Outlaw Heart

by Samantha James

  She smiled. "Nor was I."

  The boy was young, no more than eleven or twelve. Dirt smeared his cheeks and his tunic was torn and ragged, ripped at both shoulders. Strips of linen bound his feet. With a faint tug on her heart, she realized he was probably a poor youngster from the village.

  It gave her a start to realize his own appraisal of her was no less curious, but far more frank. "I haven't seen you here before, have I?" he asked.

  Shana shook her head.

  "You're a lady, aren't you? I mean, a ... a real lady."

  She laughed. "I suppose you might say that." She bobbed in a tiny curtsy. "You may call me Lady Shana, if you like."

  "And you may call me Will—Will Tyler." He swept her an exaggerated bow. When he straightened, the grin had reappeared, quite audacious this time. Urchin or no, there was something quite endearing about this boy.

  "I wonder if you might help me, Will."

  "If I can," he stated promptly.

  She gestured toward the blood-red pennon. "That pennon, Will, the one with the two-headed creature. Whose pennon is it, do you know?"

  " 'Course I do. 'Tis the Earl of Weston's." He eyed her as if she were the strange creature from beneath the sea, then half turned. "That's him yonder, there near the entrance to the stable, with Sir Geoffrey. The earl's the one with the black mantle."

  Shana's gaze cleaved sharply toward the stable. Sure enough, there were two men, one with hair as gold as a field of ripened wheat, the other with hair as dark as the midnight hour.

  A simmering fury stoked her ire. So this was Edward's mighty earl, the sword of England. Ah, but he would be the one brought low, she vowed. She'd bring the Earl of Weston to his knees if it were the last thing she did.

  "You haven't heard of the earl, have ye?" demanded the boy.

  She shook her head. "I've been ... away in Ireland for a number of years and am only just now returning to my home." The excuse was a lame one but all she could think to say.

  "The earl first caught the king's eye when Edward went on crusade in the Holy Land. He was a groom for one of the lords who fought with Edward there," Will went on. " 'Course, Edward was only a prince then, and the earl only a boy, why, not much older than me. And when his lord was struck down, the earl took up his sword and fought as well as any of Edward's royal troops! 'Twas then that Edward decided to take the earl as his own squire. And not a year later, 'twas the earl who slayed the assassin who sought to put an end to the king. If it weren't for Thorne de Wilde, King Edward wouldn't even be here. It's no wonder he's such a hero!"

  The earl was still deep in conversation with his companion. From the corner of her eye, Shana watched as he pivoted, one arm sweeping high aloft in some grand gesture. Ah, these swaggering English and their egos! she thought scathingly. He postured himself as one whose opinion of himself exceeded his true worth.

  It was all she could do to keep the bite from her tone. "I trust the king rewarded him amply."

  Will chuckled. "That he did, milady. He granted him an earldom! And now the king has chosen the earl to lead his forces here!"

  Shana silently scoffed. Hero, was he? Thorne de Wilde, Earl of Weston, was naught but the king's puppet!

  But to hear the boy tell it, the Earl of Weston was the stuff of which tales were made. According to him, children gaped when he rode by. Men and women alike strained to catch the merest glimpse of him.

  "... fond of the ladies, if you know what I mean. But not half as much as the ladies like him, so they say."

  So he had an eye for a lusty maid, did he? Shana's opinion of the earl sank ever lower.

  "They all swoon for the chance to be his chosen one. Why, it don't matter none at all that he's—"

  His words were lost in the clatter of hooves. Shana stepped quickly aside, pulling the boy back with a hand on his shoulder. A frown marred the smoothness of her brow, for beneath her hand, he was naught but skin and bones.

  She glanced at the deep violet fringe of twilight that had begun to gather to the west. "The village isn't far, Will, but you should be on your way before it begins to grow dark. Your mother is probably waiting your supper."

  To her surprise, he hesitated. "I don't live in the village, milady," he said at last. "And my mother passed on when I was but a lad."

  And what did he think he was now? The comment nearly slipped out before she could stop it. Shana heeded her tongue just in the nick of time, for Will's thin shoulders had gone rigid with what could only be called pride. She dared not ask after his father, for she suspected she already knew the answer.

  "Have you no guardian, Will?"

  Her tone was sharper than she intended. She knew it when flashing eyes rose to appraise her. "Got no one but me," he stated clearly, "and that's all I need, milady."

  "Where do you sleep and eat?"

  "I get scraps from die kitchen sometimes. And there's a lady in the village gives me meat pies whenever her husband butchers. And I sleep wherever I can find a place to lay my head." He gestured toward the stable. "Most times the stable master lets me sleep in an empty stall."

  A helpless indignation rose inside her, she who had known only coddling and indulgence every day of her life. Why had fate blessed her with so much, yet chosen to be so cruel to one so young yet? This was no life for a child, no life at all!

  "You needn't look at me like that, milady. I get along better 'n most."

  Shana did not argue, for it was clear Will neither wanted or expected pity. Instead she untied the pouch at her waist and held it toward him. "Here, Will. Here's bread and cheese, enough for your supper and to break the morning fast. And when that' s finished you'll be able to buy more with the coin inside."

  His pointed little chin went up a notch. "I only beg when I've need to, milady," he said stiffly.

  "You did not beg," she stated crisply. "And now there will be no need to."

  The pouch dangled between them. He stared at it, brushing the shaggy hair from his eyes, but he made no effort to take it.

  Shana's lips pressed together. 'Take it, Will. Call it a gift, or a payment if you would. You've enlightened me greatly, and for that I thank you." Her tone was just as stubborn as his. She seized his hand and dropped the pouch into it, curling his fingers around the leather tie with her own.

  For the longest moment she feared he would refuse yet again. She sensed he wanted to say something, for his unsmiling regard meshed with hers endlessly, oddly piercing for one so young. Then, ever so slowly, he began to inch back, retaining his hold on the pouch. At last he wheeled and darted away.

  Shana's hand slipped back to her side. She watched him lunge across the bailey ... ah, straight toward the Earl of Weston. With no more ado the boy grabbed a fistful of his mantle and tugged insistently. With a horrified inevitability, Shana realized Will had snared the earl's attention. The boy said something and gestured.

  Then he pointed directly to her.

  Geoffrey had no regrets about turning his affection to matters other than war, especially one as lovely as this. He let a broad smile snare his lips. "Jesu, but she looks to be a beauty, eh, Thorne? I don't recall seeing her when we arrived. How about you?"

  Thorne had turned as well. Nay, he thought, for he'd have remembered a woman such as this one. She was elegant of stature, tall and slender, clad from head to toe in folds of deep green velvet. She was too far away for her features to be presented in detail, but the lovely profile she portrayed promised beauty untold.

  "The boy was right," said Geoffrey. "She must be passing through for the night."

  Thorne raised a brow. "She could be wife to one of the men here."

  "Saints forbid!" Geoffrey's laugh was low and suggestive. "But I'm about to find out. If it's a bed for the night she's after, I'll gladly share mine."

  Thorne shook his head as Geoffrey crossed the bailey. The woman was no camp follower, that was for certain. Even from here, he had no trouble discerning the richness of her clothing. And she carried herself like a woman
accustomed to having others do her bidding. But Geoffrey was a man of the times. He loved fighting, hunting, drinking and wenching ... but at least when his pursuits ran to the latter, he never forgot he was a gentleman.

  "Milady, it seems someone has neglected their duty." Geoffrey blessed her with his most dashing smile. "I am Sir Geoffrey of Fairhaven, and I apologize that none has greeted you before this."

  He bowed low over the hand she extended, bringing her fingers to his lips. "Sir,," she murmured. "I am—Lady Shana." Shana held her breath, afraid he might ask from whence she came.

  Praise the saints, he did not. "Milady, your young friend mentioned you are on your way home from Ireland. I hope your journey has not tired you overmuch."

  "Not at all, milord."

  "Do you need lodging for the night, mayhap?"

  For all that he was English, his eyes were warm and kind, his manner gracious and genteel. She decided to throw caution to the wind. "In truth, sir, I am here to seek audience with the Earl of Weston."

  Bloody hell! Geoffrey uttered a silent curse of good-natured vigor. What was it about Thorne that so drew the female of the species? He eyed her curiously. "Milady," he murmured. "Do I dare ask why?"

  She lowered her gaze. "It concerns a private matter, my lord."

  Geoffrey sighed. Whether the matter be business or pleasure, it seemed he would have to concede this beauty to Thorne. "In that case, milady, I've no choice but to aid you in your cause." He offered her his arm.

  Thorne had watched the pair from the corner of his eye. He could only guess at their conversation, but he'd seen Geoffrey's charm thaw the iciest of maidens more than once. Thus he was mildly surprised when he saw the pair approach.

  "Thorne," Geoffrey greeted. "The lady here has expressed a desire to make your acquaintance. Lady Shana, may I present Thorne de Wilde, Earl of Weston." With a flourish he transferred her hand from his elbow to the earl's. "Milady, I deliver you into Thorne's hands, with the utmost regret, I might add. But I wish you well on your journey home from Ireland."

  With that Geoffrey was gone. Shana found herself perversely wishing he had stayed. Her heart was drumming so that her chest hurt. Such forwardness was hardly like her, but only now did she consider what interpretation the earl might apply to her conduct. Would he think her loose or wanton? God forbid!

  He was broader than he looked from afar, yet still lean. His skin was weathered bronze from wind and sun. Shana had not thought to find him handsome, yet he was, and wickedly so. His jaw was square, ruggedly configured. His eyes shone brilliant and hard, as black as his heart, she decided with no little amount of rancor.

  He did not kiss her hand, as Geoffrey had done, but he held her fingers far longer than she liked—

  And she had the feeling he knew it. It was all she could do not to jerk away from the blasted rogue's touch.

  "Lady Shana, 'tis a pleasure indeed to be sought out by one so fair as yourself. In truth, 'tis usually only my enemies who single me out."

  His words gave her a weighty pause, for he hit dangerously close to the truth. The merest of smiles lurked about his mouth, but there was a slant to it that made her want to flinch. She quelled it swiftly, for already he'd proved he'd not be an easy one to fool. She knew she must be ever wary and watch her step.

  "Your enemies, my lord? Are there so very many then?"

  Still he smiled, a devil's smile, she decided, yet his voice was chillingly soft. "A wise man once told me one should discover all one can about one's enemies. However, I can scarce believe one as lovely as you could harbor ill toward anyone. And yet, I wonder why you should so honor me."

  She wasted little time in her reply. "There is little to wonder about, my lord. 'Tis said you are King Edward's arm, come to conquer the Welsh. Why, your name is on everyone's lips—I daresay, in every household."

  There was naught but silk and honey in her tone, but her words, so pleasant to the extreme, grated on him like iron scraping rock. A curious tension sprang up between them, for he sensed her words were almost a challenge, a challenge he did not fully comprehend. He leveled on her a gaze of probing intensity, yet her own never faltered. After a moment, he decided he was mistaken.

  "You know these Welsh," he said with a lazy shrug. "Their fondest wish is to stir up trouble."

  Aye, thought Shana with a fervid prayer. The more, the better.

  His gaze, dark and depthless, rested upon her. "Where did you say your home is, milady?"

  "As I recall, milord, I did not."

  Once again Thorne's eyes narrowed. If this was a game she was about, she'd find that two could play as well as one—and she'd find herself well matched.

  "But you've journeyed all the way from Ireland?"

  "Aye, milord." A flicker of disquiet ran through her. Had she aroused his suspicion? He asked so many questions; that was something she'd not counted on. "My home," she hastened to add, "is nearly a day's ride from here. But before I venture on my way," a strange jolt went through her as she laid her hand beseechingly on the sleeve of his tunic, "I must speak with you in private, on a matter most urgent."

  The touch of her hand went through Thorne like a brand. He remembered well the feel of her hand lying in his. It was dainty and soft, small and supremely feminine. It proclaimed to the heavens— and to him—that she was a woman who had never known a hard day's work in all her days. Was she the pampered paramour of some nobleman, mayhap? One who had been cast aside in favor of another?

  She was too lovely to remain unclaimed for long, that was for certain. Indeed, so close at hand she was utterly exquisite, even more than he'd imagined. Her features were finely sculpted and flawless, her lovely mouth hued with the palest of rose. Wide gray eyes, clear and translucent as a rushing mountain stream, gazed mutely into his. All that was male and primeval within Thorne clamored to the fore. A surge of desire, potent and unchecked, heated his veins. He damned the concealing hood that hid the glory of her hair. What little he could see was rich and tawny-gold.

  But she wanted something from him, he realized curiously. And all at once he wondered just how far she would go to achieve her purpose... whatever that purpose might be.

  So it was privacy she craved, was it? Nay, he decided with a touch of cynicism, in this he was not averse to obliging her. Nor would she be the first to ply her body in exchange for some small favor. Privacy would indeed suit what he had in mind.

  "Come," was all he said. A single movement flattened her hand against the crook of his elbow. With the pressure of his palm, he fettered her to him as surely as a shackle encircling her wrist. He paused only for a word with a young serving girl. Another twenty paces took them to a tower door and through. Before she knew what he was about, he was leading her up and around a winding stair, through yet another door and into a large chamber.

  The door swung shut behind them with a dull thud.

  There Shana gaped in shock, the beat of her heart wild and rampant. Her gaze skimmed the huge curtained bed, then the shield propped against the far wall, which bore the same two-headed beast as his pennon. Mother of Christ, this was his private chamber! She'd been prepared to come face to face with a savage lion. She had not been prepared to face the lion in his den.

  She dare not stay with him here, a man with his reputation yet! With a gasp she pulled free. "This is your bedchamber!"

  "You would berate me for honoring your wishes? Milady, you wished to speak with me in private. This is the one place where we may achieve at least a semblance of privacy."

  Without further ado, her hood was plucked from her head. She could only stand in shocked disbelief as warm fingers deftly freed the brooch that held her cloak in place. She felt it whisked from her shoulders. And then he raked her with a glance so unabashedly brazen it stripped the color from her cheeks. It lingered on the shining coronet atop her head, the thrust of well-rounded breasts beneath her gown, the sweep of gently rounded hips.

  No man had ever dared to gaze upon her thus—as if she were a c
ommon strumpet—and by God, none would ever do so again!

  Both his gall and his utter calm were maddening.

  "Milord," she chose her words carefully, "I fail to see why we cannot conduct this meeting elsewhere."

  "And I fail to see why we cannot conduct it here. Or do you fear I think you make advances no proper lady should make?"

  Fire sparked in her eyes. " 'Tis not my conduct I question!"

  Jet brows shot up. "What! You question mine? Lady Shana, surely you cannot think my intentions less than honorable."

  Less than honorable. Aye, he had that right! But his mockery kindled a ready indignation. "You mistake my reasons for accompanying you here. 'Tis not for such—" to her horror she felt herself falter, "such sport as you may think."

  His parry was swift and unrepentant. "And why should I think thusly? After all, milady, might I remind you, 'twas you who sought me out. Though I must say, I do wonder that you dared to come to Langley unescorted."

  Shana flushed. She could find no words to refute his, for he was right. Usually only a woman of questionable virtue dared to travel alone.

  "Indeed, milady, it occurs to me that mayhap you are in need of a protector."

  Her chin came up and she fixed him with a glare both challenging and defiant. "I fear no one," she stated clearly, "least of all any man. And I have no need of a protector."

  No, Thorne thought slowly. She did not. Her annoyance did not escape him. She was, he realized, not used to being questioned.

  He was both piqued and irritated, though he knew not why. The color of her hair was unusual, a dark gold, shot through with copper, rich and gleaming. Her beauty struck him like a blow to the gut. But the Lady Shana also projected a surety of herself that was rare in a woman. Her posture was coldly dignified, her demeanor one of haughty pride. Why, she acted as though she were the queen herself!

  Thorne found himself possessed of a sudden, ruthless desire to see her tumbled from her throne.

  "If I wanted you, mistress, I'd not hesitate to say so. But lovely as you are, at this moment I fear your charms escape me. I am too tired and hungry to partake of..." he smiled benignly, "such sport, as you call it."