The Dragon and the Jewel (22 page)

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Two nights later Eleanor bade her serving women good night and entered her private chamber atop the King John Tower. She removed her gown and bathed her arms and face with rosewater, then pulled aside her bedcurtains to reach for her nightgown. Simon de Montfort lay stretched out on her bed with his arms behind his head.

“Oh, bugger.” She gasped.

“Very pretty language for a nun,” he whispered.

“I’ll scream,” she hissed.

“You won’t,” he whispered. “You are too big a coward to be caught with a man in your bedchamber.” “How on earth did you get in here?” she hissed. He pointed to the tower window and grinned. She groaned. “What do you want?”

He rolled his eyes, just thinking of what he wanted. Her petticoat revealed much more of her high-thrusting breasts than he’d seen before, and he was enjoying her predicament immensely.

He eased a hand into his doublet and carefully brought forth a handful of ruffled feathers. “I brought you these orphaned creatures,” he said, holding out his hand. On his big palm sat two tiny screech owls. “I know you love birds. Perhaps you could keep them in your garden where they’ll be safe from weasels and foxes.”

“I cannot even keep out a wolf,” she murmured. Diverted for the moment, she emptied a gilded casket of its jewels and gently placed the owls inside. “Ruffles and Truffles,” she murmured softly as she touched a finger to each tiny head.

“I knew you would be an angel of mercy,” he whispered.

“Merciful to them perhaps, but not to you. Get out!” she hissed.

He shrugged his massive shoulders and walked toward the door. She ran to him quickly and grabbed his arm. “Not that way,” she whispered in distress. “You are a devil!”

He nodded at her assessment, his black eyes glittering with amusement. “We were meant for each other. The devil and the angelic nun,” he teased. Again he reached into his doublet. “I brought back your book …” His whispered words hung in
the air. In disbelief she stared at him. He had learned some Gaelic and had actually come for his kiss.

“I won’t give it!” she whispered.

“Don’t give it—I’ll take it.”

She was trapped. She knew she must get rid of him before they were discovered, yet she also knew he would never leave until he got what he wanted. She hesitated for long moments as he towered above her. The tension in the room grew unbearable. “All right,” she said resolutely as she lifted her cheek and closed her eyes.

Her bare shoulders were cupped in his warm hands, his dark head dipped low, and she felt his hot mouth in the deep valley between her breasts. Her eyes flew open and she gasped. “What are you doing?”

His lips moved close to her ear. “You said not your lips, so I kissed your heart.”

A great shudder ran down her back all the way to her knees. She knew not if it was a result of his warm breath on her neck or his romantic words. She could hear his husky voice over and over saying “I kissed your heart, I kissed your heart.”

He felt her tremble and saw her eyes liquid with apprehension and knew he had plagued her enough. “Good night, my Eleanor,” he whispered as he threw one leg over her window-sill.

The Earl of Leicester had chosen his bride. Eleanor Plantagenet was going to be the Countess of Leicester. He knew full well he would never have her consent. Her previous marriage vows were sacred to her. Forevermore she wished to be known as the Countess of Pembroke. While he had lain in wait for her, his eyes had fallen upon the letter at her bedside. He read it without hesitation and discovered it was a love letter from William Marshal. For the first time in his life he doubted himself. How could he overcome the idealized love she still bore her dead husband? She lived on memories of the time they had shared together in Wales and Ireland. She had made it plain there was room in her heart for only one pure love. Simon had never known vulnerability before. Eleanor was his Achilles’ heel. His resolve hardened. He was living flesh and blood … he would banish all ghosts. He doubted he would ever be able
to control her mind, it was far too strong. Too, he guessed she was willful in the extreme, and he would not have her any other way. However, he intended to control her somehow.

His fertile imagination had already pictured her in every state of undress, in every erotic position known to man. The sight and scent of her inflamed him to such a degree she had almost become an obsession. Whenever he closed his eyes her image was there on the inside of his eyelids. He envisioned what it would be like to undress her slowly, uncovering her ripe young body to worship with his hands and his mouth. He knew a savage hungry craving to touch her, smell her, taste her. What was this fatal fascination he felt toward her? Was it her exquisite beauty? Was it because she had committed her love so deeply and irrevocably? Was it the erotic titillation that she was almost a nun? Or did the vows of chastity make her such forbidden fruit he knew he must pluck, taste, and devour her? The answer to every question came back yes.

The thought of her delicate, small form was irresistible to him, and he would know no peace until he had joined his powerful body to hers. If only he could make her desire him as he did her. Perhaps he could pander to her senses and enslave her body. If he could make her crave his caresses, make her need his lovemaking like a drug, even if it was all in secrecy, he would be more than halfway home. She would never enter the convent. If her own good sense did not stop her, he would.

Becoming her lover would be much easier than becoming her husband, however. There was this barrier of her vow of chastity to overcome. He flashed his wolf’s grin in the darkness. When Henry II had decided to possess Eleanor of Aquitaine, she had been married to the King of France. Henry II had always been his role model. There was a very simple way to get a woman who was unobtainable.

K
ing Henry was overjoyed. He received a letter from his mother, Isabella, asking him if the three sons she’d had with Hugh de Lusignan could come to England for a visit. He replied immediately, insisting his young half brothers come and make their living in England.

William de Lusignan was the eldest, then Guy, then Aymer who was still a boy and an acolyte in the church. When Henry began planning a lavish banquet to welcome them, his queen became alarmed. Up until now her relatives had received all the rich plums that fell from Henry’s trees. Now she saw clearly there would be inevitable rivalry between “King’s Men” and “Queen’s Men.”

She took the news to her uncle Thomas of Savoy and urged him to send for his youngest son, Boniface the Handsome, who was also in the church. The queen knew better than any how easily her lamb Henry could be fleeced. She had no doubts that the avaricious de Lusignans would make their fortune.

On Friday as usual Eleanor donned her white robes and spent the day aiding the sick and poor about Windsor. When they had finished their charity work, Eleanor returned to the
convent of St. Bride’s with Mother Superior. She shared a sun-pie meal with the nuns, accompanied them to the chapel for evening prayer, then Mother Superior led her through the cloisters to a windowless cell.

The floor was stone, the walls whitewashed, the only decoration a crucifix. The cell contained a long, wooden bed and a table that held only two items, a Bible and a candle.

“Good night, my dear. You must read your Bible before the candle burns low for there are no windows and you will be in total darkness when it is gone. The cell on either side of you is empty, for it is only when we are alone with God that we find our inner strength. This night will be like no other. Spend it in prayer and meditation. I have every faith that in the morning you will emerge transformed.”

Eleanor sat on the end of the bed a long time staring at the small candle. Simon de Montfort’s words echoed in her mind over and over. She hadn’t really needed him to tell her that the convent was out of the question. She had known it in her heart all along.

She faced the facts squarely. She loved William and would always love him, but becoming a nun would not bring him back, nor would it remove the guilt she suffered over his manner of death. What could not be cured must be endured.

Lines by the Persian poet Omar Khayyam ran through her head. “The moving hand writes, and having writ, moves on. Not all your piety nor wit can cancel half a line, nor all your tears wash out a word of it.”

Her grief had made her seek a route of escape, and just as suicide would have been wrong, so was becoming a religeuse. Eleanor knew she was lonely. Up until she was nine she had enjoyed the rough and tumble of her brothers, but once she’d had her own household, all her energies had been devoted to learning and preparing for the day she would become the marshal’s wife. It had been a solitary existence, for her temperament had little in common with that of the young Marshal nieces. Even her maid Brenda had deserted her.

William had been her life’s goal and the moment she had achieved that goal, she had lost it. The queen had become an
effective barrier between Eleanor and her brother, and there was not one member of the court she could call friend.

She sighed as the candle guttered and extinguished itself. There was no profit in feeling sorry for herself. She would inform Mother Superior of her firm decision at dawn and then she would begin to rebuild her life. She would attend more court functions. She would visit her beautiful estate, Odiham. She could even visit her beloved Wales. What was there to stop her?

She held her breath in the pitch black as she heard a slight scraping noise and fancied she heard a muffled footfall. As she listened there was only silence and total blackness, but the noise had sounded as if someone had entered the cell from the one next door. She rose and, with arms extended before her, explored the darkness. “Who?” she breathed softly, frightened.

“Sim.”

She thought she must be hallucinating. This could not be happening, but her outstretched hands suddenly touched real live flesh and blood. She blushed hotly in the dark for she had touched him on his male part. He took her hands gently and felt them ball into fists as she whispered, “How did you get in here?”

With his mouth close to her ear he whispered, “I took the hinges from the door and waited in hiding.”

“Why?” she demanded as softly as she could.

“To make you change your mind about entering this convent. Blood of God, if you want a religious experience, I’ll give you one.”

What in the name of God would she do? “We mustn’t speak … our whispers will carry on the still night air.” Inside she was raging at him, but she knew she would have to vent her anger upon him later, in a much more suitable place.

“I know we cannot speak or see, but we have our other senses. We can still hear and smell and touch.”

She was so alarmed when he drew her to the bed and sat her beside him that she went faint. If he tried to rape her she would scream, no matter what sort of scandal it caused. Her single experience with sex had been an horrendous one. She would never go through it again. Uncontrollably she began to tremble.

Slowly Simon began to realize the enormity of her fear and agitation. He had fully intended to take advantage of the setting to awaken her senses and make her body respond to his. The sensual darkness and the fact that she would be unable to voice her objections had inflamed his imagination. Now, however, he realized what she needed most was to lose her fear and feel secure.

She did not need his passion just yet, she needed his strength. As he reached for her, she pushed against him strongly, but was amazed to find him as immovable as a mountain of granite. She withdrew and turned her back upon him to show him her righteous indignation. How could he be so high-handed and devious as to select a place where her silence was guaranteed?

With firm hands upon her rigid shoulders, he turned her to face him, then took her small hands into his large ones, squeezed them comfortingly, and simply held them. She railed at him mentally, trying to withdraw again, but he would not allow it. She closed her eyes in frustration, her mind darting about for avenues of escape from this man’s attentions. There were none. She would simply have to endure him.

She withdrew from him mentally because he made it impossible for her to withdraw physically. She vowed never to capitulate. However, his warmth soon began to seep into her, and after half an hour her trembling subsided. Though she tried to keep her thoughts from him, it was impossible. She learned exactly what it felt like to wage a losing battle
against
the war lord.

As he stroked her hands with the ball of his thumb, she recalled how unbearably attractive were his big, brown hands. Slowly he raised one of hers to his mouth and kissed each finger with reverence, then repeated the process with her other hand. He was slowly, silently overwhelming her with his presence.

When he had her completely gentled, he raised a tentative finger to her face. Gently, tenderly, he traced her brow, her high cheekbone, her dimpled chin, and finally the curve of her lips. She caught her breath with disbelief Simon de Montfort was a warrior, a war lord. His hands had been trained to kill, yet they were the gentlest hands ever to touch her.

How could hands so huge be so sensitive? His fingers stroked
her hair, brushing it from her brow and temples, then played with its springy curls. As he brushed the backs of his fingers against her cheek and throat, she remembered the crisp black hair on the back of his hands and fancied she could feel it against her skin.

His attitude was so nonthreatening that gradually her fear left her and was replaced by a feeling of thankfulness that she did not have to spend the dark, lonely night in solitude. Again he kissed her hand then raised it to his face. He separated her index finger from its sisters and laid it upon his brow. He smiled with satisfaction as she began to trace his features, outlining his straight nose and muscled jaw. She recalled that his hair was blacker than a witch’s cat and that his eyes also were magnetically black.

Gradually she became aware of his scent. When she tried to define the warm, manly aroma she identified leather, sandalwood, and something male and dangerous. Its combination was pleasing and evocative, setting her curiosity to wondering if the scent came from his garments or his body. He should not be there with her doing these things. She should be angry as fire and yet she found when she could not rail at him, storm about and throw things, her anger was nonexistent.

Simon propped the pillow against the bedhead and leaned back against it, stretching his long legs out before him. Then gently he moved her so that she leaned into his massive chest, and he held her in the curve of his arm. Eleanor had never felt so safe and warm in her life. The total blackness hid the sin they committed, and she wished the night could go on for days. It felt so right, surely this was the way it was supposed to be between a man and a woman. She had needed this closeness all her life. Why had it come too late?

She closed her eyes and rested her cheek against his shoulder. She would enjoy it while she could. To hell with scruples. This intimate privacy would flee with the dawn, but for now she was clasped against his heart and there was nowhere she would rather have been.

Slumber must have claimed her, for when she drifted back to consciousness she was appalled to find he cupped one of her breasts in his powerful hand and his lips rested against her
temple. She tried to struggle, but his strength held her absolutely immobile. Through the material of her robe she could feel the fire from his hand, or perhaps it was he who felt the fire from her breast. She managed to move her hands so she could press them against his chest, but she found Simon de Montfort was an immovable object. She felt the great slabs of muscle beneath her fingers and, as if they had a curiosity of their own, her fingertips began to trace the rigid contours of his chest, shoulders, and arms.

When she was a little girl, the thing that had attracted her to the Marshal of England was his great strength as a soldier. She felt weak all the way down to her knees as she realized the arms that held her now were those of the greatest warrior of their time.

Simon fought the urge to be naked. This time he knew he must be content to feel her soft curves through the cloth barrier and let her do the same. In a way it heightened his desire. Their tactile sense of touch grew so acute, he hoped her body too yearned to be naked. The silence was thick with unrequited need. Uppermost in their minds was the knowledge that they only had ’til dawn. In the blackness his nostrils flared with the scent of her. His rising excitement sent the blood beating in his throat.

Eleanor was becoming aware of a secret side to herself that until now had been unknown and unexplored. She knew it was this man who had reawakened her mind, but now it was as if her body too was being awakened. In the pit of her stomach was a taut feeling as threads of desire were stretched to their limit. Her breasts ached with the need for … she knew not what. Her legs were weak and the secret place between them tingled and tightened tensely.

Simon felt consumed. She had provoked every sense of his body so that he felt his blood pulse in his ears, his throat, his chest, even the soles of his feet. His shaft had turned to marble hours ago, and for a moment he feared he would stay in that unbearable condition for the rest of his life. His inner clock warned him that he must depart before they were discovered. He knew it was the hour before dawn, but how could he tear himself away from her when he hadn’t even tasted her?

His hand slipped up beneath her hair to hold her head still for his kiss. His lips brushed hers twice as he noticed with deep pleasure how he affected her breathing. Then his mouth claimed hers, branding her forever as his woman. The kiss was everything—fire, war, life, death, love.

At first her mind screamed at his boldness. My mouth, my reputation, my honor, my God! Simon de Montfort’s mouth was like heaven.

He rose from the bed and took her with him. His arms had tightened so that as she stood against him she could feel all the strength of his body, the heavy shoulders, the powerful legs. He lifted her in a last embrace so that her feet swung clear of the floor. When he removed his arms, her loss was so great she almost collapsed.

She groped behind her and sat upon the bed. The quality of the silence in the cell told her she was alone. During the next hour her emotions swung wildly from denial, assuring herself he must have been a dream, to fury—how dare he have taken advantage of her stay in a convent where she could do nothing but silently submit to his will?

She gasped and jumped as her cell door was unlocked, but she realized it was morning. She could not bring herself to go to the communal room where the nuns performed their ablutions. Instead, with a firm resolve she sought out Mother Superior to inform her of her decision.