The Temptation (The Medieval Knights Series) Read online

  But she did not want calming. She was as beautifully serene as the altar of Christ, as undefiled as Christ's tomb, as untouchable as—

  Elsbeth's knees collapsed beneath her; she would have tumbled into a womanish faint if not for her husband's arms about her.

  Her last thought before all went gray was that her father would find it all very, very amusing.

  * * *

  "You are well, Elsbeth?"

  It was Hugh, her husband.

  Her husband.

  Elsbeth kept her eyes closed and drew a heavy breath in through her nose. She did not know where she was. She did not want to open her eyes and find all of Warkham watching her. She did not want to open her eyes and see her father.

  She did not want to open her eyes. Still, it was very quiet. She did not think it in her father's nature to be so very quiet.

  "Where am I?"

  "In the chapel," he said.

  His arms were about her. She could feel them. Her next breath was shaky. It was difficult to be serene lying on the chapel floor.

  "Alone?" she whispered, pressing her eyes closed.

  "Alone," he said, lifting her into a sitting position.

  Slowly she opened her eyes. He was staring down at her, and the full impact of his green eyes and golden beauty assaulted her senses. She felt disoriented and closed her eyes again. Better. Except that she could feel his arms on her back and his chest pressed against her breasts. She took another breath, shadow, but sufficient.

  "I have not often had a woman faint at my kiss upon her lips," he said.

  Her eyes snapped open.

  "I did not faint because you kissed me," she said, pushing his chest away from her, opening the distance between them. "And what do you mean, 'not often'?"

  " 'Tis just a manner of speaking," he said, shrugging. “Then you fainted because you were overcome with joy at our union?"

  He was teasing her. She hated to be teased. Her father was a master of it, and it had stopped being amusing years ago.

  "As you say," she said. "I was overcome."

  "I believe you," he said, helping her to stand. It was a blessing to be away from his overbearing heat. "I believe that too much has happened this day and that a maid, even if she be a wife, needs time to..."

  "Needs time to what?"

  He shrugged. "She just needs time," he said, holding on to her hand and staring down into her eyes.

  What did he see? Did he think he saw some weakness in her? He did not. She was as ready for this marriage as he, as devoted to God's law and God's will as he. She did not need anything he did not need.

  "I do not need anything," she said.

  He smiled and turned with her, turning from the argument she longed to begin. "Then take what I offer, even if you do not need. Take time, Elsbeth."

  "Tune for what?"

  "Time for... prayer?" he said, cocking a brow at her.

  There was only one answer she could give, and she gave it gladly. This was the way out of a marriage that had barely begun. Let him see who she was and where her devotion lay. "I will always and gladly take time for prayer, my lord. Would you join me?"

  "Aye," he said, "I will join you. After the meal. Can we pray after the meal or must we bend our knees immediately?"

  He was teasing her again. She could feel it. She was very attuned to this sort of thing, being her father's daughter.

  "We shall do what pleases you, my lord, in this and in all things. I am, you will find, a most dutiful wife."

  "Aye, and most... obedient?"

  "Aye."

  She had only to prove to him that she was better suited to the abbey, and then she could be free of him. Or too nunnish to bed, and then he would repudiate her, and she would fly on wings to Sunnandune. He was a righteous man from the holy land; surely he could see that she did not belong in the married state. He would lose nothing, nothing but a wife, and he would soon be awash in women. He was Hugh of Jerusalem—any woman would be glad of him. Except for her. She had mapped her life, and he could be no part of it. Even if he be Hugh of Jerusalem.

  "Come, Elsbeth, I do not mock you," he said. "I only look to find your smile."

  They were crossing the bailey, the afternoon wind blowing hard from the sea. The very air looked gray with water. Hugh shivered and pulled his cloak about him.

  "Is it never warm here?" he muttered.

  "It is warm now, my lord," she said. And smiled at his whining complaint.

  "Ah, your smile comes out when you see your husband tremble in harsh weather. I think you will find much to smile upon, Elsbeth. I have been cold since I arrived here."

  “This weather is not harsh," she said, trying not to laugh. He was a strange sort of knight.

  "Not harsh? The sun has hidden its face for an age. The earth is ever wet and sloggy. I cannot keep my boots clean and I set great store in my boots. Fine red leather, they are, and well tooled. They have come as far as I and, I can tell you, they have no liking for this harsh clime any more than I."

  "My lord, the earth is wet because it has rained," she said, biting her lip to keep her smile in bounds; men snared women by luring them to smile. Did he not try to snare her into warm camaraderie now? "There is no more to it than that. The weather does not conspire against you. Or your boots."

  "Aye, you can laugh, lady, but I come from a land that sees little rain. And I like it so. The sands are warm, Elsbeth, and the trees silvered in the light of a pearl-white moon. A beautiful place is the Levant, and you would be a beauty there, as you are here."

  She completely lost all urge to laugh that he could mock her so.

  "I am no beauty, my lord. And I like the rain."

  He stopped her as she climbed the stair to the tower and held her back. "You are a beauty, Elsbeth. I have no cause to lie. If the rain-drenched eyes of those who inhabit this distant isle, eyes ruined by lack of sun, cannot see the dark power of your beauty, it is their loss. You are all a man dreams of when he dreams of beauty in Jerusalem."

  Nay, he did lie. He flattered, the same as lying. She was no beauty. Her looks were too bold and too small and too dark all at once. Beauty was blond and ruddy and tall. As he was.

  No man dreamed of her, not even in far-off Jerusalem.

  "My lord, I ask for no flattery. I do not need it. I do not want it. I know who I am," she said.

  "I wonder," he said and quickly kissed her fingertips.

  It was not flattery, not with words, but it caused her heart to skip and her breath to stop. She did not like it.

  He said nothing more, for which she said a prayer of thanks, and they climbed the stains to the hall. Supper had begun. Her father had not waited for her. She was not surprised.

  "It was thought that you might have wanted to seal your marriage vows, Lord Hugh; hence, we did not wait," Gautier said loudly.

  "Nay, I can and will wait, no matter my appetites or the appetites of my host," Hugh said, his green eyes cool. But only for the moment. In the next instant, he was smiling and guiding her to a place at the high table near her father.

  She had little appetite. Hugh, at her side, ate lightly as well.

  "You do not care for pork, my lord?" she asked.

  "On occasion. Perhaps not this occasion," he said softly.

  The meat was tough and the skin unevenly braised. Elsbeth passed Hugh a small tray of cheese.

  "My father's wife cares more for the state of her womb than the state of the kitchens," Elsbeth said. "And my father has a hearty appetite; there is little that can dissuade him."

  "And you, lady? What of your appetites?" Hugh asked, chewing a wedge of sharp white cheese.

  "I fostered in Dornei, where the table is of supreme importance to Dornei's lady. I have eaten well in the past years and have learned the difference," she said, smiling in spite of herself. He was too quick to make her smile. It did not mesh well with her serenity.

  "I, too, have learned to eat well. The tables in the Levant, especially in noble Jerusalem, are
set with delicacies in bounteous quantity. I am spoiled, my palate ruined for other climes and other tastes."

  "All things learned can be unlearned," she said, taking a sip of her wine. It was thin and had a sour aftertaste. Still, 'twas better than water. She was certain that Christ Himself had not been so particular about his food.

  "As you say," he said, nodding agreeably.

  She had rebuked him, even if softly. Should he not be angry, even to the lowering of his brow? But, nay, he turned the other cheek, as Christ had instructed. Elsbeth felt her serenity slipping away and blamed Hugh.

  "Are you as others, other knights of Jerusalem?" she asked awkwardly.

  He turned to look at her, his golden beauty making mock of her question. Was he like any other on the face of God's creation? Nay, there were not many like Hugh of Jerusalem. His beauty was a brand.

  "I am Poulain, Elsbeth," he said. "The son and grandson of knights who took up the cross and followed in its way. There are many upon many like me in the Levant. We are Poulains. Children of the Holy Land."

  "Men of blood," she said, her scant meal forgotten.

  Aye, he was a knight in the most holy of places, fighting a foe only dreamed of in the North, surrounded by the Saracen and holding to the sepulcher of Christ.

  "Men of blood," he echoed. "So the holy fathers name us and so we are."

  "Men of blood," Gautier said. "I see more of bathwater in you than blood, Hugh. Though your blood may show itself in time."

  It was an insult that none could mistake. No jest was this, but a sword smack to a man's honor and pride. None could doubt that.

  None at that table did.

  Hugh turned to face Gautier, his expression at peace though his eyes were once again cool.

  "I could see little need to show you blood, my lord, when I was come to collect your daughter. A betrothal is surely the time for bathwater and not for blood, though if you would see me fight, name the time. Your daughter will be safe in my keeping. I can hold what I grasp. You need not fear for her," Hugh said, his voice low and soft.

  "I do not doubt you," Gautier said. "You are the man for my daughter. There is no need to fight, not for me. You are called upon to prove nothing. Your very name proclaims your worth." Gautier smiled, breaking the tense moment. "I misspoke. You will forgive?"

  "If you seek forgiveness, you shall have it, though you have done nothing to earn my wrath, Lord Gautier," Hugh said. "Yet forgiveness and blessing shall pour forth from me this day to any and all who have need of it. I have taken a bride today, and I tremble at the bounty of the gift."

  All eyes then turned to Elsbeth, startling her. She knew not where to land her gaze; there was no soft and quiet spot on which to turn her eyes when all looked so resolutely and avidly toward her.

  "Look upon me, Elsbeth," Hugh said softly. "I will be your haven when all others have flown."

  "I need no haven," she said, looking down at her lap. "It is only that I am not at ease with such speech. I have said it; I have no need for flattery."

  "Perhaps, then, it is your father who needed to hear from me that I would cherish his daughter. Sometimes, the need goes beyond ourselves."

  She looked sharply at him, forgetting all thoughts of serenity at his prick. "I am not thinking of myself! Not in the way that you mean. It is no sin to run from empty flattery, my lord. I should think you would know that. And I can promise you that my father did not have need of any reassurance. He is well pleased with this union, if you had eyes to see."

  "Oh, I have eyes to see," he said, his voice lowered to an angry pitch, "and ears to hear."

  "My lord?" she asked, startled again by his intensity.

  He had seemed to her all of courtesy and mildness, perhaps somewhat like the bathwater warrior her father had named him, though he came from Jerusalem. Perhaps because he came from Jerusalem. There were stories of their Levantine ways, an overfondness for bathing and good food, and the softness that was the inevitable result of such living. Yet no tales abounded of Hugh of Jerusalem's softness; nay, it was all his battle prowess and his golden beauty that were touted.

  Yet what troubadour would sing of bathwater?

  "I now must echo your father," he said, smiling. "I misspoke. Will you forgive me my harsh words and hasty anger? It is not the way of Christ—this we both well know."

  "Yet it is of Christ to forgive, even to seventy times seven," she said. "I forgive and gladly. It is forgotten."

  Except that she could not forget.

  Who was this man she had married?

  Chapter 3

  He had married into a vipers' nest. The trouble was, he needed the viper's venom and so he must persevere. To have come so far and not to achieve his purpose would be a loss he could not bear, and one he could not bear to report to Baldwin.

  All he did was for Baldwin and Jerusalem, and because it was for them, he would abide no regret and no defeat.

  Hugh looked at the startled face his bride and smiled to soothe her. He understood much of what she was and what she attempted. Even knowing, he found no fault with her. She was a woman caught in a net fashioned by ambitious men, and she only thrashed to be free of it. But she was caught fast, and he would not let her go. Not now. Not when he had come to the far northern reaches of the world to this damp and dreary isle on the edge of nothing.

  He had need of her. He would deal gently, or as gently as he could, and then, perhaps, if all went well, he would release her to the cloister she hungered for. But that was far off. Now, there were other things to be done, words to be spoken and a part played out.

  Whatever else happened, he knew he would manage Elsbeth well.

  She was a woman who needed careful and soft management. That such a woman of striking beauty and abundant wealth could not see her own value, that she had not found the measure of her worth in the eyes of a distant admirer or the words of a protective father, were her bane. She had been much ignored, much discarded, but no longer. He was her husband now, and he would see all repaired. He would leave her better than he had found her.

  Aye, he smiled to soothe her; it was a gentle and simple thing to give a woman the soft security of a smile. He gave her his smiles with an open and liberal hand. She was his wife. He would take care of her.

  "You are generous, Elsbeth," he said. "I am a skittish groom. Perhaps all men are so upon their first marriage. I will, it is hoped, get better at this with time."

  "You expect to say the vows and sign the contracts again, with another bride?" she asked, lifting her goblet for a small sip of wine.

  "I do not know what to expect. The Lord of Hosts will direct my steps along my lifepath. But I do know that it is rare beyond pearls for a man, or a woman, to live long with one spouse. The world is too hard a place and buffets human souls too often for long life, even when that life is shared as ours now are."

  "What you say is true," Elsbeth said, setting down her cup. "We cannot know what tomorrow brings. You may well find yourself with another bride."

  Did he hear hope in her voice? Aye, she could well hope for it. She had no great eagerness for this marriage, yet she had come into it well enough.

  Her hands were as small as a child's, white and slender. The ring he had given her to mark her as his wife stood out upon her hand, a heavy weight of gold and sapphire that shone like darkest night and brightest day—the colors of Jerusalem. The colors of his pledge.

  "But is it not odd to speak of next wives when your newest and first sits at your side? And at her bridal feast? she asked. "Perhaps it is only that you speak your wish."

  There was a light in her black eyes, a hidden and smallish light of devilment. He grinned to see it. Elsbeth was too much solemn and too seldom smiling. He wanted an unblemished and holy wife, as did any man, but he wanted her joyous. Flashes of unexpected joy were all that made life bearable until the gleaming glory of eternal reward.

  "Again you see how little experience I have at marriage and bridal feasts," he said, taking her h
and in his. "You must be gentle with me, Elsbeth. I have no hunger for another wife. You meet all my desires and every hunger well enough."

  She gasped at the contact, and he lowered his head to hide his smile. She amused him. She was so innocent and so wary, so unaccustomed to the ways of a man, even the gentle ways of chivalry. Her education had been somewhat lacking in those matters, though her religious instruction was above the mark. Well, and he was more adept at chivalry than religion; he would instruct her.

  "It must be odd for a husband to ask for gentleness in a wife. I cannot hurt you, my lord. I have neither the skill nor the means for it," she said, resting her hand in his.

  "You are wrong in that, little wife," he said, lifting her hand to his mouth. "A beautiful woman has many weapons with which to wound a man."

  He kissed the inside of her wrist, a light meeting of lips and blue-veined skin. Her skin was as soft as silken velvet, and his hunger for her leapt up like pulsing flame, scorching them both in its sudden heat.

  Her eyes, black as a moonless night over the darkest sea, stared at his mouth upon her wrist. Her sigh was soft. Her pulse raced.

  "I am not... I will not wound you," she said, slipping her wrist away from him.

  "Nay? You wound me even now," he said, looking deep into her eyes, "Can you not see the blood you spill, Elsbeth?"

  "Nay, I have not."

  "Then give me your hand again and let me feast upon the silk of your skin. I ask no more of you."

  "It is too much," she whispered, her gaze sliding to where Emma sat giggling beside Gautier.

  "Then I will not ask it of you," he said. "Give me only what you will, and I will learn to live with wounding."

  "Stop," she said, lowering her eyes. "I am not able to jest in this fashion."

  " 'Tis no jest," he said. " 'Tis only a husband speaking to his wife. A first husband to a first wife."

  She looked up at him then, and he could see the smile that hovered near her expressive eyes.

  "Only smile at me, little wife, and all bleeding will be stanched, all wounds forgiven."