Could he have been wrong? Could he and Rufus have misunderstood?
Or…mayhap it was another test.
Aye. Another test. He nodded and sank to the floor, to his knees, to prostrate himself there.
He must ask forgiveness…for failing. For allowing the bloody heathen Mal Verne to best him. For allowing his rival to once again stand in his way, to keep him from completing his work.
The stone floor bit into his knees, but Fantin reveled in the pain. He knew he must bear it, enjoy it,
Curling his fingers into the edge of the rough table, Fantin dropped his forehead to the wood with a loud and painful thump and stared down at the floor with vacant eyes, praying, begging, pleading…silently and violently…for something. For God to speak to him, to guide him.
Tears filled his eyes. He tried so hard…so hard to be the man God had chosen him to be. To fulfill his destiny. To be all that God wished him to be. A drop fell to the floor, dampening the dust below, and seeping into nothingness.
At last, when he looked up, he saw a flicker of movement at the doorway—the wisp of a skirt as it fluttered past. “Hail! Wench!” he called, suddenly thirsty…and famished.
The skirt paused and returned to view, and with it came a comely wench with a low-cut, but soiled, bodice. She sauntered in to the room. Obviously she was either unaware of his high ire only moments before, or, now that it had subsided, was unafraid.
“My lord, how may I-a be helpin’ ye?” She flashed him a coy smile and came to stand next to his table, generously showing her cleavage to its best advantage.
The ample mounds of her pushed-up bosom threatened to erupt from the tight bodice, and he saw them vibrate with her movements.
And he
God had responded to his pleadings. Here was his penance. “Come hither, my lovey,” he invited in his smooth, rich voice. He smiled.
She bent forward, and, eyeing her cleavage, he reached to slip a long finger into the deep crevice between the globes. She allowed him to slide his hand down to cup a heavy weight, sighing and smiling in the same way all whores did…the way Nicola had, and Retna.
“Eey, my lord, I see what ’tis y’r wishin’ for.” She grinned, showing three holes where teeth had been and moving around the table to stand next to him. “Wit’ such fingers as you have, I can bet at the pleasure you give. An’ let’s see what we have to work with, now.”
“Aye…let us indeed.” Fantin did not relish taking the filthy whore to his bed…but ’twas God’s will, and, in truth, his desire flared there beneath the table. After doing this task, he would serve his penance and mete out the punishment God had chosen…upon himself and the woman.
Gavin’s jaw hurt. His teeth ground into each other, jarring slightly with the rhythm of Rule’s sure-footed trot, as he focused his attention on the road in front of him—looking over the dark head that rocked below his chin and sent a faint smell of something floral to his nose.
He refused to think about the thick, shininess of that bare braid, or to admit that with one slight movement of his arm, he would brush against her ribs. Instead, he concentrated on what he should have been doing instead of chasing stags through the wood: delivering Madelyne de Belgrume safely to Henry’s court.
He would not allow himself to be distracted by the memory of those lush lips beneath his, and the way her lids had slid closed over luminous gray eyes, fanning thick black lashes over her fair cheeks.
A spear of desire shot through his abdomen and for a moment he was helpless to the memory of her soft curves pressed against him and the tentative slide of her tongue over his. In sooth, he had committed his share of sins in his life…but surely this was too great a penance even for those.
He shifted uncomfortably in the saddle, then gritted his teeth as the movement brought him in contact with Madelyne’s rigid back. She’d been more silent than usual, ducking her head when faced by him whenever they’d met in the day they spent at Prentiss Keep, and now that they had been back on the road again, she and Patricka kept to themselves when not ahorse. The bit of spirit Madelyne had begun to show since leaving the abbey had disappeared, leaving her little more than the silent, serene nun he’d taken from Lock Rose Abbey. Verily, he’d frightened the wits from her with his clumsy, forceful assault in the wood.
He almost regretted it—that succumbing to his base urges—but, in all truthfulness, he knew he would do it again if he had to do it over. It had been so long that he’d embraced or kissed a woman that did not smell of the farm, or did not need to scratch the fleas and lice that infested her hair. And surely it was only that novelty causing his mind to spin with the memory of a soft, scented noblewoman in his arms—nun though she was. With a frustrated rake of fingers through his hair, Gavin vowed to find a clean, willing woman when they reached the king’s court to flush this haunting memory from his mind.
He was pulled from his internal ruminations as Clem rode up next to them. Gavin was mildly surprised to note that he was not sharing a saddle with the dimple-cheeked maid Madelyne had insisted upon bringing and he raised an eyebrow. “Where is your charge, man?”
Clem’s face ruddied slightly and he gave a curt gesture. “She insisted that to save my arm from further injury, she should allow it to rest as it healed. She rides with Jube.”
Gavin glanced back to see the pair in question, then returned his attention to Clem. “Does your arm pain you, and did you welcome the discharge of that custody?”
The other man straightened in the saddle, flickering a glance toward Madelyne. “My lord, you know that I would not shirk my duty. The mistress stated that she wished to spare me the pain of holding her in the saddle. I could not argue with her logic.”
“She is no light of feather,” Gavin agreed.
“’Twas no strain for me to hold her, my lord.” Clem replied with indignation, “But if she prefers the company of Jube, then who am I to say her nay?”
Gavin shot a surprised look at his man, noticing that his wide, kind face was set in a shuttered expression. He seemed most irked that the chubby maid rode with Jube, but mayhaps it was only that he felt his mastery had been challenged by her fear of injuring him. Gavin frowned. Clem was not normally one to care what a woman would think of him—Jube was more likely to flirt and woo and court a maiden than Clem. And Gavin himself rarely even smiled at a woman, yet he’d smiled at Madelyne…sought her company…kissed her in the deep woods…
Sighing, Gavin shifted again in the saddle. It seemed his thoughts always came back to the woman who rode with him. Praise God they would reach Whitehall this night, where he could discharge himself of Lady Madelyne and return his attentions to that which truly mattered.
The Court of Henry the Plantagenet was more hectic and crowded than Madelyne could have imagined. She forgot to sit forward in the saddle, away from Lord Gavin, in her amazement at the activity just within the bailey at Whitehall. And she did naught but gape like a peasant.
There were squires and pages dashing to and fro, dressed in the livery of the king, the queen, and other nobility. At the least, ten marshals rushed to greet Mal Verne’s party as the horses picked their way through the crowded bailey to the stables. Men-at-arms strode through the yard in loud, boisterous groups, swords and mail clanging to the rhythm of their steps. Clusters of merchants hawked baskets of fruit, vegetables, and small cloth items, and Madelyne even saw peasant boys and girls chasing chickens, sheep, and goats about.
Gavin dismounted near the stables, and before reaching to assist her down, he turned and barked orders to three nearby pages. “Make it known to his majesty that the Lord of Mal Verne has arrived,” he commanded one young boy. To another, he said, “See that lodging is prepared for Lady Madelyne de Belgrume near the ladies’ chambers—on the order of the Lord of Mal Verne.” And to the third, he added, “Send word to Lady Judith Kentworth that Lord Mal Verne has arrived. I will see her anon.”
He turned back to Madelyne and, fitting his hands around her waist, lifted her from the saddle to the ground in one fluid movement as she wondered who Judith of Kentworth was. Before she even steadied herself, he had turned to Clem, giving curt orders about the care of the horses, the deliverance of the baggage that followed, and lodging for the men.
Madelyne stood to one side, watching him—his face intent and hawkish, his thick dark hair shifting with the
