Desmond came to her shortly before dawn on the sixth day after leaving Caen. Elaine had been awake for some time. Expecting to see her maidservant, she answered the knock on her chamber door in her bare feet and thin linen night robe. Desmond was unshaven. Weariness lined his face and shadowed his eyes. His sword and chainmail tunic were gone. He wore only his padded gambeson and his hose and boots.
At first Elaine couldn’t speak. She pulled the door open wider and stepped back to let him enter. She shut the door and leaned against it. And waited. Desmond just stared at her in the faintly rosy predawn light. Finally, she could bear the suspense no longer.
“What happened?” she asked, sounding somewhat breathless.
“The French have withdrawn. The invasion has ended.”
“Thank heaven.” She closed her eyes, only to open them at once when she sensed his warmth moving closer. Warmth, and the distinctive odor of horse and road dust and sweaty male surrounded her. And the coppery smell of blood. “Are you wounded?”
“On our way back to Caen, we met a few of King Louis’s men who were not happy to learn we’d ended their dreams of land to seize and fair maidens to ravish. Cadwallon and I persuaded them to reform their minds to a more peaceable attitude.”
“Was Cadwallon hurt, too?”
“Merely a scratch. Ewan is bandaging it. Elaine, I have other news that does not concern the invasion.”
“Tell me later. Did Richard see to your wound?”
“He offered, as a good squire should. I refused him. All I wanted from Richard was for him to disarm me. For the rest, for washing and binding my wound, and for soothing the memory of violent battle, I need you.”
“The water in my pitcher is cold. I’ll send for hot water.” She turned to open the door.
“No.” Desmond’s hand slammed on the wood, keeping the door closed. “No servants. Cold water will do well enough. I want only you.”
“Very well, then.” She looked him over, but in the shadowy light she couldn’t detect any sign of his wound. “Lift your arms and I’ll help you remove your gambeson, so I can see where you were cut.”
He placed his hands on either side of her, holding her with her back once more against the door. She raised her head to protest that she couldn’t tend to his wound unless she could find it, but she never uttered the words. Before she could speak his mouth slanted across hers while his body pressed her tighter against the wood panels of the door, making her aware of his urgent masculine need.
She tried to pull away from him so she could ask where his wound was, but the instant their lips separated and she opened hers, his tongue surged into her with all the force of a crossbow quarrel finding its target. His tongue, and his hard masculine shaft, pinned her to the door, the trembling victim of her own desire for him.
She felt herself beginning to melt. Heat pooled in her lower body. Her knees buckled. In an effort to keep herself upright she wound her arms around Desmond’s waist and held on tight. Not until he tore his mouth from hers and she could breathe again did she realize that the warmth and the stickiness she was feeling came not so much from Desmond’s urgent need of her, but from a gash in his left side just below his waist, which was bleeding in a rather nasty way.
It was a common location for a broadsword wound. A swordsman customarily aimed for the mid torso below his opponent’s ribs. If the slashing blow was wide and deep enough a man’s insides would spill out and he would die in agony. Less obviously fatal wounds merely punctured the gut. In that case, though the wound was small death still came, though more slowly, from putrefaction. Lesser still were wounds that only slashed through muscle and did not open the gut, and those had a chance of healing, so long as they did not putrefy.
Elaine had seen all three types of wound during her youth at Dereham and her later years at Warden’s Manor. Men-at-arms often hurt each other if they grew careless during practice. Sometimes they fought in earnest, over a woman, or gambling debts, or out of pent-up anger.
“Desmond, you must remove your gambeson now.” Elaine took her hands from his waist and placed them on his shoulders, pushing him away from her. This time he allowed her to do as she wanted.
When she finally dragged the sweaty, bloodstained padded shirt off him, she shuddered at the sight of his left side covered in dried blood.
A quick knock on her door was followed by the entrance of her maidservant carrying the large jug of hot water that Elaine had requested be delivered to her every morning. The maid stopped short at the sight of a half-clothed man in her mistress’s bedchamber.
“Thank you,” Elaine said, trying to sound as if nothing was the least bit unusual. “Please bring me a pitcher of wine and some food. Do not tell anyone what you’ve seen here.”
As soon as the maid was gone Elaine said to Desmond, “Take off your hose and boots, too. Don’t argue with me, just do it.”
To her amazement Desmond grinned as broadly as Cadwallon ever did, and quickly stripped away all of his remaining clothes. Pretending she wasn’t aware of his aroused state, Elaine examined his wound.
“Will I die of it?” Desmond asked, sounding remarkably solemn.
“Certainly not. I think you knew it was a minor cut,” she scolded. “The skin is barely nicked.”
“It bled so much that I couldn’t be certain,” he said. “So I decided to die in your arms.”
“What nonsense.” She spoke with unnecessary harshness because she was so intensely aware of his rigid arousal. “All it needs is cleaning and a bandage. Sit down.” With a rough gesture she pushed him onto the edge of the bed. Dipping her towel into the hot water she set about washing the cut on his flank. Fortunately, she had tucked away in her clothing chest the last remnant of the rolled linen bandage they had used during their ride from Regneville to Caen, and this she wrapped around his waist. She worked quickly, wanting Desmond to cover himself again, so she wouldn’t give way to her longing to look her fill. By the time the maidservant returned Elaine was tying off the end of the bandage.
“My lady?” The maidservant nearly dropped the tray she was carrying. She stared entranced at Desmond’s naked back as he rose and walked to the table where the water jug was.
“Put the tray down,” Elaine ordered the girl. “Sir Desmond will want to rest without being disturbed, so I will dress myself. You may leave now.”
“Yes, my lady.” The servant lingered long enough to see Desmond begin to wash himself, and it seemed to Elaine that she departed with great reluctance.
“I hope you realize,” Elaine said to Desmond, “she will go straight to Royce and tell him you are here.”
“I don’t greatly care what she tells Royce. Cadwallon and I have already made our reports to him, so he is presently with King Henry, where I expect he will be occupied for several hours. Royce is unlikely to come bursting through your door to rescue me.”
“To rescue you?”
“There.” Desmond tossed the wet towel aside and dumped the dirty water out the window. “I remain unshaven, but otherwise I am reasonably clean and all of the blood is gone. Now, may I die in your arms?”
“I don’t know what Royce has told you,” Elaine began nervously.
“He cannot have you.”
“He doesn’t want me.” She gaped at him in astonishment. “Whatever made you think he does?”
“Royce is very fond of you.”
“He was my sister’s godfather, and my own father’s best friend. I think of him as a dear uncle.”
“I’m glad to hear it. I don’t want to have to kill him.”
“Desmond, I fear you’ve taken leave of your senses. I know you are overtired after your long ride—”
“My senses are all still with me.” He caught her around the waist and pulled her so close that she could no longer pretend to ignore his jutting arousal. “Can’t you feel the most urgent of my senses probing against your senses?”
“Stop that.” She made a weak attempt to shove him aside. “Desmond, please. We must talk.”
“Later.” His mouth seared the skin of her shoulder, his lips tracing the wide neckline of her linen robe. Elaine began to tremble.
“You said you have something to tell me,” she reminded him.
“I’ll tell you afterward.” He began to nibble on her earlobe.
“Desmond—”
Then she was on the bed and he lay close beside her. His strong hands pushed her robe up and drew it over her head. His mouth caught hers, stopping her weak protests, halting any attempt at serious conversation. Or of thought. His stubbly beard scratched her breasts and her belly, but she didn’t care. She opened to him quickly, easily, and he entered her in a rush of pleasure, stretching her still untutored body, filling her and, finally, driving her to a state of delicious madness.
They found completion with his mouth over hers to quell her wild cries, his hands holding her wrists at either side of her head. Imprisoned thus in his embrace, aware that such warmth and joy would likely be short-lived, still she had never been so happy.
A long time later, with the morning sounds of the castle stirring outside the door and the window, Desmond lifted his head to look at her.
“You are mine,” he said. “Now I can claim you.”
“I believe you just did, and rather thoroughly, too.” She smiled at him, preparing to tell him about her enlarged dowry and about Royce’s advice that she admit her feelings to him. Desmond kissed her, stopping the words before she could speak them.
“It’s time to tell you my news,” he said.
“Very well.” She put a little distance between them, so she could see his face more clearly, without his touch to make her want to move back into his arms and agree with whatever he said. She expected to hear of his next assignment, some difficult and dangerous task that King Henry or Royce wanted done at once. An assignment that would take him away from her. She was glad she hadn’t spoken.
“My mother had a cousin, a man named Robert,” Desmond said. “I met him only once. My father disliked him and refused to let him visit Ashendown. Robert died some months ago, leaving no direct male heir. In his will he asked that his lands be evenly divided between my brother Magnus and me. An hour before I rode off to Evreux, King Henry informed me that he has approved the arrangement. Thus, I am now in possession of lands and a manor house in Devon.”
“I’m happy for you,” Elaine said, momentarily diverted from her own concerns and from her sadness at the thought of losing him. “Isn’t Cadwallon’s castle located in Devon?” she asked.
“He tells me that my new lands lie close to his. In fact, Cadwallon has proposed a marriage between the son he expects his beloved Janet to deliver in a few months and any future daughter of mine.” Desmond grinned. “I informed him that I intend to produce only sons, so if he wants the union, Janet will have to bear a girl.”
“What are you saying?” Elaine looked at him in surprise. She’d formed the impression that Desmond didn’t much like Cadwallon, though she thought he had begun to respect the big man.
“I’m not saying it very well, am I?” Desmond touched her cheek with a gentle hand. “Elaine, will you marry me, live with me in Devon, and have children with me? Will you, in time, agree to allow one of our children to marry one of Cadwallon’s?”
“I know you don’t want to give up spying.”
“Indeed not. I enjoy the challenge of matching wits with King Henry’s enemies too much ever to relinquish that special excitement. You know what I mean; you’ve felt the thrill of it, yourself. Still, Cadwallon has managed to continue to work for Royce whenever he’s needed, in spite of being married. I can do the same, if you will agree to marry me.”
“Are you asking me because you believe I won’t interfere in your beloved game of spying?” she demanded with just a hint of annoyance in her words.
“No.” His smile deepened and mischief sparkled in his eyes. “I’m asking you because I think you need protection from your mother.”
“I can protect myself from my mother, thank you very much. I’ve been doing it most of my life.” She glared at him. “I will not marry you.”
“I need you.” His smile did not waver, which only infuriated Elaine.
“You may need a chatelaine, and certainly you need a mistress, but as a spy, you most definitely do not need a wife. I refuse to serve as a convenience you may use or leave, as you see fit.”
“I came to this room, to you,” he said. “To no other woman. You are the only woman I want to bind up my wounds and lie in my bed, to kiss me and touch me and drive me to near madness with desire.”
“I will not marry you.” She was shaking with her need to fall into his arms and accept his proposal. She knew he was the only man she’d ever want, and she did not doubt that her mother was already choosing a husband for her whom Elaine was sure to dislike, whom she’d insist Elaine must marry. She’d rather enter a convent. No, she’d far rather marry Desmond, but not if he didn’t love her. Marriage to him if he didn’t, or couldn’t, love her would be a foretaste of Hell. She turned her face away so he wouldn’t see the tears in her eyes.
“Not even if you are carrying my child?” he asked softly.
“What?” she gasped.
“It’s entirely possible. We have lain together twice.”
“You cannot trick me this way! I will not -” She choked back anger and tears. In her innocence and her eagerness to know Desmond in every way, she hadn’t stopped to think of a child.
“Would you deny your child its father? Allow it to be branded a bastard?”
“Don’t do this to me! You are cruel!” She tried to leap from the bed, but Desmond caught her, holding her against his warm, muscular chest.
“Elaine, you welcome me into your arms with such sweet passion,” he murmured, his lips on her forehead. “I know you find pleasure when we embrace so intimately. Why do you insist upon refusing what we both want?”
“Because you crave the suspense and secret excitement of spying. And because you don’t love me.” She wrenched herself out of his arms to kneel facing him, her hair tangled over her shoulders, while the tears she could no longer control streaked down her cheeks.
“I do believe that living with you will be excitement enough for any man,” he said. “Certainly, enough for me.”
Elaine shook her head, denying her feelings and his words.
“In recent weeks we have both seen the tragedy that can ensue when men and women who do not love each other are bound together,” she said. “Lord Bertrand and Lady Benedicta, and my mother and Sir Lamont, are only two examples. Others are all around us, here at court. I refuse to marry without love.
“Oh, I wish you could see yourself now,” she cried. “The way you look at me in horror at the very thought of loving. Or, far worse for you, of confessing to love.”
“You are wrong,” he said. “I thought you knew. But then, I’m so unaccustomed to loving that I suppose I don’t know yet how to show it so you’ll understand. That is one of two reasons why I want to marry you. I’m hoping you can teach me how to say aloud what I’m feeling in my heart. No other woman holds the power to teach me.”
Deeply moved by his words, she put out a hand to touch his bare chest just over his heart. But when he lifted his hand to cover hers, she shied away.
“You said there are two reasons why you want to marry me. What is the second reason?”
“Because I cannot live without you.” He swallowed hard before uttering the next words, and they sounded as if they were wrenched out of him by force. “I want to marry you because I – I love you.”
“You do?” She brushed her tears away. “Truly?”
“I think I must,” he said, “because the thought of losing you is like tearing my heart from my chest. I am a whole man only when I’m inside you and your arms are around me and I hear you cry out my name in pleasure.”
“Oh, Desmond.”
“I’ve spent most of my life shutting my heart against love. My mother died when I was little. My father never loved her, or me, or my twin. Our older half-brother despised Magnus and me. I left Ashendown as soon as I was old enough, after deliberately quarreling with Magnus so the parting wouldn’t hurt either of us so much. Only in the last year have I begun to understand what a brother’s love can mean, and to witness a loving marriage, for somehow Magnus and his wife have managed to create one.
“Given all of that, how can you expect me to admit to loving anyone, much less a woman who has the power to destroy me by rejecting me?”
“You do love me.” She sighed, venturing a tremulous, weepy smile. “The more often you say the words, the easier they will become.”
“Then I promise to say them at least once every day. But only if you promise to say them to me, too.”
“I love you, Desmond.”
“I love you, Elaine.” He said it haltingly, and she knew he’d find the words difficult, for a time, at least.
“Will you marry me?” he asked. “Since I’ve said twice that I love you – no, three times – will you marry me?”
“Yes. But,” she said, holding him off when he tried to embrace her, “I do make one.