She sent him a look filled with challenge. She desired this man and she would have him, just as her grandmother, the aptly named Dangereuse, had had her grandfather. The risk only added spice. They would be together under everyone’s nose, and no one would be the wiser, not even her sister, who thought she knew everything. ‘Yes, it would,’ she said. ‘It is very late and you should escort me to my chamber.’

A deliberate look passed between them, and Petronella’s loins liquefied. She was on fire with excitement and apprehension. A tiny part of her could not believe she was doing this. Another part wondered if Raoul would follow her lead, or draw back. If they crossed the line, they could not go back. When she stood up, her legs almost gave way.

Raoul moved to catch her. To the servants, it looked as if the King’s constable was assisting the Queen’s sister, who had been injudicious with the wine, and no one thought any more of it.

Instead of taking Petronella to her chamber, Raoul drew her to the gardens. Petronella leaned against him, bumping her hip against his and giggling. The night breeze was like warm, feathered fingers scented with roses and the salt tang of the ocean. Petronella thought she could hear the roar of the waves, or perhaps it was just the surge of blood in her veins. Above them the full moon was a swollen silver disc in a sky of luminous dark blue.

Raoul took her to an arbour seat half concealed by roses and columbine and drew her into his lap. Petronella curled her arms around his neck and angled her head, inviting Raoul to kiss her. He lowered his lips to hers, parted them, and showed her what to do.

Desire wound through her blood like strong wine. She pressed herself against him, giving herself up to the delicious sensations he was creating with his mouth and fingers. But then he stopped. His hand was under her skirts, against the soft skin of her bare thigh, where he had been lightly stroking her in a way she could hardly bear. ‘Go on,’ she gasped, pushing her hips forward, rocking on him. ‘Go on!’

‘If I do,’ he said, ‘you know there is no turning back. We are bound to whatever fate deals us from this.’

Petronella felt swollen with lust, but hollow too, desperate for his love and attention – for his hard male body. That was all that mattered. She would deal with the consequences later. ‘No one need know if we are careful!’ she gasped.

Raoul knew all about being careful. He had had decades of practice during the various affairs he had conducted. He had a slight conscience about Petronella, but it wasn’t enough to subjugate his lust or his drive as a sexual predator. She was beautiful, desirable, wild, but innocent and full of a hunger he well recognised, because it was a part of himself.

He lifted her to straddle him. ‘Gently,’ he said. ‘Go gently, my heart. A little, and then a little more.’

Petronella closed her eyes and bit her lip. There was pain, but it was bearable, and there was pleasure, which wasn’t because it was so exquisite that it was like pain. She knew Louis and Alienor would never experience anything like this. This was hers alone, and that made it all the more wonderful. It was very wrong, but how could it be wrong when it felt so right? And then she didn’t think at all and let the moment carry her, each of them inside the other as she had imagined. As she shuddered in her crisis, she bit the collar of his tunic to prevent herself from crying out. Raoul gripped her, gave three more strong thrusts and lifted her up on the next surge to spill himself outside her body.

As she collapsed on him, Raoul threw back his head, gasping. His heart slammed against his ribcage. He hadn’t felt this raw excitement since he was a green youth with his first woman.

Petronella giggled breathlessly. ‘I want to do it again,’ she said with shining eyes.

He looked dubious, but chuckled. ‘Not tonight, doucette. People will be wondering where we are. A stroll for some fresh air should not take until dawn, and we are probably already at the limit. Besides, I need time to recover even if you do not.’

‘But tomorrow …?’ She leaned forward and kissed him, proving how fast a learner she was.

He cupped his hand at the back of her head, and returned the kiss with slow thoroughness. ‘We’ll see what can be arranged.’

He had a napkin with him from the feast, and he used it to wipe away the evidence of their lovemaking from her thighs and between her legs.

‘Give it to me,’ Petronella said. ‘I will put it on the fire.’

He handed it to her and assisted her to her feet. She shook out her gown before turning to kiss him again, loving the feel of his stubble against her tender skin and the firmness of his hands at her waist.

‘Come,’ he said. ‘Time to be a demure young lady in the eyes of the court.’

Petronella gave a mock yawn. ‘The fresh air has done me good; I think I shall sleep well tonight, very well indeed.’

Raoul saw her as far as the stairs to her chamber door. Having glanced round to make sure no one was looking, he kissed her again and, with a final salute, melted away into the night.

Petronella sighed softly and, still marvelling, entered her chamber. Floreta was waiting for her in a state of high anxiety. ‘Where have you been?’ she cried. ‘I have been beside myself!’

Petronella twirled round in the centre of the room. ‘I went for a walk. There’s a lovely moon.’

‘Alone?’ Floreta looked horrified.

‘Don’t fuss,’ Petronella said. ‘This is Talmont. Everyone knows me. I’m not a prisoner.’

‘What’s that in your hand?’ Floreta pointed to the napkin, her eyes full of suspicion.

‘Nothing,’ Petronella said swiftly. ‘I felt sick and didn’t want to spoil my gown.’ She made a gesture of dismissal. ‘My head is spinning. Go to your bed and leave me to mine. I can see to myself.’

Floreta hesitated, but eventually gave in, curtseyed and left the chamber. Petronella cast the towel on to the foot of the bed. The fire wasn’t lit so she couldn’t burn the evidence tonight. Besides, in a strange way she did not want to, because it was proof of her wedding night and the same as any bridal sheet. Raoul might be married, but that didn’t matter. She would have him whatever it took. He was hers now.

Removing her gown and shoes, she climbed into bed and blew out the lamp; then she lay awake, reliving what had just happened and savouring the memory. Before she fell asleep, she retrieved the towel from the foot of the bed and tucked it under her pillow.

Having been to mass and broken her fast, Alienor went to talk to Petronella about the imminent return to Poitiers. As usual, her sister was still abed, although awake and sitting up; her hair was a tangled nest and her eyes were still hazy with sleep. Floreta had only just arrived with a bowl of warm water for morning ablutions, together with bread and a jug of buttermilk.

Alienor shook her head with exasperation. ‘You are like a night-blooming flower,’ she said. ‘All wilted in the morning, and not perking up until dusk approaches.’

Petronella gave her a strange, sly look. There was a hint of a smile on her lips. ‘My petals open when others’ close,’ she agreed, and stretched. A faint aroma filled the air between them that Alienor knew, but could not place. Petronella left the bed to wash her face and hands.

Alienor’s gaze lit upon what looked like a towel poking out from beneath Petronella’s pillow. It wouldn’t have caught her attention, except that it was bloodstained. Her stomach lurched with shock. ‘What’s this?’ she demanded.

Petronella turned round and lunged for the towel but Alienor snatched it away.

‘It’s nothing,’ Petronella said, her complexion scarlet. ‘I had a nosebleed last night, that’s all.’

Alienor opened up the cloth, and noticed there were other stains too, and the cloth itself was slightly damp. She raised it to her nose, and the smell of a man’s spilled seed was unmistakable. She turned to the wide-eyed Floreta. ‘Leave us,’ she commanded, ‘and not a word to anyone.’

Floreta draped Petronella’s clothes over the foot of the bed, and left the room with a worried look over her shoulder. Alienor waited until she heard the latch click, and then fixed her sister with a furious stare. ‘What do you think you are doing, you fool? This could ruin us both. Who is it? Tell me!’

Petronella folded her arms under her breasts. ‘No one,’ she said.

‘Do not lie to me! Tell me who it is!’

Petronella lifted her chin and stared back at Alienor, her brown eyes made almost golden by the pink flush on her skin. ‘I will tell you nothing, because there is nothing to tell.’ Turning her back, she tore a piece off the loaf Floreta had brought and popped it in her mouth.

Goaded by rage and hurt, Alienor seized Petronella’s arm and spun her round so they were face to face. ‘You silly child, I am trying to protect you! Do you know what danger you are courting?’

‘You are only trying to protect yourself. You know nothing! You don’t care about me!’ Petronella shook her off, her chest heaving.

‘I care about you more than you will ever realise. Someone has taken advantage of you. I will find out, and when I do, it will go hard for him.’

Petronella did not answer. She broke off another piece of bread and ate it, her stare filled with insolent challenge.

Feeling sick at heart, Alienor turned to the door, the cloth in her hand, but immediately stopped. She dared not make a fuss outside this chamber because it would bring Petronella into total disrepute with the court, and with her sister’s shame would come her own. She had been so careful with Geoffrey de Rancon, had avoided and abjured what could so easily have become a burning scandal, but now Petronella, by this foolish, giddy act, had endangered them both. She hurled the cloth at her. ‘Dispose of this foul thing,’ she spat. ‘You have disgraced and betrayed me, and our household. Think on that if you have any conscience outside your own selfish desire for pleasure and dalliance.’ Her voice developed a ragged tremble. ‘I trusted you … You do not know what you have done.’

Still Petronella did not speak. Alienor left the room and pulled the door closed with a hard hand on the latch. Floreta stood outside, wringing her hands and looking agitated.

‘What do you know of this matter?’ Alienor demanded. ‘Answer me!’

Floreta shook her head. ‘Nothing, madam, I swear! I prepared my lady’s chamber as usual. When she was late, I began to worry, but then she arrived with that towel in her hand and said she had it because she felt unwell and feared she might vomit. She told me she had gone to take some air.’

More than air, Alienor thought grimly. ‘She arrived alone? There was no one with her?’

‘No, madam.’

Alienor fixed Floreta with a hard stare. ‘Say nothing to anyone. If this gets out, there will be terrible repercussions, and they will fall on everyone.’

‘You have my word, madam, on my soul.’ Floreta crossed herself.

‘I will find out who is responsible for this. Make sure Petronella keeps to her room today. I do not want to see her out among the court. If anyone asks, she is sick. Report to me if she says anything you think I need to hear.’

Floreta returned to the chamber, and Alienor went to pray, not only to ask God for His help, but to ponder what to do. She wondered if she could escape this morass without telling Louis, because if he found out, it would trigger one of his rages. She gripped her prayer beads, feeling an enormous sense of guilt. She ought to have watched Petronella more closely. Her sister had always been needy and vulnerable, and had plainly sought in the wrong places for the attention she craved. Alienor had strong suspicions as to the culprit. Aimery de Niort had been making his intentions known for some time. But he was a mere hearth knight and totally unsuitable as a marriage partner for Petronella.

Dear God, what if there was a child from this? That was less easy to disguise than lost virginity. If Petronella was with child, she would have to enter a convent, at least for the duration of the pregnancy. It was of no consequence if a man sired bastards, but for a woman of their status it was a disgrace that reflected on her entire family. Their grandmother Dangereuse de Châtellerault had lived in open adultery with her lover, Alienor’s grandfather, but it had caused a huge scandal that she and Petronella carried like a stigma. As the granddaughters of a lecher and a whore they always had to be better than good, knowing that people were constantly watching for the evidence of their tainted blood to show.

She bowed her head against her clasped palms, feeling as if everything had shattered into little pieces around her; but if she was very clever, surely she could fashion the shards back into the delicate shell they had once been? No one but her need ever see the cracks.