Lord of Midnight (42 page)

At least with Imogen and some others commanded to perform, Claire didn’t have to amuse. She could think at last about books left by windows. Who had said that, and why was it important… ?

The music was excellent, however, and her mind too giddy with thoughts of the night. Instead of logical analysis, she drifted through the long afternoon in spicy dreams.

The men returned raucous and triumphant, the king bursting into the solar still stained with blood and dirt. The blushing queen dismissed everyone, and Claire emerged to find mayhem. The castle was already in frenzied preparation for the evening banquet and now muddy dogs were everywhere along with muddy men wanting wine, food, and baths. The hunt had brought back three deer and numerous small animals, all needing to be attended to by servants already rushed off their feet.

She prayed to heaven that the court never visited Summerbourne.

She tried to find Renald, but soon gave up. They’d be seated together for the feast and perhaps she could talk to him then. She saw Thomas hurrying by, and snagged his tunic. “How are you?”

“Well. Stop fussing, Claire!”

“I’m used to fussing. It’ll take a while to break the habit.”

He grinned. “You can fuss over Lord Renald instead. Did you see the fight? Wasn’t it exciting?”

“It certainly was.”

He puffed out his chest. “I’m going to be as good as Lord FitzRoger one of these days.”

Claire made herself smile. “I’m sure you will be.”

“I’ve got to go, Claire. If I tarry, I’ll get another whipping.”

“Whipping!” She reached out to grip his tunic again.

He twitched free. “Oh, not a bad one. And it was worth it. We—” A male voice bellowed his name. “I have to go!” And he was off, clearly driven more by pride in his mission than fear.

Claire went to tidy herself for the evening then returned to the hall. She kept an eye open for Renald simply because she missed him, but it wasn’t until the horn sounded for the jneal that he appeared. She suspected he’d bathed again. He entered the hall with a group of men, all clean and glowing from the day of action. He smiled for her alone, however, and came over to lead her to the high table for the meal.

“Our wedding banquet,” he said as he seated her.

“Again,” she remarked.

“And fresh. Not leftovers.”

She looked at him, startled, and he shook his head. “I’m not clever enough to say something like that on purpose. No leftovers?”

“None,” she said with a smile, but realized this wasn’t the place for a long, thoughtful discussion. “I’ll explain it all later.”

He raised her hand and kissed it. “I’m pleased. But I don’t think I’ll be in the mood for talk. Later.”

He pressed his teeth into the base of her thumb, and her heart started an urgent beat.

They washed their hands, then a server presented some sort offish. Renald chose some for their trencher. Claire looked at the rich food without appetite. That kind of appetite. “I wish…”

“I know. But we have to wait.”

“Why?”

“Custom, remember?” He raised a morsel offish to her lips and she took it. It was eel, highly seasoned with spices.

“I wonder if it’s painful to be nibbled to death by eels?”

His brows rose. “You know someone that happened to?”

“No, but someone narrowly avoided the fate.”

He shook his head, clearly recognizing nonsense.

Claire grinned and chose food from the next platter, one of meat. They playfully fed each other through endless courses as they waited for their night. When she fed him a honey cake, however, he captured her hand and slowly licked her fingers clean. “Honey, ginger, cinnamon—”

“Don’t,” she breathed. “We must have ages still to wait, and I can’t bear it—”

“It’s surprising what a person can bear.”

“I want to drag you to our room. Now.”

“I’d resist. Waiting enhances pleasure.”

“We’ve waited a whole month.”

“True enough.” He took her hand and carried it down beneath the tablecloths to brush over his thigh to his erection, long and hard. “Are you sure you want to wait?” Wickedly, she rubbed it, delighting in his caught breath, his look almost of agony. When he seized her hand, it hurt.

She bit her lip. She’d forgotten last time. “You started it,” she hissed.

“Perhaps I should start something else.” While raising his goblet with his left hand and sipping from it, his right hand released hers and slid between her thighs. He worked a looseness in her skirt so he could press against her.

For a moment she thought of resisting, but then she relaxed. She even spread her thighs, daring him with her eyes, knowing he couldn’t go far with this here at the high table. The long cloths covered their legs, but waist up they were exposed to everyone’s interested gaze.

His lips twitched a warning. He turned the goblet toward her, presenting it to her lips even as his other hand moved, bringing the tingle of desire, causing her to suddenly shift in her seat. She hastily steadied the goblet with her right hand and sipped, hoping one movement hid the other.

Then she felt him slowly pulling up her skirt, felt his fingers brush her bare thigh. She gulped from the goblet again, trying not to show the way her breathing had changed, fearing her cheeks must be turning red. Surely someone would begin to notice what was going on.

Did he not care?

When she looked at him, his smile widened. He took back the goblet and sipped, then kissed her with winewet lips.

At least the music and chatter drowned her moan.

His hand stilled.

Her first instinct was to protest.

One hand tormentingly still, he put the goblet down and picked up a piece of the meat. He fed it to her, teasing her lips until she took it, until her mouth was full. She felt almost as if he stroked with his other hand, yet it did not move.

As she chewed then swallowed the tender beef, he teased her lips with his fingers, inviting her to lick them, then suck them. Aware at every moment of his other, still fingers, she drew him into her mouth to deliberately savor him with her tongue. Surely he must be suffering as much as she!

Clearly not. Almost breathless, she tried to squirm free of his hand. It was impossible. She wished desperately he’d either do something—lewd though it would be—or leave her in peace. She seized a spoon and fed him a mouthful of herbed barley, then one of stewed cress.

He swallowed. “You think I need nourishment, wife?”

“I’m afraid you might have lost some fat in important places.”

“If anything, I’m growing. Feel me and see.”

“I can imagine.”

“Then imagine me deep inside you, big and hot.”

She stared, hit by desire so strong she could almost feel him there, or feel where he should be.

Her spoon tilted, spilling greens on the white cloth. “Please—”

“Wait.”

“Wait! It’ll be ages yet.” She slid her own hand beneath the cloth to try to move his, smiling at him all the time. Of course, he was too strong, but he leaned to kiss her, saying, “Wait. Just a little while.”

“There’ll be entertainments before they let us go,” she said fretfully. “You’re a tyrant.”

“Remember our first wedding night? I still want you to feel the pleasure before the pain, but when we’re alone, I won’t be able to wait.”

“Then what—”

“Ah, the tumblers. Good.”

Indeed, the formal entertainment had begun with a troop of tumblers cartwheeling into the center space. They were extremely clever, and Claire could almost have been fascinated if not for the fingers between her thighs that occasionally flickered in a cruel tease but never moved enough.

What had he been talking about? The pleasure? Here? He
couldn’t
.

She heard herself moan, and hastily drowned it in a whole goblet of wine. When the ewerer refilled it, Renald said, “Feed me wine, wife. I find myself engaged elsewhere.”

“ ‘Twould serve you right if I poured it over you.”

“I might find the cooling welcome.”

“If you’re heated, it is your fault! If we must wait—”

“You wouldn’t want to miss the man who juggles with fire.”

She stared at him. “I couldn’t care less about the man who juggles with fire.”

“I think you’ll change your mind. Wine, wife. I thirst.”

With a playful scowl, she raised the goblet to his lips, tilting it so he had to drink every drop. Then, trying to break his control, she leaned to lick a lingering drop from his lips.

She found that by changing the angle of her body, she could press against his tormenting hand, so she leaned closer. Remembering past occasions, she nibbled at his neck, his ear…

“Matilda, only look how impatient our lovers are for the night,” said the king, who sat on Renald’s other side. Claire realized with horror that she’d climbed half over Renald in a public place!

“Indeed we are, sire,” he said, with apparent calm while stopping her from moving too far away. “A month is a long wait.”

“But a holy one,” said the queen. “It will bring you great blessings. And we can’t rush things.” She shook a finger at them both. “A little patience here will be good for your souls, as well as whetting your earthly appetites. Anyway, I’m sure Lady Claire won’t want to miss the man who juggles with fire. It is wonderfully clever.”

“Very true, Highness,” said Renald. “In fact, Claire is wild with waiting. Aren’t you, love?” His fingers moved, almost depriving Claire of words, but she managed to agree.

“Trust me,” Renald murmured. “You
really
don’t want to miss Abdul. Ah, here he is.”

“I’ve seen fire jugglers before.”

“But Abdul is so good the king keeps him in his personal train.”

“Even so—”

He silenced her with a kiss. “Watch. I promise you. You’ll never forget it.”

“After this, can we go?”

“Yes. I think after this we’ll be ready.”

The fire juggler was a black man, which added a certain drama. Claire had only seen one Moor before, and in ordinary circumstances she’d want to talk to him of his homeland. At the moment, she simply wanted him to perform, finish, and leave.

He began with fire-eating, quenching fire with his mouth, or gushing out flames like a dragon. He was good, but not good enough to take Claire’s mind off Renald’s passive hand and her own unquenched fires.

Then Renald’s hand began to move.

Claire gasped, welcoming the touch she ached for, but horrified when they were the focus of so many eyes. Certainly most people were fascinated by the performance, but not everyone.

She tightened her thighs. He
couldn’t
!

Then the hall plunged into darkness. As women shrieked and men gasped, Claire realized servants were holding up large boards to cover the windows. In the deep gloom, Abdul’s flaming torches spun wild patterns, driven by the juggler’s clever hands.

Clever hands.

Renald’s clever hand moved against her, then slid right into her. “Stop!” She clutched at the goblet for all she was worth.

“No one can see,” he whispered. “No one can hear. Surrender.”

The musicians had started a wild, raucous melody to go with the fire, a strident Moorish tune with a harsh drumbeat underneath. It seemed to bounce off the stone walls and up through the floorboards into her thrumming body.

Renald’s hand quickened in tempo. In sudden panic, Claire tried to close her thighs, but his leg came over hers, trapping her open as the drumbeat quickened and the torches whirled impossibly fast, dazzling her eyes.

He shifted hands, his right curling around to hold her, to tease her breast. His lips breathed heat on her sensitive neck.

Clutching the edge of the table, Claire pressed back, but not to escape. She no longer cared, even, if the whole world watched. She closed her eyes, and the whirling lights shone red, while music pounded to her soul.

She fought it. A trace of inhibition made her fight. She could not win against such an opponent, but the struggle drove her mad and madder. Like a babe at the breast, she sought his mouth, and drowned in his kiss as she spun into a void of dark silence.

It was only slowly that she realized that the void was real. Somehow the juggler had quenched all his torches at once, and the music had died, creating that dramatic moment.

No, that hadn’t been all that had created the moment.

As the servants took away their shields and the last of the sun flooded red into the room, Claire straightened in her seat, closing her trembling legs. Renald slid his hand free and, hot eyes on her, raised it to his lips to kiss it.

Loud applause and cries of approval buffeted her, crazily as if everyone applauded her orgasmic moment.

The king tossed a heavy, clinking purse to the grinning black man. “Well done, indeed! Your skills improve with each performance.”

The juggler bowed low. “You give me chance to perfect my art, sire.”

The queen leaned forward to speak to Claire. “There, you see. You wouldn’t have wanted to miss that, would you?”

Claire couldn’t help a weak laugh. “No, Highness. I wouldn’t have wanted to miss that, strange though it was.”

“Strange?” queried the king. “You have not seen fire jugglers before?”

“Not quite like that, sire.”

“I suppose not,” he said, with the pride of a patron. “He is remarkably clever.”

“Indeed, sire,” said Claire, looking at Renald.

“A precious gift.”

“How true, sire.” She bit her lip and struggled for control. Renald was looking strained.

“I am constantly amazed at what that man can do,” the queen remarked. “Such clever hands.”

Claire couldn’t speak for fear of the giggles.

“Result of years of practice, I suppose,” said Renald.

She kicked him under the table. “Perhaps I would like to practice such skills. It would be interesting to create such excitement. Almost ecstasy, wouldn’t you say?”

“Now, now, Lady Claire,” said the queen, “a gentle lady shouldn’t play with fire.”

Claire slipped a hand under the table to tease the long bulge there. “Oh, but Highness, I suspect my Lord Renald might quite enjoy a wife who liked to play with fire. Especially with clever hands.”