The Black Lyon Read online

  Melite flattened herself against the stone stairwell as the Black Guard carried their lord up the stairs, his feet higher than his head.

  “Now we learn what man we serve! If there is not a babe nine months hence, we go to serve Robert de Vere, who has six sons.”

  “A lion for his shield and a lioness for his bed. Could a man ask for more?”

  As the men entered the room, they quieted, for the sight of Lady Lyonene sitting in the bed, the soft globes of her breasts barely hidden by the sheets, her hair a thick halo about her, made each of them wonder at all the women he had ever seen, for none came near to rivaling Lyonene. Ranulf wondered at their silence, but then he, too, drew in his breath sharply at the sight of her.

  When he wore not a stitch, they lifted him and hastily tucked him into bed beside his wife. Corbet doused the candles until there remained only one at the foot of the bed. Sainneville, also of the Black Guard, stopped his fellow knight as he made to extinguish the last candle. He rolled his eyes toward the couple in the great bed. “Were you he, would you wish for a dark room when you rolled back that thin sheet?”

  There was silence as each man considered this. They left the room, laughing.

  “Ranulf,” she began when they were alone. He jumped from the hand she placed on his bare arm.

  “Do you reconcile yourself to a rich husband? Do you plan to bear my caress while you hunger for another? Or mayhaps you have known his well over the years.”

  “Giles is naught to me! Nor has he ever been.”

  “The boy did not seem to agree with your words. He could not have created his thoughts from air!”

  “But he has. We played together as children and often talked of when we’d marry, but I always spoke of a man unknown. It does not seem to have been so with him.”

  “I understand more fully. The boy loved you, but you denied his love, for you were after richer game. You have had good hunting and have brought to table the Earl of Malvoisin. Shall I tell you of my estates, my knights, the number of gold plates I own?”

  “Cease! I am innocent! He is but a boy filled with dreams and has meant naught to me. It is you, I…”

  “Love?” he sneered. “You can say you love me? Come, let us hear the soft words. Mayhaps they will appease the Lion’s wrath and make him sweet and malleable in your little hands again.”

  She turned an icy green stare toward him. “I do not lie and I cannot say I love you, or will ever love you.”

  With one powerful movement, he tore the sheet from her and involuntarily gasped at the sight of her, more lovely than he could have ever imagined.

  Lyonene saw his face, and fear replaced her anger, for she saw the face of the Black Lion, the face that had forced grown men to their knees in surrender. She would not have believed he could have had such a terrible look, and now it turned toward her.

  Instinctively, she attempted to cover herself when he tore the sheet away. One powerful hand cupped her breast, too hard. His mouth came down on hers and bruised her lips. One thigh forced its way between hers, and she fought him with her hands, but his strength was such that he did not seem to notice.

  She clawed at the skin on his arms and back and was satisfied by a grunt from him. She gasped for air as his lips moved to the corner of her mouth. His other leg parted hers, and she screamed at the first sharp stinging pain. The tears came to her eyes as he seemed to fill her until she would burst.

  He lay still and she felt the pain subside a bit, but then he began to move again and the pain began anew. A minute passed and he moved slowly, deliberately, and somewhere within her she felt a spark of pleasure. His breath came hard and fast in her ear, and as he began to move quickly, the pain still inhibited her.

  She felt him shudder against her and his body grow limp, his weight pressing down on her. Her arms clutched him close to her, their angry words forgotten for the moment.

  He rolled from her to the other side of the bed and did not speak or look at her, his manner telling her that his anger was not at all appeased.

  She moved to the far side of the bed, the tears silently flowing down her cheeks.

  Chapter Six

  Ranulf sat before the dying fire, his mantle slipping unnoticed from his bronzed shoulders, oblivious to the cold. He refilled his wine cup and drank deeply, his senses almost numb to the wine’s effects. He had not expected the girl to be a virgin. His red-rimmed eyes stared at the sputtering blaze. He had not expected many of the happenings of the last few weeks, and he was disgusted with himself now for his own lack of honor, his lack of control.

  He drank more of the strong wine as he heard a broken breath from behind him. When he had realized her pureness, he had hesitated, tried to redeem his harshness, but he had done a poor job of it. The fear he had seen in her eyes, and, no less, the hatred of him, had renewed his rage at her.

  When the boy had said she was his, that she had married for gold, Ranulf had been consumed with an anger of such violence that he could not see or think. It was good the women had taken his wife away, for he did not like to think what his actions could have been.

  His wife! Aye, he was married to her, a bit of a girl, whose green eyes haunted him, followed his thoughts even now. She had proven herself pure in one way, but did she in truth desire that other man—that boy? Were the words he had spoken true or were hers? Time would answer him, a life of time together which stretched blankly, darkly ahead of them.

  The weak winter sun lighted the room, making it seem colder, and Ranulf stood and dressed, his eyes careful not to stray to the sleeping girl in the bed.

  When he was ready, he stood above her, staring at her tangle of hair, her tear-streaked cheeks. “It is time to wake, for we leave soon,” he said quietly and watched as her eyes opened, wide, fearful, and he looked away.

  Lyonene moved one leg and winced at the bruises on her body. So, this was the act of love, she thought, the act her mother had said was a joyous union. She had found little joy and much pain in the vile act. Her husband stared through the wooden shutters while she hastily began to dress. She was thankful he did not plan to repeat the act this morn.

  She clenched her jaw and braced herself for more of his anger. “I am ready.”

  He turned to look at her and she was startled, for his face was void of all expression—empty, uncaring. “My men wait below, and we begin the journey soon. Your possessions are prepared for travel?”

  She lifted her chin into the air. “Aye, they are.” He lightly touched her waist, and she could not help her flinch at his touch. The memory of pain was too fresh, and she was relieved when he did not touch her again.

  They walked side by side down the stone stairs, and Ranulf paused before greeting the people who eagerly awaited them. “Gethen Castle shall be your dower castle. It is worth in the neighbor of twelve knights’ fees.”

  She did not understand why that should make her so angry, this offer of a gift of such magnitude, but it did. She could feel the anger in her rising. “I do not wish for your property,” she said, eyes flashing and showing her growing rage.

  “And I did not wish for…” He caught himself. “You will be paid for what you have lost,” he said more gently.

  Lyonene could but stare at him, anger pulling her scalp tight. Unbidden, curses from her father’s men came to her mind. She had lost more than the little blood that splattered the sheets when she had agreed to marry this man. He seemed to think all the world was his for the buying. The rich were not just an accounting of wealth, but a breed apart from ordinary folk, believing their riches gave them control over others, or attributes that others did not have. Her lip curled. “You cannot pay me for what I have lost.” She stepped ahead of him, going gratefully into the familiar hall of Lorancourt.

  “My brother!” Geoffrey called. “It is good to see you have survived the night.” His eyes twinkled but soon lost their shine as he studied the newlyweds, neither touching the other, each solemn and with eyes the hardness and sharpness of spl