The Shattered Rose Read Free

hadn't fainted then, either.
    They'd been in the woods making love. Yes, making love—for in those early days it had seemed to him that each joyous coupling had added love to the world.
    Jehanne had liked to make love in the open. She found me idea of someone interrupting them exciting rather than embarrassing. A boar, however, was rather more than either of them had counted on, and it came upon them at a miserable time.
    Jehanne was on top and Galeran was close to release. Then she was gone, and when Galeran gathered together the scraps of his shattered mind, he found her straddled over him, his heavy sword in her small hands. "Hell's flames, Galeran. Get your brain out of your cock and kill the beast! Or do I have to do it myself?"
    There'd been many a time when he'd wished he'd said "Go ahead" and watched her have to beg.
    She wouldn't have begged, though.
    Jehanne never begged.
    She'd have tried. She might even have succeeded. Jehanne was tall for a woman, which had not best pleased him as a youth. Though slender, she was strong. Of course, she wouldn't have been able to kill a boar with a swords— that was a difficult feat for a skillful man—but she would have tried.
    Perhaps the boar knew it. Unusually for that animal, it had backed away and fled, perhaps dismayed by the tall, white-skinned, pale-haired woman snarling at it, sword in hand.
    Galeran had dissolved into laughter, and the next he knew, Jehanne was back, driving him into another, more wonderful dissolution.
    A form of dissolution he longed to experience once again.
    No. Not just once . . .
    He urged his mount to greater speed, wondering if their marriage would be as if he had never left.
    Or better?
    He knew he'd changed while away. He'd been twenty-two when he'd taken the cross, and had generally led a pleasant life. Now, at twenty-five, he was leaner, harder, and callused on body and soul. He'd seen marvels to strengthen his faith, and horrors to sour it.
    Jehanne must have changed too.
    Perhaps she would have plumped up after having a child. He'd always admired her slender elegance, but bigger breasts and a cozy armful might be good too.
    Jehanne in any form would be good.
    Raoul was right; he should have sent warning from Bruges. He should stop and send warning today.
    He wouldn't, though.
    With an anticipatory grin, Galeran realized he wanted to surprise her. He wanted to catch his cool wife in her working clothes, skirt kirtled up, her fine hair escaping its braids as it always did. He wanted her to look up and gape with shock, then flush with joy.
    Jehanne didn't like to be caught unawares, so every now and then he liked to do it. Like when he gave her the rose . . .
    He wasn't a man for giving fancy gifts, and up north they didn't see many, but on a trip to York he'd spotted the rose on a merchant's stall, wonderfully carved out of ivory, each petal edge fine as a real one. It was an impractical thing, too small to decorate a room and too big for jewelry, but he'd bought it anyway because its sharp-edged beauty made him think of Jehanne, and after just a few days away he missed her.
    When he'd given it to her, her cheeks had flushed and her eyes had shone, perhaps even with a hint of tears. Jehanne rarely cried.
    She'd cried, though, when she broke it. He smiled ruefully at the memory of her grief over the accident. Other losses had been met with fierce composure, but the rose— sent flying off its shelf in a careless moment—had melted her to tears. They'd stuck the broken petals back with wax, but one was chipped and another cracked and it had never been as perfect as it was.
    Ah, well. He'd brought her gifts from the Holy Land. Perhaps one of them would be the equal of the rose.
    He thought he might have some bed tricks, too, that would catch her unawares. He'd kept his vow, but other men had explored the Eastern women and brought back stories. Jehanne would be interested. She liked to experiment, and now that there was no anxiety about