warren of underground tunnels. More still whispered that they’d found the treasures hidden there centuries before, along with that most sacred of all relics, the long-lost Ark of the Covenant.
Jocelyn didn’t believe that for a second. No one, least of all the head of a religious order dedicated to serving Christ, would deny the world such a sacred relic. Still, one had to wonder how they’d come so far from their original designation as poor fellow knights. Poor they were most definitely not!
Sir Thomas’s persistent and most annoying drone pulled her from her thoughts. “But why is this would-be Templar in your bed?”
Jocelyn laid down her jeweled eating knife and gave him her haughtiest, lady-of-the-manner stare. “He was ill used by the pirates who took him. So ill used that he collapsed at my feet, raging with fever. Lady Constance prepared healing unguents and helped me tend him throughout this long night.”
Lips pursed, the steward speared a date and bit into it. Juice spurted from the ripe fruit onto his reddish beard. Unmindful of the dribble, he chewed thoughtfully for a moment.
“The man must be noble born if he’s to join the Templars. Did he give you his name?”
“He did. Simon de Rhys.”
“Son of Gervase de Rhys?”
“He didn’t name his sire.”
“Yes, he did.” Sir Hugh leaned forward and looked around her. “He said this Gervase de Rhys is indeed his sire. Do you know him?”
“I know of him.” The steward’s lip curled. “If half the tales told of the man are true, he would trade his honor for the price of a goat.” He pointed his eating knife at Jocelyn. “Have a care, lady. Rotten fruit doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
The warning made her chest squeeze so tight she couldn’t breathe. Heaven help her! Had she misread de Rhys’s character when she’d assessed him on the auction block? Would he ignore his vow to keep silent and brag to any who would listen about bedding the lady of Fortemur? Mayhap try to make some claim on her or her estate?
As quickly as the panic leaped from her chest to grab her by the throat, she thrust it back down again. Simon de Rhys had shown his true stripes last night. She might have been an untried virgin when he’d entered her chamber, but she was no fool. She knew well he could have used her far more roughly than he had.
True, he’d demeaned her by insisting she remove her robes and his. Also true, he’d looked her up and down in a manner that even now sent heat into her cheeks. Yet his touch had been… Had been…
Tantalizing. Exciting. Inflaming. Especially when he’d stroked her where no other ever had.
Without the least warning, Jocelyn’s womb clenched. So hard and tight that her hand fisted around her eating knife. Shocked to her core by the pulsing sensation, she shoved back her chair and rose.
“I must let Lady Constance come down and break her fast. I’ll be in my chamber, tending to de Rhys, should you need me.”
Simon was sure he dreamed. Those quiet voices. Those soft hands and cool, soothing cloths on his neck and aching back. They couldn’t belong to the horror that had been his life since pirates had stormed aboard the ship transporting him to Outremer.
He shifted, rubbing a bristly cheek against linen smelling faintly of musk and lavender. The scent stirred something buried deep in his mind. He had a vague memory of skin imbued with this same costly musk. Warm, silken skin that heated under his hands.
An answering heat rose in him. Hot. Searing. Far closer to pain than pleasure. The voices faded. Darkness claimed him.
“You must drink.”
Dragged from the enveloping mists, Simon tried to shut out the nagging voice. It wouldn’t be stilled.
“Do not scowl so at me.”
A firm hand gripped his neck and tilted his head. Something pressed against his lips.
“Drink.”
Irritated, he opened his mouth and near gagged when a noxious brew slid down his throat. When he tried to spit it out, a hand
Jocelyn didn’t believe that for a second. No one, least of all the head of a religious order dedicated to serving Christ, would deny the world such a sacred relic. Still, one had to wonder how they’d come so far from their original designation as poor fellow knights. Poor they were most definitely not!
Sir Thomas’s persistent and most annoying drone pulled her from her thoughts. “But why is this would-be Templar in your bed?”
Jocelyn laid down her jeweled eating knife and gave him her haughtiest, lady-of-the-manner stare. “He was ill used by the pirates who took him. So ill used that he collapsed at my feet, raging with fever. Lady Constance prepared healing unguents and helped me tend him throughout this long night.”
Lips pursed, the steward speared a date and bit into it. Juice spurted from the ripe fruit onto his reddish beard. Unmindful of the dribble, he chewed thoughtfully for a moment.
“The man must be noble born if he’s to join the Templars. Did he give you his name?”
“He did. Simon de Rhys.”
“Son of Gervase de Rhys?”
“He didn’t name his sire.”
“Yes, he did.” Sir Hugh leaned forward and looked around her. “He said this Gervase de Rhys is indeed his sire. Do you know him?”
“I know of him.” The steward’s lip curled. “If half the tales told of the man are true, he would trade his honor for the price of a goat.” He pointed his eating knife at Jocelyn. “Have a care, lady. Rotten fruit doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
The warning made her chest squeeze so tight she couldn’t breathe. Heaven help her! Had she misread de Rhys’s character when she’d assessed him on the auction block? Would he ignore his vow to keep silent and brag to any who would listen about bedding the lady of Fortemur? Mayhap try to make some claim on her or her estate?
As quickly as the panic leaped from her chest to grab her by the throat, she thrust it back down again. Simon de Rhys had shown his true stripes last night. She might have been an untried virgin when he’d entered her chamber, but she was no fool. She knew well he could have used her far more roughly than he had.
True, he’d demeaned her by insisting she remove her robes and his. Also true, he’d looked her up and down in a manner that even now sent heat into her cheeks. Yet his touch had been… Had been…
Tantalizing. Exciting. Inflaming. Especially when he’d stroked her where no other ever had.
Without the least warning, Jocelyn’s womb clenched. So hard and tight that her hand fisted around her eating knife. Shocked to her core by the pulsing sensation, she shoved back her chair and rose.
“I must let Lady Constance come down and break her fast. I’ll be in my chamber, tending to de Rhys, should you need me.”
Simon was sure he dreamed. Those quiet voices. Those soft hands and cool, soothing cloths on his neck and aching back. They couldn’t belong to the horror that had been his life since pirates had stormed aboard the ship transporting him to Outremer.
He shifted, rubbing a bristly cheek against linen smelling faintly of musk and lavender. The scent stirred something buried deep in his mind. He had a vague memory of skin imbued with this same costly musk. Warm, silken skin that heated under his hands.
An answering heat rose in him. Hot. Searing. Far closer to pain than pleasure. The voices faded. Darkness claimed him.
“You must drink.”
Dragged from the enveloping mists, Simon tried to shut out the nagging voice. It wouldn’t be stilled.
“Do not scowl so at me.”
A firm hand gripped his neck and tilted his head. Something pressed against his lips.
“Drink.”
Irritated, he opened his mouth and near gagged when a noxious brew slid down his throat. When he tried to spit it out, a hand
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