by Anne Stuart
"No one has the right to interfere between a husband and wife," he said, fighting back the memory of Gwyneth and her lascivious baron. "She's made her choice."
"For me!" Claire wailed.
He spun her around, his temper shredding. "The world does not revolve around you, Lady Claire! If you weren't so busy thinking of your own concerns you would have realized that Lady Alys was more than willing to marry Simon of Navarre, and her reasons had less to do with you and more to do with her own wants."
"How could she have wanted to marry him?" Claire demanded, aghast.
He shook her, hard enough to startle her out of her self-absorption. "Not every female on this earth is shallow and vain and stupid," he snapped.
She was suddenly very calm. Dangerously so, like the center of a huge storm before it began to blow once more. "Well," she said, "that's a small improvement. At least you are no longer convinced that all women are worthless, even if I still fit that category."
"You're not worthless."
"But I'm shallow and vain and stupid, aren't I?" she snapped back.
"Shallow and vain," he said, no longer caring about the risk. "And stupid if you think you can stop whatever's going to happen in that tower room. Don't let your sister's act be a waste. She went with him willingly, and it wasn't only for your sake. But if you blunder up there and set everything at odds, it will all be in vain, and neither of you will end up happier. Let it be, Claire."
It was the first time he'd used her name, but she didn't seem to notice. She blinked back the ready tears, and he knew he could have been lost in her eyes. He couldn't blame witchcraft, or evil spells. He could only blame his errant heart.
She looked up at him with a face full of hope and fear, longing and despair. She looked up at him, and he knew that what he'd once felt for Gwyneth had been a boy's foolish fancy, tempered by the promise of a sensible marriage. Richard had offered lands and gold to the man who married Gwyneth, and Gwyneth had promised wondrous fleshly delights sanctified by the church.
In the end, neither had been enough. In the end, he wanted nothing more than to run away with the slender, beautiful, tiresome creature who confronted him, her beautiful mouth quivering, her eyes bright with unshed tears.
There was a storm brewing. The wind whipped her golden hair, catching it up and hurling it toward him. Overhead lightning spat through the sky, and he could smell the rain approaching.
"Let me take you to your solar, Lady Claire," he said stiffly. "Your women will stay with you, and I'll keep watch. No one will harm you."
"But what about my sister?"
"She has her husband to guard her."
"It's her husband I'm most afraid of." She pushed the hair away from her face. "Can you do nothing, Thomas?" Her voice was so gentle and plaintive that he wanted to slay dragons for her.
"Nothing, my lady," he said.
She glanced up toward Grendel's tower, her eyes troubled. A dim light pooled outward, but there was no sign of movement within. "If he hurts her, I will cut out his heart."
"I've heard that he doesn't possess one, my lady," Sir Thomas said.
She turned to look at him with devastating calm. "A problem that afflicts most of the men in this castle, Sir Thomas." And she started ahead of him, toward the east tower.
It was done. He had no idea of the hour, he only knew his back hurt, his neck was stiff, and his eyes were stinging from concentrating too hard. He stretched, glancing over to the darkened alcove where his bride slept so peacefully, her gown twisted around her sweet young body.
There were other places he could sleep. A trundle bed, a pallet in the anteroom where Godfrey usually kept watch. He was going to do neither. He would lie beside his bride in the big, fur-covered bed, and he wouldn't touch her.
He glanced down at the clear purple liquid. There was enough in the small stoppered bottle to kill a number of times over. It was a potent draught, and it only remained to be tested. Two drops would promise deep, restoring sleep to a large man. Four drops would kill him.
Or at least, that's what he presumed. He had every intention of testing it first, and this time he didn't dare use one of the servants, not for an experiment that could lead to high treason. He would drink it himself, and sleep beside his young bride totally oblivious to temptation.
He measured two careful drops into a wine goblet, then splashed some warm red wine on top of it. He was about to carry it to his lips when a noise beyond the door caught his attention. He set the glass down again in complete silence and moved stealthily toward the door, his right hand curled protectively against his side.
Richard de Lancie stood in the hallway, swaying slightly, his face flushed from drink, but Simon didn't make the mistake of underestimating his opponent. He slipped through the door, closing it behind him, closing it so that Richard couldn't crane his neck and see what lay beyond.
"Did you swive her?" he demanded in a piercing whisper. "Did you get between my little sister's legs and show her what a man is for? Show her what she's got to look forward to for the rest of her life?"
"It's hardly your business, my lord," Simon said with mocking politeness.
"Then again, perhaps she won't have to put up with it much longer. If you were to die, perhaps I'd let her go back to the convent. She'd be happier there, and God knows she's no prize like Claire. You were lucky enough to get her, but some of the more powerful barons around here wouldn't be quite so eager. I could get her into a nunnery with less expense."
"Not while I'm alive," Simon said with deceptive calm.
"Ah, but life is short. We both know that. Who's to guess when an assassin will turn up, with an ancient grudge? Or a piece of bad shellfish could finish you off."
"I have no fondness for shellfish," Simon said. "As for ancient enemies, they don't exist."
"You mean to tell me that there's no one on this earth who wants to kill you?" Richard scoffed. "No one who wants nothing more dearly than to cut your throat?"
"No one left alive," he said gently.
Richard made a faint choking sound. "I want the sleeping draught, Grendel," he said abruptly.
"It's almost ready."
"You said that before."
"Then you should learn not to waste your time repeating questions. The draught will be in your hands very soon. Once I test it."
"You're going to kill someone to see if it works? Let me make a few suggestions…" Richard's voice was eager.
"It is a sleeping draught, my lord," Simon corrected in a reproving voice. "A dangerous one, taken in the wrong dose, but when properly used, absolutely harmless. I intend to try the dosage on myself."
"You're mad, Grendel!"
Simon smiled. "So you've always said, my lord."
"I want it by tomorrow. If you're dead beside my sister then I'll search your rooms till I find it."
"I won't be dead," Simon said.
"Harrumph!" Richard's disapproval was extreme. "Bring it to me tomorrow whether it works or no. We can always try it on Sir Hector when he's being particularly annoying."
Simon waited until he was out of sight, down the circular stairs, before he went back into the solar. The fire had died down, but the room was warm, almost overheated. The smell of spices and wine lingered in the air, the smell of perfume and flowers and crushed, dried rose petals. He looked at the bed and saw Alys sitting up, a goblet of wine in one slim white hand.
"I wondered where you were," she said in a sleepy voice. "Was that my brother I heard?"
He nodded, momentarily distracted by her voice. By the fact that the dress had loosened in sleep and was drooping around her slender shoulders. She had beautiful pale skin. "He wanted to make certain you survived your ordeal," he said.
"He wanted to make certain I had an ordeal. Did you tell him you declined to deflower me?" She spoke the words boldly, but the color still flushed her pale cheeks.
"I didn't consider it his business. He's already planning my successor as it is."
"He wants a new wizard? I mean, advisor?"
"He wants a new husband for you. Though he's strongly considering the convent."
"I don't want to enter a convent."
"That was your original request. What made you change your mind?"
"You."
The word was simple, her voice was husky and beguiling, and he knew he couldn't resist her. He stayed where he was, rooted to the stone floor, telling himself he didn't need to do it. She sat in his bed, her gown drooping around her, her hair a curtain down her back, and he wanted to go to her. To lay her back among the fur throws and cover her body with his. And he knew he wasn't going to resist her.
And then he froze, as she lifted his goblet to her lips and drank deeply. Of the honeyed wine. And the sleeping potion.
* * *
Chapter Eighteen
He heard the sound from a distance, a great roaring noise that somehow came from his own throat. "Noooooo!" But she'd already brought the goblet, his goblet, to her lips, and he threw himself across the room, onto the bed, covering her, dashing the cup away from her so that it skittered across the floor, the drugged wine soaking into the rushes.
Alys sat utterly still, gazing at him in shock. He was straddling her, and he cupped her face in desperation, staring into her eyes, looking for signs of death or madness. "How much did you drink?" he demanded hoarsely.
He'd frightened her, but he didn't care. It took her a moment to answer, and her voice was quavery. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't think you would mind if I had a sip of your wine."
"How much did you drink?" he repeated.
"Not much at all. Just a sip or two, I think. Is there something wrong with the wine?"
He closed his eyes for a moment, forcing himself to breathe slowly. When he opened them she was staring up at him, her expression bewildered. "It will just make you sleepy," he said in a deceptively calm voice, praying it was true. "I was working on a simple sleeping draught. Lady Hedwiga has need of it." It was a stupid lie, but he was much too shaken to think clearly.
"Why was it in the goblet?"
"I planned to test it on myself before giving it to others."
"You were planning on spending the night in a drugged sleep?" She sounded more confused than outraged, and he could see by the darkening of her pupils that the drug was beginning to work. She would be unconscious in moments, and she wouldn't remember a thing of this conversation.
"It seemed a practical enough idea. It would be the only way I could sleep beside you without touching you."
"Why wouldn't you touch me?" she whispered.
She wanted him. His sweet little virgin bride, convent raised, afraid of horses and thunderstorms and most men, wanted him, the monster of Summersedge Keep. She didn't know what she was asking for.
He tilted her head back, and her neck was long and delicate beneath her stubborn chin. He wondered what she would do if he put his mouth against her pulse.
She was slipping down on the bed as the drug took possession of her, slowly, languorously. "I'm afraid of you," he said, knowing she wouldn't remember. "I'm afraid of loving you."
She blinked, dazed. "You're afraid of making love to me?" she said, her voice gently, sweetly slurred.
"No," he said bleakly. "I'm afraid of loving you, when I haven't loved anyone in years. It would destroy me."
Her eyes drifted closed, but a sweet smile curved her mouth. "Then perhaps," she whispered, "you need to be destroyed."
She was asleep. But whether it was simply a deep, restoring sleep or a more wicked one, leading towards death, he couldn't tell. He could only watch her, the rise and fall of her breasts beneath the rumpled gown, the faint tremor in her blue-veined eyelids, the sleepy whispers as she shifted and stirred.
He stretched out beside her on the bed, his body shielding her as she slept. She was a restless sleeper with the drug working its wickedness—she moaned and stirred, and strange words tumbled from her mouth, words of fear and longing. She opened her eyes once, to stare at him in drugged confusion, until she managed to focus on his face. He half expected the terror to increase, but instead she sighed with relief and closed her eyes again, trusting him.
He hated that trust. He hated her. He hated the tenderness he felt for her. He could summon Godfrey and have him keep watch over her. Godfrey was a learned man; he would be more than capable of observing her reactions to the drug, more than capable of writing them down. There was no need for Simon to lie there beside her, watching, worrying, needing her.
He couldn't move away from her. Occasionally he let his hand drift across her, across her sleeping face, across her restless body, his scarred hand a contrast to her unmarred skin. He had no idea what he would do if she died. Too many people had died, too many women, too many children, too many brave young men and old cowards. Too much death, and if she died at his hands he didn't think he could bear it.
It was close to dawn when she opened her eyes once more, and they were clear and calm as she looked up at him with no surprise whatsoever. He had seen death too often not to know when it was imminent, not to recognize the eerie calm that preceded a soul's passing, and he was frozen with despair and rage.
She reached up and touched his face with a gentle hand, and it had been so long since someone had caressed him. "Am I going to die?" she whispered.
"No." It was a lie.
The slow smile that lit her face was impossibly erotic. "Good," she murmured. "I don't want to die a virgin bride." And she lifted her head and kissed his mouth.
He was too startled to do more than hold still, motionless, as she pressed her untutored lips against his. She pulled back, a faint frown wrinkling her brow beneath the tumbled hair. "Didn't I do it right?"
He was past resisting her and his own desperate need. Without thinking he rolled on top of her, pressing her down into the soft furs as he cradled her neck in his left hand. "You need practice," he said, and set his mouth against hers, feeling her open to his pressure, the softness of her lips, the smoky, drugged taste of her. It should have distracted him, but he was beyond that, his appetite was fully aroused, and he needed her, needed her mouth, needed her soft, sleep-drugged body, needed the sweet forgetfulness she could give him.
He was rock hard, wild with wanting her, and she moved beneath him, warm and trembling, needing him as well. Her laces were already loose from her disordered night's sleep, and it was simple enough to pull the gown down her arms, to her waist.
Her breasts were small and round and perfect beneath the thin linen of her chemise, and he put his hands on them, cupping them, feeling the nipples harden against his fingers. He lifted his head to watch her, and her eyes were lost, dazed, dreamy. She was his for the taking; they were married and alone in his big, soft bed, and there was no way he could deny himself. Whatever reasons he had for keeping away from her had vanished in the heat and the darkness. He knew he wouldn't stop.
He put his mouth on her breast, sucking the sweet flesh through the thin material, and the sound she made was a soft cry of pleasure as she arched beneath him, restless, seeking what her instinct told her she needed.
She slid her arms around his waist, pulling him closer to her, and her drugged eyes were wide and confused. He put his hand between her legs, and she jerked, startled, frightened, still needy, and she pushed against his hand with her hips, silently begging for more.
He pulled up her skirts and she whimpered suddenly, the small sound of a frightened angel. She stared up at him in mute fear and longing, as a bit of reality began to pierce the drugged cloud that surrounded her. He knew he should stop. And he knew that Grendel, the monster, would not.
Her hands slid up his chest, pulling the loose shirt away from his body. The room was dark and her eyes were now closed. The feel of her hands on his skin was exquisite torment, and in sudden impatience he ripped his shirt off, throwing it across the bed.
She was no longer frightened of him, and he could blame the drug for that, but he didn't care. Drugged or not,
conscious or not, she was his, and he would take her, and deal with the consequences tomorrow.
He wanted to seduce her, arouse her, please her, but the feel of her hands on him set a kind of madness upon him, and all he could think and feel and taste was her soft skin, her voice, her warm, clinging body.
He would have her, and there was no room for the tears she wept as she clung to him. He cursed his ungentle hands but he couldn't stop himself from wanting her, taking her. He moved between her legs, pushing in deep, breaking past the frail barrier of her innocence. He hurt her, and she cried. He kissed her, and she kissed him back. He touched her, and she came.
Tight around him, damp and breathless and lost, she lay beneath him, holding onto him with a possessive fierceness that managed to shock his tangled brain. He expected rage and sorrow and recriminations. A thousand curses on his head for his rough passion.
Instead he got love.
Her face was wet with tears. He gently brushed them away, wondering what words he could find. Should he ask her to forgive him? Or should he demand more?
She hiccupped, a soft, lost sound that cut him more deeply than her faint protest. She opened her eyes to look at him, and in their glazed depths he could see a mass of tangled emotions.
"I hate you," she said.
"I know."
"If you touch me again I'll see to it that you really are unmanned."
"I know."
Her furious eyes met his. "I love you," she said, her voice rich with loathing.
"I know," he said, and kissed her.
Her eyes fluttered closed, and she began to snore very delicately.
He froze, staring down at her in disbelief. And then he collapsed beside her on the bed. And then he began to laugh, out loud, as he hadn't laughed in years. His bride slept on beside him as he laughed, at himself, at her, at the complete madness and unpredictability of life. She wouldn't die, his sleeping bride.