Aboard the royal barge, Jory approached Sylvia and took the cushioned seat beside her. Her first glance told her that her sister-in-law was not with child. Her second glance made her wonder why Sylvia covered her lovely chestnut hair with such a matronly head veil. “I’m sorry I missed you this morning when I visited with Lynx and Uncle John.”
Sylvia admonished her. “It was your duty to present yourself yesterday, when we arrived.”
“Please forgive me. I had no idea you were here at Windsor. There are so many last-minute wedding preparations that must be attended to. I trust you enjoyed breakfast with the queen?”
“We had a lovely reunion, thank you. Weddings are so exciting. Princess Joanna must be very proud of becoming the Countess of Gloucester. Gilbert de Clare is England’s most powerful peer.”
“It’s an arranged marriage. Joanna was given no choice.”
Sylvia looked shocked at her words. “Choice? The marriage of a princess or any highborn lady is always arranged. It would be a sad state of affairs if an eighteen-year-old maiden was allowed to choose her life’s partner.”
Jory hesitated. “Suppose that you had not wanted my brother for your husband but your father forced you to marry him?”
Sylvia was incredulous. “Not want to marry Lynx de Warenne? You must be mad. He is a handsome, brave warrior whose fighting skills are legend, and he is heir to his uncle’s powerful earldom. Through my marriage I will someday become the Countess of Surrey.”
“You are most fortunate, but I doubt that most arranged marriages work out so well. What if your father had chosen someone old and ugly? Surely you would have protested?”
“You have seen my father. I would never dare protest a decision he made for me. I’d have done my duty and obeyed him.”
Jory pictured the squat, irascible Roger Bigod and was thankful for her Uncle John, who was always extremely indulgent with her. “I intend to choose my own husband. I’ve quite made up my mind!”
“Marjory, you are being fanciful. Negotiating a suitable match for you is a grave responsibility for the Earl of Surrey and my husband. One they do not take lightly. You must trust them to know what is best for you.”
Those are the same words Lynx used. “John assured me that I could choose my own husband,” Jory asserted.
Her sister-in-law gave her a pitying glance. “When you act willfully, he tells you whatever you wish to hear.”
“He promised!”
Sylvia laughed. “You are so naive, my dear. Men’s promises are forgotten the moment they are uttered.”
Jory found the conversation unsettling. Not only was Sylvia being condescending, she had reminded her that she was a grave responsibility for her uncle and her brother. “Ah, here is Alicia Bolton, one of the queen’s ladies. I’m sure you have much to reminisce about. If you will excuse me, I’ll return to my duties.”
Jory refused to dwell on the things Sylvia had said and for the rest of the day pushed away the disquieting thoughts that tried to intrude. That evening, she ate a light supper in her chamber and then, as she did each night, attended Princess Joanna until she retired.
“There were many empty seats in the hall tonight. Apparently the hunters did not return at sundown as expected. I didn’t mind in the least not dining with Gloucester, but I’m sorry that your secret rendezvous has been ruined,” Joanna teased.
“You know I had no intention of keeping it!” Then why did you go to the trouble of locating Warwick’s chambers? her inner voice taunted. She unlaced Joanna’s gown and hung it in the wardrobe. “Have you decided which riding outfit you will wear tomorrow?” The hunt with hawks, in the bride’s honor, was to include both sexes, and Jory knew the princess wished to look spectacular.
“I have decided on the crimson surcoat so I can wear the ruby-jeweled caul. Don’t I have gloves with ruby-embroidered cuffs?”
“You do indeed, and you have jesses and tyrrits to match.”
The friends talked until it was late, and Jory laid out everything Joanna had chosen to wear for the morrow’s hawking party before she retired to her own chamber.
As she lay quietly abed, the thoughts she had held at bay all day began to intrude. For months she had been so absorbed in Princess Joanna’s marriage she hadn’t realized her own time was approaching. If there had already been one offer, others would soon follow, and she thanked heaven that she would have a say in choosing her own husband.
Are you sure? her inner voice insisted.
Lynx’s words came back to her. Trust us to know what’s best for you, Jory.
“Uncle John promised me!” Jory whispered fiercely.
Sylvia’s voice intruded. Men’s promises are forgotten the moment they are uttered.
“What exactly did John promise?” I give you my word that our choice of a husband will meet with your approval.
“He said our choice of a husband, not your choice of a husband! Sylvia was right. He told me what I wished to hear just to mollify me. My husband will be their choice, not mine!”
A full-blown picture of the two men she had seen naked in the bathhouse came into her head. The body of one was so lithe and virile it stole her senses; the other male by comparison was well past his prime and lacked any appeal for Jory.
“Joanna is right! Just like her, I’ll have no say in the matter…I would be a fool not to seize the opportunity to indulge in a little dalliance with someone who stirs my blood before they bludgeon me into submission and turn me into a dutiful wife!”
She threw back the covers, lit a candle, and padded naked to her wardrobe. As she donned the plain grey tunic and covered her hair with the white linen headdress, her heartbeat danced to the rhythm of one compelling name: Guy de Beauchamp! Guy de Beauchamp!
Warwick stood in a wooden tub of water and washed the blood of the hunt from his body. He briskly dried himself and slid his arms into a black bed robe. Then two of his attendants removed the tub from his chamber and his squire carried in a tray of food and a large jug of ale. “Thank you, Will. I’m ravenous.”
Warwick poured himself a tankard of ale, but before he had time to drink any, someone knocked. Thinking Will had forgotten something, he strode to the door and threw it open. Surprise mingled with deep pleasure when he saw it was the maid who had taken his fancy the previous night. “I’d given up all hope.”
“Yes, I know it’s late, my lord.”
“Not late at all. You are just in time to sup with me.”
A tall black hound with a wiry coat padded forward to inspect the intruder. Its head reached Jory’s shoulder.
“This is Brutus. Are you afraid of dogs?”
“Of course not. I adore dogs, especially wolfhounds.” Without hesitation she scratched Brutus behind his ears and smiled when he stretched his great length across the door as if he accepted her presence but would guard against any other obtruders.
“Come…sit.” He held a chair for her at the small table, then took the seat across from her. “I have no wine to offer you, demoiselle. I have only ale, I’m afraid.”
“I’ve never tasted ale, but I’m quite willing to try it.”
He watched her closely as she lifted the tankard and tasted the brew. When she licked her lips and seemed to enjoy it he felt inordinately pleased. He lifted the silver covers and served her with a portion of game with walnut stuffing and a mutton pie.
“We should save something for Brutus,” she suggested.
“He gorged himself at the hunt. Now he will sleep it off.”
Warwick couldn’t keep his eyes from her as she ate. Though she had a hearty appetite and relished her food, she had the daintiest manners he had ever seen and he took delight in watching her.
They spoke of food and dogs and hunting and she seemed to enjoy his company as much as he enjoyed hers. He was surprised that she displayed no wariness. “You are not afraid of me, are you?”
She gave him a radiant smile. “Of course not.”
Perhaps she has never heard the dar
k whispers about me.
“Men do not frighten me, my lord. Gentlemen are always extremely courteous and gallant toward me.”
He gazed at her heart-shaped face. “That’s because you are ethereal. You look so delicate and fragile, it evokes an urge to protect you…even in a brute like me.”
Her laughter sounded like silver bells and it enchanted him. She smiled often and it made her look radiant, as if she were lit with an inner glow. Her skin was flawless, and her wide green eyes were the color of pale Chinese jade.
He stood up and held out his hand to her. Without hesitation she placed her hand in his and allowed him to draw her before the small fire that burned in the hearth. Warwick had been able to control his body until she touched him; then his desire ignited, burning hotter than the flames of any fire. He gazed down at her upturned face. She was so very young, perhaps without much sexual experience. “You should fear me—I am naked beneath this robe.”
“I have already seen you naked, my lord.”
His brows drew together. “How…where?”
Her laughter floated around him. “I was watching from atop the Round Tower when you rode in. You stood out from all the rest. Even from that great distance you made my knees grow weak. I had an overwhelming desire to see you naked, so I went to the bathhouse. When I gazed at your body, I was mesmerized. I had no idea who you were, but I had chosen you, and I was determined to find you.” Her fingers traced the golden bear and the words embroidered on his black velvet robe. “Non Sans Droit.” She made an attempt to translate the French motto. “Not without honor?”
“Not without right.” He immediately breached the ancient chivalric principle of Warwick and took possession of her lips.
The kiss was so profound, almost mystical; it felt as if they had claimed each other. She placed her hands against his chest to steady herself; then her fingers slid beneath the velvet, parting the robe. “I want to see you again,” she said breathlessly.
The garment fell to the carpet and she stepped back so that she could view his full naked splendor as he towered before her. The firelight turned his skin to polished bronze, enticing her to touch his flesh to learn if his body was as hard and as strong as it looked. She moved just close enough to reach out and let her fingertips trace the solid muscles that rippled across his powerful chest and shoulders. She feathered her fingers through the black curls, then laid her palm over his heart, feeling its heavy, pulsing beat quicken at her touch to mingle with her own.
Her gaze dropped to his flat belly, then lowered to his groin. She watched his shaft harden and lengthen until it became fully erect. Its velvet head almost reached his navel. Her eyes filled with wonder as she raised them to meet his. “Guy de Beauchamp, you are truly magnificent. I have made the perfect choice.”
“I have a towering pride, and value myself above all other men, but you must not delude yourself, little one. Far from being perfect, I am flawed in every way.”
To add credence to his words, his bold fingers unfastened the laces of her tunic and slipped it from her shoulders. The loose garment pooled at her feet, revealing that she wore neither petticoat nor hose, but stood before him naked. She glanced down at her upthrust breasts and the laughter that spilled from her was filled with unconcerned delight. “I was abed when I decided to come to you.”
“And bed is where I shall take you.” His deep voice was husky with desire. He swept her into his arms and held her high against his heart. Her head fell back, the white linen cloth fluttered to the floor, and her glorious silver-gilt hair spilled over his arm.
Warwick stared in disbelief at the exquisite creature he held in his arms. Splendor of God, her hair is like silken moonlight. He thought her weightless as thistledown as he carried his precious burden to the bed, laid her down gently, and spread her shimmering hair across the crimson velvet cover.
He gazed down at her, spellbound, and wondered briefly if he were dreaming—surely she was too unearthly fair to be real. If not a dream, perhaps she was a figment of his imagination, a fantasy come to life. Slowly, he lifted a silvery tendril, and as he rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger, it suddenly curled possessively about his fingers, binding them together, and he rejoiced that she was real flesh and blood.
Her dazzling smile lured him onto the bed and as he gazed down at her, she reached up to touch his face. Her fingers brushed across his lips and then traced the outline of his strong jaw, where the blue-black shadow of his beard showed through his skin. Her fingertips stroked across the arch of his brow, dark as a raven’s wing; then she threaded her fingers through his long black hair and pulled his face down to hers. She touched her lips to his and whispered his name. “Guy…”
An urge to ravish her flooded over him, but he checked it with his iron will. Instead, he captured her mouth and reveled in its sweet eager surrender. Her kisses tasted like honey, and he couldn’t wait to taste the rest of her. His hand stroked down the curve of her throat and his thirsting mouth followed the path of his fingers. He cupped her breast and it filled his calloused palm. Her skin was like alabaster and he hoped he would not mar it with his rough fingers. The tips of her breasts looked like tiny pink rosebuds. When he covered one with his mouth, it swelled and peaked against his tongue.
He kissed her everywhere, the velvety place beneath her breasts, the fine skin that stretched tautly over her delicate rib cage, the soft flesh of her concave belly with its pretty navel. Finally, he came to her plump little mons covered by a hundred tiny gilt tendrils and he groaned with pleasure. She was the most beautifully made female he had ever seen, let alone touched or tasted, and he realized how rare and special she was. “I want to keep you. I want to take you back to Warwick with me.”
His words thrilled her. “Make love to me, Guy.”
“I want to draw it out all night, little beauty. Indulge me.”
“Indulge…the evocative word sounds suggestively sinful.”
Sins of the flesh! Splendor of God, I want to commit every one with you. Then I’ll create some new ones. “Put your arms around my neck and hang on.”
She did as he asked, then impulsively wrapped her legs about him too. As she clung to him, he arose from the bed and carried her across the chamber. She pressed her mouth against the muscled cords of his neck, loving the salt taste of his swarthy skin. With every step he took, the crisp curls on his wide chest teased the nipples of her soft breasts, turning them into hard little buds, and with every step she felt his erect cock brush against the cheeks of her bum, exciting her so much she bit his shoulder.
Warwick stopped before the polished silver mirror. “I want to see what we look like together, and I want you to see, too.” He lifted her from his marble-hard cock, set her feet on the carpet so that she faced the mirror, and positioned himself behind her.
Though Jory had spent many an hour in front of a looking glass, arranging her hair or admiring the fit of a gown, she had never studied the reflection of herself nude. The contrast between their bodies was startling. It emphasized and exaggerated their many differences. She looked extremely small, soft, delicate, pale, feminine, fragile, and exquisitely beautiful.
Everything about Warwick looked too large, too hard, too dark, too powerful, and far far too masculine. The prideful way he held his head hinted that if the mood took him, he also could be dominant and dangerous. She wanted to scream with excitement.
Her eyes turned dark with desire as she watched his large hands reach from behind her to capture her breasts. He weighed them on his calloused palms and she shuddered at the sensations his touch aroused. She watched his dark head dip down and felt his rough tongue lick a pulse point in her neck. She saw the shiver of pleasure that rippled over her flesh.
She watched, fascinated, as one of his hands moved lower, trailing his long fingers down across her belly until they touched her mons. She saw him separate the gilt tendrils and curl his fingertips into her cleft. With one hand holding her breast and the other cupping her female center,
he pressed her back against him and shuddered as the soft curve of her bottom brushed the swollen tip of his cock. Held thus, she appeared to be his captive to do with as he wished, and yet she felt imbued with a beautiful woman’s sexual power that made her believe she could sway her captor to do her bidding. “Take me to bed, Guy.”
He lifted her and carried her back across the chamber. He drew back the covers and lay down on the snowy sheet, taking her with him. Then with sheer brute strength he lifted her high above him, so that her silvery hair cascaded down across his shoulders and throat as his eyes feasted on her exquisite beauty. Her laughter too spilled over him, drugging his senses and holding him spellbound. He lowered her slowly onto his body, holding her in the dominant position, and when she opened her lips for his kiss, he ravished her mouth with his tongue. Her fragrance intoxicated him and tantalized his memory as he tried to identify the scent.
He rolled her beneath him and rose onto his knees, straddling her thighs. He gazed down with wonder at the ethereal creature who aroused a fierce tenderness in his heart that he had never felt before. He dipped his head to kiss the tempting golden curls upon her mons and he was lost. With a groan, he slid his tongue into her honeyed sheath.
She gasped and moaned with delight at the tantalizing, forbidden thing he was doing to her. She became highly aroused and writhed with sensual abandon. She arched up into his beautiful, wicked mouth and cried out as he thrust deeply.
Instantly, he withdrew his tongue and moved up over her. His black eyes stared down into hers with disbelief and accusation. “You are still virgin!”
“No, Guy, you are wrong—”
“My tongue touched the barrier of your maiden-head.” His intense gaze searched her face as if he were seeing her clearly for the first time. It began to dawn on him that the first glimpse of her shimmering silver-gilt tresses had blinded him to reality. He cursed himself for a bloody fool. How could he have imagined her to be a servant? Such a fine-boned, delicate beauty with a vocabulary that matched his own was obviously a wellborn lady. Moreover, she was an eighteen-year-old virgin.