THERE WAS SO MUCH TENSION over Raimond de St Gilles’s impending arrival that Mariam joked privately to Joanna, “It is as if we are expecting the Antichrist.” Joanna smiled sourly, for her sense of humor seemed to have decamped as soon as she’d learned of Alfonso’s double cross, as that was how she saw his surprise. Soon afterward, she found herself seated on the dais with Alfonso, Sancha, and Berengaria, awaiting the Antichrist’s entrance.
There was a stir as he entered the hall, for he was accompanied by a rising troubadour star, Raimon de Miraval. Joanna never noticed the troubadour, though, for she saw only Raimond de St Gilles. He was taller than average, with a lean build and the easy grace of a man comfortable in his own body. She had never seen hair so dark—as glossy and black as a raven’s wing—or eyes so blue, all the more striking because his face was so deeply tanned by the southern sun. He was clean-shaven, with sharply sculptured cheekbones and a well-shaped, sensual mouth that curved slightly at the corners, as if he were suppressing a smile. He was not as conventionally handsome as her brothers or her husband, but as she watched him approach the dais, Joanna’s breath caught in her throat, for the first time understanding what the troubadours meant when they sang of “a fire in the blood.”
He knelt respectfully before Alfonso, saying smoothly, “As always, it gladdens my eyes to see you and your lovely lady, my liege.” Joanna bit her lip; naturally the wretched man would sound like one of God’s fallen angels. Low-pitched, with a slight huskiness, it was a voice meant for hot summer nights and honeyed wine and those sweet sins that paved the road to Hell.
Rising, Raimond gallantly kissed Sancha’s hand, and as Alfonso introduced him to the others, he acknowledged Cardinal Melior’s frigid greeting with elaborate courtesy that held undertones of mockery. He seemed sincere, though, when he kissed Berengaria’s hand and offered his sympathies for her husband’s misfortunes, saying that it was shameful to hold captive a man who’d taken the cross. Surprised, Berengaria favored him with a warm smile that faltered when she remembered this amiable, attractive man was suspect in the eyes of Holy Church.
“My lady Joanna.” Bowing gracefully, Raimond reached for her hand and Joanna felt a physical frisson at the touch of his fingers upon hers. His breath was hot on her skin and his kiss burned like a brand. She recoiled, jerking her hand from his, a gesture that was as involuntary as it was ill-mannered. She blushed deeply then, embarrassed by her own bad behavior. One of Raimond’s dark brows arched, ever so slightly, but he did not otherwise acknowledge her rudeness, continuing to regard her with a smile. Joanna sank back in her chair, no longer meeting his gaze. Never had she reacted to a man’s presence like this and, as flustered as she was by her body’s treacherous betrayal, what was even worse was that she was convinced Raimond de St Gilles was fully aware of the forbidden feelings causing her such distress.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
AUGUST 1193
Arles, Provence
Joanna had presided over one of the most sophisticated courts in Christendom, learning at an early age to submerge the woman in the queen. Moreover, she was accustomed to attracting male attention and was an accomplished flirt. But much to her chagrin, she felt like a raw, green girl in the presence of Raimond de St Gilles. Suddenly tongue-tied and ill at ease, she could not banter with him as she’d done with men since she was fifteen. Because she was so disquieted, she barely managed icy civility, and her anger with herself intensified her discomfiture. She took some small measure of comfort that she was not the only one behaving badly in Raimond’s company. The worldly, elegant cardinal who’d accompanied them from Rome had become a man smoldering with anger; his courtesy was grudgingly given and he always seemed to be biting his tongue to keep from bursting out with accusations and recriminations. But he and Joanna were the only holdouts against the count’s easy charm.