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While Ral and the others held him steady, Caryn sliced through muscle and flesh to remove the festering portions of the wound. Then she cauterized the opening to the sound of Geoffrey’s screams. She was shaking by the time they were finished.

“’Tis done now,” she said in a voice not much more than a whisper, so tired she swayed unsteadily on her feet. “God alone will decide the outcome.” Steeling herself once more, she bandaged the wound and sat down beside him to wait.

Three days later, Geoffrey de Clare, knight in service to the Lord of Braxston Keep, returned to the world of the living.

“How are you feeling?” Caryn asked him from a place by his side. He was pale and somewhat thinner, but still undeniably handsome.

“Just a hair’s breadth better than the boar.”

Caryn smiled at that, glad to see the light returning to his eyes .

“I’m grateful for all you have done,” Geoffrey said, reaching for her hand. As weak as he was, his spirits were high, and with youth and vigor on his side, Caryn believed his recovery would be complete. “I owe you my life, Lady Caryn.”

“God and the Arab, more likely,” she countered. “’Tis good to have you returned to us, Geoffrey.”

“’Tis good to be here, my lady.”

Still, he required constant care. Caryn was leaning over his bedside, bathing his forehead, when Ral walked silently into the room. He noticed the sheet had slipped immodestly down the young knight’s lean body and nestled low on his hips.

Ral tensed as his wife gently bathed Geoffrey’s face, then his chest and shoulders. The younger man was sleeping, or so it seemed till he opened his eyes and smiled.

“You are my angel of mercy, Lady Caryn.”

She stepped away from him, a blush rising into her cheeks. She reached for the covers then paused and flushed even more as she realized he no longer needed such intimate attention.

“’Tis certain you are better,” she said tartly, but there was warmth in her voice.

Ral pushed away from the wall where he had been standing, causing them both to jump. “’Tis certain that he is.” He took in his wife’s rosy features and the lazy smile on Geoffrey’s face. “From now on Bretta will attend him. You’ve duties besides the care of this young buck to see to in the hall.”

Caryn did not argue. “Aye, my lord.” She glanced back at Geoffrey as she left the room. “The healing will improve with each day,” she told him. “’Twill not be long before you are back on your feet.”

And then what? Ral pondered. What plans have you for my wife then? He thought of the look on Geoffrey’s face when he had called Caryn his angel. What other thoughts did he harbor? What were his intentions? Ral’s gaze followed Caryn’s retreating figure.

And what of you, sweet wife? Have these long hours with Geoffrey changed your feelings for me? In truth, he wasn’t certain what those feelings really were.

Ral clenched his fists, his thoughts still in turmoil as he left the sickroom.

He meant to return to the bailey, to practice a few more hours with his men.

Instead he turned toward the great hall, his strides long and suddenly determined.

He found Caryn with Richard, discussing supplies for the hall and preparations for an upcoming saint’s day feast.

“I have need of you, Caryn,” he told her. “You will come with me upstairs.”

She hurried to his side, her face taut with concern. “What is it, my lord, what is wrong?”

“Naught is wrong,” he said, sweeping her into his arms at the top of the landing. “I only just discovered how much I have missed my wife these long days past. I have need of you and I mean to have you.”

Caryn sucked in a breath as he kicked open the door to their chamber then slammed it solidly behind them.

“’Tis the middle of the day, my lord. There is much that needs be done. I must—”

“Are not the needs of your husband more important?”

“Aye, but—” His hard kiss silenced her. She could feel the tension in his body, the muscles that tightened across his chest. They had made love last night, yet his desire for her seemed unabated. What in God’s name…?

But the question seemed a moot one as he carried her over to the bed, settled her there, and followed her down on the mattress.

Kissing her fiercely, he pulled the combs from her hair and dragged his fingers through it, making her pulse pound with urgency.

He found the laces to her tunic, jerked them loose, pulled the fabric from her shoulders, and bared her breasts.

“So beautiful,” he whispered, his voice husky, the sound of it sending shivers of heat through her body.

“So high and full… and they belong only to me.” He took one into his mouth and began to suckle gently, his tongue damp and warm as it circled her nipple.

Then his teeth took hold and he bit down just enough to bring a hot surge of pleasure-pain.

Caryn cried out at the feel of it, arching upward, heat swirling low in her belly. Beneath his mouth, her breasts were swelling, tingling, aching with every heartbeat.

“I need you, Cara.” His mouth took hers as his hand shoved up her tunic, his tongue teasing, then plunging deep inside. His touch was fire, his breath male and erotic, his hard-muscled body a testament to God’s handiwork.

Sweet Mary, she thought, wondering what drove him to such frenzy, responding with equal abandon as his fingers probed the place between her legs.

She was wet and ready, damp and throbbing and on fire.

He stroked her there while his mouth continued its plunder, while his hardness pressed against her, thick and pulsing and promising pleasures to come.

A finger slipped inside her, moved deep and withdrew, slid in and then out yet again. Then he was untying his chausses, spreading her legs even wider, positioning himself and driving himself inside.

Pleasure rippled through her, sweet and wildly erotic, his thick shaft filling her, huge and hot and hard.

In minutes she was writhing beneath him, arching her back to meet each of his powerful thrusts.

Thick bands of muscle bunched on his shoulders, sinews tightened across his broad chest. Again and again, he drove into her, frenzied in a way she’d never seen him, riding her hard and deep, laying claim to her in a manner that set her ablaze with fiery need .

“Come with me, cherie, ” he whispered, but it was more command than plea. Caryn’s body answered as if it had no choice, obeying his will with shimmering spasms of pleasure, her body contracting, quivering, clenching with wave after wave of delicious heat.

He drew her to the edge of the bed and lifted her legs to his shoulders, positioning them there, burying himself deeper, stirring a second hot spasm of pleasure. Still he drove on.

In seconds she was soaring once more. Upward to that high plateau, riding the crest of her passion, her fingers biting into taut muscle then fisting the covers, her head thrashing back and forth as she cried out his name.

“Aye, ’tis what I had hoped for,” he said, though his jaw was clenched for control. “Remember the pleasure, ma chere. Remember the man who has made you feel this way.”

Four more deep pounding strokes and he reached his own release, his head falling back, the muscles straining in his neck and shoulders, his powerful biceps bulging as he spilled his seed.

Time seemed to still. The room grew dim and then faded away. Caryn barely felt him leave her. She was far too thoroughly pleasured, too sated and content.

Ral bent over and kissed her cheek. “’Tis rest you need not a riding such as that one. You are not yet fully recovered. I should not have been so demanding.” At the soft glow on her face, he smiled roguishly. “Still, I cannot say I am sorry.”

Feeling content as he hadn’t in days, Ral left his small wife curled among the tousled bed covers, her expression drowsy, her lids half-closed, her beautiful auburn hair a tangled mass around her shoulders.

Far more confident than he had been when he had left Geoffrey’s sickroom, he made his way back to the great hall. By supper he was more himself and by the end of the day, he had conquered his uneasy feelings altogether.

What Caryn felt for Geoffrey was nothing more than friendship. It was her husband who commanded her small woman’s body. Her husband and no other.

Ral intended it should remain that way.

***

The winds at Malvern Castle blew fair. The sun shone on the fields and the crops grew robust. Stephen de Montreale surveyed his holdings from an open stained glass window, proud of his vast domain.

His serfs worked long hard hours, the bounty he reaped among the highest in the land.

The castle was constructed of the finest Yorkshire stone, its walls and towers considered nearly impregnable.

It was furnished in the richest tapestries and most expensive imported furniture.

His table was set with silver instead of pewter or wood.

His clothes were all as opulent as the royal blue silk tunic he wore, and fashioned in every design and color.

They were trimmed with threads of spun silver and gold, and his cloaks were lined with ermine.

But for Stephen it was not enough.

He crossed the room and sat down across from his sister at the carved mahogany table. In a tunic of magenta shot with gold, her hair a gleaming dark mass pulled back from her face, Eliana leaned forward and squeezed his hand.

“Word has come, then?” she asked. “You know when the king’s man will pass?”

Stephen smiled with lazy satisfaction. “Aye, I know when de Balmain will come, and where.”

“And the Ferret?”

“Has gathered his men and even now awaits my command.”

“You are certain you can trust him?”

“I trust no man—especially not that one. ’Tis only that I can supply him with the information he needs, while he”—his lip curled smugly—“he supplies me with half of his bounty. The trade so far has been a good one for both of us.”

“He has been raiding far north. Once he attacks the king’s men, Braxston will know of his return and once more set out to trap him.”

Stephen’s expression turned hard. “’Tis my wish exactly.

I will have the king’s coin and see Braxston dead not long after.

Even now there are those he trusts who would betray him.

Once I know his plans, I will put an end to him.

Blame will fall on him for the raid on the tax collector and the king’s missing silver.

Then I will dispense with him and claim all he holds dear. ”

Eliana arched a fine dark brow. “Including the wench he took to wife?”

“Especially her.” He brought his sister’s long-fingered hand to his lips. “We will share the bounty, you and I. As for the Lady Caryn… you have always been a woman of great imagination. Surely you can think of a way she might pleasure us both.”

Eliana’s tongue ran over her soft ruby lips. “She is pretty and well-formed, a vibrant young flower that has not yet bent to a man’s will—not even her husband’s. ’Twill be interesting to sample her nectar before her petals are crushed beneath the heel of your boot.”

Stephen’s wicked smile lingered. “’Tis good you are here, Eliana. ’Twill help to sweeten the pleasure of Braxston’s defeat.”

“’Tis good to be here, my love. I always knew the day would come you would make Lord Raolfe pay for the insult he dealt me.”

“The insult he dealt us both,” Stephen corrected. An image of his sister in bed with the huge dark Norman stirred at the back of his mind and pushed its way to the surface.

She had seduced him on purpose, she said, done it to ensure there would be a marriage. The young knight could be easily handled, and they could go on as they were without fear of discovery. She was determined to protect her brother no matter the cost to herself.

She had done so that day in the monastery when he was nine years old.

He had gone there to learn, but the learning held a bitter, knife-sharp edge.

When Eliana had come with their stepmother for a visit, he had told her what had happened, as he wouldn’t have confessed to anyone else.

With tears in his eyes, he had told her what the friar had made him do, the ugly, dirty things, and Eliana had held him fiercely while he cried.

She refused to leave him there, though their father’s new wife had insisted. Instead, she helped him climb out a window and together they made their escape. It took four long days to reach their home, hungry, dirty, ragged, and so tired they could barely remain on their feet.

It was Eliana who argued with their father, Eliana who convinced him, who saved Stephen from returning to a fate worse than death. She had sheltered him throughout the years, nurtured him in a way no other woman ever had.

Since he had become a man, things had changed and now it was he who protected her, he who guarded their secret.

It was he who loved her.

And Ral de Gere who had sullied her name and played her for a fool.

The Dark Knight had refused to honor their betrothal, humiliating her in front of their father, dishonoring her though he had sampled her charms more than once.

It was Stephen who had helped to get rid of her unwanted child, Stephen who had sat at her bedside, fearful at her loss of blood, terrified she might die and certain it was Ral de Gere’s fault instead of his own. It was Stephen who had vowed revenge.

“Never fear, my sweet.” He turned her hand over and gently kissed the palm. “Braxston will pay and pay dearly for what he has done.”