De Burgh curled his lip in contempt. A few peasants, freemen, and farmers were making a laughingstock of Nottingham. What the hell would the man do against enemies like the Scots and Welsh, fiendish plunderers, wild and fierce and cruel as mountain cats who came ravaging and burning? Falcon dismissed the talk of Sherwood’s outlaws with disgust. He shook his head when his knights offered to hazard the dice with him and made his way down to the dais where Jasmine was displaying the beautiful but absurd occult cards she had painted for Isabella.
Estelle rose from the table anticipating difficulties for Jasmine if the queen’s layout should be a bad one. De Burgh slipped into her vacated seat between the two widows and shot Chester a warning look cold and hard enough to freeze a man’s soul, but now that Isabella was monopolizing Jasmine, the king and Chester left the dais. Nottingham followed like a trained hound. De Burgh realized with a shock that the ladies were very excited over the fascinating, mysterious tarot cards they had heard so much about. Why were women so ridiculous? he mused. What made them so gullible? They were ready, willing, even avid to be deceived. He proved to himself within five minutes that it was so. By dividing his attentions equally between the widows, he ascertained that each was willing to provide him with bedsport this night. Now all he had to do was decide which one he wanted.
Isabella, drawing as much attention to herself as possible, shuffled the large tarot cards, made her wish, then choose to lay out ten cards. As each was revealed, Jasmine became more dismayed. Though unbelievably accurate, the cards were anything but flattering to the queen. Isabella would probably have Jasmine executed if she read their true meaning before the assembled women.
Then her panic receded. She was playing a role. She had already rehearsed her attitudes and her lines if the cards were lethal. She glanced down from the dais and saw de Burgh. His gaze was detached and impersonal as if he found nothing to distinguish her from others. She saw the females flanking him and hated them on sight!
Jasmine gave the cards her undivided attention and began her interpretation. To de Burgh’s ears her voice was like silvery chimes, clear, pure, elfin. He glanced at the other women and knew he wanted neither. He wanted Jasmine, exactly as she was. Damn her to hell, the maddening little witch was too exactly the way he would have her.
“The queen of pentacles is your first card and therefore represents you, your majesty,” said Jasmine. The card meant a woman who was selfish, exhibitionistic, avaricious, bedecked in jewels, who cared more for luxury than love. The throne she sat upon was covered by symbolic figures of Cupid, ripe fruit, goat heads, and a rabbit, which of course represented sensuality.
“This card simply means a woman who will have every luxury in life,” said Jasmine, which was true enough.
“What does the rabbit mean?” asked Isabella.
“All the symbols indicate that you will be fruitful and bear many beautiful princes and princesses.”
Isabella looked pleased, then pointed to another card, the king of swords, and said, “There is John!”
Indeed it was John personified. A short, very dark man who inflicted verbal and physical abuse on children and women. A mean man, a bully and a tyrant who abused his position of power.
“Yes, your majesty. The king of swords represents a very dark man in highest office. A military man, as you see by the unsheathed sword.”
“What are all the dark clouds gathered about his head?” asked Isabella.
“Just decoration,” Jasmine lied.
“Why isn’t his card beside the one that represents me? Who is coming between us?” Isabella demanded.
Jasmine was dismayed that it was the high priestess, which she had painted in her own image. The queen could clearly see that Jasmine stood between her and her husband. Jasmine did not like the implication at all. Not only was she between them, but the queen’s hand had laid her card below the queen and king, and this clearly meant that they intended to step on her.
“What is the meaning of that card?” Isabella demanded.
“Subconscious knowledge, intuition, inspiration, occult wisdom, hidden mysteries, inner resources, the power of the subconscious mind to effect change and healing in one’s own life, the ability to get to one’s own inner center and function as a creative, life-affirming human being,” Jasmine interpreted truthfully.
Isabella, consumed by thoughts of herself, thought the card referred to her, and she looked even happier. Next to the card representing John, the queen had placed the Devil. Jasmine thought perhaps she could get away with describing the card and its symbolism without directly connecting it to the King. Of course everyone in the room would think it most apt.
“This horned Devil with batlike wings sits on a throne. Chained before him are a naked man and woman. This card represents evil. Hedonism is not freedom to do whatever one wants, but slavery to one’s desires. This card means self-indulgence, sensuality without sense, animallike conduct. It means someone practicing malevolent magic, satanic or Devil worship.”
“Whatever does that card have to do with me?” demanded Isabella, her eyes sparkling dangerously.
Jasmine soothed, “The card is simply a warning to eliminate undesirable elements and not be chained by materialistic values.” All the women in the room exchanged meaningful glances. They knew the card had hit home about the royal couple.
“The three of cups reversed, and the three of swords next to the Lovers is a most unusual layout,” said Jasmine. “The three of cups represents a bride, a happy fulfilling card denoting joy in anticipation of marriage, but reversed and next to the three of swords it means a broken betrothal, interference of a third party who imposes himself between the lovers to break up a romance.” Uppermost in Jasmine’s mind was the fact that Isabella had been betrothed to Hugh of Lusignan and that King John had broken her betrothal and stolen her from Hugh.
Isabella, however, was thinking along very different lines. She knew Jasmine was betrothed to Falcon de Burgh and the cards were foretelling that she would be the third party who would break up their romance. What great fun. Such a diversion! And the girl had predicted it herself!
“Next to the lovers is the moon.” Then Jasmine hesitated.
“Oh, I know … that must mean honeymoon,” offered Isabella, showing her cleverness.
Jasmine grasped at the straw thrown to her. “Yes, how wise you are,” she lied.
The moon had a crab, a dog, and a wolf baying beneath it. It warned Jasmine that she had secret enemies who would conceal something vital from her. There would be underhanded deals made and she would be surrounded by deception. Jasmine bit her tongue as she almost blurted that moon meant Lunatic, from the Latin word Luna. Now Jasmine realized this reading touched her as well as the queen. Jasmine found this woman and her court distasteful. The very air was filled with mists of dread and lurking undeniable evil. Perhaps she could influence Isabella to change things for the better. She recalled tales told her of the old queen’s court, Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine. She recalled the very things that had awakened her desire to become a lady of the court.
The next two cards were disastrous: the ace of swords and the tower. The ace was a death card, which warned to expect the worst. It meant interference in one’s plans, being blocked and thwarted, fearful anticipation, sadness and woe. Coupled with the moon it meant underhanded activity, using deception and trickery. Jasmine took a deep breath and plunged in. “The ace of swords is a very powerful card. It shows that the person can influence a great many people, as did King John’s mother when she was queen. Her court of love became renowned. It was always filled with color, laughter, and music. Open lust was distasteful. Men did not approach a lady of the court in brutal fashion. Men were encouraged to treat women as ladies. They used flattery, wit, and elegance. It encouraged young men to sigh over other men’s wives, and it was fine for the ladies to smile kindly upon them, but it was most innocent and harmless. The court encouraged musicians, poets, and the arts. The court had an ambience of roman
ce and the hall rang with the tales of great love affairs, such as Tristram and Isolde, and Lancelot and Guinevere. Pages, knights, and minstrels fought for the honor to serve the ladies at table.” When Jasmine glanced at the queen, she realized her words had had the wrong effect. Isabella did not like to be compared with Eleanor of Aquitaine and come up lacking. The queen looked down at the last horrific card the tower and swept it from the table. “I tire of this game,” she said petulantly.
Jasmine looked from the dais to where de Burgh had been sitting but the table was empty. The queen, her mind already busy with a wicked plot, said cruelly, “Young widows are formidable competition with their knowledge of what men like best. Two bitches fighting over one bone.” Isabella laughed at her own crudity. “Who knows, perhaps the bone is big enough to satisfy both.”
Jasmine was seething inside. Whenever she had to spend time close to Isabella her nerve endings screamed their protest, and then to add insult to injury, the man who was supposed to be betrothed to her had offered her a public insult. Well, if he thought he could ride roughshod over her, he was sadly mistaken. She’d go to his tent this minute and catch him in the act. She’d make a scene that would disrupt the entire camp and castle. She had warned him once that he’d rue her. Well, tonight was the night! She’d sully his name and tell him flatly that by his venal, carnal indulgences he had broken their betrothal. She’d shatter his composure into a thousand pieces. Tonight would finish it!
Fearless as a tigress, she reached up to snatch a torch from its wall bracket as she left the castle and stalked through the bailey toward the meadow where the scarlet silk pavillion stood. As she neared the tent she could see the shadows of the couple inside. “Don’t do this thing,” whispered her better self; but her worse self threw all caution to the wind and plunged in.
Chapter 18
De Burgh and Gervase were talking seriously. Falcon looked up startled as Jasmine flew through the entrance as if the hounds of hell were nipping at her heels. Alarmed, he asked, “What’s amiss, sweetheart?”
She blinked stupidly, then stammered, “N-nothing!” For once she was truly at a loss. She swallowed the accusations she had been about to scream and they almost choked her.
Suddenly he knew exactly why she was there. She had seen him leave with the women and had come to make a scene. Keeping his face straight, he came to her, took the torch from her hand and gave it to Gervase, then whispered, “Sweetheart, you came to share my bed again.” The emphasis on the last word made her blush and Gervase flush.
“I did no such thing!” she denied hotly.
“Gervase will tell no one you came to me in your nightrail,” he cooed.
“Nightrail? Nightrail?” she parroted.
“Well, that’s what this transparent thing is, surely?” he asked smoothly, lifting the thin white silk with his strong fingers.
Gervase fled the tent before the approaching storm erupted.
“Under ordinary circumstances I’d be happy to accommodate you, my love, but I must inform my men that the stag hunt tomorrow has been changed to a manhunt.”
“You conceited, vain, insufferable lout, you should have been drowned at birth!” As his words penetrated, a cold fear touched her. “Manhunt?” she whispered.
He said with contempt, “The king’s sick idea of sport. Tomorrow we rid the forest of outlaws.”
“Ah, no,” she breathed, her hand going to her throat. She would go to the trysting place and warn Robert, but would she be in time?
In the flickering torchlight she looked fairylike, fey. Falcon forgot he had been teasing her as desire rose up within him, filling his head with her fragrance. “My love, I’ll be as quick as I can with the men. Wait for me?” he implored. He cupped her face in his hands and lifted her mouth to his.
With his hot demanding mouth on hers, his powerful arms encircled her and pressed her to his hard length. Locked in his embrace, it was as though she lost separate identity. He overpowered her. She was conscious of every pulse of her blood. She was also terrified. He was too much … too big, too hard, too male, too hot, too driven by lust.
He swept her up in his arms and took her to the furs. Suddenly she knew without doubt that all the women in his varied past had been obligingly willing. He carried her with such practiced ease, accenting the power of his hands and his body. He laid her on the furs and looked down at the lushly carnal picture her silken-clad body made. He towered over her, clothed and booted, as dark as Lucifer. She felt as if his strength and size had already invaded her.
She lay obediently passive, hoping he would trust her to stay once he was gone. He bent to quickly remove his boots, threw the impeding cloak back over his shoulders, and lowered himself to the furs beside her.
“No, Falcon, women come too easily to you. You have been utterly spoiled where women are concerned. Your looks are so darkly beautiful and dangerous, they are all avid to have you make love to them. You must realize I’m different!” she cried.
“It’s not the looks, darling,” he demurred, “women simply want what they can’t have. I’m a challenge to them.” His intense eyes were iridescent in the lamplight. “I do realize you’re different, Jassy darling … you’re a challenge to me.” He brushed her cheek with his fingers and immediately felt the blood drumming in his fingertips, his throat, even the soles of his feet. These, however, were nothing compared to the blood-throb of his erection. It was wildly alive and seeking the hot place it longed to plunder mere inches away. Through his soft chamois breeches she felt him rigid just above her mound of Venus and quickly put her hand down between their touching bodies to shield her private part. The effect on Falcon as her hand came in contact with him was overwhelming. He became almost orgasmic and knew if he didn’t swiftly focus attention from the hot core of his manhood to the hot core of her womanhood, he would disgrace himself.
He reached up under her silken gown, sliding his hand up her leg, inside her thigh, dislodged the protective hand she was using to cover herself, and with one swift rip tore her undergarment so that it no longer covered her between her legs. As she gasped, he sighed with satisfaction that he now held in his hand the jewel for which he’d lusted so long. Easy, easy, man, a voice in his brain warned, don’t deflower her with greedy, impatient fingers! More than anything on earth he wanted her to stay with him this night, yet his duty demanded that he leave her for a short time. His male arrogance told him that the only way to keep her in his bed was to arouse her desire to such a fever-pitch, she would wait all night for him to return and give her the bliss of fulfillment.
He was monumentally aware of her virgin state, knew she’d be sensitive in the extreme to plundering fingers, and therefore he would have to use the magic of his lips, first on her mouth, then lower as her fever built. “Sweet, sweet,” he whispered huskily as he brushed his lips across hers, then entered her fragrant mouth with his tongue. He gasped. “Can you die of pleasure?” Then his mouth returned to hers, but it was out of control, plundering her in a barbaric invasion. Jasmine had no choice but to yield to his overpowering onslaught. A small measure of control returned to him as he began the delicate business of her first orgasm. Experience had taught him that it was entirely possible to bring a virgin to climax without tearing the hymen, but it called for a certain amount of very gentle and delicate manipulation. How to manage touching her with the strokes of a butterfly’s wings when all his urges demanded he be a battering ram?
His mouth was dry, his manroot throbbed with bursting blood; he thought he could taste the blood in his mouth. The pad of one fingertip gently traced the hot, dry lips between her legs. He felt her shudder … or was it he who shuddered? He stroked her gently, softly, over and over, holding his breath, waiting for a tiny drop of wetness on his finger that would be the signal for him to proceed. She was fever dry, so different from any other woman he’d ever touched. By now most females would be slippery with desire. Some he knew would be spilling their love milk onto their thighs in anticipation.
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He increased the pressure of the pads of his fingertips and increased the speed of his rubbing friction. “Do you like me to touch you here, darling?” he whispered.
She squeezed her legs together tightly to prevent his fingers from their erotic teasing. “No!” she said fiercely.
As he held her cupped in his hand, his fingers curled ever so slightly inside her, he felt her heat until she burned him. He could not help imagining what his shaft would feel like if he plunged into her this moment, and a low moan escaped from his throat. This was a new sensation for de Burgh. Up until now, sex had been a playful diversion, a sport that brought pleasure, a casual game. Now it was driving, urgent, his body demanding, clamoring, starving for her.
Try as he would, he could not control his lust; rather it controlled him. He told her in heated detail what he was going to do to her when he returned, how many times he would love her, and how she’d feel when he did those things. “Sweet, sweet, wait here for me; promise me you won’t move? The first thing I want to do when I come back is give you your first kiss.”