Stuart, Elizabeth (17 page)

"It
isn't necessary that you know that. The less said about it the better, I
expect."

"On
the contrary, madam, it is very necessary that I know. Think how difficult it
would be should I become friends with the man. Worse yet, what if I fight and
wound him in some friendly joust or engagement? Can you imagine what your
sister's feelings would be then? If you truly wish me to have a care to your
sister, I must know to keep from hurting her unwittingly." He leaned
closer, grasping her arm. "Come, madam, give me his name."

Jocelyn
tried to ignore the feel of his hand on her arm, tried to focus only on what he
was saying. It was happening already; he was showing a tender concern for
Adelise. So why did it cause her such pain?

"It
is Pelham. Edward of Pelham."

"Pelham,
yes... a most advantageous marriage that would have been. Judas, was there ever
such a muddle!"

He
released her abruptly. "It's late. I'd best get you in before someone
comes in search of you." He caught up the edges of her mantle, drawing
them together. "By the Mass, this isn't a cloak for such weather. You must
be freezing to death in this wind."

And
before Jocelyn knew what he was about, he had unclasped his own cloak and flung
it around her, and she was swallowed up in its too-large folds, in the
lingering warmth and subtle scent, the overwhelming essence of the man.

His
hands lingered beneath her chin, reminding her of the way he had touched her
this afternoon, the way his fingers had felt against her bare skin.
"There, that's better. If you must be about on such a night, for pity's
sake wear something better suited. You're liable to catch your death."

He
was standing so close his shoulder brushed hers, so close she could feel his
breath in her hair. A heady sensation of warmth washed through her, a warmth
akin to that she remembered when she'd once had too many cups of strong wine.

Her
heart began racing, that familiar breathless sensation seizing control once
again. And of a sudden she realized that all her notions of honor and decency
were not what she had supposed, for she was foolishly hoping he would kiss her.
She wanted it more than she could ever recall wanting anything else on earth.

She
remembered his kiss of a few hours ago so clearly she barely held back a groan.
She wanted so badly to touch him. To lean into his chest and run her hands
across his shoulders, to explore the flat, hard planes and curving muscles of
his body.

In
her healing, she had seen men unclothed before, knew what was done in the
getting of children. Now she thought of him like that, all golden-hot eyes and
sleek, powerful muscles. She thought of the sensual way he had touched her, of
the shattering effects of his kiss.

She
thought of him naked.

Kissing
her.

His
large body covering, possessing, her small one.

Her
whole body began to ache, to tingle, to warm with that powerful, liquid heat
she remembered so vividly. And somehow she knew with a certainty she could
never have explained just how right it would be to lie with him, to feel his
body joining with hers.

This
man who would be her sister's husband. This man she suddenly wanted so
desperately, so very hopelessly to be her own.

With
a deep, shuddering breath, she pulled away. The image had been overwhelming, so
intense, she was trembling.

Merciful
God in Heaven, she was committing adultery. With her own sister's husband!

"Are
you afraid of me?" he asked softly.

"No!"
Jocelyn leaned against the wall, needing the support, the harsh reality of cold
stone beneath her hands.

He
caught her shoulder, turning her to face him. "After the way I behaved
this afternoon, I shouldn't be surprised, I suppose. But I can assure you,
madam, you've nothing to fear in that regard."

A
surge of humiliation washed through her. He hadn't liked it, hadn't liked
kissing her. While she had liked it far too well. But then he had kissed
Adelise. He'd kissed scores of women, hundreds probably. Obviously she hadn't
fared well in the comparison. It was an unfamiliar variation on the old
pain—only far more humiliating, far more difficult to fight.

"I-I'm
not afraid. Not of you, sir. It is only late, as you said, and I am tired and
cold and... and... it's been a long day. And we both have to be up betimes on
the morrow."

She
was talking too fast, too breathlessly.

And
what if he guessed? Dear God, what if he guessed and what if he laughed?

She
fumbled her hands free of the heavy draping folds of his cloak starting to
remove it. "Take this back, sir. You'll be freezing and—"

He
caught her hands, holding them together between both of his. "Do you
always argue, madam?"

She
strained to free herself. She was humiliated, ashamed. Perilously close to
tears. She forced herself to stare up at him with something of the old
effrontery. "Certainly, my lord. Do you always command?"

He
laughed. It was such a beautiful laugh, did such odd, inexplicable things to
the pit of her stomach.

"I
suppose I do. An irksome habit, no doubt, but one I was bred to. I can see that
with you for a sister, I shall have to mend my ways."

His
sister.

Jocelyn
caught her breath against the ache. If she moved, if she breathed, she would
betray herself.

Unexpectedly,
he lifted her hands to his mouth, brushing a warm kiss against their backs
before he released them, a kiss that nearly undid her.

"Come,
madam. We'd both best get inside. As you said, we must be up betimes."

He
took her arm, leading her wordlessly along the walkway toward the stairs. She
longed to pull away, but didn't. He would only reassure her again, explain that
she had no reason to fear him. And, foolishly—shamefully—that wasn't the
reasoning she wanted to hear.

They
reached the steps and he stood back, allowing her to precede him. Preoccupied
with her thoughts, Jocelyn was halfway to the bottom before she became aware of
the men. They stood at the base of the stairway, one relieving himself against
the wall, another muttering drunken curses at his companion's careless aim.

Jocelyn
slowed, almost missed her footing and caught herself against the wall. Something
about this wasn't right.

Behind
her, Robert de Langley must have felt the same. He slowed, his hand closing
around her elbow, halting her without a sound as he slid past, his right hand
shifting to his sword hilt.

Jocelyn's
heart began racing, a chill shivering the length of her spine. Sweet Mother of
God, where were the sentries? She'd seen none all night. And what were these
men doing out? With tensions high and two feuding lords within one keep, the
men-at-arms were all being carefully kept to their barracks.

The
curses below exploded into an argument. One of the men shoved the other and
both lurched forward against the stairs. In a moment they had their swords out,
were flailing drunkenly at one another.

De
Langley's sword was out as well. Soundlessly. Jocelyn caught the faint, deadly
glitter of polished steel in the starlight. "Quick, madam. Get back
upstairs!" he hissed.

She
caught up her skirts and whirled, hurrying upward. There was that in his voice
that brooked no argument.

She
heard a grunt, footsteps, the first clattering shock of steel meeting steel in
earnest. She swung around. Dropping all drunken pretense, the men had leaped
toward Robert de Langley.

Jocelyn
leaned against the wall, fumbling for the circular bronze clasp on de Langley's
cloak. Against the reach of a sword it wouldn't be much, but in close quarters
the long metal pin could make a weapon.

She
squeezed her fingers against the clasp, her breath coming shallow and fast. De
Langley was outnumbered, but he was obviously holding his own.

She
watched
for several moments, then slowly, her fears began to fade. On the narrow stone
stairs the man above held an advantage, so long as that man was an accomplished
swordsman. And from the look of things, Robert de Langley had been defending
battlement stairs all his life.

She
continued to watch, mesmerized by the spectacular swordplay. No wonder half of
Normandy and most all of England had longed to follow him. She understood the
attraction—the "magic" Sir Geoffrey had called it—for she felt it
herself. She had a wild, irrational longing to take up a sword and rush into
the fray at his side.

But
the lord
of
Belavoir needed no aid. The would-be assassins were so obviously outmatched she
couldn't imagine why they were still fighting, why they didn't just turn and
flee, unless—

The
faintest of sounds caught her ear. She glanced upwards. The darkness shifted,
stirred. She caught the faintest glimmer of steel, a whisper of boot leather
against smooth stone. And there, slipping stealthily down the stairs was a man.

Jocelyn
sucked
in her breath, knowing instinctively that anyone rushing to de Langley's aid
would have shouted and called for help. The two men below must be a diversion.
This was the man coming in for the kill.

She
drew back against the wall, forcing herself to wait, counting off the dwindling
seconds until the man came within reach. She steadied herself, drew in her
breath.

Now!

Swinging
the cloak from her shoulders, she flung it up and over the man's head, covering
his face, tangling his arms and his sword.

There
wasn't time to call for de Langley. There wasn't time even to be afraid. She
stepped closer, anchoring the broach against her palm, putting all her weight
behind it as she wielded the long metal pin like a knife.

The
man was struggling to drag off the cloak. She probed through the wool for his
throat, felt the pin scrape then catch in flesh. She gouged it home with all
her strength.

The
man's surprised grunt turned to a cry of pain. He struggled to free himself.
She twisted the pin again and he tried to fend her off, dropping his sword as
she stabbed at his arm. The sword clanged noisily against the step, and Jocelyn
kicked it down the stairs.

The
man cursed and groped blindly for her, arms spread like an outraged bear. She
sidestepped him, braced herself against the wall and shoved.

He
teetered on the edge of the stairs, clawing at the cloak. In the darkness, she
saw his head emerge, saw him focus on her and gather himself like a cat.
Another few seconds and she wouldn't have a prayer. Another few seconds—

She
ducked under his arms, kicking at his knees. A splintering pain shot through
her foot, but the man lost his balance and pitched over the edge, dropping half
the height of the stairs to land with a thud and a curse on the hard bailey
earth below.

Jocelyn
leaned against the wall, fighting for air. A few steps below her, Robert de
Langley managed to fling one of his attackers down the stairs. The other
turned, fleeing quickly into the darkness.

De
Langley bounded up the steps to her side. "Madam, for the love of God, are
you all right?" He caught her arm. "Jocelyn...?"

"Yes...
yes, I'm fine," she managed. "And you?"

"Certainly!"

He
snapped the word out as if amazed she could doubt it. Despite the danger and
her fear, despite her own breathlessness, Jocelyn began to laugh. No wonder
Robert de Langley's men thought him invincible. It was obvious he thought so
himself.

"Madam..."
The voice was sharp, questioning. "Are you certain you're all right?"

The
exhilaration of the fight still gripped Jocelyn, the pounding of her heart, the
rushing of her blood had yet to subside. So this was what battle was like. And
victory. No wonder men became drunk with it.
She
was drunk with it. But
she truly must sound like a madwoman.

"Yes,
my lord, I'm fine, save for my arm, which you're crushing. And I greatly fear
you'll do worse if we don't find your cloak. That whoreson cur took it with him
over the edge, along with your broach which I stabbed into his cowardly
hide!"

Instead
of releasing her as she had expected, de Langley crushed her against him and
gave a shaky laugh. "Judas, madam, here I'd thought to find you fainting
from fear. I should have known better."

Jocelyn
didn't try to speak. She rested her cheek against his chest, listening to the
wild throbbing of his heart, drinking in the exhilarating feel of his arms
wrapped around her. He was strength and warmth and safety in the darkness. He
was what she longed for, what her whole being ached for with an intensity that
was overwhelming.

"You
could have been killed," he was saying. "By the Mass, Jocelyn, don't
ever,
ever
do anything like that again! This wasn't a game we were
playing. Those men were in deadly earnest."

Jocelyn
smiled. She liked the sound of her name on his lips, liked the obvious concern
in his voice. "But I was in earnest as well. A broach pin is weapon enough
to cut a man's throat. At the very least, that jackal should carry a scar, the
better to recognize him by daylight, don't you think?"