A Flame Run Wild

by Christine Monson

  "I have few illusions about the skill of maids, and if you dislike the fire, cut your own wood." He flung away his boots, which were followed by his wet braies. Catching a glimpse of his slim white flanks, Liliane hastily averted her eyes. Padding from the room, he tossed dryly over his shoulder, "By the way, my name is Jean and I do not commonly make love to boys."

  Rain or no, Liliane decided that it was high time to leave. Before she could reach the door, he had returned with an armload of dry clothes. He tossed her a pair of musty braies and a chainse, then stood by the fire to don his clothes, possibly to preserve her modesty, she thought ruefully, since he obviously had none.

  Rain drummed overhead, rattling the leaking roof. Liliane sighed and inclined her head at the door he had just used. "Is that the bedroom?"

  He raised a brow. "Zounds, I have met snappish lap dogs, but rarely a modest one." Then ignoring her, he pulled on his dry braies. "Suit yourself. That is the bedroom and I am sure the mice will be fascinated."

  Liliane hurried into the room. Jean had not exaggerated. A field mouse scampered into its hole at the sight of her, then peered out again, its whiskers twitching. The room was simple yet beautiful. An ancient chest stood in one whitewashed corner. Greenish rain-softened light slanted across: the room from the deep casement window. The window's heavy, irregular glass held tiny bubbles, reminding Liliane of a rising sea beyond it, wandlike emerald willows melted into an amber lake. The bed was white and downy. A simple pottery bowl filled with wax served as a lamp; beside it lay a worn, illuminated book of Persian poetry.

  Liliane was overwhelmed by a sense of stillness. It was as if she had waited to walk into this room all her life. In her mind a small chime sounded a single, caressing note. Alexandre de Brueil has slept here, she thought. Tim room is too well kept, the bed too fresh, unless this Jean the poacher has kept it so. Still gazing at the room, Liliane pulled off her cap and her mantle, and slid out of the rest of her wet clothes. What she had thought were braies were actually Moorish pantaloons, which swelled full to gather at the ankle. She was reaching for the tonic when a soft laugh at the door made her catch the garment to her chest and whirl around.

  "Lucky mice." Jean's amused, admiring gaze dropped to the tunic she clutched to her breasts. "You have a splendid back," he observed lightly. "Certainly strong enough to cut your own wood."

  "What do you mean by spying on me?" she demanded, frightened and furious.

  At her flushed cheeks and smoldering stare, his own eyes grew hot. "I thought you had finished dressing; you took long enough. Why play at being a boy? You are lovely." His gaze swept to the silky fall of her hair, then down to the pale swell of her breasts, and his voice grew taut. "And ripe. Alexandre de Brueil is a lucky man."

  The fire in Liliane's eyes flared. "Why do you say that? I have never seen him!"

  "Come, are you not the lady he is to wed—and bed 'ere the morrow's moonrise? His bride is fair, I hear, yet"—his voice lowered—"I knew not she was gold as a mote of sunlight and fair as a spring-dewed morn. Nay," he breathed, "thou seem wizard-spun, a changeling maiden with such sorcery in her eyes and form that may lure mortals and magicians alike to folly."

  Liliane was reasonably accustomed to flattery, but no man had ever spoken so to her, not even Diego, who had surrounded her with love and friendship. Although she was not vain, she suddenly knew that in many ways she had been a stranger to Diego. He had not sensed the secrets of the sensuality she was beginning to realize lay within her. Not so this Jean, with his alert, penetrating gaze. He watched her as if awaiting a mistake, a revelation . . . something she must not give him. She was to be chatelaine of this demesne, the wife of his half brother. Already he knew too much and was rapidly guessing more. She must confuse him, escape this place and go to Castle de Brueil as quickly as possible. "As you say, why play games? I see mine is up," she forced herself to reply coolly. "My name is Pilar and I am meant not to marry your Alexandre de Brueil, but ray cousin, Louis de Signe."

  His eyes became so hard and flat that she stiffened. She could not tell whether he was contemptuous or somehow disappointed.

  Bitter and angry, Alexandre was galled to the core. This lovely, tantalizing creature was not to be his on the morrow, but go to a pig of a Signe. He knew Louis, who was nearly twice Pilar's age and dissolute as a baboon. In mounting fury, Alexandre stalked from the room.

  As he waited by the fire for Pilar to finish dressing, Alexandre quickly made up his mind. This Pilar had a cool tongue, but she was shy of men . . . rather, shy of a man who openly desired her. Her uneasy blushes at his nakedness suggested she was yet unpracticed in love. Alexandre squared his jaw. Before dawn, he would see that she was experienced. She would know pleasure before she knew the pain of mating Louis. God knew what creature he himself was to wed on the morrow, but Pilar, with her hair caressing her slender hips, fired his blood as his rich widow was scarce likely to do. With charm and luck, he might persuade Pilar to be his mistress rather than marry her baboon.

  But what could he offer her? He had no money to keep her richly, and he was loath to promise the wealth of a wife he had not yet seen. Alexandre had pleased many women, if he believed their passionate sighs, but he was not fool enough to consider himself so splendid a lover that a woman would exchange her future security for the pleasure he could give. Also, Pilar might well be far less delighted than he to offend the Signes. He frowned. Women were unpredictable and Pilar had shown herself to be particularly so; he might gamble on that unpredictability. Although the odds were stacked against him, he had won on less. However, given her Current mood, she seemed bound to bolt at any moment. The rain' was letting up and unveiling the twilight. How to keep her captive was the first problem.

  Alexandre strode outside, untethered her mare and gave;tis rump a sharp slap. Her hair streaming over her back in a long golden plait, Pilar raced out in time to see her horse disappear through the dripping trees.

  She glared at his innocent face. "Just why did my mare bolt?!"

  "Wolves," he replied blandly.

  "Wolves? Wolves who broke into full cry just as you bounded from the door, I suppose." She looked mad enough to spit. "What are you doing out here?"

  "I came to fetch some wood." His smile was disarming. "The fire is low and I thought you would grow cold."

  "There, my scheming lad, you would be right," she ground out, leveling the javelin at his middle. "Cold's the word, and that's all you will get from me this night. Lift so much as an eyelid in my direction and you will be fit only for the priesthood by morn." She backed into the lodge, jerked shut the door and bolted it, then stemmed all the wooden shutters, leaving Alexandre to watch the last of the feeble sun sink.

  Alexandre swore softly as he began to shiver again. As the woods grew dark, he debated kicking in a window, then thought better of it. By the end of twilight, the rain would resume and she would take pity on him. If she did not, he would be dog sick on his wedding day. Grimly, he figured that would probably be an appropriate condition.

  For an hour, Liliane simmered. Soon the rain began again. The heavy drops against the shutters made her uncomfortably aware that Jean was being soaked by the cold downpour. Revenge was not quite as sweet as she had anticipated. But he deserves it for running off my mare! she argued fiercely with herself. Castle de Brueil is nearly nine miles from here. If I miss the wedding, all hell will break loose!

  Her thoughts left the wedding. If I leave Jean in the rain, he is bound to get sick. And he has no one to look after him. She stared at the shutters shaking with the pounding rain. Jean is silver-tongued and handsome. Though he must have women about the countryside, he lives alone in the forest like an animal . . . like a magpie appropriating another bird's nest. He has as few qualms about usurping the bird's mate, as well.

  After what seemed an interminable stretch, Liliane estimated that two hours had passed. Jean must be bitterly cold, yet after she had slammed shut the shutters, he had made no attempt to gain admittance. He
might have sheltered in the leaky lean-to near the main entrance, where they had tethered her mare.

  Why not let the miserable wretch inside? He had probably suffered enough. She had her poignard and javelin; also, the bedroom door had a hefty inside bolt beam.

  As the driving rain raked the night's sullen sky, Liliane furtively opened the door.

  Her javelin poised, she called, "Jean, come in and warm yourself! You may be a villain, but I shall not murder you by inches." The only sound that reached her was the cpld slap of the rain on the forest floor. "Jean?" she called hesitantly as she stepped into the murk. The deepening mud was stiff and cold. By the time she had taken half a dozen steps, her shirt stuck to her skin. "Jean!" she yelled. "Answer me before I lose patience and leave you out here to drown like a cat!"

  He must have been on the roof, for his weight neatly bore her to the mud. She had learned much of hand-to-hand fighting from Diego's castellans, but nothing of aerial assaults. With humiliating quickness, Jean had pinioned her arms to her sides with her javelin; it dug into her ribs as he hauled her, struggling, back into the lodge. Abruptly, he wrenched the javelin from her grip and shoved her away.

  Whipping the poignard from her belt, she faced him with fury in her eyes. "Manhandle me again, you lawless churl, and you will be using your guts for braielaces!"

  "I would not touch you again for pay!" Jean snarled. His narrow face was startlingly white with cold and anger; his quivering lips were purple. "You are entirely safe, mistress. Had I intended rape, my interest has long since withered, I promise you." As she began to retort, he put up his hand and snapped, "I only ask two things of you: be silent and da not block the fire!"

  Warily, Liliane gave him a wide berth as he stiffly edged to the fireplace. Dripping puddles and leaving muddy footprints, Jean moved like an old man. Without looking at her, he hunkered down and stretched his shaking hands to the warmth. A violent bout of trembling seized him and he wrapped his arms about his chest. Liliane backed away silently. In an instant, the pointed javelin was aimed at her. "Where are you going?" he hissed.

  "Something dry may be left in the bedroom chest," she retorted, "unless you wish to stay sodden."

  "Ha! My only wish it to wring your neck, and yours is to bar that door between us." His arms tightened about his ribs. "For once we are in some agreement—in wanting to see the last of each other. Begone and cower in peace. Your chastity can shrivel like your heart."

  Disgusted, Liliane thrust the poignard in her belt. "Were I heartless, you would yet be rotting in the rain. And as for chastity, look to your own tattered virtue before you preach at me." She stalked to the bedroom and rifled through the chest. Only a ragged pair of braies were left. She pondered what to do. She should just toss Jean the braies and bolt the door, but the wood supply for the fire was scant. To keep warm, he would soon be driven outside to replenish the wood, thus getting wet again. After their adventure in the rain, she was chilled herself. Finally, she went out to the main room and handed him the braies. He looked more miserable than ever, and she could see his shoulder blades jutting sharply beneath the wet chainse. "These are the last of the dry clothes. You said there was brandy wine. Has this place a wine cellar?"

  Alexandre laughed shortly. "You must think that this Alexandre de Brueil wallows in luxury. His cellar hold rotten potatoes and one jug of sour brandy wine."

  Lilian explored the cellar and found that he was right; however, after searching the dusty shelves, she discovered a few strips of venison remaining in a lidded crock. After lugging the jug to the fireside, she gave Jean the lion's share of the venison. "Chew that to ease the bile in your belly."

  He regarded the salted strips with distaste, then began to gnaw one, a resigned expression on his face. Liliane unplugged the brandywine and took a swallow. Making a face, she handed him the jug. "It's nearly vinegar, but it will fight the cold."

  Alexandre took a swig, and gasped, his eyes watering. "That's fit for imps!" Quickly, he stripped off his chainse and rubbed his arms and shoulders. Knowing that he would proceed to pull off his wet braies, Liliane hurried to fetch the bed's woolen blanket. He had pulled on the dry braies by the time she returned. Sagging well below his narrow middle, they seemed to be in danger of falling off him entirely. She threw the blanket over his bare shoulders. He muttered, "Solicitous wench," as he caught the blanket close about him and took another gulp of the brandywine. He choked and began to cough.

  Consolingly, she patted his back. "Drink slowly. The devil will have you soon enough."

  Alexandre shoved the jug at her. "See to yourself. You are as wet as I am."

  Without argument, Liliane shared his brandywine. She had dry domes in her saddlebag, but she couldn't risk getting them dirtied; she was to be married in them on the morrow.

  Before long, both the woodpile and the wine were much depleted. Somewhat mistily, Liliane gazed at Jean. "Well, I am warm, but I am tipsy. In the firelight, you are beginning to turn a pretty lilac."

  Solemnly, Alexandre inspected his hand. "I must be thawing." His blue eyes glinted with mild irony. "You have thawed a trifle yourself."

  "Because I am not presently shoving a knife at your nose?" She laughed. "Do not entertain any ideas, sirrah. Just go on thinking of me as a lad and we shall get on well."

  Lad. He had long lost that ability, thought Alexandre. The wet tunic caressed Pilar's breasts as his hands longed to do. Still angry, he had tried to forget his earlier desire for her, but the imps lurking in his heart were against him. He had sometimes been lonely in his youth and often in Palestine. With Pilar, he felt at peace, as if she were a companion with whom he had no need to be clever or prove himself. What he was seemed sufficient to her for the moment, as if she were an unquestioning child. Her eyes were gentle now, almost tender as she watched him, but she was no child. Although she was slender, her breasts swelled full, and their tips pressed hard against the thin cloth. Where the tunic wrapped, the cleft of her breasts was shadowed in a soft mystery that made his loins ache. Some moments ago, he had shifted the blanket across the swell in his braies. He was fairly certain that she did not mean to tease him; she. was merely unaware of her body's ripe display. He was tempted to make her aware, both of her body's riches and of his aching desire to plunder them; yet plunder it would be, if she were unwilling. The question was: how could he persuade her to melt into his arms, when thus far his forthright approach had roused nothing but her ire?

  Feigning preoccupation with his venison, he studied her beneath the fringe of his lashes. Her beauty had all the subtleties of fine breeding, with none of the flamboyance one might have expected from a female who was masquerading as a male. She had the radiance of youth and expectation, yet he also sensed sadness in her and a certain cynicism that roused his sympathy. Who had hurt her? What had been her life—what marvelous fate had lured her to him in the forest? Was allurement the way to win her? Could he perhaps play upon the fancy that had drawn her to his flute? With some alacrity, he dispatched the last morsel of venison, then casually picked up his flute and began to play. Unbeknown to Liliane, the melody Alexandre delicately fingered upon the slender flute echoed playfully, seductively in his mind as he drank in her softness. She seemed to sense has passion as she leaned back to rest upon her hands. Trilling low, then fluting with a nightingale's breathless freedom, Alexandre played as he never had before. He tantalized them both with the haunting music—an ancient Persian court poem of seduction. At length, he saw her half-closed eyes grow dark, and he glimpsed her stirred yet tempered passion. For now, that passion encompassed all men, all that was sensuous. . . . Somehow, with his exotic melody, he must bring her close to him.

  Liliane watched Jean's fingers on the flute. They were now quick and teasing, now slow and caressing. The music was ms exquisite as the sensual stroke of a cat, his fingertips teasing, their precise grace strangely enticing. She recognized the piece he played, having heard it more than once upon visiting the harem of Almansor. His audacity in choosi
ng such erotic music first amazed her, then touched her sense of mischief. Why not let him go on with his pretty foolishness? After all, he was a much more entertaining player than the blind harem flutist, and vastly more handsome. How the Moorish ladies would giggle and flash their eyes at such a virile substitute for their wizened eunuch!

  Indeed, Jean's dark, mobile fingers led her to entertain very unseemly imaginings. She remembered her fleeting glimpse of whiteness against his darkly tanned, finely shaped limbs. Of compact buttocks and, as he turned, darkness at his groin, and from that darkness rising, like a young stallion . . . Ah, Jean, her mind whispered, you are richly made . . . and no virgin. You summon me now as boldly as any animal ever called its mate, and the call is more potent to me—alone, untried and bereft of all love—than you can know.

  Then, somewhere in her revery, she seemed to feel his hands upon her and her mind cried out, Jean, Jean, touch me so. . . .

  As soon as the thought crossed her mind, she shunned it. To take this man as her lover would be sheer folly. As Alexandre de Brueil's brother, he must inevitably learn her identity. And yet. . . had he not said that he was bound to fight as a mercenary in northern lands with no intention of returning? After this night, he would be gone from her life.' The thought both quickened her pulse and saddened her. After tonight, she would never again see him, with his, beautiful, brown body and the smoldering sapphire eyes that watched her with a feline, deceptive carelessness. She knew what was in his mind; his song of seduction left no doubt as to his desire for her.

  Liliane had known love in her life, but she'd never experienced passion. Once married, she would not betray her vow of honor by taking a casual lover from her husband's retinue. Before that vow, however, she owed the Signes and her enforced bridegroom nothing. To share a single night of love with a stranger of her own choice seemed to her less immoral than to marry perforce a stranger she might have to endure the rest of her fife. None could expect her to still be a virgin after so many years with