The Heart of the Phoenix (32 page)

“Who said anything about stopping?” Still on her knees, she slipped her arms around his waist, placed her head on his chest. “This isn’t a game to me, Stephen. You say I will be free after tomorrow, but we can’t know for sure. We can’t know the king will believe the evidence you provide. We can’t trust him to make the right decision.”

In spite of her conviction, guilt plagued her. She ought not be seducing another man on the eve of her wedding. But if she must marry the king’s choice, she faced a lifetime of fear at the hands of a man she knew to be a murderer. Surely God would understand this one night of love, to keep her through those long years of misery.

“But—”

She put a hand over Stephen’s mouth. “Make love to me. Let me have this one time. If your plan works or if Henry can cancel the contract, I promise to make no demands on you. But what if both plans fail? What if I must marry him? Don’t send me to him with no knowledge of desire or of tenderness.”

Threading her arms around his neck, she stretched up and kissed him.

With a growl of defeat, he stripped off her chemise and carried her down onto the mattress. At last he dragged his mouth away. He traced his tongue between her breasts, kneading both with his hands.

Evie whimpered as he moved his lips to a nipple, tonguing a narrowing circle until he sucked it into his mouth. The strong pull sent a shiver of need to her core, and her hips instinctively moved to the rhythm of his suckle.

His hands were everywhere, making her writhe. Her breath came in uneven pants.

“Damn you, Stephen, do something.” Restlessly, she widened her legs.

His fingers moved to her cleft, opening, touching. “My God, you’re wet,” he said. “So wet. So ready.”

And then he moved over her, widening her legs further. The blunt tip of his cock nudged her opening. “This will hurt the first time. I’m sorry.”

Evie didn’t care about pain at this point, not with the aching, throbbing emptiness begging to be filled. She wanted him to hurry. But he worked forward in gentle nudges, pulling back and pressing further each time.

She groaned in amused frustration. She wanted to
feel
him. She grabbed his shoulders to lever herself up and sink her teeth into his skin. In reflex, he thrust deep. The sharp pinch of pain surprised a cry. He stilled. “I hurt you.”

“Yes. No. It’s all right,” she whispered. “Don’t stop.”

But he held still, and that gave her a chance to relax, accommodate his size. The discomfort began to ease, and the sensation was really quite nice. She wiggled her hips and felt his lovely thick cock twitch inside her. She smiled.

He groaned. “You’ll be the death of me.” Delivering a couple of hard thrusts for emphasis, he started to move. Gently at first, but soon the momentum took over until he pounded into her as if his life depended upon it. Evie thought hers surely did.

When her climax hit, he caught her cry in a kiss that ended with his own groan of completion. He started to roll to the side, but her arms held him tightly.

“I’ll crush you,” he murmured.

“I’ll love it,” she replied. “That was magnificent.” She hadn’t meant to say anything, but it slipped out. When he tensed, she knew she shouldn’t have.

“No remorse,” she said. “Guilt will ruin what we’ve shared, and I never want to regret it. Vow to me you won’t regret it, either.”

“I took advantage of you.”

“You had no choice. I threw myself at you.”

“Be serious, Evelynn. I’ve ruined you.”

The impossible man! Why couldn’t he understand? She supposed all men were the same—all
good
men. She drew his head to her shoulder and rubbed her hand down his back. And stopped. His back was covered with welts and troughs and knots.

“Dear God, Stephen. What happened to you?”

Evie lit a candle and examined the scars while he told her more about the past years. The room lightened as they talked, until he finally stood and reached for his clothes.

“I must go, before the rest of the house awakens,” he said. “Come, lock the door behind me.”

She dressed in silence then, checking the corridor, led him down the stairs.

He took her in his arms for one last kiss. “Have a care for yourself. I—” Whatever he was about to say was lost to the sounds of footsteps somewhere in the house.

“Quickly.” She opened the door. “Come to me tonight.”

The shadows swallowed him as he slipped into the early dawn.

****

Stephen’s thoughts were muddled as he made his way back to the inn. The effects of the last few hours hovered in a haze of pleasure that had little to do with physical sensation. Although the physical sensation had been overpowering. A lingering warmth around his heart made him smile.

He should feel guilt—hell, he
did
. A chill of remorse wiped away the smile. Like a thief, he’d robbed her of her innocence. No, not robbed. Been gifted with an incredible offering.

The wonder of Evie’s gift muted his self-reproach. Her eager response humbled him, although her passion should not have surprised him. The girl he recalled was brave and daring. She did nothing by halves. The woman she’d become embodied those same qualities. What a wife she would make, if only.

If only—what?

Had he punished himself enough? If the Dragon at last faced justice, could Stephen allow himself a home and family? Allow himself to feel joy?

His mind snapped shut on those thoughts. He must not even consider himself until tomorrow’s game played out. Too much rode on the outcome.

Not just his own future, but Evie’s happiness. Her life.

Westminster

A crowd filled the reception chamber when Stephen arrived, slipping in with a large but somber party from Sussex. The quiet group attracted no attention, which was why he had chosen it. Laughter and talk filled the chamber, results of continued celebration of John’s coronation the day before. Wine and ale had been distributed and consumed liberally.

The coronation had proceeded with much pomp and gravity. John managed to look king-like, provided one didn’t note the gleam in his eyes or the self-satisfied set to his mouth.

Those who chose to attend the wedding gathered in a large reception room to await King John so the ceremony could begin. The joining of Lord Fulk d’Ambrosie and Lady Evelynn of Chauvere was a cause for celebration.

D’Ambrosie stood at one side, surrounded by his men. A short distance away, Lord Henry and Lady Katherine hovered next to a pale, resolute Evie.

Henry sent word to Stephen last night that he’d found no way to escape the betrothal contract. As long as d’Ambrosie refused to relinquish his claim, the new ruler wouldn’t consent to set aside the agreement. John had too much to gain from the alliance, after all. He took pleasure in the connection between his man and the family who had thwarted him time and again.

Stephen glanced toward the back wall near the door where William lounged, deep in conversation with a pair of court ladies.

Bernard slipped in and ambled toward the other opening, through which the royal party would emerge. All exits now were guarded.

He searched for Geoffrey but saw him nowhere. His friend must hurry. D’Ambrosie couldn’t be exposed without his assistance. When Stephen caught William’s nod signaling Geoffrey’s arrival, the anxiety eased. A figure clad in a monk’s robe moved to stand nearby; Claude, in his usual disguise. Another piece ready.

When the door opened and the king stepped through, Evie dropped into a graceful curtsey. She rose, cast a lightning look Stephen’s way, then turned to stare at the wall. Her expression was blank.

By God, he loved her. If it was his last act, he’d see she never spent an hour with that offal.

The king had taken his place of honor and signaled for the bishop to begin when Stephen strode from the obscure grouping and dropped to a knee. “Your Majesty. I know you have ordered my arrest, but I request a boon because of the service I have long given you.”

Gasps from the audience punctuated the words, but John’s lowered eyebrows showed he heard, right enough.

D’Ambrosie’s lips curled back in a snarl as he stalked toward Stephen. “Your majesty, this is the criminal I told you of, the one who escaped, killing many of my men in the process. Sir Stephen of Rively.”

“Yes,” King John said. “I can see it is Sir Stephen. But I have not ordered an arrest for him, although some weeks ago I was tempted when he refused my request for military support.” He looked at d’Ambrosie. “I recall you told me of a traitor among my trusted soldiers. Is this the one, then, d’Ambrosie?”

“It is, Sire.”

The king’s brow lowered; his cheeks reddened. Stephen only hoped the signs didn’t signal an attack of the wrath famous in John’s family.

John’s chin flexed. “What have you to say to the charges, sir? Pillage, theft, murder, treason? What other accusations do you make, Lord d’Ambrosie? Or should I, perhaps, call you Baron Hawksworth?”

At that pronouncement, a mutter swept across the room. A few words wafted clear. “Hawksworth?”

“He’s not Hawksworth.”

“Hawksworth’s dead.”

Stephen’s gaze remained fixed on the king, but he steeled his expression not to betray anger at this introduction of another element into the fray. He’d wanted to hold the accusation of long-ago treachery against the real Baron Hawksworth in reserve, should all else fail. But now? Hell and damnation. Didn’t he have enough to worry over?

“I deny all charges, your Majesty.” Stephen raised his voice to be heard above the continuing buzz. “And I am prepared to prove the true identity of the man you seek. My men and I have called him the Dragon any time these last five years.”

He turned to d’Ambrosie—he’d never call the murderer Hawksworth—and his gaze caught on the man’s ornaments. Among the chains of silver and gold around his neck hung a large, multi-jeweled cross. The match to a smaller version Geoffrey counted among his family’s treasures.

Stephen wanted to laugh in relief. Here was the final, telling piece of evidence needed to prove the Dragon’s identity. He recalled his words of two nights before. The Dragon had convicted himself.

Instead, he flicked his eyes across the man’s chest, up to his smirking face, and back to the king. “I invite this man to list his charges against me.”

John leveled a look. “Isn’t that demand my role?”

The words were soft enough to reach Stephen only, and he looked down. “I ask your pardon, Sire.”

At a gesture from the king, d’Ambrosie listed six dates and locations of attacks on villages, of murders, thievery. Even a sacking of a monastery.

For two of those dates, Stephen reminded the king that he and his band of mercenaries had fought in John’s own army—once in France, once in Brittany. “If you doubt me, Sire, Mercadier can verify it. He fought with you in those campaigns. We can send a messenger to him right away. On two other occasions, I have signed statements from victims who described their attackers.”

He nodded to William, who produced the parchments.

“I can verify my men’s and my presence at St. Anselm Monastery in Normandy on the other occasions, Sire. Father Joseph will be happy to send any verification you choose.”

D’Ambrosie stepped forward. “Your majesty. I have a witness that can refute that information and prove that this Father Joseph, himself, works with the outlaws.”

Stunned silence met the words. D’Ambrosie drew up, as if realizing how his accusation against the church sounded. He glared at Stephen and continued. “Brother Gerald has been my eyes and ears at St. Anselm and can attest to what I’ve said.”

A gasp came from the direction of Lord Henry’s party.

“Call Brother Gerald,” d’Ambrosie demanded.

No one moved. A low buzz in the chamber grew as the occupants leaned in to murmur among themselves.

“I call Brother Gerald.” D’Ambrosie’s voice rose above the ruckus.

Claude stepped forward, wearing the monk’s robe he’d used in the first days after leaving St. Anselm. He lowered the cowl.

“I beg your indulgence, Your Majesty, I am Brother Claude. My good friend Brother Gerald met with a serious accident on our recent pilgrimage to Lincoln. I fear he is with a greater Lord now, Our Lord God in Heaven. But he confessed to me before he died that he had been coerced into bearing false witness, and he begged forgiveness.”

“Lie!” d’Ambrosie’s voice roared through the chamber. “You are a liar and a murderer.”

Amidst the din of “Shame, shame,” “Your immortal soul, my lord,” directed at Fulk, Claude bowed his head and faded into the crowd.

Stephen almost believed Claude’s performance, himself. He hadn’t exactly lied. Gerald had been dispatched, bound and doubly secured in chains, back to the monastery for justice by the church. From Father Joseph and the other brothers. It would not be a pleasant death.

****

King John brushed a finger across his mouth and glared at Stephen, ignoring d’Ambrosie.

“I find your accusations against Lord d’Ambrosie most distressing. Upon many occasions, he has proven his loyalty. And he has frequently fought at my side.”

Cold hatred shot through Stephen’s veins. If he was to be condemned, let it be for the truth.

Chin raised, he fastened his stare on the king’s face. “Then I would caution you, Sire, to have a care in battle. For at least one man who fought alongside him discovered the truth of that friendship with a sword to the throat.”

The buzz of murmurs in the hall surged. D’Ambrosie leaped forward. “Sire, how can you think this outlaw, this traitor against England, would speak the truth?” John’s glance flicked to him. “For your favor, he would accuse his own father of—”

“Hawksworth!” Stephen’s fury cut through the other voices. “He murdered Hawksworth at Acre.”

Noise in the crowded chamber collapsed into hollow silence. The king leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “Hawksworth? Sir Roland fell at the battle of Acre. A good man, I remember from my youth. You accuse his cousin, d’Ambrosie, of his murder? How come you to claim this?”

“Sir Roland fostered me. I followed him on Crusade. This man”—he pointed at d’Ambrosie—“struck him down from behind, then slit his throat.”