"No, and it's not something I care to discuss now. Let's return to my original question. Think, my lady. You've nothing more to say to me?"
There was a lot she had to say to him. But not now, not so close to everything that had happened. She needed time. She wasn't sure she knew him anymore. They had been apart for months, and together, amid a sea of others, just a few days' time. She had lived her different life until then; he still lived his very different life now. With men and women who rode hard, fought hard—and reveled with great passion.
He assessed her slowly, shook his head with angry disgust, and took a step closer to her.
"Come, my lady. I'm sure that there is information you're waiting to give me."
Then she realized, he knew!
She suddenly brought a hand to her abdomen, worried that her condition had begun to show. She felt blood rush to her cheeks. "I..."
"Oh, do come, my lady! You are so seldom without words, and usually so eloquent. Keep going. I... am having a child."
She didn't repeat the words, but stood very still in dismay. If she had told him ... when she had told him ... she had never imagined it would be like this, while they were strangers, while she was angry ...
And he was furious.
He shook his head, staring at her. "Let's see, a child. The lady is with child. And my old friend Alain was ... let's put it delicately ... simply far too old to be the father, as your cousin-in-law pointed out to Corbin and Alfred."
She would have protested the possibilities of age, but his words created another question and fury in her heart "My cousin-in-law?" she said, "Isobel? You spoke with Isobel?"
"Ah, yes, well, I listened to her. She is the lovely little schemer married to Corbin, right? I do have her name correctly? Gregory gave me most of the knowledge I have of Clarin, and the people there."
"Indeed, you have the name right. Gregory tutored you well. But if Isobel said anything, it was most likely a he."
"I don't think so."
"Oh? And what did Isobel say?"
"She wasn't actually speaking to me, but to Alfred and Corbin. And she told them both that you never slept with your husband. That you had a Scottish lover, and meant to claim die child as your husband's own."
"Isobel knew nothing about our sleeping arrangement" she said uneasily.
"Oh, she probably did. She would have made it a point to know."
"Isobel is a grasping bitch." Eleanor couldn't help but blast out, her fingers curled into fists at her sides.
"That is most definitely true—but unimportant at this time. She went on to say that you might have murdered your husband to keep from having to tell him that you were going to have a bastard child—and give it his good name, of course."
She came around to stand behind the chair by the fire where she had been sitting when he entered, gripping the wood in her fury. "You know that I did not kill Alain."
"Did he know about the child?"
"Yes! No—I haven't told anyone that there is any chil—"
"You haven't admitted it, no. But we both know it's true."
"This is not a good time for this discussion," she told him coolly. "You've had too much to drink."
His brows shot up, and he stared at her incredulously, then a small smile curled his lip. "Too much? Never. Have I been drinking? Aye. It is considered something of a feat for six rebels to march into England, rescue an Englishwoman bound for the block from twice their number, and return, unscathed, and with the countess—unwilling though she might have been—unblemished. The fellows were naturally proud and amused."
"Proud and amused—by all your chances. They will not be so amused when it is you on the block."
"You'll not deter me."
"I say again, this conversation would be better at another time."
"You were the one so eager to press your point last night."
"You were weary; it is my turn to be so."
He shook his head. No hint of a smile touched his lips. "You don't get a mm."
"I am exhausted."
"That's a pity. You can rest when we are done."
"I believe that... people are waiting for you downstairs."
"I am waiting for you, right here."
He came closer to her, reaching across the chair to catch her hand. She would have evaded him; she was not fast enough. His hold was insistent; his eyes like knives, cutting into her. "Come, dear countess, sit!"
"I don't care to sit—"
But she was turned to the front of the chair, and pressed down into it. He didn't leave, or sit himself, but hovered over her.
She was almost glad to be sitting; she couldn't stop the trembling that had seized her, a rage of emotions. Her body had gone weak. She lowered her head. Alain was barely gone. Aye, he had been a friend, not a lover. Not what Brendan had been ...
Her stomach knotted, and she hated herself for the jealousy she felt, just seeing someone else touch him. She had no rights. Neither did he. She had married another man.
He had come for her.
She didn't want him to see how eager she was just to touch him, nor did her longing sit well in her conscience, for no, she never would have harmed Alain, never, not for any power of love or desire. Yet so many of the things being said were true.
"Damn you, Eleanor, talk to me!" he suddenly roared.
"I'm telling you, Isobel is incapable of the truth—"
"But are you capable of speaking the truth!" he demanded. His hands were on the arms of the chair, his face so close to hers.
"Aye, then!" she cried, angry in return. "You want the truth? There is a child."
He pushed away. "Mine?"
"I—"
"When is the child due to be born?"
She inhaled slowly. "I'm not certain—"
"I believe you are. When?"
"November."
"Again, I ask you—mine?"
"Suppose I was certain—how could you ever be?" she demanded.
"Because I knew your husband. And I know you. And I know that you didn't kill him. And I will also believe what you tell me. And I listened to Isobel."
"Isobel did not know about my life—"
"Answer me. The child is mine?"
"You have made your own assumptions."
"I want the words from your lips."
Was he so angry that she would be having his child? Or had Alain been right, that to a man like Brendan, the child was his at all costs?
She gritted her teeth. "Aye."
He was very still for a long moment.
"And you did mean to give my child another man's name, to raise it as his?"
"What would you have had me do?" she flared, rising. "I had to marry Alain; I had to! Even King Philip warned me that it would be your death knell if I did not! And to what end? I returned to England—you, to wage your war, against my people!"
"Your people!" he repeated disgustedly. "The ones who now want your throat!"
"The English populace is not all evil, all cunning, all devious!" she informed him passionately. "You saw the men and women of Clarin, coming to my defense—"
"I am not condemning the people of Clarin."
"Clarin is—"
"Land. Nothing but land."
"No! Clarin is my home! Where people work hard, live good lives, and believe in God, and their moments and season of happiness. But if you would say that Clarin is just land— then it is the same here. Scotland is land—nothing but land!" she returned. "And from France, you returned here, and you fought again, and you'll fight again, and again .. . and every time you win a few steps, Edward will come and hammer you back down. You'll run your glorious raids; you'll roust with your fellows, gamble, drink and take your amusements. Then you'll live your desperate life again—and you'll lose in the end, and you'll die."
"One day, we'll win."
"You'll die."
"Even if I die, one day, we'll win."
"What day? What day will that be?" she cried. "I had a home,
a life to give a child—"
"Children grow well in Scotland."
"Aye—they grow to go to war, and be killed."
"While English children do not?"
Eleanor inhaled a deep breath. "Oh! Why can't you comprehend any of this! I was married to Alain. You lived somewhere in the woods in Scotland. What would you have had me do?"
His jaw tightened. If he knew he was being unreasonable, he would not admit it.
"I don't know. But Alain is dead now."
"Aye," she murmured.
"The child will have my name."
The child would have his name. He thought that if he commanded it, it would be so, and the rest of a harsh world would not matter.
"This is far more grave than any disagreements between the two of us! Don't you see? The child will have no name worth having, if his mother remains branded as a murderess. I must find a way to clear my name. I must have a fair trial."
"You'll not return to England."
"But—"
"You married—because you had no choice. Now, you will remain in Scotland, because I am giving you no choice."
She lifted her hands in a futile gesture. "If I remain here ... with you, I give credence to all that they are saying! I turned to the enemy, I betrayed my husband for another. I married one man for his money—while planning to run away with one of the direst foes of my country. What will happen when this child is born? Rumor will haunt the babe's life—"
"If you went back, the child would have no life."
"But things will be whispered—no, they won't be whispered, they will be said as fact—"
"Will it matter, when we know the truth?"
"Aye, it will matter. You know that it will matter."
"I know that you will not go back to England while carrying this child." His voice had an ice-hard edge to it that frightened her.
"There has to be a way to clear my name!"
"And what would that be, Eleanor? We send messengers asking for an audience with King Edward, he agrees, and you explain, and it will simply be all right?"
"You're being absurd!"
"What is your solution?"
"I don't know! I don't have one. There is one, though; because I am innocent, and therefore, someone else is guilty. I can't keep running—"
"Why can't you see that there is no choice but to run?" he demanded angrily. "My God, Eleanor! My life is mine to risk, but men rode with me to secure your freedom!"
"I'm grateful! So grateful. Aye, you and your men saved my life! But it doesn't change—"
"It doesn't change the fact that you are a countess, accustomed to wealth and privilege, and the idea that your child should grow up the son of a commoner—"
She leaped to her feet in a raw fury, slamming her fists against his chest. "Stop it! Aye, I grew up with wealth, and it is hard to abandon all that my father loved—that he fought for! But that is not my argument, and you fail to understand that whether we are in Scotland, England, or France, for me to be labeled a murderess will destroy the babe's future!"
He caught her wrists, and pinned them behind her back. She struggled against him in a rage of emotions, yet he seemed made of steel, and her anger only made that steel hotter, more molten. And all she could remember then was his touch, and how good it felt to lean against him, feel the encompassing warmth of his fire, burrow against the strength of his being.
"Let me go, you understand nothing!" she protested, but his hold tightened. Her hair became tangled in his fingers, and her chin was forced up and she met his eyes, and saw the sudden heat of desire within them. She tried to remember that Alain, dear, beloved good friend, had died so recently, tried to remember right and wrong, and all she felt again was the desperate longing to be with him, loved by him. But pride lived within her almost as strong as the desire, and she told him again, "I believe you have friends who await you downstairs!"
"Ah, but if a hero deserves his conquest, that conquest lies here!"
"But the pretty lass downstairs is probably not newly widowed, and most probably is more than willing."
"And you are not?" he queried.
She wanted to assure him that she was not, swear that she was not, rail against him with greater anger. But when she opened her mouth, his was upon it, forceful, passionate, hungry. She tried once to twist away ... yet the consuming thirst of his touch held her still to that desire, the force made her yield, and the strength in her body and arms seemed to slip from her, and fall away, as leaves shed from a tree in winter. When his mouth parted from hers, she was weak, shaking. She tried once again to find words, or truth, or substance of protest as he lifted her, held hard against his chest, her head against the power of that vastness.
"I tell you again—"
"Tell me no more!" he commanded, and walked with her to the bed, and came down upon it with her, as if he'd give her no chance to escape, to think, to find more just reason that this should not be so.
Indeed, no chance.
His hands, his lips, were upon her. She heard a shedding of clothing, and knew it must be her own, for he was adept at discarding the plaid and kilt. She felt the fierce sear of his naked flesh against her own, the fever with which his caress was given. She laid her fingers against him, yet thrilled to the vital muscle and movement they touched, and she matched his kiss next with a passion and fury of her own, molding against him, desperate then for more. Her fingers trembled as she touched his cheeks, tested the richness of his hair, stroked the lean hard length of his back. His body moved against her, the rough texture of his palms moved over her breasts, his mouth moved against her, and she nearly shrieked aloud as the stream of fire and flame that seemed to burst out through her length, rays of a warm sun sent down a cold and barren field, waking it to life. How often, alone at night, she had dreamed . . . and now the flesh, the pulse of blood, the reality again. Her lips fell against his shoulder, and trembling still, she touched him with abandon, his back, buttocks, the rage of muscles within his length. She felt a gentle touch upon her abdomen, a stroke, featherlight, fingertips upon her thighs, calloused, arousing, felt them move, within her, without, and the stream of fire took flight throughout her again, until she cried out, and he was with her. He moved like a tempest, and she clung to each violent sweep and pulse, as if she consumed all of him, and would be consumed as well, and therein, find the source of wind and fire. Time had passed, but she knew him, and the knot of muscle and sinew, and the force of his hunger. Always, always, he would sweep her along, he would read her as if he read her soul, knew, and the storm had swept to the highest tor. He would hold her first, feel the tremors that would seize her, and explode then with a sea of searing crystals, liquid fire to fill her, radiate within her, drench her in an aftermath of slow cooling warmth in which to drift back to the world again, and the reality around her. She heard the crackle of the fire at the hearth as a log snapped; felt him adjust to her side, careful of his weight. She was aware of his breathing then, and the still rapid pulse of his heart. He lay by her side, yet his hand rested upon her midriff, and she couldn't help but wonder then if he lay so casually with that restraining touch upon her, or if there was a statement in his touch.
She didn't speak, but lay very still, listening to the fire, trying not to shiver as her body cooled. Seconds later, she realized that his hand moved, that he tested the contour of her abdomen, far more apparent in her bare state than beneath the concealing flow of clothing. She knew his thoughts, and wished she dared draw away, for he remained bitter, she knew, that she would have borne his child in England as another man's own.
But he said nothing.
Dimly, she could still hear laughter, shouts, and music from below.
"They are probably still awaiting you," she said softly.
"I believe they know where I am."
She reached for the tangle of sheets in the darkness, but he stayed her hand. "No," he said, rising to an elbow, his eyes upon her. "I have dreamed too often of such a time when I lay to
o many nights awake, in too great a blackness."
She bit lightly into her lower lip, eyelashes falling. She shivered, unable not to do so, and it was he who then drew the covers around her.
"You dreamed of me ..." she whispered. "All night, every night? There were not other such occasions, when there were not flocks of lovely young nationalists, eager to know a hero's touch?"
"What do you want me to say to you?" he inquired. "That I watched you walk down an aisle to swear to love, honor, and cherish another man, and then fell to my knees myself, swearing that I would love you until my dying day in all chastity, loyalty, and valor?"
She would have moved. He rolled, the cast of his knee carefully pinning her to the bed. "Aye, there were others. The blackness remained. Nothing was ever as good, as sweet, as bright, as vibrant, as it had been before you. Is your pride redeemed?"
"It isn't my pride—"
"What else?"
"I expected nothing from you," she murmured.
"Nay, never my independent, ever-strong countess! Santa Lenora, you would give battle still! You're safe, my lady, alive, but that isn't enough for you."
Seize The Dawn Page 28