On cue the servitors hurried in to set up the trestle tables, throw logs onto the fires, and hand the men leather horns filled with October ale.
Simon’s eyes kindled as he smelled the delicious roasting meats. “Thank you for the warm welcome.”
With exquisite sarcasm she said, “We are playing our roles to perfection. The lord and master returns with his bounty; the subservient woman stays behind tending the kitchens.”
His eyes swept down her body taking in the velvet and sapphires, “You make a magnificent chatelaine.”
Her eyes blazed. “I would have much preferred to go hunting.”
His black eyes held hers. “I don’t believe it is the hunt you enjoy. Even now you recoil from the blood on my clothes. I shall go and change immediately. I believe you love being astride a good horse with the wind whipping your cheeks and hair. I believe you are a nature lover, enjoying the seasons to the full, watching birds take flight rather than watching them fall to the hunter. That is why you are such a poor falconer.”
“A poor falconer?” She gasped.
He shrugged. “You always manage to let your bird of prey escape into freedom.” When she opened her mouth for a scathing retort, he held out his hand. “A truce, Eleanor. Tomorrow promises to be a glorious autumn day. Will you ride out with me?”
She stood on the third step from the bottom of the staircase, their eyes on a level. He was actually asking her rather than telling her. Finally she placed her hand in his and said, “It would be my pleasure, sir.”
He raised her hand to his mouth and playfully bit her fingers. She snatched her hand back immediately. He threw back his head to laugh and exposed white teeth and a powerful corded neck.
When he joined her at the table he was garbed in black, his linen immaculate. No trace of leather or horse clung to him, only the clean, fresh smell of his shaving soap. In spite of herself she enjoyed watching him eat. He had a true man’s appetite, large and healthy. He began with fish, followed by a brace of partridge, then helped himself to a platter of succulent venison. His eyes told her how attractive he found her. “You look as fashionable as if you were attending a royal banquet rather than a plain meal with your people. These Welshmen have never before beheld the likes of you.”
“Some of their clothing is quite beautiful. I admit to lusting for one of their scarlet wool cloaks.”
“The color would suit you to perfection. So rich, so proud, so bold, so incautious. ’tis the color of blood.”
“Then it should suit you better than 1, sir. As a war lord your whole life has been blood. You revere battle and bloodshed. It is your passion. It is what makes you so vibrantly alive. If you had been born in Rome, you would have been a gladiator.”
He stared at her in disbelief, then he said quietly, “Eleanor, if you believe that, you do not understand anything about me. War is hell. Battle is a living nightmare.” He hesitated, wondering if he should reveal the horrific details or keep her in ignorance. He decided she was woman enough to hear the truth.
“The smells are obscene—the hot, metallic scent of blood, the discharged excrement, the smell of vomit caused by panic. But the smells are as nothing compared to the sounds. The deafening crash of weapons, the thunk of arrows sinking into flesh, the sobs of the frightened, the moans of the maimed, the screams of the berserk sicken your very soul. Worse than the smells and the sounds are the pain and discomfort. Your own sweat runs into your eyes to blind you. Death attracts clouds of flies, which stick to your skin and feed on your wounds. Your garments, wet with sweat and blood, rub your skin raw. After a few hours the weight of your weapons is bearable only because your mind is numb with exhaustion as your feet slide in brains and guts from dawn to dark.”
Her eyes had widened, her nostrils flared.
“You’ve heard the word ‘bloodlust’—do you know what it means? A good leader of men must not allow them the spoils of war. He must control them so they do not rape women until they die or cut off their breasts or use a head for a football.”
Her face had gone white, her hand had gone to her throat.
“Eleanor, that is why there is nowhere in this world I would rather be than with you. You are the one who will bring joy to my life. You will be my salvation.”
“Are you trying to tell me you are a warrior who does not believe in war?”
His features were as hard as granite. “Sometimes war is a necessary evil. But if a land is ruled firmly by a strong hand, if the laws are just and fair for peasant as well as noble, then the realm prospers and there is no need for dissension.”
“What if that realm is attacked by another who covets such prosperity?”
“That is precisely when it becomes a necessary evil. But every man is willing to take up arms to protect what is his, and it usually ends in a quick victory.”
She knew he spoke of countries and wars in the abstract, yet his words pointed up exactly what was wrong with England. King Henry was weak and feckless. He ignored the laws of the Great Charter and squandered fortunes on his favorites. There was always dissent in the land and the barons refused to fight for their king and country.
“The strong leaders are gone and your brother is listening to false council that could destroy the realm. Already the Irish shout Too many kings in England’ when they speak of Henry’s and his wife’s relatives.”
Eleanor pushed back her chair. “I think I shall retire now, my lord. You have given me much food for thought.”
He sighed dramatically. “What good is a woman with her mind on politics when mine is on bed?”
She almost slapped him, then suddenly her laughter rang out as she realized he was teasing the life out of her.
29
The next day she could not help but be pleased when he showed great impatience to be off on their promised ride. He knocked on her chamber door before she had finished her breakfast. “Slug-a-bed, the daylight will be spent before you are ready to ride.” A scarlet wool cloak was slung across his shoulders and he held out another for her.
She was thrilled. “Oh, Simon, how lovely, thank you!” She snatched it up, threw it on, and twirled about for him to admire her.
“You look sinful,” he said, winking at Bette.
She dug her fists into her hips and swaggered toward him, looking him up and down. “Splendor of God, de Montfort, have you any idea what you look like … six-and-a-half feet wrapped in a scarlet cape, topped by that wild hair, blacker than hell?”
“Please don’t tell me I look like the devil.” He grinned.
“No,” she said studying him. “No, you look like a king … or a rebel, I cannot decide which.” A shiver passed over her. Her words sounded prophetic, and she knew he was capable of being both.
While she pinned back her hair and pulled on her gloves, he slapped impatiently at his boots with his heavy, short whip. The warm chamber seemed to cage him and she understood exactly how he felt, for she too needed an outlet for her energy.
“Ready!” she cried. As he led the way, the scarlet cloak swung to his heels, his spurs jingled, and his wide shoulders filled the entire doorway.
At the stables he took the liberty of lifting her into her saddle. He parted her cloak and his strong hands encircled her tiny waist. Her nipples ruched and she knew it was not from the cold but from his touch. When he mounted his black stallion he stood in the stirrups, and she knew he was going to give her a run for her money.
It was a glorious day. The colors of autumn were brilliant, all red, russet, and golden. The day had a prophetic air about it from the very beginning. Eleanor decided that if their time together was enjoyable and ended happily, she would tell him kindly but firmly and irrevocably there could never be anything between them but friendship.
The air was crisp and clear like rare wine as they galloped away from the castle. Within minutes they were submerged in a land that was untamed, untouched. Eleanor had always thought she was observant, but Simon’s eye was so keen he saw things she would h
ave missed. He flung up his arm to point out curly-horned Welsh rams high on a mountain ledge. She was amazed that he could differentiate birds in flight. He knew a hawk from a merlin, a falcon from a kite. They rode out from a wooded area into a clearing so fast it startled a roebuck with a full set of antlers. It poised majestically before leaping away. For the thrill of the chase they rode after it, their scarlet cloaks billowing like red sails in a seawind.
The path forked and they chose the high road up a steep mountain slope. Higher and higher they climbed until they touched the misty clouds. At the summit they poised side by side to look down in wonder. Before them was the vista of a valley, so hidden and secluded it seemed as if man had never set foot there since the dawn of creation. They laughed into each other’s face and he saw the droplets from the cloud-drenched atmosphere clinging to her beautiful eyelashes like diamonds.
He heard it before she did. It sounded like a low, far-off rumble of thunder. Then he pointed a brown finger down into the valley below and she saw something that truly took her breath away. It was a large herd of wild Welsh ponies. The leader had brought his mares and yearlings down from the mountains into the shelter of the valley before the next snowstorm. The scene was otherworldly in its primitive beauty, a sight to make your throat ache. To even glimpse them was a rare privilege, but they both had the urge to join the herd and become a part of it.
Together they bent low over their horses and urged them forward. It seemed like they were almost flying down the side of the mountain, then miraculously they were thundering along the valley’s floor, flank by flank with the herd of shaggy wild ponies. Simon took a rope from his saddle and, keeping pace with the herd, managed to lasso a black mare. It fought and reared and kicked wildly, but Simon was out of his saddle in a flash, digging in his heels to bring the thickset animal to a stop. All Simon had to do was lift a brow in Eleanor’s direction. Without words he questioned if she was daring enough to ride the untamed creature.
Eleanor needed no urging. In an instant she had dismounted and was allowing Simon to boost her onto the black pony’s broad back. She grasped a handful of rope and a handful of mane and was off on the ride of a lifetime. Simon, again astride his destrier, galloped alongside her, grinning like a madman, assuring her he was there to help if need be. She was able to take only quick glances at him, but they were enough to tell her he rode like a centaur, that fabulous monster which was half man, half horse. Horse and man alike were enormous and powerful especially beside the ponies, but he had a fluid, natural grace that showed he was completely at home in the saddle.
Eleanor knew she couldn’t stop the mare, but she also knew she had placed her life and her safety in Simon’s hands and that he would be responsible for her. Finally he rode up close beside her and took the rope from her hands. The dragons upon his forearms bulged as his unbelievable strength slowed the black mare and finally brought her to a halt.
“Do you want to keep her?” he called.
“No! I want her to be free forever,” she cried breathlessly.
With a quick flip he removed the rope and held up his strong arms to her. “Jump!” he ordered. She sprang from the mare’s bare back into his waiting arms. The impact sent them sprawling to the ground, and he rolled over and over with her to cushion her landing. Eleanor lay on the hard ground with Simon de Montfort astride her. Never in her whole life had she felt so invigorated. He laughed down at her, knowing exactly how excited the experience had made her. She gazed up into his black, magnetic eyes with sheer wonder. He had seized the moment and made it happen for her. She somehow, some way wanted to do the same for him.
“Sim, Sim,” she cried passionately. “To hellfire with the whole world! Be my secret lover.”
He kissed her hard and swift, then they were back in their saddles, racing each other to see who could reach Chepstowe first. He allowed her to pull ahead for the sheer pleasure of watching her look back over her shoulder to see if he followed. They raced over the drawbridge, blind to the squawking fowl and gaping sentry. They rode into the stables and tossed their reins to an available groom, then, handclasped, they ran toward the castle. Before they went into the great hall they tried to compose their features and move more slowly and sedately. They walked across the hall to the stairs, she trying to be casual, he trying to be nonchalant, but their desire surrounded them, dizzying their heads, curling tightly, hotly about their vitals so that none seeing them could have been ignorant of what was about to happen between them.
They could not keep secret a second longer the hot desire that at last blazed up between them. No man or woman who saw their eyes meet, their fingers cling, could doubt that they were bound lovers about to claim each other.
At last, at last they were alone together in her bedchamber, the door secured against the world. She strained to him in her need, now that all barriers had been set aside, but Simon knew better than to take her in haste. “Softly, my love. Softly, slowly, come to me, bend to me, yield to me.” His head dipped to place his lips against her throat and her head fell back allowing his mouth full rein.
His hands parted the scarlet cloak and he cupped her breasts until he could feel her nipples harden against his palms. Then he slid his hands over her tiny waist and down to curve about her round bottom as he pressed her against the demand of his groin. His fingers worked swiftly to undo the fastenings of her gown and slide it from her body, all the while watching her exquisite features for a sign of denial. When none came, he gently removed her undergarments and stockings, yet still she wore the scarlet cape to cloak her nudity.
She met his black eyes with a soft smile as his hands stripped her garments for their love play. Her breasts were ripe and thrust the cloak open to reveal the inside, swelling curves above the pale belly and inward curve of her waist. The cloak hung closed again over her long, slim legs, but her slightest movement parted the scarlet cloth to reveal the mass of black, silken curls between her legs.
His long-starved passion flared high as he gazed down at the small exquisite beauty. Again she knew a need for haste and reached inside his scarlet cloak to hurry his undressing. She had discarded all her reserve. This man was fully worth any risk. She felt devoured by his black eyes and realized that she desperately wanted him to think her lovely and to desire her at all times.
He aided her hands to remove his garments while at the same time he retained the scarlet cloak. His eyes saw how wantonly her breasts thrust from her cloak, almost touching his chest. “Kathe.” He whispered the caress as he again reached inside the cloak to stroke and fondle the satin skin that had been denied him for so long. An urge to ravish her immediately flooded over him, but he checked it with his iron willpower. He parted his cloak and took her inside against the long, hard length of his body.
She gasped in disbelief as she felt the evidence of his arousal pressed between their bodies like a weapon molded from marble. He saw the flicker of fear in her eyes that he had known would be there when she learned his full size. He knew also that her fear was justified. Her only experience with intercourse had ended in death. He must overcome this fear, obliterate it completely, and in its stead produce a longing for him to make love to her over and over.
Added to this was the simple fact of his great size. While she was small and perfect in the extreme, his shaft was longer and thicker than that of other men. He was on the horns of a dilemma. Would it be better to make love to her while she seemed eager and willing and get the pain behind them—be cruel to be kind? He thought not. He must teach her how her body could give her pleasure and how his body could increase that pleasure a thousandfold and bring her fulfillment. “Kathe, sweetest love, let me hold you.” He put his arm beneath her knees and swung her up into his arms, then carried her to a massive chair before the fire. He unfastened the ties of her scarlet cloak, and it fell to the floor with a whisper.
“My precious jewel, your breasts are absolutely perfect.” He brushed the inside curves with the back of his fingers as if they
were made of delicate porcelain, then he bent his lips to brush a kiss upon the tiny, budding crowns. With an effort he forced his attention away from the more intimate parts of her body, and his fingers threaded through her shining black curls. He took a strand of his own hair and blended it with hers. “See how exactly the color matches? You cannot tell where mine stops and yours begins when they are joined. Darling, when I make love to you it will be that way. Our bodies will become one.”
She lifted her lashes to shyly look at their bodies. His seemed split in half by his scarlet cloak, half concealed, half revealed. Her bottom rested upon the thigh that was covered, her breast pressed against the side of his chest that was concealed by the material. In stark contrast, the other half of his chest was an immense slab of muscle covered by black hair and his naked thigh rose from the cloak, thick as a tree trunk and more solid than rock. “Sweet, sweet, explore me,” he urged. “I want you to lose your fear.”
Her hand moved to lift the scarlet cloth from his male center and her breath caught at her own boldness. Today he wore no black leather sheath to keep her eyes from seeing every detail of his manroot. It lay along his thigh, but the moment her glance fell upon it, it had a life of its own. It awoke and stretched like a great beast. Her eyes widened as she saw it rise up slowly, strongly, filling with blood. The shaft lengthened and thickened, the head burst forth from its protective cowl in all its blood-crimsoned glory.
In that moment he reminded her of his black stallion; both were superb male animals.
“My little love, there is nothing to fear. I will be gentle and playful. I won’t take you like a stallion takes a mare.”
Her eyes widened. Could he read her every thought? She trembled slightly. “I once saw an Arabian stud force a small filly. When he covered her, he bit her neck savagely and screamed.” She paused. “Yet ever after the mare followed him faithfully.”
“Someday, I promise you that you will want to make love savagely, but this is not for now.” He brushed his lips against her temple. “However, if you feel like screaming or biting feel free to do so. There are dozens of things I want to teach you before you are ready for rough love.”