Lord of My Heart (5 page)

His tongue against her skin was moist, hot, then cool as the breeze found the trail he left. He was doing as she had imagined and running his tongue down the top of her spine, but the moisture he would find there was not cold river water but hot perspiration.

Hot. So hot.

A shudder passed through her, as if she were taken by a fever. The rumble of his laughter vibrated into her. She laughed, too, enchanted into madness. She was going to speak, to turn, to seek the kiss she hungered for.

Then, “Farewell,” he said. She understood that.

He flipped the back of the cloak over her head. By the time she had disentangled herself he was gone.

Madeleine collapsed on the ground. He was surely of the faery world to be able to entrance her so. For all she knew that had been faery language, not common English at all.

But the cloak in her hands told her he was human and his magic was human, and all the more dangerous for it. The garment was fine green wool, woven in two shades and trimmed with red and a darker green. Not a poor man’s garment. Unlikely in an outlaw unless stolen; certainly not faery.

She would like to keep it, but she would be questioned. She folded it neatly with cherishing hands and left it there, then returned dazedly to her attendants.

She had not called out. The Bible said that if a woman did not scream she could not claim assault.

How strange. How strangely wonderful.

How sad that such a man was not for her.

As far as she was concerned, he might as well be a prince of faery. Such men didn’t exist in the real world, the world from which she would have to choose her husband.

But still, she could not resist a prayer that when finally she found herself in the marriage bed, her husband would touch her as the faery prince had touched her, and take her to the end of the magical path he had opened before her.

At first he’d assumed she was a local wench, but he’d soon guessed she was Norman, probably one of Dame Celia’s women. Few English had that dusky tone to their skin. Blood from southern France or Spain lay in her somewhere.

Clever of her to stay silent and conceal it.

And she didn’t understand English. If she did she would have reacted when he described all the wonderful things he wanted to do with her body. He laughed again. If she ever learned the language and remembered some of the things he’d said, she’d be after him with a gelding knife.

He’d not even been able to steal a kiss for fear of her seeing him up close. Aimery de Gaillard had no business on Baddersley land, and he wanted no connection made between him and a certain Edwald, an outlaw who helped the people against the Norman oppressors.

An older, bearded man emerged from among the trees. “Taking your time, aren’t you? Why’re you grinning like a fool?”

“Just the pleasure of the swim, Gyrth,” said Aimery. “It’s a joy to be clean again.”

Gyrth was Hereward’s man, but he’d been appointed to attend Aimery during his youthful visits to England. It was Gyrth who’d taught Aimery English skills and English ways—the reverence for custom, the importance of discussion, the stoical acceptance of
wyrd.

When Gyrth had turned up at Rolleston, Aimery had known Hereward was back in England and planning resistance. Aimery’s duty to William said he should hand Gyrth over to the king, but instead he had accepted him without question. Gyrth was doubtless part missionary and part spy, but he was also Aimery’s link to the English way of thinking. He needed that as he tried to explain the new Norman laws and customs to the ordinary folk to help them to survive invasion.

It had been Gyrth’s idea, for example, that they go around this part of England disguised as ragged outlaws. It was a dangerous plan but had proved useful. Though Aimery de Gaillard looked English and spoke the tongue, the English knew him for what he was—a Norman, an enemy. As Edwald the outlaw he was accepted and heard the truth. Many places were doing well under Norman lords, but some were suffering, as here at Baddersley.

“What you going to do about this place then?” Gyrth asked.

“I’m not sure what more I can do.” Aimery buckled on his belt and knelt to cross-lace his braies. “I’ve explained the villagers’ rights to the headman. If abuses continue, he should make petition to the king.”

“And de Pouissey’ll let him go off to Winchester and complain?” said Gyrth with a sneer.

“William’s always on the move. He’ll come this way.”

“And treat that devil as he deserves?”

“And correct injustices,” said Aimery firmly as he stood. “William seeks to rule his people in justice. Constant unrest is not making that easy.”

Gyrth grinned. “It’s not supposed to make it easy. It’s supposed to send the Bastard back where he belongs.”

“Dreams, Gyrth. William’s fixed in England like a mighty oak, and he’ll bring hell on it before he gives up an acre. But he’s dealing fairly with all who accept him. If Hereward swears allegiance, he’ll receive some of his land back.”

“Receive back,” Gyrth echoed in disgust. “A man’s land is his land. Not the king’s to give and take.”

“Not under Norman law, and a rebel’s land has always been subject to forfeit. William is respecting the rights of loyal men.”

“What of a man’s right to be free? I hear tell a lord over Banbury way’s making slaves of any freemen he finds and setting them to work. Where’s your just king in all that?”

Aimery faced him. “William can’t know everything.”

“He can be told. By you, perhaps. If you insist on living on both sides you can make yourself useful at least.”

It was a challenge. Aimery nodded. “Indeed I can. We have time to visit Banbury before returning to Rolleston. We’ll go there tomorrow and see exactly what’s going on.” He looked down ruefully at his clean body and clothing. “I wouldn’t have washed if I’d known, though.”

As he bundled up the rough clothing he wore as an outlaw, Aimery noted the satisfied look on Gyrth’s face. “We go to observe and report, not to take action. I’ll not be pushed into committing treason, Gyrth.”

“So who’s pushing?” asked Gyrth innocently.

Aimery shook his head and turned to lead the way to their camp.

“You’ve left your cloak somewhere,” Gyrth said.

Aimery grinned. “So I have. Hold on.”

As he returned, Aimery pressed his cloak to his face and smelled the same soft perfume he’d inhaled from her skin. Rosemary and verbena, perhaps.

Gyrth looked at him and leered. “So that’s what took you so long. You must be a fast worker, lad, but was it worth the risk? I thought you didn’t want anyone here catching sight of Aimery de Gaillard, Norman lord.”

“She never saw me.”

Gyrth slapped his knee and hooted with mirth. “By Woden, I should watch you in action sometime! Come on, though, before her husband turns up with an ax.”

By the Chalice, it hadn’t been that long since he’d had a woman!

He turned restlessly and pulled the cloak tighter.

Wisps of verbena and rosemary wrapped around him. He surrendered and allowed his mind the path it desired.

She was comely. Unfortunately their position had given him little more opportunity to see her features than she’d had to see his, but the sweet curve of her cheek was fixed in his mind, and he had studied the back of her neck at leisure. Smooth, sun-gilded skin over subtle flesh, warm and spicy on his tongue . . .

He stirred restlessly. These thoughts were not adding to his comfort. He rolled on his back and stared up at the stars. Perhaps he should just present himself at Baddersley as Aimery de Gaillard and take the pleasure the wench was so eager to give. Aimery de Gaillard had every right to stop in at Baddersley and request hospitality . . .

This was madness. Baddersley hadn’t been Hereward’s principal estate, but Aimery had visited it often enough to be known. His disguise was effective, but if the Baddersley people saw Edwald the outlaw and Aimery de Gaillard within days, some of them would make the connection and talk of it.

It must have been too long since he’d had a woman if he was letting a comely wench tempt him into such danger.

The clothes they wore were those of poor peasants— a coarse homespun tunic belted with braided leather and, for a cloak, a heavy woolen cloth with a hole cut for the head. They were bare-legged with leather sandals on their feet.

They carried large packs so as to appear to be petty merchants. If their path crossed that of a Norman patrol, it was as well to have reason to be on the road, and reason to be carrying a better quality of clothing than what they wore.

Aimery had to assume his disguise—dirty his skin and grease his hair again—and so the sun was well up by the time they left the camp. He soon pulled off his cloak and bound it on top of his pack, muttering a profanity.

“You’re like a hungry boar this morning,” said Gyrth.

“I could be clean and on my way home to Rolleston,” Aimery complained, “instead of on a hot, dusty two-day walk to Banbury.”

Gyrth grinned. “Or back beneath a certain wench’s skirts. Kept me awake last night you did with all that tossing and turning.”

Aimery laughed off the idea, but it was true. His ill temper was because of the unfinished business between him and a certain dusky maiden. If he’d had his pleasure with her, he’d doubtless not give her another thought. Well, they’d soon be off Baddersley land, and the memory would fade with distance.

They traveled alert for every hazard, for these were poor times to be abroad in England. Because of this, as they walked along a ridge path, Aimery quickly spotted a flash of white down near the stream. He halted, grinning. There she was again, and well away from yesterday’s meeting place. He found her prudence appealing. He’d have thought less of her if he’d found her haunting the same spot.

“What’s up?” Gyrth asked, hand on knife.

“A hind down by the stream.” Aimery slid off his pack.

“We’ve no time for hunting . . .” Then Gyrth found what Aimery had seen. “Especially not that kind.”

“I have a mind to meet with her face to face.”

Gyrth took a grip on Aimery’s sleeve. “Give her a good look at you, boy, and she’ll remember you another time.”

“I doubt it. We see what we expect to see. Anyway, we’re not likely to meet another time.” Aimery pulled free, but he took care that the dirty bandage he wore covered the tattoo on his right wrist. That was always the thing most likely to betray him.

Aimery slipped down the scrubby hillside toward the stream. He’d been well-trained in woodcraft, and he was within feet of the girl without her being aware of him.

She was nimble and graceful as she hopped across stones in the shallow stream, studying the water. She had both kirtle and shift tucked into her belt, and he relished the sight of her long, shapely legs. Her hair was bound today in a thick plait which swung heavily across her back. He imagined unraveling it and losing himself in the chestnut cloud.

He deliberately stepped on a twig.

She jerked around, wide-eyed, a scream hesitating on her lips.

“Good day, Lady,” Aimery said.

Gyrth was right. He was mad. Was he just going to throw her down and rape her? They couldn’t even communicate unless he revealed his knowledge of French. She was as lovely from the front as he’d imagined, though, with a smooth oval face, clear dark brows over beautiful eyes, and soft, sweetly curved lips.

“Good day,” she said with a horrendous accent.

“You speak English,” he said approvingly.

It was the same voice, thought Madeleine, with a thrill. And yet she was disappointed. She’d imagined her faery prince to be a little more glamorous than this. She’d spent many sleepless hours picturing him as a noble, daring warrior. Her mind had drifted ever closer to the entrancing notion that he might be a potential suitor. After all, it was rumored that Judith and Agatha were to be used to buy the allegiance of noble Englishmen.

But now here he was before her, a peasant in rags.

They were staring at each other like simpletons.

“I speak very little English,” she said haltingly.

He stepped closer. “Lucky then that I speak a little more French.” His French was the coarse peasant tongue, but he seemed fluent.

Madeleine realized with a chill that she had revealed her nationality and she wasn’t even sure he
was
her faery prince. His greasy hair was quite dark and his skin was grimy, not gold. His smile began to look wolfish to her.

She backed away . . .

“Don’t be afraid,” he said. “What’s your name?”

Madeleine was poised for flight, but something held her back. She knew, however, it could be dangerous to tell him she was Madeleine de la Haute Vironge. “Dorothy,” she said.

“Don’t run away, Dorothy. I won’t hurt you.”

Madeleine relaxed under the influence of the same soft, soothing voice. It was him. And there was something else reassuring. Something in his smile . . .

She realized it was his teeth. They were white and even, unlikely in a ragged peasant.

She smiled. He was in disguise. He
was
her faery prince, doubtless an English noble, traveling incognito. Once she’d framed this thought, it was amazingly easy to see through the dirt and rags to the handsome face, the powerful body, and the golden hair. He had startling green eyes, she discovered, which crinkled entrancingly when he smiled.

“I’m Edwald,” he said. She knew it was a lie but understood.

“How is it you know French?” She made each word clear and separate. She knew how hard it was to understand a foreign tongue when spoken quickly.

“I’ve traveled to France.”

That argued high birth. Perhaps he was one of the sons of Harold who were trying to avenge their father. But in that case she would expect his French to be more elegant.

He spoke again. “Do you make a habit of wandering the woods alone, Dorothy?”

Madeleine glanced back down the stream. The real Dorothy was just visible, the guard just out of sight. “I have friends nearby.” It was a warning as well as information.

He followed her gaze, then took her hand to draw her away from the stream and behind a thicket. Heart pounding, Madeleine knew she should run. If he tried to stop her she should scream. She did neither.

He rested his hands on her shoulders and smiled down at her. His eyes really were very attractive. “I wanted to see you properly,” he said.

The darkened skin and greasy hair muddied her vision. “I wish I could see you properly, too.”

Danger flashed in his eyes, but then he laughed and shook his head. “How have you survived in this harsh world, Dorothy? Don’t worry. I won’t harm you even if you do hold my life in your hands.”

He gathered her hands together and dropped kisses into her palms, tickling them with warm breath that stirred something hotter inside her, something she recognized as forbidden. Her conscience made her pull away, but when he tightened his hold to stop her, she did not persist.

His hands slid along her bare forearms, and inside the loose sleeves of her kirtle to her shoulders, rough skin and callouses against her smoothness. “Your skin is like the finest silk,” he murmured. “You must know, though, my sweet Dorothy, that I cannot see you after today.”

No one had ever touched her so intimately, and she was softening like wax on a hearth. “Why not?” she breathed.

“How can I risk it? You would know me for an outlaw and tell your king.”

“No,” said Madeleine with certainty, “I wouldn’t.”

His thumbs rubbed against her collarbones. “You should. It would be your duty.”

But they blinded traitors and rebels, or gelded them, or lopped off hands and feet, Madeleine thought, shivering. “No, I promise. I will never betray you.”

He freed his hands of her sleeves and drew her close against his hard body. Her conscience cried the alarm. This was wrong. She should run. Now.

But surely she could stay just a little longer. It was honey-sweet to be in his arms.

Greatly daring, she raised her hands to his broad shoulders, remembering them wet and beautiful in the sun. Her right hand found bare flesh at the nape of his neck and she cherished it, her fingers seeking the top of the valley of his spine.

“Ah, my beautiful wanton . . .” His lips touched hers as softly as a kiss of peace, but this kiss brought turmoil, and her conscience gained control.

She snatched her hands away and used them to push instead. “I mustn’t!”

Laughter sparked in his eyes. “Mustn’t you?” He loosened his arms. “Then fly, little bird. I won’t stop you.”

Contrarily, his words allowed her to muffle the alarm bells in her mind. He wouldn’t hold her against her will, and she wanted to be kissed. No more than that, just a kiss.

Gathering her courage, she touched her lips to his. He laughed and dropped kisses on her nose, and cheeks, and chin. Madeleine did not want to reveal her ignorance so she copied him. She showered his face with little kisses.

He murmured approvingly and guided her lips to his, this time with a hand firmly cupping the back of her head. His tongue came out to lick her lips.

Madeleine was startled, but she resolutely did the same. Her tongue met his, mobile and warm. His mouth opened, her mouth opened, his tongue entered to play.

Madeleine gave a little moan and stopped thinking. Her body hummed, and she leaned against his wonderful chest, strong as an oak, warm as a fire-stone. His hand on her breast turned her legs to jelly. She collapsed completely against his mighty arm. He moved back and sat on a rock, pulling her onto his lap.

“Yes, darling, yes,” he murmured in English.

Madeleine regained a scrap of sense and realized she’d had her kiss. It really was time to stop . . .

His mouth found her right breast. Madeleine stopped thinking again. His hands and mouth tormented her, and her body developed a mind of its own. Her hips turned to move against him. She closed her eyes.

Heat. Ache. There was a piercing ache between her legs, covered suddenly by his hand. She moaned and moved against him, then stilled as she realized what was happening.

“No!” she cried and pulled away.

His hand clapped over her mouth. An arm like iron imprisoned her. She squirmed and kicked. “For Christ’s sake, stay still!” he hissed.

She obeyed because she was helpless against his strength. She was panting and shivering as if with an ague. He wasn’t in a much better state.

His hand eased off her mouth. “Let me go,” she whispered. “Please let me go.”

She felt a shudder pass through him. “By the Virgin’s milk, what’s the matter?”

A fine sheen of sweat covered his skin, and his eyes were more black than green. He shifted slightly, and she felt his hard member against her thigh and jumped with fright. She pushed on his chest. “Let me up! Let me up! This is wickedness!”

He stared at her and muttered something hot and angry in English. Then in French he asked tightly, “Are you by any chance a virgin?”

Feeling as if she were accused of the blackest sin, Madeleine nodded.

Slowly he released her and stood. His breathing was deep and unsteady. “How,” he said, “did a bold armful like you remain a virgin at your age? What are you? Eighteen?”

“Seventeen.” Madeleine pulled her skirts down and tugged at her bodice. He’d had her half naked. She ventured a glance at him. Lord, he was angry. He looked as if he were going to beat her, and for being a virgin still. “I’m sorry,” she said, then giggled nervously at the absurdity of it.

If he was angry, so was her body, screaming that it had been deprived of something it had been promised. She hurt. She wrapped her arms around herself.

He sighed and shook his head. “It was a hard day when I met you, Dorothy. Go on back to your friends and take a lesson from this.”

She didn’t like to part from him in anger. “I only wanted a kiss,” she said wistfully.

He gave a laugh that sounded almost genuine. “Well you certainly had that. Go on. Go, or I might think better of my noble impulse.”

Madeleine took a step away, and then came back in spite of his forbidding look. “It was a very nice kiss,” she said softly, and reached up to brush her lips against his. Then, having some sense left, she fled.