Crusader Captive (15 page)

Chapter Fifteen

S
imon’s wounds healed more slowly this time than they had previously.

Jocelyn could only wonder how he’d found the strength to endure such obvious agony. Each time she thought on what he must have gone through, she wavered between fury and pride.

“I did it for you,” he told her when at last he was able to rise from her bed and bathe. “For us.”

She’d had pages haul buckets of heated water to fill the wooden tub. It was large enough for Jocelyn and at least two of her ladies to fit comfortably on bathing day. Simon fit, too, although he had to bend his knees almost to his chin to be accommodated.

Jocelyn had dismissed the pages. Told the maid to leave her bucket of soap and quit the chamber, as well. His recovery was new enough that she wanted this time with him for herself alone.

“And the Grand Master?” she asked, dipping a cloth into the soft soap. “Does he agree you are no longer bound by your vow to join the Templars?”

“I fulfilled my vow. I took every step required of me to join the order. What I could not do was lie before God, the Grand Master and my fellow knights.”

That’s all he would tell her. All else that occurred at Blanche Garde, apparently, would remain shrouded forever in secrecy.

“Oh, Simon.” Gently, carefully, she washed arms and a chest so lacerated it near made her weep. “Could you not have reached this decision before you were subjected to such torture?”

“No, Jocelyn. I had to go through the induction rituals.” His mouth curved above his soapy chest. “They were a small enough price to pay for the Lady of Fortemur.”

“Ha! I would guess the fact that you convinced the queen to confirm her gift of Blanche Garde to the Templars whether you took command of it or not had as much to do with the fact that you’re here as aught else.”

“I suspect you’re right.” His smiled widened. “The Grand Master didn’t draw a whole breath until Melisande put her seal to the documents.”

That he could grin and make light of the ordeal that had come close to killing him almost robbed her of speech.

Almost.

Thoroughly incensed on his behalf, she was preparing to tell him what she thought of such machinations when he leaned back against the tub and regarded her through the screen of his sun-tipped lashes.

“Enough of the queen and the Grand Master. I would speak of us.”

She sank onto her heels and let the cloth dangle from her hands.

“What’s left to say? You’ve already informed me that you returned to Fortemur to take me to wife. I have to assume the queen and her son agreed to the match.”

“They did.”

“So?”

He reached for her hand and lifted it, cloth and all. His lips brushed the inside of her wrist with a kiss that made her pulse leap like a startled palfrey.

“So, lady, will you have me?”

“You know I will.”

He dropped another kiss on her wrist. A smile played at the corners of his mouth, but above it his eyes were grave.

“I bring you nothing, Jocelyn. Not so much as a groat that I may call my own.”

“Do you think I care?”

“You may not, but I do.”

Men! They would ever measure their worth by the dram.

Her heart full to overflowing, she surged up on her knees. “I’ll tell you what you bring me, Simon de Rhys. A strong arm I know will ever protect me. A heart so pure it would not, could not, violate an oath once given. You bring me joy, as well, and laughter and the most damnable lust. It fills every part of me,” she confessed with a grimace. “I can’t tell you how I ache for you to regain your strength enough to sate it.”

He gave a bark of laughter. The rich sound filled the chamber even as he tightened his grip on her wrist.

“Ah, sweeting, I’ve regained enough strength for that.”

“What are you…? No!”

Her shriek of protest got swamped by a mighty splash as he pulled her into the tub. Legs flailing, she flopped about like a speared sturgeon before he righted her.

“Are you mad?” She spit out a mouthful of soapy water. “Out of your head from pain?”

“Truth be told, I’m feeling better by the moment.”

Since his hand had burrowed beneath her sodden skirts, Jocelyn could not but take him at his word. And when he shifted her so she straddled his hips, she felt even more insistent evidence of his recovery. Terrified that she would add to his hurts, she tried to wiggle away off his lap.

“This is idiocy, Simon! You’ll injure yourself.”

“No, sweet Jocelyn, I won’t. But for the love of God and all the saints, be still!”

The incident in the bathing tub convinced Jocelyn that Simon had recovered enough to exchange vows with her. Determined to see the deed done as quickly as possible, she harried Father Joseph into posting the banns that very afternoon. Then she shocked him with her insistence they need only remain nailed to the chapel door for three days.

“But daughter,” he protested, blinking his watery eyes, “Church law proscribes a minimum of three weeks.”

“I know, Father.”

The kindly priest scratched his sparse gray hair. “A decent period of waiting is necessary, you know, so anyone with objections to the union will have time to come forward.”

“I know,” she said again.

All too well! There were any number of objections that could be brought. Consanguinity was often cited as grounds to bar or annul a marriage—even after fifteen years and two children, as with the King of France and his soon-to-be former wife, Eleanor. Rape, adultery, incest and murder by one party or another were also reasons to prevent or dissolve a marriage. Nor could any couple say their vows in time of fasting, such as Lent or Advent. Then there was the condition that caused her the most secret worry—that one or another of the parties involved might have taken monastic or religious vows.

Jocelyn still didn’t know what had occurred at Blanche Garde. Odds were she would never know. She intended to take no chances, however.

“Three days, Father. Then I will take Sir Simon to husband either with your blessing or without.”

The arrival of a royal courier that very evening forced her to scuttle those hasty plans. The message from King Baldwin informed Jocelyn that his cousin, Thomas of Beaumont, had lodged a complaint against her. His royal ward, it was alleged, had obstructed Sir Thomas in the performance of his duties as steward. The king himself would come to Fortemur to look into the matter. While there, he would stand witness to her marriage to Simon de Rhys. His mother, he added with magnificent understatement, had graciously deigned to accompany him. They would arrive ten days hence.

Within minutes of the courier’s arrival, Lady Constance had thrown the entire keep into a frenzy of cleaning and cooking in preparation for the royal visit. Every bed curtain in the keep was carried outside and beaten to remove any hint of dust. Geese were mercilessly plucked for fresh feathers to fill bolsters. Precious peppercorns and spices were brought from the storeroom to be ground with mortar and pestle. Hunters were sent to bag fresh game.

As the date approached, the ovens were raked out and fresh fires lit, while a small army of cook’s assistants kneaded mounds of dough for bread and cakes. Suet puddings joined hams, and boars’ heads in the cooking pots. The boards were scrubbed, and precious wax candles were placed in holders.

As chatelaine of the keep, Jocelyn kept every bit as busy as her people. Between consulting with Lady Constance on decisions ranging from what course to serve when, riding out with the hunters and harrying her ladies into completing the gown she would wear for the ceremony, she scarce had time to draw breath.

Simon stayed similarly occupied. Accompanied by Sir Guy, he inspected the armory, the gatehouses and guard posts. Before long, he knew the name of every pikeman who patrolled the curtain wall and every young, eager squire in training. He also recommended—and Jocelyn approved—a series of improvements to Fortemur’s defenses. Included among those recommendations was one for the construction of stone watchtowers to replace the wooden pyres used to signal danger or potential attack. Ali ben Haydar’s eldest son had not as yet launched any acts of reprisal for their father’s death. They could yet come, however.

While all this was going on, Jocelyn’s vassals began to arrive from near and far. As did the neighboring lords and ladies she’d invited to the festivities. The day before the king and his mother were to arrive, Fortemur was full to overflowing with guests from every corner of the kingdom.

So beset was Jocelyn from all sides that Lady Constance insisted she must needs slip away for an hour or two and breathe some sea air. She found the perfect opportunity to do just that when Sir Guy and Simon said they were going to inspect the first of the new watchtowers.

The tower sat atop the hill most directly above the keep. Others would stretch in an unbroken line the length of Jocelyn’s domain, Sir Guy explained. Nodding, she gripped her skirts in one hand and used the other to steady herself while they climbed to the top. The men-at-arms who took turns standing watch day and night awaited them below.

The view from the circular platform at the top of the tower took her breath away. Gnarled and twisted olive trees stair-stepped up the rocky slopes behind. Before her, achingly blue Mediterranean stretched as far as the eye could see. And there, set atop a wall of bedrock washed by waves, Fortemur loomed solid and square.

This was the land that had bred her, Jocelyn thought fiercely as she breathed salty air into her lungs. This was where, pray God, she would breed strong sons and daughters. The perfume-drenched harem she’d been sentenced to but short weeks ago now seemed nothing but an evil dream.

Simon, too, breathed deep as his assessing gaze swept the shoreline. He, however, was more concerned with the tower’s construction than with the unmatched beauty of the scene it provided. He thumped his foot on the planking, peered at the stones lining the fire pit and rapped a knuckle on the great iron cauldron that would send flames and smoke shooting into the sky day or night. With a grunt of approval, he turned to Fortemur’s recently appointed castellan.

“The tower is well constructed, Sir Guy.”

“As it should be,” the older man acknowledged with a smile, “since it was done to your specifications.”

Jocelyn could not but marvel at how easily her people had accepted Simon as their lord. Less than a fortnight ago, he’d sat below the boards with the lowest-ranking knights. Now he shared the high table with her, Sir Guy and Lady Constance. As far as she could tell, no one whispered or complained about his leap from minor knight to acknowledged lord of the keep.

Not that it would have made a difference if they had. Every day Simon showed another facet of his seasoned skill as a warrior. And every night…

Sweet heaven, the nights!

They’d delayed their wedding by royal command but not, thank the stars, their bedding. And if the nights to come held anywhere near the same incredibly erotic pleasure as the ones just past, Jocelyn might well expire of sheer, unadulterated pleasure. The mere thought of what the man could do with his clever, clever hands and mouth had her jerking on her reins.

As they approached the cliffs above Fortemur, she felt the need to have him to herself, away from the crowded keep, for a few moments more. What better place, she thought with a leap in her belly, than where he’d first taught her the joy a man could give a woman?

“I would speak with you,” she told him. “Privately.”

Her glance cut to the path that led down to the crystal cave, then came back again to his. The message she conveyed might have been emblazoned in gilt-edged script. Nor was it lost on Simon.

“Sir Guy,” he said gruffly, “we’ll see you back at the keep.”

“Very well.” The long-married knight guessed their intent and didn’t bother to hide his smile. “But for God’s sake, don’t tarry too long or my lady wife will have my head.”

Neither Jocelyn nor Simon paid him the least heed. She, because she’d already slipped from the saddle. He, because his heart leaped straight into his throat when he saw her disappear below the cliff’s edge.

Cursing, he tethered their mounts and negotiated the treacherous path. Each fragile step made his throat go drier. At every turn, he expected to see Jocelyn’s broken body on the rocks below.

She was so headstrong, this woman he loved. So willful and determined. He would have his work cut out for him to tame her to his hand. But when he ducked through the cave’s opening, all thought of changing or tempering her in any way fled.

As before, the salt crystals embedded in the walls reflected the sun in sparkling lights. For a moment or two, they blinded Simon to the vision that awaited him. Then his eyes adjusted to brilliance and he almost swallowed his tongue.

She’d already removed her gown, her undertunic, her stockings and shoes. Even her linen bellyband. Like a nymph just risen from the sea, she awaited him in unashamed, unadorned nakedness. His shaft was hard and aching before he so much as loosed his sword belt.

“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” he growled as he tugged his surcoat over his head.

“I’ve some small notion. But I most sincerely hope you will expound on the matter.”

“Expound, be damned.”

He tore at the ties to his mail shirt, thinking of how he’d drifted from pain to hope to pain again during the hellacious journey back to Fortemur. She was all he’d dreamed of during those torturous hours, all that had kept him in the saddle. He’d never envisioned her like this, though. His blood pounding as loud and as fast as the waves below, he couldn’t rid himself of his garments fast enough.

Once naked, he swept her into his arms. Her mouth opened eagerly under his. Her breasts filled his hands with smooth, silken flesh. Their rigid tips ignited flames that burned hotter than any Greek fire when they pressed against him. Mouth to mouth, hip to hip, they fueled the passion that seared their souls.

“Do you know how you have filled my every waking moment?” He ground out the words, his mouth moving hungrily over hers. “My every thought?”