Suzanne Robinson (10 page)

Thomas came to Blade, who had kept silent so as not to call attention to himself. The old man put a hand on Blade’s arm.

“My lord, Robert has an unruly and impetuous nature, but he’s a loyal subject of Her Majesty. Mayhap you’ll forget his hasty language.”

“If Her Majesty seeks not to pry into men’s souls, I can but follow her example.”

Thomas smiled at him, then swept the young folk out of the chamber before him. Oriel took his arm without glancing at Blade.

“Come, child. We’ve time before supper to put some books in order.”

They went out, leaving the door ajar so that he heard their footsteps in the short passage between the withdrawing chamber and Thomas’s library. Blade crept to the door and listened. When they began a discussion about a translation of Plato, he tiptoed back to his chair and took up the lute again.

This family was like a boiling stew. Bubbles of contention burst into the open all about him. Robert was a fool, and his brothers and Thomas knew it. Only a fool and a fanatic would openly criticize the queen, especially in front of someone who wasn’t a member of the family. Yet there were many such hotheaded young men among the Catholic nobility of the north. Robert had
company of high estate, including earls and a duke. Most claimed to be loyal subjects, yet here was fertile ground for the designs of the Cardinal of Lorraine.

He needed to know more about Robert. Mayhap he could prize such knowledge from Oriel. To do so he would have to take her in thrall, smooth away her apprehensions with enticements irresistible. Blade struck a chord and smiled. The lute was tuned to perfection. He moved his chair nearer the door and began a song. He wasn’t so foolish as to sing of love. Oriel wasn’t a silly, adolescent miss. If he was to succeed, his wiles would have to be circuitous and indirect. So instead of a courtly love song, he chose to lure her with sound—the sound of Old French and of his voice, clear, strong, low, and beguiling. For this purpose he chose the classical
Song of Roland
. Even stories of war took on a sensual tone in French.

As he finished a verse, he saw through the partly open door the russet fold of a gown. He continued to sing a while longer, then stopped. The edge of the gown disappeared, and Blade swore under his breath. Then a sly thought came to him. He began again, this time with an old poem he’d set to music himself.

He smiled when a shadow appeared in the doorway. So pleased with himself was he that he failed to pay attention and shifted his wounded arm too abruptly. He cursed and his fingers tangled in the lute strings. The instrument twanged as he let it fall and clamped his hand over the injury. He was biting his lip when the shadow moved and fell on him. Looking up, he beheld his quarry hovering over him, and all plots and designs vanished from his head.

She gazed down at him, her eyes wide with alarm. He schooled himself to keep his own glance from wandering over her body in search of curves. Holding still, he waited, fearing she would leave if he even spoke.

“My lord, have you hurt yourself? I—I was in the library and heard you sing.”

Blade had forgotten his shoulder. Now he made a great business of moving his left arm and spread his right hand over the sore place on his shoulder. He saw her gaze fasten on his hand, then dart back to his face. She was frowning, and he gave her a smile of slow, voluptuous warmth concealed by a veil of gratitude.

“I thank you, mistress. I but jarred the wound. I forgot it in the music.”

Oriel turned away, and Blade searched for an excuse to keep her near. She surprised him by hesitating.

“I’ve never heard a voice so pure and strong as yours, my lord. A nightingale would envy you.”

“My thanks again.” Blade took up the lute “Would you hear more?”

“But your wound.”

“I’ve had many far worse, and idleness chafes me more than the cut itself. I will sing, if you wish.”

She smiled at him, took a cushion from the window seat, and placed it by the fire. Perching on it, she rested her weight on one arm braced on the floor. She had taken a seat at least three arms’ lengths from him. Undaunted, Blade pretended to shiver and dragged his chair to the fire.

When he resumed his seat, his knee touched her shoulder, but she couldn’t move away or she would come too near the heat of the fire. God’s blood, just the feel of her arm sent spikes of arousal shooting up his leg to his groin. He took a deep breath and scolded himself.

“Now, mistress, if I’m to play for you, you must give me a promise.”

She gave him a wary look. “What promise?”

“You must promise not to run away if my singing displeases you.”

“I can’t envision ever finding your voice displeasing, my lord.”

“Then I have your word.”

“Yes.”

The ruse succeeded, and he began to sing, this time quietly, as he would on a dark night in a bedchamber in a chateau. At first he sang of Tristan and Isolt and their tragic love, then of Arthur, Lancelot, and Guinevere. Night was falling, and darkness closed in around them, wrapping them in intimacy.

He felt her move away from his leg, so he shifted his weight so that his calf brushed her arm again. As he did so, he lowered his voice so that she leaned closer to catch his words. She was watching his fingers pluck the strings, and a strange glow lit her eyes as he strummed the instrument. Trapped in that glow, he forgot what he was doing, and his hands went still

She looked up at him, her lips parted, and he saw the quick rise and fall of her breasts as she took shallow breaths. Neither of them spoke while the last chord he’d struck hummed in the air. His body hummed with it, and he let the lute slide to the side. He leaned down, moving slowly, slowly, until his lips met hers. He put his hand on her cheek to keep her close, and opened his mouth. Sunk in his own delirium, he followed her lips when they sought to retreat. They moved beneath his own, warm and lush and compelling. When she opened her mouth completely to him, he released his hold on
the lute, allowing it to slide to the floor, and pulled her up into his arms. She braced herself against his body and tried to shove away from him. He disregarded the movements. Spreading his legs, he trapped her between them.

As he plunged his tongue into her mouth, he kept hold of her, and after a moment, she stopped wriggling and allowed him to run his tongue down her neck. Her hands snaked beneath his doublet to touch his skin and run up and down his chest. At the feel of her flesh against his, he captured her lips again and put a hand on her breast.

Oriel jumped and cried out. She pounded at his chest with a fist, coming too near his wound, and he yelped. She pulled free of his arms and fell backward to the floor. She landed on her bottom with her legs apart, and Blade laughed to cover the painful twitch her position caused at his groin.

“Cursed licentious villain,” she said. She closed her legs and got to her knees.

Blade darted at her and snatched her hand. “No, mistress, you can’t go. I’ve a mind to finish our game of pleasure.”

“Release me!” She yanked at her hand, but couldn’t free it.

“Come,
chère
, don’t take on virginal airs after setting me afire. You’ve let me go too far to turn back.”

“I’ll call for my cousins.”

“And the upright Lord George will see us wed this very night.” Blade pulled her to him so that his lips nearly touched hers and whispered to her. “Then surely would I gain release from this pain in your bed instead of in this chair.”

Twisting her body, Oriel ducked down and escaped the circle of his arms. He reached for her again, but she slapped his hands away.

“Keep your hands from me, you debauched lecher. You’re deceitful and—”

Blade stared at her, fascinated by her trembling lips and watchful stance. “Marry, I do believe you’re frightened.”

Still on her knees, Oriel drew herself up and snapped, “I am not.”

“Yes, mistress, you’re quivering and pale, and you look like a milkmaid who’s just been tossed behind a haystack by a miller’s apprentice.”

“I say again, I’m not afraid of you, Blade Fitzstephen.”

“So you do know my name.”

She stood up. “I have work.”

“Is your word so worthless?”

“What mean you?”

“You promised not to run away.” He picked up the lute again.

“I always keep my word, but you transgressed, and therefore my vow is made null.”

“Then you’re afraid of me,
chère
, and you might as well admit it. I’ll wager you can’t stay in this room for one more song.”

He watched her face burn with ire, and inclined his head to her. “No doubt you fear to trust yourself in my presence now.”

“Ha!” She stalked to the window and sat down. “One song, my lord.”

He grinned at her again, then struck a chord.

She was up and through the door before he could finish the song. He chuckled and called after her.

“You’re a lovely, kissable coward, Oriel Richmond. Come back and let me teach you how to play my lute.”

A door slammed in the library, and he heard her footsteps in the gallery fading rapidly. His smile faded as well when he realized how completely he’d lost all trace of design, all self-possession, at the feel of her body. Such lack of governance was unlike him.

With others he could bend his body to his will. He could make love to a dissolute French courtesan while plotting how to trap her into revealing her closest secrets. Yet when he kissed Oriel, his only thoughts were primitive, almost violent ones that drove him to seek release in her body with no heed to the price.

Something was wrong with him. His only purpose in wooing Oriel was to gain entry to Richmond Hall, yet he risked being tossed out by pursuing her so relentlessly that he nearly had her on the floor of the withdrawing chamber. God rot her. She tempted him by her refusals and her defiance and her scorn.

She knew nothing of courtesy in lovemaking. French women knew how to play the game of courtly love. They knew when to submit, for in succumbing, they gained much pleasure. Not her. Not Mistress Oriel Richmond. No doubt she thought herself too virtuous to succumb to him. He would show her different. He would show her that virtue was a pallid and tedious thing that evaporated when boiled in the cauldron of passion.

In a town house in the city of Paris, on an icy night full of moaning wind, the Cardinal of Lorraine stood atop a marble staircase. Framed by a stone doorway carved to resemble Corinthian columns, he gazed down the winding stair at the body of the woman named Claude. In the light of a candle set in a tall stand at the bottom of the stair, her head rested at an unnatural angle.

The cardinal looked as if he were mildly annoyed as he gazed at the figure prostrate below him. A young priest in black that matched his shining hair emerged from the shadows at the foot of the stair and glanced from the woman to the cardinal. Charles de Guise
sighed and came down the stairs slowly. He moved with a smooth glide, as if he trod on oil, and his red robes gleamed in the meager light. Their hue reflected the red tint in his golden hair and the healthy pink of his cheeks.

He reached the body, tucked his hands in his sleeves, and addressed the priest. “Most distasteful, Jean-Paul. I suppose she wished to avoid the
peine forte et dure.
Traitors should consider the possibility of torture before they act.”