Geoffrey forced her against the wall while she struggled wildly, hissing and spitting like a cat. Finally he subdued her, but he was not pleased, for she had felt his rigid manhood and she was laughing, exultant. “You need me, darling, you cannot deny it!”
Geoffrey did not want to be cruel, but she was toying with him when she spoke of a child, and he could not allow it. “I want only a woman’s body, Adele, and it need not be yours.”
She choked in fury. “And I have only missed your big cock, you whoreson,” Adele cried.
Geoffrey was too agitated to laugh. “You are always so ladylike, Adele.”
She went still, panting. She finally looped her arms around him, groaning, pressing her own quivering body closer to his. “No, Geoff, you know that’s not the truth. Of course I have missed you,” she said huskily. “You are the only man for me, I swear it.”
“I doubt it,” he said, very grim. He shrugged free of her. He had no wish to have someone walk in on them, alone and embracing—the repercussions would be vast. Especially now, if his spies were correct.
Adele moved to him, a stalking, determined tigress, and one of her long, tapered nails skimmed his cheek. “No one is as good as you.”
“It is over, Adele, over.”
She hissed in displeasure. He caught her arm before her talon could claw down his cheek. “Is there someone else? Who?!” she cried.
“There is no one else.”
“I do not believe you!” Suddenly she seized his hard shaft. “Or maybe I do!”
He batted her hand away. “Obviously you are not tired, and obviously you are not ill. I will have you escorted to the abbey. If you make a scene, Adele, we will both pay a terrible price. Accept that it is over.”
“No. It will never be over!” And she smiled. She blazed with triumph.
Geoffrey was touched with foreboding, and the skin at the nape of his neck tingled. “You are with child, aren’t you?”
She laughed once, the sound husky and exultant. “It will be a boy. A gypsy told me so last week.” Staring at Geoffrey, she added, “Henry will be so pleased.”
Geoffrey’s face was tight, his nostrils flared. His tone was dangerous.“Could it be mine?”
She laughed with delight. She shrugged.
He jumped on her. She had turned her back as if to leave, but he whirled her about.“Whose child is it?”
“What do I get if I tell you?” she asked coyly.
He had never hit a woman before. He almost hit her now. “When is the child due, Adele? Answer me, before I damn you to hell!”
Adele blanched. “In seven months.”
Geoffrey made a rapid calculation. “So it could be Ferrar’s—or it could be mine.”
Adele watched him, both wary and excited.
Geoffrey walked away from Adele, his shoulders rigid, his eyes arctic blue. He was shaking.Was he the father?
And Adele was smiling.
Geoffrey had no children. It was no surprise, considering that, although hardly celibate, he fought his sexual proclivities the best that he could. Still, he had had his first woman at the age of thirteen—would he not have created a child by now? It occurred to him that he might not have a potent seed. He had not brooded upon this before. In his position, a child would be a liability and an embarrassment. A child could wreck all that he had worked for, it could destroy his future.
But … dear God, how he yearned for a child!
Dear, dear God, how he hoped that the babe Adele carried was his!
In spite of the fact that he could never claim the child openly and in spite of the consequences he might have to pay if ever the truth were revealed—he wanted this child to be his.
Geoffrey looked at Adele. She was smiling and smug with satisfaction. He was furious. “You will be sorry if you continue to toy with me, Adele.”
