by Tamara Leigh
She stiffened.
He kissed his way to the hollow of her throat, breathed her in.
She shivered.
He moved to her jaw.
She released her breath on a single word, “Oh,” drawing it out long enough to be several words.
He put his lips to the corner of hers, past which her breath was coming fast and shallow, then released her arms and cupped her face. As he closed his mouth over hers, her eyes found his, and in hers was a mix of desire and fear, as of oil and water—in one another and yet not.
When he deepened the kiss, her lids fluttered closed.
He reached down and raised her skirts.
One moment her body was soft and yielding, the next not. She wrenched her mouth from his. “You gave your word!”
The desire that had coiled through him began to loosen as he wondered when he had last longed for a woman as much as he longed for this one who had sought to see him stripped of all he possessed. Unfortunately, the answer was close at hand—the night he had come to his marriage bed and Constance had been waiting for him. Though there had been no love in her eyes, she had opened her arms to him.
But not even that little would Thomasin yield.
Determining he must move slowly with her, he pulled his hand from beneath her skirts and drew it up her side. She jerked, and when he returned his mouth to the place between neck and shoulder, she hissed, “I do not want this. I vow I do not!”
Feeling her erratic pulse beneath her soft skin, he murmured, “You do not want to want this. There is a difference.”
“Is that what you told yourself when Constance Verdun pleaded that you not ravish her?”
Bayard stilled as he was dashed against memories of that other woman. He saw her again in his bed, felt her curves, heard her husky words of desire. And all the while, inside her beautiful head, she had plotted his end.
He drew back. “Constance Verdun was a harlot, a woman who, in the same day, gave herself to husband and lover.”
His new wife’s gaze wavered, but she blinked and it was firm again. “Were she a harlot, it was not for being with a man she loved. Nay, only were she with a man she did not love and freely gave herself to him, might she be named such.”
Serle de Arell, the man Constance had loved. Bayard Boursier, the man she had not loved. “A harlot, then,” he said.
Her eyes flashed. “Speak false if it eases your conscience, but know this—by ravishment only shall you have me. I am no harlot.”
The discrepancy of her words nearly slipped past him. Not surprisingly, Thomasin de Arell was no different from those whose blood had dripped nobility into her commoner’s veins. “One moment you claim you are capable of murder,” he said, “the next you deny it. One moment you prate of lovers, the next tell you are no harlot. What is the truth?”
El berated herself for the missteps she continued to make that would see her exposed were she not more careful. The quiet, painless years since Murdoch’s death had weakened her ability to speak and keep lies, providing far too little practice in Magnus’s household.
“So deep are your falsehoods you do not even know yourself,” Boursier scoffed, then rolled off her and onto his back.
El was too surprised to move. If it had been Murdoch who had tossed her on the bed, nothing would have stopped him from doing whatever perverse thing he wished to do—not pleading, not tears, not anger, not teeth and nails, not fists and knees, not even the appearance of a maidservant who would suffer for interrupting her lord’s sport.
Nay, El corrected, there was one thing—one person—who had been able to stop him. Though Agatha could never be dear, during those times Murdoch had been at his most dangerous, she had provided El with relief from his attentions.
When Boursier turned his head toward her, she resisted giving him her gaze. “The marriage will be consummated as it must be,” he said. “If not this night, then another—and soon.”
She stared at the ceiling. “Then you will prove you are more of a liar than I.”
“There will be no lie, Thomasin. You will give yourself to me.”
She loathed that he was certain of it. But then, she had given him reason to be when his attempt to seduce her had delivered results. She had not struggled. Rather, she had floated upon the peculiar, breathtaking sensations roused by his touch. And nearly drowned when he had laid his mouth upon hers.
So that was a kiss. Gently coaxing, almost reverent. Slowly deepening, the need for breath forgotten. And that sweet tug straight down the center of her, promising something other than the pain inflicted by the grinding of a mouth against hers.
Promising. Only promising, for as Murdoch had taught her, the promises of men were made to be broken.
At her continued silence, Boursier prompted, “You will yield.”
She knew she should hold her tongue, but she turned her face to him. “Ergo, you seek my love?” She smiled tightly. “Only that might induce me to yield to one such as you.”
His jaw convulsed. “One does not seek what one neither trusts, nor requires. And should you ever think to deliver unto me such feelings, false or otherwise, I vow to reduce them to ashes.”
She did not doubt it. Were it possible to love a man like him, it would be at the cost of one’s soul.
Slowly, lest he spring upon her, she sat up and pushed her skirts down. “We are of the same mind, then,” she said and lowered her feet to the rushes.
Not until she straightened from the bed and he made no further attempt to detain her did she allow herself the indulgence of relief. He was different from Murdoch. Of course, that did not mean he was better. If she was unable to escape him, he would eventually ravish her—and do far worse when he learned she was not the woman he believed he had wed.
El looked across her shoulder, saw Boursier had laid a forearm across his eyes. She bit hard on regret, wishing she had been able to maintain a pretense of acquiescence. For all the hours since her capture, she was no nearer her release or Agatha’s. If only the snow would cease long enough to send Boursier after his sister!
Tomorrow, she prayed as she lowered to the pallet. Tomorrow.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Light swept in, next a chill that made her hunch her shoulders, then a dread voice that reminded her this was no dream.
“Arise, Thomasin!”
El opened her eyes, looked up. Though the flickering torchlight evidenced it was not yet morn, Boursier was dressed for a journey—boots, thick hose, tunic and undertunic, sword and misericorde, mantle. Meaning her prayer was answered. The snow had let up.
“Godspeed,” she murmured and reached behind to retrieve the blanket he had tossed off.
Boursier closed a hand around her forearm and hauled her to her feet. “I give you a quarter hour.”
“For what?”
“You are to accompany me to the barony of Blackwood.”
Dear Lord…
He released her. “Surely you did not think I would leave you behind to work your trickery upon my people?”
Surely she had. El dropped to the mattress edge, nearly buried her face in her hands. Was there nothing in this world she could make right?
“More,” Boursier added, “if your father does hold my sister, he will sooner release her if you are at my side.”
Were she Thomasin de Arell.
El joined her hands, felt the press of the ill-fitting ring that did not a marriage make. If not this day, then the next, her deceit would be laid bare. Perhaps it was better to tell Boursier now, for the longer she led him down this path, the greater his fury when he was shown to have seriously veered off course. But then her fate would be sealed and she would have no chance at all.
She clasped her hands opposite, stared at her crossed thumbs. There was always the possibility of escape during the ride. “I shall accompany you, then.”
“There is no question of that.” He pivoted.
El stood. “I have a boon to ask of you.”
He turned.
“Do you truly expect me to grant one?”
“I expect only a yea or a nay.”
He considered her. “For what do you seek a yea?”
She squared her shoulders the better to bear the weight of his refusal. “I would see Agatha ere our departure.”
He narrowed his gaze, lowered it to her left hand.
Only then realizing her thumb once more turned the gold band around, she closed her fingers into her palms.
The Boursier returned his gaze to her face. “Better you spend your time with ablutions and tending your leg.”
She stepped forward. “Agatha has been down there two days.”
“And there she shall remain.” He opened the door, stepped into the corridor. “If you do not see to your injury, I shall,” he said and closed the door.
El stared at it, wished her eyes capable of piercing wood and striking him down. The stuff of fluff, her mother would have reprimanded were she alive—just as El’s tears of frustration were the stuff of fluff.
Though she longed to defy Boursier, it would gain her naught. Setting her jaw, she crossed the solar and lifted the hand towel from beside the basin of water.
Darkness is her name, the voice of Archard Boursier wound through his son as he turned into the passage that led to the cell.
When Constance had brought her maid, Agatha of Mawbry, with her to Castle Adderstone five years past, something about the woman had bothered the ailing Archard who had warned Bayard to keep a watch on her. Bayard had, though not enough. Thus, Agatha had time and again tipped powders into his wine to keep him from his wife’s bed. Now, four years after banishing the witch, she had come again, this time with Thomasin de Arell.
“Aye, darkness is her name,” he muttered, “and plague, and malice, and all things loathsome and twisted.”
He halted before the cell door, adjusted his eyepatch, and turned the key in the lock. Pushing the door inward, he thrust the torch in ahead of him. As expected, the woman’s chains held. But though there was no movement about her and a quarter hour had passed since last she had tormented his men with her howling and cursing, he sensed she was awake.
“Agatha of Mawbry,” he said.
Not a hair stirred, not a breath moved her shoulders, not a twitch enlivened her hands.
He settled to his haunches and considered her downturned face that was too defined and severe to evidence it had ever been pleasing to the eye. Then there was her build, so tall and sturdy it was easy to overlook the feminine features that differentiated her from the opposite sex.
Bayard pulled the sack of food and drink from his belt. It would suffice for several days, ensuring none need tend the witch in his absence. And when the task of sealing the underground passage was completed a day hence, none would further suffer her ranting. He tossed the sack onto her lap.
“I am not done with you,” he said, “but when I am, you shall bedevil the Boursiers no more.”
She remained as still as the dead.
He straightened. “I shall deliver your well wishes for a fruitful marriage to my wife.” He turned and crossed to the door.
“Foolish Boursier,” she drawled, “you know not what you have done.”
The torch in one hand, the keys in the other, he peered over his shoulder and saw her head remained bowed. “You know not what you have done, witch.”
With a slight pitch of her shoulders, she expelled a laugh. “I know more than you,” she spoke into her chest and began to hum—the same accursed song he had often heard when she had dwelt at Adderstone.
When she started in on the lyrics, Bayard turned away.
“Sir, said she, whatever I may be, I can tell sense from folly. Keep your acquaintance, Lord—”
He slammed the door and fit the key, but as he strode opposite, she cried, “Bedevil the Boursiers!”
He did not falter.
“Bedevil the Boursiers!”
He clenched his jaws.
“Bedevil the Boursiers!”
He ground his teeth.
“Bedevil the Boursiers!”
CHAPTER TWELVE
El huddled into the mantle she had worn the night of her marriage to Boursier, breathed hot air down her chest. Unfortunately, it did little to vanquish the chill that claimed nearly all feeling in her down to her toes. For hours, their horses had plodded through melting snow that slowed their journey, and though she had earlier prayed for a lengthy ride so she might find a way to free herself, now she almost wished it was done regardless of what awaited her. But with day quickly setting into night, they would not likely reach Castle Mathe on the barony of Blackwood until the morrow. Of course, were Magnus’s demesne their destination—as it was hers—a turn east and another few hours would deliver them there.
She looked to where The Boursier rode ahead. So rarely did he glance around that, if not for his men at her back, she could have slipped away. But perhaps she would find an opportunity to flee if they paused for the night.
A half hour later, they turned into the wood and Boursier set his men to lighting fires and pitching tents. As his tent was the first to be raised, it was not long before El left the warming fire she shared with the watchful Father Crispin. Not that she preferred Boursier’s tent, but she would be away from prying eyes and, hopefully, find a means of escape.
Passing through the mist of her breath, she tossed back the flap and glanced over her shoulder at Squire Lucas who had followed her. She entered and dropped the flap. Hoping the young man’s duty did not extend to the privacy of his lord’s tent, she waited and, when he remained outside, lowered her hood.
She gazed through the muted light at the cramped confines. The snow had been cleared from the ground, leaving the sodden leaves of autumn underfoot. In the far corner, a fur lay atop a pile of blankets. Opposite, one of Boursier’s packs leaned against the tent wall. As she eyed that last, light at her back brought her around.
She raised the tent flap, and there stood Squire Lucas with a lantern.
“Baron Boursier commands that you keep this lit whilst you are within.” He reached it to her.
She stared at it, resented that her shadow against its light would keep those outside apprised of her whereabouts lest she attempted to escape out the tent’s backside.
“You may tell your lord I am not afeared of the dark,” she said.
He glanced behind, and she followed his gaze to where men cleared snow to erect another tent. Boursier stood in their midst facing her, and she felt his warning gaze across the fire-lit dusk.
“If you like,” Squire Lucas said, “I shall summon Baron Boursier so you may tell him yourself, my lady.”
Grudgingly, she accepted the lantern and dropped the flap. Uncomfortably aware she could make no move without being seen, she turned back into the tent.
“Well, then,” she muttered, “how will you do this?” Even if she could retrieve her horse, she would not likely get far before Boursier brought her back. But on foot…
It did not bear thinking about, but it was her only chance. Better she succumb to the night’s chill or a hungry beast than Boursier’s fury. But how?
Doubtless, she would not find any weapons in his pack, and the blankets were of no use. That left only the lantern.
She caught her breath. Dare she?
She did. But not until dark was fully upon them so she might better her chance of escape. She crossed to where the blankets were piled, lowered to them, and settled in for her vigil.
A great gust rent the air, followed by a burst of light.
Drawing his sword, Bayard swung around. But no mortal came against him.
“Thomasin!” he shouted.
As he and the others ran to the pyre that hardly resembled the tent it had been moments before, Squire Lucas tossed back the flap that had yet to be consumed.
Would the young man reach her in time? If not, would he give his own life alongside hers?
Cursing himself for sending her the lantern, Bayard stretched his legs long
one last time, but as he made to dive into the disintegrating tent, his squire burst from it. Sleeve aflame, he dropped to the ground to put out the fire in the moist earth.
“Do not, my lord!” he cried as Bayard lunged into the tent.
Fiery breath struck him across the face as he swept his gaze around the wall of flame moving toward him. Though he longed to deny that nothing could live beyond that, were Thomasin not yet dead, in the next moment she would be.
Something sharp driving itself through his chest, he sprang from the tent as it came down. He hit the earth amid a shower of brightly burning embers, rolled onto his back, and stared at the ravenous flames.
Squire Lucas rose alongside him. Though the sleeve of his tunic was charred, it appeared the flesh beneath was spared. “Forgive me, my lord.” He shook his head. “All was aflame. I could not even see her.”
As Bayard shoved upright, something bothered the back of his mind. He dragged it forward and looked to the others gathered around. “You heard no scream?”
They answered with apologies and shakes of the head.
No cry for help, though minutes earlier Thomasin’s shadow had revealed she sat as she had done for the past half hour. She had not been caught unaware. Had not fallen victim to flame and smoke.
Relief swept him, only to disappear beneath a wave of anger. The woman had set his tent aflame as a diversion to allow her to slip out the back.
“I am sorry I could not reach her, my lord,” Squire Lucas choked.
“That is because she was not within!”
“What?”
So heated that his brow beaded, Bayard jerked the mantle from his shoulders and tossed it at his squire. Pivoting toward the two dozen horses corralled between a spread of trees, he shouted, “Master of the horses!”
The man stepped forward. “My lord?”
“Are all mounts present?”
He took a quick count. “They are, my lord.”
Then she had gone on foot, though surely the commotion had tempted her to risk stealing a horse—as Bayard was tempted to leave her to the wood. But it would be the death of her on a night such as this. More, if De Arell held Quintin, Thomasin’s presence would aid in gaining his sister’s release.