Chapter 24
“I am sorry,” she said. She kissed his
hands. “So very sorry.”
He looked at her in that stark, lost
way she had seen by the river and then cast himself into her arms.
She hugged him tightly, saying over and over, “It was a pity and a
shame and I am so sorry, so sorry.”
Seeking only to comfort him, she kissed
him.
He kissed her in return and now their
kiss changed, becoming deeper, more urgent.
Suddenly, still in her arms, he became
very still. “I would not wish you to think I do this for
diversion.”
“Why should we not turn to each other?”
she asked gently, wanting to show him that she understood his
tangled feelings of loss and pity, lust and comfort, even anger and
shame. Had she not felt the same over Gregory?
“With such a little, with just a little
more thought, I could have made her happy,” he whispered against
her throat.
“You did make her happy, Ranulf.
Truly.” She traced the dark line of his jaw with a finger,
marveling at the golden stubble there. “I should know—I did not
appreciate what joining with a man could be, before you.” She
kissed a scar on his ear. “Olwen was happy.”
He nodded, then raised his eyes to her
face. “But I would not wish you to think I feel less for
you.”
“I know that, too.” She scooped a sheet
over them both and rocked him against her, ignoring the
slow-building ache in her breasts and hips. If Ranulf wished only
to sleep in her arms, then so be it.
“Edith?” He rolled out of her arms onto
his belly. “May I—that is, may we—”
Suddenly she understood why he was on
his stomach, hiding away from her. She smiled, allowing the sheet
to fall away from her breasts.
“Make me happy, Rannie,” she
whispered.
He had done so, too, she reflected,
wriggling contentedly in his arms as he slept. He had explored her
and coaxed her to explore him. He had pampered her. He had eased
into her, always taking his weight on his arms, hanging over her
like a golden harvest moon.
Only when she was more than ready,
opening her legs ever wider, lifting her hips to him, kissing his
chest and mouth, did he move in her more urgently. Soon, with her
squeaked encouragement, he was powering into her, his hard flesh
cracking against hers like thunder. On and on the pleasure piled
and grew in her, and when it was released, she screamed with the
blinding force of it.
Ranulf matched her passion, chanting
her name as he hammered into her. It was her name he roared at his
finish and her name he muttered, half snoring, as he coiled his
long limbs about her and slept.
Delight kept her wakeful and although
she had dozed, now she was refreshed and ready for more. For a
while she was content to kiss her amazing lover, smiling at his
grunts of acknowledgment. Then he turned and she cast herself onto
her back to watch the stars.
Considering all he had told her, she
wondered if she should tell him her own suspicions concerning why
his many messages and tokens had not reached Olwen, nor Olwen’s
letters reached him.
Perhaps it is better
that he never knows. It is all too late now.
The spy who lingered about the black
knight’s camp knew by now that Sir Ranulf of Fredenwyke had not
returned to his tent this night. The spy snorted, stifling a laugh
as he sped away.
He did not know where the knight was,
but he guessed it would be somewhere with the
princess.
“Oh, oh, my Lord Giles, you will not be
pleased.”
He often talked to himself—few others
would listen, except when he was bringing a report.
Slipping past cart after cart and tent
after tent, kicking away the wandering dogs and rats, he could
hardly contain his excitement. His master would pay very well for
this night’s work!
The spy knew Giles in a way few did. He
had worked for the knight for years, since they were youths
together, going wenching in the town and country taverns. He did
those necessary but messy tasks that his supposed “betters,” with
their fancy manners and codes of honor, refused to do
themselves.
And now he was doing it
again.
Approaching Sir Giles’s massive camp,
the spy chortled. It was because of his work that the black knight
had lost that silver-pale wife of his. His master had coveted
her—Sir Giles always coveted what his fellow knights had; it was an
itch in the man that would never be satisfied. Following
instructions, he had ensured vital letters and tokens were mislaid,
an easy task in France, accomplished by bribing the messengers or
drinking the lads under the table. Of course, when they had all
returned to England, matters had not gone Sir Giles’s way and he
had turned against the haughty filly, which in turn had made other
actions needed.
Now he had news that would drive the
knight mad.
“And you will vow to have the princess,
as you vowed to have the wife, by whatever means. But I think the
Lady of Lilies will refuse you, as the Lady of Fredenwyke did
before her, and then where will you be, my lord?”