Claire Delacroix (10 page)

Jacqueline would aid her, without doubt. Indeed, Jacqueline had said repeatedly that she wanted to visit Crevy again, ever since her spouse Angus had taken her there several years past. Perhaps Esmeraude could persuade her sister to travel there with her. All this flickered through her mind as the enigmatic marvel of a man watched her with rare intensity, and she wondered whether he could read her very thoughts.

But then he spoke and she knew with relief that he had not.

“Nay, my lady fair,” he murmured, the rumble of his voice most enticing against her chest. “’Tis only just begun.”

And Esmeraude leaned down to kiss him, more than willing to learn it all.

* * *

He pleasured her twice before he claimed her, for Bayard wanted to ensure that her first mating was a wondrous one for her. She had a rare passion for lovemaking and a hunger for his touch that fired his blood as no woman had in years. Indeed, he wondered fleetingly whether she truly was virginal, but that errant thought was dismissed when he began to ease within her. She was tight and hot, despite the wetness of her, and he knew he would not last overlong.

Perhaps she had kissed many but she had never let a man touch her as he did now. Bayard watched the wonder on her features and knew the truth. He felt a primitive pride that he was the first, that he should show her what delights could be found abed, that he would be her last and her only partner.

Forever. Indeed, he did not sacrifice as much as he had feared in following Margaux’s bidding.

Which reminded him of how much there was to be lost. Bayard grasped the closest white garment and shoved it beneath them, doubting he would need proof of this night but unwilling to leave a matter of such importance to chance.

Then she cried out as he entered her fully. He kissed and murmured to her until she returned his kisses with her previous hunger. He eased closer, soothing her, moving so slowly that he thought he might die in this act alone.

When he was within her fully, she shivered and looked up at him, her eyes wide and luminous. Her hair was spread beneath her in a glorious tangle, her lips were swollen from his kisses, and he felt uncommonly blessed that this was the woman he would wed. Indeed, his heart clenched at the sight of her, so beauteous, so trusting.

“Is that all?” she asked softly.

Bayard kept silent, for he did not trust himself to not laugh at her dismay.

Instead, he folded his arms beneath her shoulders, gathered her closer, and kissed her ardently. She sighed and arched against him, and when he moved ever so slightly, she parted her legs yet further. She inhaled sharply in the way she had that made his blood fairly boil, clutched his shoulders as he rocked his hips and wrapped her legs around him.

Bayard was certain that if he did die of this sweet act, ’twould not be all bad.

Reassured when she moved her hips demandingly against his own, he braced himself above her and moved with powerful deliberation. She clung to him, trembling as she kissed him, and he knew her hunger rose again. She clawed his back as he moved with greater speed, she made incoherent noises, she bit his shoulder when he slid his hand betwixt them and drove her to her climax.

And when she screamed out in her delight, the sight of her drove him to his own. He heard himself roar, heard the cry echo over the hills, and cared for naught but the winsome smile of the thoroughly sated woman beneath him.

He lay down alongside her, his breathing heavy, and caught her fast against his side. Her eyes were closing already, and he pulled the cloak carefully around her, so that she was nestled warmly within it. He touched her cheek, marveling as he listened to the thunder of his heartbeat, the deep rhythm of her breathing.

He felt a new affection for the matter of his own marriage. Bayard had always envisioned himself alone, at war or savoring the bounty of his labors. Even when he agreed to Margaux’s demand, he had thought little of the lady he would take to wife. He had thought of men and battles and armaments, of history and legacies, of family and duty.

’Twould be impossible not to think of this lady. Already her smile and her enthusiasm snared him, her desire and her decisiveness intrigued him.

As usual, Fortune had served him well.

When he had recovered himself, Bayard slipped the blood-marked linen from beneath his sated partner. She murmured and rolled over, turning the perfection of her buttocks to his view. He rose reluctantly, tucked the token safely beneath the false bottom of his saddlebag, in case any might seek to steal such proof from him. His experience of Simon had taught him caution.

The lady curled against Bayard immediately when he lay down again and he smiled that she should be both a beauty and passionate abed. Marriage would suit him well - indeed, he might have a son within the year.

That would be better than a man had any right to expect.

Bayard stared at the banner of stars above, his arm tightly around the woman at his side. Truly, he could not believe his good fortune and the marvel of it kept him long awake. When he did finally succumb, he slept the sleep of a man well satisfied with what he had wrought.

* * *

Esmeraude could not find her cursed chemise.

Surely it could not have wandered far? But she had prowled the area around the sleeping knight, poked through the garb cast this way and that, and failed to find it. She had found her stockings and both of her shoes - though the second had necessitated a greater hunt, having evidently been cast over his shoulder in the heat of the moment. ’Twas in the deep grasses some half a dozen paces away that she had found it.

But the chemise? What could have come of the wretched garment? She would have expected it to be the most readily found, being woven of fine white linen that would fairly glow in the moonlight.

But she had not caught a glimpse of it. This was vexing indeed, not only because she had to make haste to depart, not only because the wool of her kirtle would scratch her tender flesh without the chemise beneath, but because that chemise bore the sole sample of embroidery Esmeraude had ever troubled herself to finish. She had wrought that chemise with her own needle and embellished it - under protest, ’twas true - and ’twas like a talisman to her.

She was loath to leave without it, but it seemed as if the garment had grown legs of its own and walked away! A more superstitious maid than she might have considered the absence of the chemise to be a portent, an omen that she should not leave the knight’s side.

But the sky was lightening and the moon had fled and Esmeraude had regained what measure she had of common sense. Her lover was a mere mortal, as revealed by the shadow of whiskers growing upon his chin, and she dared not linger lest he be as inclined as the Norseman to claim her for his own. That she would not risk.

On the other hand, ’twould be most galling to be present when he made it clear that he had had all he wanted of her. Nay, Esmeraude would disappear as surely as her knight had appeared and never again would their paths cross.

Aye, her deflowering had been as marvelous and magical as she had always hoped it might be, and Esmeraude was disinclined to let the sun shine its harsh rays on the memory she would always treasure. ’Twas like a dream that she knew she would savor over and over again. There was not even blood upon the fur lining of his cloak, though she had heard that some maidens did not bleed on their first time.

That she would not be able to prove that her virginity was gone with such firm evidence was a problem, but Esmeraude would have to resolve that later. Célie might be a reliable witness of her deflowering.

Much cheered, Esmeraude searched again, then tapped her toe and considered the man. ’Twas cursedly difficult to leave his side, though she supposed such an inclination was sentimental and foolish. He might be relieved to find her gone!

His flesh had been warm this morn and her heart had been full, but Esmeraude knew that remaining was fraught with complications. She needed no such complications. She had to leave him, and she would be happy to do so if only she could find her chemise!

She swore through her teeth, then jumped when the knight rolled over. He frowned when his hand closed upon naught and Esmeraude took a step back, not daring to breathe. His scowl deepened and he mumbled something, stretching his arm across the cloak as he sought her.

Esmeraude feared that he would awaken before she could be gone. He might then try to stop her flight. His eyelids fluttered and she knew she had but a heartbeat to act.

She crept closer, rolling his cloak as she went, then whispered to him as she pushed the bundle of cloth and wool into his embrace. Then she stood back and watched, terrified that he would not accept her ruse.

But he murmured and drew it close, evidently mistaking the empty bundle of cloth for one with her within it.

Esmeraude did not imagine ’twould deceive him for long. She had to hasten away! She scurried backward, scanning the area one last time for her chemise with no success. His saddlebags lay some distance away but she could not imagine that the chemise had found its way in there.

He rolled over, muttering something in his sleep and scowling again. Esmeraude dared dally no longer.

Knowing she would not be able to bear the wool directly against her flesh, she seized his chemise and hauled it over her head. It smelled of his flesh, a most disconcerting fact, and the sleeves were far too long, but she dared not waste another moment. She pulled on her kirtle, knotted her belt, and impatiently shoved her stockings through it. She retrieved her small knife and fled, her shoes in hand and her hair unbound.

At least she did not have to look for Célie.

Though that was hardly a good omen. The maid stood on the beach side of the grasses beyond which they had retreated, her arms akimbo and her expression disapproving.

Esmeraude held a fingertip to her lips, to no avail.

Célie snorted. “I will not be asking how it was, or whether the deed met with your expectations,” she huffed. “No doubt the King of Jerusalem himself heard you cry out like a she-cat.”

Esmeraude blushed, and was momentarily grateful for the relative darkness. “I had to feign enjoyment,” she lied, “otherwise he would have guessed that I was virginal. If his suspicions were roused, we should never be able to steal his boat.”

“Ha!” Célie gave Esmeraude a look so knowing that she knew that naught had been hidden from the older woman. “I am surprised you managed to
recall
that we had need of his boat.”

Esmeraude stepped past her maid, determined to discuss the matter no further. What was done was done, and she had nary a regret. “We must hasten lest he awaken before we are gone.”

“You did not sound like a woman intent upon leaving a man,” Célie muttered.

Esmeraude spun to face the maid, hands on her hips. “Would you prefer that it had been horrible for me?”

“I would rather you had been in your marital bed,” the maid snapped. “Then there would be no shame in your finding pleasure with a man.”

“Well, I feel no shame.”

“Perhaps you should.” Célie marched beside her as they began walking toward the boat once more. “Perhaps one day yet you will.” She slanted a glance at her charge. “Perhaps we should linger, that you might have no illusions of the way men treat their whores. He might well give you the back of his hand this morn and tell you to begone.”

Esmeraude did feel a twinge of dread at leaving this knight, not only without saying farewell, but also knowing so little about him. It seemed odd to know the shape of him and the smell of him, but not to know his name.

But then, exchanging their names could be dangerous. She forced herself to recall her objective and not look back. ’Twas not as easy as she might have hoped. ’Twould be a marvel, indeed, to love again while the dawn slipped over the horizon. She could imagine how his lips would curve in a slight smile and his eyes would darken with passion as he leaned over her.

And he would kiss her again, very thoroughly, as if it did not matter how long the task took. Esmeraude shivered with delight and felt her flesh heat.

Unless, of course, he kicked her from his makeshift bed with a curse and a slap, then went upon his way.

’Twas better, far better, not to know for certain.

Célie evidently read more of her thoughts than Esmeraude might have preferred. “Why flee this man on this morn?” the maid demanded. “He seems to be wealthy enough and clearly you found naught lacking in his allure.”

“Nay, Célie, we must depart.”

“He might wed you. He might be the man you seek.”

“What foolery!” Esmeraude said sharply, for her own heart called her a liar. “He was only a means to be rid of my maidenhead.”

“You would not have permitted him between your thighs if you believed him to be so little as that.”

“I am but a country maid to him. He would not treat me with honor, despite what we have done. Are you not the one always telling me of the lusts of men?”

“You might ask him,” the maid countered. “You might ensure that you chose aright.” Célie’s glance was sly. “You might tell him the truth of who you are.”