Peony Page 11

  “I am not the one who dares. You think you know women, but you know nothing. You labor under misconceptions picked up from your brother’s lack of good judgment. Your mother’s poor choice! I say, think for yourself. Stop weighing every decision against the family honor.”

  Payen rubbed his throat. “One of your queen’s private guards is with child, out of wedlock. One of them took a lover in Constantinople. The redhead probably had ten lovers in Constantinople. But you? What secret do you harbor? Now that you know mine. I think it only fair.”

  Shaking with energy, part anger, part desire, she took four steps back. “I do not pretend to be fit to judge another.” Of all people, she could not lie to herself.

  “I don’t judge.”

  “You observe,” she said in her most cutting tone. “Stay at arm’s length without getting dirty.” She picked up Gaston’s tunic and walked a few steps toward the stairs. “Mind the queen, but understand she has an inner shield to guard her where men can’t go. And if I find out that you have an ulterior motive? I will share what I’ve learned about you with the queen. We will see how close she lets you then.”

  “Catherine, you can’t leave. We were having a discussion until you lost your temper. Women always—”

  “If you say women always lose their temper, I will challenge you to a fight. My honor demands it. I am very good with the flail.” She itched to knock some sense into his misguided head. Then again, what could she say about Mamie? Or Sarah? It was his dark heart that chose to judge.

  “I would never fight you.”

  “Never?” She raised her chin. “Never is a long time.”

  Payen watched in awe as Catherine, haloed by firelight, challenged him to a fight. Tall, slender, pale, dark-haired. Her green eyes flashed with emotion, non, passion.

  Something stirred in his cool heart, something that responded to her challenge. Not to actually fight Catherine but to taste her passionate nature and meet it with his own.

  He’d told her he’d known passion, but this feeling was new. Should he tamp it down, bury it again beneath the coals, or fan it to life?

  What to make of these feelings?

  Payen reached for Catherine’s arm. “I’m sorry.” He couldn’t let her leave.

  The urgency, the heat of desire overwhelmed him.

  “Payen? Are you all right? You are trembling.”

  “Sit with me?”

  “For a moment. Are you ill?”

  She put the back of her hand to his forehead as if he were a child. He wanted her to think of him as a man. A desirable man. He took the tunic from her arm and set it on the table, pulling her down next to him on the bench.

  “Stop.” She yanked away.

  “I am sorry for even hinting you are anything but perfect.”

  She stilled, her brow furrowing. “What do you want?”

  “To know why you make my heart beat faster.”

  Catherine sat gingerly on the edge, as if prepared to run. He saw the pulse at her neck beat. “You are direct.”

  “A quality you admire.” He reached to trace the top of her hand. “I would have you admire more than that.”

  “My heart is not free.”

  His hammered loudly. “You still love Ragenard?”

  She tossed back her head and chuckled, her circlet and veil falling free, releasing her thick braid, so long it fell to the floor. He ached to touch it but kept his hand to himself.

  “I loved my husband. We were young and somewhat foolish. I will never know if our love would have remained strong.”

  “How did he die?” Payen imagined men vying for Catherine’s attention and Ragenard having to fight them all off.

  “He participated in a joust. He took a lance to the belly. It happened so fast.”

  “And this is why you can’t love again?”

  Catherine studied her fingernails. “Hmm.”

  Payen gently guided Catherine’s stubborn chin upward so they looked into one another’s eyes. He would find her secrets, starting with the soft pout of her mouth. “I am going to kiss you.”

  “I don’t think that is a good idea.” Yet she leaned a hair’s breadth toward him, her actions belying her words. She wanted him.

  “Just a taste, Catherine. I would fight your Ragenard if I could.”

  She closed her eyes but kept her position. “You can’t fight a ghost.”

  “A memory.” He caressed his thumb across the angle of her cheekbone, her skin soft.

  “No.” Eyes open, she repeated, “A ghost.”

  She could call the remembrance whatever she liked, but he would chase all images but his from her mind. Having studied people, he realized she didn’t want to feel this desire. Though she yearned to be touched, mourning for her husband kept her numb. Until now. Was the wine to blame for her reluctant acquiescence?

  He slowly lowered his lips, waiting to see if she would pull away from his kiss. It would kill him, but he would concede the skirmish as he waged a war. He knew she wasn’t right for him. He couldn’t marry such a high-spirited, nonconventional beauty, but perhaps they could engage in a love affair satisfying to each of them. Feelings more powerful than a draught muddied his thinking.

  As his mouth lightly touched hers, he felt her lips part, just a little. Desire jolted like lightning cracking across a thunderous sky.

  Her tongue touched his, inviting him to deepen the kiss. He surrendered, accepting that whatever this was, he would ride the wave as long as she was willing.

  Catherine tasted like honey and spice, drawing him in. Her arms closed around his neck, her fingers brushing the curls at his nape. She pressed her breasts into his chest, and he shifted uncomfortably. Was he really kissing Lady Catherine on a bench in the dark of an inn?

  He never behaved in such a manner. But as the lady kept him close, he followed her lead, giving in to the melding of their mouths. She nipped his lower lip, then sucked it before giving it a quick lick.

  His entire body felt ready to burst. When was the last time he’d been with a woman? He was used to ignoring his baser urges, unless a clean whore was available or he had time for a plain mistress. It had been before the start of the crusade, summertime. No wonder he was losing his mind.

  Losing control.

  “You are so beautiful.” His own words were like water to the passionate fire. He had acted foolishly. Her beauty had destroyed his self-control—just as he’d always feared.

  Payen pushed away, leaving her on the bench, her hair askew, her mouth moist in the dying light.

  He’d never seen anyone like her. His heart thudded.

  “You run away?” Her husky voice challenged him to stay.

  “For both our sakes. For now.” He bowed and walked out the front door to sleep with his horse in the stable.

  Chapter Eight

  The following morning, Catherine avoided looking Payen in the eye. He’d fled after starting an inferno of desire, leaving her to agonize over every action. She never, ever should have welcomed his kiss. Too restless to risk waking the other guards, she’d spent the remainder of the night stretched out on the bench, pinching herself awake. She was afraid of what message Ragenard might bring to her dreams.

  Now, dressed warmly in her rabbit fur–lined cloak, gloves, and peony-embroidered scarf, she patted her mare’s velvety nose and wished they were already in Jerusalem. Having to spend the next months in close proximity to Payen was going to be a living hell.

  Had she thought him passionless? She’d never been so wrong. His cool, observant exterior was the lid on a kettle, only now the lid had blown, and she knew what delicious spices brewed inside.

  “Bonjour,” Mamie called, waving an arrowhead beneath Catherine’s nose. Her mare nuzzled Catherine’s. “I’ve been calling your name, yet you don’t even blink.”

  “Sorry.” She blushed.

  Mamie adjusted the brim of her crimson hat so it sat at an angle, flattering her curls. “Do I know him?”

  “Mamie, Mamie.”
Catherine shook her head. “You never met my husband. You would have liked him, I think.”

  “He was handsome, I wager. I know I would have gotten along with him just fine.”

  Laughing, Catherine turned.

  Sarah walked past them to her horse. Her blonde braids fell on either side of her face, making her look like a Viking.

  They all wore their crimson hose and white tunics beneath their cloaks. Leather boots with thick soles protected their feet. Sarah had her sword and her flail attached to the saddle within easy reach and, most importantly as they faced Turkish skirmishing, her quiver and arrows.

  “Have you seen Fay?” Sarah said.

  “No,” Catherine answered.

  “Find that handsome Hector, and I’m sure you will find our Fay.” Mamie grinned. Not only did she enjoy a good affair; she approved of one for others as well.

  De Montfer could judge her friends all he liked. She found them caring and steadfast. His stinging observations meant nothing to her.

  Payen had to mean nothing to her. She should thank him for leaving before they went too far.

  “I miss Fay,” Sarah said. “Men. They enter a girl’s life, and the next thing you know, they no longer have time for their friends.” She smiled.

  Sarah had been just as guilty in the first flush of love with her Jonathon.

  “She should arrive soon.” Mamie looked around. “The queen likes us all in order during the march.”

  “The same as before, do you think?” Catherine said. They usually marched two by two, with the queen in the center.

  “Non. Lord de Montfer’s men have changed the formation. Which reminds me. I saw Lord de Montfer’s squire assisting your new charge.” Sarah had a twinkle in her eye. “He has quite the knowledge of Greek curse words.”

  Catherine groaned, hoping the queen had not heard. “Gaston? Not Jacques?” she said, though she knew the truth. De Montfer’s earnest young squire would not dare curse in any language.

  Sarah laughed as she patted her horse. “I am not looking forward to the next week of riding. Though Pergamum is supposed to be beautiful. I keep telling myself that over and over, as if it will be my reward at the end of a distasteful task.”

  “I heard there is a special wishing well made to Athena, goddess of love.” Mamie poked Catherine’s arm. “Perhaps you can see the future in that.” She rode ahead, her crimson velvet cloak settling around the mare’s hindquarters. “Will you look for me?”

  Chuckling, Catherine nodded. “But don’t blame me for what I see.” Mamie’s friendship warmed her heart, but what would Mamie think of her when she learned the truth? If God had mercy, her friends would never need to know.

  Payen called her a rebel. Perhaps there was truth in the statement. She enjoyed riding astride rather than sidesaddle. Rules were made to be broken.

  Her hair was knotted at the back of her head, and she wore a hat to keep the November sun from her eyes and freckles from her nose. She peered ahead, anxious for the procession to begin.

  Moving forward to catch up to Mamie, she found the queen atop a white horse next to Larissa on her light brown one. Most of the royal baggage was packed in the cart, but Larissa’s horse carried three rolled packs instead of the average two. Only one was filled with Larissa’s necessities, Catherine knew; the others belonged to the queen.

  “A certain lord de Montfer has become a quick favorite,” Mamie whispered to Catherine. “Then again, our liege has an eye for gorgeous men. And women. Anything beautiful, she collects.” She winked. “How do you feel about his attention to the queen?”

  Catherine kept a straight face. Payen watched everything through sharp eyes. It would be disastrous if anyone uncovered the queen’s secrets, and her duty to the queen made it imperative for her to stop him if he came too close.

  “Shh,” she said as Payen, comfortable on his monstrous black stallion, cantered to the other side of the queen. Her belly clenched with nerves. Apprehension? Agitation?

  Payen counted the men and women on horseback as they waited for the signal to begin. His men, dressed in the king’s blue and gold for the crusade, joined the other nobility in the queen’s retinue. He would be a good leader. Dependable.

  Her horse danced, impatient. She soothed the white mare, though she too wanted to break rank and run wild.

  Payen drew back in line. She’d been a fool to welcome his kiss.

  She sat behind, gazing her fill of his shoulders, his hair, and his quiet strength as he organized and directed without seeming to take over. An excellent skill to have when one befriended royalty. Would Eleanor take him as a lover? She swallowed hard. “Good fortune for him,” she whispered to Mamie, hoping she kept her feelings hidden.

  “Emperor Conrad asked about you,” Mamie said, her green eyes bright.

  Catherine turned to Mamie. “You were with Emperor Conrad?”

  Mamie flushed. “Not like that. Yet. Although if the man is as good as he brags, I might give him a tumble. Unfortunately, I’ve found the more bragging a man does, the more work it is for me.”

  Bringing her gloved knuckles to her lips to hide her grin, Catherine shook her head. “You must share how this conversation came about.”

  “While you and de Montfer were doing God’s work”—she cleared her throat—“I enjoyed my mead and bread. I’d sent the men for more and sat alone at the table. The emperor asked if he could join me. Do I look like a fool?” Mamie’s lips twitched. “I scooted over, and he sat very close, so that our legs touched, even as he asked about you.”

  “I can’t imagine why.”

  “Because you look like an angel? Because you saved him from death?” Mamie shrugged, her seat easy on her white mare’s back. “I told him you grieved for a dead husband but that I was free of any encumbrance.”

  Catherine tossed back her head and laughed. “Thank you, my friend. Thank you.”

  “Now if I am wrong and your heart’s desire is a roll in the hay with the German emperor, then I will arrange it, but I didn’t think he was to your taste.”

  Catherine stilled, her pulse jumping at her throat. “Oh? What do you mean?”

  “If you are going to kiss the braies off a man, you should probably find a darker corner.” Mamie smiled, her cheeks rosy in the cool air.

  Catherine blew out a slow breath. “I, well, we—”

  Mamie raised a gloved hand. “No explanations needed. You’ve never so much as looked at a man since I’ve known you, yet de Montfer makes you tremble.”

  Oh no. “It can’t happen again. I am not free.”

  Mamie tugged Catherine’s cloak until Catherine met her gaze. “Ragenard is dead, and unless you killed him, you have every right to grab happiness with both hands.”

  Unexpected tears sprang to her eyes.

  “Saint Mary’s toes, you didn’t kill him, did you?”

  “No!”

  “Who did you kill, Catherine?” de Montfer said, guiding his horse to her left.

  The blood drained from her face. “Nobody yet.” She forced a smile and pointed toward the front of the caravan. “If we don’t start soon, we may as well wait until tomorrow. We are sitting targets for the Turks.”

  “I agree.” De Montfer hadn’t bothered with a helmet, tying his dark hair back with a black leather strap. His sun-bronzed skin complemented the honeyed amber of his eyes.

  Hell’s bells, she’d looked.

  “Do you need anything?” he said, meeting her gaze.

  She averted her eyes, cheeks hot, mind filled with the sensory memory of his shoulders, his chest, his mouth. “Just to get going.”

  As he left, she moved her horse ahead, avoiding conversation. She had to be more careful. No more kisses with a certain handsome lord.

  The first day with the queen’s retinue had gone well, Payen thought as he dismounted, then lowered Queen Eleanor from her mare. She smiled her thanks and went to speak to the captain.

  The sky was overcast as they set up camp by a flowing river shel
tered with a stand of trees. The area had obviously been used by pilgrims, who had even left chopped wood for fires.

  Payen had been part of the discussion with King Louis, Odo, and the other council members about whether to use a Byzantine guide for the journey. Thankfully, everyone agreed to trust the Knights Templar, who had made the journey before. The knights would not lead; King Louis wanted his captain to do that, but they would point them in the proper direction.

  At last, King Louis had stopped putting his faith in Emperor Manuel.

  The route wasn’t complicated. The only real danger were the Turkish renegades, who so far had been absent. He hated to admit it, but the ride had been pleasant. Eleanor had talked of her childhood in Aquitaine. A gifted orator, she had held his interest. Charming, but she wasn’t Catherine.

  Payen searched for the elusive lady, his mind and body attuned to her against his wishes. He saw her helping young Gaston and moved his gaze to the rest of the caravan.

  The caravan was split into sections for ease of delegating responsibilities. He himself reported to the queen and the king’s trusted captain.

  He helped his men set up tents, careful to pitch his apart from theirs. Jacques and Gaston would stay with him. Though the queen hadn’t said so, he got the impression that Gaston, the thieving bastard child, was someone important.

  A chess piece.

  “Jacques, how did it go today?”

  His squire’s gaze beseeched him. “I don’t know why I’ve got to be minding the brat; I should be riding at your side, carrying your weapons. Not protecting this child from himself.”

  “You don’t remember when you first came into my service? You weren’t much older. Twelve.”

  “He’s not even eight. I knew how to clean a horse’s hooves without getting kicked in the face.” Jacques jerked his thumb at Gaston.

  The scowling boy sported a purplish bruise on his cheekbone.

  Payen rested a hand on Gaston’s slight shoulder. “And how do you feel you did today?”

  Gaston’s nose scrunched. Between gritted teeth, he said, “I might have a few things to learn.”