Page 11 of The Raven and the Rose
“Pardon freely given, sweetheart. Do you often suffer from delusions of grandeur?” He grinned.
By God, the laughing, gaping oaf didn’t believe her! She almost threw at him that she was the daughter of the King, so stung was she by his laughter. She caught sight of the hunting horn slung at his side, and anger gripped her. “Your stupid screeching through that horn is what frightened off my horse! Who are you?” she demanded.
He bowed gravely from the saddle. “Tristan Montford, and you are? Oh yes, I forgot, you are the Queen of Sheba.”
She was so angry, she trembled. He mistook it for a chill. For a peasant girl she was exquisite beneath the grime. His eyes traveled from her bare feet up her body and rested on her stubborn, tempting mouth.
“Where are you bound, my queen?”
She didn’t answer him. Then she realized he was her only means of deliverance. “I am on my way to Belvoir.”
His eyes began to dance again. “No doubt by special invitation from Baron Ravenspur.”
“Yes. No—I mean, yes, that is who I wish to see.”
He dismounted. “Come, I’ll take you up before me. He will be delighted with you.”
Her cheeks flamed with embarrassment now that he had drawn close, for the thin material of her gown clung wetly across her breasts. Though she tried to stand with her chest in as concave a manner as possible, her breasts thrust up impudently between them, causing his devil’s grin to widen.
“I’ll not ride with you,” she said, lifting her head high.
He mockingly indicated the packhorse with its bloody burden. “Take your choice.”
“I preferthisboor,” she said acidly.
One heavy eyebrow slanted with appreciation at her stinging wit.
She mounted behind the carcass and glared daggers as Tristan looked his fill at her shapely legs. Soon she was chagrined to find out that she had been very close to Belvoir. She could have gotten there without this imp of Satan if she had only known.
Tristan turned the horses over to a groom and led her through an archway into the rambling lodge. She resolutely ignored the stares of two young squires and followed Tristan up a winding stairway to a chamber on the upper level. Thankfully, there was a fire, and Roseanna stepped toward it gratefully.
“I’ll find you something dry to wear,” said Tristan, going to another chamber door and calling, “Cassandra, come and see what I’ve found.”
Knowing the young knave was referring to her, she whirled toward him with a mouthful of invective, but the words dissolved as she stared at the most vividly flamboyant creature she’d ever seen. She wore a low-cut gown of shining gold material that revealed rather than concealed her breasts. Her hair also was a most unreal shade of blond; it looked as if it had been sprinkled with gold dust. To top it off, she wore face paint—her lips were brightly crimson, her eyelids gilt.
The woman appraised Roseanna carefully as Tristan approached them. “I thought she’d make a unique present for Roger.”
Roseanna had had enough. She sprang at him. “You bastard!” she cried, punching him until he grabbed her by the arms.
“Before you give her to Roger, best draw her sting, darling,” Cassandra whispered. She passed Tristan a tiny vial of sleeping drops distilled from the poppy, then left him to it.
“For God’s sake, settle down,” Tristan said. “No harm will come to you.” He moved a huge armchair before the fire and poured her a goblet of wine. Then he pulled off the voluminous silken tapestry that served as a bedcover and handed it to her. “Take off that wet rag, and I’ll go find you a gown. Then I’ll take you to Ravenspur, if that’s what you want.”
“It is, you grinning goat!” Roseanna glared at him.
He closed the door behind him, and she stood immobile, determined not to remove one stitch. Then she caught sight of herself in the mirror and gasped in horror. Her appearance was a thousand times worse than she had imagined. She was in rags, she was dirty, and her hair was in such wild disarray, it fell down her back in a tangled mass of curls that looked as if a brush and comb hadn’t touched it since birth.
Quickly she washed her hands and face, then her feet and legs. She stripped off what used to be her gown and wrapped herself in the silken tapestry. There was no hairbrush in the room, but if he could produce a gown, a hairbrush should be possible, too, she mused. She sat down before the fire to wait and drained the goblet of wine.
When Tristan returned with a couple of items of female attire draped over his arm, he found her asleep before the fire. The empty goblet was on the rug, where it had rolled from her hand. Christ! The sleeping potion had worked faster than he thought. He hoped he hadn’t given her too much. He took Roseanna’s chin in his hand and lifted it. God, she was lovely! It had been so long since he’d seen a woman without face paint, he was enthralled. The natural texture of her skin seemed as luminous as a pearl, and her lips were like soft pink velvet. The tapestry fell away to reveal a luscious pink-tipped breast. She was a prize indeed, and by God, he knew exactly how he was going to present her to Roger.
The feast below in the dining hall of the King’s hunting lodge was sumptuous. All the game that had been bagged the day before had been roasted for tonight’s banquet. Roger Montford, Baron of Ravenspur, sat on the small raised dais with Cassandra at his side. He was as dark as his name implied, an older, broader version of Tristan. But instead of open humor, his dark eyes held cynicism. Where Tristan’s mouth lifted in laughter, Roger’s was hard and masculine. In fact, everything about Roger was more vivid, more pronounced, more striking than his younger brother.
Forty of his favored knights who had served him well in Wales sat along two rows of trestle tables facing each other. The tables groaned beneath the platters of game and venison and the flagons of wine and ale.
Between every pair of men sat a young woman; there were twenty in all for their enjoyment. As the evening progressed, the drinking was deep and the atmosphere grew louder and more bawdy with each drained goblet. The women also were well-flown with wine; one stood on a table and performed an erotic version of the dance of the seven veils to enthusiastic shouts from the men.
When this performance finished, there was a natural lull in the proceedings. Tristan chose his moment well. He strode into the hall with the silk tapestry rolled up and draped over his arms. He stopped before Roger and bowed. “We have a special prize for the man who bagged the most game on this hunt.” All eyes went to Ravenspur, since everyone present knew their lord always took the most game. Roger looked on, amused and curious as to what the young devil was up to now.
