Graelam grunted and turned his destrier back toward Wolffeton. Damn the Duke of Cornwall anyway! He had chosen to accompany Joanna’s parents and their impressive retinue to Wolffeton for the wedding. The duke was no fool.
Joanna gazed ahead at Graelam’s back. He was rather boorish, she thought—no honeyed compliments coming easily to his lips, unlike some of the young knights at the king’s court—but he was handsome and strong. She would mold him to her liking once he was her husband. As for that witch Blanche, she would see her soon gone! She stared toward his castle, Wolffeton, and shuddered. It was a monstrosity, a graceless heap of gray stone in the middle of nowhere that boasted no comforts for a gently reared lady. Joanna smiled. Whe
re her husband would be stupid and boorish, she would be witty and cunning. She would rule him as easily as she ruled her father. She would not suffer by spending her years immured in Wolffeton. Perhaps a few months of the year, but that was more than enough!
The smile on her lips began to hurt, but she did not know when or if Lord Graelam would swing about in his saddle to say something to her. Her eyes bored into his back. She had grown up with five brothers and she knew well what power a woman could wield with her body. She had seen Graelam once without his shirt and had felt a gentle tingling in her belly at the sight of his massive chest and arms, tanned by the harsh wind and sun. Her eyes had roved downward and she had shuddered slightly in anticipation. She was not a virgin, having lost that commodity some four years before in the eager arms of one of her father’s knights. She doubted that Graelam would know the difference in any case, and if he suspected that her cries of pain were feigned, she would have a small vial of chicken blood ready to blotch her thighs.
Blanche rode beside Sir Guy, wishing she could grasp his knife and hurl it into Joanna’s back. And he knew what was in her mind, damn his impudence! She realized quite clearly that her ploys during the past two weeks had failed miserably, even though her gentle manner had shown in clear opposition to Joanna’s snideness, winning her approving looks from Graelam. It was clear to the meanest intelligence that Lord Graelam spent less and less time with his betrothed as the days went by. But it did not matter. There was but one recourse open to her now. She raised her chin, and her eyes gleamed with decision.
“Dare I ask what you are planning . . . now?” Sir Guy said, drawing his palfrey closer to her mare.
Blanche gave him a dazzling smile and quirked a beautifully arched brow at him. “For a . . . boy, you show great interest in things that do not concern you.”
“And for an older woman,” Guy said, unabashed, “you show too much interest in my lord. I tell you, Blanche, you have lost. Accept your defeat. Graelam will find you a husband.” He felt himself frown slightly, disliking that thought.
“You are a fool,” Blanche said, her smile never slipping.
“It is you who are the fool, my lady,” Guy said, his voice gentling, for he knew well her distress. Why, he wondered, would she not accept the truth? “Lord Graelam is honorable. He has agreed to the marriage. He will not break his word.”
Aye, Blanche thought. It was Graelam’s honor that would play to her advantage.
I wish that stupid old man would keep his bony hands to himself, Blanche thought angrily as she eyed Joanna’s father, Lord Thomas, from beneath her lowered lashes. She would have dearly liked to slap his hand away and tell him what an old fool he was, but she kept still, slewing her eyes toward the acrobats performing in the great hall. She found no amusement in them. She felt a knot form in her throat as she gazed at Graelam, and a renewal of her determination. At least, she thought, he did naught but drink wine and speak to the Duke of Cornwall, paying no attention to his betrothed. Joanna’s lips were drawn in a tight line, showing her displeasure at being ignored, and that made Blanche’s mood somewhat better. Damn her, Blanche thought. She knows Graelam does not want her. She signaled to a serving wench to refill Graelam’s goblet. She felt Lord Thomas’ bony hand once again trail up her thigh and she shifted away from him. His wife, Lady Eleanor, seemed oblivious of her husband’s vagaries, content to speak softly with Sir Guy and gaze about the great hall of Wolffeton with a satisfied and proprietary eye.
Finally, Blanche thought, finally, she could excuse herself. She curtsied gracefully and left the hall. She heard Sir Guy laugh and tossed her head.
It seemed that she waited in the darkness of her small chamber for hours. She had begun to sweat and quickly rose from her bed to pat a damp cloth beneath her arms. She paused a moment and stared at herself in the polished silver mirror. Her body was lush and large-breasted, with full, rounded hips. There were faint lines from childbearing on her belly, but in the candlelight he would not see them. She began to hum softly to herself as she slipped a sheer silk shift over her head. She patted her soft hair into place and walked quietly to the door and opened it. All was quiet at last.
She carried the candle, protecting its thready flame with a cupped hand, and sped toward Graelam’s chamber. She unlatched the door quietly and slipped inside. She paused a moment, then smiled at the sound of his snoring. He had drunk a lot of wine. He would likely not come to his senses until it was too late. And as Sir Guy had told her, Graelam was an honorable man. If he took an unmarried lady in his bed, he would also take her hand in marriage. Why, she wondered, had she not thought of it before? She stifled her guilt and her sudden apprehension, and raised her chin. I will not be a coward! I will do what I must!
She walked quietly to his huge bed and stared down at him a moment, the candle held high. He lay naked on top of the covers, for the night was warm. She was not immune to his male beauty and let her gaze rove the length of his body. Even in relaxed sleep, she could see the ridges of muscle that banded his belly. Lower, she saw a long jagged scar, running from the top of his thigh to near his groin, showing white through the black hair. His manhood lay soft and flaccid in the thick matting of hair and she felt the urge to touch him, to caress him, to bring him to life. She set the candle down on the small table beside his bed. Slowly, ever so quietly, she slipped the shift over her head. She prepared to crawl into bed beside him, when a sudden gust of wind came through the small window. The candle flickered and died. She cursed softly to herself, but quickly realized that the moonlight would be ample for her purposes.
She lay down beside him, pressing her body along his side. Slowly she leaned over him and ran her fingers lightly down his chest. He sighed in his sleep but did not awaken. Blanche sent her searching fingers lower until they curled around him. With gentle insistence she began to stroke and caress him.
“Nan,” she heard him mutter, still half-asleep, “I told you that we would bed together no more. Leave off.”
Her fingers tightened about his burgeoning member, and she smiled as he groaned. Suddenly his arms were around her, drawing her on top of him. She felt his mouth, hard and demanding, close over hers. She quickly parted her lips to his thrusting tongue. She felt his hands stroking down her back to her buttocks, kneading them fiercely, pressing her against his swollen manhood.
Soon, she thought triumphantly, soon she would cry out, but not until Graelam’s seed had burst into her belly. She could not wait to see the look on the Duke of Cornwall’s face!
“God’s bones!” Graelam shook his head, clearing away the dregs of wine that clouded his mind. “Blanche!”
She had no time to say anything. His hand clamped over her mouth and he threw her onto her back, one massive leg thrown over hers. She knew a moment of fear; then she relaxed and smiled up at him.
“What the devil are you doing here?” he demanded harshly.
Blanche moved seductively against him, changing her plans abruptly. “I love you, my lord,” she said almost in a whimper. “Do not marry that—”
Her interrupted her, appalled. “Shut up, woman! Have you no sense, no pride! Jesus, Blanche, I very nearly took you!”
“You may take me, my lord, if you will but marry me,” she whispered, rubbing her breast against his arm.
Graelam cursed long and softly, surprising even Blanche with his coarse fluency. “I cannot marry you. I will not marry you,” he managed finally. “For God’s sake, woman, get out of here before someone discovers you!” As if he knew she would not obey him, Graelam rose off the bed, jerking her with him. He leaned down and picked up her shift. “Put it on,” he said tersely. “And go quietly. I will tell no one, and neither will you.”
“Do you not want me, my lord?” Blanche said rather desperately, thrusting her breasts out so that her nipples brushed his naked chest.
Graelam felt his outrage and his anger dissolve. Blanche was such a gentle creature and he saw tears glistening in her eyes. He said quietly, more
calmly, “It is not meant to be, Blanche. I am sorry, but I am promised. You cannot be my mistress. You are a lady. ’Tis a husband only who can know you.”