Page 38 of Lord of the Forest

Before he could pursue the thought, she chose a door and opened it. The golden glow from his lantern illuminated the massive bed within.

A memory struck him so profoundly, it was like a physical blow. He had taken a woman on a bed such as this. Not just on a bed, but on the floor, across a table, in a ripe cornfield. His breath wedged in his chest, and he couldn’t move. One after another, images flashed before him, and they weren’t all of the same woman. But what they all had in common was nakedness. So—he’d had an insatiable appetite for passion before he was lost to the world, it seemed.

Was that considered a good thing by society—or a bad one?

“Clemence.” His voice was tight. “That woman who accosted me the other day—”

“Think not of it. Look—there’s a chest under here. Can we get it open?”

“That lady, Mistress Wentworth. I… I fear—” He was afraid her claim might not be invalid after all, if he’d had more than one woman in his bed. But in truth, she looked too young. The faces his mind had conjured up looked older. Lonely or abandoned wives? Widows? If only his memory had shown him himself—was it a young and foolish Hector de Glanville who’d cavorted with those wenches? Or was it an older one, still incapable of curbing his lusts?

He lifted a heavy Bible box from the top of the chest and helped Clemence open the lid, but his mind was not on the task.

“Clemence. What if Mistress Wentworth’s claim were true?”

She was busy rustling around in the chest. “Beshrew it. There’s naught here but old gowns and fur trimmings.”

She closed the lid and regarded him. “She was a fraud—I could read it in her face. I’m sure you have better taste than to ally yourself to a made-up strumpet like her.”

“Made-up?” He straightened and replaced the Bible box.

“Aye. Did you not see the rouge she wore, or the lip paint? The fine curls about her face were so precise, I’m sure it was a wig. I despise wigs—unless they are absolutely necessary. Now, I wonder if there are any hidden spaces in the walls where treasures might be stowed?”

He was no longer interested in finding things. His vision of women thrashing in ecstasy beneath him had blotted out all else.

He decided to experiment. “Indeed? I thought her most comely. And Queen Bess has been forced to wear a wig since she had smallpox, so you should feel sympathy for Mistress Wentworth.”

“Comely?” Clemence tapped her knuckles against the wooden paneling. “How could you tell through all the powder and paint?”

Jealous—as he’d hoped. Envy, he understood. He’d felt its bite when first he learned Clemence was intended for Walter de Glanville.

Seizing her around the waist, he lifted her away from the wall. “I only said ‘comely’. Not ‘beautiful’, or ‘desirable’.”

She pressed her hands against his chest. “If you want to flatter a lady, Sir Lancelot, you must do it with sweet words, not by grabbing her as if she were a sack of meal.”

“Surely, picking her up is as sure an indication he likes her as sweet words?”

Her hands relaxed, and her fingers splayed over his muscles. He hoped she’d flex her fingers, explore and tease him. He desired her. He needed to be desired in return.

“Aye. But you had the opportunity to say Mistress Wentworth was neither as desirable nor as beautiful as me. And failed to take it.”

He lifted her and nuzzled at her neck. There was that heady perfume again, making him think of hot summer nights, open windows, and endless loving. He nuzzled some more.

“Then, I shall endeavor not to miss any further opportunities to flatter you. But trust not only in my words. Trust this.”

He already knew a chaste kiss wouldn’t be enough. The moment he touched his lips to hers, he wanted to taste all of her, to possess her. Whence had this greed come? He’d spent too long alone—what had been acceptable for the past three years no longer was. Loneliness wasn’t acceptable either—he needed Clemence to be his, and forever by his side.

He felt the pressure of her hands on his upper arms and reluctantly drew away.

“One still needs to breathe, Lancelot.”

She gazed up at him, her lips fuller, darker—even more sumptuous than they had been before. There was a charmingly tousled look about her, and he knew an uncontainable urge to tousle her more; to undo the chaste tidiness of her hair, and cast aside the concealing armor of her clothing. Her bodice fitted so tightly that it pushed her breasts up to tempting roundness but made what could not be seen totally inaccessible. See, admire—but never touch, never explore.

To hell with that. He kissed her again, rough and eager—and she responded with a hunger of her own. As the heat of their kiss consumed him, he pulled off her coif and buried his hands in the rich gold of her hair, releasing a scent that intoxicated him even as it aroused him.

She pulled away again. “Lancelot, we mustn’t. This is—improper.” Her voice sounded deep, throaty, and utterly compelling.

“Who’s to stop us?” He applied his teeth to her kerchief, emitted a growl, and worried at it until it came away.