Chapter Twenty-Five
How young he looked, dressed in his scarlet and white like a knight fresh to the sword. A light wind ruffled his hair and brought back a thousand memories of him standing upon the ramparts of Castelnau. Aliénor knew she shouldn’t be able to see his blue eyes so clearly from where she stood in the bright of the sun, but she could indeed see his gaze. By the look on his face, he was as buffeted as she was by the same powerful emotions.
He crossed the graveled path, moving with patience, as if he were afraid he’d frighten her away. Watching his legs flex and his shoulders slope and his dark, dear head sway as he ventured ever closer riffled her senses in ways she’d forbidden herself to imagine during the long, lonely months of their separation. Now she embraced the flood of those feelings, letting herself experience everything once too painful to relive.
He stopped a few steps away from her and glanced over her shoulder toward the far gate. “Did he make you another offer?”
“Sir Guy?”
“He chased you when you left the hall.”
She shook her head. “He just paused long enough to say good-bye.”
“Good.” One of the lines on his brow smoothed. “Because if he had swept you onto his horse and whisked you away—”
“I would have been just as surprised as you.”
A smile slipped across his lips. “He’s a fool for letting you go so easily, Aliénor.”
She gripped a tippet in her hands for balance, for if Jehan kept looking at her like this, she would never be able to maintain composure.
“You know,” she said, riffling her fingers through the pelt of fur, “you might have given me fair warning about all this.”
“I wanted to.” He shifted his weight, daring to come a step closer. “Thibaud forbade me to say anything. He insisted we hear the regent’s decision first.”
Stubborn Thibaud. Yet she couldn’t be angry at her great-uncle, knowing he was trying to protect her, as always.
“When I went to London,” he said, “I tried to convince the prince to let me marry you, couret. But he refused to consider it, even to listen.”
“Indeed, he would have no reason to allow it.”
“That’s true, if a man’s only aim in life is ambition.” A muscle in his cheek flexed and his hands did, too, and a look akin to guilt flittered across his face. “After this last campaign, I saw my prince with a clearer eye. He’s a man who stands second in line to the throne, who has the whole Christian world laid out before him, who has never really known hunger or cold or despair. And yet in a time of peace, he does nothing more than prepare for the next war so he may gain more castles, more lands, more power—and dangle them before us, before me, without considering what I, or any of his knights, or the whole of England, truly desires in our heart of hearts.”
She looked up past the wool of the scarlet tunic stretched across his shoulders, to the tightness of his jaw, aching to ease his guilt.
“So,” she murmured, “no English widow after all?”
He rolled one of those massive shoulders. “I’m doing both the widow and myself a great favor.”
“Was she not rich enough?”
“She had three castles,” he said, “as well as the title of marchioness.”
“Was she not young enough?”
He made a grunting noise. “Time yet for childbearing.”
She raised a brow. “Not pretty enough, then?”
“The real problem, Aliénor, was that she wasn’t you.”
Then he lowered his mighty body, those broad and endless shoulders, that rock-hard stretch of chest. That all passed before her eyes as he sank to one knee, just as he’d done in the great hall before the regent.
He whispered, “Do you despise me, couret?”
She shook her head, confused.
“For shifting loyalties,” he said, his expression serious. “For abandoning my oath of fealty to the English in favor of the French.”
“How could I despise you?” The sweet aroma of the sacred oil wafted toward her from where the bishop must have touched his brow. “You did it all for me.”
“I did it for the woman I love.”
She heard horses’ hooves clanking on the cobblestones outside the castle wall, carts creaking and swaying, peddlers calling their wares, wind riffling along the grass, birds twittering as they set upon the grain that had fallen off a wagon. She heard women laughing by the well, men boasting upon the ramparts, a pig squealing in a pen behind the donjon, and above all, her pulse pounding like a minstrel’s drum in her ears.
“Aliénor,” he said, uncertainty on his face. “I have nothing to offer you but that which you already consider your own.”
Something wet rolled down her face, despite the lack of rain. “You can give me your heart, Jehan.”
“It has always been yours.” He took her hand and flattened her palm on his chest. “From the beginning and now—if you’ll take me as your lawful husband—until the end.”
A husky sound left her throat, a half-laugh. The grass felt soft beneath her knees as she knelt before him. How sturdy his shoulders under her hands.
“Marry me,” he whispered. “Marry me and be my wife.”
“Yes.”
He captured her answer with his mouth. For long and breathless moments, she curled into his warmth, pressed against his familiar chest, and breathed in the scent of his skin while their kiss deepened.
When he finally pulled away, a smile broke over his face like sunshine coming from behind a cloud.
“Make me one more promise, Jehan.”
“Anything.”
“Once we’re wed,” she said, “take me home.”
***
Home.
Aliénor had not expected to feel like this, but the minute they rode over the last hill and she saw the rolling vineyards and watched the sunlight gleam upon the limestone walls of Castelnau-sur-Arrats, her heart swelled to the point where it hardly left her room to breathe.
“Was there ever such a sight, Jehan?”
“Never,” he said, with a knowing laugh. “It’s the finest castle in all of Gascony.” He cast her a sidelong glance. “Although considering how often we’ve camped upon rocky ground these past weeks, I’d be transported by the sight of any place that promised a proper bed within.”
She smiled his way as the memory of the journey passed between them. Though they’d spent their wedding night proper in a fine room in the castle at Meaux, they took to the road the very next day. Since then, they’d made do under a linen tent, creating warmth where there was no fire. When necessary, they’d snuck away to quiet coves and the cover of the woods to indulge their urges.
A warmth rose at the memory of last night’s loving in particular. His kisses on her thighs, the intensity of the sensation, her fingers lost in his long, soft hair…
“Woman,” he growled, “if you keep looking at me like that…”
“Like what?”
“Up from under your lashes with mischief in your eyes.”
Her womb tightened as his gaze intensified. Her back might still be bruised from the hard ground—and his, too, she thought with a flush—but her body still throbbed, hungry at the pleasures to come.
“No more, couret. There’s a mile between here and the bed, and you’re making it uncomfortable for me to sit this horse.”
“Then what are we waiting for?” She leaned over her horse to kick it into a gallop.
He reached over to seize the reins. “We talked about this.”
“Jehan, don’t coddle me.”
“I’ll coddle you all I like.” His smile was wicked.
“You don’t know if—”
“Six weeks, couret.”
“That isn’t unusual at all.”
“I can feel the changes,” he said, “in the softness of your breasts, the fullness of your body under my palms, the way you wake and eat like a starving woman—”
“I’m a happily married woman, of course I eat heartily.” She retrieved her reins and veered away from him, giving him an eye. “But if you want to check my breasts again, you won’t hear me complaining.”
She kicked her horse and surged ahead. With a grunt he caught up and surpassed her, riding in front to set a brisk, but not reckless, pace. With a lightness of heart, she nudged her mare in pursuit, fixing her gaze on Jehan’s fine broad back, the stream of his dark hair, and the tightness of his thighs as he rode. They raced down the gentle slope and through the paths of the vineyard, kicking up dirt as they went.
The horses, though wearied, must have sensed the end of the journey for they headed straight toward the bridge. Once on the other side, they were forced to slow and pause, for the villagers surged from their homes to surround them. She was gratified to see how healthy and well-fed everyone looked. She reached down to accept a bouquet of wildflowers from one of the children while Jehan pulled out his satchel and showered the crowd with coins.
Three men awaited them at the base of the slope. Two men-at-arms, and in the middle—
“Laurent!”
Her brother kicked his mount to meet her. He’d grown a full, dark beard that made him look as swarthy and dangerous as a highwayman.
His black eyes locked on hers. “Is it true then? You are married?”
“Well good day to you, too,” she teased. “How did you find out?”
“Thibaud sent a message to the monastery in Toulouse. You must have taken the long route home for me to beat you here.” Laurent dipped his head as Jehan rode to her side. “I broke my promise not to leave the confines of the monastery, Sir Jehan. I ask your forgiveness.”
“Some promises,” Jehan said, “are worth breaking.”
Laurent’s face brightened. “Tell me my sister isn’t pulling wool over my head. You’ve truly wed?”
“We are now brothers-in-law,” Jehan said drily.
“I trust you will treat her well?”
“I have vowed so, until death do us part.”
Laurent eyed Jehan in an odd, intense way that made Aliénor wonder what they were teaching him in the monastery. But then, surprisingly, Jehan kicked his horse closer and Laurent and Jehan’s arms clashed in a clatter of chain mail and flesh and leather and bone. She watched as they gripped one another by the forearm and moved as if they were trying to wrestle each other off their horses, laughing all the while.
Men, she thought. She would never understand them.
When the wrestling match was over, Laurent kicked his horse to her side. She leaned over to embrace him, unbalanced, their legs crushed between their horses.
“You look well, Ally,” he said.
“You look hairy.”
He rubbed his beard in a bashful way and she saw, finally, a glimpse of the boy under the countenance of the man. “The monastery cells are cold.”
“So now you believe me?”
“Alas.”
“I missed you at the wedding, you know.”
“I suppose Thibaud had the honor of giving you away.”
“Indeed he did.”
“At least I didn’t have to beat him in a sword fight to win the right.” Laurent glanced behind them, seeking something or someone. “Our great-uncle didn’t return with you?”
“He has a reason to stay in Paris.” She grinned, thinking of how she’d come upon Thibaud and Blanche embracing in an alcove during her wedding feast. “He belongs in the king’s court, Laurent, like a duck belongs in water. With a kinder man ruling Castelnau, Thibaud feels he can indulge his own preferences.”
Laurent nodded. “It must have been a fine wedding.”
“It would have been even lovelier had you presided over the vows.”
“I’m not anointed,” he said, his gaze skittering away. “I may never be.”
She jolted on her saddle. “Laurent?”
“Ally, did you not once say to me that every man—or woman—should be free to choose his own destiny?”
“Yes, but—”
“This castle is yours. Don’t worry on that account. You have always deserved it and I make no claim.”
“But—”
“Ally,” he interrupted again, raising one hand. “The world is bigger and more complicated than I ever imagined. For now, can we leave it at that?”
“For now,” she said, her head swimming. “But we will talk later, frai, and there’ll be no wiggling out of it.”
Soon they rose over the crest to the open field and then, by silent consent, they all cantered for the drawbridge. Once through the open portcullis, they pulled their mounts to a stop. Jehan’s men-at-arms as well as her father’s former vassals all gathered to welcome them, dressed in their best. She took Sir Rostand’s hand to dismount and greeted a teary Margot and a shuffling, bashful Hugo and a flushed Sir Rudel. Then, realizing without a proper chatelaine, there was no one to give orders for food and drink, she abandoned Jehan and Laurent to deal with the horses so she could play the chatelaine once again.
It was well beyond dark when she finally left the main hall to climb to the tower room where she and Jehan had spent so many wonderful evenings last winter. She entered to find her husband reclining in their bed, awash in the glow of the fire, as naked as the day he was born.
He said, “I’ve been waiting for you.”
“I see,” she grinned, reaching back to loosen the ties of her kirtle. “I didn’t even see you slip away from the great hall.”
“You were distracted by something in the kitchens.”
“I’m not distracted anymore.”
She walked into the light, enjoying the way his gaze roamed over her body. She hiked her skirts and climbed shamelessly upon his lap. He wound an arm around her, drawing her close enough to feel exactly how excited he was. When her loosened kirtle slipped off her shoulder, he nuzzled her throat, giving her little love bites that made her toes curl.
She closed her eyes and reveled in his touch. She didn’t care that she’d not yet spoken about the plans for tomorrow, or asked how much wine had come in during the last season, or checked the stores. She didn’t care that the dust of travel still stained her kirtle and the bristles on his unshaven cheek scraped her skin. All she cared about was the sharp, longed-for pressure of his lips and the warmth of his body against hers.
But there was one tiny little thing still troubling her, something not so easy to ignore. When he paused from running kisses down her neck to fuss with the laces of her neckline, she seized the moment.
“I have an idea, Jehan,” she whispered.
“So do I—”
“No, I mean, about Castétis.”
“Castétis,” he muttered, breathing hard as he picked at a stubborn knot. “Why are we talking about Castétis?”
“It needs a lord of its own,” she said. “Don’t you think?”
He glanced up at her, raising a brow. “The only lord I want you thinking about right now is the one—”
“I’m thinking about Laurent.” She grasped his hands to get his attention. “He’s reconsidering his vocation.”
He blinked at her for a long, blank moment.
“I thought, maybe,” she ventured, “he could manage Castétis.”
He breathed a husky laugh. “Still negotiating ransom, are we?”
“Well.” She lifted one of his hands to her mouth and kissed his knuckles. “I’m not suggesting you give it to him.” Not yet, anyway, not until Laury had figured out what he truly wanted in life. “I’m suggesting he act as steward or—”
“Consider it done.”
“Jehan?”
“Castétis is yours,” he said. “It was yours the moment you said ‘I do’.”
She looked at him softly, thinking about ambition and love and how much this knight had given up, all for her.
“Are we done with requests now, woman?” He asked with a twinkle in his eye. “Because I’ve got other plans for the evening.”
“One more thing.”
He groaned, pulling his hands from hers and then gripping her hips. “Tell the chatelaine to go away,” he said, “and bring me back my wife.”
“Make me a promise.”
“You’re killing me, couret.”
“I want to bring life back into this castle.” She couldn’t wait to restore her home to how it had once been—full of laughter and shouts and music and people. “This child will be in the cradle by next summer, but I want another firm in my belly before Christmas next. Can you promise me that?”
His lips spread in a lazy smile as he shifted her into a position that made her whole body tremble.
“As you wish, my love,” he said. “Our new life begins tonight.”
THE END