Narrowing her eyes to the horizon, she realised that they would soon turn up into the vast forests that skirted the Claverstock estate. Too soon! She needed to take Guilhem on a small detour, one where he would be completely lost, and she could extract herself, quickly, back to Claverstock. As they cantered along the path, the belt of trees gradually building to their right, she watched out for the track she knew that would take them up into the trees.
‘Guilhem, we need to stop!’
He groaned. ‘Why? What now?’
She tipped her head up to him, then wished she hadn’t. His lean, square-cut jaw, the sensuous curve of his upper lip, loomed inches from her eyes. ‘I...er...’ Her confidence wavered. ‘I...er...need to go...up there.’ Gesturing towards the wooded slope, the enormous beech trees, she hoped he would understand her meaning.
He squinted at her suspiciously, eyes blue chips of sapphire. ‘Really? We’ve only just left the Priory.’
‘No, we haven’t, we’ve been riding for hours!’ she protested.
‘Can’t you wait? Surely we’re almost there?’
‘No, another hour at least.’ Her lie hung between them, quivering in the limpid air. She squirmed uncomfortably, hip knocking against the saddle’s pommel.
Guilhem sighed, then leaned forward, dismounting with a swift jump. ‘I’ll come with you.’
Sliding haphazardly down from the horse before he had time to help her, she arched one well-defined eyebrow at him. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘All right then, I’ll stay here. But don’t go too far.’ A gust of wind blew through the trees, dislodging a volley of leaves, drifting lazily downwards.
‘I’ll go up there, behind that rock.’ She indicated a mossy outcrop of limestone, a little way up the slope. Her heart sat in her mouth. The Claverstock estate was only a mile to the north; if she could gain the top of this wooded escarpment, she could cut through the fields and reach her home before he did. And hopefully he would lose his way, delaying him even further. ‘But you have to give me time, Guilhem. Women have a lot of layers.’
His lips curved into a wry smile, grudging. ‘Go on, then. Be as quick as you can.’ Unbuckling the leather bottle secured to his horse’s rump, he pulled the stopper and drank. Water spilled down the sides of his mouth, down the strong, hollowed column of his neck.
Alinor hesitated. Could she really do this?
‘Go on,’ he urged, wiping the trickles of liquid away with the back of his sleeve. ‘Hurry up, otherwise I will come up and fetch you.’
She didn’t doubt it. It was now or never. Her heart thudded wildly as she picked her way around a bramble-infested thicket, then lifted her skirts clear as she climbed the hill towards the stony outcrop, pushing through the ferns and scrubby bushes. She was physically fit, unusual in a woman of her nobility, her body honed from walking and helping out with all the jobs in the Priory and at Claverstock. With her father and stepbrother away, it fell to her to run the estate. Her stepmother did nothing. Her breath accelerated as she reached the rock and vanished from Guilhem’s view, darting around the back. Then she increased her pace, almost running, air bursting out from her lungs in short, fierce gusts, her quick, agile steps hampered by the steepness of the ground, the spongy fallen leaves, the slick patches of bare mud. If she could just reach the stone wall at the top, she would be almost home.
‘Alinor?’ Guilhem’s voice floated up to her. ‘Are you ready yet?’
If she called down to him, he would realise immediately that she wasn’t in the place where she had promised to be. She continued to climb steadily, as fast as the muscles in her legs could carry her. Her knees ached with the effort. Sweat gathered beneath her arms, trickled down her spine. She was strong, but did she have enough strength to outrun him? She...
‘Alinor! You little wretch...’ Guilhem’s voice, closer now.
The slope angled upwards in gradient, becoming almost vertical; she fell on to her hands and knees to clamber her way up. The wall wavered high above her, chunks of stone delineated against clear, blue sky. Her goal, if only she could reach it before he caught her! Her fingers dug frenziedly into the loose crumbly soil, laced with a mess of ferns and exposed tree roots. Holly leaves scratched at her palms, at her forearm exposed by the torn, flapping sleeve, drawing blood. Soggy leaves spilled across her sleeves as she dislodged them, clumps pulling free unhelpfully beneath her grasp. Frustrated by her lack of progress, she stretched up, scrabbling for purchase, towards a thicker tree root so she could haul herself up.
Caught up in her frantic attempt to run away, she never even heard him.
‘Got you!’ A large hand fastened around the heel of her leather boot, fingers digging into the cracked, well-worn leather. Kicking down, she clung with desperation to the tree root above her head.
‘Enough, Alinor,’ he said sternly. ‘Come down now.’
A sob rose in her chest and she resisted the temptation to bury her forehead into the dank vegetation, the crush of ferns. Her arm ached from the effort of holding on to the tree root, but she hung on, her mouth set in a stubborn line.
‘So be it. I gave you a chance.’ Her other foot dangled in mid-air; seizing it, he yanked violently, easily loosening her grip on the tree root. She slithered haphazardly down, elbows and knees bashing painfully against razor-edged flints and knotty roots until her feet touched the ground.
Guilhem flipped her around, pushing her back into the earthy bank so that she was forced to look at him, one hand planted on each of her shoulders, trapping her securely within the cage of his arms. His lean features, stern and forbidding, swam before her eyes.
‘What is going on, Alinor? Why are you so reluctant to take me to Claverstock?’ Her eyes were like those of a cat, he thought, huge and green, shining with resentment.
‘Why are you treating me like this?’ she snapped up at him. ‘You’ve no right!’ Wriggling her shoulders in annoyance, she tried to break his fearsome grip.
‘Stop avoiding the question, Alinor,’ he replied, calmly. His voice held a thread of steel. ‘Why are you running away?’
‘Because it’s improper!’ she stuttered back at him. ‘A nun shouldn’t be seen riding, alone, with a man.’
‘You’re no nun.’ Whipping the veil from her head, he plucked at the close-fitting wimple beneath, flinging both to the ground in temper.
He swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. Irritation drained away.
In the filtered sunlight, her hair was revealed, gleaming like spun silk, silver-gold, the long tresses caught into a plaited bundle at the base of her neck. Wings of hair framed the delicate oval of her face, curving low over her ears from a central parting. Framed by the earthy slope, she was like an angel fallen from the heavens, bright and luminous against the brown soil, emerald eyes glittering fiercely from her angry face, the pale fragility of her skin emphasised by the astonishing colour of her hair. He wanted to touch, to feel.
‘I am!’ she whispered, defiantly. The lie echoed in the still air.
Time stretched, lengthened between them, the quiet beneath the trees broken only by the excited call of a blackbird, the trilling of a wren as it hopped out from beneath a haze of brambles. A light wind floated through the branches above, stirring the jointed twigs, making them creak.
His mind emptied of conscious thought, logic sprinting away. The slow, measured rate of his blood picked up speed, pumping faster, harder, around his massive frame. My God, she was beautiful. Stunning. His eyes travelled down over her face, tracing the sensual curve of her upper lip, the obstinate tilt of her small chin.
‘Guilhem?’ she said again. What was he doing? A dangerous wildness had entered his eyes, blue fire kindled. ‘Guilhem, I told you, I am a nun! I am!’ His body closed in on her, warm breath grazing her cheeks. He smelled of leather, of honey.
‘I don’t believe you,’ he mur
mured. Big hands cupped her face, holding her steady; his head lowered towards hers. She squeezed her eyes shut, as if bracing herself for an impact. But the touch of his mouth was surprisingly gentle. Delight zig-zagged straight to the pit of her belly. A delicious rush of feeling, treacherous, overwhelming, surged through her, unstoppable. His body crushed against hers, chest to chest, thigh to thigh. Her mind clawed for normality, for restraint, screeching at her to run away, to hit out, anything to free herself from him, but her heart forbade her. Hands that had been about to push him away hung limply by her sides.
She sighed, a fleeting sound, a whisper of yearning.
He groaned. Hunger gripped his loins, a relentless craving, and he shifted closer, melding his body to hers, arms cradling her slim shoulders, broad chest crushing her soft breasts. His tongue played along her closed lips, questing, insistent. Spirals of desire ricocheted through her slender frame, buffeting her. Instinctively, she parted her mouth. Her hands crept upwards, hesitant at first, over the fine wool of his tunic to the powerful column of his neck. His hair tickled her fingers, tendrils of rough silk.
And then it was over.
Guilhem tore his lips away, breathing heavily. Backing away abruptly, he stuck one hand through his thatch of tawny hair. His hand shook; he turned away in disgust at his own behaviour. What was he thinking? He wasn’t one of those men, those coarse soldiers, who took their pleasure without thought, or conscience! Since his time in prison, after Fremont, he hadn’t been with a woman, his body too numb with grief, too...no, he couldn’t think of that now.
‘We need to get going,’ he said gruffly, his voice grim. He began to walk down towards the horse, expecting her to follow him.
Alinor sagged back, shocked and trembling, reeling from the devastating impact of his kiss. Her knees were weak, barely holding her upright. How dare he do this to her! Tears shimmered in the corners of her eyes; why hadn’t she shoved him away when she first suspected what might happen? She had seen his eyes darken, had felt the tension shift between them. Why had she been so feeble-minded, so foolish?
Because I wanted him to kiss me. She closed her eyes in shame. She was no better than a common harlot on the streets. And here she was, dressed as a sister of God. What a fool she was.
Realising she wasn’t moving, he turned impatiently. ‘Are you coming?’
With quick, aggressive movements, she wrapped her wimple back around her head; jammed her veil on. ‘You can’t treat me like this!’ she responded, furiously.
Her words drove into him; no, he shouldn’t be treating her like this. He had overstepped the boundaries of his own self-restraint, completely unable to resist her. When he had ripped away that veil and wimple, exposing her astounding beauty, he had lost all composure, all control, his mind and body surrendering to the sensation of the moment. Her mouth had been so sweet, so delectable, that even to think of it now sent excitement jittering through his groin. But he did not deserve to take such pleasure; he was not worthy of such feelings, not after what he had done. It would be easier, for both of them, if he maintained an air of complete indifference, and behave as if the kiss had not affected him in the least.
‘Like what?’
A flag of embarrassment deepened the colour on her cheeks. ‘You can’t...kiss me like that and then just walk away!’ She hitched one shoulder up, an awkward gesture.
Guilhem raised one eyebrow, his eyes cold, impenetrable. ‘What do you want me to do, marry you? It was only a kiss, Alinor, it didn’t mean anything.’ Each word was like a frozen stone.
‘But I’m a—’
He held up a hand. ‘Spare me the “nun” story, Alinor,’ he said, bitterly. ‘I don’t know who you are, but you are most definitely not a nun.’
‘You could apologise, at least!’ she hissed at him, changing tack.
‘Sorry,’ he said, but there was no hint of regret in his tone. ‘Now, can we get a move on?’
Chapter Seven
Embarrassed by her lack of self-restraint, Alinor marched up through the forest, Guilhem following, leading his horse. The path had not been used in a while and she pushed her way through small thickets of scrub and brambles, the ragged hem of her habit dragging through the wet leaves, snagging on the low vegetation. Thank God, she thought, that the trees were too thick, too impenetrable for them to ride together. She couldn’t face that again, not after what had just happened.
Her limbs thrummed from the devastating potency of his kiss. Acutely conscious of his eyes on her back, she stumbled along, her gait awkward, contrived. Her face was hot. In order for her to regain any sense of dignity, she would have to show that the kiss had not affected her in the slightest, that his behaviour had been deplorable, a complete betrayal of trust; anything, anything, but the truth: that she hadn’t wanted him to stop.
At the top of the slope, the oaks gave way to pines and the path became drier, covered with a bed of rust-coloured needles. A wooden gate was set into the stone wall, giving access to the flat meadowland beyond. In the shaded places where the sun’s rays hadn’t yet touched, the fields glittered with a sparkling coat of heavy dew.
‘There,’ she said truculently, placing one hand on the damp wood of the gate. Beyond the trees, beyond the rich pasture fields, at the apex of two wide valleys, sat Claverstock Castle. Her home.
‘A fine castle, from the looks of it,’ Guilhem said, coming to stand beside her.
‘Yes, it is,’ she said, her eyes bright with annoyance.
‘You know it, then?’
‘I...er...’ She tailed off lamely as she realised her mistake, picking at a loose splinter of wood on the gate. Of course, why would he think that she had any connection to Claverstock at all?
His hand covered hers. ‘Tell me.’
‘Don’t...don’t touch me!’ she said, furiously, wrenching her hand away. She folded her arms tightly across her chest, her small chin jutting out, combative.
‘Oh, come on, Alinor.’ He brought his palms up in front of her face, a gesture of surrender. ‘There’s no need to be quite so outraged with me. It was only a kiss. I’m sure it isn’t the first!’
He was wrong. It had been her first. She stared at him, mutinously, knowing she had to calm down, to forget. Her whole frame wilted slightly and she clung to the gate.
‘Tell me how you know Claverstock,’ he urged.
Air shuddered in her lungs, a huge shiver seizing her slender frame. ‘I’m not sure I can explain...’ She cleared her throat.
‘Try me.’ Mud streaked her cheek, giving her the appearance of a ragged urchin, a waif.
‘I live at Claverstock.’
‘I see.’ A small crease appeared between his thick eyebrows. ‘So what were you doing, living at the Priory? Did your parents put you there?’ Over his shoulder, the destrier lowered his head, nudging at Guilhem’s tunic; he stroked the animal’s nose, cradling it for a moment.
‘I don’t live there; I stay there sometimes and help out when the nuns need me,’ Alinor explained. ‘A lot of the sisters are old; they need help with tasks, taking goods to market, that sort of thing.’
‘But why would you do that?’ he asked, curious.
It keeps me out of the way of my stepmother and her awful son, thought Alinor, but she couldn’t tell him that. It sounded so pathetic, so mean-spirited. ‘I like to do it.’ Her answer sounded lame, even to her own ears.
His brilliant blue eyes bore into her, keen, perceptive. She shuffled beneath the intensity of his gaze. ‘If Claverstock is your home,’ he said slowly, ‘then you’ll have met my sister, Bianca.’
Her stomach flipped; she shook her head violently. ‘No, no, I haven’t been back for some time.’ The false note in her speech clanged in her ears. ‘I’ve never met her.’
* * *
Within the massive bailey walls, the castle sat
alone on a grassy mound. The only way in was over a drawbridge that crossed a moat. The water appeared bottomless, choked with green trailing weeds, blooms of algae. Eyeing her burly companion with interest, guards stood to attention in the stone gatehouse as Alinor passed through into the inner bailey. Skirting the well in the middle of the courtyard, she headed for the wooden steps that led up to the great hall, slipping through an archway that led to a curtained opening. Pushing through the unwieldy velvet fabric, she held back the thick material with a half-hearted gesture so that Guilhem was able to follow.
He ducked his head beneath the low stone lintel, mouth quirking into a half-smile. Alinor looked as though she wanted to strangle him, he thought. No doubt he deserved it. But her whole manner radiated such hostility, such awkwardness, that he wasn’t convinced it was solely to do with the fact that he had kissed her. She resented his presence, quite obviously not wanting him at Claverstock. And he wanted to know why.
The raftered chamber was deserted, a limited fire burning fitfully beneath the carved stone fireplace. Smoke trailed listlessly out into the room. A substantial table covered with a white cloth dominated the high dais, pewter plates and goblets gleaming along its length. Colourful woollen tapestries decorated the wall behind, softening the rough stone.
‘Why don’t you wait here—’ Alinor gestured to an oak chair beside the fire ‘—and I will go and find my stepmother.’ And hopefully warn her before she comes face to face with this unexpected guest, she thought. ‘I shan’t be long.’ Flicking her skirts to one side, she turned away abruptly, not waiting to see if he would do as he was bid. She disappeared, her stride quick and decisive.
* * *
Scuttling along the dim corridor, Alinor made for the circular stairwell at the far end. If Wilhelma was anywhere, it would be in the ladies’ solar, one floor higher up. She had to warn her, so that her stepmother was prepared; they had to think up a story, quickly, as to the reason why Bianca wasn’t here. Her hands trembled as she climbed up and up the narrow stairs, spiralling round, her brain darting this way and that to possible solutions. Wilhelma thought that Bianca was dead; it was only due to Alinor’s interference, her refusal to carry out Wilhelma’s wishes, that Bianca was safe and well.
Commanded by the French Duke (Harlequin Historical) Page 8