The Emerald Swan (34 page)

She reached for his lean hips, sitting back on her heels as she brought her mouth to the spike of flesh jutting in a slight curve from the black curly hair between his legs. She inhaled his dark male smell as her mouth moved along the shaft, her tongue stroking, teeth grazing lightly, as assured as if the knowledge of how to pleasure him had been hers from birth.

Her fingers curled into the hard, muscled contours of his buttocks and she felt his hands move to her head and shoulder, the quickening in his flesh against her tongue, the ripples in his belly.

“Not so hasty, sweeting.” His voice was a low throb as he raised her head, stepped back slightly.

Mischievously, her tongue followed him, darting to lick the moist, salty tip. “Why not?” She kneeled up again, running her hands over his chest, pressing her belly to his, feeling his hardened flesh quiver against her loins. She parted her knees, taking him between her legs, pressing tightly, enclosing him in the soft, satiny inner skin of her thighs.

His hands moved to the small of her back, supporting her. Her body bent backward as she worked her thighs, pressing, releasing, until his soft groans of delight filled the room. Her head fell back, the white column of her throat arched, and her eyes were closed beneath paper-thin blue-veined lids. He bent his head to take her parted lips with his, tasting himself in her mouth.

Sliding his hands down to cup her bottom, he lifted
her on his palms from the bed. Unerringly, she curled her legs around his waist, her arms holding his neck, her body opened to receive him.

Her eyes opened and she laughed joyously into his transported face as he slid within her and her loins joined with his in a fusion so complete, it felt that nothing could ever separate them. Her body rode the thrusting shaft and she laughed again.

Gareth smiled, his fingers curling into her backside, watching her face. He was filled with a great joy, a sweeping tenderness, a profound astonishment that this inexperienced innocent could so unerringly play the game of love. She caught her lower lip between her teeth and her eyes took on the dark and misty hues of a dusk sky. She was suddenly very still in his hands, all movement concentrated on the ridge of her inner muscles tightening around him. Her lips were slightly parted, her eyes widening as the spiral coiled ever tighter in her belly.

He was buried deep in her body, every ripple of the enclosing sheath translated into his own flesh. The world shrank to the small space containing their fused bodies. He felt himself slipping away into the waiting maelstrom, and as he clung for a minute longer, a deep shudder ran through her and her body convulsed around him in waves of ever-deepening intensity.

He held himself taut, unable to breathe until her climax peaked and finally drove him over the edge with a great and savage cry of astonishment and joy.

Her head dropped onto his shoulder, her arms clinging to his neck as her now-limp body relaxed and he took her slight weight.

“Dear God, sweeting, where did you learn such wicked magic?” he murmured against her damp neck.

“I don’t know,” she muttered. “But it
was
magic, wasn’t it?” She uncurled her legs and he let her slip to the floor. She tossed her head back so that her disordered hair fell once again into its shining cap and regarded him with such an air of smug triumph that despite the languor of fulfillment he gave a shout of laughter.

He scooped her into his arms again and kissed her, brushing her hair back from her forehead, smiling down at her. Then a shadow chased the smile from his eyes, his mouth lost some of its softness.

“I’m very hungry.” Instinctively, Miranda shattered the stretched silence with the banal comment. “There was no supper at court. Why is it that there are never any refreshments?”

“The queen is somewhat frugal,” Gareth responded. “Some might say parsimonious. But there’s food on the tray.” He gestured to the tray that as always awaited him. He watched her pad across to the table, bend over the offerings. He ran his hands through his own hair, absorbing the smooth, pale lines of her back, the nipped-in waist, the slight flare of her hips, the taut contours of her bottom, the long, muscled slimness of her thighs.

His nostrils flared as desire grew again, overpowering the moment of regret, the shadow of foreknowledge that had just gripped him. She turned with a cold chicken leg between finger and thumb. Her eyes darted down his body, widening in mock astonishment.

“Goodness me, milord. Are you something of a satyr? I think that’s the word I want.” Gnawing on the drumstick, she padded back to him, her eyes glinting with her own quickly stimulated passion. “Is there a different way to do it, perhaps? Just for variety, you
understand.” She tore off a piece of meat with her teeth and offered it to him, placing her fingers right into his mouth.

Gareth took her wrist and very slowly drew her hand from his mouth. He licked each finger with long strokes of his tongue, before leaning over her shoulder. He filled a wineglass with the deep red burgundy from the flagon, took a deep draught, then caught the back of her head, bringing her face close to his. His mouth took hers and the warm red wine flowed over her tongue, mingling with the juice and taste of him.

She savored the liquid, her tongue dancing with his as the wine swirled around her mouth before lingeringly she swallowed it. “More.”

He nodded, took another drink, and repeated the process, drawing her down onto his lap as he sat in the armchair, feeding her the wine in sips as she selected succulent morsels from the tray and pushed them between his lips with delicate, dawdling fingers.

It was cockcrow before they tired of the game. Miranda leaned back against his shoulder, her legs shifting on his lap as he covered the soft mound of her sex, indolently playful fingers stroking the little nub of passion, fingertips delicately nipping the soft lips. She lay sprawled on his lap as his hand brought a wonderful, spreading, languid pleasure, and offered only the sleepiest of satisfied smiles when he lifted her against him and carried her to the bed, laying her down before climbing in beside her.

“I hope we wake up before the duke arrives,” Miranda mumbled with a sleepy chuckle, turning onto her side, fitting her bottom into the curve of his hip.

Gareth did not respond. But he was no longer
sleepy. He lay looking up at the brocade canopy, following the familiar pattern of interlocking vine leaves as the room lightened with the dawn and Miranda’s breathing deepened.

All his misgiving returned in full measure, bringing with it bitter guilt and anger. What kind of weakling was he, yielding to temptation like this?

He lay sleepless for a time, his body aching and restless, as acid self-recrimination turned his stomach.

Finally he slept, restless and fitful, his sleep punctuated with erotic dreams that were flavored with loss.

Chapter Eighteen

I
T WAS CLOSE TO
eight o’clock when Gareth left the house. Miranda was back in her own chamber, her nighttime’s absence undetected by any member of the household, and now he had one task to perform, one door to bolt, before Henry of France arrived.

He found the cobbler’s shop without difficulty. It was a stone’s throw from where he’d come upon the troupe putting on their show. The cobbler was already at work at his awl but he looked up with an inviting smile when the nobleman entered the small dark shop, ducking his head beneath the low lintel.

The man jumped to his feet. Such customers were few and far between. “What can I do fer ye, m’lord?” He bowed, his nose brushing his leather apron.

“My business is with your lodgers. Are they abovestairs?”

The cobbler looked disappointed, but he hastened to the bottom of the narrow staircase leading to the upper floor. “I’ll fetch one of ’em down, m’lord.”

“No … no, I’ll go up.” Gareth gave him a nod and brushed past him. The cobbler hesitated, then he took three silent steps until he reached the tight bend in the stairs. There he waited, listening.

Gareth knocked at the door at the head of the stairs but received no response. A burble of voices swelled through the oak, interspersed with thumps and bangs
and the occasional curse. With a shrug, he raised the hasp and pushed open the door.

The crowded room seethed with activity. Its occupants were rolling up bedding, repairing the precious individual tools of their trade, tending to their personal needs. Mama Gertrude, her shift pulled down and bundled at her waist, was washing her massive torso in a bowl of water. She dropped the washcloth with an exclamation.

“Lord love us! It’s Lord ’Arcourt.” Her huge breasts flopped over the rolls of flesh at her waist as she straightened from the basin. Her face was concerned. “Is summat the matter with Miranda, m’lord?”

“No, not as of half an hour ago,” he said, discreetly averting his eyes. “Forgive me for disturbing you, but there is something very important I need to discuss.”

“Concerns Miranda, does it?” Raoul demanded, setting a leather tankard down on a coffer and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

“ ’Course it does,” Bertrand rumbled.

“Where is M’randa?” Robbie piped up from the stool where he was grooming Luke’s little dog. “She said she’d come back.” He struggled to his feet. “She is comin’ back, in’t she, sir?”

This was going to be more difficult than he’d anticipated. Gareth became aware of Luke’s eyes fixed upon him in a less than friendly fashion. The youth set down the horsehair hoop he had been replaiting and waited for the earl’s answer.

“I think this is a discussion I should have with Bertrand and Gertrude,” Gareth said, with an interrogative glance toward those two, noting with relief that the latter had hauled up her shift and was busily settling her breasts beneath the dingy material.

“You say she’s all right?” Gertrude demanded, eyes suddenly very sharp.

Gareth nodded. “I have a proposition—”

“We’ll not be sellin’ the girl into whoredom … Beggin’ yer pardon, m’lord, fer speakin’ me mind, but she’s good as me daughter an’ I’ll not—”

“Madam!” Gareth held up a hand. “I assure you that that’s not what I am proposing.”

“Best take this to the tavern,” Bertrand declared, laying down the flute that he’d been cleaning. “You comin’, Mama?”

Gertrude was lacing the bodice of her puce gown. “There’s nothin’ to be discussed about our Miranda wi’out I’m there. She’s good as me daughter.” She glared at Lord Harcourt, who tried a placatory smile.

He opened the door. “After you, madam.”

Gertrude moved past him in a rustle of puce and scarlet. “Eh, you there. Can’t keep yer big ears to yerself!” she cried as the cobbler, caught off guard, made haste to retreat down the stairs. Gertrude swept him ahead of her as if he were so much dust to her broom. “Right cheek ye’ve got, listenin’ to what don’t concern ye.”

The cobbler scuttled back to his awl. To add insult to injury, he hadn’t heard anything of interest anyway.

The Cross Keys tavern was quiet at this hour of the morning. Gareth ordered a flagon of best canary and Bertrand nodded with approval as they sat down in a secluded corner of the taproom. Gertrude looked suspiciously into her wine cup as the earl filled it to the brim.

“We celebratin’ summat, m’lord?”

“In a manner of speaking,” he said, taking a leather pouch from his doublet pocket. He laid it on the table, then casually lifted his wine cup to his lips.

“What’s this, then?” Bertrand poked at the pouch.

“Fifty rose nobles.”

Silence greeted this. Bertrand ran his tongue over his lips. Mama Gertrude stared at the earl with something akin to hostility. “What d’ye want from us, m’lord?”

“I want you to leave London today and return to France.” Gareth drank his wine.

“Wi’out Miranda?” Gertrude demanded, turning suddenly on Bertrand, whose hand was now protectively covering the leather pouch, although he hadn’t quite picked it up. “Eh, Bertrand. Leave it alone. It’s blood money.”

Bertrand moved his hand, coughed, spat on the sawdust at his feet, and picked up his wine cup again.

“Not quite,” Gareth said. “I have a tale to tell you.”

His audience listened, rapt and incredulous, to the story of the night of Saint Bartholomew, twenty years earlier. “So you can see that it’s in Miranda’s best interests for you to leave her to her new life,” he finished.

“Aye,” Gertrude said slowly. “So the other lass is ’er sister.” She shook her head. “Like as two peas they are. But why ’aven’t ye told Miranda the truth?”

“Because I’m not sure how she’ll take it,” Gareth said frankly. “And I need her cooperation. Once my plans for her future are in place, then I’ll tell her, and I’m hoping that by then she’ll be so used to living the life of a noblewoman it won’t come as quite such a shock. But …” He leaned over the table, his expression intent. “You must understand that while her old life is still here for her to slip into whenever she feels like it, she won’t get used to her new life.”

“ ’Is lordship speaks sense, Mama,” Bertrand said, his hand once more covering the leather pouch. “Ye can’t say ’e doesn’t.”

“Aye,” Gertrude agreed. “But we can’t just go wi’out a word to Miranda.”