Dragon Tree (32 page)

It would
appear they were both damned.

It could never
be, however. She was a married woman, bound for a convent. He was
an excommunicated priest, bound for hell.

He slammed the
flat of his hand on the stone and offered up a vile epithet before
he turned and strode out of the hall again.

~~

The violence
of the oath drew someone else's attention, someone seated a
distance from the fire who preferred the shadows to the brighter
light cast by the blazing logs. His face was long and pointed, his
eyes narrowed and crusted by sleep but as he stared at the figure
outlined so boldly by the fire, his mouth went slack and his eyes
widened. He pushed himself upright but by then the cursing knight
had walked away from the fire and was through the arched doorway of
the pilgrim's hall.

There could be
no mistaking that face, no mistaking the angular profile, the
dragon-like green eyes.

Hugh de
Bergerette felt a sudden, violent flare of pain where his right arm
should have been. He reached across and rubbed the stump that hung
below his shoulder and in his mind’s eye he saw the flash of a
blade biting into his flesh, tearing through bone and sinew and
leaving his forearm lying in a spatter of blood on the hot desert
sand, the hand still gripped around the hilt of his sword.

Ciaran
Tamberlane, the vaunted Dragonslayer had crippled him in defense of
a Saracen slut. Adding insult to infamy, the hero of the Battle of
Hattin had turned and walked away from the battlefield like a
coward, his face streaked with tears, his shield and weapons flung
aside in an act of heresy that had resulted in him being exiled
from the Order, from the church itself. Hugh had heard the knight
had become a recluse, had locked himself away in some godforsaken,
decrepit castle in the middle of nowhere and surrounded himself
with outcasts and misfits.

It was evident
by the cut of his tunic, the healthy vigor in his stride, that the
defrocked Templar had barely suffered for his disgrace while he,
Hugh de Bergerette, a man loyal to his duty and his God had lain in
agony for weeks, watching the spidery red threads of gangrene
spread up from the badly cauterized stump until the arm itself had
to be sawed from his body.

De
Bergerette's lips curled back in a serpentine hiss and he rose
quickly to follow the former Templar out of the hall. Revenge had
always been a tempting thought, but he had needed all of the past
three years to rebuild his strength and learn to compensate for the
missing limb. It had taken half that time just to retrain himself
to wield a sword or dagger in his left hand.

Among the
other new skills he had acquired was the knowledge that few paid
heed to a one-armed man dressed in beggars rags. He was able to
walk through gates where normal passage would have been barred. He
became adept at disguises and at dwelling in shadows and niches
where he overheard conversations and gathered information that paid
well if whispered in the right ears. Because of this, he was always
alert for oddities, and most especially for seeing people in places
where they should not have been seen.

Thus, when the
first flush of rage had passed, he had to ask himself: What was the
reclusive Dragonslayer doing at St. Albans? What could have lured
him away from his lair?

He tracked the
sound of the knight's boots splashing through puddles along the
breezeway. His curiosity roused, Hugh de Bergerette followed,
darting silently from pillar to post.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

As much as
Tamberlane wanted to leave the monastery, the weather did not favor
it. The rain, which had fallen all night, obscured the dawn under
waves of heavy, slanting sheets that flooded the meadows and ran
down the slopes, swelling the little stream until it overflowed its
banks and threatened to wash the bridge away.

Tamberlane
spent the morning in the pilgrim's hall and by late afternoon, with
no relief in sight, was resigned to spend another night at the
monastery. The decision made, he found Boethius who was standing
guard outside the monk's cell and watching the driving
torrents.

“Stupid
creatures,” the knight said, tipping an unshaven chin to indicate
the corpses of several dead chickens in the courtyard. “They turn
their heads up to watch the rain and drown themselves.”

Tamberlane
cursed as a gust of wind blew rain through the archway and
spattered his face.

Boethius read
the knight's thoughts and grunted. “We would not have managed a
mile in this muck and downpour.”

“No, I warrant
we would not. Go, then, and dry yourself by the fire. Put a toe in
Roland’s ribs and remind him to see to the horses.”

Boethius
nodded, glad of the chance to get out of the wet spray. He set off
down the passage leaving Tamberlane to contemplate the closed door
to the cell. He had not seen Amaranth since the visit from Father
Michaelus.

He drew a deep
breath and reached out a hand, letting it rest on the iron latch
for a long moment before carefully raising it and pushing the door
quietly open.

Hugo padded
past him as he ducked below the lintel. Amaranth was hunched over
and cursing, a scattering of leather points flung to the floor
around her. The wolfhound brushed up against her bare leg, nearly
toppling her over.

She whirled
with a startled look and sent another point flying out of her
fingers.

"Oh! I did not
hear you knock."

Ciaran
frowned. "Because I did not knock."

"Oh," she said
again. “Well, if you are come to fetch me to resume our journey, my
lord, I am more than ready to leave this place. I have counted
every block and board a dozen times, even fixed the shutter so the
rain stays on the outside. Now, if only I can learn the proper way
of binding these wretched things!”

She was
standing in the middle of the tiny room, clad in the oversized,
shapeless wool shirt and stockings. That she appeared to be having
difficulty tying the leather points was evident, for the hose was
sagging like an old man's wrinkles around her thighs.

“I am
determined to master the task. I watched Inaya do it,” she said,
holding up one of the short leather thongs. “But I vow I must be
stupid, for I cannot grasp how she tied them. Twice I thought I
found success only to move and have everything fall down
again.”

By way of
demonstration, she took a step and Tamberlane heard several audible
popping noises as the points slipped out of the corresponding loops
on the belt and the left stocking rippled down her leg and puddled
around her knee.

After some
consideration—including whether to smile or not at the perplexed
look on her face—he walked forward and took the thong out of her
fingers.

“There is a
knack,” he said. While she watched, he folded the point in half.
“Thread this through the hole in the belt first, then bring it down
and through the eye in the top of the stocking and loop it again...
like so.” A twist and snap of his fingers produced a fine, tight
knot.

She had him
show her again then tried one herself. “But...and forgive me again
for asking... how do you manage the ones in back?”

Tamberlane
hesitated. Normally there was a squire or page present to assist
him in trussing his points so the problem had never arisen. But
Roland was not the most reliable one to assist a half-naked young
beauty to get dressed.

Quicker than
his better judgement would allow, Ciaran went down on one knee
behind Amaranth and reached beneath the hem of the shirt,
excruciatingly careful not to come in contact with her skin as he
raised the top of the stocking and located the lower edge of the
belt.

Amaranth stood
as still as a statue, barely daring to breathe. She had not
expected him to assist her himself and while she knew he would work
swiftly and with as detached a manner as possible, she could not
help but be aware of the heat of his hands and the shifting hem of
her shirt. Staring at a fixed point on the far wall did not help.
Neither did staring at Hugo, who chose that unlucky moment to
affectionately lick the back of Maude’s ear.

A soft,
near-soundless whimper escaped her throat, one that abruptly halted
the movement of Tamberlane's hands.

He was midway
through tying off one of the points. The backs of his fingers were
tucked between the top of the hose and her leg, and at the sound of
her softly expelled breath, his gaze shifted to the visible tremors
that shook the folds of her shirt. The leather point fell slack in
his fingers and the unknotted end slipped free of the loop. His
right hand opened of its own volition and spread flat over the top
of her leg, the fingers shaping to the curve of her thigh. The left
hand did the same, holding still for but a moment before his thumbs
stroked softly up and brushed along the delicate crease that marked
the curve of her bottom.

Tamberlane
groaned inwardly and closed his eyes. He brought his head forward
and touched it to the hem of the shirt, the only barrier standing
between him and a lust so shameful it burned through his body and
sent a tremor shaking through his arms.

Amaranth felt
it. She felt it in his hands and she felt it at the small of her
back where his brow rested. She was loathe to make a sound or move
in case he misread her response and pushed himself away again. Some
of that fear came from her own shocking desire to feel his hands
move higher, move across her bare skin and explore the heat he was
causing to rise within her.

She felt his
hands tighten where they gripped her thighs. A ragged sigh brought
the warmth of his breath through the cloth, sending yet another
spray of shivers rippling down her spine.

“This is
wrong,” he whispered, his words muffled against the wool. “It is
wrong and I know it is wrong, and yet... I am helpless to stop
myself. I see you and I want to touch you. I touch you and I long
to caress you. I caress you and I lose all sense of myself.”

Startled by
the emotion in his voice, Amaranth slowly turned within the circle
of his arms, noting that the pressure from his hands had eased
enough to allow her to turn, but did not release her
completely.

When she
looked down, she saw that his eyes were closed, his jaw clenched
like a ridge of granite.

It was an odd
time to notice how long and thick his lashes were as they lay
against his cheeks. Odder still, that her hands seemed to have a
mind of their own as they sent her fingers furrowing into the black
waves of his hair.

The dark green
eyes opened and she knew she had nothing to fear there. She saw
only the naked honesty of his hunger and confusion... and the
silent plea for understanding.

Amie sank
slowly onto her knees before him so that they faced one another on
an even level. She smiled faintly, whether to ease his burden or
her own, she would never be sure, then leaned forward and brushed
her lips across his.

The touch was
light, the kiss fleeting. She did it a second time and a third. On
the fourth his hands started to slide up from her hips to the small
of her back the, pressure increasing until he was pulling her
forward. The breath left his lungs on rush that might have been her
name or it might have been a curse—she could not tell. She only
knew that he was crushing her to his chest and his lips were
claiming hers with a passion that she had never felt before.

He held her
face between his hands and the kiss became bolder, deeper. His
tongue was there to taste her, to probe between her lips, lashing
and swirling and insistent.

Amaranth
shuddered with every heated thrust, but as suddenly as he had
invaded her mouth, he abandoned it again leaving her bereft,
gasping. His fingers remained tense where they were tangled in her
curls, but he bent his head and touched his brow to hers, shaking
it slowly side to side.

“The good
friar was right: I am lost,” he whispered. “God knows, I am
floundering, for you have bewitched me.”

She did not
know how to respond, not with her body melting and her blood
rushing through her veins like liquid fire. She knew how she wanted
to respond. She wanted to drag his mouth back to hers. She wanted
him to kiss her again... and again... and by all that was holy and
unholy... she wanted him to do more than just kiss her.

“God is not
here,” she said, her voice barely above a broken whisper. “There is
only you and me, my lord, and in truth, I am as lost as you.”

He groaned
like a man in pain and his hands slipped down to cradle her neck.
“Amaranth... you know nothing about me.”

“I know all
that I need to know... and more than you think, my lord. It is
there in your eyes each time you look at me.”

He shook his
head and startled her somewhat by laughing. “No. No, I think my
true dilemma would surprise you. Possibly even amuse you.”

Amaranth’s
heart stumbled inside her chest and she remembered placing her hand
over the book of spells in Marak's chambers. She remembered the
heat that spread up her arm after she uttered the words that
promised to make the most taciturn of men unburden his soul to
her.

"It was
Marak's fault. He made me say the words."

"Marak? What
has he to do with any of this?"

"It was
Marak's doing," she cried softly, her eyes filling with tears. "He
cast a spell."

Tamberlane
frowned. "I don't understand."

"Of course you
don't. How could you when it was done without your knowledge. But
if... if I am to blame for causing you discomfort, I would beg your
forgiveness.”

"Discomfort?
Aye, there is a deal of discomfort, sweet Amaranth. Discomfort of
the type I know not how to ease." He shook his head at her obvious
distress and swore softly again. "That is to say... I know how to
ease it, I have just never had occasion to put that knowledge into
practice. But there is no spell involved, only the ignorance of a
man who has never lain with a woman before."