Promise of the Rose (50 page)

A
dele had not seen Geoffrey de Warenne since her wedding to Henry Ferrars, but she would see him today.

The litter she had traveled in had halted. As Adele had traveled with the curtains open, she could see that she had arrived at her destination. Although still surrounded by two dozen of her husband’s best knights, she could see the soaring cathedral of Canterbury proudly butting up against a very blue sky just a dozen steps ahead of her.

She had not seen Geoffrey in an achingly long time. She had been married on the first of February, and it was now April’s day for fools. It was a terrible waste—her husband had been ensconced at Tutberry these past few weeks, many miles to the west of Essex, where she lingered, alone and increasingly desperate. Adele had sent Geoffrey numerous missives—but he had not come.

Adele made no move to leave her liner. So many heated emotions rampaged throughout her that she could not move, not yet. She was furious, furious at his obvious rejection, and she was afraid.

She, the most coveted woman in the realm, was afraid that the archdeacon had tired of her.

Their affair had been convoluted from the start. After his brother’s wedding he had continued to see her for several days, until called away to the invasion of Carlisle in the North. But afterwards he had not returned to her as Adele had expected him to do. Endlessly she waited for her lover to appear, but he never had.

Adele began to send him missives, at first coaxing him, then urging him, finally demanding that he come. His replies were brief. His affairs detained him; she must busy herself with her own interests.

Adele was not just afraid that he had tired of her, she was furious. It seemed clear to her that he hinted that she should take another lover. But no other man could possibly interest her now. And more important, she was hurt—but that emotion she refused to identify.

Meanwhile her wedding to the middle-aged Ferrars approached. And then, just two weeks prior to the event she dreaded, Geoffrey sent her a message requesting a meeting. It had been ten long, interminable weeks since they had seen each other, and its tone was urgent. Adele guessed at the nature of his urgency. She intended to deny him, tease him, torture him—in short, she would punish him for his neglect. But when he arrived, they fell upon each other like rabid animals. Within seconds he had shredded her clothes with his dagger and was impaling her. They both reached their peaks immediately, but Geoffrey did not leave her; instead, he took her again and again. As always, he was masterful and insatiable, and Adele had been, for the first time in her life, exhausted afterwards. But also terribly, smugly pleased.

It was hardly over for them.

She was even more pleased when Geoffrey came to her that next day and every day for the following fortnight. On the eve of her wedding, she lay in Geoffrey’s powerful arms, replete and unrepentant.

And she knew he was unhappy. She saw it in every line of his face, she saw it in his eyes. Adele was thrilled. He loves me, she thought happily, and is heartsick because I marry another.

The next day she said her wedding vows, swearing to honor and obey her new husband, to be chaste. Geoffrey
attended the mass but not the wedding feast. He left the ceremony early, refusing to look at her even once—and she had not seen him since.

Adele was still angry that she had been given to Ferrars, She did not care how skilled Henry Ferrars was on the battlefield, or how loyal he had been to the King and his father before him. As far as she was concerned, he was a lowborn upstart, and nothing would ever change that.

Adele’s new husband was ardent. Adele knew that he was as pleased with the marriage as she was distraught. It was clear to her that he was infatuated with her, perhaps even in love. Adele had no intention of defying him or denying him, no matter how she felt about him. She had never been a fool. If her fate was to be Lady Ferrars, then she would do her best to make sure that her husband worshiped her. While the knight was a powerful man, he retained none of that power when it came to Adele. Within a fortnight she had wrapped him around her little finger. He might outmaneuver his friends and foes alike, but he could not outmaneuver his new wife.

Unlike the archdeacon of Canterbury, whom Adele barely controlled, if at all. But now, now that was about to change.

Adele wanted Geoffrey desperately. She must see him. She was quite certain she could not live without him. He had become an obsession. Instead of taking a lover, she used herself, while thinking of him. Once they were together, once they were in each other’s arms, she would know that her fears were foolish and misplaced. He loved her, she was sure of it. And as he would not come to her, she had been daring—she had gone to him.

Besides, she had something to tell him, something that would change their relationship forever, something that could not wait. And after this day, Geoffrey would not be able to elude her, not ever again. After this day, the bond between them would never be revoked.

   Geoffrey was incredulous. He paused as he leaned over a long table spread with scrolls, gazing up at the young deacon who stood in the chamber’s doorway. They were in one of
the chambers in Canterbury’s cathedral, from which most of the see’s business was conducted. “I beg your pardon?”

“There is a Lady Ferrars here, my lord, and she wishes to speak with you.”

Geoffrey straightened. He was disbelieving and furious, but fortunately Anselm was in London. Dear God, hadn’t she understood what his refusal to come to her meant?

It was not that his huge lust had died. Hardly. But she was married now, and Geoffrey would not cuckold a man he happened to respect. Other men might have no qualms about doing so, but he was not like other men—he had never been like other men. Indeed, this added factor finally meant that he would be the victor in his own private war with himself. “Show her in,” he said irritably.

Adele swept into the room. Geoffrey’s body tightened. She wore a red wool mantle, and the hot color suited her. Despite his resolve, which remained firm, she was ravishing.

“My lord,” she whispered, curtsying.

Geoffrey murmured a nonsensical greeting, but did not touch her to help her to rise. The deacon had gone, unfortunately, leaving them alone. “Lady Ferrars, I see that matrimony agrees with you,” Geoffrey said briskly. The sooner she was gone, the better. He did not trust himself after all.

Adele’s gaze blackened and her sultry smile died. “Of course it does,” she managed.

“And how is the groom?”

Her eyes blazed. Pointedly she shot a dark look at the open door, but Geoffrey ignored it. “Henry is in Tutberry,” she finally said. “He has been there for several weeks.”

“So I have heard,” Geoffrey said wryly. Adele had sent him a dozen messages, each and every one reminding him that she was alone. “How can I help you, Lady Ferrars?”

She stared with unspoken urgency. “I am on my way to my brother’s estate in Kent. I wish to pass the night here, my lord.”

Geoffrey was furious. Such a request was common and could not be refused, for travelers were always granted a bed and meal in any abbey they happened to pass by. St. Augustine’s was just across the way. “You are speaking with the wrong man, lady,” he murmured. “The abbot will gladly
put you up.” But what did Adele think to achieve by this effort on her part? he wondered. She would not be able to sneak out of the abbey gates after dark—or did she hope to gain an afternoon rendezvous in a wooded glade? Knowing her as he did, it was entirely possible.

And despite himself, knowing what such a rendezvous promised, he grew hard and thick.

“I am very tired,” Adele said. “I thought to stop here and rest first.”

Geoffrey was silent, so that no evidence of arousal would linger in his tone. “Of course, Lady Ferrars, as you wish.”

Her eyes snapped. “Indeed, I do not feel well. I think I might have to remain for several days before continuing my journey south.”

Geoffrey was about to make a comment when he realized what she was doing. She had taken her hand and placed it beneath her mantle upon her silk-clad abdomen. She caressed herself.

In a low voice, her gaze holding his, she said, “Perhaps I should not be traveling at all.”

‘Twas not his place to ask—not if they were unfamiliar with each other—but her gesture was unmistakable. Swiftly Geoffrey went to the door and shut it. He faced her, disbelieving. “If you are with child, Lady Ferrars, you should not be on the roads.”

“Then I have erred,” she said huskily. But she was smiling, triumphant.

Geoffrey was frozen. Adele was with child.
Was it his?

Adele suddenly swayed. “I feel quite faint,” she murmured.

Geoffrey caught her before she swooned, and she leaned heavily in his arms. A heartbeat later she had turned in his embrace, smiling up at him. “At long last,” she said hoarsely, making no attempt to hide her excitement.

For one instant, his gaze wandered from her lush mouth to her heaving bosom. Her mantle had opened, and as she wore not one thing under her fine silk tunic, her nipples, large and erect, were clearly visible, as was every inch of her voluptuous figure. Geoffrey saw no sign of a pregnancy. “Are you with child?” He set her away abruptly.

Instantly she was back in his arms. “We must meet!”

Geoffrey gripped her wrists, forcing her to break her hold upon him. “No, Adele, it is over.”

She inhaled. Then she twisted wildly. “I will kill you!”

Geoffrey forced her against the wall while she struggled wildly, hissing and spitting like a cat. Finally he subdued her, but he was not pleased, for she had felt his rigid manhood and she was laughing, exultant. “You need me, darling, you cannot deny it!”

Geoffrey did not want to be cruel, but she was toying with him when she spoke of a child, and he could not allow it. “I want only a woman’s body, Adele, and it need not be yours.”

She choked in fury. “And I have only missed your big cock, you whoreson,” Adele cried.

Geoffrey was too agitated to laugh. “You are always so ladylike, Adele.”

She went still, panting. She finally looped her arms around him, groaning, pressing her own quivering body closer to his. “No, Geoff, you know that’s not the truth. Of course I have missed you,” she said huskily. “You are the only man for me, I swear it.”

“I doubt it,” he said, very grim. He shrugged free of her. He had no wish to have someone walk in on them, alone and embracing—the repercussions would be vast. Especially now, if his spies were correct.

Adele moved to him, a stalking, determined tigress, and one of her long, tapered nails skimmed his cheek. “No one is as good as you.”

“It is over, Adele, over.”

She hissed in displeasure. He caught her arm before her talon could claw down his cheek. “Is there someone else? Who?!” she cried.

“There is no one else.”

“I do not believe you!” Suddenly she seized his hard shaft. “Or maybe I do!”

He batted her hand away. “Obviously you are not tired, and obviously you are not ill. I will have you escorted to the abbey. If you make a scene, Adele, we will both pay a terrible price. Accept that it is over.”

“No. It will never be over!” And she smiled. She blazed with triumph.

Geoffrey was touched with foreboding, and the skin at the nape of his neck tingled. “You are with child, aren’t you?”

She laughed once, the sound husky and exultant. “It will be a boy. A gypsy told me so last week.” Staring at Geoffrey, she added, “Henry will be so pleased.”

Geoffrey’s face was tight, his nostrils flared. His tone was dangerous.
“Could it be mine?”

She laughed with delight. She shrugged.

He jumped on her. She had turned her back as if to leave, but he whirled her about.
“Whose child is it?”

“What do I get if I tell you?” she asked coyly.

He had never hit a woman before. He almost hit her now. “When is the child due, Adele? Answer me, before I damn you to hell!”

Adele blanched. “In seven months.”

Geoffrey made a rapid calculation. “So it could be Ferrar’s—or it could be mine.”

Adele watched him, both wary and excited.

Geoffrey walked away from Adele, his shoulders rigid, his eyes arctic blue. He was shaking.
Was he the father?

And Adele was smiling.

Geoffrey had no children. It was no surprise, considering that, although hardly celibate, he fought his sexual proclivities the best that he could. Still, he had had his first woman at the age of thirteen—would he not have created a child by now? It occurred to him that he might not have a potent seed. He had not brooded upon this before. In his position, a child would be a liability and an embarrassment. A child could wreck all that he had worked for, it could destroy his future.

But … dear God, how he yearned for a child!

Dear, dear God, how he hoped that the babe Adele carried was his!

In spite of the fact that he could never claim the child openly and in spite of the consequences he might have to pay if ever the truth were revealed—he wanted this child to be his.