The Temptation (The Medieval Knights Series) Read online

  She would not die of this. She was still safe, her blood her surest shield. She would allow herself to fall this far. This far and no farther.

  "I like our truces better than our battles," he said, lifting her hair from her nape with both his hands. "Your hair is your glory, as Scripture declares. I could drown in your hair and die with a smile."

  He had exposed her nape and whispered kisses there. She closed her eyes, lost in the fog of passion he had thrown over her like a cloak. Lost in kisses and whispers. Nay, not a warrior. Only a maiden cast under the hands of a man who understood maidens too well.

  “There is more to me than hair," she repeated, reminding them both.

  "Aye, and more than skin as soft and sweet as a wild Damascus rose. More than eyes as dark and deep as night. More than lips that call forth my manhood even as they murmur holy prayer. More than breasts as lush and ripe as pomegranates."

  "Enough," she said, pushing against his chest, wanting this assault to stop, yet wanting his hands on her as much as she wanted her next breath. "I do not know what pomegranates are," she said with a nervous laugh.

  Hugh leaned back from her and smiled, untying her laces, layer upon layer, baring her shoulders.

  "Pomegranate is the lushest, sweetest fruit in God's creation. Red and round, hard on the outside, full of seeds sweet and tart within. I could live on pomegranates, and tried to, as a boy."

  "Tell me of your life in Jerusalem," she said, watching through a haze of desire as he inched her bliaut from her, baring her body to his eyes. And his hands. "Let me know you."

  "I want you to know me. To know all of me. To want all of me," he said, smiling softy down at her.

  The fire was at her back, yet all the burning was in front. He burned her with a look, his hands and mouth the salve that saved and destroyed at once. He was her torment, as he had promised.

  So quickly she had fallen. Where was her resolve? It had disappeared under the power of his hands. She was ill-equipped for such a battle as this.

  How was it that Hugh was not?

  "Jerusalem," she said as his hands cupped her breasts, her nipples rising hard and fast in welcome. "Tell me of Jerusalem."

  His hands stilled and he looked past her into the fire, his expression distant and full of dreams. "Jerusalem shines white in the westering sun, her pinnacles spires of holiness and history. The sun is ever bright and the sunsets—ah, Elsbeth, the sunsets last an eternity. Red and cerise and gold and violet bands across the heavens, a gift from God for every night. A miracle of color that ever changes yet is ever the same."

  "The sun sets in England, too," she said, defending her home.

  He had let her go, his hands resting still and quiet upon her shoulders, his mind in other, far-off places, his eyes on the hot glow of the fire. She had stumbled upon a weapon in this truce; Jerusalem was his weakness, his distraction from her seduction. Jerusalem, holy city, would serve her well, if she had the will to use it.

  "You do not know sunsets," he said, grinning and hugging her to him, his eyes still on the fire. "Here, the sun simply disappears, lost in mist and cloud and gray blankets of rain or else swallowed by trees, hidden and cold. Nay, in the Levant, the sun casts its glory to the sky and earth, and all men stop and admire the handiwork of God. There is little power to the sun in England."

  She held her tongue. She knew no other than England, that was true, but she loved it no less, though she had no comparisons to make. England was soft air and green hills and seas crashing against stone. England was as old as the Levant, for, though Christ had not walked here, had not God created all the earth on the same day? There was nothing in Holy Writ to point to England and these northern lands as being an afterthought. Christ was Savior in England, too.

  "You long for Jerusalem," she said instead. It was clearly true and would not insult. And his hands were still as his thoughts dwelt upon Jerusalem.

  "I long for her as any man longs for home," he said. "Her streets are crooked and many, white and gold and tawny in the light, her banners many and many-colored. Her people rich in many tongues and diverse ways. As old as time is Jerusalem, sacred, holy, the city of Christ and of David and of Solomon, his son. The world began in Jerusalem. The world will end there in Armageddon. Jerusalem must not fail or fall."

  "Why would Jerusalem fall?" she said.

  He started and then smiled, running his hands over her again, teasing her breasts for a response. She had misspoken somehow. He had remembered her. His hands roamed.

  "Jerusalem will not fall," he said. "Am I not a knight of the Levant? I will protect her to my death and die laughing, knowing my life to have been well spent. Nay, there is naught to speak of that. Let us speak of you, my wife. Tell me, in this moment of confessions, tell me of your life here, in this place."

  "You must already know all. You were here to meet me. You must have spoken with my father ere I came," she said.

  He slipped the bliaut from her, letting it fall to her waist, where it was held by her jeweled girdle, her arms trapped within the sleeves of her undergarment. She was bared to the waist, her breasts high and eager for his touch. She shamed herself by such a response. It was within her to resist. Or it should have been.

  “Tell me of your life," he said, thumbing her nipples. She swayed into his arms with a moan. It was a cry for mercy, surely. It could not have been the sound of swelling desire. "You are not going to faint again?" he asked, wrapping his arms about her.

  She might. It was a good excuse to keep his hands from her breasts, and she took it up readily.

  "Aye, I feel most strange," she said. It was unfortunately true. "Talk to me awhile; your voice soothes, my lord. Tell me of the land of my Savior. Tell me of the paths where Jesus trod."

  He tugged and pulled her free of her clothes, unfastening her girdle, letting all fall to the floor. Only the linen wrapping her hips and the padding to catch her flow were left in place. A girdle most strong to keep a man at bay—how she thanked God for it in this hour when Hugh stripped her bare and laid his hands upon her at his will. As was a husband's right. If only she could quell her body's response to him, to his touch and look, but she seemed doomed to fail in that arena. He called forth from her some passion that she had not seen in herself.

  He tempted her most perfectly. Could such a thing as temptation be perfect? If it bore the name of Hugh of Jerusalem, then, aye, it could.

  "Please," she said. "Please talk to me."

  She stood before him, her body bared to him, his touch, his gaze, and he looked his fill. She should have sheltered herself from his eyes, but she did not. Nay, she found herself standing straight and tall, her breasts high and proud, her eyes meeting his. She wanted this, this look, this appraisal, and she wanted to be found desirable. It was the truth. She did not want it to be so, and yet it was.

  What had he done to her in a scant day? Had all changed because she now belonged to him? Had it been so quickly done? Would God close all doors to escape?

  Nay, for what of her vow to Ardeth? God would not let her fail in that. That vow was sacred. Yet where was God in this smoke of desire?

  "Aye, I will tell you of Jerusalem, but you must make a promise to me that I will hear in equal measure of your life in England. My grandsire came from here more than fifty years past, yet all I have are tales of the place. I would have you give flesh and bone to what has been spirit and mist till now."

  Hugh ran his hands over her skin, over bosom and belly and hip, and then lifted her and laid her on the bed. The blanket was rough against her skin, and she writhed against the feel of it, finding an odd pleasure in the soft pain.

  "Say yea to me, Elsbeth, or else you shall find no rest upon this bed," he said, lying down at her side, supporting his head with his hand.

  "Yea," she said, looking up at him, his clothing still perfectly ordered, his hair falling in a golden tumble around his neck and arm. "Yea, I will tell you all you wish to know."

  He grinned and ran a fingertip
over her breast, across her nipple, and down to her linen wrapping. She gasped and closed her eyes.

  "That is good, Elsbeth. I cannot wait."

  Could she? She needed to pray for more strength, more forbearance, more resistance. Could she remember how to pray?

  "Is it beautiful?" she asked. "Jerusalem?"

  He smiled and kissed her on the mouth. "It and you are both beautiful," he said. "Jerusalem is wondrous fair—a citadel of white stone upon a hill, and the Temple with its golden crown, apart and separate from the throng of city life." He lay upon his back, Elsbeth forgotten for the moment. "Whate'er you wish to buy, it can be found in Jerusalem. Spices? There are three hundred if there are three. Silks of vibrant azure, brocades with silver thread, baldachino from Baghdad, damask from Damascus, samite from Byzantium, taffeta from Persia, satin from Zayton—all soft and supple and rich with color, reds, purples, greens and glowing white. Jewels and jade, coral and pearls for sale in any quarter." He lifted himself up to a sitting position and looked down at her, his emerald eyes alight. "And the people... from Zipangu, Java, Cathay, Tartary, Ceylon and Malabar. You have not seen the like in this distant place, this England, Elsbeth. The Levant is the crossroads of the world!"

  "You love it very much, do you not?" she asked, looking up at him, seeing something she needed very much to see, though she could not put form to it.

  He grinned and lay back down upon the bed, his hands behind his head. "All men of Christendom love Jerusalem. We fought to reclaim her. We will die to hold her. She is our city, our holy city. Would any man say otherwise?"

  "Nay, I do believe none would," she said, studying his profile. "And what of Baldwin?"

  He blinked and paused and then turned his head to look at her, the holy light in his eyes dimmed and dulled. Only passion dwelt within him now. Only passion. And Baldwin's name hovered in the air between them.

  "Baldwin is my king, my liege lord, and my friend."

  "You have known him long, long before he took his kingship," she said, holding very still, reading all there was to see in her husband's face, though studying him was like trying to search the face of the blinding sun.

  "Aye, I have known him long," he said, turning again to face her, his hand reaching for her. "I mourned with him when we lost Edessa to the Saracen. I was with him when we attacked Bosra. I rode side by side with him at the siege of Ascalon. He is my king. My place is at his side."

  "And yet you are in England," she said.

  "And yet I am with you, my wife," he said, his smile as brilliant and as hot as a thousand fires. "My first wife," he said, grinning and pulling her to him for a kiss that should have melted all thought and all fear in her.

  Yet it did not.

  The name of Baldwin hovered in the air like a chill fog, cooling her, calming the bright light of Hugh so that she could see. See the face of the sun. See the center of her husband's passion.

  Hugh was interrupted in his seduction by more than her sudden and profound chill. It was the hour of Sext and time for prayer. The priest rang his bell within the chapel, calling all to his presence and the presence of the Lord.

  Hugh grumbled with a smile and kissed her mouth again, his hand trailing down the outline of her shoulder, breast, and ribs. Her nipple rose at his touch, but halfheartedly. He did not seem to note it.

  "Sext and then dinner," he said. "All designed, I am suddenly certain, to keep me from you. Well, I will go to all with cheer for it cannot be helped, but I would rather stay sequestered with you, little wife. Even more than food, I would have you. Only prayer takes precedence, as is proper, but even that I would rush through, to have you again in my arms."

  She watched him, her eyes solemn and studious. He spoke very prettily. Why and for what cause? What need had any knight to speak so prettily and so well?

  He sat and pulled her up with him, running his hand lightly over her hair, brushing it back from her face.

  "Up. We must away and you must dress. I fear you cannot attend Sext as you are. 'Tis my fault, yet I cannot repent. I drink the draught of you with every meeting and yet I am not satisfied. You are heady brew, Elsbeth. Better than the finest wine. I fear I am drunk on you."

  "You speak clearly enough for a drunken man," she said, pulling up her chemise and straightening her bliaut. "I must ask for privacy again, my lord, before I go down to the chapel. You need not wait."

  "You speak wrongly." He smiled, helping her arrange her clothing, fussing with her golden girdle. "I do need to wait. I need to walk at your side. I will not go without you."

  "Wait, if that is your will," she said, brushing his hands aside carelessly. "If your wait could begin now?"

  Hugh laughed and bowed to her, a gesture somewhat overwrought, it seemed to her, and left the chamber to her. She stared at the swinging curtain that hung before the door, pondering her husband, his ways and his words. Well, she could not make sense of it all in a moment. She would think on it and pray most heartily for wisdom; then she would act, finding her way out of this marriage. Perhaps now she had the means to find her own release from the vow that bound them. Perhaps. It was worth contemplating.

  With that thought uppermost, Elsbeth lifted her skirts and saw to her needs. Her blood still flowed strong and bright. God was most merciful, indeed.

  * * *

  Something had changed in her; he knew not what. He had stripped her quickly of her clothes and she had not hampered him. Nay, she had all but melted in his arms, her black eyes smoky with passion, her limbs soft and unresisting.

  Hugh paced the upper hall, waiting beyond the oaken door for his wife, turning it all over in his mind. She had asked about Jerusalem and he had told her of it. Nay, more than that, he had sung a song of praise and devotion. That had not been wise. She might have felt her England slighted by the comparison, and had she not said some words in its defense? Aye, she had.

  It was no way to win a woman by slighting her homeland. He knew that well enough, well enough not to stumble in that way. Better to ask her of England and Sunnandune; that path into her heart was surely wider than the road to Jerusalem.

  Hugh lifted his head and ran a hand through his hair. That problem was solved. He had sought and discovered his misstep with Elsbeth, and he would now put all to rights. He could do little more to secure her body and her longings; it was time to ease his way into her thoughts by spending hours in converse with her. Women liked that sort of thing, having their thoughts and dreams treasured by a man. He had some experience with such things; he would not misstep. Let her talk. He would listen.

  She came out of the door then, and he greeted her with a smile of welcome. She did not smile in return. He was not dismayed; Elsbeth was not the sort of woman to smile often, yet when she did, the very sky seemed to lighten as by the rising of the sun. She made him want to work to win a smile from her, he who had been smiled upon by women since he first came of age. Yet it was different with Elsbeth. Her smiles meant something, as if a victory had been won and her smile the prize.

  "You look lovely," he said, taking her arm.

  "I look as I did moments ago. Nothing has changed," she said, letting her hand rest on his arm.

  "Did I say anything had changed? Nay, you looked as lovely in our chamber, covered only by the dark fall of your hair. It is your fate, I do perceive, to be complimented upon the hour," he teased.

  "Or even upon the half hour,' she said and then ducked her head to hide her smile.

  "Oh, do not hide your smiles from me. I work too hard for them," he said in mock seriousness.

  "Is it work you do with me, my lord?"

  "Call it rather a labor done in love," he said as they reached the bottom of the stair. All was quiet in the hall; the torchlight flickered on emptiness.

  "I use your word for it," she said as they crossed the hall. "You do not find the companionship of your wife either soothing or restful?"

  "You are right," he said, releasing her arm, running his hand down her back and over the mou
nd of her derriere. "I have no rest in your company until I have the rest of possession. You are mine, yet not mine. I want you. I will not rest until I have you."

  She stumbled and caught herself, and he could not stop the smile that crossed his lips at her discomfiture. He had the power to move her and he enjoyed it greatly. Given what her father had said of her, he had been in doubt. Now all doubt was gone. Elsbeth was a woman of strong passion, both spiritual and physical. Both were well approved by him.

  And he spoke true. He did want her. He wanted her more with every hour he knew her. She was a mystery, a puzzle in a way that no woman had been before. A life of prayer was what she sought, yet with a touch, a look, a kiss, she tumbled into passion that burned them both. Such a woman should not bury herself in the cloister. How that she could not see that?

  After her courses passed, he would prove it to her. Most happily, he would prove it to her.

  These thoughts were not helping, Hugh adjusted his braes with a nudge of his hand and a shifting of his weight. His plan was to talk to her, get her to speak and share the longings of her heart; that was the path open to him. That was the path he would take.

  Until her flux passed.

  How many days did a woman's flow occupy? It seemed a week, had passed and yet it had been just a day.

  He looked askance at her as they left the hall and walked down the stair to the bailey. Would she tell him when her blood left her?

  Nay, she most like would not.

  She did not yearn for consummation, though her body softened at his touch. Nay, all she yearned for was the abbey. He would do well to watch her closely, his eye ever on the bucket in their chamber. When the blood ran thin, he would mark the day and take her the next.

  But how long was he to wait?

  * * *

  She could hardly wait. As soon as the office was sung, she would talk to the priest. He would advise her; it was his duty and his calling, after all. If only she could remember... what was his name? She had not been to Warkham for ten years, and his name was lost to her.