She watched for a moment as the woman hustled about fetching a jug of steaming, fragrant liquid and a goblet and then as Isabella climbed, still moving as in a dream, into the high bed, Matilda turned and pushed her way out of the room, suddenly stifled by its oppressive heat.
She made her way quickly and nervously back to the de Braose tents, half afraid she would be once more waylaid by the prince, conscious suddenly of the black shadows behind the circled tents, of the grove of trees, the leaves unstirring in the windless air, and of the motionless encampment guards half dozing as they leaned on their swords.
But it was Richard who waylaid her. He stepped from the shadows, his finger to his lips, and beckoned her after him into the shelter of the trees. “I could not leave like that,” he whispered. “Not without just one more moment alone with you. Dear God! Why did we not meet each other in time!” The wind teased the streaming torch on the edge of the encampment near them and she saw the shadows playing on his face.
“It was not to be, love.” She put her hands on his shoulders. “Maybe, one day-”
He seized her hands, enfolding them in his own, holding them pressed against his chest. “One day!” he echoed bitterly. “When you belong to de Braose and when the prince has already marked you for his own!”
“That’s not true!” She pulled away from him violently. “John is nothing to me and I am nothing to him. Nothing!”
He was looking down at her, his eyes gleaming strangely in the torch light.
“Nothing?” he echoed.
“Nothing. I swear by all I hold sacred!”
He shook his head. “Don’t swear. You don’t know what may happen. The prince has power, Matilde.” He touched her hair gently. “Dear God! I want to throw you on my horse and gallop away with you. Take you for my own!”
For a moment she felt a blind excitement as the power of the passion in his voice flooded through her. If he had asked her then she would have gone, but his hands fell slowly to his sides and he shrugged. “I am to be brother-in- law to the prince, it seems.”
Her eyes filled with tears. “As befits a great earl,” she whispered. Forcing herself to smile, she looked away. “I must go in, Richard.”
“Of course.” He took her hand and raised it to his lips. “I’ll see you again. Soon.”
She nodded dumbly, then she turned away, pulling her cloak around her as she dodged past the flare and into the darkness.
When Tim came upstairs it was already dark. He had walked some four miles down the valley and back, shrugging off the heavy warm spots of rain, and he was tired. He pushed open the door quietly and glanced into the bedroom. Jo was asleep on the sofa, by the window. Her book had fallen to the floor. With a fond grin he picked it up and put it on the table without looking at the title, then he turned and, pulling a blanket from the bed, he tucked it gently around her. Then he paused, frowning, as he looked down at her face. An expression of anguish had crossed her features momentarily and as he took her hand, gently slipping it beneath the blanket, he found her fists were clenched.
“Jo?” he whispered. “Jo? Can you hear me?”
She did not respond. She was breathing in tight, almost imperceptible gasps.
“Where are you, Jo?” he murmured, but she did not answer. He touched her face lightly, then reached over to turn out the lamp.
He undressed quickly in the dark and slid into bed, and lay listening, but Jo was completely silent. Not so much as a sigh came from her as she lay locked in that different world on the far side of the room.
He must have dozed off after a while, for a slim moon had appeared at the window when he woke suddenly. He gazed at the luminous dial on his wrist. It was ten past three. Then he realized what had disturbed him. Jo was moving restlessly on the sofa. She moaned softly and he saw her sit up. The blanket slid to the floor and she swung her bare feet off the seat and stood, staring around the room.
“Don’t tell me it’s your turn for the bed,” he said quietly into the shadows.
She did not reply. She moved toward him slowly, staring down at him in the watery moonlight.
“I thought you’d gone,” she whispered at last.
“Only for a walk.” He propped himself up on one elbow.
“Weren’t you going after the prince?”
Tim froze. “Jo?” he said softly. “Jo, can you hear me?”
She was half smiling, her eyes on his face. “There’s no one here,” she whispered. “Oh, Richard, please. Make love to me just once more. Surely it’s no sin when we love each other so much. Tomorrow you can go. You’ll be brother-in-law to the prince. You’ll be Amicia’s forever. Give me just a few hours more.” She was fumbling with the sash of her bathrobe.
Tim ran his tongue over his dry lips. “Jo,” he said hoarsely. “Jo, I think you’d better wake up-”
She opened the gown and let it fall to the floor. Beneath it she was naked. He stared at her body, silvered in the thin moonlight, and felt himself tense all over as she threw herself toward the bed and wriggled into his arms beneath the sheet.
“Richard! Oh, Richard!” Her mouth sought his as his arms closed around her. “Dear God, please hold me!”
With a groan Tim lay back, gathering her against him, feeling the silky weight of her hair slide over her shoulders onto his face and neck, blotting out the moonlight.
He kissed her again and again, threading his fingers through her hair, holding her face still as her slim, warm body lay on his. He kissed her mouth and her eyes, her neck and her breasts, then, catching her shoulders, he turned her onto her back, lying on top of her, his tongue probing between her lips, feeling her legs fall willingly apart to receive him.
It was daylight when he fell asleep at last, his arms still around her, one thigh lying possessively across hers.
He slept heavily, barely stirring when Jo slipped from the bed and, grabbing her bathrobe, fled into the bathroom.
She was fully dressed when he woke to the sound of a knock at the bedroom door. He watched sleepily as she took a tray from their host and slid it onto the bedside table, then she sat down on the bed beside him. She smiled wanly. “So you’re awake.”
Tim grinned. “Barely. Is that early-morning tea I see?” He sat up slowly then he looked at her remorsefully. “Jo, it was my fault. I took advantage of you last night. I should have said no. I should have tried to wake you somehow-”
“I was awake.” Her face was drawn and tense. “But I thought you were Richard. I wasn’t in a trance, Tim. I knew I was in this room. I knew we were in a pub. I knew this was the twentieth century.” Her hands were shaking suddenly and she clutched them together. “But I was still Matilda. And you-you were Richard.”
Tim gave a tight smile. “Matilda was one hell of an uninhibited lady. I’m not surprised Richard could never get her out of his system.” He smiled gently.
Jo colored violently. After reaching for the teapot, she managed to pour out two cups, using both hands on the china handle. He took his cup from her hastily and sat leaning against the pillows, staring down into the tea. “That was the last time they made love,” he went on quietly.
She looked up. “How do you know?”
“I just know. They weren’t meant for each other.” He gave a rueful grin. “Shame, isn’t it?”
She was staring at him. “
For a moment she thought he wasn’t going to answer, then he nodded reluctantly. “It’s not as simple as that, though, Jo-Jo? What is it?”
She was crying suddenly; soundless, exhausted weeping, the tears falling remorselessly down her cheeks.
“I thought it was Nick,” she said brokenly. “Oh, Tim, I’m sorry, but I so wanted it to be Nick.”
