When she tore her mouth from his, he almost groaned with disappointment, thinking he had frightened her with his unbridled passion-but when he opened his eyes, what he saw on her face was neither fright or revulsion, it was wonder. A knot of tenderness swelling in his chest, he held perfectly still, watching her as Jenny took his face between her hands, her trembling fingertips reverently caressing his eyes, his cheekbones and jaw, and then she leaned up and kissed him with an ardor that nearly matched his own. Turning into his arms, pressing him back into the pillows, her hair spilling across them like a satin veil, she kissed his eyes, his nose, his ear, and when her lips closed over his nipple, Royce lost control. "Jenny," he groaned, his hands rushing over her back and thighs and buttocks. His fingers dug into her hair, pulling her lips back to his fevered mouth. "Jenny," he whispered hoarsely, his tongue plunging into her mouth, tangling with hers as he rolled her onto her back and covered her body with his. "Jenny," he murmured hotly as he hungrily devoured her breasts and stomach and thighs with his mouth. He could not stop saying her name. It played like a melody in his heart when her arms went around him and she lifted her hips, willingly molding herself to his engorged manhood; it sang in his veins as she welcomed the first fierce thrust of his body into hers; it rang through every fiber of his being as she matched his fierce, driving thrusts; and it exploded in a crescendo as she cried out, "I love you," her nails biting into his back, her body racked with wave after wave of ecstasy.

His body straining, desperate for release, Royce dragged his lips from hers and leaned up on his forearms, waiting for her tremors to subside as he gazed down into her beautiful, shadowy face. And then, because he could hold back no longer, he drove into her one last time, gasping her name. His body jerked convulsively again and again and again as he spilled his life into her, holding her hips to his hips and her mouth to his mouth.

Lying on his back, his wife cradled tightly against his side, he waited for the thundering beat of his heart to subside, his hand roving over her satiny skin, his mind still dazed by the explosion of his body. In all his years of aimless sexual encounters and torrid dalliances, nothing had ever approached the shattering ecstasy he'd just experienced.

Beside him, Jenny raised her head, and he tipped his chin down, looking into her eyes. In their slumberous blue depths he saw the same wonder and confusion he felt. "What are you thinking?" he asked with a tender smile at her upturned face.

An answering smile touched her lips as her fingers splayed across his hair-roughened chest.

Only two thoughts had crossed Jenny's mind and, rather than admit that she'd been longing to hear him say he loved her, she confessed to the other thought. "I was thinking," she whispered ruefully, "that if it had been like this… at Hardin… I don't think I'd have left with William."

"If it had been like this," Royce countered, his smile widening to a wicked grin, "I'd have come after you."

Unaware that she could so easily stir his desire, Jenny trailed her fingers down the flat planes of his hard stomach. "Why didn't you?"

"I was under arrest at the time," he replied dryly, then he caught her wandering hand in his, flattening it beneath his palm to prevent it from straying lower, "for refusing to turn you over to Graverley," he added, releasing her hand.

His breath caught as her hand slid down the side of his thigh. "Jenny," he warned hoarsely, but it was already too late, desire was pouring through him, making him rigid. With a smothered laugh at her startled expression, he caught her hips and lifted her, settling her gently but firmly atop his swollen shaft. "Take as long as you like, little one," he teased huskily, "I'm entirely at your service." His laughter faded, however, as his wife leaned down, straddling him, and sweetly covered his mouth with hers.

Chapter Twenty-One

A smile drifted across Jenny's face as she stood at the window of the solar, looking out into the bailey, her heart filled with the memory of last night. It was mid-morning, judging from the angle of the sun, and she'd only arisen less than an hour ago-later than she'd ever slept in her life.

Royce had made love to her long and lingeringly this morning, this time with an exquisite, restrained gentleness that even now made Jenny's pulses race. He had not told her that he loved her, but he did love her-as inexperienced as she was with love, she was certain of that. Why else would he have made such a pledge to her? Or taken such care with her when she was in his bed?

So lost was she in her reflections that Jenny didn't notice when Agnes entered the room. The smile still in her eyes, Jenny turned to the maid who was holding out another hastily remade gown to her, this one of soft cream cashmere. Despite the servant's stern, foreboding expression, Jenny was absolutely determined to break through the barriers and befriend her serfs as well. Surely if she could gentle a wolf, it could not be nearly as difficult to befriend his servants.

Searching for something to say to the maid, she accepted the gown and then noticed the tub in the alcove. Seizing on that as a safe topic, she said, "That tub is large enough to hold four or five people. At home, we either bathe in the lake, or else make do with a little wooden tub that holds only enough water to cover you to the waist."

"This is England, my lady," Agnes replied as she picked up the gown Jenny had worn last night. Jenny shot a startled glance at her, uncertain whether her tone had been laced with superiority or not.

"Do all the big homes in England have such enormous tubs and real fireplaces and-" she lifted her arm and made a sweeping gesture that included the luxurious chamber with its velvet draperies and thick mats scattered across the floor, "and things like all this-?"

"No, my lady. But you're at Claymore, and Sir Albert-the master's steward and steward to the old lord, too-is under orders to keep Claymore like a castle fit for a king. The silver is polished every week, and no dust is allowed to get into the tapestries, nor on the floors, neither. And if something gets ruint', 'tis given away and replaced."

"It must require a great deal of work to keep it so perfect," Jenny observed.

"Aye, but then the new master has told Sir Albert what he's to do, and Sir Albert, hard, proud man though he is, will do what he's told-no matter how he feels inside about he what's tellin' him to do it."

That last startling remark was so laced with bitterness and resentment that Jenny couldn't believe she'd heard correctly. Her brows drew together as she twisted around fully to look at the maid. "Agnes, what do you mean?"

Agnes obviously realized she'd said too much, because the woman turned white and stiffened, staring at Jennifer in wild-eyed fear. "I meant nothin', my lady. Nothin'! 'Tis proud we all are to have our new master home, and if all 'is enemies come here, as they surely will, 'tis proud we'll be to give up our crops and our menfolk and children for his battles. Proud!" she uttered in a low, desperate voice that was still filled with a trace of angry resentment. "We are good, loyal folk, and hold no ill will toward the master for what he did. An we hope he holds none against us."

"Agnes," Jenny said gently, "you needn't be afraid of me. I won't betray your confidences. What do you mean by 'what he did'?"

The poor woman was shaking so hard that when Royce opened the door and poked his head inside to remind Jennifer to join him downstairs for the midday meal, Agnes dropped the velvet gown. Snatching it up, she fled from the room. But as she pulled open the heavy oaken door, she glanced back at Royce, and this time Jennifer distinctly saw her cross herself again.

The cashmere gown forgotten in her hand, Jenny stared at the closing door, her forehead furrowed in a thoughtful frown.


The great hall showed few signs of last night's merrymaking; the trestle tables that had filled the room had been taken down and removed. In fact, the only remnants of the night's revelry were the dozen or so knights who were still asleep on benches along the walls, their snores rising and falling sonorously. Despite the air of bustling efficiency, Jenny noticed with sympathy that the serfs' movements were sluggish, and that more than one was unable to dodge a halfhearted kick from an irate knight on the bench who did not want his slumber disturbed.

Royce looked up as Jennifer came to the table and rose to his feet with that easy, catlike grace that she'd always admired. "Good morning," he said in a low, intimate voice, "I trust you slept well?"

"Very well," Jenny said in a voice that was an embarrassed little whisper, but her eyes were bright and sparkling as she sat down beside him.

"Good morning, my dear!" Aunt Elinor chirped happily, as she looked up from daintily slicing a piece of venison from the tray of cold meats in front of her. "You're looking in fine spirits this morning."

"Good morning, Aunt Elinor," Jenny said, sending her a reassuring smile; then she cast a puzzled look up and down the table at the silent men who were also present: Sir Stefan, Sir Godfrey, Sir Lionel, Sir Eustace, Arik, and Friar Gregory. Aware of the strange silence and downcast eyes of the men, she said with a hesitant smile, "Good morning, everyone."

Five male faces slowly lifted to hers-pale, strained faces whose expressions ranged from glazed pain to befuddled confusion. "Good morning, my lady," they echoed politely, but three of them winced and the other two shaded their eyes with their hands. Only Arik seemed normal this morning, which meant he had no expression at all, and he said absolutely nothing to anyone. Ignoring him completely, Jenny looked at Friar Gregory, who seemed to be in no better condition than the others, and then she looked at Royce. "What's wrong with everyone?" she asked.

Royce helped himself to the white wheaten bread and cold meats laid out on the table, and the men reluctantly followed suit. "They're paying the price of last night's orgy of drunkenness and wenc-er, drunkenness," Royce amended, grinning.

Surprised, Jenny glanced at Friar Gregory, who'd just lifted a cup of ale to his lips. "You, too, Friar Gregory?" she said, and the poor man choked.

"I'm guilty of the former, my lady," he sputtered with chagrin, "but I plead complete innocence of the latter."

Jenny, who'd failed to note the word Royce had swiftly altered, gave the priest a puzzled look, but Aunt Elinor piped up, "I anticipated just such a malady as this, my dear, and early this morning, I went down to the kitchens to prepare a nice restorative, only to find there was not so much as a snip of saffron to be had!"

The mention of the kitchen drew Royce's instant attention, and for the first time he seemed to study Lady Elinor with great interest. "Do you find my kitchens lacking in other items-items which might make all this-" he gestured to the rather tasteless leftover sops from last night, "more pleasing to the palate?"

"Why assuredly, your grace," she replied at once. " 'Twas quite a shock to me to find such a woefully understocked kitchen. There was rosemary and thyme, but no raisins, or ginger paris, nor canel, oregano, or cloves to speak of. And I didn't see a nut in the place, except one poor, wizened chestnut! Nuts are such wonderful compliments to delicate sauces and delicious desserts-"

At the mention of "delicate sauces and delicious desserts," Aunt Elinor suddenly became the focus of undivided masculine attention. Only Arik remained disinterested, ostensibly preferring the joint of cold goose he was eating to rich sauces and desserts.

"Go on," Royce invited her, his speculative gaze riveted on her with rapt fascination. "What sorts of things would you have prepared-assuming you had the necessary ingredients, of course?"

"Well, let me think," she said, her forehead furrowed in a little frown. "It's been decades since I presided over the kitchens in my own lovely castle, but-oh yes-there were baked meat pies with crusts so light and lovely they melted in the mouth; and-take for example that hen you are eating," she said to Sir Godfrey, warming to her new position of culinary expert. "Instead of being cooked on a spit and served dried out and tough as canvas, which it is, it could have been simmered in half broth, half wine, with cloves, mace, fennel, and pepper, then laid upon a trencher so the juices made the bread ever so tasty.