The Leopard Unleashed (21 page)

Elene shivered but did not freeze or draw away. His hand was warm through the fine linen of her shift as it lay on her waist. Her own hands were pressed lightly against his chest. He was holding her gently and she had only to push at him to break the contact. Remembering the pain and humiliation of her wedding night, she hesitated. His touch on her waist was nice, the tickling sensation of his tongue pleasant in a disturbing kind of way. She spread her fingers, encountered the linen of his shirt and then the warmth of his skin through the unfastened laces. Moving her hand higher, she circled his neck. Her other arm dropped to his
waist, sought under his shirt for the springy muscles of his back. Her lips opened beneath his.

He stroked the side of her breast, increased the pressure of the kiss and rubbed his thumb lightly back and forth over her nipple. Elene made a small sound in her throat and pressed herself closer to him, revelling in the feel of his skin against her fingertips. Fear trembled through her, but it was a minor ingredient in a brew of equally elemental emotions. The room was cold but she was warmed by the heat emanating from their joined bodies.

After a moment, Renard reached to the ties on her shift and delicately unplucked the knot. His mouth left hers and trailed down her throat to the pulse beating rapidly on the verge of her collarbone. He sucked on it, then explored lower, fingers gently drawing the linen aside.

Elene gasped at the sensations but was not yet totally in thrall to them. ‘Renard, wait!’ she said breathlessly. ‘The maids!’

‘What?’ He raised his head. She could feel the rapid thud of his heart against her cheek. He made a peremptory gesture and the two women curtseyed and hastened out of the room, one of them stifling a giggle against her cupped palm.

‘I …’ Elene blushed a fiery red. ‘Everyone will know,’ she hissed, imagining the looks as they descended the stairs afterwards.

‘And expect it,’ he answered, smiling. ‘We’re a newly wedded couple.’

Elene swallowed and pressed her hot forehead against Renard’s throat.

‘You look good enough to eat when you blush like that,’ he said, and returned to what he had previously been doing,
lips questing down over her milky skin. Moving his hand down to the hem of her shift he placed it lightly on her thigh, describing tiny circles, radiating outwards and upwards beneath the linen.

It had been a long, long time since he had had to use the skill of slow persuasion to seduce a woman to bed. With Olwen there had never been any need. She had always been ready and it had always been a battleground, the limits set by the amount of stamina that each of them possessed. This was another discipline entirely, calling for the same skills, but a completely different method of application.

Enjoying the novelty and the slow arousal of his own senses, he played with her, kissing, nibbling and stroking. Elene’s breath caught in her throat and she made small sounds, twisting against him. His fingers travelled further up her thigh and sought inwards. He felt her stiffen as he touched her. Murmuring reassurances against her ear, he nuzzled and nipped at her lobe and coaxed her gently, his other hand rhythmically pressured on the curve of her buttocks, holding her against him. When she began to gasp and clutch at him convulsively, he stopped what he was doing and brought her to the bed.

Elene bore Renard’s weight, that which was not taken on his forearms, and with eyes closed, savoured the dwindling ripples of a pleasure so intense that it had twice driven her to the edge of oblivion. The potential still hovered in the background. She rotated her hips beneath him, searching out the last quivers of sensation.

‘Greedy,’ he murmured, kissing the tip of her nose.

She smiled lazily. ‘I’m fattening myself against the lean times.’

‘Fattening?’ He ran one hand lightly over her hip bone, waist and ribcage to the swell of her breast.

Elene realised that there was more than one interpretation and in the next moment decided that she did not mind if he misconstrued it. ‘That as well. I might be more fortun ate this time.’

She felt him tense slightly. ‘Yes, you might,’ he said after a pause, his tone neutral, and rolled over on to his back.

Elene lifted her lids to look at him. His expression was wry, but he had relaxed again. Her own body felt languid, satisfied if not replete. He had been right, it did get better. There had been some pain, but of the kind that only added to the pleasure.

On the last occasion – her wedding night – Renard had been in complete, cold control of every faculty even though it had been she who forced the pace. This time her body had moulded smoothly around him and she had heard his sigh of pleasure and the catch in his breathing as she arched her hips and thrust to meet him. Later, surfacing from the intensity of climax, she had been aware of his ragged breathing, the fierce grip of his hands, and had known that somehow she had pushed him beyond refinement and into the last driving moments of need.

There was more to be learned. She knew that she was innocent, but she was shrewd enough to realise that her very innocence was sufficient to hold Renard for now, but what of the future? How did she compete with a tavern dancer whose livelihood was pleasing men? Remembering the expertise of his foreplay, she wondered what would happen if she touched him instead. Her eyes roved over his body. She knew what she wanted to do but was afraid of his re action to such boldness.

Watching her expression, a mingling of tension and sensuality, Renard was stirred to new arousal. ‘We don’t have to go to court,’ he said, brushing a strand of hair from her shoulder. ‘Ranulf de Gernons will be there, and we’ll only quarrel again or worse. I danced attendance on Stephen all morning and you suffered interrogation by the Queen. I think we are entitled to a little time to ourselves.’

‘To do what?’ Elene widened her eyes as he took her eager, hesitant hand and put it where she had not quite dared.

‘Anything you want,’ he said.

‘Pottage?’ Renard looked from the bowl in front of him to Alys.

‘Saer did not think that you and my lady would be eating in the hall tonight,’ Alys excused, bobbing a curtsey.

‘Tell him it’s all right,’ Elene reassured the maid. ‘I know how much he takes matters to heart.’

‘He says that pottage is fit only for servants,’ Alys volunteered, ‘that he is ashamed to be serving it to you.’

‘And am I not a servant of the King?’ Renard asked wryly. ‘Besides, my great-grandfather was the bastard of a common tanner’s daughter. Peasantry’s in my blood. Tell Saer I’d rather eat pottage than court fare any day. He should serve it more often.’ Picking up the polished horn spoon, he dipped it into the barley-thickened mixture.

Elene glanced at him sidelong as Alys left them. ‘You were telling her the truth, weren’t you?’ she discovered. ‘You really do prefer pottage.’

He reached for the dish of crumbly salt between their two places. ‘I suppose if I was forced to live on it day in, day out I might weary, but it makes a change to all those
spicy sauces and meats so stuffed and smothered that you can’t even begin to guess which animal they came from!’

Elene busied herself with her own food, her expression thoughtful. If Renard preferred to eat simple food and wear understated garments, might that not apply to other aspects of his life too? The restless side of his nature sought variety, she was aware of that, but the force of that restlessness varied like a tide and was probably linked to the twin founts of boredom and stress.

Elene thought back over the years she had spent in Lady Judith’s care and recalled the various little ruses enacted to keep Lord Guyon dancing on a string. They would not necessarily work on Renard who did not dote on her the way his father had doted on his mother, but there might be some way of adapting them to her own situation.

‘What are you thinking?’ Renard asked curiously.

Elene jumped. Betraying colour flowed into her face. Unlike Lady Judith, she did not have the ability to bend the truth to her own advantage. Raising her chin she said, ‘I’m not going to tell you, it was private.’

Renard cocked an eyebrow. ‘Fair enough,’ he said.’As long as you’re not plotting my death, I don’t mind.’

‘I would have to be mad to cut off my nose to spite my face.’

Accustomed to the temperament of his mother and sister, he thought at first that she was teasing him and laughed. When she gave him a startled look, he realised his mistake and also the fact that she had spoken the truth. If he died untimely she would be a rich and vulnerable widow. Suddenly it hit him as never before that the responsibility for the family lands was his; there was no one else. Henry was willing but not up to the task, and William was far too
mercurial to settle to the yoke. ‘Yes, you probably would,’ he said, all amusement flown, and in the ensuing silence attended rather grimly to his meal.

‘What’s wrong, what have I said?’

‘Nothing. You jolted me into realising that I must make provision for you in the event of my death. A word with John won’t go amiss. The support of the church will be essential.’

‘If I am forced into another marriage, you mean.’ She met him look for look, not fearlessly, but with a steady understanding.

‘You have seen how it is at court. A fair-weather wind that will blow cold the moment you look away.’

Elene’s jaw tightened. ‘No one is going to take Woolcot away from me.’

‘You may not have a choice.’

‘Oh, not at first.’ She tossed her head. ‘But I know how to build and I know how to wreck. I’d rather destroy the Woolcot herds than see them fall into a raptor’s hands.’

Renard gaped at her, spoon suspended in midair while he tried to reconcile his view of her as soft-natured and gentle with this determined creature thrusting her chin at him. It was not all vain talk either, he realised. ‘You really would founder the herds rather than give them up, wouldn’t you?’

‘Yes.’

He continued to stare.

‘Of course,’ she added, ‘that would be by way of revenge. If a new husband was prepared to live and let live, then I would make him a proper and dutiful wife.’

A memory echoed in Renard’s mind – his own voice full of grave amusement as he saluted Madam FitzUrse at the
Scimitar with the toast ‘Business is business’. ‘Good Christ,’ he said wryly. ‘I used to think you were as soft as unsqueezed butter, but really you’re as hard as stone.’

Elene broke a piece off the loaf in front of them. ‘I’m neither,’ she said, ‘I just don’t know how to lie.’

Renard saw that her fingers were trembling. Studying her, he was aware of the contrasts of softness and determination in both face and character, the innocence and the clear, hot flame of a passion that had outmatched his. ‘Sometimes it is easier to lie than tell the truth,’ he said with a grimace. ‘Especially to yourself.’

The water dripped from the ladle over the hot stones. Steam hissed and surged around the seated, towel-draped men who were laughing at one of Robert of Leicester’s seemingly endless supply of bawdy jokes.

‘I don’t believe that position’s possible!’ guffawed Waleran of Meulan, Leicester’s twin brother, and returned to his bench, ladle in hand. ‘What do you say, Renard?’

Renard grinned and spread his hands. ‘Don’t look at me, I’m innocent.’

‘After four years in Outremer? You’re a bigger liar than he is!’ Waleran sat down heavily. He was beginning to run to fat and the hot, moist atmosphere was making him uncomfortable. Not that he would have admitted it for the world. This steam bath built by the disgraced and recently deceased Bishop of Salisbury was the height of luxury. A plunge in a quiet river pool or a quick dunk in the castle tub were the usual and infrequent ways that Waleran chose to clean himself. A steam bathhouse like this hinted strongly at indulgence,
especially when a flagon of the best wine was being passed from hand to hand.

Renard was accustomed to this particular form of bathing. Antioch possessed several such institutions. They were places to gossip and relax at ease with your peers – places to plot and arrange as Stephen was plotting and arranging now.

Leaning against the wall, lids half closed, he watched the King take a swallow from the flagon and pass it in turn to Leicester. No cups, Renard thought. A subtle move, enhancing the camaraderie that had been nurtured during a fast-paced day’s hunting. Other barons had been with them too, but some had chosen to patronise one of the conventional bathhouses in the town where women were to hand. Others had preferred not to bathe at all, following the creed that sweat was best left to cool on the body, its smell worn as a badge of hard toil. Ranulf de Gernons had been one of the latter.

Stephen nudged Renard. ‘I had a look at your charter.’

The flagon came round to Renard. He drank, making more show than actual swallowing and studied Stephen’s pink, earnest face. ‘It’s valid. Your grandfather’s seal is upon it and that of the second King William,’ he said evenly as he passed the wine on to Leicester.

‘Oh yes, it’s valid,’ Stephen replied. ‘Malde and I had a long discussion about it.’

And Malde’s opinion would be the deciding factor, Renard thought.

‘She did wonder if Ranulf had rights in Caermoel because the castle was originally built by your father and Hugh d’Avranches as a joint venture.’

Hugh d’Avranches, Ranulf ’s great-uncle, had been the
Earl of Chester forty years ago when the keep at Caermoel had first been built. He and Guyon had not only been allies, but also good friends.