She soon discovered that her body had memories of its own, responding to his touch as if they’d never been apart. His mouth was hot on hers and his skin was hot, too. Her breath quickening as he kissed her throat and then her breasts, she slid her hands down his back, smiling as she felt his erection, proof that he did still want her. She cried out softly when he entered her, feeling pain that became pleasure, clinging tightly until he’d gained satisfaction and cried out, too. She was left wanting more, although she was not sure what that was, but she was happy, happier than she’d been in a long time.
When he started to withdraw, she said, “No, not yet,” feeling very daring and relieved to catch the glimmer of a smile, for she did not want him to think her a shameless wanton. The priests preached that even marital sex was blameworthy if done solely to gratify lust, warning that people must remain vigilant to avoid so tempting a sin.
Richard had propped himself up on his elbows to support his weight, but after giving her a quick kiss, he rolled over onto his back. After a few moments, he rose and went looking for a towel, which he brought back to the bed to pat them both dry. He’d done that on their wedding night, too, and she smiled at the memory. When he climbed into bed, she shifted so she could cradle her head against his shoulder.
Reaching out, she traced the path of a scar on his hip, trying to remember how he’d said he’d gotten it. The one on his left side, under his ribs, was the entry point for a Saracen crossbow bolt, and that she remembered all too well. “Whenever we’d been apart for a while,” she murmured, “I would always check your body for wounds, always afraid I’d find a new one. At least I need not worry about that this time.”
“No,” he said, sounding drowsy, “no scars from Germany.”
Joanna had warned her that he’d said very little about his captivity. Yet it seemed unnatural to ask no questions, to act as if his imprisonment had never been. “Richard . . . if you’d rather not talk about it—what happened in Germany—I will respect that, of course. But I hope that in time, you’ll be willing to share some of those memories with me.” She was pleased with how she’d phrased that, assuring him she did not want to pry whilst gently reminding him that a wife was a confidante as well as a bedmate. When she tried to assess his reaction, though, she found herself at a loss, for his eyes were impossible to read, utterly opaque.
When he yawned, she knew her window of opportunity for conversation was rapidly closing; he’d soon be rolling onto his side and sliding into sleep. Even if she dared not demand answers yet, there were a few things she could ask, that she had the right to know. “How long can you stay?”
“Just till Monday. I cannot concentrate upon putting out the fires in Normandy unless I can crush the rebellion in Aquitaine. Geoffrey de Ran?on and the viscounts of Angoulême and Brosse were constantly stirring up trouble whilst I was in the Holy Land. They became even bolder after I was taken prisoner by that pompous dolt Leopold, but they were running up a debt, and now it is due and payable.”
Berengaria was no longer listening, for she’d heard nothing beyond Just till Monday. He was only going to stay two days and nights? After nigh on two years apart, that was all she was to get—two wretched days? She was dumbfounded that they were to have so little time together, but what occurred to her next was even worse. He’d not come into Poitou to see her. He’d come to deal with those southern rebels. His visit to Poitiers was an afterthought—just as she was.
Her first reaction was a rare flash of anger. She fought it back, struggling to see things from his perspective. It was only to be expected that he’d give first priority to ending a rebellion that could threaten his hold on the duchy. In the Holy Land, she’d learned to accept it, the fact that she was always going to take second place to his campaign against the Saracens. But it had been easier to defer to God.
“I am sorry you must leave so soon,” she said evenly. “Mayhap I ought to consider settling in Normandy to make it more convenient for you to visit.” The words were no sooner out of her mouth than she realized their full implications. Visit. What husband visited his wife? Apparently the one she had. Was this what she had to look forward to, a catch-as-catch-can marriage, with Richard stopping by whenever it suited him?
“Normandy . . . yes, that is probably a good idea,” he agreed, yawning again.
She decided that she would think no more about this tonight. There would be time enough after he’d gone to consider her future. Now, though, she wanted only to sleep with her husband like wives did all over Christendom, to have at least one or two nights to pretend that everything was normal. She was reaching for her pillow when Richard suddenly sat up, then swung his legs over the side of the bed. Assuming he wanted to use the chamber pot, she began smoothing out the coverlets rumpled by their lovemaking. But then he gathered up the clothing scattered about the floor and drew his braies up over his hips, started to pull his linen shirt over his head.