In the Shadow of Midnight (52 page)

Eduard stood motionless. He had heard her cry and had felt her stiffen against him and he was afraid—because he had never needed or wanted a woman as badly as he needed and wanted Ariel now—that he was too big and too hungry to cause her anything but pain.

The next few gasps he heard dispelled those fears, for they were accompanied by such greedy, undulant urgings of her hips, he was compelled to lose all sense of caution and reason, and thrust himself so deep inside her, it was all he could do to keep his pleasure from spilling then and there.

He
was
big, but Ariel only rejoiced in the hunger and stretching thickness. There was no pain. Sweet Mother Mary, there was no pain, only pleasure—deep and shaking, all-consuming, ravaging pleasure.

Something cool and damp was against her back and she realized he had moved into the darker shadows near the mouth of the tunnel where moss grew lush and soft on the walls. The contrast of thrusting heat and cushioning coolness sent her fingers clawing into his hair. The sound of the water roaring only an arm’s length away, the sight of it blurred and luminescent
plunging past them with such power, such might, only made the power plunging within her seem all the more shattering and intense.

Ariel’s ragged gasp of warning brought Eduard’s mouth back over hers in time to swallow her hoarse, gusting cries of rapture. He felt her begin to convulse around him and he weathered the stunning ferocity of her climax as long as he could before his own tempest broke within him, causing them both to cry out against each other’s mouths and writhe through the deluge of ecstasy together.

Eduard held her with bruising desperation. He held her with a body that continued to press her into the moss, continued to move with each of her soft, mewling cries until the last thudding pulsebeat of pleasure had shivered from their flesh. Neither wanted to be the first to move or the first to break the spell. Their mouths were still together and the need to muffle each other’s cries changed without thought or notice to a need to acknowledge the flamboyant excesses of their passion.

“Shameless,” he breathed against her lips. “’Twas not a position I would have thought a lady yearned to couple in.”

“I was not thinking, my lord,” she admitted with a slow sigh. “I was only … needing.”

“Even more shameless then,” he whispered, his hands continuing to cradle her against him. He kissed her again, and this time, Ariel’s legs—utterly depleted of strength—began the long slide down from his waist. She looked up at him, her lashes spiked with tears, and after a moment, raised a hand from where it rested limp on his shoulder and traced cool, trembling fingers over the hard ridges of the scar on his cheek.

“My only shame is remembering the things I have said to you in cruelty and ignorance. My shame is my pride and I gladly lay it at your feet, my lord, to trample upon, discard, or scorn as you will.”

Eduard covered her hand with his own and drew it from his cheek to his lips. “How could I possibly scorn that which I possess too much of myself?”

Her eyes were like dark mirrors to her soul and he could see each brush of his lips, each flicker of his tongue reflected
there. She was still aroused, still peaking delicately, languidly, in a way that made him acutely aware of where they were still joined together.

Ariel was aware of it too and her lashes fluttered down and her teeth caught her lower lip, curling it between them in a sharp bite for courage.

“Have you … given any thought as to what will happen at Gloucester?”

He had given a good many things a great deal of thought over the past twelve hours; he had not anticipated the need for outright answers so soon.

“I … know I have no claim,” she stammered, swallowing to cover the awkward gap caused by his silence. “Nor do I expect you to feel any obligation to marry me, but … I would ask …
beg
… that you do not cast me aside altogether. I w-would stay with you as your mistress, your cook’s helper, your boot scrubber if that is what you would make of me, but only … do not … banish me—” she sobbed, “—to Wales. Do not … m-make me wed a man … I do not know … or … do n-not care to know … or …”

She dissolved in tears and buried her face against his throat, too mortified to see the look of shock which she was certain must be widening his eyes as he beheld the ultimate proof of her brashness. He still cupped her hand over his lips— it was frozen there by horror, she supposed—and she could feel his breath, hot and stilted, gusting into her palm.

She reclaimed it with yet another sob and clenched it into a fist, fighting the urge to strike out at something, anything, but most especially the motionless, unresponsive wall of muscle that held her trapped against the moss.

“I … have no need for a boot scrubber,” he admitted finally. “And I have already sampled your talents as a cook’s helper, only to find them sadly wanting. As to a mistress … aye.” He paused consideringly and ran both hands down the curve of her back. “You show promise of a distinct knack there, my lady, but alas … no. I have no need for a mistress either. I have neither the time nor the energy to spare on such things.”

Ariel’s hopes sank and her shoulders sagged, but it seemed he was not finished chastising her yet. Nor would he let her escape without tilting her face up and forcing her to meet his gaze.

“It will have to be as a wife, or nothing at all,” he said quietly.

Ariel’s breath stopped in her throat and her heart missed a noticeable beat.

“Your … wife?” she whispered.

“If you will have me: a scarred and saddle-galled beast, arrogant and ill-mannered, brutish, unfeeling—” He pursed his lips and frowned. “My memory fails me, was there more?”

She studied his smile intently. “You mock me, sir.”

“I love you, my lady. God Himself could be waiting for you at Gloucester and I would not relinquish you.”

Stunned, she barely responded as he bowed his head, kissing her with all of the tenderness she could have longed for and more than she deserved.

“Of course … your uncle is another matter. He will not be pleased to hear how you have spurned another groom.”

“I have not spurned Rhys ap Iorwerth,” she protested softly. “I have simply made a wiser choice.”

“Nonetheless, you have broken your contract with him. A contract your uncle signed and sealed in good faith.”

“The contract is void if I marry another—Lord knows the Welsh have stolen enough brides away from their intended grooms to be well acquainted with the law. As for Uncle Will …” She paused and the relief she felt brought forth a giddy question. “Are you afraid of him?”

“Me? Afraid of the Marshal of England? The greatest champion of all time? Only from the ankles up, my love; only from the ankles up.”

“But he likes you. He
admires
you; this he told me himself.”

“Aye, well, his admiration might dim somewhat once he learns how sadly we have botched things.”

“Botched? But you have saved the princess. You have stolen her out of King John’s clutches.”

“That we have,” Eduard agreed grimly, disengaging himself as gently as possible. “But in such a way as to leave no doubt who was responsible. Part of your uncle’s plan was to keep the king from having positive proof of your involvement. Gisbourne may not yet know who I am, but he will surely waken with blood in his eye and the name De Clare screaming from his lips.”

“Whatever did you do to him? Furthermore, what did he want with Robin?”

Eduard glanced up from refastening his points. She still stood against the moss, her cloak skewed to one side, her tunic raised in a crush above her thighs. The stone walls of the tunnel were damp from the mist and the tiny, glistening bits of minerals in the rock reflected the opalescent wash of light that came through the falls, seeming to form a glowing nimbus around her. Despite her obvious and magnificent look of debauchery, Eduard thought it best to guard a small part of her innocence, for a while longer at any rate.

“Suffice it to say he wanted Robin for no good reason and that Robin himself offered his refusal in a way Gisbourne will not likely soon forget—or forgive.”

“Meaning he wanted Robin in the same way you wanted me … and Robin responded in a similar fashion as Alan of the Dale.”

“Alan of the … who?”

“The outlaw who ambushed us on the road to Rennes. He said the guards wanted to use him as a whore, and he butted them, all right, but—”

Eduard’s mouth came down swiftly, perfunctorily, over hers, muffling her recollection along with the small laugh she accorded the look of surprise on his face.

“I have an excellent memory,” she said when she was able.

“Aye, and a knack of drawing on it at most inopportune moments.”

Ariel’s expression sobered. “Is Robin … that is, he was not hurt in any way, was he?”

“Only in the way he views the meaning of being in the
‘flower’ of knighthood. He, my lovely, is not quite so worldly-wise as you. Or me, alas. He is still convinced there is no true evil in the world, only slightly misguided fools who need a strong hand to show them the way to gaining purity of soul and goodness of heart.”

“But you do believe it? You believe true evil exists?”

“I am a product of it,” he said quietly. “And because of it, or perhaps in spite of it, I have tried too hard to protect Robin from the blacker side of humankind.”

“Because of it … because of
you
, my lord,” she insisted, “and the man you have become
in spite
of everything, he will make for a braver and bolder knight one day, for he will want to be just like you.”

Eduard lost himself in the drowning green of her eyes for a long moment and saw the pride and love shining there. It was pride for him, love for him, intense enough and honest enough to make him bow his head slightly, overwhelmed by the smothering tightness that took hold of his chest.

The same tightness was etched on his face and Ariel recognized it for what it was. She had been suffering it herself, the whole blessed day long, each and every time she glanced his way. The worst of it had been eased and was still wet and slick between her thighs, but she knew it would happen upon her again and again until they were out of England and could shout their love for each other to the world.

Until then, however, they would have to be content to shout it to themselves, in quiet ways. On darkened rooftops and in watery caves. With a look or a touch, or a few fleeting moments of intimacy that were over too soon. Too soon.

“Did you really mean what you said?” she asked softly. “If God Himself were waiting at Gloucester, you would not relinquish me?”

He did not meet her gaze, but the muscles in his arms bunched beneath her hands as he pulled her close again.

“I meant it,” he whispered, burying his lips in her hair. Ariel pressed herself into his heat and her hands climbed up to his shoulders, then slid around, lacing together at the back of his neck. She was aware of his heartbeat hammering in his
chest and of the tension coursing through his body. The tumbled waves of her hair framed the expectant face she raised to him; her lips, soft and moist, traced a warm, seductive path up his throat.

“Absolutely shameless,” he murmured.

Ariel sighed. And agreed.

   Henry de Clare heard a woman’s muffled cry and opened his eyes. It took a minute to register the scene: the cavern, the wool blankets hung to dry, the fire throwing shadows and shapes on the walls.

The others—Sedrick, Dafydd, Robin, and Brevant were asleep. FitzRandwulf was standing guard at the entrance to the tunnel and the women were …

Henry pushed to his feet, a curse forming on his lips as he jerked aside a corner of the blankets. Marienne and the princess were lying by the fire but the place where Ariel should have been was glaringly empty.

Henry dropped the blanket and started to reach for his baldric when he heard the cry again and realized it had indeed come from the other side of the blankets. Without thinking, he lifted the edge again and saw what he had missed before. Eleanor’s long, slender legs had thrashed most of her blankets free. Her face was bathed in sweat and her hair was a blonde tangle, matted to her temples and throat in tight, wet curls.

“No,” she gasped. “Please …
please!”

Henry ducked beneath the curtain and stretched out a hand to touch Eleanor’s shoulder, but a small white fist grasped his sleeve first, preventing him.

Shocked, thinking Marienne might have misinterpreted his gesture as something other than concern, he folded his fingers into his palm and withdrew his hand immediately.

“I was only wanting to see if she was unwell. A fever, perhaps—?”

“It is no fever, my lord,” Marienne whispered. “Save the one in her heart.”

“Please”
Eleanor cried, thrashing in torment. “Arthur … my God, Arthur … tell him what he wants to hear. I
was wrong. I
was wrong.
Tell him. Tell him anything. Tell him—” She stiffened and her back arched up off the floor. Her arms started to tremble and flay the air and Henry, helpless to do more than watch, saw Marienne move calmly to where Eleanor’s head rolled back and forth on the hard stone. She quickly folded a blanket and tucked it beneath the princess’s head, then crouched and took hold of her wrists, gently keeping them from striking the wall or the rough floor.

“Forgive me, my lord,” Marienne cried softly, “but if you could hold her ankles, she might be stopped from doing herself an injury when the worst of it comes.”

Worse, Henry thought, doing as he was bid. How much worse? And why did the girl not simply waken her?

“’Tis the Angevin curse,” Marienne explained over the tears that started to well in her eyes. “It only happens when she is very weak, or very tired … or very frightened. And ’tis more like a trance than a true fit. A nightmare from which she cannot be wakened until it runs its course. She … feels guilt over her brother’s death. She thinks … it was because of her, because he did not want to appear weak or unworthy in front of the courage she displayed … that he refused to accept the king’s offer of exile. And because he kept refusing, the king became angrier, and …”