Page 89 of The Captive Knight
“He has a reason to stay in Paris.” She grinned, thinking of how she’d come upon Thibaud and Blanche embracing in an alcove during her wedding feast. “He belongs in the king’s court, Laurent, like a duck belongs in water. With a kinder man ruling Castelnau, Thibaud feels he can indulge his own preferences.”
Laurent nodded. “It must have been a fine wedding.”
“It would have been even lovelier had you presided over the vows.”
“I’m not anointed,” he said, his gaze skittering away. “I may never be.”
She jolted on her saddle. “Laurent?”
“Ally, did you not once say to me that every man—or woman—should be free to choose his own destiny?”
“Yes, but—”
“This castle is yours. Don’t worry on that account. You have always deserved it and I make no claim.”
“But—”
“Ally,” he interrupted again, raising one hand. “The world is bigger and more complicated than I ever imagined. For now, can we leave it at that?”
“For now,” she said, her head swimming. “But we will talk later,frai,and there’ll be no wiggling out of it.”
Soon they rose over the crest to the open field and then, by silent consent, they all cantered for the drawbridge. Once through the open portcullis, they pulled their mounts to a stop. Jehan’s men-at-arms as well as her father’s former vassals all gathered to welcome them, dressed in their best. She took Sir Rostand’s hand to dismount and greeted a teary Margot and a shuffling, bashful Hugo and a flushed Sir Rudel. Then, realizing without a proper chatelaine, there was no one to give orders for food and drink, she abandoned Jehan and Laurent to deal with the horses so she could play the chatelaine once again.
It was well beyond dark when she finally left the main hall to climb to the tower room where she and Jehan had spent so many wonderful evenings last winter. She entered to find her husband reclining in their bed, awash in the glow of the fire, as naked as the day he was born.
He said, “I’ve been waiting for you.”
“I see,” she grinned, reaching back to loosen the ties of her kirtle. “I didn’t even see you slip away from the great hall.”
“You were distracted by something in the kitchens.”
“I’m not distracted anymore.”
She walked into the light, enjoying the way his gaze roamed over her body. She hiked her skirts and climbed shamelessly upon his lap. He wound an arm around her, drawing her close enough to feel exactly how excited he was. When her loosened kirtle slipped off her shoulder, he nuzzled her throat, giving her little love bites that made her toes curl.
She closed her eyes and reveled in his touch. She didn’t care that she’d not yet spoken about the plans for tomorrow, or asked how much wine had come in during the last season, or checked the stores. She didn’t care that the dust of travel still stained her kirtle and the bristles on his unshaven cheek scraped her skin. All she cared about was the sharp, longed-for pressure of his lips and the warmth of his body against hers.
But there was one tiny little thing still troubling her, something not so easy to ignore. When he paused from running kisses down her neck to fuss with the laces of her neckline, she seized the moment.
“I have an idea, Jehan,” she whispered.
“So do I—”
“No, I mean, about Castétis.”
“Castétis,” he muttered, breathing hard as he picked at a stubborn knot. “Why are we talking about Castétis?”
“It needs a lord of its own,” she said. “Don’t you think?”
He glanced up at her, raising a brow. “The only lord I want you thinking about right now is the one—”
“I’m thinking about Laurent.” She grasped his hands to get his attention. “He’s reconsidering his vocation.”
He blinked at her for a long, blank moment.
“I thought, maybe,” she ventured, “he could manage Castétis.”
He breathed a husky laugh. “Still negotiating ransom, are we?”
