The prospect frightened her. Remain calm, her inner voice commanded. Battling her panic, she asked, “L-lied to you? W-what are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about your kinfolk and about your negating Sir Goddard’s claim that they had attacked and killed his fellow knights.”
Alana unknowingly clutched the wet bath sheet closer. A puny shield, she thought, once she absorbed what she had done.
She scrutinized Paxton’s face. Sir Goddard—he’d told Paxton about Rhys and her cousins, something she had purposely neglected to do.
“You allowed that no one followed them,” she said, pretending to be ignorant of his meaning. “Have you since changed your mind?”
“Nay. As I previously agreed: No one followed from the castle. But when I let you convince me that Sir Goddard’s ramblings were about the Welsh in general, I was unaware that you had family living across the river. You failed to tell me about them, didn’t you, Alana? Why? Is it because you’re trying to protect them? Were they the ones who attacked Henry’s men, slaying all but Sir Goddard?”
Alana nibbled at her lower lip. What was she to say? Dylan had confirmed, in a roundabout way, that her kin had assailed Sir Goddard and the others. The lies. Each was mounting one on top of the other. Would she be able to keep them all straight?
“You’re taking far too long to answer, Alana,” Paxton remarked. As he did so, he took a step toward her.
“Stay where you are,” she commanded, clasping at the bath sheet. To her amazement, he didn’t obey.
“For each second you delay in replying,” he announced, “I shall come a step closer. One… Two… Three… Four… Five…”
Mutely, Alana stared at him. It was as though she had lost her voice. Before she found it, he’d crossed half the distance to her. “Stop!” she shouted.
He paused and cocked his head. “I don’t hear your response.” He picked up his pace. “Six… Seven… Eight…”
Alana stumbled back a step. “How can I respond when I don’t know the answer?” she cried, praying he’d not come any nearer. “I’ve not spoken to nor have I seen Rhys in weeks.”
“And who is Rhys?” Paxton asked, still striding forward.
Tall and powerful, he intimidated her. Her heart was pounding erratically while strange feelings whirled inside her stomach. Dear God! Why didn’t he leave her alone?
“My mother’s brother,” she blurted, feeling suddenly faint. “Please don’t come any closer.”
He halted less than an arm’s length away. Reaching out, he gently captured her chin. “Tell me what I want to know, and I won’t have need to hound you like this.”
His light touch nearly undid her. Her knees wobbled. Positive her legs would give way, she was both surprised and grateful that they held her firm.
“I-I don’t know who attacked Sir Goddard,” she insisted, hoping he’d accept her at her word, wishing he’d now depart. “As for relatives, I have many. Some are as far south as Swansea. Others as far west as Harlech. Even more to the north at Conwy. Do you expect me to know their movements at any given hour of the day?”
“I’m not interested in the others… just in those across the river. And, of course, in you.”
Alana noted how the timbre of his voice had deepened. Her breath caught when he released her chin, his knuckles brushing upward across her cheek.
“I understand why Gilbert was so enchanted with you. Your skin—it’s as soft and as smooth as a babe’s.” His hand moved to her hair. “Like fine silk,” he whispered, allowing the tresses to cascade from his fingers.
Mesmerized by his words, his gentle touch, Alana could do naught but gaze at him. His eyes were fully dilated, glistening onyx ringed by a heavenly blue.
He cupped her right shoulder. His fingers played there for a second or two, then trailed slowly down her back. “You’re temptingly beautiful,” he said, the thumb of his other hand caressing the curve of her mouth.
Before Alana could react, his lips were on hers.
His kiss was hot and searching, and to Alana’s regret, far too brief. He pulled away and examined her face.
“How could a mouth that sweet be at the same time so very deceitful? You have the ability to lure a man, even unto his death. Is that what happened to Gilbert?”
Alana stiffened as anger surged inside her. Wiled by his honey-coated words and his masculine charm, she’d nearly fallen for his ploy, almost responded to his kiss. She was glad she’d kept some of her wits about her, not giving into the magic of the moment.
Her eyes narrowed on him. “It is as I’ve told you, and as I’ve told Henry: Gilbert died trying to save me.
“You speak of deceit, so let us discuss your assertion. You maintain that you are Gilbert’s friend, yet you enter what was once his chamber, and without preamble; approach his grieving wife, who is not properly dressed; refuse to leave when she commands it; then you attempt to seduce her while in the same breath you call her a liar. Who is the one filled with deceit? You show no respect for Gilbert’s memory nor for me as his widow.
“I have answered your question. If you do not believe what I say, then cross the river and ride upon my kin and discover for yourself if they attacked Sir Goddard. I warn you, though: They are over three hundred strong, where you and your men number less than seventy. Attack them, and you’ll not survive. Leave them alone, and you’ll have no trouble. The choice is yours.
“Now take yourself from my room and give me the privacy that is due me… the privacy Gilbert would expect from a man who was indeed his friend.”
She spat the last word from her lips. His eyes shuttered, Paxton viewed her at length. Then to Alana’s relief, he spun on his heel and strode from the room.
Still clutching at the bath sheet, she pressed her fingers to her lips and stared at the closed door. Heat yet prickled low in her stomach while her heart continued to flutter. Even now she could feel his mouth on hers.
The inflated numbers she’d given when speaking of her kin promised to ensure Rhys’s safety, along with the hundred or so people residing in the ringwork, nearly half of them being children.
Her lies had worked, just as she’d hoped.
But at what cost?
Again remembering the effects of his kiss, as well as her desire to respond, Alana felt certain she’d somehow betrayed herself.
Paxton leaned against the wall in the narrow corridor just behind the gallery and only a few feet from Alana’s door.
He was amazed by his temerity, astounded by his lack of gallantry. Never had he behaved so brazenly toward a woman, especially not toward a friend’s wife.
Reason followed that he’d acted as he had because he’d never faced a situation such as this. The fairer sex usually approached him, not the other way around. But then he’d never walked in on a woman who was fresh from her bath.
Groaning, Paxton remembered how tiny beads of water had trickled down her satiny limbs. He’d been tempted to catch each droplet with his tongue, at the same time tasting the sweetness of her skin.
And the bath sheet.
He recalled how the damp linen clung to her alluring breasts to outline their fullness as jutting nipples thrusted impudently against the cloth.
And her enticing hips.
Though she made every attempt to hide them, he was granted short glimpses of their seductive roundness. Likewise he was allowed to view the sleek length of her thighs, the turn of her calves, the slimness of her ankles, and the smallness of her feet.
He thought of their close quarters. How easy it would have been to strip the cloth from her, unveiling her completely.
The notion had tempted. That he hadn’t acted on the urge was a veritable miracle. Paxton knew that if he had, his loins would not still be throbbing, hot lust yet blazing inside him.
Even so, he’d been enchanted enough by her beauty that he braved to touch her, to kiss her, and yes, afterward, to taunt her.
He’d gone searching for the truth. Now that he f
ound it, it wasn’t at all what he’d expected.
He desired Alana, wanted with every inch of his masculinity to lie between her outstretched thighs and bury himself inside her, physical gratification his reward. He could have her too. All he need do is summon the priest and present her with Henry’s decree.
I suggest you temper your interest, or you might be lying beside him.
The words that he’d uttered not so long ago to Sir Graham about Gilbert twirled through Paxton’s mind, peaking into a dizzying crescendo.
His lust soon quieted, and he pushed away from the wall to stride the corridor toward the stairs and the hall.
Alana was beautiful, but she was equally as treacherous. Understanding such, Paxton decided he’d be wise to heed his own warning.
Alana clutched at the kegs stacked beside her as a wave of heat coursed through her when she remembered Paxton’s kiss. The fiery flames licked outward, then shot low in her belly; the effect left her breathless, shaken.
From last night until this very afternoon, she couldn’t stop thinking about that moment… couldn’t stop thinking about him.
Damn him for playing havoc with her emotions—the insufferable blackguard!
Angered with herself that she allowed him to have such control over her, Alana pushed away from the kegs and began counting the sacks of meal piled in the corner of the storeroom.
She’d come here to get away from him, to get away from her memories by occupying her mind with something else. After tallying their food supplies over and over, coming up with a different number each time, she knew it was no use. Her shoulders slumping, she sank down onto the bags of meal.
What was wrong with her?
It wasn’t as though she’d never been kissed before. Gilbert had done so often enough… at least at the beginning of their marriage.
But like everything else between them, things eventually changed. His kisses came less and less frequently. Carnal satisfaction was all that he was interested in.
Alana shuddered.
Thinking about Gilbert had left a sour taste in her mouth. In the end, she’d grown to despise him. Even more so, she’d despised the thought of his touching her.
Lovemaking—how disgusting!
She frowned.
If she actually believed that were true, why then had she dreamed about Paxton, the two of them locked in a heated embrace, his hard body thrusting, hers eagerly receiving each deep stroke of his rigid manhood?
Flames again leapt to life inside her as she was seized once more by the images that were played out in her nighttime fantasies. Her face burned, for the passionate enactments were far too real; Alana gasped for breath.
This would not do.
Allowing herself to imagine them as lovers was a waste of time. He was Norman, an enemy to her people. Dylan, who Madoc reported had safely crossed back to his side of the river that morning, had warned her that if Paxton ever touched her he would pay… dearly, at that. Did she want another man to die, simply because of her?
Besides, the oaf had called her a liar, hinting that she was a murderess as well. In the first instance, he was right; the second, he was wrong. Just knowing he distrusted her should make her want to shy away from him.
Unfortunately, and to Alana’s chagrin, that was not the case.
Misery of miseries! she thought, coming up off the sacks to her feet. This foolishness had to stop.
Determined to complete her inventory, she faced the bags of meal and began counting.
The door opened behind her.
Believing it was Madoc, she turned with the intention of asking for his help. Her smile faded when she saw who had actually entered the room.
“Well, well. If it ain’t the murdering little bitch herself,” Sir Goddard snarled, a look of vengeance in his eyes.
CHAPTER
6
Fear prickled along Alana’s spine as she realized the extent of the danger she faced.
She appreciated fully how much Sir Goddard hated her, how much he hated all her kind. The greater portion of his loathing, she knew, could be attributed to Gilbert’s demise. With the additional deaths, his abhorrence had been compounded another twelvefold. He wanted revenge, and the feral gleam in his eyes said that she was about to receive her due.
Alana’s first reaction was to scream. On any other day, the act would bring quick results, with half the castle rushing to her aid.
Today, however, everyone was either out in the yard or beyond the castle wall, working diligently under Paxton’s command on the new construction.
Knowing she was on her own, she backed against the sacks of meal, her eyes frantically scouring the area for a viable weapon.
The small knife in her belt would be no match for the man’s cunning and strength… no match for the enmity driving him.
True, she might be able to deliver a few jabs or a stinging cut—perhaps even two—before he disarmed her, but nothing so drastic as to immobilize him.
Her search for something to use in her defense went unrewarded, and Alana decided the application of her own wits might be the best protection of all.
“I presume you’ve come to restock your daily supply of wine,” she said, squaring her shoulders. “The vats are against the wall, the flagons on the shelf beside them.”
“I know where the vats are,” he snapped.
Staggering more fully into the room, he slammed the door, Alana jumped.
“Aye, I came for more wine,” he continued. “I’ll get it too… once I’m finished with you.”
For a drunk, he was exceedingly agile. Before Alana had time to draw her knife, he was upon her. Grabbing her wrists, he forced her back onto the sacks, his ponderous girth pressing down on her.
“Get off me, you oaf!” she demanded. She struggled against him without success. He was far too powerful. “Off me, I say!”
“Nay. ’Tis time you got what’s coming to you.”
Her heart pounded in her ears, exertion and trepidation taking its toll. So much for her own wits, she thought, hysteria bubbling up inside her.
His massive weight crushed her chest. As she sucked air between her teeth and through her nose, she felt her stomach roll. His stench was sickening, days’ old sweat and stale wine wafting from his body and breath. “You’re filthy and you smell. Likewise you’re disgusting.”
He laughed sharply. “Had you been a Norman wench, I might have taken the time to bathe for the occasion. But you’re naught but a Welsh bitch. Lowborn scurf, that’s what you are.” He smiled coldly, exposing his decaying teeth. “I always wondered what Gilbert saw in you… why he wanted a slut like you in his bed.” Drawing her arms upward along the coarse sackcloth, he caught her wrists in one hand. He lifted himself, his free hand settling between them. Simultaneously, his knee burrowed between her thighs. “’Tis time I discovered what the mystery is all about.”
She knew it was coming, knew it as surely as she knew her name. Even so, she still wasn’t prepared.
When Sir Goddard’s meaty hand grabbed her hard between her legs, massaging her with brutish force, Alana flinched and stiffened. Tears stung her eyes, then welled and streamed across her temples and into her hair as she tried without success to squirm away from his lewd manipulation.
She whimpered openly, a silent cry screaming through her mind: Merciful God! Anything but this!
Paxton climbed down from the platform where he’d been overseeing the day’s construction to spy Sir Graham standing in the middle of the courtyard shaking his head.
“You appear perturbed,” he said on reaching Graham’s side. “What troubles you?”
Graham met Paxton’s gaze. “The damn fool nearly ran me down on his way to the hall. No apology, mind you. Just a surly ‘get out of my way.’ Something has to be done about his drinking. He smells from lack of bathing, his bandages are filthy… he’s of little use to anyone, least of all to himself.”
Paxton didn’t have to be told the fool’s name. He’d dismissed
the man once from his duties because of his inability to perform. It was now time he and Sir Goddard had a heart-to-heart talk. Whatever it took, Paxton was determined to see that the man became and stayed sober, even unto the point of having the sot shackled permanently to his cot.
“Where is he?” Paxton asked.
“I imagine he’s by now in the storeroom swilling from a wine vat. Why waste energy staggering back and forth for a new flagon each time he comes up dry when it’s far easier to remain next to the source itself?”
“See to the construction, will you? I’ll be back shortly.”
Paxton’s words flew over his shoulder at Sir Graham, for he was already striding toward the hall.
Alana’s struggles continued to be futile. Her headrail had been torn from her hair, her lone braid whipping against the sacks as she fought to keep Sir Goddard’s mouth from hers. Her skirts were bunched up high on her thighs, his fingers pulling them higher and higher. Then she felt his hand working between them as he attempted to free himself from his braies.
“Nooo!” she cried, nausea and bile churning up to her throat.
She wanted to swoon, felt she might, but if she did, there would be no way to fight him off. But if she didn’t faint, she’d always have to endure the disgusting memories of his defilement.
Her skirts were now around her hips. His other knee joined with the first as it rammed between her thighs, both spreading her wide.
Saint David… someone… anyone help me!
The answer to her silent plea came from Sir Goddard. “Now, bitch, I’ll see what you’re worth.”
Gritting her teeth, Alana closed her eyes and prayed: Let this horror be over.
And it was.
One second Sir Goddard was atop her; the next, he was gone.
Her eyes sprang wide at the release of his constraining weight. She saw him flying through the air. He landed in a heap on the floor, halfway across the room. He didn’t move.
Relief flowed through her as her gaze sought the man who had saved her.
Paxton.
He stood mere inches from her, flexing his hand. He looked at her, and she shivered, for the fury in his eyes was a fearsome thing to see.
Everlasting Page 8