Ilsabeth clung to her lover and allowed him to take her on a savage journey to that sweet bliss only he could give her. The words he growled against her ear, her throat, her mouth, thrilled her and added to the passion already thundering through her veins. He spoke of his need, his passion, his delight. And it was all for her.
Such words could not be taken as words of love and she knew it. Her mother had told her that a woman should never believe that flatteries and declarations of desire could be seen as more than they were. Pretty words, words to warm her, but still only words. The vows a man might utter while caught up in passion’s fury should be taken no more seriously than the vows of a man lost to drink. Not unless you knew he loved you. Her mother had also said that it was safe to accept such pretty words as flatteries she could treasure if she wished. And Ilsabeth did wish to do so. Simon’s words stroked what little vanity she had but, more importantly to her, they gave her the confidence she needed to be Simon’s lover, and to be one that he could not forget or set aside.
Her body tightened and when her passion crested in a wild rush of blood-pounding delight, she cried out Simon’s name. He thrust into her like a man possessed, withdrew and left her almost empty, and then hurled himself back inside her again. Twice. Then his whole body tensed, became as rigid as a stone, and he called out her name in a voice so thick she barely understood him as he poured his seed deep inside her. Despite how weak and unsteady Ilsabeth was, she continued to cling to him as he sagged against her, his hands pressed against the wall on either side of her head, his sweat-dampened forehead touching hers.
“Jesu, Ilsabeth,” he muttered when his mind finally began to clear. “I took ye so roughly, like some beast in rut. I am so verra sorry.”
“Oh, I didnae mind.” When he raised his head to look at her, making a careful study of her face, she smiled at him. “I suspicion I wouldnae wish to do it too often though,” she said when he slowly pulled out of her and stepped back, steadying her until she no longer trembled and could stand on her own. “ ‘Tisnae all that kind to a certain part of me.” She grimaced and rubbed her backside.
Simon grinned at her, but it was such a brief flare of good humor she could have missed it if she had blinked. Then all the dark storms that had clouded his eyes before returned in force and she could feel the chill of the fury he was battling as it surged through his body again. Something or someone had torn free the reins of Simon’s anger so completely that he was having a great deal of trouble grasping hold of them again.
Ilsabeth gently stroked his arm. “Simon, ye are so troubled I can almost taste it in the air. Your fury is so completely unrestrained and, I ken I havenae been with ye long, but I am sure this isnae like you. I also cannae e’en begin to guess why.”
“Nay matter what troubles me, I shouldnae have taken ye up against the wall like the lowest of tavern wenches.”
“I truly didnae mind. Do ye think me so meek I would accept any physical abuse from ye silently and without at least trying to pay ye back in kind?”
“Och, I would ne’er call ye weak, lass.”
“Then dinnae mark me as too frail of mind and heart to listen to what troubles ye either, to hear what causes the anger I can see in your eyes, and in the way ye stand.”
“The way I stand?”
“Ye stand as if ye are searching for someone to fight with.”
“I am. Ye have the right of it.” He took a few steps farther away from her when the urge to take her again, right there against the wall, wove seductively through his veins. “Mayhap ye should leave.”
“Nay. Ye are so tangled up, aye, knotted, that I fear for ye. Nay matter what it is, I will listen without flinching away or swooning like some fine lady.”
Simon dragged his hand through his hair and began to pace the room. “I ken who the leader of the traitors is now. S’truth, I kenned it the other day but I did my best to shake aside the truth of what I had heard, denying it and arguing it away in my mind.”
Ilsabeth would have thought that such news would have made Simon happy for it was what he had been searching for so diligently, but there was no joy to be seen in him over the successful end to his work. “Who is it?” she asked, but was dreading the answer.
“My brother.”
“Jesu,” she whispered. “Are ye sure?”
“Aye, I heard David and Hepbourn speak of him when I caught them meeting in the woods. That was the truth I was trying to deny. Weel, there is no denying it now. Morainn had a vision. In it the mon who leads all these fools is one of mine, she said, one of my blood. She said he had a lot of blood on his hands, including mine. Kenning that she saw that then made it impossible to ignore what I heard David and Hepbourn say. My brother Henry, the laird of Lochancorrie, is the one leading the plot to kill the king and take the throne. He will be here in three days.”
“He put those scars on your back, didnae he?”
“Aye. Ye asked how I got them and I have done my best to avoid telling the tale for ‘tis of a young mon’s folly.” He took her by the hand, sat in his chair and tugged her down onto his lap. “I suspicion ye have heard a few of those.”
“Aye, but they didnae usually end with the laddie being scarred for life.”
“Nay, but few deal with my brother Henry and walk away whole. And that is if they are fortunate to walk away at all.” He took a deep breath and told her about Mary.
Ilsabeth listened and heard things Simon did not say. A lonely young man with a strong sense of justice, a natural born protector, seduced and used by his brother and his brother’s wife. Mary had known just how to pull Simon into her net. The woman may not have known it when she started the evil game but she had seen into the heart of the young Simon very quickly.
As for Simon’s brother Henry, Ilsabeth had no words. She pressed closer to Simon and absently patted his chest as she thought of the man who now plotted to be made king. That Simon had emerged from that family with so much honor in him was a miracle and a testament to the strength of his soul.
Simon waited for Ilsabeth to comment on the sordid tale he had just told her, but she remained curled up tightly against him, patting his chest. He did not get the sense that she was outraged over his affair with the woman who had married his brother and laird. In truth, he was more concerned that she saw him as a fool. Then he smiled as he glanced down at the small hand still patting his chest. She was soothing him, he thought, and smiled.
It was at that moment that he realized his anger had eased. It was still there but now it was controllable. He knew he had a right to be so furious but it had troubled him that he could not stop himself from aiming it mindlessly at anyone who crossed his path.
“Ilsabeth, ye can cease petting me,” he said. “I am saner now.”
Ilsabeth peered up at him and knew he was telling the truth. His eyes did not hold the turmoil they had before. He even smiled a little as he put his hand over hers and stopped her stroking of his chest.
