clapped over his lips.
“Drink it, I say!”
He got it down and pried up gritty eyelids to find he was lying on his side, face-to-face with a woman seated on a low stool. She had stern gray eyes and a face that showed lines of age beneath her elegant wimple.
“Who…?”
Lord! Had that hoarse croak come from him? He dragged his tongue over dry, cracked lips and tried again.
“Who are you?”
“I am Constance, wife to Sir Guy.”
That told him nothing.
Where in the name of all the saints was he? Who was this woman, and this Sir Guy she spoke of?
“Swallow the rest of this draught and I will fetch Lady Jocelyn. She wished to know the moment you came to your senses.”
Jocelyn. The name pierced Simon’s confused haze. His mind formed an instant vision of pink-tipped breasts and soft, creamy skin. His body stirred in response.
Luckily, the woman seated mere inches from him didn’t note his involuntary stiffening. She poured the rest of the foul-tasting brew down his throat, set aside the drinking horn, gathered her skirts and rose.
“I’ll send for Lady Jocelyn.”
“Wait! First tell me…” He scraped his furry tongue across his lips again. “Tell me how long I’ve slept.”
“You’ve been abed for nigh onto two days and two nights.”
When she departed, Simon rolled over. Or tried to. The effort seemed to tear strips of skin from his back. When the waves of pain subsided, he moved more cautiously, inch by slow inch, until he lay on his back.
Frowning, he stared up at the heavy bed curtains hung from a frame above his head. Of a sudden he could remember them rattling on their iron links as a certain stiff-backed lady tugged them open. Remember, too, the curve of her waist and buttocks below the fall of her hair.
So she wasn’t a dream. Lady Jocelyn. Mistress of Fortemur. He’d really bedded her. Not just bedded, he remembered suddenly, but pierced her maiden’s shield.
A fierce satisfaction thrust through his whirling thoughts. He’d bedded only one other virgin. He’d been a callow youth of ten or eleven at the time, completely bewitched by a buxom drover’s daughter some years older. They’d fumbled in the straw and he’d almost spilled himself before she’d given an impatient huff and straddled his hips.
As best he could recall, the drover’s daughter had been a rough and blowzy wench. The woman he’d bedded last night was anything but. As his mind cleared, the details flooded back: of a lady haughty and stubborn and proud. Trim flanks girded by a linen band. Rounded buttocks that had near driven him mad with desire.
To know he was the first man Lady Jocelyn had wrapped her legs around tugged at something deep and fierce and primal in Simon. He might not have a groat to call his own, but she was his. She would be, henceforth, in a way she could never be for another man.
Not that Simon could claim her. Aside from the fact that her station was far above his, he’d sworn never to reveal what had transpired between them last night. More to the point, his thrice-damned father had sentenced him to a life that forbade any further concourse with all women, including the Lady of Fortemur.
The tread of footsteps in the hall wrenched him from his grim thoughts. Teeth gritted, Simon turned his head to the door as two people swept in. His first thought was that the Lady Jocelyn was both more and less beauteous than he remembered. Linen banded her forehead and chin and confined her hair. Her mouth was set, her chin angled to a stubborn and most unbecoming tilt. Yet her gown’s square-cut bodice emphasized the swell of her breasts, and the belt clasped loosely around her hips drew his gaze to their graceful curve.
But it was her eyes that caught and held his. The warning in their brown depths was unmistakable. He was to say naught, reveal naught, of what had passed between them.
The unspoken warning rubbed his feathers exactly the wrong way. He’d given his word. Did the woman think he
“Drink it, I say!”
He got it down and pried up gritty eyelids to find he was lying on his side, face-to-face with a woman seated on a low stool. She had stern gray eyes and a face that showed lines of age beneath her elegant wimple.
“Who…?”
Lord! Had that hoarse croak come from him? He dragged his tongue over dry, cracked lips and tried again.
“Who are you?”
“I am Constance, wife to Sir Guy.”
That told him nothing.
Where in the name of all the saints was he? Who was this woman, and this Sir Guy she spoke of?
“Swallow the rest of this draught and I will fetch Lady Jocelyn. She wished to know the moment you came to your senses.”
Jocelyn. The name pierced Simon’s confused haze. His mind formed an instant vision of pink-tipped breasts and soft, creamy skin. His body stirred in response.
Luckily, the woman seated mere inches from him didn’t note his involuntary stiffening. She poured the rest of the foul-tasting brew down his throat, set aside the drinking horn, gathered her skirts and rose.
“I’ll send for Lady Jocelyn.”
“Wait! First tell me…” He scraped his furry tongue across his lips again. “Tell me how long I’ve slept.”
“You’ve been abed for nigh onto two days and two nights.”
When she departed, Simon rolled over. Or tried to. The effort seemed to tear strips of skin from his back. When the waves of pain subsided, he moved more cautiously, inch by slow inch, until he lay on his back.
Frowning, he stared up at the heavy bed curtains hung from a frame above his head. Of a sudden he could remember them rattling on their iron links as a certain stiff-backed lady tugged them open. Remember, too, the curve of her waist and buttocks below the fall of her hair.
So she wasn’t a dream. Lady Jocelyn. Mistress of Fortemur. He’d really bedded her. Not just bedded, he remembered suddenly, but pierced her maiden’s shield.
A fierce satisfaction thrust through his whirling thoughts. He’d bedded only one other virgin. He’d been a callow youth of ten or eleven at the time, completely bewitched by a buxom drover’s daughter some years older. They’d fumbled in the straw and he’d almost spilled himself before she’d given an impatient huff and straddled his hips.
As best he could recall, the drover’s daughter had been a rough and blowzy wench. The woman he’d bedded last night was anything but. As his mind cleared, the details flooded back: of a lady haughty and stubborn and proud. Trim flanks girded by a linen band. Rounded buttocks that had near driven him mad with desire.
To know he was the first man Lady Jocelyn had wrapped her legs around tugged at something deep and fierce and primal in Simon. He might not have a groat to call his own, but she was his. She would be, henceforth, in a way she could never be for another man.
Not that Simon could claim her. Aside from the fact that her station was far above his, he’d sworn never to reveal what had transpired between them last night. More to the point, his thrice-damned father had sentenced him to a life that forbade any further concourse with all women, including the Lady of Fortemur.
The tread of footsteps in the hall wrenched him from his grim thoughts. Teeth gritted, Simon turned his head to the door as two people swept in. His first thought was that the Lady Jocelyn was both more and less beauteous than he remembered. Linen banded her forehead and chin and confined her hair. Her mouth was set, her chin angled to a stubborn and most unbecoming tilt. Yet her gown’s square-cut bodice emphasized the swell of her breasts, and the belt clasped loosely around her hips drew his gaze to their graceful curve.
But it was her eyes that caught and held his. The warning in their brown depths was unmistakable. He was to say naught, reveal naught, of what had passed between them.
The unspoken warning rubbed his feathers exactly the wrong way. He’d given his word. Did the woman think he
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