A Flame Run Wild

by Christine Monson

At length, he had a more banal urgency than lust. "For pity's sake, Liliane, have Yves bring a chamber pot. I am fit to burst."

  Liliane smiled slightly as she slipped on her robe and ordered up the pot. Yves placed it discreetly at Alexandre's feet, his eyebrows raising only slightly at his master's appearance. Alexandre cut a scathing look at the guard who watched them. "Must I not only take a public piss at a target, but pelt it with droppings, as well?"

  The guard grunted, then grudgingly unshackled his wrists. "Three more guards are outside the door. Try anything and well have your gizzard for breakfast."

  ''Life among the cannibals," Alexandre observed to Liliane, "would suit you very well, my dear." He rubbed his wrists, picked up the pot and took it into the tiny, curtained alcove. The guard caught his shoulder, checked the pot, which was half full, then the alcove, which was empty. He shoved the curtain closed. A moment later, Alexandre emerged from the alcove and bowed. "Thank you for your patient attention." He thrust out his wrists for the shackles, a sardonic light in his eyes as he jerked his hands away defiantly.

  For a moment, the guard looked tempted to strike him, but thought better of it; perhaps because he had orders to leave Alexandre to Liliane. Judging from the circles beneath Alexandre's eyes, she evidently had attended to her task. The guard shackled Alexandre and, to vent his irritation, shoved Yves out of the door and slammed it.

  "Do not anger them too much, Alexandre," Liliane said quietly. "They are tired and on very short leash."

  "I have not had so fatiguing a night since the age of thirteen when I discovered a randy boy and rabbits have much in common."

  Liliane laughed. "Do not boast, darling. Pursuing the peasant girls at your first breath of puberty was not admirable."

  "Amusement is rarely admirable. If I survive being married to you, I shall dissipate without an ounce of remorse." His fingers waved idly. "Ladies, come one, come all. I shall not love you, but by God, I shall make you sing contralto!" His eyes mocked her. "To sleep, my sweet, and dream of me among choirs of bawds resounding your requiem."

  Her smile faded, and her eyes darkened with hurt and regret. "Wherever I shall be, rest assured that I dream of thee," she replied softly. With the cloak wrapped about her, she lay down on the bed and snuffed out the candle.

  In the last moment before the candle" went out, the image of her golden lace was emblazoned on his mind. The curve of her cheek and lips, the slight shadow her lashes made beneath her eyes lingered when all was darkness. I might bray for bawds, he thought in desolation, but my whole soul covets angels, for my ruined love is the incarnation of their sweet beauty. All women, whether low or divine, shall bear her face for me. When I die, I shall see her yet as the last I shall know of loveliness. He closed his eyes and the shining image of Liliane's face touched his; her eyes became his, her lips curved against his breath.

  How can I sever thee from myself? Alexandre railed in silent, hopeless anguish. I must, yet death would be more welcome. It is far easier to turn to cold arms of death than to the warmth of Liliane; easier to embrace emptiness than memory. Jacques planned this; by destroying my illusions, he means to make me prefer death to life, to rack my mind and heart past caring for anything but peace. He places my lost dreams before my eyes and mocks me with them. Liliane will drive, me to despair and capitulation. She leads me to a glimmering hope with lies—false hope in the shape of Louis's garrotte, his assassin's blades.

  Alexandre's face slowly hardened. Nay, I will not take hope from a woman. I will exorcise love and cleave-to revenge. My cold mind, my cold heart will stretch no more on a villain's rack, but live for tomorrow's promise of vengeance.

  He pressed his arms together and, from his sleeve, plucked a lockpit; it stank from the chamber pot where Yves had hidden it. He really must wash his hands before he throttled Liliane.

  Liliane stirred restlessly. She had not been able to sleep deeply; fatigue alone kept her in a fitful doze. She must get Alexandre out of the castle before dawn. She knew Jacques too well; he could easily be playing a double game, about to change his mind and be rid of his opposition. As Alexandre had said, Jacques did not trust her. He must have use for her; otherwise, she would be dead. Alexandre was the greater threat to him and in the greater danger. She must release him now—and never see him again. The moments of passion had passed and still Alexandre hated her. They would be torn apart, and for the rest of his life he would go on hating her.

  Once Alexandre was free to go to Philip, Jacques could not let her live. He might keep her as a hostage for a time, but eventually he would kill her; she knew enough now to bring him to the execution block.

  The child might die, too, but at least Alexandre would survive. One might live, where all three would have died. My child, my husband! her mind screamed. All I love is to be wrenched away!

  Suddenly she sensed a presence, like a hostile shadow overwhelming her. At first, she thought she was assailed by a nightmare, then dazedly she realized that the nightmare was terribly real as a hard hand came down upon her mouth.

  "Scream and I will break your nose," hissed Alexandre. "Do not move a muscle." A manacle closed over one of her wrists, then the othet; a piece-of his chainse went forcibly to her mouth. In moments she was shackled to the bed. "You have had your little game; now I will have mine," he whispered harshly. He jerked aside the cloak that had twisted about her body, then his mouth was upon her like a fiery brand, making her thrash and fight the shackles. All her awareness was led by his mouth, his hands, hard and deliberate and exciting upon her. He was as merciless as she had been, giving pain with pleasure until she moaned against the gag. Finally, he thrust her legs apart and, holding her so she could not escape him, his tongue darted into her, sending needles of exquisite sensation stabbing into her. She shuddered and arched with age-old pleading. "So now you are the suppliant," he whispered. "Tell me. Tell me what you want of me. Show me . . ."

  Her eyes dark with desire, Liliane strained against the manacles so that he caught her arms to prevent their bruising. "Nay, do not struggle," he said. "You shall have your craving, and more." With tantalizing slowness, he unfastened his braies, let his sex surge free to graze her fleece. Deliberately, he slid his manhood through the pale gold of her pelt, over the slight roundness of her belly, the rise of her breasts to their peaks, until her nipples swelled beneath the glide of his sex. He teased her lips, but would not let her have him. He traced her flesh until she lifted herself to him, opened to him with beckoning allure.

  Soft, soft, she yielded, welcomed, closed about him until he was slipping into an enveloping heat that made him tense with the effort to hold himself back, to make Liliane beg for him as he had meant for her to do. Cupping her buttocks, he lifted her, moving her against him until she responded with a liquid submission. His thrusts deepened, and lifted her higher, thrusting deeper still until he was buried in her womb and she was pinioned by his powerful maleness, giving way to him, seeking him with blazing hunger.

  Alexandre's own starvation took hold and he surged within Liliane. Her body shuddered and his own was slippery with perspiration, his hands sliding upon her bare skin as his sex quickened its burning drive within her. Molten, they were together, forged together, melted together, until Liliane cried out against her gag and Alexandre's hands bit into her flesh. She was unaware of the pain, felt only the pleasure of his hard-driving body. A deep scarlet descended upon them like a blinding cloak; a swirling shower of sparks seared their flesh to burst at their joining. Alexandre threw his head back, his muscles straining as his body trembled with hers. And then she was full of him, the seed of his passion alive within her, and her heart sang.

  Alexandre lay still upon her, his breath coming hard and quick as he tugged the gag from her mouth to let her breathe. For a long moment, he did not speak. When he did, his voice was husky. "You are my destruction, Liliane. Long ago you set love's snare and I was trapped forever within it, doomed to pursue you unto death. For all your evil, you love me, too, in so
me strange way. Still, you will pay for betraying my people, for they never shared my madness for you. They shall have my heir to one day rule them, and you shall have Philip's justice."

  "What will you have?" she whispered.

  "Nothing," he murmured against her mouth. "Nothing but the memory of this." Then he kissed her as if his heart were breaking.

  Liliane looked up at him, her eyes filled with misery. "Learn to hate me, Alexandre. Do what you will, if it will ease you a little; but leave me now. I would not see them kill you."

  He laughed shortly. "And leave you here with my child as their pawn? Nay, lady wife." Before she could protest, he thrust the gag back into her mouth. "You will go with me, if I have to carry you." He swept the scarlet cloak over her nakedness, then swiftly fastened his clothing. Despite her struggles, he unmanacled her, then bound her hands behind her back with a strip of linen from the bedsheet.

  Alexandre, Liliane wanted to scream, you know you can never escape with a pregnant woman! The dawn is too close and there is no sanctuary within miles!

  As Alexandre dragged Liliane to her feet, he was well enough aware of the obstacles he faced. The murky darkness before the dawn Was beginning to fade to steely gray. If he could get to Pierre le Blac and a horse, they might have a slender chance of escaping.

  He looped the manacles over his shoulder, then threw her fur mantle around her and picked her up. He carried her to the secret door and, with a quick kick of his booted foot, released the mechanism. Once they were in the secret passage, the door closed behind them. Keeping to the wall, Alexandre moved quickly down the stairs to the second door that led to the tunnel beneath the castle. No one was in the tunnel, but the entrance that opened on the rocks beyond the outer wall had three guards, their presence revealed by their low, intermittent conversation.

  Alexandre set Liliane down in the dark curve of the tunnel, then silently unlooped the manacle chain from his shoulder. In seconds, the chain dropped over a guard's head, jerked taut beneath his ear to snap his neck. As he dropped, the chain swung free to smash against another startled face. with his free hand, Alexandre caught the dead man's spear and thrust it into the whirling third man. The bloody-faced second guard dove in, meeting an upward swing of the chain that snarled his spear and jerked it wide of its target. Alexandre's spear dragged free of its prey, then buried in the second man's throat just as he was about to shriek for help. Alexandre then searched the bodies, finding a dirk and shortsword. He thrust both weapons into the waist of his braies, then darted back into the tunnel to retrieve Liliane. He found her nearly at the mouth of the great hall, for she had gotten to her feet and tried to scramble back into the castle. With a snarled oath, he caught her up and hauled her, struggling, down the black tunnel to the gray dawn beyond.

  * * *

  "Tell your master it is Sir Roge of Auguen, you miserable swine!" The small knight in full chain mail and helm at Castle de Brueil's drawbridge gate glared up at the unseen guard in the dark crenels above the gate. "

  " 'Tis colder than St. Agnes's bed out here, and I demand entrance!"

  "Your pardon, noble sir, but my lord count has given strict orders that the drawbridge shall on no account be lowered before cockcrow. The hour is early and I dare not wake him."

  "I demand to talk to the sergeant of the guard, cretin!"

  "I am the sergeant, Sir Roge. I beg your forgiveness, but the castle is recently in a state of distress, and I may not allow you entrance until cockcrow."

  "Curse you with the pox! I will deal with you when Sir Rossignol sings! You will rue the day in your miserable life when you forced Sir Roge to idle among the frogs." The short, squat knight in green surcoat turned to his retainers. "Michel! Tether the horses over by feat outcropping. Be sure to rub my destrier down well, you dolt, and cover him against this, dreary damp. Raoul! Get a fire started!"

  Not twenty feet from where a winded Alexandre emerged from the tunnel under the moat with Liliane in his arms, a stake was being driven into the rocky ground. His short, savage blows showed that Michel was in no better humor than his master. Although Alexandre pushed carefully through the bushes which screened the entrance of the tunnel, the thick branches snagged Liliane's hair and caused her tears of pain.

  The alarm bell in the castle began to peal, warning Alexandre that he had no time to size up the situation as he would have wished. Seeing Michel turn to gape at the still-dark castle, Alexandre launched himself through the low brush and flung Liliane up onto a bay mare, then turned on Michel. No neophyte, Michel whirled with his dirk when. Alexandre hit him across the side of the head with the flat of his short sword. A dull bong revealed that Michel thought enough of his brains to protect them with iron under his shapeless, wool cap. His keen dirk sliced through Alexandre's sleeve, but before a struggle could ensue, the hilt of Alexandre's short sword connected with Michel's chin. Michel went down heavily, sprawling over the picket rope as he did so. The destrier neighed shrilly at the jerk on his bridle.

  As Sir Roge threw a withered branch on the fire, he called out sharply, "Michel! What goes on there?"

  At that moment, shouting men carrying torches appeared at the battlements, and the drawbridge began its noisy descent. The rising firelight illuminated the prostrate Michel and Alexandre as he mounted the nervously shifting destrier. With her hands tied, Liliane was desperately trying to balance herself as best as she could on the skittish bay mare.

  "Halt! You miserable thieves!" Having shed his harness, Sir Roge whipped out his dagger and ran to his horse, screaming, "Raoul! The rest of you blind varlets! Aux armes!" He reached the rearing bay just in time to stagger under Liliane's weight as she slid over the horse's rump. Only Alexandre's cry, "Liliane!" and the surprising sensation of a warm, womanly breast in his hand kept Sir Roge from immediately dispatching Liliane in the heat of battle. When he saw feat she was bound and gagged, his chivalrous inclinations took over. "Abductor of women! Cursed villain! Die, foul friend!" He hurled himself at Alexandre, who was trying to control the rearing destrier and untie the picket line. As Liliane kicked at him, Sir Roge stumbled and went down underneath the sweeping blow of Alexandre's short sword, which instead of cleaving Sir Roge, sliced the picket line.

  Wheeling the destrier as Raoul and another man-at-arms came pounding up with sword and bucklers to cover their master, Alexandre saw that the possibility of retrieving Liliane was hopeless. She had well timed her tumble from the mare. The drawbridge was down and Jacques's men-at-arms were streaming across it. Most were heading toward the firelight, and he knew the mounted constabulary would be right at their heels.

  "I will be back, you witch!" he snarled. "You will not have my son to ruin!" He wheeled the destrier again and kicked him with all the anger and bitterness that had festered in his heart the last few days. The destrier sprang forward, tumbling Raoul into the brush and clearing Sir Roge by inches. An instant later, destrier and rider had vanished from the firelight as Louis and his men surrounded Liliane.

  Chapter 17

  ~

  The Deadly Game

  The road to Paris

  November 1191

  Like a clever fox who knows his terrain by scent even in darkness, Alexandre eluded pursuit. Dawn found him well away from Castle de Brueil and headed for Paris. He steered clear of the fief of Fichon; its old baron was a cautious ally of Jacques and might try to cut him off. Near nightfall, he approached a forest along the. Rhone and tethered the destrier near a stream where he could forage on the dry bracken clinging to the bank.

  The spot was so like the one where Alexandre had first met Liliane that, though he had not eaten for many hours, he had little appetite for the rabbit he snared. He kept the fire low, his senses alert. Tonight he would enjoy no sleep, for he planned to linger only long enough to rest the destrier. The Signes would know well enough where he was going; his pursuers would not be far distant. The bit of rabbit he ate was nearly raw for he doused the fire a short while after sunset lest its flicker be spotte
d. Out of sight of the smoldering embers, he sat against a tree and stretched out his legs to rest a moment before the long, harrowing journey ahead; the Signes would probably chase him all the way to Paris.

  Perhaps a quarter hour after he settled, Alexandre heard a twig snap. As silently as the rising mist, he came to his feet and moved behind the spot where he had heard the sound. As he crept through the trees, he watched the faint, dusky patterns of his surroundings for the slightest change. Nothing moved, but he sensed something, almost a vibration, moving toward the smoking remains of his fire.

  Then he spotted a faint shadow crouching in a cluster of trees on the fringe of the small clearing. Cloaked in darkness, a man was watching the browsing destrier. Alexandre circled stealthily behind him. His dirk slid out and poised an inch from the base of the intruder's skull. "Move a hair and you will never grow another," Alexandre murmured.

  The man froze. "Alexandre de Brueil?"

  The dirk touched his neck. "Who is wondering?"

  The stranger took a deep breath. "Charles." A hard slap on the shoulder threw him off balance. He fell to one knee and twisted to look up, his face first relieved, then red with shame. "Milord, you have been to Castle de Brueil?" At Alexandre's curt nod, Charles's rugged face flushed even more. "I would not blame you if you used that dirk. Upon my escape I tried to find you and your hunting party, but you must have already left for the castle."

  "Why the hell did you .not go to Philip?"

  "I tried." Charles grimaced with exasperation. "I was halfway to Paris when I learned that he was not thirty miles from Avignon. His majesty is making the rounds of Provence. My guess is that he's out to rally support for a move on the Angevin lands. I am headed to Avignon now. Your campfire was laid scarcely a quarter mile from mine; I hoped it might belong to someone from Castle de Brueil trying to reach Paris." He rubbed his knee. "I take it Louis is not far behind?"

  "You may save your subtle hints," Alexandre returned dryly. "Louis is in full cry, and you may rise and relieve your knees. You were never suited to subservience, the grinding of your teeth could be heard for a mile." He gripped Charles's elbow and hauled him to his feet. "Now, tell me haw you and my lady wife let Louis's wolf pack into the castle, then give me a reason why I should not split you on the spot."