Princess of fire, p.4
Princess of Fire, page 4
He had wanted her for so very long. He had denied himself too often. He could not think of the battle, of the war. He could not recall Falstaff or Harold or anything of the past—nor did he care if there was such a thing as a future. The sweet and feminine scent of her filled him, and the heady sensation of her kiss nearly drove him to madness.
He caressed her with the greatest tenderness, but with a total, perhaps still ruthless, determination to seduce. He kissed the length of her throat, stroked the curve of her breast, stripping away the fabric that clothed her until she was beautifully bared to his touch. Where his hand had lingered, soon did his lips, and he encompassed the budding rose crest of her nipple with the ardor of his mouth, giving no quarter when he heard the sharp intake of her breath and felt her hands fall to his shoulders. He could not give way. He would have her now, and have her knowing that she came to him, tenderly initiated, nay . . . hungry.
He was barely aware that he whispered still. His mouth returned to hers with a heady demand while his touch played along her legs. He drew the white gown high up over her hips, and eased his weight upon her. A sound escaped her, a whimper, but he gave it no thought, for as he drank from her lips, she did not turn or twist, but seemed drugged and sweetly stunned, a captive of his caress rather than his strength. Her eyes were closed and her face was pale, and the waning golden candlelight made her exotically beautiful. She did not fight him. But had she struggled, the result would have been the same: the white light burned inside him, so hungry, so hot, that he knew her time had come.
He kissed her as he stroked her thigh, kissed her still as he blindly fumbled with his clothing. Kissed her still when the burning shaft of his desire touched her intimately.
Now his kiss caught her cry as he moved carefully into her, breaking past the barrier of innocence, and claimed her as his own. The fire within him urged him to swift passion, yet he capped that desire, for he was determined to bring her with him and to leave no doubt in her mind that they had risen together.
She twisted then, trying to escape his lips, trying to escape the invasion of his body. She cried out and pummeled his chest. He caught her hands and forced them down; then he laced his fingers with hers. Their eyes met as she struggled; tears stung hers. “Alaric . . . you hurt me.”
“Nay, it will hurt no more,” he promised her, and he moved down to take her mouth once again. She tried to twist away from him; he laid claim to her lips anyway and kissed her until she grew breathless, and silent in protest.
Then he moved again, and at last gave free rein to the raw, blinding need that had brought him here. She sheathed him like a glove, hot and liquid, and as passion led him to ever sweeter heights, he felt her surge against him, and suddenly he was aware that she moved, too, that she arched and writhed beneath him and met his every thrust. Her nails dug into him, and he smiled at their touch, rising above her to see her eyes. They were closed, but her lips were wet and slightly parted. Her eyes opened then and beheld him staring down upon her and she cried out as if in horror, but he laughed and swept her into his embrace again, thrusting ever more swiftly as he kissed her again, kissed her lips and her throat and her breasts, one and then the other, and each with greater tenderness.
She cried out, and surged with strength against him. Alaric held himself taut, savoring her pleasure. Then he thrust against her for his own release and held tight again, shuddering as the waves of release swept him, and the seed of satisfaction seeped from his hardened form, and into the very depths of her.
Then she swore. More furiously than he had ever heard her swear before. She slammed her fists against his chest, and in defense, he caught them again. He let her struggle until she exhausted herself, and while she fought him, he railed against himself in silence. He had been a fool. He had known better than to go near her. He had been haunted with desire for her ever since she grew up, ever since he kissed her the first time when she slipped into his room in Rouen and found herself caught in his grasp . . .
But he needed to be cold, to display neither sympathy nor tenderness, for he could offer her naught that could soothe her spirit. He had not meant this, but he could not resist her. She could not know how easily she touched him, for she would dare almost anything, and she must have been aware that the world had changed. That William would ruthlessly silence her, or any member of her family, if he felt it necessary.
Her words broke off in a dry sob, and he pushed himself above her. He forced a brutal smile to his lips. “We’ve both known that was coming, haven’t we, Fallon?”
She stared at him incredulously, and he saw that tears were forming in her eyes again, though she blinked them back. Then hatred filled their sky-blue depths, and she threw herself desperately against his weight, her nails raking his face. He bit his lip and caught her fingers, and stared down into her eyes with all the distance he could muster.
“Thank you, milady, for a most entertaining evening.”
“Bastard!” she hissed, and a single tear trickled down her cheek.
He touched it and whispered, “You did not fight me, Fallon.”
She shook her head while her eyes continued to glitter in misted confusion. “I hate you, Alaric.”
“You came to me willingly. You parted your lips to my kiss and put your arms around me.”
“I hate you!” she repeated in a whisper.
“Tell yourself what you will, Fallon. I am a Norman, and I have brutalized you. The country will be raped, so please yourself and assure your heart that you have been raped as well. But by me, not by Falstaff. I am not madly entranced by you, Fallon. I am wary of your temper and your lethal tricks. God knows, I have nearly perished by a few of them.” He paused, because he wanted nothing more than to kiss her again, to ease away the pain he had created. He was certain her suffering was the greater because of the very beauty she had discovered within it. What bitter irony, to know fulfillment in the hands of the enemy.
He released her hands, daring her to strike again. He rose from her and straightened his clothing, and smiled a grim, tight-lipped smile. “Fallon, remember—by English law you are mine. My property. My slave.”
“I am no criminal to be sentenced or sold.”
“Ah, but, my lady, you are. You have attempted and perhaps accomplished murder. Falstaff’s services are a great loss to me. More valuable than yours, charming though they be.”
She would try to strike him again in pure rage, he knew. He was ready for her, and he smiled with ruthless enjoyment. She cried out, humiliated, and his eyes met hers while he handed her a sheet with which to cover herself.
“Behave, slave,” he taunted.
“Son of a jackass!” she spat at him.
“By English law, your crime is murder. Your punishment is slavery. And I, milady, am your master. You have always told me that you cannot be broken, but I swear it now, Fallon, you will bend or break.”
She raised her chin—that movement he knew so well. “You have not broken me, Alaric. You never will. And I will never bend before your Norman bastard duke!”
He clenched his teeth, but maintained his smile. “Then the battle is truly only just commenced, is it not?” he whispered, seizing her shoulders and drawing her close to him. Then he released her abruptly and turned to stride out of the tent. Loudly, so that she could hear him, he ordered the guards to chain her if she made a single move toward escape.
He paused then, gasping for breath. There was a nip in the air. Fall was coming, and the icy winter’s cold would soon follow.
God help him, what had happened? Was he, in truth, far worse than Falstaff? Was she a witch to have woven such a spell around him that he could not command his own will when she touched his life? Even now that he had finally had her, he was not quit of the fascination but ever more bound by it.
He paused by a tree to regain the strength that seemed to have been sapped from him.
And inwardly, he was sorry. She had fought him, and he had been the victor. He felt that, perhaps, from the very beginning, this night with all its fear, its rage, its violence, had been their fate. He had used force against her; she had forced him to betray his code of honor. Yet maybe it had all been destined, from the very beginning, to happen as it did.
Destined, yes, from the time they were born.
PART ONE
The Bastards
Chapter One
Normandy, March 1027
The girl was dancing when he first saw her. Dancing on the dirt road in her bare feet, the skirts of her chemise and bleaunt pulled high above her browned and shapely ankles. She swirled around, and Robert, count of Hiemois, caught sight of her eyes.
He didn’t note their color at first; he saw only that they sparkled with incredible life and vitality. She was very young and her skin was soft and pure; she was beautiful. Her hair was a dark cape that whirled around her as she spun in the road with various partners; it was a feast day, he remembered. There was gaiety all around them, musicians and peddlers thronged the streets, and many of the young people danced.
But none of them danced as she did. None was so young, so lovely, so alive. None had breasts that strained against the simple fabric of her dress, none moved with such sinuous grace. Robert had been riding; he pulled in on his reins. Henri of Mortain, his good friend and adviser, pulled up alongside him. They had been discussing Robert’s never-ending feud with his brother, Richard, duke of Normandy. Henri did not realize that he had lost the count’s attention.
Henri considered it his sacred duty to see to Robert’s welfare. As a young man, Henri had gone into the service of the old duke. He had always been companion to the duke’s younger son, Robert, and he loved his charge. The elder son, Richard, had inherited the duchy, but Henri was convinced that Robert was the finer man. Robert was still less than twenty years old on this fine spring day, but already he was an inspiring figure, full of passion, with handsome features and a well-muscled body. Still, he did not always put the passion to good use; Robert often disagreed with his brother and brooded over having been born the younger child.
“It is as it should be, Robert,” Henri said now. “Richard, as the elder, is duke; you must accept that.”
“Yes, yes,” Robert said absently, and Henri frowned, aware that his charge was no longer listening.
Henri saw where Robert’s eyes were trained, and he smiled.
“Who is she?” Robert breathed.
“I will find out for you, my lord.” Henri carefully urged his mount into the crowd and began to make discreet inquiries.
Robert watched the girl dip and bow; she seemed to float above the ground. She laughed, showing fine white teeth. She was perfect, and watching her as she moved, he felt the fires of his body kindle and burn.
He had to have her.
Henri returned to his side. “She is Herleve, the daughter of Fulbert, a tanner here in Falaise.”
“She is beautiful,” Robert said.
Henri, glad to see the young man interested in something other than usurping his elder brother’s position, spoke softly. “You are the count here. You shall have her.”
Robert looked at Henri, startled. Then he laughed. “That simple, is it?”
“She would be honored by your interest, I am certain,” Henri said.
“Would she be? I wonder,” Robert murmured.
He urged his horse forward through the crowd. Men and women fell away, most of them bowing to him. He was their count; he was the law. He was young and strong and powerful in his own right, and he was a son descended from the long line of Rollo the Viking, who had been granted these lands over a century ago in the time of Charles the Simple. Now Robert was theirs; he was handsome and young, and they loved him well.
Forward, forward, he moved, until everyone fell back. Only she remained. She had not seen him, and so she continued to dance. A piper played, and she laughed and she swirled and her hair flew out around her in glorious disarray.
And at last Robert stopped. He reined in his mount just feet from the girl, and when she swirled toward him at last, she saw him there, a majestic man upon a majestic horse. He was clad in silk and ermine, and she stared at him in stunned silence.
It was as if a beautiful god had come down from the heavens. She could neither move nor speak; she could only stare at him in awe.
Robert nudged his horse forward until he stood alongside her. He reached down and grasped her hand, smiling at her, feeling the pulse in her wrist, watching the rapid rise and fall of her breasts as she returned his stare. She was so very young and perfect. A rush of wind seemed to sweep through his mind and his heart and then fan the fire that burned in his loins.
“Will you come with me?” he asked.
He did not tell her where he would take her, nor did it seem to matter to her. She set her eyes upon his and nodded slowly. She was frightened, he knew, and yet excited, too. He could see that she knew his intention well from his very touch, and she would not deny him.
Nay, she would not deny him. She wanted him . . .
With a soft cry, he swept her up before him. People looked on, but he gave them no heed. He dug his heels into his horse, and the great animal began to race, taking them from the town.
And for Herleve, it was like a sweet dream. She had just begun to know herself, to know the honeyed sensations that could fill her with longing. She was a tanner’s daughter, a practical girl, but she had already been given to wonder what it would be like to be with a man, and she had wondered who it would be—Michel, the blacksmith’s son? Ralph, the innkeeper’s boy? Or perhaps even Guy de Monet, the old soldier’s handsome whelp.
Never in any of her imaginings had she thought that Robert, comte d’Hiemois, might sweep her away. Never, ever, in her fondest dreams.
Robert rode with her high into the surrounding forest. They came upon a hunter’s cottage, and Robert called out. An old man appeared, and Robert tossed coins to him and spoke to him quickly. The old man nodded and smiled, and he called to his wife, and that old crone came forward, too, to greet the count.
They went into the cottage again, and then they reappeared and left the place. Robert dismounted and reached out his arms to Herleve, then carried her into the little cottage.
Inside, in the muted light of day, he stared down into her face and stroked her cheek. “You know why we’ve come?”
She nodded, and he bent his head to kiss her. She wondered what was sin and what was ecstasy and what was heaven. He would never marry her, she knew. And so it was sin, but for this sin, she would gladly pay. His scent filled her, and she felt a trembling begin within her. She could feel his muscles, like hot steel; his lips were so commanding she seemed to lose all thought and reason and grow dizzy as the honey swept through her.
He raised his lips from hers and looked into her eyes. She touched his cheek, and she marveled again at his striking beauty. “Be tender, my lord,” she whispered softly.
“I will be ever gentle.”
It was a promise he meant to keep, yet the fire was consuming him. His fingers shook as he ripped off her clothing and cast his own about in disarray. He bore her down heavily to a poor pallet made of furs and straw, yet cloth of gold might have cloaked her, for she was stunning. Her breasts were full and large; they spilled from his hands like ripe fruit, and they filled his mouth as sweetly. Her body was quickly warm and wet, and though his promise of tenderness was laid waste by the fever of his passion, she never cried out; she never protested the heat of his kisses or the urgency of his hands.
Or even the burning thrust of his body into hers.
Herleve quickly forgot her pain as his excitement swept into her and became a part of her. She had sensed these things in herself, and now she gloried in the lusty, magical wonder he brought home to her.
In the end, she did cry out, clinging to him, damp and shaken and amazed. And he laughed, well pleased with her. Darkness was falling, and he had no urge to go home, no urge to be anywhere but with her. They lay naked on the pallet and he played with her fingers, and she told him about her father, and Robert was certain that Henri would go to him and compensate him for his daughter’s loss of innocence. She was a bright girl with a quick smile, and though she was not the lady a man of his position might marry, he was heartily glad of her. As they talked and laughed he thought of the ways in which he could repay her and her father, Fulbert.
As night fell, he made love to her again, and then again, and he reveled in the bounty of her body and in the lustiness of her sweet young soul. When they slept, it was with contentment.
Exhausted, Herleve had thought that she would sleep soundly, like a babe. She did not, though. She could not forget the excitement, and so she stared at the roof of the poor cottage for hours and hours. She wanted to hug to herself her knowledge of him, she wanted to see with her mind each glorious moment again and again. When she finally slept, she thought that she would dream of him still, this fine lover of hers.
Instead she entered into a strange nightmare realm. A great black form fell over her, and when it was gone, she was naked and alone and trembling. Nor could she move. And deep inside her, where her lover had spilled his seed, she felt growth. She began to realize that from her a tree grew. It was a great, massive tree with branches that quickly became dense and thick, reaching out, stretching as far as the eye could see.
