Promise of the Rose (18 page)

His dark gaze held hers. Suddenly his hand snaked out and gripped her elbow, yanking her fully against him. It was so crowded, busy, and noisy in the hall that no one noticed, and if someone had, Roger Beaufort, Earl of Kent, would not have cared. “But will I be able to trust you, darling?”

Adele was furious. Her black eyes blazed and she jerked herself free of her brother’s grasp. “Time will tell, won’t it?”

An ugly expression crossed his face. “We don’t have time, Adele. Every instinct I possess tells me something is afoot. Why is the cleric here? Why has he been summoned for a private audience with the King? Why was the other brother sent to the North? Does another war loom—one I am left out of?”

Adele was frozen once more.

Roger was grim. “You appear fascinated with him.” Their gazes locked. She knew he was not speaking of her betrothed. “Are you not?”

Adele’s pulse was rioting. “Every woman in this room is fascinated with the archdeacon.”

Roger said, “But every woman is not like you.”

Adele raised her fan, hiding her expression. Only her gleaming eyes were visible. “I will find out what passes, brother dear.”

“Have a care,” Roger warned softly. “Do nothing indiscreet.”

And Adele threw back her head, exposing her long, lovely throat, and laughed. “I am never indiscreet, my dear, as
you
should know better than anyone.”

   Geoffrey informed the King’s ushers of his presence—although by now Rufus was undoubtedly aware of it, for the King had more spies lurking about than anyone—and went to find himself a seat at the table in the hall to wait for the royal summons. There was no seat to be had. Geoffrey was tired from the long, hard ride, and he worked his way to a solitary corner, in no mood for light, much less probing, conversation. His appearance at Court had already raised much speculation; most of the world knew he came only when summoned, and then to do battle with the Crown. As he was weary, his thoughts turned to the night to come. Rolfe had several small manors in Essex, and one was just across the Thames. Geoffrey intended to spend the night there instead of returning directly to Canterbury.

His second but more important reason for being in London was to speak with his father and inform him of all that had passed at Alnwick, an urgent necessity now that Stephen had arranged for a marriage to Princess Mary. Geoffrey intended to speak with Rolfe before retiring to Essex that evening. He had already sent the earl a private message.

He thought of a warm, soft bed. A moment later a woman backed into him.

She stumbled and he caught her automatically. Even as he lifted her, for one moment her soft body pressing against his lean one, he knew who it was. He didn’t have to see her to know. But he felt her, smelled her, and being as virile as his brothers, he responded in kind. She turned around in his arms. Seeing him, she gave a small cry of surprise, which he did not, for a moment, believe.

For one more beat he held her. Up close, she was more alluring man from afar. Her skin was tawny and dark, from Mediterranean forebears, perhaps, her brows thick black wings above her almond-shaped eyes. Her mouth was full and large, and above the right corner was a dark mole. She was very tall, her eyes almost level with his, and she had a lush, full-breasted body, which she showed to her advantage
in a thin silk surcote that fit her like fine hose. Geoffrey released Adele Beaufort, the woman his brother was still officially betrothed to.

“Thank you,” she said throatily. Her scent was not just strong but musky. It brought forth images of hot nights, sweaty limbs, and sex. “You saved me from a twisted ankle.”

He did not return her smile. “Did I?”

His doubting tone brought a flush to her olive skin. “The floors are very hard, my lord. Surely I would have hurt myself if you had not caught me.”

He crossed his arms and eyed her, leaning his back against the wall. From this distance he saw that her large nipples were raised against her red silk gown. Would he never be able to control his body? But what man could when confronted by Adele Beaufort? She was the reincarnation of Eve, all that was female, unholy temptation, pure provocation to sweet, sweet sin. He said nothing, immersed in very base thoughts.

She smiled, touched his arm very briefly. “ ’Tis a surprise to see you here, my lord.”

He cocked a brow.

She seemed to sway closer, her smile infinitely seductive. “Are you on Church business, my lord?” She touched him again.

“Do the affairs of God interest you, Lady Beaufort?”

Her lashes fluttered. “All affairs interest me, my lord.”

He took a deep breath. How easily he could imagine her affairs. It was a very good thing that Stephen was not wedding this one. And he was determined to stay away from her, too, before he gave in to his damnable need. “If you would excuse me.” He turned abruptly. Although he fought his virility in a never-ending battle, in the end he always lost. The sooner he returned to Canterbury, the better. He would immerse himself for a single night in the ripe body of a very lusty widow. Tarn was open, honest, and kind. She was no dark seductress, she had no guile, she made no demands.

But Adele Beaufort gripped his wrist, her long nails almost but not quite clawing his skin. “Wait!”

His jaw clenched, he turned.

“Have you word, then, from Stephen?”

“How would I have word from Stephen, madame?”

“Were you not in the North?”

His smile was cold. “You appear well informed, my lady.”

She flushed. “ ’Tis no secret that Brand was in the North, and as the two of you arrived together … I merely thought…”

He cocked his brow again.

“In truth…” Her voice trembled, her breasts heaved. Geoffrey damned himself for not looking away. “Perhaps a private moment… You might… We might… I must repent my sins.”

Geoffrey’s smile was twisted. He knew without having to be told exactly what sins she spoke of. His loins were very thick beneath his robes. Adele was the kind of woman to kindle sinful thoughts. “You do not appear penitent, Lady Beaufort. You appear in dire need of saving.” And so was he.

“Do you—do you wish to save me?”

“Lady Beaufort, I do not think we understand one another.”

“Then we must communicate more thoroughly,” she whispered, and her hand stroked his arm from the elbow to the wrist.

He was frozen, rock-hard with lust, so close to an imminent explosion. There was no mistaking her meaning. And, dear Lord God, all women were forbidden him, but this one, a purposeful temptress, truly seeking his downfall, was far worse than any other—and far more tempting. For he could only imagine what it would be like to spend himself on her exquisite body.

His smile was twisted when he finally managed to summon it. “You know where the chapel is, and Father Gerard would be most willing, I am sure, to hear your confession if you truly wish to repent your sins.”

Her gaze locked with his. The tip of her tongue wet her lips. It was not a nervous gesture, and Geoffrey knew it. “I do. I do. Would
you
hear my confession?”

His smile vanished. He could also imagine what her confession
would be. He felt close to succumbing to her seduction. “I do not hear confessions, Lady Beaufort,” he said harshly. He was furious, with her, and as always, with himself.

She saw his anger. Her eyes gleamed wildly. Before Geoffrey could go, she moved closer, blocking his way. The hard tips of her breasts actually brushed his chest. “I was only trying to thank you for saving me from a fall, my lord.”

He laughed harshly, facing her. He did not move away, could not. Heat steamed between them. She still gripped his forearm. “We both know that I have not saved you, madame, although I would that I could. And we both know that you hardly wish to thank me. I will not be seduced, madame.”

Her black eyes flashed. “You mistake me.”

“I do not mistake you, Lady Beaufort. That would be impossible.”

As seductive as she had been, she was now enraged. “Apparently I have mistaken you!”

He did not answer, for her words were a complete lie—she had recognized him from the first, recognized his huge, misplaced lust, recognized that in a way, they were exactly the same.

And then her next words made him forget himself completely. “I mistook you for a man, despite your robes! But you are no man, are you? You are no man, you are one of those others, one of those boy-lovers!”

Geoffrey forgot that they were in a public place. He caught her wrists and had her up against him a scant instant later. Her dark eyes widened when she felt his engorged manhood, then they turned to smoke.

The obvious invitation issued there brought him to his senses. He released her, stepping back from her. His smile was twisted and harsh. “Never doubt my manhood again.”

“In truth,” she whispered, “I never did!”

But Geoffrey had already shoved past her. Behind him, he heard her cry his name. His strides lengthened, as did his determination. But he was shaken.

Not an hour later, the Earl of Northumberland was ushered into the King’s chamber after having had a very private meeting with his son, Geoffrey. He was an older version of both Geoffrey and Brand, all hues of bronze and gold except for vivid too-blue eyes. Like all of his sons, he exuded an unmistakable virility, and women ran after him hoping to entice him into their beds. He ignored them—he was still extremely fond of his wife.

His aura of power was unmistakable. It was the power of a King-maker, indeed, he was called such behind his back, both by friend and foe alike. He found the nickname somewhat amusing, but secretly it pleased him. Once he had been nothing but a mercenary knight, and he would never forget those times.

The King’s apartment was one of the largest chambers in the Tower, half as large as the hall outside, dominated by a massive carved and canopied bed, covered with furs and velvets. Chests and coffers abounded, filled with the King’s most prized and valuable possessions.

Rolfe approached and knelt before Rufus. The King was a big man. Once he had been all heavy muscle and almost handsome despite his flaming locks; now the excesses that drove him had faded his looks and added more than a layer of fat to his big build. For a moment he continued to sprawl indolently in a chair massive enough to suit his frame and weight. He took another sip of rich red wine from France, his face flushed from its effects, as if in no hurry to greet his vassal. Finally he said, “Rise, dear Rolfe, rise.”

Rolfe stood, ignoring Duncan, who sat next to the King, his interest open and apparent. Duncan had grown up at court with Rufus. Several other retainers were also within, but immersed in conversation on the other side of the room. Rolfe noticed that Roger Beaufort was not present—apparently he had yet to worm his way back into the King’s favor.

“How is your son?” Rufus asked casually. His shrewd eyes belied his tone. Rolfe knew the King’s curiosity ate at him.

“Geoffrey is, as always, fine.”

“He awaits an audience with me,” Rufus commented, taking another sip of wine.

Rolfe was aware of that, just as he was aware of why. “My son is eager to show you his accounts,” Rolfe murmured. He and Geoffrey had not discussed the issue, in fact, but Rolfe could not say otherwise.

“If he is eager to open his books to me, then he has surely transformed himself into a man I have yet to meet,” William Rufus remarked dryly.

Rolfe smiled. “The archdeacon is your loyal vassal, sire.”

“He is loyal only because he cannot best me,” Rufus said.

Rolfe decided not to respond.

He had known William Rufus since he was a child. When Rolfe had fought at Hastings at William the Conqueror’s side, Rufus had been ten and already the physical image of his father, of whom he was the favorite. There had been the promise that he might be like his father in substance, as well. Now it was clear Rufus would never be the all-powerful man his father had been. Yes, he was as ruthless, and as fearsome in battle, as shrewd in politics, but in many other ways he was lacking.

The bullying boy had become a bullying King. He bullied his nobles, he bullied the common people. His laws and justice were harsh and unreasonable, fomenting intense discontent and opposition. His taxes, which he levied at whim to support all his wars—and there were many—were oppressive. Already there had been one major rebellion in 1088 in the east of England soon after Rufus ascended the throne. He had broken the back of the rebellion with brutal military repression and many promises of good government and relief from his severe taxation and the harsh forest laws. His victory had been quick, the offenders banished forever, their lands forfeit. One of the rebels had been the first Earl of Kent, and much of his lands had been awarded to Roger Beaufort, along with his title, for Beaufort had played a strong role in crushing the rebellion, as had Northumberland. But it had not been long before it was clear that Rufus’s promises were false and conditions throughout the country remained the same.

Rolfe had sympathized with the rebels, but he had always been the King’s man. First for Rufus’s father, William I, now for Rufus, and should he live to see the day, for Rufus’s son. But his loyalty was sown from much greater reasons than his strict code of honor and sense of duty.