She wished that she could stop. There was quite an audience around them. Both women, their faces somewhat ashen now. The little Frenchman, the two others, Eric. All silent—and staring. But she felt as if she were a strung bow, taut to the breaking point. A cry tore from her lips, and she hurled herself against him to attack. She was no match. He caught her wrist before she could offer him the slightest danger; she dropped the knife when it seemed her hand was about to shatter. He brought his arm around her, holding her tight to his chest.
"All right, can I let you go now?'' he whispered against her ear. She nodded. He released her. She turned on him, her fists flying in raw fury. She caught him with a good blow to the jaw, but she hurt her knuckles when she pummeled his chest; he was clad in light mail. Still, she would have continued, except that he caught her up again, crushing her against him while he turned to the others. "You will excuse us, please; I believe this is a matter we're going to have to discuss in private."
"There is no matter to discuss; you will die for this, hang from the highest rafter—" She broke off when he picked her up and threw her over his shoulder so that the air expelled from her in a whoosh of sound and she was left gasping. He took the steps two at a time despite her weight, and made it into the bedroom of her incarceration before she could draw enough breath to berate him once again. Darkness had come, but a candle burned upon the chest, and a fire sent flames that glowed and illuminated the room, bringing warmth to the winter day.
She was heedless of both the light and the fire, set for her comfort. She knew, at that moment, only rage and humiliation. "How could you, how could you—'' she demanded, thundering against his back, heedless of the damage done her hands, until he leaned over the bed, dropping her upon it. She was up on her knees in an instant. "Oh, you are heinous, beyond—" "And you fell off the ship!" he told her, leaning toward her so that she fell back again. "We seized a ship, and saved you from a pirate. Not an ill deed was done to you, but you dived into icy water and risked killing yourself twice to escape us. All this while our intent was only to see you back into the loving, tender arms of your fiancé!"
His return attack was so vehement that she actually fell silent for a moment, staring at him. ' 'A pawn!'' she cried then.' 'I was to be used as your pawn!'' "Was that so terrible that you would risk rape and death?" "What you did was horrible, so horrible—" "Why? Because I had come to know you well enough to suspect you might try to swim ashore? I had men watching you all the time, my fair, gentle, English beauty! Aye, I waited on shore with a few friends. And we tricked you, lady, that we did. Something you well deserved!"
She shook her head. "I am not your pawn. I wanted my freedom—" "Freedom! Well, that, dear girl, is something that we have fought for, bled for, and died for, these many, many years now!" His passion left her in silence, needing breath again, moistening lips that had gone very dry. He suddenly pushed away from her, striding to the window from which earlier—eons ago, now—she had tried to make her escape.
She moved up to a sitting position on the bed. She stared down at her own hands for a minute. God, they were shaking! She looked up at his broad back, at the rich darkness of his hair. And suddenly, she was on her feet again, flying to him. He ducked in anticipation of her attack. He caught her arms as her knotted fists flew upon his chest again. "You bastard, I was so scared, so scared, so scared ..."
The pressure of his arms increased; she was crushed against his chest, and her palms and cheek lay against him there. She could hear the beating of his heart. Then his thumb and forefinger were on her chin, and he lifted her face, meeting her eyes. "Why now? Isn't one monster quite the same as another? Wouldn't a French monster be better than a Scottish monster?" She shook her head slowly, watching him. "I thought that he ... you ... Jacques ... the monster ... would ... would come. Would come to me at night, and ..." She shook her head again, studying his eyes, the fine, strong, sculpture of his face. "And I would have died, you wretched man, because ... because I wanted ..."
"You wanted what?" he demanded heatedly. "I—I—you!" She said, the last word a whisper. It was something she had never meant to say. Something she hadn't admitted, even to herself, until that moment. But that moment had come. And she couldn't take back the words, and she wasn't sure that she wanted to. She felt as if she flushed from head to foot in the deepest shade of crimson, as if the ocean roared in her ears. He stared at her, stunned, his cobalt eyes darkening, his hands seeming to tremble as he held her. She lowered her head, no longer able to face him.
She hadn't said this. She couldn't mean this. She did. "What?" he queried, his voice a whisper as well. She shook her head, unable to speak, hardly able to breathe. But he gripped her shoulders, giving her a firm shake, causing her head to fall back again, her eyes to meet his. "Tell me again, explain what you just said," he persisted. She couldn't. She had given away far too much, made herself far too vulnerable. And Alain! He did not deserve this. She would not dishonor him. But still ..."Speak to me, damn you!" he cried. "I will do what is expected of me," she told him haltingly. "And I have been betrothed to a good man, a very fine man. And I will... I will try to be a good wife, to make him happy. But... he is a man nearly three times my age, and ..."
It was his turn to lower his head, for his eyes to stray from hers. "So," he said, with a rueful tone, self-mocking. "I would be an experiment, my lady, a memory? Then you will marry the ancient lord de Lacville as you've been told to; you will live with what you think is honor, and try to make him happy." "You will ride off and die for Scotland," she told him. "A false dream." His hands tightened upon her. "It is not a false dream." "Neither is what I offer Alain a false honor." "So just exactly what is it that you offer me?" he asked tensely.
She searched his eyes again, surprised by the intensity and passion within them. "It isn't what I offer," she said softly. "It's what I ask." He released her, turning away. He strode across the room, his back to her. His back remained to her as he said, "After what I have done, here ... you would be with me?" She was silent so long that he turned to her. She tried to keep her eyes level with his. They fell. "Yes," she said simply. He came back to her. He lifted her chin, brushed her cheeks with his knuckles, studying her eyes. Then he turned his palm, and stroked her cheek with his fingertips. "It is what you ask?" he said. "Then surely, my lady, I must oblige." "Don't mock me!" she whispered. "If I mock anyone at all, my lady, it is myself, and myself alone."
He lowered his hand, and captured her lips, his fingers still fingering with the lightest touch upon her cheek and chin. His mouth came gently upon hers for but a moment, then seemed to fuse there, his lips and tongue parting hers, a sweet, desperate, wet heat arising there. She had never imagined what just such a kiss could do, had not expected the searing fire that seemed to sweep from her lips to her abdomen, engulfing all between and around. Her knees threatened to give; she trembled with hot and with cold, flames seeming to sear her flesh, her blood, her soul within. Passion—hard, swift, demanding, rose to dominate his touch. His tongue swept into her mouth, tasting, filling, arousing. She held his shoulders, clung to them, yet then, suddenly, she was no longer on her feet, but swept into his arms. His lips parted from hers, and his eyes seemed to pinion her then with their blue fire and he spoke in a ragged whisper. "You are sure, you are sure that this is what you want? For what you ask of me, I give most willingly, yet I will not accept a look of regret in your eyes, or words of reproach or of anger."
She moistened her lips, amazed that they could have gone so dry so quickly, and startled that they seemed so swollen, so eager, so ready for his slightest touch again . .. "I am sure of what I want!" she promised. He carried her across the room, to where the fur still lay atop the mattress, and he laid her there, finding her mouth again, kissing her with a thorough passion that left her breathless and quivering. He rose slightly, his fingers upon the ties of her woolen tunic, and then on the linen of her shift. She felt the brush of his hands on the bare flesh of her midriff as he maneuvered the c
lothing from her.
"The light!" she whispered. "The candle, it is light—" "Aye, 'tis light, and I would have it so." "Aye, 'tis light, and I would not!" ' 'Would you hide in shadow, Eleanor? What from, me, yourself? No shadows, no darkness, and no pretense." But he smiled, stretched above her on the strength of his arms, and kissed her lips before moving again. She felt awkward, half- clad, the warm red light of the fire on her nearly naked flesh, the candle glow too telling. But his lips touched hers briefly, harder, and with a searching, a questing, until she felt evermore breathless, and he pushed away from her, rising to cast aside his own clothing. He tossed off the tunic he wore, then struggled with the leather buckles that held the coat of armor in place. She found herself rising; her fingers upon the straps as she aided him. The mail fell to the floor, far heavier than it had appeared on his body. He shed the shirt he wore beneath it, then his boots, and leggings, as she waited on the bed on her knees, eyes lowered, awkward again, uncertain, wishing again for shadow.
She was aware again that the fire cast dancing waves of red and gold upon him. Beautiful, enchanting tongues of fire seemed to cascade over the length and breadth of him. The dance of heat and light caused muscle to ripple and gleam, flesh to glow. He reached for her face, gentle fingers brushed her cheeks, until her eyes came to his. She reached out, a hand upon his chest, tracing the shadow dance cast there by the flicker of flame. She felt the quick contraction of muscle, the sharp intake of his breath. A strange wonder filled her, along with elation and fear. Desire, a sense of excitement within her flesh, body, and soul, took flight; she hesitated, but his hand covered hers, so much larger, darker, massive, it seemed, holding the delicate length of her fingers against him. And she was still so uncertain, wishing she weren't so awkward, a sense of shame still part of the wonder. Yet she knew as well that she had, indeed, wanted this fantasy, that it was magic, and that even the flames rising against the stone of the hearth were aware of the magic, and one with it. She scarcely moved, feeling the rapid pulse of her own heartbeat, fluttering in her chest like the wings of a bird. And she could not help but think, Whatever was to come, she would have this!
He cupped her head, cradling it with his free hand. Again, his kiss evoked a liquid fire, not unlike the dancing flames that rose in the hearth, as molten as the flow of a smith's silver. With that kiss, he leaned her back until they were once more stretched upon the fur on the mattress on the rope bed. There, that kiss took flight, like the rays of the sun, spreading out upon her. She felt the liquid silver of his tongue upon her shoulders, her midriff, her breast. Silver became gold, like the apex of a summer's day, the heat touching her flesh, permeating it, bringing the dance of the flames to each of a million points of life. She shivered, trembled, writhed, and when she would cast her head aside, flaming with a moment's remembrance of the modesty she had so fleetly cast aside, she would see his eyes, and something within them made her feel cherished as well. His arms were around her, his hands were upon her flesh, and she felt she belonged there, as she had never belonged anywhere before. He paused a moment, poised above her, when all of her flesh felt part of that fire, when his kiss had traversed the length of her, and she reached out, shivering, for she had been fire, and where he had left her now, she was cold. But still, she touched his face with fascination, the planes of it, and met his eyes, and saw in him his youth, strength, and valor, and she wondered how she could have thought anything other than that he was completely magnificent. He caught her fingers upon his cheek, held them, kissed them, and told her simply, "I could die in you."
She smiled slowly, wonder in her eyes. And then that which had been gentle and soft gave way to passion; the cold was gone, for again, he touched her, hands upon the length of her, tongue upon her breasts, creating wild sweet patterns. She felt the fullness of his sculpted body, the hardness of his aroused sex against her. His hand slid between her thighs, and she waited, on fire, anticipating, but he slid further down the length of her, again laving her belly with the hot wetness of his kiss, lower to her thighs, higher again, directly between her limbs, and it seemed that she all but leaped from her own flesh, for the sensation was so vivid, so shatteringly sweet, outrageously intimate, and compelling that her gasps were those of astonishment. It was as if he had found the very source of the sun, the center, the place from where all dancing flame began, and there, the world began to bum. She instinctively writhed at first to escape such an intimacy to cause such a shocking sensation; then she writhed because she could do nothing else, because the sun was about to explode in the sky ...
It did so, and a rain of shimmering gold seemed to burst forth from within her, then cascade down upon her, so startling that she was scarcely aware of the fur beneath her, the touch of fur at her back, the world itself. Yet before she could drift from that moment of shimmering light, she felt the sleekness of his flesh against her own, and she gasped anew with sensation as she felt the fullness of his body as he moved into her. There were seconds, perhaps, no more, of a startling, blinding pain, yet he whispered words of assurance, moved with supple finesse, touched her, and the pain fell away, faded into the warmth of the sun, and there was nothing again but a dance of fire, and a mindless desire to be with him, to touch the ripple of muscle, to taste, move, and be one with him, to be held as she was and give what it was that she received.
The moment came; tension gripped him. She felt the great power in the length of him, and again felt a shattering explosion of fire, of the sun, of a golden radiance. The heat of his body seemed to melt into hers, to hold her on a cloud of quivering steel and then fade slowly, slowly, slowly. The fur beneath her tickled her flesh. She had been burning, now she cooled Candlelight glowed and danced around her, and yet the roar was different, as she was different now, and would never be the same. He did not release her easily for though her muscle; ached and a haunting inner burning remained deep within her she was loath for him to leave her by the slightest fraction o distance. His flesh was sleek and damp, touched still by the candlelight and fire, and in his eyes, the dance of the flame continued while he studied her face, her eyes. And she though that with him as well, something had changed, was different, and he could never go back.
She thought that when he spoke it would be gently; words perhaps of the amazement he had felt. But at last he brushed her cheek with his knuckles and a slow, soft smile curved his lips. "Interesting ending to the evening, my lady." She caught her breath, heart hammering. ' 'Interesting. Well, sir, thank you," she murmured. His smile deepened. "Interesting, amazing. Astounding." She knew that she trembled. She did not want to say many of the words that might have fallen from her lips. She had said that she wanted this. She had, with all her heart. She had claimed that she would have no regrets. Yet she might.
For in all her life, she might not ever have anything so sweet again ... "Ah, well, then," she tried to murmur lightly, still far too aware of the naked man atop her, and the intimacy between them, "I thank you again." He sobered, yet his smile remained, wistful, gentle, as he said, "I thank you, my lady. For I will remember this night until the day I die." "Before you die," she murmured, "there will surely be scores of lasses, Scots, French, English, and one day, the woman you will call wife. I doubt then that you will remember me, the enemy who succumbed far too easily." "Never too easily, and the enemy by birth and circumstance," he told her. "You longed for vengeance." "You nearly killed me." "In this," she said softly. "Perhaps you have found your greatest vengeance."
She never knew his answer, for there came a hard pounding on the door. "Brendan! Are you alive? Or has the lady managed to do you in at last?" It was Eric. "I'm well!" Brendan called back quickly. He stared into her eyes. "She has not skewered me." With a rueful glance, he rose. His back to her, he found his clothing, leaving his mail in a corner of the room. She started to rise. ' 'Nay, if you would sleep, if you would rest, you will not be disturbed." Fully clothed, the warrior again, he told her, "You have not been the prisoner you thought yourself for some time,
my lady. And though the fellows who set upon you are friends, and friends of the Scottish cause, there are those about who are in truth lethal between this place and Paris." He swept her a bow. "You are in our company, and we would not allow it otherwise, but I pray that you accept the hospitality here as well."
She clutched the fur to her chest, rising in the bed. "The hospitality here, sir? I am not a prisoner, yet I am not to leave?" "Ah, well, think of yourself as a ward of the Scottish people, held for your safety, and cherished indeed." "I remain a prisoner." "You remain cherished and that is all." He departed, the door closed, and she was left with no choice but to ponder his words ... And tremble at the time gone by.
Chapter 8
"Sire, the Scots have arrived at Calais." Seated at a table in his great bedchamber, still in his night apparel and enjoying a meal of pheasant and cheese, the king acknowledged the news brought to him by his messenger, Count Rend Breslieu. "Ah." It was a different matter, now, the Scots arriving. He had known that Wallace had set sail for France. News carried amazingly fast across the Channel.
Breslieu, a young nobleman endowed with personal charm, agility, a strong sword arm and a very able horse, often served as his messenger, especially in cases such as this. His ears were nearly as sharp as his sword. "It's all very dramatic, Sire," Breslieu continued, standing at some distance from the table. "Apparently, Eleanor of Clarin was upon the high seas, on her way to meet our own Count de Lacville, when her ship was seized by the pirate de Longueville." Philip almost choked upon a juicy morsel of pheasant. He nearly rose. "But a young knight on Wallace's lead ship caught the pirate; everyone went to arms, and there was a pact signed between them—" "What of the Englishmen aboard the ship?" Philip asked. "Spared—those who survived the pirate, that being most of the men. De Longueville has far more often been after human goods than human lives. The English crew were sent in small boats back to the coast of England. Wallace will plead a pardon from you for the pirate, in lieu of his good behavior toward the lady promised to our own Count de Lacville."
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