Infamous (4 page)

“I have already seen you naked, my lord.”

His brows drew together. “How…where?”

Her laughter floated around him. “I was watching from atop the Round Tower when you rode in. You stood out from all the rest. Even from that great distance you made my knees grow weak. I had an overwhelming desire to see you naked, so I went to the bathhouse. When I gazed at your body, I was mesmerized. I had no idea who you were, but I had chosen you, and I was determined to find you.” Her fingers traced the golden bear and the words embroidered on his black velvet robe.
“Non Sans Droit.”
She made an attempt to translate the French motto. “Not without honor?”

“Not without right.” He immediately breached the ancient chivalric principle of Warwick and took possession of her lips.

The kiss was so profound, almost mystical; it felt as if they had claimed each other. She placed her hands against his chest to steady herself; then her fingers slid beneath the velvet, parting the robe. “I want to see you again,” she said breathlessly.

The garment fell to the carpet and she stepped back so that she could view his full naked splendor as he towered before her. The firelight turned his skin to polished bronze, enticing her to touch his flesh to learn if his body was as hard and as strong as it looked. She moved just close enough to reach out and let her fingertips trace the solid muscles that rippled across his powerful chest and shoulders. She feathered her fingers through the black curls, then laid her palm over his heart, feeling its heavy, pulsing beat quicken at her touch to mingle with her own.

Her gaze dropped to his flat belly, then lowered to his groin. She watched his shaft harden and lengthen until it became fully erect. Its velvet head almost reached his navel. Her eyes filled with wonder as she raised them to meet his. “Guy de Beauchamp, you are truly magnificent. I have made the perfect choice.”

“I have a towering pride, and value myself above all other men, but you must not delude yourself, little one. Far from being perfect, I am flawed in every way.”

To add credence to his words, his bold fingers unfastened the laces of her tunic and slipped it from her shoulders. The loose garment pooled at her feet, revealing that she wore neither petticoat nor hose, but stood before him naked. She glanced down at her upthrust breasts and the laughter that spilled from her was filled with unconcerned delight. “I was abed when I decided to come to you.”

“And bed is where I shall take you.” His deep voice was husky with desire. He swept her into his arms and held her high against his heart. Her head fell back, the white linen cloth fluttered to the floor, and her glorious silver-gilt hair spilled over his arm.

Warwick stared in disbelief at the exquisite creature he held in his arms.
Splendor of God, her hair is like silken moonlight.
He thought her weightless as thistledown as he carried his precious burden to the bed, laid her down gently, and spread her shimmering hair across the crimson velvet cover.

He gazed down at her, spellbound, and wondered briefly if he were dreaming—surely she was too unearthly fair to be real. If not a dream, perhaps she was a figment of his imagination, a fantasy come to life. Slowly, he lifted a silvery tendril, and as he rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger, it suddenly curled possessively about his fingers, binding them together, and he rejoiced that she was real flesh and blood.

Her dazzling smile lured him onto the bed and as he gazed down at her, she reached up to touch his face. Her fingers brushed across his lips and then traced the outline of his strong jaw, where the blue-black shadow of his beard showed through his skin. Her fingertips stroked across the arch of his brow, dark as a raven's wing; then she threaded her fingers through his long black hair and pulled his face down to hers. She touched her lips to his and whispered his name. “Guy…”

An urge to ravish her flooded over him, but he checked it with his iron will. Instead, he captured her mouth and reveled in its sweet eager surrender. Her kisses tasted like honey, and he couldn't wait to taste the rest of her. His hand stroked down the curve of her throat and his thirsting mouth followed the path of his fingers. He cupped her breast and it filled his calloused palm. Her skin was like alabaster and he hoped he would not mar it with his rough fingers. The tips of her breasts looked like tiny pink rosebuds. When he covered one with his mouth, it swelled and peaked against his tongue.

He kissed her everywhere, the velvety place beneath her breasts, the fine skin that stretched tautly over her delicate rib cage, the soft flesh of her concave belly with its pretty navel. Finally, he came to her plump little mons covered by a hundred tiny gilt tendrils and he groaned with pleasure. She was the most beautifully made female he had ever seen, let alone touched or tasted, and he realized how rare and special she was. “I want to keep you. I want to take you back to Warwick with me.”

His words thrilled her. “Make love to me, Guy.”

“I want to draw it out all night, little beauty. Indulge me.”

“Indulge…the evocative word sounds suggestively sinful.”

Sins of the flesh! Splendor of God, I want to commit every one with you. Then I'll create some new ones.
“Put your arms around my neck and hang on.”

She did as he asked, then impulsively wrapped her legs about him too. As she clung to him, he arose from the bed and carried her across the chamber. She pressed her mouth against the muscled cords of his neck, loving the salt taste of his swarthy skin. With every step he took, the crisp curls on his wide chest teased the nipples of her soft breasts, turning them into hard little buds, and with every step she felt his erect cock brush against the cheeks of her bum, exciting her so much she bit his shoulder.

Warwick stopped before the polished silver mirror. “I want to see what we look like together, and I want you to see, too.” He lifted her from his marble-hard cock, set her feet on the carpet so that she faced the mirror, and positioned himself behind her.

Though Jory had spent many an hour in front of a looking glass, arranging her hair or admiring the fit of a gown, she had never studied the reflection of herself nude. The contrast between their bodies was startling. It emphasized and exaggerated their many differences. She looked extremely small, soft, delicate, pale, feminine, fragile, and exquisitely beautiful.

Everything about Warwick looked too large, too hard, too dark, too powerful, and far far too masculine. The prideful way he held his head hinted that if the mood took him, he also could be dominant and dangerous. She wanted to scream with excitement.

Her eyes turned dark with desire as she watched his large hands reach from behind her to capture her breasts. He weighed them on his calloused palms and she shuddered at the sensations his touch aroused. She watched his dark head dip down and felt his rough tongue lick a pulse point in her neck. She saw the shiver of pleasure that rippled over her flesh.

She watched, fascinated, as one of his hands moved lower, trailing his long fingers down across her belly until they touched her mons. She saw him separate the gilt tendrils and curl his fingertips into her cleft. With one hand holding her breast and the other cupping her female center, he pressed her back against him and shuddered as the soft curve of her bottom brushed the swollen tip of his cock. Held thus, she appeared to be his captive to do with as he wished, and yet she felt imbued with a beautiful woman's sexual power that made her believe she could sway her captor to do her bidding. “Take me to bed, Guy.”

He lifted her and carried her back across the chamber. He drew back the covers and lay down on the snowy sheet, taking her with him. Then with sheer brute strength he lifted her high above him, so that her silvery hair cascaded down across his shoulders and throat as his eyes feasted on her exquisite beauty. Her laughter too spilled over him, drugging his senses and holding him spellbound. He lowered her slowly onto his body, holding her in the dominant position, and when she opened her lips for his kiss, he ravished her mouth with his tongue. Her fragrance intoxicated him and tantalized his memory as he tried to identify the scent.

He rolled her beneath him and rose onto his knees, straddling her thighs. He gazed down with wonder at the ethereal creature who aroused a fierce tenderness in his heart that he had never felt before. He dipped his head to kiss the tempting golden curls upon her mons and he was lost. With a groan, he slid his tongue into her honeyed sheath.

She gasped and moaned with delight at the tantalizing, forbidden thing he was doing to her. She became highly aroused and writhed with sensual abandon. She arched up into his beautiful, wicked mouth and cried out as he thrust deeply.

Instantly, he withdrew his tongue and moved up over her. His black eyes stared down into hers with disbelief and accusation. “You are still virgin!”

“No, Guy, you are wrong—”

“My tongue touched the barrier of your maiden-head.” His intense gaze searched her face as if he were seeing her clearly for the first time. It began to dawn on him that the first glimpse of her shimmering silver-gilt tresses had blinded him to reality. He cursed himself for a bloody fool. How could he have imagined her to be a servant? Such a fine-boned, delicate beauty with a vocabulary that matched his own was obviously a wellborn lady. Moreover, she was an eighteen-year-old virgin.

Warwick placed firm fingers beneath her chin and compelled her to look at him. “Who are you? I demand to know your name.”

She raised her eyes to meet his. “I am Marjory de Warenne.”

“Christ Almighty!” Guy de Beauchamp shot from the bed as if a demon from hell had just skewered him with a burning pitchfork.

“A
re you the Marjory de Warenne whose brother is Lynx de Warenne and your uncle the Earl of Surrey?” he demanded.

“Yes,” she admitted shyly, lowering her lashes, and crossing her arms to cover her bare breasts.

“It's a little late for that, Lady Marjory.” He picked up his black velvet robe from the floor and thrust it at her. “Why, in the name of God, did you pretend to be a serving wench?” He hated deceit with a vengeance and believed that every woman breathing, not just the ones he'd known, indulged in lying and cheating.

Jory slid her arms into his robe and wrapped it about herself. “I do have an explanation, my lord.” Though he suddenly found her nakedness highly inappropriate, he seemed unaware of his own.

Silence stretched between them; he said sharply, “I'm waiting!”

“It's a long story, my lord.”

“We have all night. I am not noted for my patience, but in your case, Lady Marjory, I will try to make an exception.”

“Please don't call me that…My name is Jory.” The noise he made in his throat sounded like a growl. She took a deep breath and plunged in. “I am lady-in-waiting to Princess Joanna. I am also her confidante and friend. For months she has railed against this arranged marriage with Gilbert de Clare, but in the end her father's wishes have prevailed and she has no choice but to wed a man who is thirty years her senior.”

She watched the impatience mount on his face, but he held his tongue. “Now exactly the same thing will happen to me. The Earl of Surrey and my brother will arrange my marriage and I'll have no say in the matter. I found out that they already received an offer, which they turned down, but others will follow. This large gathering of nobles provides a most timely opportunity to negotiate matrimonial matches.”

“Who offered for you?” he demanded sharply.

“Lord Aylesbury, for his younger son.”

Warwick's brows drew together in outrage. “The son of a bitch should be hanged for his temerity!” He strode to the fire and gave it a vicious jab with the poker. “Go on,” he ordered.

“My friend Joanna suggested that before they arrange my marriage with someone I don't want and bludgeon me into becoming a dutiful wife, I should choose a tempting young lord who would lure me to dalliance.” She sighed deeply. “I chose you.”

“I am not young. I am thirty-four years old.”

“Truly, my lord? Thirty-four seems a perfect age to me.”

“It's not just my age. I am unsuitable in every way.”

“Unsuitable for dalliance? You are quite wrong. You set my blood on fire and make me melt with longing.”

Warwick flung down the poker with a sharp bark of laughter. He came and sat on the foot of the bed, his eyes filled with amusement. “What the hell am I going to do with you, Jory?”

“I don't know, my lord. I am very willful.”

To say nothing of exquisitely beautiful, temptingly innocent, and infinitely fuckable.
His cock stirred and he quickly covered it with the sheet.

“You said you wanted to keep me, that you wanted to take me back to Warwick with you.”

“That was before I realized you were a highborn noble lady.”
The only way I could keep you would be to make you my wife, and marriage is anathema to me!
“Jory, what do you know about me?”

“I know that you are Guy de Beauchamp, the
infamous
Earl of Warwick, but I don't know why you are infamous.”

“Are you aware that I am a widower?”

Jory shook her head.

“Are you aware that I have a son the same age as the prince?”

“A son?” she asked with wonder. “Is he here with you?”

“Nay. My son, Rickard, rode with me only as far as Hertfordshire. He has been invited to join Prince Edward's household at King's Langley.”

Jory digested the information. Then she gave him a radiant smile. “I now know that you are thirty-four years old, you are the father of a son, and that you had a wife.”

“Two wives.”

She stared at him; she knew there was more.

“Both died under suspicious circumstances. Dark whispers of murder have swirled about me for years. These rumors are what make me the
infamous
Earl of Warwick. I am beyond redemption.”

“Do you deny the rumors, Guy de Beauchamp?” she whispered.

He gazed at her for a full minute, his purpleblack eyes unreadable, and then he replied, “No, I do not deny them. Both deaths were rightly laid at my door, and I accept full blame.”

Jory sat in his bed, hugging her body, which was clad in his black velvet robe. His stark honesty compelled her to confess something she never said aloud. “I killed my mother. She died giving birth to me. I know what it is like to bear guilt.”

Warwick's heart went out to her. He knew better than to diminish the tragedy by telling her it wasn't her fault. What people thought and said about you mattered not one whit. It was the belief buried deep within your soul that counted. “In spite of my blackened reputation, you are still not afraid of me, are you, Jory de Warenne?”

Her glance roamed over the proud face, muscled shoulders and chest, and came to rest on his powerful hands, which possessed enough brute strength to snuff out her life. Yet those same hands had lovingly held the most private and vulnerable parts of her body. “No, I am not afraid of you, Guy. I would willingly place my safety in your hands.” She raised her eyes to his and smiled.

The question is: Would you be willing to place your future in my hands?
He smiled back at her. He couldn't help it; her smile was infectious and it did strange and wonderful things to his insides. Though he was past thirty, and cynical and jaded beyond his years, this vibrant wisp of a girl made him feel twenty again.

“Let's make a pact that from now on there will always be truth between us. Deceit is the common currency between a male and a female. It is not only uniquely refreshing, it is an aphrodisiac to find a lady who tells me honestly what is in her heart. Candor is a rare and precious thing. Until tonight, I didn't think it was possible to have a relationship without lies and subterfuge. A man usually has to tell a woman what she wants to hear. It is liberating to share my darkest secrets with you, Jory.”

“Men have all the power in this world, my lord earl. In order to achieve the smallest fraction of control over her own life, her own destiny, a woman must dissemble, flatter, and manipulate. If needs must, I will delude the entire world, but I promise I will never lie to you, Guy de Beauchamp.” She tossed her hair about her shoulders. “I have quite made up my mind!”

You will lie, Jory, but it is pleasant to pretend if only for a little while.
“I am honored by your pledge. Come, we must both get dressed and I will take you back.” He opened his wardrobe and donned clean garments, while Jory climbed reluctantly from the bed and slipped on the plain grey tunic. She handed him the black robe and he rubbed it against his cheek. “Your fragrance clings to the velvet.”

“I always wear freesia.”

“The costly scent should have told me you were no serving wench.”
I deliberately deceived myself.
He lifted a curl from her shoulder and rubbed its silken texture between his fingers.

“Are you disappointed that I am highborn?”

“Nothing about you disappoints me, Jory.”
That was my first lie to you, sweetheart. If you were not highborn, it would be a simple task to make you my mistress and sweep you off to Warwick.

“I am regretful that there will be no further dalliance,” she said wistfully. She bent to pick up the white linen headdress.

“Splendor of God, I'm not done with you yet—I've hardly begun. There will be no further dalliance tonight, Lady Marjory, but tomorrow I intend to continue my relentless pursuit and explore any and every possibility of a liaison between us.”

Her fingers trembled with excitement as she covered her hair. He tucked in a tendril that tried to escape and bent to brush his lips across hers. “Lord God, I intend to do more than woo you.” He willfully ignored the emblem on his chest that was doing its damndest to burn a hole in his flesh.
Not without right!

Though it was long past midnight, no guard challenged the Earl of Warwick as he escorted the young maid through Windsor's Upper Ward. With his wolfhound Brutus stalking beside him, none dared.

 

When Jory arose, she did not rush to attend Joanna. The royal princess had plenty of ladies to help her dress and make sure she looked resplendent for the planned hawking party. Jory had her own appearance to see to today. She had an overwhelming desire to look beautiful in Guy de Beauchamp's eyes. She put on a soft white underdress with full sleeves gathered at the wrists, then donned a vivid emerald surcoat embroidered with white roses. Rather than cover her hair with a jeweled caul, she braided it with silver ribbon and wound the long plaits about her head to form a regal coronet. Soft green leather boots and gloves completed her outfit.

Jory joined the princess and her other ladies and together they made their way down to the courtyard adjacent to the stables, where grooms waited with their saddled mounts. Since the queen was no longer robust enough to ride, Joanna and King Edward were to host the hawking party, and Gilbert de Clare stepped forward and aided his bride to mount.

The courtyard was crowded, not only with noble lords and ladies, but with attendants, grooms, and falconers. Cadge boys, with wooden frames suspended from their shoulders, held the birds that had been brought down from the mews for today's hunt.

Jory saw her brother and pushed through the throng to greet him. “Good morning, Lynx. Your tawny hair and great height make you easy to spot in a crowd. Oh hello, Sylvia. I didn't see you.”

Her sister-in-law, adorned in a drab brown surcoat, stared at Jory's outfit. “You are dressed most impractically for a hunt.”

Lynx gave his sister an irreverent wink. “That depends upon what quarry she is after.”

Jory threw him a grateful smile, and then her eyes dilated with pleasure as Guy de Beauchamp joined her brother.

“Lady de Warenne.” Warwick bowed gallantly to Sylvia and addressed Lynx. “You are surrounded by beautiful ladies. How does an ugly devil like you manage it?”

De Warenne grinned. “This is my sister, Lady Marjory. Allow me to present the Earl of Warwick.”

“Not the
infamous
Earl of Warwick?” Jory asked as wicked amusement danced in her eyes. “I already know you by reputation.”

Lynx shot her a warning glance. “Lady Marjory has an impertinent tongue and a knack for causing mayhem. I ask that you excuse my young sister, Warwick.”

“And I ask that you excuse us both. It would be my pleasure to take her off your hands.” He held out his arm. “May I help you choose a falcon, my lady?”

Jory gave him a radiant smile and placed her hand on his arm. “I can think of only one thing I would enjoy more, my lord.” As they moved away, she heard Sylvia hiss, “She's incorrigible!”

“God, I hope so,” Warwick murmured as he maneuvered them to a less crowded part of the courtyard. When they stopped walking, his black eyes roamed over her, devouring her. “You are a feast for the eyes.” He held out his large, closed hand, palm up.

Jory opened his long, shapely fingers one by one and saw that he was offering her a perfect white rose. It filled her with delight to think he compared her with its delicate beauty. As she lifted the fragrant flower to tuck it into her hair, she perceived that its petals had been hiding a small brooch. With a joyous gasp she saw it was a carved onyx wolfhound with an amber eye. “It's Brutus!” Jory immediately tried to pin it to her surcoat.

He grinned down at her. “Let me do that. Are you sure you want everyone to see? It will be like wearing my brand.”

“That is what makes it so exciting. It fills me with pride that a powerful earl like Warwick is courting my favor. I want to shout it to the world.”

“So it is the power of Warwick that attracts you?”

“I refuse to lie to you. Of course it is the power of Warwick that attracts me. It is also the innate French charm and dark virility of Guy de Beauchamp. You make my blood sing!”

He slid his fingers into the décolletage of her riding dress and in doing so brushed against her naked flesh just above her heart. When the brooch was pinned securely, their eyes met and Jory quivered at his intimate touch.

“Is this your mount?” Warwick took the reins of the small roan from the groom. “A dainty white palfrey would suit you better.”

“Infinitely better, but Princess Joanna rides a white horse and prefers that her ladies own less showy animals.”

“She may have her mother's dark coloring, but 'tis rumored her temperament is pure Plantagenet.”