Shari Anton - Knave Of Hearts

Stephen kept the “scarce” condition firmly in mind—the best part of the arrangement to his way of thinking. He could fulfill his duty to his family and provide an heir to his estates, all without becoming staid.

Since he’d already proven his prowess to Carolyn yesterday, leaving her languid and sated, he harbored no worries over tonight’s outcome. He would pleasure her once more, explain the need for his upcoming journey, and secure her agreement to accept no other man as her husband in his absence. When he returned from Normandy, he’d present his suit to her father.

From the nearby abbey came the peal of deep-toned bells, announcing the hour of matins. Midnight. Right on time. He tapped lightly on the chamber door and softly called Carolyn’s name. Receiving no answer, he pushed on the latch, and finding the door unlocked, eased it open.

The flame from a thick tallow candle cast enough mellow light for him to inspect the chamber. Sparse, Stephen judged the furnishings. Truly, he’d have thought the room unoccupied if not for the human-size lump curled in the middle of the bed, huddled completely under a wool coverlet.

It didn’t bode well that Carolyn had fallen asleep. He’d expected her to remain awake with anticipation. But then she’d left the door unbolted and a candle lit for him to see by, and she was in the bed waiting for him to come to her.

Planning a seductive awakening, Stephen slid the bolt, then shucked his tunic and sherte and tossed them onto the small oak table. As he sat on the only stool in the room and removed the first of his boots, a soft gasp came from the direction of the bed.

Bare-chested, boot in hand, Stephen stared at the woman propped up on an elbow. Within the space of a heartbeat he noted hair of sable brown, not auburn. Skin of ivory, not porcelain.

Hellfire. Not Carolyn.

He recognized the woman who stared at him with eyes the color of polished pewter. He hadn’t seen her in five, no six years, but he knew the lovely lady’s name as well as his own.

Marian de Lacy.

They’d lost their innocence together, he and Marian, in her father’s stables. During secret trysts filled with eager, exploring touches, in a fever of sense-banishing youthful lust, they’d discovered the thrill of robust, if unskilled, coupling.

Stephen searched for a way to end the shocked silence, but came up with nothing better than a nod and her name.

“Marian.”

She glanced at the door, then at his discarded garments.

“Sweet heaven, Stephen. What are you doing here?” she asked in a loud whisper.

Knowing women as he did, Stephen suspected that blurting out the truth might not be wise. A man did not tell a former bed mate that he’d come to make love to another woman and hope to escape unscathed.

“I…um…”

Marian shushed him, then eased out of bed while arranging the coverlet into a jumbled heap. When she stood, her sable hair tumbled over her shoulders and down to below her rump, only partially veiling her lush curves. She wore a chemise of cream linen, without sleeves, cut low to her bosom and high on her calves.

Her hips were more rounded than he remembered, her breasts fuller. She padded toward him on bare feet, sleepy-eyed and delectable. All the vision wanted was a stray piece of hay caught in her tumbling, wavy tresses and they could be right back in the stables enjoying each other’s bodies.

His loins stirred, a familiar and natural reaction to seeing a near naked woman, especially when remembering how he’d hastily divested this female of a similar filmy chemise to fondle her firm, dusky-tipped breasts. To press her smooth skin against his. To ease his aching member into Marian’s slick, velvet softness.

Stephen dropped his boot and stood, his arms rising to invite an embrace. Marian stopped beyond his reach and pointed to the door.

“Out,” she whispered, the command as clear as an angry shout.

So much for a tender reunion.

Stephen placed his hands on his hips, drawing her gaze downward to his waist and below, where evidence of his thoughts now strained at his breeches. She stared at the bulge long enough for him to know she remembered well what they’d been doing, in boisterous fashion, when last together.

“Is that any way to greet an old friend?” he asked.

“Shh!”

He failed to understand her insistent hushing. “Why must we whisper?”

Marian glanced over her shoulder at the bed. “So we do not wake my daughter.”

Stephen noted the heaped coverlet, under which must lie a child, a little girl. He banished a moment of unease by recalling, with great relief, that his and Marian’s union hadn’t borne fruit. For a while after their affair he’d wondered over that particular consequence, fearing Marian’s father might come roaring into Wilmont demanding a wedding—or Stephen’s head. It hadn’t happened. He’d been spared.

He’d also taken the incident as a warning and forever after been careful about where he spilled his seed.

The bundle on the bed shifted, the child the result of another man’s spilled seed.

Marian must now be married. No wonder she was so angry at his intrusion—and he had intruded. He’d taken it upon himself to enter the chamber in search of Carolyn.

Was it possible that sometime after he and Carolyn had arranged this tryst, the palace seneschal had moved her into another room, giving this one to Marian? And Marian’s husband? Was that why the door hadn’t been bolted?

Stephen sat and pulled on his boot. He’d never been caught in a compromising situation with another man’s wife and didn’t intend for that to happen now. Too, he had yet to find Carolyn and secure the betrothal bargain tonight.

Dare he ask Marian if she knew where Carolyn had been moved to? He stood and shrugged into his sherte and tunic, preparing for a hasty escape if Marian took his inquiry badly.

“My pardon for the intrusion, Marian. I obviously mistook your chamber for that of another. Do you happen to know where its former occupant might be?”

She stared at him, long and hard. “You look for Carolyn?”

Wary, he nodded.

Without a hint of surprise or anger, which might be expected of a former lover, she said, “Then you are in the right chamber. Unfortunately, my cousin is not here.” She waved at the door. “Kindly wait without.”

Marian and Carolyn were cousins? They shared these quarters? Stephen pushed aside further questions. Those were for Carolyn to answer, not Marian.

“As you wish. Truly, I did not mean to disturb you, Marian, only talk to Carolyn.”

Marian scoffed. “Talk?”

“Aye, talk,” he said. “If you will recall, you and I managed to do some of that, too.”

“You talked. I listened. For all my devoted attention you dismissed me without so much as the courtesy of a farewell.”

True enough. She’d listened, fascinated by his tales of the many places he’d been, and especially about those he yet wished to visit. He’d forgotten how good a companion she’d been, but then, he truly hadn’t thought about Marian in years. He’d been too busy traveling to all of those exotic places he’d told her about. She was wrong about dismissing her lightly, however. Surely, someone had explained to her why he’d left her father’s estate so quickly.

“We were denied the chance to part company as we should. I am sorry for that,” he said.

He took a step forward, knowing he shouldn’t touch her, yet reached out to brush at a lock of silky hair that threatened to cover Marian’s eyes. She jerked back and looked away. Her recoil hurt, sharper and deeper than it should. His offending fingers curled into his palm.

“Rather too late for apologies, is it not?” she asked.

Apparently so, and for that he was sorry, too.