Blue Heaven, Black Night

by Heather Graham

  Elise lifted her chin and met his gaze silently.

  He spoke at last. “You are either a complete fool, Duchess, or truly desperate. Are you so anxious to find a quick death in the storm?”

  “I am not anxious for death at all,” Elise replied coolly, intentionally refraining from offering the courtesy of a title.

  He took a seat upon the bench to remove his boots, keeping his eyes upon her as he performed the task.

  “Yet you claim that you are not guilty of theft or murder?”

  “I am not guilty of anything—except for offering my prayers for the dead.”

  “Then why try to escape me, when to do so would mean death?”

  “Not necessarily.”

  He emitted a curt oath, tossing one boot across the room with a sudden fury that almost made her jump. But she was determined that she would show him no sign that he could frighten her, and so she followed the fall of his boot, then returned her eyes to his with a cool disdain.

  “Do you deny that you were intent upon murdering me?” Bryan demanded.

  “No, I do not deny it,” Elise replied without faltering. “I assumed you were one of the thieves—”

  “You tried to stab me after you knew that I could not be a thief.”

  “I am still not sure that it is not you who is the thief and murderer!” Elise exclaimed furiously. “You certainly do not behave like a knight. You have the courtly manner of a large boar!”

  To Elise’s surprise, Stede laughed. “Nay, madam, we are in no court, and therefore I see no use for ‘courtly’ manners. If you think to find my judgment less severe because you are a woman, I am sorry, you are mistaken.”

  “Sir Stede,” Elise enunciated carefully, “I expect very little from you, as it appears to me that you surely sit upon whatever mind you might have. I am not a thief—”

  “Aye, yes, so you’ve said. You’re the Duchess of Montoui. Then tell me, Duchess, why were you racing from the castle? Why didn’t you halt when I demanded you do so?”

  Elise sighed with a great show of impatience, but none of her mannerisms or words seemed to have the slightest effect upon him. “I came to the castle this evening to offer my prayers for King Henry. It was while I was at prayer that I heard sounds in the hallway. I hid within the chamber, then fled—”

  “You escaped these thieves when full-grown men fell to their treachery?”

  Elise grated her teeth together at the hard skepticism in his voice. “I hid behind a tapestry. When one of the cutthroats would have discovered me, I attacked him with the advantage of surprise, and then ran.”

  “You . . . attacked a man . . . and came out of the battle unscathed?”

  “There was no battle. I attacked first, and as he staggered with the surprise, I ran.”

  “That’s a fair defense you have woven,” Stede murmured, yet from the indigo glare that still burned upon her, she could tell nothing of his thoughts. Careless of her presence, he rose and stripped off his woven wool hose, draping them, too, upon the table near the hearth to dry. For a moment he might have forgotten Elise’s presence; he pulled off his gloves and cast his heavy scabbard upon the planked table, then stood with his face toward the fire as he warmed his hands.

  Stripped down to nothing but his thigh-length tunic, he was even more formidable than he had been swathed in his dark cloak. Elise had never seen a man appear more threatening by simple virtue of his masculinity. A knit shirt clung tightly to his arms beneath the sleeveless tunic, yet the material clearly enhanced the sizable muscles that rippled with his slightest movement. His shoulders appeared very broad, his waist very narrow. He was clearly a man who lived hard, practiced daily with his weapons, and kept his physique as attuned as his senses in the pursuit of staying alive upon the field. His legs, now bared, were long, and shapely and oak-hard, evenly flecked with a wealth of short dark hair to match the raven’s black upon his head. Inadvertently, Elise shivered. She was tall for a woman, yet she felt his size keenly. His hands could eclipse her own; if he chose, he could wrap his fingers around her throat and snuff out her life with the closing of a fist . . .

  He turned back to her suddenly and his indigo eyes swept over her form with little expression.

  “You are dripping wet,” he said.

  “What an astute observation, Sir Stede,” Elise replied with thick-laced sarcasm. He gave little sign that he had noted her tone, yet she sensed that something tightened further about his hard features. She was a fool to taunt him, she realized, and wondered why she did so. But she didn’t really want to look closely at the answer. She was terrified, and taking the offensive might keep her from falling full prey to that terror . . .

  “One would assume,” he said lightly, “that any woman with sense would not need to have such an observation pointed out. If you were to take off your cloak, you would not be so wet—or so cold.”

  She was loath to give up her cloak. Outside the rain still fell with a vengeance, and the wind blew viciously. But . . . rain always came to an end . . . eventually. And she was still near the door. If he were to . . .

  Were to what?

  He would hardly pass out right before her. No stone would fall from heaven to knock him out. And running blindly would not help her; he knew the terrain, and he was swift as well as strong. If she ran again, she would have to be sure of escape.

  Reluctantly, she removed her sodden cloak and walked slowly forward to spread it out upon the table near his. She felt his eyes upon her all the while, and she drew out the task. But eventually she knew that she had to turn and confront him once more, and again, he made no pretense that he wasn’t inspecting her thoroughly, but again, she could read no emotion from his eyes or his tight but impassive expression.

  He moved back a step from the fire, bowing low with what she was certain had to be further mockery, and ushering her toward the warmth of the fire. She did not like the idea of her back being toward him, but she forced herself to step forward, placing her slender fingers toward the fire and allowing the flames to warm them from numbness.

  Elise heard the crackle of the kindling and logs and the savage whip of the wind outside the cottage walls. But deeper than the fury of the night was the silence that reigned between them. He said nothing to her, and as the minutes passed in an endless progression, she came closer and closer to screaming in an agony of apprehension. Although he said nothing, she knew that he hovered close behind her. Very close. She sensed the rise and fall of his breathing, felt that his heart thundered above her own with menace, and that the vibrant heat of his body would shortly overwhelm the faltering bravado to which she clung in fevered desperation.

  His hand clamped suddenly upon her shoulder, and she had to draw blood upon her lip to keep from crying out. “Come, Duchess, sit,” he told her politely, and as he spoke, he drew one of the benches behind her, then pressed her down to it.

  “Thank you,” Elise murmured regally, wishing that she might have stood all night rather than feel his burning touch upon her. But she knew that she was not to be spared his interrogation, or his proximity, and that her only hope was in maintaining such a great dignity that he would have to respect her noble birth.

  “Your story is a good one, Duchess,” he drawled at last, and the whisper of his voice so near her earlobe almost caused her to jump. He leaned upon the bench, not touching her, but with his arms on either side of her, like bars. “Very good. But don’t you think it might be more plausible to believe that you are one of a band of thieves? How easy for you to lead the chase in one direction, while your accomplices disappear in another. And how easy for you to plead innocence. When apprehended, you are a woman alone. And one surely capable of winding men about her finger with the wide eyes of naiveté.”

  Elise stiffened her spine against his tone. “I have told you, Stede, that I am the Duchess of Montoui. I have no need to join with thieves.”

  “Or murderers?”

  “Or murderers.”

  “You are quite ad
ept with a dagger.”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that perhaps the newest of courtly feminine pursuits?”

  “No, Sir Stede. But I am a duchess in my own right; I rule my own lands. In such circumstances, it is wise for a woman to know something of self-defense.”

  “Ah. Why is it that I have not heard of this Montoui?”

  “Perhaps because you are grossly ignorant.”

  He did not move; he did not snap out a reply. But she sensed a tightening in the banded muscles of the arms that were a cage on either side of her, just as she felt a constriction of the broad chest that hovered not the width of his thumb behind her. And a strange heat, as if lightning had sizzled suddenly at her back, assailing the entire length of her spine.

  “Your tongue, Duchess, is as sharp and honed as your dagger. And you strike with it just as quickly—and foolishly.”

  She said nothing, and forced herself not to tremble when he straightened and touched her, his long-fingered and calloused hands oddly and frighteningly gentle as they picked up the length of her hair to spread it about her shoulders.

  Elise clenched down hard upon her teeth as he persisted silently with the task, drawing from her hair the pins that had fallen awkwardly during the night. It was a simple and courteous enough service, yet she wanted to scream at the false intimacy of it. No matter how gentle his fingers, she could feel the contained power of his hands, and the contradiction of his soothing motion to his stinging words was a bitter play upon her senses.

  If it were Percy . . .

  She closed her eyes for a moment, thinking sickly of the knight she loved. If only Percy had been with the king at Chinon! She would not be suffering this indignity now. Percy was all that a knight should be: brave upon the field, yet tender and sensitive in the hall. Percy could speak with the sweetest words; he spent his leisure time with the troubadours, composing ballads for her. There was nothing rock-hard and impenetrable about Percy, as there was about this knight. Percy was slim and more of a height with her. He was gallant and kind, and his eyes were a warm golden-brown, and his mouth continually turned to a wistful smile that held no mockery. He was gallant and steadfast, and he always fell to his knees when he returned to her, kissing her hand with reverence. He kept her atop a pedestal, and though they had exchanged exciting kisses that made her long for more, Percy would not dream of dishonoring her before marriage.

  Thank the Virgin Mary, Elise thought with a moment’s irony, that her natural mother and Henry had vowed to keep her birth secret—and to give her as a daughter to William and Marie de Bois. Percy often claimed that the king had been a licentious old man. And he believed in the old “Melusine legend”—that Satan’s blood ran in the Plantagenets. If Percy had known that Henry’s blood ran in her veins, and that she was a bastard, as well, he would surely not have offered her such tender care, fmding fault with the troubadours if their lyrics proved to be too bawdy for her maiden’s ears . . .

  Offered her tender care! Admit it, she warned herself in a moment of truth; Percy might still love her, but he would never marry her if he knew that she was the king’s bastard. For all that she loved him, Elise also knew him. Percy believed deeply in legalities, as well as in bloodlines. In a well-ordered society, man was born to his class, and the feudal system was the way of the world. Family lines should be painstakingly charted, and bad blood must be excluded.

  Bastards—especially Henry’s!—did not fit into Percy’s view of the well-ordered world.

  Elise had often argued with him; William the Conqueror had been a bastard. The royalty of England were the descendants of a bastard. But Percy was adamant in his beliefs. He knew what had come to the English royalty: bloodshed between father and son. God did not sanction a bastard.

  It was a sore spot between them, but Elise wisely kept her own council. Man was not created to be perfect; Percy was far more so than most, and so she was willing to accept him, and love him, despite what she, naturally, believed to be faulty thinking.

  Shrewdly, Elise knew that there was a far more important consideration Henry had probably taken in mind when determining to keep her birth a secret. Montoui. While he lived, she could never lose it. But after his death, were it known that she was not the legal issue of William de Bois, there might be many ready to stake a claim to the duchy. Distant cousins of Duke William could spring up like mushrooms in a forest, ready to do battle for the duchy. Cousins who, no matter how distant, could trace their bloodlines to the de Bois family, and therefore prove themselves the legal heirs.

  She was the daughter of a king, yet she had every reason to be grateful that the fact was not known. Every reason to protect the secret of her birth. The two most important factors in her life were involved: her duchy, the land she ruled and loved; and, even more important to her happiness, the man she loved.

  Oh, Percy! she thought wistfully. Were you just here, this wretched steel-bound nighthawk would not dare to accuse and defame me! He would have you to reckon with, my love.

  If only it were Percy who touched her so, she would have relaxed in sweet oblivion, savoring the solicitous ministrations of such a masculine touch . . .

  Bryan allowed himself a bitter smile as he loosed and laid out the girl’s hair. He could feel the stiffness of her back, and knew that his touch made her acutely uncomfortable. Yet he needed her on edge, for only then could he hope to disarm her—and get to the truth. The workings of the night were still a deep pain that knifed and delved into him, and each time he closed his eyes, he could see afresh the dishonored body of the king, and the sightless eyes of his dead friends.

  And if all had been brought to such a state by the trickery of a woman, then that woman was going to pay.

  She was, he thought, perfect for the role of thief’s accomplice. The hair he touched was as beautiful as the firelight, flaming gold one second, red the next. As it dried with the warmth from the flames, it became soft within his hands, like a golden skein of the purest silk from the Orient, or endless waves of fire. It fell with a rich and luxurious length down her back, almost to her thighs. It almost brushed the floor as she sat.

  And her eyes, those startling turquoise eyes, framed by the deeply contrasting, dark honey lashes. They could wear a guise of sweetest and most outraged indignity. Had he not seen her run—had he not almost become the victim of her viciously raised dagger—he could have readily guessed her innocent.

  Her face was flawlessly constructed with lovely high cheekbones, full, wine-red lips, and a pink-tinged, ivory complexion. She could well be a child of some noble line, yet no well-bred lady would hearken into the night alone.

  He was also well aware that her beauty encased the temper of a shrew and the tongue of a viper. She had been more than ready to murder him. Perhaps that was the deciding factor with him now. She had tried to stab him, and she had spoken to him in such condescending tones that it had taken the greatest willpower to prevent himself from cuffing her against one of her elegant cheeks and sending her sprawling against the wall.

  That would have left her with no question as to the extent of “courtly gallantry” he was willing to go.

  “So,” he murmured softly, “you are the Duchess of Montoui. And you traveled cross-country by yourself to offer your prayers at the bier of our King Henry.”

  “Yes,” she said stiffly.

  “Why should you do such a thing?”

  “What?”

  Bryan kept smiling. At last he seemed to have found a chink in the armor of her story.

  “Why?” Bryan repeated. “Why should you have come to pray at the castle, when you might have offered masses at your own? Are you perhaps a relative of the king?”

  She did not hear the taunt in his voice. She heard only the truth, and quickly and breathlessly denied it.

  “No!”

  “Then why should a duchess in her own right set upon such a perilous journey?”

  “Because . . . I . . . I . . .”

  “Because you are a vil
e liar!”

  “No!” Elise jumped to her feet in a spurt of fury that was as hot as the blazing fire. “I tell you, Stede, that you will suffer for this night! I have friends in high places, and I will see that you are disarmed and dishonored! I will see you sweat in a dungeon, and perhaps I shall even have the ultimate pleasure of seeing your fool head depart from your body! You can see that I am no thief! Do I carry a tapestry? Or the king’s scabbard? Fool—”

  In ultimate frustration and fury, Elise raised her arms high in the air, shifting the material of her unadorned tunic across her breast.

  To her horror, the ring, her mother’s ring, the one she had taken from her father’s finger, fell to the floor.

  Spinning and whirling with a shrill clang upon the planks, then laying still between her feet.

  She met Stede’s eyes with horror, and saw within their indigo depths a rage unlike anything she had ever known.

  She gave up all pretense of dignity as he stepped toward her, and screamed out her terror as his no-longer-gentle fingers bolted out to clamp around her shoulder.

  In desperation she fought, flinging her hand hard across his face, digging at his cheek with her nails. He seemed not to feel the pain, nor did he falter as she kicked and lashed and bit at him.

  “Let’s see what else you’re trying to hide, Duchess.”

  The long fingers she had known to be powerful closed about the neckline of her tunic. She grabbed at his hands, but her strength was nothing to combat his. The next thing she heard was a rendering tear as he ripped the tunic from her neck to the floor, and dispassionately wrenched it from her.

  IV

  Clothed only in the thinnest of linen shifts, Elise felt her face flame crimson with fury and outrage.

  Instinct made her grab desperately for her garment, even as a spew of oaths that would have done a full-blown warrior proud poured heatedly from her lips.

  “Bastard! Dung! Son of a diseased bitch! Spawn of a whore—”