He eased much of the determined pressure of his body, but did not remove his throbbing shaft from her fiery furnace. She lifted her mouth to meet his lips, eager for the soothing solace of a kiss. He brought his hand to her breast, moulding it to fit his hand and kissed her deeply, thoroughly.

In response she wound her legs around his hips and undulated against him, surrendering her body to him.

She grew wet and wild and rapacious all at once, trembling at each touch of his hand. He knew full well her pique and indignation worked against her, raising her own appet.i.tes to surpa.s.s his. Anger was a powerful motivator. He used that skillfully to tame her, to bring her mewling like a kitten to his hand. Her belly slickened against his and she tensed from head to toe, crying out as she reached her peak, screaming when he wouldn't allow her to rest or recover by bringing her back to the edge with shameless manipulation.

His own need brought him to a shuddering climax and he felt his seed flood her walls, drenching her, filling her womb. He did not doubt for a moment that he had planted another son inside her...a warrior's sp.a.w.n.

He lay spent on her yielding, softened body and while he struggled to regain his breath, her body milked his seed from his loins.

He imagined her contractions were done on purpose, to drain him of his force and strength. That would not happen for years to come. He kissed her throat and lifted his body from hers, stroking her sweat slick belly. At her damp curls he parted her, finding her nubbin with unerring skill. As he pleasured her again, his rod hardened for another battle.

Bella moaned and twisted beneath him, stuffing the back of her hand inside her mouth, trying not to scream from the sweet agony of yet another draining release. Her whole body jolted with laudable pleasure.

Chandos smiled and drew her up from her back, wrapping her in his arms for a sweetly shared kiss as he told her how beautiful and glorious she was to his eyes.

She settled in his lap, astradle of his thighs, content to be petted and teased and explored in the most wanton manner so long as she was allowed the same freedom with his body.

"Now, my lady," he said with eyes that twinkled devilishly. "You've earned the reward of being allowed to ride a while."

She smiled and pushed him onto his back and rode his shaft hard while he caressed her heavy b.r.e.a.s.t.s and stroked her soft belly. Her flowing hair adhered to her sweat-soaked body, curling like red flames around her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and arms.

Again he put his thumb to her nubbin, stimulating her with hard and certain pressure. She bucked and cried out and grabbed his hands, removing them from her.

"No," he pushed both of her offending hands away. "Touch your b.r.e.a.s.t.s, Bella, the way I touch them. I want to watch you come again."

She obeyed deliciously, both hands stroking and ma.s.saging those bouncing orbs. He put both of his thumbs against her nubbin and stroked her creamy flesh, watching with great fascination as she tensed and bucked. She threw her head back, crying out as floodgate ruptured inside her.

She came again and again, her whole body stiffening, and clenching him.

She collapsed on his chest, sobbing and shaken, pleading with him for no more.

John kissed her sweet mouth and drew her blanket of hair off her back, stroking her with soothing hands. He was still hard as a bull inside her. He gave her a small rest, waiting till her breathing slowed and evened.

"Better?" he asked.

"Yes, thank you. Much." Bella cuddled against his ma.s.sive chest, her face buried in the matt of dark curls.

"Good. Now it's my turn. Come on, up you go." He slid his hands under her armpits and lifted her off of him.

She cast a greedy glance as his glistening, upthrusting shaft, saying, "We can't waste that."

"We're not going to," John told her firmly. He turned her around, seating her on his lap, her legs straddling his and her warm bottom caressing his shaft. She bent forward, pressing her knees into the bed, lifting her bottom, knowing what he wanted.

Chandos grasped her b.u.t.tocks, guiding her onto his shaft from behind. He'd never made love to Bella in this manner before, but he was beyond himself, lost in the sublime pleasure of coupling. Nor had Bella ever been so free with her body or allowed herself true release.

He didn't think about that. This was a time meant only for pleasure.

They actually had that nap together. Sleeping another hour of the afternoon away. Chandos woke her, reminding her that she'd promised to convince her cook to make jelly rolls for Robin's feast day.

That promise was made before Bella got into the kitchen. In that quadrant of Chandos' huge community, she found Lady Isabel had left behind an indelible mark. The French chef that had come to England as part and parcel of Isabel Saint Pierre's dowry was in full revolt against his English counterpart.

Fists and curses were flying. The opening salvo of the Hundred Year's War had been fired in the Chandos kitchen. She ordered the fight stopped and the two combatants pulled bodily apart.

That tall order was accomplished by many helpers. Bella took a calculated risk and boldly placed herself between the snarling English cook and the raving French chef, thinking, d.a.m.ned foreigners! Then she almost laughed aloud recalling that she was the most alien one here of all!

"Excuse me! I believe my question was, what's on the menu for tomorrow's feast? Would you kindly stop screaming threats at one another and answer me?"

Both men were so far gone in bloodl.u.s.t they had not realized it was their lady that had ordered the fight stopped and stood now between them.

"Madame Chandos, I have just told this pig I will not cook for King Edward," Jean-Pierre addressed her in voluble French. "We will no longer serve the English. We refuse. We are foresworn to your father, Comte Eustace de Saint Pierre. We spit on the English king!"

A beefy Englishman wagged a b.l.o.o.d.y mallet used for cracking bones to get at the marrow. "'Twould be just like the smarmy Frog to poison the king with his foul sauces. Throw the b.l.o.o.d.y b.a.s.t.a.r.d out, I say."

A resounding cheer from the English echoed that. Bella cast a nervous glance at the English. Maybe Jean Pierre was blind to reality, but Bella knew she and the Frenchman were outnumbered better than twelve to one.

"Une minute!" Bella stamped her foot. No one saw it, not under all the clothes she wore, but it felt good to do. "I didn't give a flying fig about politics. I am here to discuss tomorrow's menu."

The red-faced Englishman snorted insolently and Bella realized here was somebody else that didn't give a rat's a.s.s for Lady Isabel. She didn't know what to do about that so she turned to the French chef, asking, "What is the problem here?"

"Madame Contessa, last week you promised we could return to France." Jean-Pierre motioned to a silent, disgruntled woman standing behind Bella. "Do you go back on your word to my wife and I now, Contessa?"

Bella shook her head in dismay. "How can I send you home when I cannot even go home myself? This isn't Oz and I'm not Glenda."

The French crossed resolute arms and glowered back at her as if this whole crisis was her fault.

Jean-Pierre sadly shook his head. He had a kind face, wreathed by greying curls kept closely cropped to his head. "We French don't belong in England anymore."

"Aye, send the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds home," an Englishwoman snapped.

Bella exhaled in frustration. She had already danced once over the coals for Isabel's sins. Was she going to act in a manner that might bring more unjustified suffering onto her own shoulders? She didn't know what to do.

Jean-Pierre lowered his voice for her ears alone, saying quickly in the dialect of Lorraine, "My lady, do you help us, I will get word to your Papa of what has happened here. Comte Eustace will raise an army to aid the Rose of Lorraine. He will kill that man who dares to lay a hand on you. The comte will bring you and his grandsons to France where you belong. No harm will come to you then."

All Bella had gone to the kitchen to obtain was the menu for the next day. Instead she found a middle-aged chef advising her on the implementation a revolution. Right!

Thank you Lady Chandos, Bella thought to herself as she stomped upstairs to look for a gown that she wouldn't ruin by working in it. She had to settle for yesterday's cotte of muslin and a cotton pelisse over that. Lady Chandos did not own any plain and simple work dresses.

Of one thing Bella was absolutely certain. She would not allow a handful of cooks to throw a second gauntlet down between herself and Sir John! No way!

She might have struck the first blow last night and unwittingly touched off a powder keg reaction, but Sarah Isabella Wynford did not make the same mistake twice! n.o.body was going to push Sir John's b.u.t.tons thereby giving him reason to vent his wrath on her tender skin. No way!

Besides, she'd just had the greatest s.e.x she'd ever had in her life. That was one consolation for being flipped through time.

Her mind made up, she returned to the kitchen with her sleeves rolled up. There, Bella demanded an ap.r.o.n and proceeded to put fourteen years of running her own kitchen on the line.

If she couldn't make a birthday cake fit for a king, then her name wasn't nor ever had been Sarah Isabella Saint Pierre!

THE WATCHER ON THE ALLURE.

-9.

It was amazing what a little woman with her sleeves rolled up could accomplish in a kitchen. Any kitchen, Bella smiled secretly to herself.

The jelly rolls Chandos had asked for were cooling on a large rack. The cake she'd been determined to make was ready to be glazed or iced. She was leaving the finishing of it to Jean-Pierre, but the spicy carrot cake batter was her inspiration and her's alone.

When she had arrived back in this domain of simmering French and stewing English, there had been general panic. She soon found out why. Lady Isabel did not cook.

"Never mind," Bella had told Jean-Pierre, who was the only person bold enough to tell her that she couldn't pare an apple without ruining it, "I'm certain I can scratch up something."

Scratch it was, for she had no treasured recipe book to guide her this time. But she was Alsatian. There wasn't a Texan that didn't know that Alsatians were the best cooks in the entire state. She knew her great-great-great grandma's recipe for poppy seed buns by heart. She could make onion rolls and kolaches and a dozen other melt-in-your-mouth delicacies, all variations of the same sweet dough, just as easily.

If they only had chocolate, she could c.o.c.k up the toes of the French and the English alike just by making those wonderful Tollhouse cookies Iain had gobbled up by the handfuls. Chocolate, she sighed, was a pleasure she wouldn't have again in her lifetime. Hernan Cortez would be the first European to taste that supreme delicacy when he conquered Mexico in the Sixteenth Century.

The castle cooks were extremely dubious of the outcome of her efforts until the first batch of poppy seed buns came out of the ma.s.sive ovens. By then the delicious smell of sweetbread baking had every soul in the kitchen slavering.

Cooks, Bella knew, became cooks because they loved to eat.

If the cooks could keep their tempers intact over the next twenty-four hours, she thought she might also survive.

She knew from personal experience that there was a lot of truth to the old adage, the way to a man's heart is through his stomach. It wasn't so much Sir John's heart Bella was concerned about. With his s.e.xual appet.i.tes, she could deal fairly well with him in the bedroom. She did want to conquer the hearts of three young boys.

For her new sons, Bella gathered a napkin full of her own poppy seed buns and stepped out of the kitchen, munching on one herself. I'll get fat, she scolded herself.

It was late in the afternoon now. The sun hung low over the west wall of the compound. Practically the whole day had pa.s.sed and Bella had not once spoken to Geoffrey. She hadn't the foggiest idea of where to begin looking for him. For that matter, she didn't know where to find Henri, Robin or Sir John either.

She wandered in a clockwise circle, expanding her knowledge of the castle itself by moving from building to building and shed to yard. She spent some time in idle fascination, watching the weavers ply shuttlec.o.c.ks back and forth across their looms. She followed the strong scent of vinegar and found two pages industriously cleaning chain mail in a barrel of vinegar and sand which they rolled back and forth from one another. When they opened the casket and pulled out the mail, rinse it in clean water, links shone like beaten silver.

She came to a tilt yard where a good dozen squires practiced with arms. That reminded her of football practice at her old high school. Until she realized the swords were real and the youths were training for war.

They were stripped down to trews and boots, wearing only chain mail hoods protecting head and shoulders.

Each had a small round shield and a deadly-looking double edged sword. They practiced advancing and then falling back, thrusting and parrying, clobbering and clanging. Their grunts and howls sounded ominous within the confining walls of the castle ward. The practice continued until Sir James called "halt." The knight turned around and faced Bella, asking coldly, "Is there something you wanted, Lady Chandos?"

Standing with a napkin full of sweet buns clutched in her hand, Bella gasped when she saw blood trickling down Robin's chest. Lord, the urge to run to him and do something to staunch the flow of blood was so strong she almost bolted past James Graham. Only she didn't. Robin shot her a look that said go away, mother loud and clear.

"No, Sir James." Bella shook her head. "I am looking for Geoffrey. Have you seen him?"

"Nay, I have not seen him," the tall man answered in such a clipped and abrupt manner that Bella again felt the sting of his animosity. She wondered what Lady Isabel could have possibly done to him.

Sighing, Bella turned from the tiltyard. She knew she had to tread carefully where Robin Chandos was concerned. She had offended him enough on their first meeting. He wouldn't want her hovering about while he pretended to fight like a man. She hoped she would have better luck with Henri and Geoffrey.

Henri turned up in the mews. The hawking master was teaching him to spin the lure. Bella had never seen a hawk up close, but she'd seen barn owls and red-headed vultures.

She could pa.s.s on the goshawk. She offered Henri and his teacher each one of the buns. They were glad for the treat. She asked where Geoffrey was. The master suggested she look on the allure at the northgate. Geoffrey liked to be the first to sight the king.

Armed with that bit of information she left Henri happily twirling a lure. Bella crossed the length of the ward scanning the northgate and its long allure and towers she had yet to become familiar with.

The sun now glazed the slate roof of the manor, so there were shadows stretching across the ward. She didn't see Geoffrey, but as the curtain wall was deep, twelve feet at least, she would need to get higher than ground level to find him.

She paused a moment at yesterday's odious well to get a drink of cool water, then continued searching, asking each person she met if they had seen Geoffrey. Most said no. Finally, a tangle-haired old Scot with the odd name of Gunni Douglas told her Geoffrey was up on b.a.s.t.a.r.d's drop and had been there all day. Bella rewarded the wary Scot with a poppy seed bun and secretly laughed when his eyes lit up like racing Christmas lights.

The colorful name, b.a.s.t.a.r.d's drop, was of little use. Bella climbed the winding steps inside the north gatehouse. Winded at the top, she paused on the allure. She shielded her eyes from the sun and searched for the boy amid the crenels and merlons that made up the ramparts.

Her heart almost stopped when she saw him.

High on top of the east drum of the northgate, a murderhole thrust straight out over the killing ground above the gate. Bella gasped again. On the rim of the highest merlon, still as a condor waiting for a hare to poke its nose out of its burrow, lay eight-year-old Geoffrey de Chandos.

Sweet Mother of G.o.d, Bella thought, covering her mouth with her hand. If a good wind would come up, the boy could fall fifty, sixty feet to his death. The coastal wind gusted enough to ruffle Geoffrey's s.h.a.ggy hair around his head like a golden halo.

Bella stood with her hand over her mouth, holding back a scream. She closed her eyes, shaken as the memory of Iain's broken body laying on the street swam before her eyes. Two hands gripped her shoulders and a deep voice cautioned softly, "If you shout at him, he will fall."

Bella almost dropped her buns. She spun around to Sir John. He looked just as worried as she felt.

"What is he doing up there?" Bella hissed, fighting the tears that were blinding her eyes and the horrible choke of fright in her throat.

"I believe he wants to be the first one to sight the king." Sir John's hands steadied Bella's shoulders, preventing her from turning back around toward Geoffrey.

"Get him down this instant," Bella demanded.

Sir John frowned, not at her, at the boy on the high merlon. He spoke in a calm, normal voice. "That has been my intent for the past hour since he was spotted that high. However, I have told everyone to keep silent and ignore him. I have men positioned in every spot possible to catch him if the worst should happen. It would be better if the boy would come down the way he got up there. Provided he can. I have been waiting to see."

Bella's fingers tightened on her makeshift sack.

What kind of a father was he? The child was in terrible danger. Surely he shouldn't be standing idly by waiting for the worst to happen. "Why would he have gone up that high? Hasn't he been told not to go past the allure? It's dangerous enough up here."

"So it is." Two deep grooves in Chandos' cheeks flattened as he squinted up at the height. "Aye, Geoffrey has been warned and no, he does not have permission to be up that high. As you can see, my hands are tied. So, little mother, are yours." He tilted his head and looked down at her face. His frown deepened as he pointed at the cloth clutched in her hands. "What have you there?"

"Poppy seed buns. I was bringing each of the boys a treat from the kitchen."

"Did you bring one for me?"

No, she hadn't, but she would never admit that. She opened the corners and showed him the contents. She could tell he'd not seen anything quite like these buns before. A black brow arched as he studied her.

"Do you offer me one, lady?"

"Do you want one? I made them," Bella told him.

"You made them?" he said with disbelief.

"Oh, yes, I made them myself, with my own two little hands. There are thirty witnesses in the kitchens

who can swear they saw me measure the flour, break the eggs, beat the batter and shape each and every little roll and stuff them with cream."

"My, my." He picked the smallest and lifted it out, examining the golden soft bread. "What is inside it?"