by Anne Stuart
In the end the choice was taken out of her hand. Gilles De Lancey stood behind Alistair, and his sharp eyes had seen her hidden in the shadows. He touched the sheriff’s shoulder, whispering something against the long black hair, and a moment later her husband had shrugged the women away with complete disdain and was advancing on her, moving like a huge black cat, sleek and graceful and impossibly dangerous.
His golden eyes impaled her, and she was only vaguely aware that the crowd behind him had disappeared at some unseen order, leaving them alone in the cavernous passageway. Her eyes dropped to the knife at his waist, and she wondered whether she’d made a very great mistake. And whether she’d live to regret it.
He stopped within inches of her, so close that she could smell the spirits on his breath, the heat of the fire, and a faint, intoxicating scent that was so foreign to her that she could only vaguely define it as male.
“Who the hell are you?” he demanded, his voice deep and arrogant and totally devoid of dissembling.
For a moment she was speechless with shock. She’d expected rape, murder, or any milder form of abuse from the man. She hadn’t expected him to simply forget her.
“Your wife,” she blurted out, then could have bitten her tongue.
His eyes narrowed as he considered the notion. “I’d forgotten,” he said simply. “As it is, you’ll have to wait your turn. I have other plans for tonight.” And he presented his back to her, preparing to desert her.
Elspeth had learned to control her temper early on. Rage in a world ruled by men was usually a waste of time, and she chose to be diplomatic whenever possible. She looked at her husband’s elegant, retreating back, and hissed, “So do I.”
It was a mistake. She’d spoken softly enough, but the man had hearing like a cat. He whirled around, catching her shoulders in those hard, beautiful hands of and she knew her first moments of real panic. “I don’t believe I heard you correctly, my lady wife,” he said in a silken, menacing voice. His long fingers flexed into her soft flesh, almost, but not quite, painfully. “Clearly everyone has failed to warn you about me. You would be wise not to cross me. I have a temper that is not a pretty sight, and I can be most lamentably rash. If you wish to enjoy your married life, you’d best learn to watch your tongue.”
He did frighten her. Something about the glowing intensity in his golden eyes, the fierce strength in his hands, the warmth of his flesh burning into hers. What would happen if he touched her even more intimately, pulling her against his elegant, black-clad body? What would happen if he kissed her?
She lifted her head, fighting the panic, determined not to be cowed. The man was a bully, pure and simple. “I never have,” she said in a voice that barely shook.
His hand slid down her arm, capturing one of her strong white hands in his. “Not the hands of a lady,” he said, running his thumb over the palm.
“I wasn’t a lady. I was a holy sister,” she snapped, emotion seeping through. His touch unnerved her as no man’s had. But then, there were few who’d dared to touch her in her cloistered years. “I was busy with works of charity.”
“Something I know little about.” He glanced up, and one might have thought the upturning of his wide, sensuous mouth was a sweet smile. One would have been wrong. “You may reserve your charitable acts for your husband. Your clothes displease me. Have them burned.”
“I have nothing else to wear.”
He shrugged. “I’ll endeavor to see that you don’t miss them.”
Again came that insidious trickle of fear. She tried to tug her hand away, but his grip tightened. “I sent you a wedding ring,” he said abruptly, his eyes narrowing in displeasure. “Did your greedy father steal it?”
She yanked at her hand again, but to no avail. “I had no need of a ring,” she said. “I already have my own. I am a bride of God.”
“Yes, but He never consummated the union.”
She should have been horrified at the outright blasphemy. Instead, unfortunately, she laughed, a small, reluctant chuckle that she quickly tried to swallow.
The effect on Alistair Darcourt was electrifying. He stared at her with something close to shock, and he dropped her hand as if it was burning him. “White,” he murmured in a dazed tone. “White and black.”
She glanced down at her snowy white habit, at the white-blonde hair trailing down to her waist, to her strange husband’s face, the darkness inherent in everything about him. “Poetic,” she said. “And not without a grain of truth. Wouldn’t you rather send me back to convent? I’m certain you could keep the dowry. That way I wouldn’t interfere with your pleasures.”
He pulled himself out of his momentary trance with something akin to a snarl. “You won’t interfere with me in any way.”
“Then send me back.” She couldn’t deny the pleading in her voice, she who’d never pleaded in her life.
But she was dealing with a man who apparently prided himself on being a stranger to mercy or pity. His smile was small, cool, and savage. “Not until I’m done with you,” he said. And before she realized what he intended, he’d taken her shoulders and pushed her up against the stone wall, and his mouth was hot and wet and hard on hers.
Shock reverberated through her body, holding her still. Through the heavy folds of her habit she could feel the length of him, pressing against her, the solid strength of bone and muscle almost distracting her from the devastation of his mouth on hers.
This was nothing like the kisses she’d received from family and friends. Nothing like she’d ever imagined. His hand reached up and caught her chin, and his long fingers held her face still as plundered her mouth, forcing her lips apart, his tongue between her teeth. She tried to shove him away in sudden panic, but he was strong, much too strong, and she was no match for him. She couldn’t breathe, her body felt crushed, and for the first time in her life she considered whether she might faint.
It was almost an abstract notion. She thought about it, and as she let her mind drift, his kiss changed ever so slightly. He slanted his mouth across hers, and there was less brutality and more wooing. No longer was she shoved against the wall; instead he’d slid his arm around her shaking shoulders, pulling her up into his arms, and for a moment she began to melt beneath the unexpected sensuality of his kiss, the heat and strength of his body. She wondered if she was supposed to kiss him back, and how she would go about such a shocking thing.
“There you are, cousin.” A familiar voice broke through the roaring in her ears. It took her a moment of dreadful coldness before she realized that he no longer held her. She was leaning up the wall, her knees shaking, her hands trembling, eyes still shut. She opened them to see the handsome face of Gilles De Lancey.
Alistair had turned his back on her and she had no idea whether he had suffered any reaction to the power of that kiss. “What do you want, Gilles?” he said in a bored voice.
“I hadn’t realized you were…er…occupied. The ladies were asking for you. I can tell them you are otherwise engaged.”
The sheriff waved a negligent hand. “That’s the thing about wives, Gilles. They’ll keep. Make sure she finds her way back to the tower with no side trips. And see what you can do about the crone who was supposed to watch her.”
He sauntered away with deliberate nonchalance. Elspeth stared after him, furious, affronted, relieved. She put a trembling hand to her mouth, realizing it was damp and swollen. She never knew men kissed like that. She wasn’t sure she liked it.
The only answer was to have him try it again. Half the problem had been that she wasn’t expecting it and he was furious with her. Maybe she could get him to kiss her again, this time when he wasn’t angry, when she was ready for it, so that she could decide whether she cared for it or not. She suspected she could grow to like it very much indeed.
However, it seemed as if the high sheriff of Huntingdon was always in some sort of rage. And if that first kiss was anything to go by, it was uncertain whether Elspeth would ever be quite ready for it.
“Ready to return to your rooms, my lady?” Gilles De Lancey said in his mellifluous voice, all gentle concern.
Elspeth glanced up at him. He was a very handsome man, with his blond hair, his strong body, and his pretty face. Much more handsome than her husband. Yet Elspeth had not the slightest interest in seeing how his soft, slightly plump lips tasted.
“Ready,” she said coolly, moving out in front of him with all the grace of a queen. They traversed the keep in silence, climbing the long winding stairs with deliberate care. It wasn’t until they reached the landing outside her rooms that Gilles De Lancey finally spoke.
“I worry about you, my lady,” he murmured, pausing to take her hand. His own were so different from the sheriff’s. Strong and calloused, but oddly small against her own. “My cousin is not quite…sane. I would hate to see you suffer for his…oddities.” He kissed her hand, and she had the strange urge to snatch it away. “I am at your service, good lady.”
She was being foolish. De Lancey was the only friend she had in this castle of enemies. She didn’t dare offend him. “There is nothing to worry about,” she said calmly, letting her hand rest in his.
“Forgive me, lady, but I know my cousin far better than you do, and there is a very great deal to worry about. I will do everything within my power to keep you safe. You must trust me, my lady.”
She didn’t. It was that simple. Despite his warm smile, his handsome face, and his earnest, affable manners, she didn’t trust him at all. He reminded her of one of her father’s stewards, a man who had been found guilty of crimes too numerous to mention, both financial and social, a man whose hideous death she didn’t care to remember.
Carefully, gently, she detached her hand. “I appreciate your offer,” she murmured, slipping in the door as Helva’s snores continued to fill the landing.
“I won’t let him hurt you,” Gilles swore. “I’ll help you escape before I would let that happen.”
She should have jumped at the hint of an offer. If Alistair hadn’t kissed her with that odd blend of anger and desperation, she might have.
But he had kissed her. And for the time being, she was in no rush to leave.
“Good night,” she murmured, closing the door behind her.
And from beyond the heavy wood she heard his voice, shy and earnest and just faintly breathless. “Good night, dear lady.” Just before he turned the heavy lock.
Alistair Darcourt was getting very drunk indeed. He’d dismissed the two women, though he had little doubt he could summon them back if he were to change his mind.
He wasn’t about to. He had other things to deal with, things a great deal more troubling than climbing between the legs of a pair of overly willing wenches.
White and black they shall combine. The words rang in his head, and he stared at his reflection in the polished silver goblet with moody rage. There wasn’t a soul much blacker than his was, from his midnight black hair to the black velvet clothes he favored, all the way down to his undeniably black heart.
And there wasn’t much whiter than a flaxen-haired, white-robed nun who was still as pure and virginal as the day she came into the world. White and black they shall combine. He didn’t want to combine with her. If he had any sense at all he’d send her back to the convent, as she’d begged him to.
It wasn’t as if he had need of a woman. There were dozens around eager to do his bidding if he so much as nodded in their direction. And there would be no need to give back Dunstan Woods. They were his now, and if it hadn’t been for his cursed mother he never would have bothered with this farce of a marriage, but simply taken the Woods from Gaveland in the first place.
But his mother was firm in her demands, and he was to get the woods by peaceful means, with no bloodshed. He was used to the shedding of blood, to taking what he wanted. It was a violent time, and the only way to rise in the world was to play the game. He’d risen rapidly in King John’s employ through his cunning and daring, through his ability to make himself invaluable to his lord and liege. He’d been suitably rewarded. Huntingdon was one of the richest fiefdoms in all of England, and he was the sheriff, serving under King John’s absent rule, and the profits and power that came to him were enormous.
Not that he was a man condemned to use brute force to achieve his ends. He was equally adept at threats and manipulation. There had never been a time when he hadn’t gotten what he wanted, settled a score, waged a battle, and won. He was all-powerful, and he intended to stay that way.
But that flaxen-haired wife of his was a definite danger. He wasn’t sure what had made him kiss her. Maybe the thought that she dared stand there, still in her nun’s clothes with the ring of Christ on her finger, not his. She looked at him out of those cool, defiant blue eyes, and he wanted nothing more than to take her. To show her that when he cared to exert his power, she’d have no chance against him at all.
But Lord, she was innocent! She’d never felt a man’s tongue in her mouth, she hadn’t even realized the almost painful arousal she’d burned into his body, something more overwhelming than he’d felt in months. Perhaps years. Her struggles hadn’t daunted him; her acquiescence had only made the fire burn hotter. He wanted her with such a fierce, angry need that he didn’t dare touch her.
He knew what he had to do. There were two choices. Perhaps three. He could send her back to the convent, out of his sight, and hope he’d never have to think of her again. It would be the sensible alternative, and if Sir Hugh were fool enough to try to take Dunstan Woods back, then bloodshed would inevitable.
Or he could keep her locked away indefinitely. He’d almost forgotten her in the three days she’d been in residence—De Lancey had seen to it he’d never wanted for distraction. But then he’d seen her, standing like a pure white flame in the shadowy corridor, watching him with those deep, dreamy eyes.
There was another choice, the most logical one, the one he most wished to avoid. He deeply distrusted his mother. She saw too much, knew too much, interfered too much. But she would know how to free him from the insidious effect his bride was having on his senses.
He had no intention of entering the bridal bed until he was more in command of himself. He could always rape her, but he’d never had much taste for the sport, leaving it to people like his cousin and his men-at-arms. He needed to bed her, briskly, efficiently, plant his seed in her cold, unwilling body, and then leave her. He didn’t want to be tempted to bring that body alive, with his hands, his mouth, his tongue.
His mother could take care of it. She had a potion for everything. She was adept at concocting love philtres for the smitten men and women whose love was not returned, who dared to find her hovel deep in the woods. Surely she could produce a spell or potion that had the opposite effect.
But how was he to explain that her implacable, omnipotent son was feeling endangered by a slender reed of a girl? White and black they shall combine… And all shall be as God’s design.
What did it mean? His death? Or simply the destruction of the power he’d amassed for himself? She was his nemesis, he knew it deep in his bones, with the faint trace of intuitive power he’d inherited from his mother. Elspeth was his destiny. And he refused to submit to any destiny but that of his own choosing.
If he had to, he’d have her killed before he’d succumb to the ancient curse.
But for a moment, a brief, errant thought slipped into his mind, and he remembered the shock of her sweet, untutored mouth beneath his. And he wondered whether the reward might not be worth the danger.
3
“She’s eager for you,” Gilles hissed in his ear.
The sheriff barely heard him. He was watching the men training. Savage, cunning animals, all of them, and quite the most elite fighting force in the whole of England. It was no wonder King John had chosen to reward him mightily. To do less would be to endanger his own security.
Not that Alistair had any desire to disrupt the throne. King John was efficient enough, too busy worrying about
the nobles in the north that he left Alistair alone, the master of Huntingdon with no one to interfere. His men guarded the western border from the bloody Welsh, who were more savage than human in the opinion of most people. Only the savagery of Alistair’s own men could match theirs.
“I doubt it,” he said absently a few moments later. He turned to glance at Gilles. “I assume you’re referring to my wife? I imagine the only thing she’s eager for is a return to her nice safe convent.”
“You might consider letting her go.”
Suddenly Gilles had his full attention. “That’s an odd suggestion, coming from you. What would have me do, annul the marriage and send her back with an armed guard?”
“I’d make certain she arrived safely,” Gilles said in a suitably modest voice, his blue eyes downcast.
“Would you now? I wonder.” Alistair turned back to watch the men. It was late afternoon, two days since he’d accosted his wife in that deserted hallway. He’d dreamed about her since. The first night he’d drunk so much wine he thought he’d ensured that he wouldn’t think of her. Instead she’d haunted his dreams like a white ghost
The second night he’d been sober, and accompanied. It had been no better. When he pushed the clothes off the girl’s shoulders, he hadn’t seen the overripe body, the sagging, full breasts exposed for his entertainment. Instead he’d seen her body, as pale and white as her habit. Pure, untouched, as he’d never been in his long, dissolute life. He’d ended up kicking the woman out, having lost his taste for her. If he were any less powerful, his recent lack of bed partners would bring forth gossip. As it was, no one would dare whisper about him. His capacity for women, for wine, for warfare, was legendary. If he had temporarily lost interest in the obvious pleasures of the flesh, it wouldn’t reflect on his ability to control his men.
But sooner or later they would talk. Even his reputation couldn’t keep wagging tongues silent, and women who were rejected tended to complain. He was feeling frustrated, nervy as a cat on a hot stone wall. He had to take action, to do something about the white woman living in the haunted tower, haunting his mind more than any headless ghost had ever haunted Huntingdon Keep.