The wagons stood ready in the outer bailey, and Lyonene pulled the russet cloak closer about her, the hood hiding her downturned face. It had taken quite a bit of preparation to execute this plan and she wasn’t going to ruin it through a chance recognition by someone in the courtyard. Her new maid, Kate, had been willing enough to follow her mistress’s plan, although Lyonene had felt her staring once with a strange expression on her face. The girl was to pretend that Lyonene had an illness and that no one was to disturb her except Kate. By the time the deception was discovered, Lyonene might well be in Wales.
She stamped her feet and scratched at the coarse wool of her serf’s garb; it was cold in the early morning half-light. Lyonene thought again of what she was doing, wondering at Ranulf’s reaction when she revealed herself to him. He had said he did not want to see her again and she dared much in this masquerade. She grimaced at her lack of clothing other than the rough serf’s wool. But try as she might, she could find no way to conceal a thick bundle of fur-lined garments in the wagons, for they were checked constantly by several men and the discovery of such a bundle would expose her and ruin her plan.
“You, girl!”
Lyonene looked to see a woman calling her. She ducked her head and fought the quick anger that threatened a rebellion at this coarse woman’s commands.
“Do not stand there all day! Come and help me with these barrels!”
Lyonene followed the woman into the inner bailey, her heart pounding, for before her stood the entire Black Guard mounted on their great steeds, and in their midst stood the riderless Frisian. Lyonene looked quickly at the beautiful black horse, the mane full and lush, the thick tail falling all the way to the ground, and the lovely hair that flowed from knee to hoof now moving gently as he lifted one great hoof in impatience to be gone. He was a fitting horse for such a master as the Black Lion.
Lyonene held the little wooden barrels, one under each arm, and began to follow the woman to the outer bailey, when she paused abruptly. Lyonene followed her eyes. Ranulf walked to his horse, and she felt a surge of pride as all eyes in the courtyard flew to him and his men straightened in their saddles, obviously proud of their master.
He swung one great leg across the Frisian’s broad back and paused as he stared at one of the windows in the second floor of the Black Hall. Lyonene gasped as she realized it was the window to her little bedchamber.
“May the tortures of hell descend upon that woman!” the woman beside Lyonene hissed between her teeth.
Lyonene looked at her for the first time. She was older, near as old as her mother, but the bones in her face showed that once she had been handsome. In fact, even now her eyes riveted Lyonene’s, for they were very unusual—narrow, slanted, almond-shaped and exceptionally beautiful. She narrowed them now as she stared ahead to the object of Ranulf’s gaze, and Lyonene was astonished at the malevolence they contained.
“It is said that she does not care for my Ranulf.”
A flash of anger tore its way through Lyonene and she controlled it only with great effort. “What mean you by your Ranulf, does he not have a wife?”
“Aye, he has a wife.” Her voice was a sneer and she turned to look with interest at Lyonene, but the younger woman looked away. She looked back at Ranulf, and Lyonene clenched her fists as the woman’s strange eyes melted into an adoring gaze. “He has a wife, but one who does not care for him as he deserves.” She gave a low, throaty laugh. “She is a fool to forsake my Lord Ranulf’s lovemaking for that of another.”
“What know you of my Lord Ranulf’s lovemaking?” Lyonene could not keep the anger from her voice nor help the slight emphasis she placed on the word “my.”
The woman lazily looked at her, and Lyonene met her smirking eyes with a smoldering gaze that she did not try to conceal.
“Ah,” she drawled. “So my Ranulf has found one to replace me. I have not heard of you; he hides you well. But then as his mistress you must know of his particular skills, and you have me to thank.”
Lyonene frowned and was about to ask her meaning when they both became aware of the movement of the horses. She turned startled eyes up to see Ranulf towering above her as he sat atop the Frisian, but Ranulf’s eyes were not for her but for the woman standing next to her. Lyonene covered her face with the shadow of the hood before he saw her.
“Maude, it is good to see you this lovely morn. I am glad that you travel with us again.”
“Only with you, my lord. I travel only with you, and should there be anything you need I will gladly … provide it.”
Lyonene stole a glance at Ranulf, and her teeth clenched tighter at the soft, adoring expression he wore as he gazed down at this brazen old woman. He did not care that everyone in the courtyard heard their words and knew well their meaning. She looked away before he should turn and see her, as if he would ever notice her while this fat, slant-eyed woman so obviously offered herself to him.
“Ah, Maude, I miss you much since you went to the village. Have you … entertainments planned for this lonely journey?”
“I have boxes of colored silks and whatever else will be needed.” Her honey voice was a caress, and Lyonene knew she was going to give herself away if this did not end soon.
“I will look forward then to the evenings.” He did not even glance at Lyonene’s concealed face before he turned and left them, with the Black Guard following.
Maude, beside her, made a noise and Lyonene looked up to see her mocking eyes. “You are possessed of a strong will.” She smiled at Lyonene’s still blazing eyes. “Were I in your place I would not have been able to control my anger so well.”
Lyonene’s chin came up. “I know not of what you speak—this anger.”
The low throaty laugh came again. “You need not fret that I will take your place with my lord, for my days are over and I must live only with memory of his sweet ways.”
She tossed her head. “I know of no sweet ways.”
The laugh came again, only longer, deeper. “So that is the way of it. You do not know his touch yet, you only wish to.” She glanced toward the window of the Black Hall and her mouth hardened, her voice flinty. “She shuns him, so I hear—may the Devil rot her—so mayhaps Maude can give you your desire.”
“You speak lightly of the Devil rotting a woman you do not know. Mayhaps Lord Ranulf shuns her and it is not as you think.”
Maude was staring at her intently. “Then she must be very ugly or ill-tempered so that he cannot bear to touch her. Mayhaps she has the pox.”
“She does not!” Lyonene said hotly and then stopped at Maude’s piercing stare and looked away.
“You seem to know much of the matter. How are you so sure I do not know my Lord Ranulf’s wife? And you seem to harbor much pride, too much pride for a serf.”
Lyonene’s blood seemed to freeze, for she had come close to giving herself away and she could give no answer.
Maude broke the deafening silence. “Come, we take these barrels to the wagons and begin the journey. There will be enough time to learn your reasons, but more important there will be time to teach you to please my Lord Ranulf so that you may learn all you desire of his sweet ways.”
Lyonene bit her tongue to still her retort to the old woman’s jibes. She wanted only to get to Wales to meet the queen. What happened on the journey did not concern her.
Lyonene rode uncomfortably on the little donkey behind the four wagons and the Black Guard and Ranulf. She could not see her husband, and several times she had to look away as she caught Maude studying her.
For some reason known only to her, Maude seemed to help Lyonene remain anonymous and thus several awkward situations were avoided. Lyonene was thankful that the Black Guard were not as her father’s men, from whose advances a serving girl was never safe. She looked now to the ground where the men sat under several trees. They were polite as Maude served them with food. Lyonene stirred the cauldron over the fire with sharp jabs as Ranulf said something to the woman and Maude’s throaty laughter floated across the breeze.
Ranulf had been correct when he had said they would travel fast, and at the end of the day there was little time for anything but a hasty meal. Not accustomed to cooking, Lyonene had trouble helping Maude prepare the meal and was grateful for the woman’s patience. She glanced at Ranulf’s great black serge tent and felt glad that Maude took his food to him, although she found herself holding her breath until the old woman returned. Maude threw her a taunting look and laughed.
She watched Maude go to a wagon and carefully remove a wooden box.
“Come,” she called over her shoulder. Curious, Lyonene followed, although she did not like the way the woman assumed she would go wherever she called.
The cooking fire was hidden from the four tents of the men and Lyonene had wondered why, but she now felt it had been for secrecy’s sake. The box was inlaid with hundreds of tiny pieces of mother of pearl and silver that glowed in the reflected firelight. Almost with reverence, Maude lifted the lid and withdrew what seemed to be a garment of softly transparent silk. It was like a man’s braies, only longer, with jeweled cuffs at a length that must be the ankle. About the wide waist was also a band of gold and sparkling jewels.
Another garment was brought forth, a gathered strip of silk whose function Lyonene could not guess. A jeweled vest came next, delicate, tiny, transparent. Then there were many veils, soft and alluring; Lyonene had never seen such silk. She knelt, tentatively touching the finery.
“It was my mother’s and then mine. Now I have grown too fat to wear it.”
“What is it and how could anyone wear such a garment? It would reveal more than it covered.”
Maude’s laughter escaped. “You are right—that is the purpose of a dancing costume.” She watched Lyonene’s puzzled eyes. “My mother was a Saracen, brought from the Holy Lands by my father. He fell in love one night while she danced in … in a place there. He was a good man and cared naught that my mother had often … danced.” Her voice was strained.
“He brought her back with him from the Crusade and he was good to her. I was not very old when he died, and overnight my mother turned into an old woman. Although she often danced for my father, after his death she never danced again. But she taught me the dance and gave me the silken clothes.” She grinned at Lyonene. “I have not been so faithful as my mother to any of my husbands.”
She stood up and bade Lyonene follow her example. A startled gasp escaped from Lyonene’s lips as Maude roughly ran her hands over the younger woman’s body.
“You will do,” Maude stated. “Now remove those garments.”
“I will not! I cannot imagine your reasons, but I will not remove my clothing.”
Unperturbed, Maude continued. “How else do you expect to wear the clothes if you do not remove your others? It will not fit over them.”
“I have no intention of wearing your dancing thing. The silk is nice but I do not intend to put it on.”
Maude’s voice sneered. “Do you think you are the only young girl brought on this trip to Wales? Have you not seen the other two who cast hungry eyes on Ranulf? They paid much to go on this journey and they did not pay with gold. So, you take my meaning? They know that Lord Ranulf sometimes chooses a young girl to pass the night in his tent on these journeys and they are willing to sell anything to get that privilege, for he is a gentle lover and pleases the women and afterward is very generous with his gold.”
She watched as Lyonene looked anxiously in the direction of Ranulf’s tent.
“There is no woman there tonight, but tell me of your feelings when one night you hear a woman’s low laughter coming from that tent and then her cries of pleasure? Would you then be glad you shunned my mother’s dancing silks? Could you be content to sit and listen to Ranulf’s sighs as he…”
“Cease!”
Maude smiled. “I thought as much. I will teach you the dance. It takes years to become expert, but these English soldiers are not taught to appreciate such a dance. My Lord Ranulf will see you only in the dim candlelight.”
Lyonene blanched. To wear that thing, and before a man! It was not thinkable.
Maude read her thoughts. “If you do not go to him, then you will need to listen to the other women’s cries. Shall I describe what the last woman on the last journey told me of Lord Ranulf’s bed?” She laughed as Lyonene covered her ears. “Then come with me and we will see how well you learn the dance.”
With shaking fingers Lyonene began to remove her coarse woolen clothes as she stood before Maude, hidden among the trees. When she stood completely nude, Maude turned her again and again to inspect her, while Lyonene clenched her teeth, resolving with each second to remove herself from the old woman’s penetrating gaze.
“Good. Very good. It is hard to believe that once I had a body such as yours. Now we will dress you.”
About her hips and between her legs went a jeweled belt, barely covering her. The transparent garment went over her legs, the gold bands tight around her slim ankles. She saw then why the waist was so wide, for it did not reach her waist at all but rested on the belt above her hips, far below her navel. The slim gathered strip of silk went about her breasts, tied behind her back. Lyonene’s breath escaped her when Maude tied the fabric very tight, and she gasped when she saw that as a result of the taut fabric, her breasts strained and pushed and curved well above the silk, little of them concealed. The tiny vest only emphasized the curves of her breasts and the deep indentation of her waist, the hips that swelled above the sparkling belt.
Lyonene’s embarrassment was brief, for the beautiful clothes gave her a strange feeling of sensuality, and she liked the feel of her long hair as it touched her bare arms and the back of her waist.
“Yes, yes,” Maude trilled. “It has its effect on you. That silk is blessed with many nights of pleasure and it holds its memories.”
In spite of herself, Lyonene could not erase the feeling of sensuality that the bare skin and silken costume gave her.
Maude brought a strange stringed instrument from behind a tree, and Lyonene listened as she played a foreign tune for a moment. Then, humming, she rose to begin sensuous movements, moving her hips and stomach in a slowly rotating motion. She nodded for Lyonene to follow her actions and was surprised at the ease with which she made the intricate movements.
“Good, yes, good,” Maude murmured as she returned to her instrument. Lyonene closed her eyes and moved with the music. She heard little commands from Maude, so put that they seemed to blend with the music: “Bend your knees more. Now, slowly, yes. Now, faster. I want to hear the bells.”
Lyonene had been vaguely aware of the tinkling of little bells but now she realized that the sound came from her costume, that the bits of gold that covered the edges of the vest, belt and cuffs were hundreds of bells. The faster she moved, the more they gave out their sparkling little sound. It gave her a special delight to hear their sound, related as it was to her movements. The music became faster and the bells rang louder.
She could almost imagine Ranulf’s eyes, dark and inscrutable, as they watched her. She felt a sense of defeat when the music stopped and Maude bade her remove the dancing costume.
“You have done well. Tomorrow I will tell my lord of a new dancing girl, and he will be pleased. But now you need rest, for you will be tired on the morn.”
Still carrying the strange feeling of deflation, Lyonene went back to the camp to sleep near Maude under the clear stars. She was exhausted and slept heavily.
In the morning Lyonene’s muscles were sore and every movement astride the little donkey hurt. She was glad for the pain, because it kept her from thinking about what she was doing.
Again they paused only a short time for dinner, and Lyonene was very aware of the other two women who constantly hovered about Ranulf. She could hear Corbet’s voice as he made caustic remarks about the women and the way they flaunted themselves.
She still marveled at the demeanor of the Black Guard. She had never entered their Great Hall at Malvoisin, but at times she had seen women in the courtyard—quiet, welldressed women—and knew they lived with the Black Guard. She wondered at the discipline of such men, so unlike what she had known as a child.
Nightfall brought more practice of the new dance learned from Maude. Lyonene liked the graceful movements and learned quickly. Later, she was tired and sank heavily into the straw mattress.
A slight sound woke her and she looked toward Maude, sleeping soundly near her. On instinct, she looked toward the great black tent and saw Ranulf, standing outside, clad only in a white linen loincloth. She turned on her stomach and feigned sleep when he glanced toward the noise. Her chin propped on her hands, she watched as he sat on a rock not far from her. The moonlight glowed on his bronzed skin, and she saw his shoulders droop, not so much from tiredness but from … mayhaps sadness.
She had a sudden urge to go to him, to clasp his head of tousled hair to her breast, to soothe him. He stood up, yawned and stretched, his back muscles standing out under the golden skin. She shivered slightly and pulled the rough blanket closer about her, for the idea of comforting him had fled from her and had been replaced by another, stronger emotion.
They began the journey again before the sun rose, and Lyonene nodded sleepily as she rode the little donkey. At dinner the two women were even bolder in their pursuit of Ranulf. Angrily, Lyonene threw the iron cooking pot back into the wagon. Ranulf’s voice halted her. He was still beneath the tree, but she felt his gaze on her. Quickly, her face deeply shadowed by the hood, she turned toward him only for an instant. Maude leaned toward him, talking quietly as her lips near touched his ear. Ranulf made no effort to move away from her and directed his gaze toward Lyonene as she secured the cooking items to the side of the wagon. They were in truth talking of her!
The meal finished, Lyonene tried, subtly, to get Maude to tell her what she and Ranulf had spoken of but had no success. Maude’s laughter was infuriating, but Lyonene at least knew that Ranulf did not know his wife journeyed with him disguised as a serf.
They left the main road and traveled to a castle on the third night, and the thought of a roaring fire pleased Lyonene as they neared the stone walls and the donjon towering above.
They had just entered the bailey when a man came running toward them only half-dressed, in braies and a linen shirt that opened to show a hard, smooth chest. He was a handsome man, with blond hair, broad shoulders and slim hips. He ran to Ranulf with open arms and the two of them fell together, hugging and turning about, lifting one another from the ground.
“Ranulf, you grow more ugly every time I see you.”
Lyonene opened her mouth to speak, but felt Maude’s hand on her arm. It was not easy to remember to be a serf.
“And you, you are as weak as a girl. Weaker than some girls.”
They hugged again, kissing one another’s cheeks, and started toward the wooden steps leading to the second floor of the donjon, their arms entwined about one another’s shoulders.
Lyonene impatiently waited as the Black Guard followed their master, and then she was allowed into the castle. Ranulf had taken a seat before the fire at one end of the hall. The other man stood beside another chair, leisurely dressing in clothes held by a servant.
“What news of Malvoisin? I heard some tales of you, but I gave them no credit.”
“And what tales are these? I am sure they hold at least half-truths. Come, Dacre, sit here and do not spend so much time worrying about your beauty.”
Dacre laughed and sat in the chair beside Ranulf’s, dismissing the servant with a wave of his hand. “It is not for me to question the ways of our Lord, but at times I wonder that He gave you the look of a devil and the temper of an angel and me the body of an angel and the character of a devil.”
Ranulf sipped the mug of hot wine. “There are many who would disagree on which is the devil body and which is the angel body.”
Dacre’s laughter roared. “So you do agree on who has the temper of an angel. I would have thought as much.”
Neither man noticed the young serf girl who stayed so close to the back of their chairs. Maude thrust a large basket with a little broom and shovel in it at Lyonene and motioned for her to go and clean the hearth. She did not reason with Maude that it was not her duty as Ranulf’s serf, but was glad to be able to hear the conversation between Dacre and her husband.
Dacre continued. “I would know the truth of one tale though—that you married, a young girl but poor.”
Lyonene wanted much to turn and see Ranulf’s face but busied herself with the hearth ashes.
“It is true,” came Ranulf’s quiet answer at last.
“And I heard she has some silly name for a lioness, named so at birth for her wide flat face, big nose, no lips…”
“You heard wrong!”
Dacre laughed at the vehemence in his friend’s voice. “Well, tell me of her then and what possessed a father to name a child after a lion.”
Ranulf leaned back against the carved oak chair. His voice was quiet, as if coming from a great distance. “She has tawny hair the color of a lion’s, a great thick mane of it. Green eyes that would put an emerald to shame, a tiny nose and a full, soft mouth. When she is angry, one eyebrow…” He stopped abruptly and looked into his wine cup.
“Go on. You must tell me more of this woman. What of the rest of her? Is she thick-waisted and what of her legs?”
“Dacre!” Ranulf’s voice was angry. “You go too far. This is my wife of whom you speak. She is not a serving wench to be shared.”
“I understand. She has legs the width of the Frisian’s neck and a waist the size of yours. Had I such a wife I would not speak of her either.”
“She is…” Ranulf’s laughter came to Lyonene, a sound she had heard too seldom. “I will not rise to your bait. You must come to Malvoisin and see her.”
“Or ask Corbet. I am sure he can give me a true opinion of this unknown wife of yours.”
Ranulf frowned into his cup. “Corbet talks overmuch at times.”
“Mmm. Jealousy so soon! She must indeed be beautiful. You must tell me what possessed you to marry her. I had thought Isabel soured you for all time.”
Lyonene listened breathlessly for Ranulf’s answer, the reason he would give for the marriage.
Too much time elapsed and Lyonene knew Ranulf would give no answer. She returned to the dirty job of removing ashes. At least it was warmer before the fire.
“Remember that red-haired wench in London Town? The one Corbet and Sainneville fought for?”
Ranulf laughed again. “They were well into their cups and…”
“Neither you nor I were too sober. Thank the heavens for Hugo Fitz Waren.”
“Aye, Hugo helped to pull them apart when I could not. I did not care who got the woman.”
“She was a smart one. She knew then who was the earl. I shall never forget your face when she plastered that plump little body to you, sobbing that you’d saved her life that she owed you everything. Such eye-rolling at the mention of ‘everything.’ ”
“Her ‘everything’ was not so bad after all.”
Dacre fair shouted. “And how would you know what she had to offer, for she came to me that night.”
“To you! Why would she want a weakling when she could have a man!”
“A weakling! Why, that little honey-fruit whispered that you frightened her more than the Devil himself.”
“And she said to me she would as soon spend the night with a girl as one of your prettiness.”
“Such prettiness I will show you!”
Lyonene turned to see Dacre leap at Ranulf’s throat, and then the two men fell together to the rushes, massive strength pitted against the other. Lyonene was disgusted. That two grown men should wrestle one another on the floor in such a manner, and worse that it should be over a woman! They rolled to her feet, locked together, and as their faces were only inches apart, she calmly dropped the nearly full basket of ashes from her waist to the rushes, very near their faces. She did not wait to see the damage she had done but sedately walked away from them. She smiled slightly when she heard their struggles cease and their coughs and curses begin.
Maude seemed to appear from nowhere, and she clasped Lyonene’s slight form to her much larger body, forcing her head to her ample shoulder.
“I will kill the wench,” Dacre bellowed, his voice very near where Maude stood holding Lyonene. “Maude, let her go. I have my own manner of punishment for her.”
“You scared the poor girl half to death.” Maude stroked Lyonene’s hair, completely hidden under the woolen veil that flowed down her back. “She is young and not used to the rough play of the king’s earls.” Her voice held such a sarcastic edge that Lyonene began to silently laugh, her shoulders shaking. Maude gave her a reproachful look. “You see, she is trembling with her fright.” This made Lyonene laugh harder and a sound escaped her that was surprisingly like a sob.
“That is the one you teach to dance, Maude?” Ranulf’s voice was gentle.
Maude nodded.
“Then keep her with you in the kitchen and send someone with water that we may remove this dust.”
Maude pushed Lyonene’s head back to her shoulder for the girl much wanted to see the havoc she had caused, feeling they wholly deserved it for their talk of tavern wenches. As Maude led her toward the kitchen, Lyonene heard Ranulf speak.
“Maude is teaching that one to dance. She says she is very good and will be ready to perform by the time we reach Wales.”
“Well, then, let us see her. We can forgive her if she dances well.”
“This one is mine, Dacre. She is young, too young for the rewards you have in mind. In a few years, when her dancing is better, then mayhaps you can ‘forgive’ her, but not yet.”
Maude led Lyonene into the kitchen and gave her a pile of onions to chop—punishment for her behavior. She chopped and slashed with a vengeance as she thought of Ranulf’s words about the London barmaid. She also remembered him saying, “This one is mine.” How many other women had Maude taught to dance for him? She did not know when the onion tears and the real ones began to mingle.
Lyonene felt that Maude made an effort to separate her from Ranulf, for there were always jobs to do that required her presence far from him. She was thoroughly exhausted when she fell onto the mattress before the fire. The straw was uncomfortable and she longed for the comfort of the feather mattresses of Malvoisin.
Morning came too early and she sleepily mounted her little donkey.
“This might well be the night, for tomorrow we reach Wales.”
Maude’s statement drew Lyonene awake, and all day she tried to dissuade herself from going ahead with the dance. When they stopped for dinner and she saw first one of the women running her finger down Ranulf’s jaw and then Ranulf holding the woman’s hand for a brief moment, Lyonene was decided. She would not think of the consequences of this night; she only knew she wanted him to see her, to hold her hand and no one else’s.
As Ranulf’s tent was erected, Lyonene saw Maude talking to him and knew he had agreed to the old woman’s suggestions. Her heart began to beat rapidly.
She had no time to think as Maude pulled her into the seclusion of the trees. The beginnings of a protest were stifled as her clothes were removed. Soon the silken dancing costume encircled her. It was as if she were no longer Lyonene but someone else: a dark beauty, a Saracen who had been trained from childhood to tempt and entice men with her fluid body motions. She could hear the strange music in her head and her hips began to move slowly, a secret smile on her face.
Maude took a silvered piece of glass, a mirror, from the wooden box and a jar of black powder. She applied the kohl to Lyonene’s eyelids, upper and lower, and darkened her eyebrows. There were transparent veils, soft, gentle colors, added to the costume, then one about her hair that hid the lower part of her face.
It was a different woman who stared back at her from the little mirror, and the dark, sultry eyes promised things Lyonene knew too little of—promises of passion and satin skin. She walked with ease and confidence to the candlelit tent.
Ranulf half-reclined on a low cot and did not see at first the dark girl who entered his tent, only hearing Maude’s music, joined by a flute and little vibrating instruments like drums. He was instantly surprised by the confidence exuded by the girl, her movements sure and seductive. He then forgot that he knew this to be a serf girl, for somehow she was transformed into such as he’d not seen since his years in the Holy Lands.
Each slow undulation was a gesture of love, and he began to feel that this girl danced for him alone in a way no other woman ever had. Her hips moved toward him, her arms beckoning, her smoky eyes caressing him. Always the dances that Maude knew so well had excited him, but this girl was more, giving him a feeling of longing as well as lust. A veil fell at his feet, revealing one long slim leg hidden and yet revealed beneath the silk trousers. The music increased its speed and the girl turned her back to him, glimpses of her hair showing through a dark veil.
Another scarf drifted through the heavy air and he saw a curved hip, the gold belt flashing in the reflected candlelight. Her hips moved faster, the tiny bells tinkling in rhythm to her movements. The exposed hip was golden, creamy, while the other teased his bewildered gaze as it moved from behind a folded veil and then disappeared.
She turned to the side, the shape of her body showing through the silks. Her breasts rose again and again as her hips moved forward and back, and always her eyes entranced him, smiling, frowning, tempting, shunning, ever changing. Her fluid arms emphasized her liquid movements.
Another veil fell and he saw more of her beautiful body. Her stomach undulated, showing the lovely secret of her navel. Ranulf was frozen where he lay, unable to break the paralyzing spell of desire and fascination she wove about him.
The music’s speed increased and his breath deepened as yet another veil fell to the floor. Her breasts rounded above the silk, gleaming, moving, quivering as she danced and he heard her low, throaty, lusty laugh, growling, filling his own body with tremors of unfulfilled passion.
He was afraid to move, afraid she was an apparition of pleasure that might disappear at his merest breath. She moved closer to him, slowly, tortuously, exquisitely, her skin giving off a delicate perfume. With fear but uncontrolled longings, he put out a hand to touch her. A brief whisper of creamed satin skin against his fingertips and she drew away, her head falling back as she near drove his senses mad with that laugh, so low, yet permeating him with its promise.
Her arm grazed his face, close to his lips, exciting him further to depths of what seemed to be a new part of his being. Then, abruptly, she moved away from him, far away, to a darkened side of the tent; her dark eyes and golden body were radiant against the cream-colored silk walls. He could not bear the void she had left behind. The music was reaching a frenzied peak and her eyes challenged him now, her hands reaching out, daring him, as her body increased the pulsating movements.
One powerful hand swept her to him, clasping tightly the deep curve of her waist, the other crushing her to him. The tent was dark, much too dark as he looked into her half-closed eyes, but he saw the mouth that waited below the veil, and the hunger it showed more than matched his own.
Enjoying and prolonging each exquisite moment, he stroked her skin, slightly damp from her dance, as was his own. She seemed to purr, a low, throaty sound, as he touched her. For only a very brief instant did her eyes open to meet his as he pulled the veil away and sought her lips, and then his eyes were closed too.
The music from outside the tent slowed to a sensuous rhythm as if sensing what was taking place inside.
Lyonene allowed her body to be supported totally by Ranulf’s strong hands. His lips touched hers gently, savoring the feel of them, the taste of them. His tongue ran across the edge of her teeth, delighting in the tiny chipped place. The agonizing slowness with which he took his pleasure of her weakened her body; she felt almost as if she were dying under his sweet torture. He ran his teeth along her lower lip, tasting the firmness of it, relishing its special flavor. The corners of her mouth received his unique attention, and then his urgency enveloped her, his lips crushing hers, moving as he delighted in the nectar of them.
Lyonene pulled him to her, closer, ever closer, and ran her hands across the great muscles of his back, glorifying in the reserved power they held. The feel of his fingers caressing her bare skin made her mad to feel his dark, smooth skin under her hands. His lips moved to her ear, and soft words came to her, unknown words, meaningless yet allmeaning.
It may have been a discordant sound from the music that made Lyonene return to herself, to know that she was Ranulf’s unwanted wife and not a serf girl as he now believed. He made love to a serf girl, a girl who danced for him, but he did not hold and caress his wife. Her pride, the pride of a lioness, returned to her and she knew that she could not continue with their lovemaking when he thought she was another.
She steeled herself and refused to hear the words of love, and harder still, to feel the lips that traveled along her throat. She released him so quickly that she had a second before he realized she had fled the tent. She ran as hard and as fast as she was able before stopping. The built-up tears poured forth in a violent torrent. She cursed herself for a hundred times a fool. Her mind rang with her confusion. How could this man’s touch inflame her so, and how could he make such sweet love to one he thought to be only a serf girl, someone he cared for not at all?
Maude found her and helped her to bathe her swollen face and change her clothes. No words were spoken as they made their way to the camp, and the old woman carefully shielded Lyonene’s view of Ranulf’s dark tent, silent now from the rages of an hour ago. Only Maude’s long understanding of Ranulf had been able to calm him from the anger he carried toward the girl. Lyonene breathed a ragged sigh in her sleep, and Maude shook her head in disgust.
Maude sent Lyonene away from the camp for water early the next morning. Ranulf would appear soon, and he would easily know which of the four women had danced for him the night before. All she could do was prolong the inevitable.
Lyonene’s thoughts still warred within her as she pulled the heavy bucket from the water. So loud were her thoughts that she did not hear the horses approach. Before she could protest, strong arms pulled her against a bony body, hands groping her beneath her serf’s garb. A mouth that gave a foul odor found hers. She began to kick and claw.
“Sir Henry!” a familiar, laughing voice called. “I don’t believe you know how to treat a lady.”
The old man released her and she spun around, her back to the voice. Keeping her head down, she raised a cautious glance to see Geoffrey before the man who had just attacked her.
“Lady?” Sir Henry spat. “She is but a serf girl.”
Geoffrey’s voice hid his contempt. “May I suggest, sir, that all pretty young women are ladies.”
Lyonene felt the gratitude rising in her breast.
Sir Henry laughed. “I see what you mean.”
“You do not mind if I try?”
“My experience bows to your pretty form.”
Without even looking at her face, Geoffrey whirled Lyonene into his arms and began to kiss her. She was aghast that he would do this to her. He had no more respect for her than Sir Henry had.
“I see my little brother has found entertainment that pleasures him. Mayhaps you can excite this one more than I, for she runs from my caresses. There are some young women who prefer pretty boys rather than men—Dacre has proven that.”
Geoffrey looked up to see Ranulf astride Tighe’s broad back and lazily smiled. “She seems to find me acceptable enough, and my thanks for the comparison to Lord Dacre.” He looked down at Lyonene’s face, her jaw set against the inevitable exposure of her identity. Geoffrey stared at her in horror and turned her to face Ranulf.
Ranulf’s look of pain before it turned to blackest hate startled her. He sneered at her. “I see now why she finds you so … acceptable. You must ask her to dance for you. She is…” The pained look crossed his face again and then he turned his horse and left them.