Beauchamp!”

Joanna's jaw dropped. “Well, I'll be damned. I warrant the infamous Earl of Warwick is the source of your ripe sensuality.”

Jory smiled. “If I look ripe, it is because I'm with child.”

“At long last, you are getting your heart's desire for a child of your own. Marjory, I am so happy for you.”

Catherine gazed at Jory with disbelief, and then she blushed profusely and lowered her lashes. “Is the Earl of Warwick with you today, my lady?”

Jory was slightly puzzled. The young lady looked lovestruck. “Do you know my husband, Catherine?”

“Oh no…I know his son, Sir Rickard de Beauchamp,” she said breathlessly. “I met him at Westminster when he was being knighted along with my brother Roger and Prince Edward.”

“Ah, you must guard your heart, Catherine. The de Beauchamp men have a fatal French charm that make them irresistible.”

“Come, I have just the tower chamber to accommodate the Earl and Countess of Warwick,” Joanna declared. “I warrant you have a mountain of luggage and I want to see every elegant garment. Catherine, gather some of those fragrant damask roses for milady's chamber.”

When they entered the castle, Joanna dispatched a servant to locate the Warwicks' trunks and deliver them to the guest tower.

As they climbed the tower stairs Jory and Joanna each took one of Margaret's hands to help the four-year-old and all three took delight in counting the steps. “One two, buckle my shoe.”

At the top of the steps, Joanna ordered, “Close your eyes.” She glanced at Jory to make sure she complied. “Now…open!”

“Oh, my beautiful black swan bathing tub! You brought it from Gloucester Castle just for me.”

“Well, not exactly. I had every intention of stealing it for my own use, but with my black hair and dark skin it made me look like a hideous Medusa.”

The marble swan sat in a corner of the tower room beside a stone fireplace. The wide bed had royal purple curtains and the walls were covered with rich tapestries that depicted naked nymphs in various wooded settings. “This chamber is rather sybaritic—ideal for you and that dark virile earl you wed, I warrant.”

Catherine put the damask roses in a vase beside the bed and their fragrant scent filled the air.

“I shall bathe in my decadent black swan tonight before I retire with the infamous devil. I've quite made up my mind!”

“C
ome, we will dine in my private chambers tonight, rather than the hall. I can hardly bear to be in Father's presence, so I'm not about to expose you to His Majesty's murderous mood. Since he learned that the Bruce was crowned King of Scotland, he's been like a warhorse with a hot poker up its arse,” Joanna warned.

“Robert Bruce is the rightful King of Scotland,” Jory declared.

Eleanor and Maud gasped. Joanna's eyes narrowed. “Just because Marjory Bruce is your godmother, doesn't mean you owe your loyalty to a traitor. There isn't a man breathing who has turned his coat more than Robert Bloody Bruce!” Joanna beckoned her daughter's nurse and the woman led Margaret away.

“It is a fait accompli,” Jory said flatly. “Why doesn't King Edward accept it and enjoy his declining years instead of calling his barons to fight another bloody, never-ending war?”

Joanna laughed. “It's a male thing. You know one male cannot bear another to have something he claims belongs to him…whether it's a country, a castle, a woman, or even a hunting bitch.”

Jory went icy cold.
Dear God, never let Warwick know Robert Bruce was my lover.

They arrived at Joanna's chambers and she informed a serving woman that the ladies would like dinner brought up.

“Joanna, your brother Edward is nominal head of the army and is already at the Border. Aren't you afraid for his life?”

Joanna laughed even harder. “My brother won't go into battle. He doesn't have the balls to fight. He's like a girl. I should have been the boy—I'd make a far better king and Edward would make a far better
queen!
” She laughed at her own jest.

“
He
may not fight, but he'll order others to do the killing and bloodletting for him—my brother, Catherine's brother, my husband, and your husband too, Joanna.”

“King Edward Plantagenet did not fight all these years to conquer Scotland, then sit back and let the Bruce become king.”

“Yes,” Jory declared passionately. “He fought all those years to conquer Scotland so he could pass it on to his son. Once your brother is king, he will lose everything your father has won, and all the bloodshed will have been for naught.”

Joanna sobered. “You're right, of course. Father realizes the only way my brother can hang on to any of our French possessions is to wed him to King Philip of France's daughter.”

“Poor lady,” Jory murmured.

“Isabella is only thirteen, little more than a child.”

“Then my heart truly bleeds for her,” Jory whispered.

“Let us talk of something more pleasant. I hope you realize you will become as big as a pig full of figs, my beauteous friend,” Joanna said with unconcealed glee. “Ah, here is dinner. I cannot wait to see you gorge yourself, Jory. Before you're done, your hump will be as big as a camel's, I warrant!”

Jory went pale.

“Curse my tongue! I forgot your mother died in childbirth, darling. I'm jealous that you are so tiny—pay no heed to me.”

Why is it Joanna cannot resist saying cruel things?
Jory pondered.
It's in her Plantagenet blood, I suppose.

After dinner, Joanna dismissed Eleanor, Maude, and young Catherine Mortimer so she could be alone with Marjory. “I'm simply dying to know how you ended up with Warwick after he betrayed your trust five years ago.”

“As it turned out, it was my uncle who betrayed my trust. My family deliberately deceived me into believing Guy did not offer for me and coerced me to wed Humphrey de Bohun.”

“It must have been a staggering blow to Warwick's pride that you turned down a powerful earl for an untitled, younger man.”

“He's strong enough to withstand a staggering blow. It didn't deter him from pursuing me once I was widowed.”

Joanna's smile was sly. “When he came to pay his respects after Gilbert died and revealed he still had a prurient desire for you, I took great delight in telling him the merry widow was relishing her newfound freedom and had not the slightest interest in marriage.”

“What a thoughtful friend you are.”

Joanna ignored the sarcasm. “So when did he finally catch up with you and propose?”

“I was the one who proposed and asked the infamous devil to marry me. To my delight, he couldn't resist the temptation.”

“My hat is off to you, darling. You are an expert at male manipulation.”

“I didn't manipulate him. I am deeply in love with him.”

Joanna stared at her. “The sad thing is, I believe you. Why else would you marry a man who had killed off two wives? Jory, don't look at me like that—you know my tongue gets carried away.”

Jory's smile was gentle. “I forgive you. I have a soft spot for people with flaws.”

“Touché! Your barbs are far more subtle than mine.”

“I should retire—”

“No, no. Before you go, I'd like to ask a favor. How would you like another lady-in-waiting?”

“I don't have any ladies. I have only a Welsh woman who is rather odd.”

“You are the Countess of Warwick, for God's sake. You should have your own court. To start you off I'll give you one of mine.”

“You want me to take Catherine Mortimer off your hands.”

“Damn you, Jory. I'd forgotten how shrewd you are.”

“If the young beauty is willing, I'd love to have her.”

“You are a good friend.” Joanna summoned a servant. “The Countess of Warwick needs hot water for her bath.”

 

When Jory arrived at her tower chamber, she hoped her husband would be there before her. She feared that being closeted for hours with King Edward Plantagenet would be unpleasant, to put it mildly, and she was prepared to soothe and assuage Warwick's dark fury in any way she could. When she found the chamber empty, she began to worry. She caught a glimpse of her anxious face in the polished mirror and began to laugh. If any man on earth was a match for the King of England, it was Warwick.

A knock on the door brought servants with hot water to fill her marble bathing tub. She thanked them profusely and when they left she began to unfasten her gown. She heard another low knock on the door and when she opened it, there stood Catherine.

“May I speak with you, my lady?” she asked shyly.

“Come in, Catherine. I was just about to take a bath.”

“Would you let me help you, Lady Warwick?”

“Thank you. That is most kind.” She turned her back to Catherine so that she could unfasten her gown.

“I would love to become your lady-in-waiting.” It came out in a rush as if it took all her courage. “Princess Joanna has been most generous to find me a place among her ladies, but I don't fit in with Lady Eleanor and Lady Maude. They dismiss me because I am so young.”

“So young and so vividly beautiful. You are a threat to them, Catherine. I shall have a word with Joanna and tell her that I would like to have you as one of my ladies.”

“Oh, thank you so much, my lady. You are exceedingly kind.” Catherine hung Lady Marjory's garments in the wardrobe, picked up a towel, and followed a naked Jory to her bathing tub.

Guy de Beauchamp opened the door and strode into the chamber.

Catherine gasped and flushed to the roots of her hair. She sank into a curtsy. “Lord Warwick,” she said faintly and fled.

“You have a devastating effect on females, my love.”

Guy didn't seem to hear her. He stood transfixed at the vision before him. His wife was reclining naked in a black marble swan. In the languidly sensual pose, her lush breasts seemed to float upon the bathwater. Her golden-tipped lashes cast delicate shadows upon her cheekbones, and her full lips formed a little moue inviting his kisses. Her silvery hair cascaded over the edge of the tub to the carpet, tempting him to tangle his fingers in it and lift it to his face. He felt his cock engorge and begin to throb with desire.
You have a devastating effect on males!
Warwick was instantly, insanely jealous of every man who had ever glimpsed her naked beauty.

“Joanna brought my prized bathing tub from Gloucester. I refuse to leave it behind again; I shall take it home to Warwick.”

“Only a besotted male would take on the task of hauling a bathing tub seventy miles across country.”

Jory smiled her secret smile. “Let me besot you.” She lifted the sponge and a rivulet of water cascaded down upon her upthrust breasts, making her nipples ruche into tiny pink pearls. She ran the tip of her tongue over her lips in blatant sexual invitation.

Warwick felt his control slip as his cock began to pulse wildly. His feet moved of their own volition and he was drawn inexorably toward the glistening wet nymph. All day his emotions had been in turmoil during his audience with Edward Plantagenet and he had made vows to himself based on those emotions. That his vows coincided with a pledge to the king was merely incidental.

The sexual lust he now felt was increased tenfold by the bloodlust for Robert Bruce that had goaded him all day. He held himself in check as he watched her raise a slim leg and stroke the sponge down its enticing length. Her relentless cock-teasing was producing more than the desired effect, and Warwick knew if she went much further Jory might have reason to regret the savage lust she was arousing.

Thinking to protect her, he moved away. When she reached for the linen towel that Catherine had dropped, however, he said, “I'll do that.” It was not a request; it was a statement of intent. He picked up the towel, closed the distance between them, and held his arms wide. She swayed toward him and he wrapped her in the linen, lifted her from the water, carried her across the chamber, and stood her on the bed.

Jory watched him open the towel and lick the droplets of water from her breasts with his tongue. Its rough texture sent a delicious frisson of arousal spiraling from her taut nipples down into her belly. She watched in fascination as he twisted the towel into a rope. He reached up, wrapped it around her neck, pulled her face down to his, then ravished her mouth with his tongue. When he finally withdrew, she was melting with desire.

He slid the linen towel from her neck and twisted it tighter. “Open your legs,
chéri
.”

Jory was more than ready to obey him; she was eager for his bed sport. When he began to draw the rope back and forth between her legs she wanted to scream with excitement. She threaded her fingers into his long black hair to steady herself and arched her mons toward him.

Guy dropped the rope, cupped her round bottom with his palms, and slid his fingers into the deep cleft between her bum cheeks. He knew a raging need to devour her, but cautioned himself to give her pleasure, not pain. He dipped his head and blew on the golden tendrils that covered her mons. When she shuddered with longing, he thrust his tongue into her honeyed sheath.

She felt the scalding heat leap from his mouth up inside her woman's core and the fiery tendrils spread all the way up to her breasts like rivers of flame. His surging tongue ravished her with the same primal rhythm and hot sliding friction as his cock, and all too soon she was crying out her pleasure as she dissolved in liquid tremors.

Jory felt Guy slide his hands down the backs of her legs and grip her ankles. A quick tug brought her down to the bed, where she lay in a wanton sprawl, panting with anticipation at the passion she knew he was about to unleash. He stripped off his clothes and towered above her like a dark, powerful, and potent force of nature.

Guy felt like a raptor, ready to sink his talons into the soft flesh of his helpless prey. He closed his eyes and willed the fierce emotions that consumed him to have pity on the lovely, delicate female who lay before him, completely at his mercy.

His all-consuming love for Jory tempered his raging need. He wanted to bind her to him forever, and he was well aware that the surest way to do that was to focus on giving her a pleasurable experience. If he could delight, enchant, and
gratify
, not just her body, but also her mind and her senses, he stood a chance of keeping her.

Her silver-gilt tresses spread across the purple velvet created an alluring picture he would remember forever. He plucked a damask rose from beside the bed and crushed it. His senses were drenched with its fragrance and he opened his fingers and watched the delicate rose petals drift down upon her flawless bare skin.

Jory held up her arms in supplication. “Guy, come to me.” Her hands slid over the polished muscles of his chest and shoulders and she reveled in the feel of his full weight as he covered her with his hard body. That he was a true flesh-and-blood warrior who had been victorious in many battles thrilled her. That he was dark and dominant appealed to her ultrafeminine nature. That he was the infamous Earl of Warwick enthralled her. She slid her arms about his neck and wrapped her legs high about his back, yielding her softness to his marble-hard length. Her tight sheath closed sleekly around him and she gave herself up to the hot glide of his thick shaft as he moved in and out in a tantalizing slow rhythm that played counterpoint to the powerful beat of his heart.