Annora removed her veil, and then slowly and deliberately began to unwind the hair neatly coiled at the nape of her neck. When she removed the last pin, she shook it loose about her shoulders, and they both understood that to be a pledge of intimacy, for only a husband or lover ever saw a woman’s hair flowing free down her back. When Ranulf reached for her, she came eagerly into his arms. Her hair felt like silk; so did her skin. Her mouth was warm and sweet, her perfume scenting his every breath. It went to his head like wine. The clearing might have been crowded with their ghosts-her absent husband, all the women he’d bedded and forgotten afterward. But none of that mattered, not now. For Ranulf, there was no world beyond this cloistered glade, no woman but this one, only Annora, and when she cried out, shuddering and gasping his name, he found her climax even more satisfying than his own.
Afterward, he held her close, brushing butterfly kisses against her temples, her eyelids, the hollow of her throat, kisses so tender that tears began to seep through her lowered lashes. He tasted the salt on her skin, and was stricken by the realization that she was weeping, that he may have seduced her into a mortal sin. “Annora? Have you regrets?”
Sitting up, she flung back her hair, swiped impatiently at the tears streaking her face. “How can you even ask that? My God, if my regrets were raindrops, we’d both be in danger of drowning!”
When he reached for her this time, she pulled away. “How could we have been such fools? But no, you had to cling to Maude like a limpet, and I had to marry straightaway, so I could show you I no longer cared-Ranulf, how can you laugh?”
She glared at him, quite indignant, but Ranulf merely laughed all the more. “Because,” he said, “I thought you regretted this-our lovemaking!”
“Oh, no,” she cried, and threw herself back into his arms. “How could I ever regret this? Ranulf, this is a memory I shall have to live on for the rest of my life!”
“No,” he said, “that is not so. This is not an ending, love, but a beginning, that I promise you.”
She studied his face intently, and then got slowly and reluctantly to her feet. “Ranulf…if you are asking me to run away with you, I cannot do that.” Tears were glinting again on her lashes. “I love you,” she said. “I’ve loved you since I was old enough to know what that word meant, and I daresay I shall still love you as I draw my last breath. But I cannot be your concubine. I cannot shame my father and brothers like that. They do not deserve that, and… and neither does Gervase, for he is a decent man. I have the children to consider, too, and they-”
That had been Ranulf’s secret dread, a festering fear that he’d dealt with by denial, an option now no longer available to him. “Have you borne this man a child, Annora?”
“No,” she said, “oh, my darling, no!” She started toward him, but he was faster and caught her to him in an emotional embrace. Annora raised her face for his kiss, and then said, so softly as to be almost inaudible, “I miscarried in our second year of marriage, but I have not quickened again…” Although she attempted to sound dispassionate, Ranulf heard echoes of an old grief. She had mourned the child she’d lost, Fitz Clement’s child, and he did not know what to say, for he could feel only thankfulness that this accursed marriage of hers was barren. He stroked her hair gently, before saying quietly:
“What children do you mean, then, love?”
“Daniel and Lucette, my stepchildren. The other lad is older, but they are just babes, and they love me well. I would not have them think of me as a…a wanton.”
“I would not have a single soul in Christendom think you a wanton, Annora…and they will not. There will be no shame in our union, for it will be blessed by the Church and God, within holy wedlock.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What sort of daft talk is that? Lest you forget, I have a husband already, and one is all the law and Church allow!”
“Hellcat,” he said fondly. “Well, then, we’ll just have to get you shed of him, will we not?”
“What do you have in mind?” she said testily. “Murder?”
“Not unless you insist.” His teasing had always been able to fire her temper, and he grinned, for there was a reassuring, familiar feel to their squabbling. But he relented then, for she was getting truly angry. “I am speaking of a plight troth, Annora-yours and mine. Because we did not have the words said over us by a priest or put down in writing, your father did not bother to forswear it, I’d wager the surety of my soul on that. But the Church requires only that a man and woman pledge their vows, and we did. Which means that your marriage was not valid, for you were not free to wed anyone but me.”
She was looking at him in wonderment. “Oh, Ranulf, if only that could be!” Her hope deflated almost at once, though, and she frowned again. “You know better than that. The Church will annul a marriage for princes, but rarely for the rest of us. My father and husband both stand in high favor with the king. He would never agree to annul my marriage, for what would he gain by it?”
“No, most likely Stephen would not,” Ranulf agreed. “But Maude would.”
Annora exhaled a ragged breath. “Be sure, Ranulf,” she pleaded, “be very sure of what you say, for if it does not come to pass, my heart would surely break.”
“When Maude is queen-and she will be queen, never doubt that-I shall ask her to aid us in declaring your marriage void, and then we shall be wed. This I swear to you, my love, upon the life of our firstborn son.”
He was not jesting now; never had she heard him sound so serious, and she no longer doubted. “Tell me,” she said, “tell me how it will be,” and he laughed, drew her back into his arms, and between kisses, promised her love and lust and a lifetime in which to enjoy them. They soon sank down upon the tablecloth that served as their bed, and found in each other such passionate pleasure that it no longer mattered if it was outlawed. When they were wed, their sins would be forgiven by God; they’d already forgiven themselves.
IT was very late when Ranulf reached Gloucester. Fortunately he was known on sight by now, and was allowed to pass into the city. He was admitted into the castle with equal ease, and was relieved to learn that Maude had already gone to bed, putting off their reckoning till the morrow. He paused briefly in the great hall to exchange greetings with a few friends, deftly parried their curiosity about his absence, and then headed for his own chamber, where he was given an effusive welcome by his squire, but given, too, news not to his liking.
“Earl Robert summoned you, Sir Ranulf, just two days after you’d ridden off. He was wroth not to find you at Gloucester, for he and Lord Miles were seeking to capture Bath, and he wanted you to ride with them. Their campaign came to naught, though, for the city was well defended and they were beaten back. Lord Robert said he wants you to come to Bristol to explain yourself, and Lady Maude…I fear she is sorely vexed with you, too, Sir Ranulf,” the boy concluded apologetically, sounding as if he and not Ranulf were the one at fault. “Ah, but I do have happier news. Sir Gilbert is here, awaiting your return.”
“I’m glad you warned me, Luke. At least I’ll be braced now when the storm breaks over my head! I know it is late, but I’m well-nigh starved. Think you that you could fetch me some wine from the buttery and then raid the kitchen for me?”
Luke promised to be back in a trice with food in plenitude, and Ranulf did not doubt he would, for Luke was just fifteen and overly eager to please. It still seemed odd to Ranulf, getting the sort of wholehearted devotion from Luke that he and Gilbert had given Robert. But then he would remember: he was one and twenty now, no longer a squire, Maude’s mainstay. “Prop of the throne,” he said aloud, liking the sound of that, and then set about unpacking his saddlebags, whistling a tune he’d picked up at St Peter’s Fair, finding it as easy as that to shrug off his coming confrontation with Robert and Maude. A man caught out in a summer squall might get drenched to the skin, but the sun would soon get him dry again. Angry words seemed a small price to pay for the miracle he’d wrought in Shrewsbury.
When the door opened, he turned in surprise, not expecting Luke back so soon. But it was Gilbert. Without waiting to be asked, he strode into the chamber, sat down on a coffer, and subjected Ranulf to a scrutiny that was far from friendly. “I was going to ask if you’d seen her,” he said, “but clearly you did.”
“Saw whom?”
“Annora Fitz Clement. Did you truly think I’d not figure it out? Once I put my mind to it, I knew Annora had to be at the root of your folly. So I asked Miles Fitz Walter if Gervase Fitz Clement has a manor in Shropshire. It would not surprise you, I am sure, to learn that he does.”
Ranulf shrugged. “What of it?”
“Do not try to lie, Ranulf; I know you too well. You went to Shrewsbury to seek Annora out, and you got what you wanted from her. Do not bother to deny it, for I can see it in your face.” Gilbert’s accusations had been delivered in flat, dispassionate tones, but then his outrage broke free. “Christ Jesus, Ranulf, how could you do it? How could you make a whore out of Ancel’s sister?”
