Lord of Midnight (43 page)

“He might at that,” murmured Renald, who looked as if he was fighting private battles.

“My dear,” the king said to the queen, “I think it’s time to get these two into their bed before abstinence turns their wits.” He was straight-faced, but his expression suggested that he had guessed some of their byplay.

“So soon?” said the queen. “But we have a very clever riddler to perform. I’m sure—”

“I’m sure a lady of Summerbourne knows all the good riddles, and would much rather explore other puzzles. Is that not true. Lady Claire?”

She gave him a smile of genuine gratitude. “Very true, sire. Am I to go up to my room with the ladies?” Suddenly she hated the idea of parting from Renald, even for a moment.

As if he guessed, Renald stood and swept her into his arms. “With Your Graces’ permission, this is not a true wedding night and I would take my wife and retire.”

Claire saw that the queen might have protested, but the king laid a hand over hers. “It is as Renald says, my dear. But we can’t do without ceremony entirely. Ho!” he called. “Music for the abstinent couple!”

So the musicians started up a merry march, and soon the whole hall was clapping to time, and laughing. Pelted with raucous advice, Renald carried Claire across the hall and up the wide stone steps. She just hid her face against his chest, desire swelling in her all afresh.

In the room he tossed her on the petal-strewn bed and started to strip off his clothes. After a startled moment, Claire struggled out of her own. As she emerged from her shift, he came down on her for a kiss so wild that it took a moment to realize that he was settling between her thighs.

At last.

At last.

She struggled free of his mouth. “I wanted to say—”

He covered her mouth with his hand. “Not now.” Watching her, holding himself up off her, he slid inside.

He
was
big, and she felt herself stretching, filling. She remembered Margret saying to tell him how he was doing. She didn’t really think Renald needed words, but she mumbled. When he took away his hand, she said, “It feels good.”

He laughed, but said, “I’m not hurting you?”

She shook her head. His face fascinated her, tense, yet composed, focused on their slow joining. As she was. She itched and hungered down there, and he was satisfying her. Slowly.

She knew it was costing him to be so slow, but that he did it out of love.

It was a strange sensation, and she moved slightly, trying to adjust. He closed his eyes and sucked in a breath.

She remembered last time and made herself stay still. She didn’t want another disaster.

“Still all right?” he asked tightly.

She nodded, then realized he still had his eyes shut. “Yes.” Her voice squeaked.

“Push your breasts up.”

When she eagerly obeyed, he curled down to suck first at one, then at the other. So much for staying still. Her hips went up. He went deep. Pain cut.

She couldn’t stop a cry.

“Pray,” he said, “that you are lightly made,” and thrust to settle deep within.

“Thank God,” he gasped.

“God should indeed be thanked,” she said, stunned to be full of him, and with so little discomfort. “How wonderful a gift, to possess a man this way.”

He laughed again, shaking with it as he moved, sliding in and out wetly. It was like but unlike what he had done before. Nothing like anything she’d ever done to herself.

She struggled desperately to stay still, though every muscle in her body screamed to dance.

The heat of his big body heated her. The smell drove her wild. “Can I move?” she gasped, even though she was anyway. She couldn’t help it.

“Hell, yes.” He put his hands beneath her to help. She didn’t need it. She danced in the bed with him to a wild private music, loving the sound, the feel, the slamming of their well-matched bodies.

“I’m glad it’s not dark,” she gasped, buffeted by the power of his thrusts, wrapped around his hot, hard flesh.

He didn’t answer except with a teeth-gritted groan that clearly had nothing to do with her words.

Feeling the whirlpool suck at her, Claire laughed for joy and bit him. She dug her nails into his buttocks as if—impossibly—she could urge him deeper, harder, faster.

More.

More.

More!

Perhaps she shouted it. As she clutched herself around his whole magnificent, rigid body, his groan rumbled through her. No, she couldn’t have shouted. Her mouth was full of his shoulder. He collapsed down, rolling and carrying her with him on her side. She had to let go with legs and teeth, but she kept her arms tight around him.

His lips met hers and she tried to eat him. Or that’s what it felt like. She wanted to. They were plastered together by sweat, she twined around him any way she could, he binding her to him with strong arms.

By all the saints and angels, marriage was a wonderful thing.

At last, at last, the kiss diminished, the grasping eased, and they relaxed into a softer embrace, but still entwined, still loving with lingering hands.

“All right?” he asked as he had so long ago. He brushed hair out of her eyes, and studied her—but without great doubt.

She stretched, watching him with wonderful, wicked possession. “I’m not sure. I think we’ll have to try again.”

He fell to laughing, rolling onto his back, pulling her to sprawl over him. She’d never seen him laugh like this before, but it was the true Renald. She knew it.

“Oh, definitely,” he gasped. “Perhaps we’ll have to hire our own fire juggler, too.”

She trailed her hand over his chest. “You mean we can’t have so much fun without?”

He kissed her lightly. “We’ll just have to be inventive.”

Claire moved slightly off him, the better to appreciate the beauty of his powerful body. “I come from inventive stock.” She looked at a particular part of his powerful body. “Will it always explode if I touch it?”

“Only if I’m a fool, and try to use God’s gift for base ends.” He took her hand and brought it to his new erection. “I long for your touch, Claire.”

She stroked him, fascinated by every flicker of expression on his face.

He covered her hand. “Let me show you how to make fire.”

“I think I know.” She escaped and slid down in the bed. “I want to practice fire-eating instead.”

Bright sunlight didn’t really incline them to leave their bed, exhausted as they were from little sleep and much exercise. Still, as they lay there, idly, lovingly playing with one another’s bodies, they mentioned the vague possibility of rising to face the world. And also, a bit more urgently, the thought of eating at some point in the future.

Still, contented exhaustion and physical delight pinned them down.

Finally, Claire realized that she’d never told Renald her thoughts about her father and she went over them for him. “So I see now why you don’t feel guilt. I still think Henry killed his brother, but he’s probably the best king.”

“Yes.” He rolled to his side, head propped on hand. “It’s not an easy subject. I’d have given my right hand to save your father if I could. He was a good man. A blessing on the earth.”

“And yet perhaps he should have been a monk not a baron.”

“No. For then he’d not have made his angels.”

She touched his face. “It’s troubling, isn’t it? If he’d not joined the rebellion—if he’d not forced the duel—I would not have you.”

“We might have met. Surely we would have known.”

Tears threatened at the thought of having Renald and her father both, but Claire fought them away. “I’m sorry he made you kill him.”

He didn’t brush it off, but kissed her. “Thank you. I confess, I harbored anger, even hatred, for him over that. I thought he intended to die to put point on his cause, and had forced me to be his instrument. That would have been a dark sin. I see now that he really thought he would win.”

“If he’d stuck the fight on the issue of whether the king killed his brother, could he have won?”

“Faith says he could. It wouldn’t have happened. Such an ordeal would have rested on the king’s guilt, and the king would have had to fight. If your father had come even close to that, he’d have died in his room in the Tower.”

“Sweet angels,” Claire whispered. “The king is not a good man.”

“What is good? A king must sometimes be ruthless. It all rests in the end between him and God.”

“But,” she couldn’t resist asking, “what would you have done if the battle
had
been on the subject of regicide? Would you still have fought?”

She realized while speaking that she worried about this, worried about him being the champion of a less-than-perfect king.

He just shook his head. “Claire, don’t borrow trouble. Such battles are extremely rare.” He looked around. “If we were to call, do you think someone would come with food and drink?”

She decided to let it go. “We could eat each other,” she said, putting her fingers to his lips.

He nibbled them, but said, “We’ve done that. I don’t think it can work as permanent sustenance. You don’t want me to lose weight, do you?”

But Claire had been struck by another thought. She pushed herself into a sitting position, looking around. “Where’s your sword?”

After a moment, he reached and pulled it out from behind the bed. “It’s not a matter of trust,” he said in response to her unspoken protest. “I just don’t take unnecessary risks.”

She put her hand on it. “Renald de Lisle, I accept the sword. I don’t entirely like it or what it stands for. I’m going to die a little every time you fight, be it tourney or battle. But I accept it. And anyway, it has a holy relic in it.” She touched the stone and blessed herself.

Then she took hold of the scabbard to stand the weapon upright against the wall, looming darkly over their marriage bed.

“It is strange,” she said, sitting back to study it, “that a weapon look like a cross.”

“Don’t make another riddle of it.” He pulled her to him, but one-handed he retrieved the sword and laid it on the bed before he slid into her. “I don’t want it falling on our heads, love.”

“I accept the sword,” said Claire, and held tight to the black scabbard as his fleshy blade took her to ecstasy.

“By St. Amand,” he muttered as they lay together afterward, still stickily joined. “I hope the king doesn’t want me out riding today.”

She giggled. “Are you sore, too?”

“Only in the most delightful way. But don’t tempt me any more, wench.”

“Me?” she protested as they wriggled apart. “What do I do?”

“Wriggle. Giggle. Smile. Breath…” He groaned and rolled out of bed to open the door and bellow for food and drink. “What hour do you think it is?” he asked, stretching.

“Perhaps as late as sext.” Claire decided that admiring his body was hazardous to her stinging flesh and went to peer out of the long window. “The castle looks in full bustle.”

He came up behind her, leaning against her, big, warm, and hard. Her breath caught. “It’s a pity we’re sore.”

He kissed her neck. “We have our lives, love. Keep this position in mind. You might like it. I hear people coming.”

Claire hastily slid beneath the covers again. Renald just wrapped a cloth around his waist as Maria, Prissy, and Josce hurried in with platters of food and jugs of ale.

They’d have hovered to see if they could be of further use, but Renald sent them away and he and Claire settled to a long, lazy, and much appreciated meal. They might have slipped into a nap if Josce hadn’t returned, announcing rather nervously that they were wanted below.

“Why?” Renald made no attempt to get out of bed.

“The Lady Felice has arrived from Summerbourne and demands to speak to you both.”

“Felice!” Claire almost leaped out of bed but decided to spare the squire’s blushes. “It must be Mother.”

Renald waved Josce away and they both got up and began to wash and dress, Claire in a fever because she feared something terrible had happened.

Renald stopped her and straightened her clothes. “Whatever has happened, happened some time ago. Don’t fly into a panic.”

“But—”

“This is your Aunt Felice, remember? The one who wanted to come to court.”

Claire laughed and calmed. “Oh, of course.” After a moment, she added, “Perhaps I’d better see her alone.”

“I won’t fight you for the honor. But since she’s here, I’ll see if I can think of any men who might suit her.”

She kissed him. “And who’ll take Amice as well. Try for someone big and important.”

“I thought she fled to escape big.”

“You frightened her off with stories of being
too
big!”

“And now, alas, by being able to walk, my bride will announce to the world that I’m a pitifully endowed sort of man.”

Claire pushed him and he obligingly collapsed back onto their bed, an interested light in his eye. She shook her head and hurried out to see what excuse Felice had found to rush here to the king’s court.

“Where’s Renald?” Felice demanded. She W was pacing in a corner of the crowded hall looking genuinely unaware of the interest of those around. Perhaps she did bring serious news.

“I can summon him if we need him. What’s amiss?”

Felice looked around. “I don’t want to speak here. Isn’t there a private place?”

“Carrisford’s bursting. There’s a church against the bailey walls. That might be more peaceful.”

Felice nodded, so Claire led the way, more concerned by the moment. What could be so troubling that Felice did not want anyone to overhear? Claire had the dreadful fear that it would be something else to do with Renald.

She’d swear on her immortal soul that they now had honesty between them. But what if they didn’t?

The small thatched church was cool, dim, and empty.

“So,” Claire asked. “What?”

“You think I’ve made an excuse,” Felice accused. “You always think the worst of me.”

“Please, Felice. Just tell me what’s happened.”

Her aunt sniffed. “Nothing’s
happened
. I only thought to try to save your life.”

“Save my life?”

“There, see. You don’t believe me!”

“Yes, yes I do!” There was a stone bench against a wall beneath a narrow window. Claire drew her aunt over to it and sat. “Did you hear that I was attacked on the road?”