He looked puzzled. “Dame?”

“Never mind, Francois. I’m just out of sorts tonight. Of course I will come, if my father wishes it. Shall we go?”

In her room at the opposite end of the living quarters, Oriane was sitting in the center of her bed with her long, shapely legs curled under her.

Her green eyes were half closed, like a cat’s. There was a self-satisfied smile on her face as she allowed the comb to be pulled through her tumbling black curls. From time to time, she felt the lightest touch of its bone teeth on her skin, delicate and suggestive.

“This is very… soothing,” she said.

A man was standing behind her. He was naked to the waist and there was the faintest sheen of sweat between his broad, strong shoulders. “Soothing, Dame?” he said lightly. “That was not quite my intention.”

She could feel his warm breath on her neck as he leaned forward to gather the hair from her face, and then laid it in a twist against her back.

“You are very beautiful,” he whispered.

He began to massage her shoulders and neck, gently at first, then more firmly. Oriane bowed her head, as his skillful hands traced the outline of her cheekbones, her nose, her chin, as if he was committing her features to memory. From time to time, they slid lower, to the soft, white skin at her throat.

Oriane raised one of his hands to her mouth and licked the ends of his fingers with her tongue. He drew her back against him. She could feel the heat and weight of his body, could feel the proof of how much he wanted her pressing against her back. He turned her round to face him and parted her lips with his fingers, then slowly began to kiss her.

She paid no attention to the sound of footsteps in the corridor outside, until somebody started to bang on the door.

“Oriane!” called a shrill, peevish voice. “Are you there?”

“It’s Jehan!” she muttered under her breath, more annoyed than alarmed by the interruption. She opened her eyes. “I thought you said he wouldn’t be back yet.”

He looked toward the door. “I didn’t think he would be. When I left them, it looked as if he would be occupied with the viscount for some time. Is it locked?”

“Of course,” she said.

“Won’t he think that strange?”

Oriane shrugged. “He knows better than to enter without invitation. Nevertheless, you had better conceal yourself.” She gestured to a small alcove behind a tapestry that hung on the far side of the bed. “Don’t worry,” she smiled, seeing the expression on his face. “I’ll get rid of him as quickly as I can.”

“And how are you going to do that?”

She put her hands around his neck and pulled him down to her, close enough for him to feel her eyelashes brush against his skin. He stirred against her.

“Oriane?” whined Congost, his voice rising higher every time he spoke. “Open the door this instant!”

“You’ll have to wait and see,” she murmured, bending to kiss the man’s chest and his firm stomach, a little lower. “Now, you must disappear. Even he won’t remain outside forever.”

Once she was sure her lover was safely hidden, Oriane tiptoed over to the door, turned the key in the lock without making a sound, then ran back to the bed and arranged the curtains around her. She was ready to enjoy herself.

“Oriane!”

“Husband,” she replied petulantly. “There’s no need for all this noise. It is open.”

Oriane heard fumbling, then the door open and bang shut. Her husband bustled into the room. She heard the clip of metal on wood as he put his candle down on the table.

“Where are you?” he said irritably. “And why is it so dark in here? I am in no mood for games.”

Oriane smiled. She stretched back against the pillows, her legs slightly apart and her smooth, bare arms draped above her head. She wanted nothing left to his imagination.

“I’m here, Husband.”

“The door was not open when first I tried it,” he was saying irritably, as he purled back the curtains, then fell speechless.

“Well, you can’t have been… pushing… hard enough,” she said.

Oriane watched his face turn white, then red as puce. His eyes bulged in his head and his mouth hung open as he gaped at her high, full breasts and her dark nipples, her unbound hair fanned out around her on the pillow like a mass of writhing snakes, the curve of her small waist and soft swell of her stomach, the triangle of wiry, black hair between her thighs.

“What do you think you are doing?” he screeched. “Cover yourself up immediately.”

“I was asleep, Husband,” she replied. “You woke me.”

“I woke you? I woke you,” he spluttered. “You were sleeping like… like this?”

“It is a hot night, Jehan. Can I not be allowed to sleep as I wish, in the privacy of my own chamber?”

“Anyone could have come in and seen you like this. Your sister, your serving woman, Guirande. Anyone!”

Oriane slowly sat up and looked defiantly at him, winding a strand of her hair between her fingers. “Anyone?” she said sarcastically. “I dismissed Guirande,” she said coolly. “I had no further need of her services.”

She could see he desperately wanted to turn away, but could not. Desire and disgust were running in equal measure through his dried-up blood.

“Anyone could have come in,” he said again, although less confidently.

“Yes, I suppose that’s true. Although nobody has. Except for you, Husband, of course.” She smiled. It was the look of an animal about to strike. “And now, since you are here, perhaps you can tell me where you have been?”

“You know where I’ve been,” he snapped. “In Council.”

She smiled. “In Council? All this time? The Council broke up well before it was dark.”

Congost flushed. “It is not your place to challenge me.”

Oriane narrowed her eyes. “By Sant Foy, you’re a pompous man, Jehan. ”It’s not your place…“” The mimicry was perfect and both men winced at the cruelty of it. “Come on, Jehan, tell me where you’ve been? Discussing affairs of state, maybe? Or have you been with a lover perhaps, e Jehan? Do you have a lover hidden away in the chateau somewhere?”

“How dare you speak to me like that. I-”

“Other husbands tell their wives where they have been. Why not you? Unless, as I say, there is a good reason not to.”

Congost was shouting now. “Other husbands should learn to hold their tongues. It’s not women’s business.”

Oriane moved slowly across the bed toward him.

“Not women’s business,” she said. “Is that so?”

Her voice was low and full of spite. Congost knew she was making sport with him, but did not understand the rules of engagement. He never had.

Oriane shot out her hand and pressed the telltale bulge beneath his tunic. With satisfaction, she saw the panic and surprise in his eyes as she began to move her hand up and down.

“So, Husband,” she said contemptuously. “Tell me what you do consider to be the business of women? Love?” She pushed harder. “This? What would you call it, sex?”

Congost sensed a trap, but he was mesmerized by her and didn’t know what to say or do. He couldn’t stop himself leaning toward her. His wet lips were flapping like a fish’s mouth and his eyes screwed tight. He might despise her, but she could still make him want her, just like every other man, ruled by what hung between his legs, for all his reading and writing. She despised him.

Abruptly, she withdrew her hand, having got the reaction she wanted. “Well, Jehan,” she said coldly. “If you have nothing you are prepared to tell me, then you might as well go. You are of no use to me here.”

Oriane saw something in him snap, as if all the disappointments and frustrations he’d ever suffered in his life were flashing through his mind. Before she knew what was happening, he had hit her, hard enough to send her sprawling back on the bed.

She gasped in surprise.

Congost was motionless, staring down at his hand as if it had nothing to do with him.