A True and Perfect Knight (17 page)

Guilt flushed over her. How could she wish that more men be like Haven? He had betrayed Roger to the king without a thought for the consequences. He took no heed of a child left fatherless or a sister left homeless before doing what he claimed was his duty. Yet here she lay in the arms of a man she did not love and could not trust, wishing only that he would wake and take her to that sweet oblivion again.
Vraiment
, lust was a powerful temptation.

Mayhap she did not completely trust her new husband. She certainly could not like him. If the rest of their nights would be as this one, she would have no trouble performing her wifely duty. But she might have difficulty keeping safe her heart.

Gennie lay on her side, her back pressed against Haven’s chest, and watched the light change from dark to dim. She worried over Thomas and Rebecca. Were they safe? When would they arrive? They traveled in the cold and rain, without decent shelter, while she slept in comfort and warmth.

Three nights since, she and Haven had married, and each night the same. She had no idea where or how Haven spent his days, but he never failed to return with enough energy to do his duty as a husband. And such a duty.

Her present liking for marriage duty troubled her greatly. She had never experienced such lust with Roger. She had hoped for it, especially in the early days of her marriage, before she discovered that Roger preferred whores to his wife. But look where Roger’s lusts had led him. Mayhap she was as inconstant as he? The thought terrified her. Was she? Would her desire for Haven’s body and what he could do to hers lead her into a mire of betrayal like that where Roger had met his death? Surely her soul was in danger if she allowed this to continue.

Beside her, Haven stirred but did not wake. Gennie smoothed a hand across her lower abdomen. Would she quicken with his child as soon as she had with Roger’s? Worse, would Haven, once assured of a child and possible heir, leave her for whores and other women?

Gennie flung the covers aside. She sat up and dragged on the robe that she had left at the bedside. Roger’s penchant for whores had taught her well. She survived before; she could do so again. She paused in tying the sash around her waist, surprised at the physical pain even the thought of Haven with another woman caused. Straightening her shoulders, she finished fastening the garment and made a decision. This time she would not suffer a faithless husband. Somehow she must find a way to make her marriage work without succumbing to temptation. And the first step was to confess her own guilt.

Haven paced the battlements, watching the sun sink into the clouds that hovered low on the horizon. He had been in Chester three days. Even with Thomas and the others in tow, Soames should have arrived by now. How could they get to Two Hills Keep before Daffydd ap Gruffydd if the men didn’t show up soon? Worse yet, Edward had been unable to give Haven more warriors.

“Here is my royal order giving you the right to compel to service any able-bodied man with or without horse. Between now and the time your own men arrive, you should be able to gather a reasonable force with which to garrison Two Hills Keep.” After a few more words, Edward had ridden away, confident that Haven would succeed. And why not? Haven had never failed his king. But how he would succeed at this with only twenty-five mounted men and no archers, Haven didn’t know.

He reviewed what he did know about Two Hills Keep. The small holding overlooked a vital roadway into the mountains, and Edward expected Haven to hold the keep and the roadway against Wild Daffydd at all costs. Once again, Haven faced failing in his duty.

Haven frowned. He not only had missing men and a nearly impossible task to worry him, he had the widow too. No, Genvieve was a widow no longer. She was his wife. His wife; now there was an irony if he had ever encountered one. He had wedded her out of loyalty to his king. He had bedded her out of duty. He had expected to find that duty onerous, despite her obvious attractions. Instead, he had found himself looking forward to the evenings they shared.

She was well schooled, intelligent and a thoughtful, challenging companion. Even better, she didn’t talk too much, seeming to know when he needed silence. And then there was the bed play.

What was it about the…his wife that drew him mothlike to her honeyed flame each night? Gennie wasn’t skilled in the amorous arts. He knew because he had learned lovemaking from experts in the Holy Lands, Rome, France and the English court. He shook his head at the thought of the female whispers about his
perfection
in bed.

At the sound of a door opening, Haven turned and saw Gennie enter the courtyard. In the new blue cloak he had given her, she was comely enough. She was still too thin. Her skin remained pallid. But her bruises had healed. He thought her beautiful. Was that it? He had never been drawn by mere physical beauty before. He liked partners who were not only pleasing to look at but vocally enthusiastic, if not downright lustful. Gennie spoke very little in their bed play.

Not far from his wife, a friar stood haranguing a group of stable lads who gambled in a corner of the bailey.

The same friar Gennie had been speaking with outside Edward’s audience chamber. How had his wife come to know the robed beggar? He watched her approach the itinerant priest. She and the holy man conversed for a moment, then turned toward the chapel. What was she doing? Haven followed the battlement on a course that paralleled his wife’s. Lady Genvieve de Sessions was a puzzle.

She greeted him enthusiastically, even lustfully, in bed. Yet she barely uttered a sound when he touched her. Just an occasional gasp, a moaning cry or an innocent question. Still, if her voice had been restrained, her body had more than made up for it. He had hopes of coaxing a tender word or two from her lips this night.

Haven watched her halt at the chapel door. The friar entered. Gennie looked about her, as if she wished to remain unobserved, then slipped inside the building. Still trying to figure out what drew him to a woman he couldn’t trust, Haven sped down the nearest stair.

If, as she had stated, she merely performed her marital duty, she did so with an unstudied, albeit silent, generosity that lured him in a stronger fashion than the most skilled Saracen women. That was probably it. Gennie was simply a passionate woman who didn’t realize the power she held in her body. Haven wasn’t about to tell her. Thus far she had found no whip with which she could goad him to treason as she had Roger. As long as she remained ignorant of the lust she inspired, Haven was safe.

By the time he crossed the courtyard and entered the church, Gennie had disappeared. Haven stopped. She couldn’t have gone far. The chapel had only one other door. He paced, soft-footed, down the center aisle. Just as he reached the nave, he heard the faint sound of voices. He followed in their direction, until he stood before a confessional tucked into an odd corner beyond the chapel proper.

The door to one of the confessional chambers remained cracked open on a wedge of blue material, like that of Gennie’s cloak. Were it not for that, Haven would have left by the other door and never found his wife’s destination. He turned to go, but quiet words held him in place.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

The response was indistinct, but Haven had no doubt that it was the friar who heard Gennie’s confession.

Haven debated only a moment. If he stayed, he would have his own confession to make. But if he left, he might never know what his wife had done for which she sought God’s forgiveness. He stayed, creeping closer to the confessional.

“I have lusted in my heart for a man.”

Again the confessor murmured.

“
Oui
, he is married.”

Another response mumbled through the secure door on the prelate’s side of the confessional.

“
Oui
, I have lain with him.”

Haven’s rage blotted out all other sound. So she acted the innocent for him and spent her days in bed play with some other man. He wanted to put his fist through someone’s face. He turned and left, before he snatched open the confessional door and murdered his adulterous wife. He needed time to think, and a place to beat his anger into submission.

Gennie exited the confessional. The friar had understood her problem, but the penance for a cardinal sin like lust was stiff. She must not only abstain from all carnal relations until after her woman’s flow, but she must wear a hair shirt next to her skin for all the days of her abstinence. The friar assured her that only in mortification of the flesh could her soul be purged of the stain that unrestrained lust had poured on it.

She sought out the castle tanner. He had several hair shirts. One he pointed out was of soft lambswool and would do little harm to her skin. She would not shirk her duty to her soul, so she asked for the stiffest shirt he had.

He shook his head and handed her a dark lump of material. The hairs felt more like boar bristles than fur. Gennie held it up to her body. The fit would be tight.

So much the better. No one could possibly accuse her of cheating on her penance with such a garment. Her conscience at rest for the first time since her wedding, Gennie paid the tanner and departed for her room. Now all she had to do was inform Haven of the friar’s dictates.

Haven had spent hours on the training field, exhausting his rage on the bodies of the castle garrison. He ached from the few blows that had gotten past his guard. As he had hoped, the pain cooled the first blaze of anger.

His feet dragged on the stairs to his chamber, and he thought about the woman with whom he shared that space. On hearing her confession, the friar had probably assigned penance for the sake of her soul. But Haven doubted that hours on her knees at prayer would teach her body to respond to only one man—him.

He was her husband, and by God’s holy shroud, he alone would stir Gennie to ecstasy. He imagined her naked, on her knees, begging and pleading for sexual release. He would refuse until she acknowledged that only he could satisfy her. Then he would keep her in bed until she forgot other men existed.

Haven’s body hardened and his aches faded. He climbed the stairs faster, eager to teach his wife a much deserved lesson about lust.

Chapter Fourteen

Haven shut the door behind him, closing out the world. Lady de Sessions knelt at the prayer bench below the window of their chamber.
Lady de Sessions indeed. Lady Deceit was more like.
Haven listened to the clack of rosary beads and observed her still form.

He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back, watching the play of firelight in that flow of red-black hair. Like her hair, she was never the same from moment to moment. Just hours ago in the bailey she had seemed colorless and drab. Yet in bed some inner light flashed, and her body at least came alive, despite her armor of almost complete silence. Haven found himself wondering what he would find, if he could pierce that armor. Would he discover a woman willing to risk her heart as well as her body? A woman who might trust him, as he longed to trust her? For he did wish to trust her, he realized. The knowledge that he could not hurt him more than he liked.

Gennie rose from the prayer bench. She stood and extinguished the candles with great care, as if those simple movements caused great pain.

Haven frowned.

His wife turned and saw him. One hand flew to her lips, but a gasp emerged before she could silence herself.

“Good even’, milady wife.”

She dropped her hand. “
Bon soir
, sir. Have you been waiting long?”

“Long enough. He walked up to her and took her hand, placing a kiss on the fingers that had so recently touched her mouth. “Do you pray for me?” He sent her a sideways glance.

“
N-non.
”

“Too bad. I’ve been thinking of you for hours.” He lapped at the pads of her fingers and felt her hand tremble. He hid his smile in her palm and breathed a question. “For what did you pray?”

She tried to tug her hand from his tender assault.

Haven held firm and whispered his lips over the delicate skin of her wrist.

“For God’s mercy.” Her voice strangled on the words. “Please, husband. Do not touch me so.”

It was a start. He let her fingers slide from his and turned to study her face. She looked like a wounded animal—too much in pain to run but too fear-filled to remain. Haven knew very well that passion and pain were close akin, but such a reaction from a mere kiss of the hand was very odd.

Regardless, she wouldn’t escape him or his plans for her. He placed a hand on her shoulder to draw her close.

She flinched.

“What?” He grabbed her upper arm.

A choked moan escaped her.

“What is wrong? Are you hurt?” The memory of her feet, bloody and blistered, her bruised body and face, rose in his mind.

“Nay,” she shrilled, tearing herself from his grasp with a sob. She threw herself across the room, placing the bed between them. “Do not touch me.”

“Madame, I am your husband. Should I wish it, I will touch you.” He pursued her. Caged her with a hand placed on either side of her head. Stroked her body with the slow side-to-side movement of his own.