Desired (9 page)

Joan was about to vehemently deny his accusation when she realized of what he accused her.

“Princess Isabel talked you into bringing me out here, you little devil!”

“If you don’t wish to be alone with her, take her straight back to the Banqueting Hall to dance.” Joan had to bite her lip to keep from laughing aloud.

“I’m happy I amuse you. How the devil will I escape from Isabel? I have an assignation with a lady at ten.”

“You wouldn’t waste your time with a lady,” Joan teased.

“Edmund, I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” Isabel said happily.

“And I for you, Your Highness. You promised to save me a dance.”

“And when did I do that, sir?” she simpered.

“When the two of us were private in the stables at Berkhamsted,” he said outrageously.

“Edmund, you are so wicked.” She let go of her brother’s arm and took hold of Edmund’s.

The Prince of Wales winked at the Earl of Kent. “Just a moment, Bella. I don’t think I should let you go with this wild man.”

Isabel’s mouth turned sulky. “Edward, please, just one dance?”

The Earl of Kent placed his hand over his heart. “One dance, I swear on my honor as a gentleman!”

As Edward watched the pair walk down the gallery toward the Banqueting Hall, he captured Joan’s hand and pulled her through the gallery doors. They slipped upstairs to the solar, which was deserted at this hour. It was used most in daylight hours, when its long windows let in the
sunshine. No candles burned, but the moonlight flooded in, touching Joan’s hair and gown with its pale, ethereal light.

“You are so unearthly fair,” Edward murmured, tracing a finger along the soft white ermine at her shoulder.

Joan placed her palms against his broad chest and stroked the hard muscles. The heat from his body spread into her hands and she felt his heart thudding, hard and strong.

Edward groaned. He threaded his fingers into her hair and cupped her face as if he were holding a chalice. Slowly, he lifted it to his lips. “I’ve waited three hours to do this.” The curve of his lips fit hers perfectly, moving with a slow, deliberate thoroughness. The pressure of his mouth increased and his thumbs moved up to brush their lips where they fused, then parted them so he could plunge inside her.

Joan gasped as a thrill ran down her entire body and his sleek tongue probed deep, mastering her.

His powerful arms slid about her body and lifted her to fit his. His thighs were solid as marble and his phallus, which rose up against her soft belly, was rigid with his need.

She arched against him and slid her arms about his strong neck. His hands went beneath her buttocks to support her and the feel of him was so intense, she tore her mouth away so she could cry out her pleasure.

“Sweet, sweet,” Edward murmured against her throat. “Jeanette, I cannot let you go from me tonight. I want to make love to you until dawn.”

“No, Edward, we cannot. I must remain virgin or I will be worthless to your father.”

He let her feet slip back to the carpet. “You’d wed another?” he demanded incredulously.

“The king will betroth me and there is naught I can do!”

The king, at this moment, was pressing Katherine de Montecute to dance. The Countess of Salisbury thought it would occasion gossip. He used the Countess of Pembroke to persuade her. “William will expect me to take good care of her, isn’t that so, Lady Pembroke? Come dance with me, Katherine, I have some news that will hearten you.”

“Edward, you have no shame,” she whispered.

“Katherine, where you are concerned, I have not.” He
squeezed her hand intimately. “I do have news, though. Your husband is in Paris. He’s a guest at the French Court until his ransom is arranged.”

“He’s a prisoner, not a guest, Edward!”

“Katherine, he has no doubt dined as sumptuously as we have tonight and at this moment is very likely enjoying some delicious French tart.”

She laughed at his witticism.

“That’s better. No tears, beloved. Life’s too short. When this dance is over, I want you to come with me to the solar. Before I go up to the queen, I want to say good night to you in private.”

Prince Edward and Joan drew apart quickly as the door swung open. The cresset lamps at the entrance revealed the king and the Countess of Salisbury.

“Father!” Edward said in surprise.

“Edward? Is that you?” The king took a lamp from its bracket and lifted it high so that it illuminated the occupants of the solar. The two Plantagenets stared at each other in silence. Neither pair of brilliant blue eyes showed the slightest hint of guilt.

T
he king said, “We have much to discuss. Has your mother told you our plans?”

“No. I haven’t seen her yet.”

“Good, we will go together.” The king turned to Katherine de Montecute. “I want you to stop worrying about William. I will get him home safely.”

She curtsied. “Good night, Your Majesty.”

Joan’s nimble mind searched frantically for something plausible to say. “I was searching for my brother. Good night, Sire.”

The two tall men left the solar and walked toward the Queen’s Tower, each occupied by his own private thoughts.

Philippa welcomed them with pleasure and dismissed
her ladies as her husband and eldest son bent to kiss her, inquiring after her good health.

Prince Edward immediately took the initiative. “I’ve been giving some thought to marriage. The last time you broached the subject, I showed little interest.”

“Your mother favors an alliance with Margaret of Brabant—”

“Nay, I fancy an English bride,” Edward cut in.

“Edward, you must marry someone royal. There is no one suitable in England,” Philippa pointed out.

“Joan of Kent is royal,” he said firmly.

The king’s suspicions were confirmed.

“You are cousins,” Philippa said, her eyes hardening.

“The Pope will grant us a dispensation.” Edward waved his hand, dismissing the objection.

Philippa allowed her distaste to show. “Your father chose me to forge a strong alliance with Hainault and Flanders. The King of England’s sons must follow his example.”

“My brother John is betrothed to Blanche of Lancaster,” Edward argued.

“Blanche is heiress to the Lancaster fortune. Joan’s brother inherited the Kent fortune and lands. She has little money of her own,” the king said bluntly.

Prince Edward was not foolish enough to insist money didn’t matter. It did.

“Lack of money isn’t my objection to Joan,” Edward’s mother said. “Her father was beheaded for treason.”

Prince Edward spoke up, “I’ve learned enough history to know he was innocent of that heinous crime. Mortimer executed him to save his own neck.”

They never spoke of the king’s mother, Queen Isabella, and her paramour, Mortimer, who murdered King Edward II.

“The Kents were tainted by the scandal. I don’t believe Parliament would agree to Joan of Kent becoming the next Queen of England,” Philippa said with finality.

Prince Edward held his tongue. Obviously the less he said about his little Jeanette, the better.

“The Council would certainly agree to a match with Margaret of Brabant. We can only conquer France if we keep our allies loyal. Edward, if you have no objection, I’ll
start negotiations for a union with Brabant,” his father suggested.

Prince Edward was shrewd. At one time Parliament had proposed he marry a daughter of the French king, Philip of Valois. That had fallen through when King Edward claimed the throne of France. Next had come the daughter of the Count of Flanders, but his father had a well-known tendency to be arrogantly overdemanding and he was never open and aboveboard in his dealings with foreigners. Edward suspected his negotiations with Brabant would bear little fruit. If things did start to move forward, he would simply be uncooperative. “You will do as you think best.” He changed the subject. “How many ships have the western ports pledged?”

“Your mother’s good knight, Walter Manny, is bringing me seventy vessels, all over a hundred tons. I’ve made him Admiral of the Fleet north of the Thames.”

“Thank you, Edward.” Sir Walter Manny had accompanied Philippa from Hainault almost eighteen years ago.

“Come, we don’t want to exhaust your mother with our incessant discussion of war. We’ll talk alone.”

The king accompanied Edward to his own tower. The prince dismissed his servants and poured his father a cup of wine.

“I’m sorry about Joan. Is she pressing you for marriage?”

Edward stiffened. “Of course not.”

“Princes cannot marry their mistresses,” his father commiserated.

“She’s not my mistress! I find her enchanting … you wouldn’t understand,” Edward said repressively.

“Not understand the desires of the flesh? Edward, you must be jesting. Let me tell you a story. Last year when the Scots invaded and I beat them back and managed to capture the Earl of Moray, I received a message that Wark Castle was besieged. My friend, William de Montecute, was fighting in France and his countess was courageously holding out against the Scots with only a handful of knights. It was no more than my duty to help my friend’s wife. Wark sits on the south bank of the Tweed and we soon routed the Scots and sent them fleeing back across the border.

“The Countess of Salisbury lowered the drawbridge and came out to welcome the king who had just saved her. I had never seen Katherine de Montecute before. Her beauty was blinding. It hit me like a thunderbolt. She wore a tightly fitted jacket that showed off her tiny waist. I remember her surcoat had lovely trailing sleeves, but most of all I remember her glorious hair, shimmering in golden waves. When we looked into each other’s eyes, a raging desire took possession of me, but I could not be unfaithful to your mother. I burn for Katherine, but I am a chivalrous knight and must not besmirch her good name.”

For the first time Edward saw the king as a man, rather than a father. “You have succeeded in protecting the Countess of Salisbury’s good name. There has never, ever been a whisper about her.” He held his father’s eyes. “Nevertheless, you are lying.”

The king drained his wine, then finally nodded. “I am still consumed with fire whenever I touch her. To me she is a goddess. My passion consumes my guilt. I do not allow it to interfere with my duty or my deep and abiding love for Philippa.” He gripped Edward’s shoulder with a powerful hand. “Joan is a delectable little hoyden. Take her, by all means, but find a way to protect her good name.”

As Christian Hawksblood traveled from the coast to Windsor, he was most impressed by what he saw. Instead of an impoverished country, he saw that England thrived. The crops were abundant, the verdant fields were crowded with milky herds, the hills were dotted with fine sheep, and the rivers swarmed with fish. The laughing peasants who tilled the fields were well fed, their children rosy-cheeked. Workshops in every town and village were producing bows and arrows, blacksmiths hammered out war weapons, and saddleries were making harnesses for warhorses. England was a beehive of activity from carpenters to tentmakers. Prosperity was everywhere.

When he arrived at Windsor and saw the lavish lifestyle of the king and court, Hawksblood was stunned. He lost no time seeking out a private meeting with the Earl of Warrick. He sent a note asking the earl to meet with him regarding a private matter and signed his name, Christian
Hawksblood. Bearding the lion in his den, Christian made his way across the Lower Ward to where the military knights were housed.

He had hated Warrick for many years. As a boy, he had visualized confronting him, then cleaving him in two with his broadsword. When he became a youth, his plan for revenge grew more subtle. By then he had been trained to isolate, capsulate, and bury deep problems that could not be immediately solved. To be managed, emotions must first be controlled, then set aside until the time was ripe.

He wondered briefly how long it would take to learn if Guy de Beauchamp was his father. He had mastered patience. He cared not if it took a lifetime.

Hawksblood knew immediately.

And so did Warrick.

The aquamarine eyes staring back at him were his own.

Slowly, Warrick circled him, openly curious at what he had spawned.

Hawksblood took a massive chair by the fireplace.

Warrick took its mate. Still they did not speak. The very air crackled with tension.

So this was the Norman warrior from whose seed he had sprung! Scarred, hardened, fierce; a body and a will of iron. He had inherited more than his sire’s long limbs.

Warrick stared at the dark, hawklike face, stamped with the pride of an Arabian prince. Wild, cruel, fearless, enigmatic; all these things, yet by God’s Splendor, he was a
man
.

Finally, Warrick spoke. “Your mother had an ironic sense of humor; she named you Christian.”

“Did you know of me?” The words came like steel-tipped arrows, direct and to the heart of the matter.

“If I had known of you, you would have been brought up at Warrick. Ten years ago I met a Hospitaler Knight from the east who had heard of a youth in their secret order who was rumored to be my son. “I didn’t believe it. I didn’t want to believe it. I didn’t think she would deceive me! Yet, over the years, I wondered.”