Sharon Schulze - L'eau Clair Chronicles 03

by Heart of the Dragon

  “If this is meant as a disguise,” he said, slipping the cap off her hair, “it doesn’t work. Not in the light.” He took her chin in his hand, his fingers hard and warm against her skin, and tilted her head.

  “Only a fool would mistake you for anything but a woman.”

  Her pulse quickened at his touch, then spun out of control when he smoothed the tangled tresses from her face.

  She told herself ‘twas fear made it so, and not the deep green of his eyes—dark as an emerald, and as cold. Yet despite their chill, she saw something there… Loneliness? Yearning? Need?

  A dark curl fell over his forehead. Her fingers itched to caress that silken bit of midnight.

  She closed her eyes, but it mattered not. Something drew her to him still, made her want to move closer, even as he made her tremble. Had she gone so long without human touch that she longed for such from a stranger?

  What sorcery was this?

  The night’s events had addled her brains. Speak, she told herself, do anything to break the spell. She opened her eyes, pulled together the tangled threads of thought and found her voice.

  “I wasn’t trying to hide.

  “Tis easier to climb in this than my usual clothes.”

  The sound of her own voice gave her the strength to move, to attempt to pull away. When she stirred in his grasp, he released her and crossed the small room to shut the door. Grateful for the reprieve, she drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, struggling to shake free of this enchantment.

  “Why did you bring me here? I wish to see Llywelyn.”

  “Twas a pity she could think of nothing else to say; he’d surely believe her a simpleton.

  Besides, her questions were for his master, she reminded herself. And she didn’t know if even Llywelyn could provide the answers she sought.

  What would she do if he couldn’t? She had nowhere to go, no one to turn to. Llywelyn had to hold the key; beyond that, she refused to consider.

  Ian leaned back against the rough wooden panels of the door, crossing his arms as he watched the woman, seeking some clue to her purpose here. He found her persistence astonishing. But then again, it took an immense amount of determination to do what she’d done this night. The idea of a woman attempting—and nearly succeeding—to scale the walls of Dolwyddelan was mind-boggling.

  However, he hadn’t brought her here to admire her tenacity.

  Or anything else about her, he reminded himself as he remembered the feel of her tall, slim body slung over his shoulder. He rubbed his back against the door, as if that would wipe away the lingering sensation.

  “Tell me who you are and why you wish to see him.”

  “My name is Lily.” A trace of pain tinged her features, so fleeting he almost thought he’d imagined it.

  “Just Lily.”

  Her composure disturbed him. Didn’t she realize the threat he posed? He couldn’t recall the last time a woman had remained so calm while in his chamber. By Christ, even those he’d invited here generally quaked like frightened geese in his presence.

  This woman presented a challenge, one he’d take on gladly. He’d never met anyone he could not break.

  “What business could you possibly have with the mighty Llywelyn?” he asked, glancing at her threadbare garments with insulting deliberation. He noticed how they clung to her soft curves, and forced his gaze back to her dirt-smudged face.

  “He has no need of a filthy villein to warm his bed.”

  She gasped and took a few steps toward him. The candlelight hit her full in the face, giving him his first clear look at her and illuminating her tangled fall of hair.

  “Twas her expression of outrage that caught his eye. He straightened and pushed away from the door. Perhaps all women looked thus, but he’d never noticed. By the rood, something about her face seemed so familiar, it caught his breath.

  And her hair, pale copper, the color shining forth like a beacon… What trickery was this?

  He captured her chin in his hand once more, his fingers as harsh as his voice.

  “Where have you come from? And what do you here?” He snatched the branch of candles off the table and brought them closer.

  “Who are you?”

  For the first time since he’d pulled her from the curtain wall, she appeared frightened, and he could feel the fine tremor running through her.

  “I told you. Lily.”

  Her voice shook, too. Good. Mayhap he could use her fear to get what he wanted. He set aside the candles and tightened his hold.

  “Lily who? You must have more name than that. Who are your people? Where do they live?”

  He tugged at her until the heat of her body reached him through his linen shirt.

  “How could they permit a woman like you to wander the countryside alone?”

  She shoved at his hand, to no avail. Her strength was no match for his. But she paid no heed to that fact—he began to doubt she was even aware of it.

  “Why should I tell you aught? My questions are for Llywelyn, not some lackey.” Ignoring his tightening grip, she curled her fingers and raked at his face with her nails.

  “I demand you take me to him.”

  “She-devil,” he snarled as he jerked his head to the side—though not far enough. Twin streaks of fire trailed down his left cheek.

  “You demand?” He grabbed her arms and forced her back until her legs pressed against the bed frame.

  “Don’t you know who I am? Have you not heard of Llywelyn’s Dragon?”

  Her gaze darted toward the bed, and her resistance increased.

  “Answer me,” he snarled, shaking her.

  “Stop! Leave me be!” she shouted. Renewing her struggles, she squirmed against his hold.

  “Damn you.” By Christ, did she think he meant to bed her now? All he wanted of her was answers. The heat rising in his blood meant naught. Any man would react thus, to feel a woman’s softness pressed to his flesh.

  But he would not let her go—not yet. In this battle of wills, he would yield nothing.

  Cursing, Ian wrapped his arms about her and pulled her flush to his body. Theft eyes met, the heat of their breath mingled between their lips. He fought the urge to lower his mouth to hers, to close the hairsbreadth separating him from sweet temptation.

  Suddenly the fight seemed to leave her. She slumped against him, lowering her head until her hair veiled her face.

  “I cannot tell you who I am, milord … because I do not know.” ‘

  Chapter Two

  The feel of strong arms surrounding her, and the steady beat of his heart beneath her cheek, broke through Lily’s sorrow. Horrified, she pushed herself away, swaying until she found her balance, her breath coming in sobbing gasps.

  Her captor–the Dragon—stood staring down at her.

  She couldn’t read his expression in the wavering light, but she doubted he planned to ease his lust upon her. He’d had ample chance just now, had that been his intention, but he’d let her move out of his hold. He’d sounded angry, almost puzzled, though why that should be his reaction, she did not know.

  Chest still heaving, she stepped back. Her gaze never left him as she considered what to do.

  Aye, she had heard of Llywelyn’s Dragon. Who had not? He was legend among the village folk near the abbey.

  Even the sisters, their voices filled with a kind of fascinated horror, had been known to discuss the deeds he’d done in Llywelyn’s name. In truth, she’d thought him to be older, although his size and strength proved no surprise.

  And the aura of power she’d felt in his presence… Yes, she could believe this man capable of every exploit attributed to him—and more. And yet she did not fear him.

  When had she become such a fool?

  His eyes measured her, examining her face with such intensity she feared he could see her very soul. Why should he stare at her thus? She tried not to squirm, but couldn’t keep from swiping her sleeve over the hated tears filling her eyes.

  �
�Why have you come here?” the Dragon asked, his voice calm now, the smooth sound an invitation to answer him.

  Lily knew better than to fall into that trap; the abbess had used the same technique, usually as a prelude to some horrendous punishment.

  “I am sorry, milord. Where I’ve come from would mean nothing to you.

  “Tis your master I must speak with. Only he can answer my questions.”

  He headed for a wooden chest beside the bed before she finished speaking and slammed the lid open with scant regard for the delicate carving adorning the piece. The tunic he chose was the same deep emerald shade as his eyes. She looked away when he tugged the garment over his head, unwilling to fall victim once again to the power of his gaze.

  He snatched up the scabbarded sword leaning against the coffer and belted it about his trim hips.

  “You will not talk? So be it, then. Mayhap a night spent in the cellars will loosen your tongue.” The expression on his face had her backing away, but he grabbed her by the arm.

  “Who knows? You might even get the chance to speak with my ‘master’—if I’m of a mood to plead your case.”

  But the harshness in his eyes before he snuffed the candles warned her there was little chance of that. Her heartbeat unsteady in the sudden darkness, Lily let the Dragon lead her from his lair.

  Ian crossed the courtyard as the rising sun cast a rosy glow over the gray wails of Dolwyddelan. Icy puddles crackled beneath his boots, the perfect accompaniment to the wind whipping around the battlements.

  He loved the brisk air, the cold serving to stoke the fire in his blood. It thrummed through his veins, lent energy to his steps as he descended the stairs into the vaults below the keep.

  The promise of battle with a certain mysterious fiery-maned stranger had nothing to do with it.

  The guard snapped to attention beside the cell door, then grinned his thanks when Ian dismissed him to break his fast above stairs

  Ian shook his head at the young man’s hasty retreat.

  No doubt he’d been bored to distraction standing here through the night, but perhaps ‘twould teach the lad patience.

  That virtue was sadly lacking in most of the hot-tempered warriors who had gathered behind Llywelyn’s banner.

  He’d do well to control his own impatience before he unbarred the door and met with his captive once again.

  Last night, somewhere between the curtain wail and his chamber, he’d lost his usual impassive demeanor.

  And try though he might, he hadn’t regained it in the hours since he’d left the elusive Lily locked behind this door.

  Taking a lantern from the hook beside the door, he removed the bar from its brackets and entered the cell.

  Lily sat up, shielding her eyes from the light. She leaned back against the damp stone wall and tried to ignore the way straw from the small heap She’d slept upon poked through her clothes. Although she knew she should stand—courtesy required it, not to mention the fact that she hated to have him tower over her—a night spent curled on the hard-packed dirt, after her midnight climb, had left her so stiff she could scarcely move.

  “Good morrow to you, Dragon,” she said, infusing her voice with the strength her body refused to supply.

  “Have you word from your master?”

  “I am Lord Ian ap Dafydd of Gwal Draig.” He closed the door behind him and hung the lantern from a peg in the rafters. Three steps brought him across the narrow cell to stand at her feet.

  “No one calls me Dragon—to my face.”

  Did he give her his full name—and the name of his home—a purpose, to show her own lack? Rage and hurt overcame Lily’s aches and brought her to her feet without pain. A glorious surge of power straightened her backbone and lifted her chin until she looked him in the eye.

  “I

  have never feared to be different, Lord Ian of Gwal Draig. I shall call you Dragon.” She brushed straw from her clothes with apparent unconcern.

  She expected him to do something..” anything. For reasons she’d rather not examine too closely, she welcomed the chance to cross swords with him once again. Lily braced herself for the storm.

  But he did nothing, nothing at all, if she discounted the slight gleam in his eyes. Did she see a challenge there?

  “Twas a trick of the flickering light, more like. Lily bit her lip. She needed him to react, to lash back at her. Otherwise she’d never be able to sustain enough fire in her blood to do what she must. But his disregard of her meager show of defiance sapped her mettle. Fresh pain throbbed to life, making the simple act of standing torture.

  Shivers racked her, beyond her will to ignore.

  Still silent, the Dragon left the chamber and returned with a three-legged stool.

  “Here, sit before you fall.” He slammed the stool down and, grabbing her by the shoulders, pushed her onto the seat.

  She closed her eyes and robbed at her arms, certain she’d bear the imprint of his strong, callused fingers for days to come. But he’d spared her the indignity of collapsing at his feet.

  Rough wool settled over her shoulders and startled her into opening her eyes. The warm folds of fabric enveloped her in her captor’s scent. She tugged the cloak more tightly around her body and tried to ignore the sense of solace his unexpected gesture brought. It wouldn’t be wise to feel grateful to him, to owe him anything. Who could tell what the Dragon might demand in return?

  “Are you ready to talk today?” he demanded, his voice gruff. He leaned back against the wall with complete disregard for the cold, slimy stones and folded his arms across his chest.

  “I’m curious. Why must you see Llywelyn?

  What is so important that you’d risk your life to get to him?”

  Lily fought the seductive slide into comfort as the cloak warmed her body. Within her mind raged a furious debate.

  Should she tell him? Sweet Mary, she knew little enough herself. But she’d heard it said that the Dragon had Llywelyn’s favor—indeed, even his trust. He could help her, if he wished.

  “Is Llywelyn even here?” The question had haunted her through the night. Until then, she hadn’t allowed herself to consider that her efforts might be for naught. The guard she’d spoken to—the one who’d refused her admittance to the keep even as he laughed at her request to see the mighty prince–had told her Llywelyn planned to stay at Dolwyddelan for a sennight more. But given his reaction to her, he might simply have been amusing himself further at her expense.

  Lord Ian looked at her as if she were mad.

  “Do you mean to tell me you don’t know? I thought your actions foolish before, but now—” He shook his head.

  “Just tell me,” she cried, rising from the stool and gathering the mantle about her. She wanted to pace, to move, but the chamber was too small and his cloak too long. She sighed her frustration.

  “Please.”

  “Aye, he’s here. But I doubt he’ll see you. His labors begin with the dawn, and continue without cease until the sun is set. In the evening he makes time for nothing but merriment.” Did she detect scorn in his voice?

  His face told her nothing, but what did his opinion of his master matter to her? She had run Llywelyn to ground at Dolwyddelan, climbed the curtain wall and survived.

  Relief weakened her already shaky knees. She plopped down on the stool.

  “Saints be praised,” she said, smiling.

  Ian stared. Her smile transformed her face, and her green eyes appeared lit from within. Although dirty streaks still covered her cheeks, she looked happy. And beautiful.

  Christ on the cross, had he turned into a besotted fool?

  He shifted his gaze to the narrow beam of sunlight streaming through a slit high in the wall. Somehow, this woman had addled his brain.

  But he refused to give in to the temptation she presented.

  The image of a strong, unified Wales rose in his mind, the shrine he worshiped above all others. He’d likely given up all hope of heaven, of family and a life of
his own, to attain that goal. A mere slip of a woman would not keep him from it.

  He’d ignored far more compelling distractions, he re:

  minded himself as he forced himself to look at her again.

  Her smile had disappeared. Perhaps God’s light still shone upon him, after all.

  “Would you plead my case, milord?” she asked.

  “It truly is important. I’d never have tried so hard to see him, otherwise.”

  What harm could there be in it? Christ knew, she’d shown more valor than many a noble warrior. She’d earned her chance to speak—to him, at least.

  “I’ll hear what you have to say.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Lily settled herself on the stool, her spine straight as an arrow, despite the fact that she had to ache like the devil.

  “I searched for the prince for more than a fortnight, though it seems as though my quest had gone on forever.”

  “Where have you come from?”

  “I’ve lived in the abbey of Saint Winifred all my life.

  My mother and I were boarders there.”

  “What is your mother about, to permit you to wander the countryside alone?” He began to revise his initial opinion of her. No one of low degree boarded at an abbey, especially an abbey as wealthy as Saint Winifred’s. And her speech carried the refined tones of the nobility. His wits had gone begging. He should have noticed that immediately

  “My mother is dead, milord, this month past.” She made the sign of the cross.

  “May God grant her peace.”

  She closed her eyes, sadness etched upon her face.

  Perhaps grief at her mother’s death had confused her, sent her upon this senseless journey.

  “Surely you must have family,” he said, ignoring the way her eyes had filled with tears–just as they had last night.

  “Someone must have paid the abbey to keep you. The Church’s charity doesn’t stretch that far.”

  Lily shook her head and met his gaze. She believed what she told him, he could see it. And no cloud of madness or confusion tainted the clear emerald of her eyes.

  “The abbess, Sister Maud, swore my mother was the only family I had. And that our board had been paid, and would continue to be paid, by a benefactor unknown to her.”