setting the cup down on the carpet. “So what do women say, then, when they talk of the marriage bed?”
“Well, it began with Anna asking us what it felt like to lie with a man. She wanted to know if it was ‘pleasant.’”
“It is only natural that she’d wonder about it,” Henri said with a chuckle.
“What did you tell her?”
“Joanna assured her that it was indeed ‘pleasant,’ and Berengaria agreed, saying the intimacy was very comforting. I could scarcely believe my own ears, for they made it sound so . . . so tame, so downright dull! I started to speak up, but then it occurred to me that they were deliberately understating it, lest Anna be too intrigued.”
“That makes sense. Anna is a handful, and if they’d dwelled too much upon the delights of the flesh, she might be tempted to try them for herself.”
“So I thought. But when I said as much once Anna was out of earshot, they looked at me in perplexity. Joanna said Anna deserved an honest answer and they’d given her one. It was only then that I understood, Henri. To them, love-making is indeed pleasant, enjoyable, intimate. But they know nothing of what else it can be, what you taught me it can be!”
“I am not sure I want to hear about my uncle’s bedsport, and for certes I do not want to envision my aunt Joanna in the throes of passion. They are my family, after all, and I still remember how discomfited I was as a lad when I realized that my own parents did the deed, too!”
They both laughed and she wished she’d known him then; she did not doubt he’d been a happy child and she thought that she must do all in her power to make sure that he would be no less happy in Outremer than he’d been in Champagne. Henri leaned over and gave her a soft, seeking kiss. “Well? Are you not going to tell me ‘what else it can be,’ Bella?”
“I do not know if that would be wise. I’d not want to puff up your male pride too much. . . .” She let him persuade her, though, with a few caresses. “It is not easy to find the words. When you make love to me, I stop thinking. I just . . . feel. It is as if my very bones are melting, as if every nerve in my body is afire. It is a little scary to be so out of control, but it is very exciting, too, the way it must feel to be drunk. Only I’m not drunk on wine, Henri, I’m drunk on you.”
Henri kissed the hollow of her throat, brushing back a strand of her long black hair. “How did I ever get so lucky?”
“By letting my stepfather lure you back to Tyre,” she said with a smile. “Your turn now. When you make love to me, how does it make you feel?”
“Blessed,” he said, with a smile of his own, “truly blessed.”
“Silver-tongued devil,” she said lightly, but the candlelight caught a suspicious sheen in those wide-set dark eyes. “All those troubadours and trouvères at your mother’s court taught you well—Oh!”
“What?” His immediate alarm revealed the intensity of his protective instincts.
“Are you hurting?”
“No, the baby just kicked, and quite a kick it was, too.” Remembering that her womb had not quickened until he’d gone to join Richard at Bait Nūbā, she said, suddenly shy, “Would you . . . like to feel it?” When he nodded, she placed his hand on her abdomen, with a stab of regret that her pregnancy must be so complicated, not the source of pure joy it ought to be.
Henri’s eyes widened. “I felt it move!” He laughed, fascinated, for the first time seeing the baby as an individual in its own right, not just part of Isabella’s body. “Do you think it swims around in your womb like a tadpole? I wonder what it thought was happening whilst we were making love?”
“I daresay the rocking motion put it to sleep. At least I hope so, for it is well past its bedtime.” She managed to keep her tone playful, no easy task, for her throat had closed up.
“Speaking of sleep . . . Richard is likely to roust me out of bed at dawn to plan our assault upon Beirut. Once he makes up his mind to do something, he wants it done yesterday.” Deciding to let the candles burn themselves