Blue Heaven, Black Night

by Heather Graham

  Weary from the tension that tormented her since her arrival, Elise at last shrugged out of her travel-stained clothing, poured attar of roses into the water, twisted the length of her hair into a high knot, and sank into the tub. The water was wonderful. She leaned her head against the rim of the tub and allowed herself a moment just to enjoy the comfort. Then she lifted her meal tray from the trunk, set it across the tub, and lit into her food with a healthy appetite. The lamb was delicious; she savored it until the final mouthful had been consumed. It was, she decided, despite all else, a delightful way to dine, and she would remember it in the future.

  She poured herself some wine from the silver carafe that was set upon the tray, then rested her head comfortably against the rim of the tub once more as she sipped at it slowly. Was it possible that she could still win this war? Yes, by God, it was!

  She smiled as she continued to sip her wine. So . . . he had proven himself the Duke of Montoui. For the next few days, he was welcome to wield his power. He would soon tire of the game. His English possessions were the more valuable ones—to an Englishman, that is.

  The mesmerizing fire in the grate, the sweet taste of the vintage wine, the soothing heat of the soft, oiled water—all combined to ease the strain from her body and the tempest from her soul. Her lids began to flutter, and half close. She heard a soft clanging sound and jumped, then laughed at herself as she realized that she had dropped her wine goblet. She closed her eyes again and allowed a light doze to enwrap her pleasantly.

  * * *

  “Milord?”

  He was standing before the fire again, hands clasped behind his back as he stared at the flames. He turned politely to Jeanne as she approached him.

  “I have had provisions packed as you ordered, and the horses are ready, awaiting your leisure. But . . .”

  “But what, Jeanne?”

  “I can assure you that the Lady Elise will not come out.”

  “I will wait. She’ll have to come out—when she grows hungry or thirsty enough.”

  Jeanne shook her head, nervous despite her new admiration for him; she had also heard his voice rage when he was in a temper, and she did not care to have his temper directed at her.

  She moistened her lips. “She demanded that several pitchers of water be brought to her. And bread and cheese. She can easily remain within her chamber for perhaps three . . . or four days.”

  He didn’t move, and he didn’t speak, and it took Jeanne many long seconds to realize how angry her words had made him. His emotions were only visible in the tightening of the bronze flesh across the strong bones of his face, and in the slight narrowing of his eyes.

  “I see,” he said quietly, turning back to the fire again. When he spoke, it was with his back to her. “Jeanne, ask Michael to see that the servants are kept busy in the kitchen or elsewhere.”

  Jeanne edged quickly away to do as told. When she was gone, Bryan slammed his fist hard against the mantel, then regretted the action as his hand immediately began to ache.

  “Be gentle!” he muttered dryly beneath his breath. Casting his eyes up the long stairway, he sighed, then resolutely and resignedly squared his shoulders. Silently he began to tread up the stairs.

  * * *

  Elise jolted from her dozing the second time with confusion; the sound she had heard was not the soft clattering of light silver against stone. It had been a shuddering thud, and she shook her head briskly, trying to dispel the sweet mist of her sleep. She frowned tensely, waiting for the sound to come again so that she might ascertain what it was.

  It came again, and there was nothing left to ascertain, for with the sound, both the heavy wooden door and the stalwart bolt seemed to shiver, then dissolve into splinters. She was so stunned that the door had been broken that she didn’t think to be alarmed as it groaned on its hinges, then limped uselessly inward.

  Elise stared from the fractured door to the man within its frame. Only then did she realize her position, and she floundered with horror from the tub, her eyes still upon him as she groped about on the trunk for her towel. He assessed her with a cool contempt as he approached her, and no matter how she longed to stand straight before him without betraying her dismay and fear, she scurried across the room—and succeeded only in cornering herself against the wall beyond the bed. She could only stare at him then, clutching the towel to her breast.

  But he stopped when he reached her trunk, haphazardly removing the remains of her wine and meal to delve into it. He dug out a dark woolen tunic, a linen shift, and a pair of sturdy hose, knit for service rather than elegance.

  Then he tossed the lot at her.

  “Get dressed.”

  Elise swallowed and nervously moistened her lips, glancing longingly at her clothing. Her heart was thundering, and she was desperately trying to assimilate the fact that he had not broken down her door to attack her.

  “Get dressed!” he snapped again. “We are leaving.”

  “No . . .” Despite herself, she mouthed the protest.

  “You can dress yourself, or I can help you. Either way—as long as the task is accomplished quickly.”

  From the look in his eyes she knew he meant his words, and she edged to the spot where her clothing had landed upon the floor. Her fingers were shaking so badly that her every movement was awkward. The towel slipped from her grasp before she could pull the shift over her head, and she knew that her entire naked body stained with color before his hard, dispassionate scrutiny. His eyes upon her made her fingers all the more leaden. He cursed softly, and a step brought him before her. He reached down and jerked her to her feet, pulling the shift over her head, then repeating the action with the tunic before she could protest. His brusque touch slid along her torso, grazing her breasts and her hips, and she cried out softly when he shoved her negligently toward the bed so that he could slip her hose over her feet.

  “I’ll do it!” she swore fervently. He allowed the hose to fall into her lap, but continued to tower over her. Elise clenched her chattering teeth together and concentrated solely on easing the soft knitted wool over her toes.

  At last he turned, scouring the room. “You need your heaviest boots.” His eyes fell upon another trunk, and he was quickly delving into it, satisfied as he pulled out a pair of doe-skin boots. They were more delicate than he would have liked, but they would do. He brought them to her and dropped them in front of her. Elise bit into her lip as she slid her feet into the boots, then gasped again as she felt his fingers grip firmly about her arm, wrenching her to her feet once more.

  They reached the broken door to her chamber and panic imbued her with a renewed and frenzied energy. She twisted furiously from his grasp and sought wildly to fight him, sending frantic blows flying across his chest and face. He allowed her to flail against him, then warned sharply, “Elise!”

  She did not register the fury in his tone. Oaths were being sworn out in a high-pitched shrill; she knew only vaguely that they were coming from her.

  Then she knew nothing, because he turned on her at last, clipping her jaw with the brunt of his fist. She recognized the taste of blood in her mouth, then nothing more. Consciousness deserted her in a burst of starlight. As limp and pliant as a bundle of rags, she fell into his arms.

  Bryan hoisted her over his shoulder and left the chamber to start down the stairs without a backward glance. He left the hall for the keep, where the horses were waiting. Wat and Michael were there, looking keenly uncomfortable.

  Bryan smiled at them. “It seems that the duchess will be riding with me,” he said smoothly. “Give me a lead for her mare, Wat. And see that the packhorse is tied securely behind her.”

  Wat scurried to do as he was told. Bryan whistled softly as he stood with old Michael de la Pole. “Well, it’s a fine night for travel, isn’t it, Michael?” Bryan queried, still smiling, as if it were perfectly natural for him to be carrying his duchess over his shoulder like a sack of wheat ready for the mill.

  “Aye, sir,” Michael r
esponded, trying, in turn, not to stare at this new overlord of his, or at the limp form of the duchess strewn over his shoulder.

  Wat returned and secured the leads. Draping Elise over his destrier’s shoulder, Bryan mounted behind her. He nodded to Michael and Wat. “Michael, I will see you soon in Cornwall. God knows, I shall have need of your administrative talents. And Wat, you are to come along, too. My squire died of a lung disease while I still fought with the old king; I have not acquired one since. I think you would do well for the job, if you’ve a mind to follow me to battle.”

  “Aye!” Wat cried out, dazzled by the offer. “Aye, milord! Thank you, Duke Bryan, God bless you, sire—”

  Bryan saluted the young boy and the old man, then urged his horse onward. The gates of Montoui swung open, and he rode out into the night.

  XVI

  Elise became aware that the night was very dark, and that she was miserably uncomfortable. Her side ached, and she realized that the pain was caused by the constant chaff of her body against the pommel of Bryan’s saddle, and she felt a tenderness at the spot where his knuckles had caught her.

  From the moment she opened her eyes, she had known exactly where she was. Beneath her she could see the massive hooves of the destrier, plodding along at a brisk walk. Because she saw those hooves, she shifted carefully. Twisting about only brought her nose in contact with Bryan’s knee, so she turned to hang limply again, despair overriding the misery of her body.

  Apparently he had felt her movement, for he reined the destrier to a halt, dismounted from the horse, and was there to steady her when she slid limply from its shoulders, her legs too cramped to hold her. Elise kept her face hidden against the stallion’s neck and asked tonelessly, “How long have we been riding?”

  “Three hours, perhaps four,” he answered her, his tone equally bland. Elise stiffened against his supporting hold. “I can stand now,” she told him coolly.

  She felt his shrug, and he released her. She proceeded to slide to the road, unable to convince her tingling muscles that they must hold her up.

  “You can stand!” Bryan muttered irritably, stooping to pluck her into his arms. She was too drained to protest his hold, and she allowed her head to lie against his shoulder. She still felt so tired, so very tired.

  He set her down against the trunk of an old oak, then swung about immediately to return to the stallion. She heard him as he led the horses to the side of the road, but she was too drained to pay much attention to his actions. Everything seemed to ache. Her throat was dry and parched, her flesh felt bruised from head to toe. She didn’t even have the energy to care that she had lost the final battle.

  At last, when she heard his footsteps crackle on the nearby leaves, she looked up. He had unsaddled his destrier and her mare, and relieved the packhorse of its burden. And he had cleared the ground to form a hollow of earth over which he now bent low, kindling a small fire. A flash of red appeared, and then a strong glow of yellow and orange. He watched his fire, feeding it kindling until the larger logs scorched and caught the glow. Hunched back on his heels, he looked at her again.

  “What are you doing?” she asked him nervously. She knew the countryside, and yet she didn’t know where they were. There seemed to be nothing beyond them; they were completely alone with the fire.

  “Building a fire,” he replied with the obvious.

  She swallowed painfully, aware then that he had decided to stop here for the night. Why was it so terrible? she wondered bleakly. Whether they rode all night or not, she was his wife—and his prisoner. Did it matter when she was finally forced to accept it?

  “We’re staying here . . . for the night?” she asked him, dismayed to note the weak flutter in her voice.

  “Yes. The service is limited, but the bedding will be clean.”

  She could not appreciate the gentle humor in his voice. She closed her eyes and waited miserably for the inevitable.

  But he didn’t come near her. When tension and curiosity at last forced her to open her eyes again, she saw that he had taken blankets from the pack, plus a drinking gourd and a tanned skin of bread and cheese to set between them. He offered her the gourd, and she knew that her fingers continued to tremble as she accepted it. “It’s water,” he told her. “I’m sure you need it.”

  She did. The cool and clear water was delicious, if a bit too reviving. Bryan was stretched out upon the blanket drawn by the tree; his dark head was bent low as he cut hunks from the loaf of bread with his hunting knife. The firelight was playing upon the darkness of his hair, making it appear almost blue, then black again. She found herself noticing the individual strands, and studying the way a stray lock persistently fell over his forehead.

  He glanced up suddenly, and she averted her eyes, turning her attention to the gourd in her hand, and offering it silently back to him.

  “Bread?” he asked her.

  She shook her head, not meeting his eyes, but staring past the spidery leaves of the tree above her to the stars in the heavens. They might have been at the ends of the earth. If he had wanted to find an absolute place of privacy in which to assert his rights, in case she screamed and fought like a lunatic, he had done well. There was none to witness them except the darkness of the night.

  If she crawled away into a secret place within her heart, he could do anything and it wouldn’t matter, because she wouldn’t really be there. She must stay calm. Distant. And . . . immune.

  To do so, she couldn’t watch him. And she couldn’t allow her panic to rise with every passing moment. She had fought him; she had lost. She could barely sit straight, much less run, and even if she were to run, he would catch her. The only dignity left her was the pride with which she could accept defeat, and she meant to accept it well. But these moments. . . these moments in which she waited! They were cruelly wearing upon her nerves.

  “You should eat something,” he told her.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  She sensed his shrug, then was stunned when he cast a second blanket toward her. “Get some sleep, then. I’d like to reach the Channel by tomorrow night.”

  Her heart seemed to spiral within her chest, and then unwind slowly. She clutched the blanket nervously for a minute, then hurriedly wrapped it around herself and tried to shift very silently until she was lying comfortably on the ground. But then she was afraid to breathe, afraid that the sound would be too loud and would bring attention to herself, and thus end this unexpected reprieve.

  Eventually, she had to breathe. Half opening her eyes, she noted that Bryan was staring out into the night, not watching her at all, as he ate.

  She closed her eyes again. In time she heard him wrap the remaining food, then lie down upon the earth himself. She waited, but he did not move. The fire burned lower and lower. She slept.

  * * *

  Birds were trilling when she next opened her eyes; the darkness was gone, and the morning was beautiful. The sun, brilliant as it rose high in the sky, was almost blinding.

  Elise could not help but feel revitalized. As she lay quietly against the earth, she could feel the warmth of the sun seeping into her, giving her strength. She was not so foolish as to forget that she was with Bryan Stede, but the sparkle of the morning gave new leeway to daydreams. Morning meant promise.

  “There’s a stream down the slope. I’ll take you.”

  A chill was cast over the radiance of the sun when she heard Bryan speak. She did not try to pretend that she still slept, and her eyes fell upon him. The morning was cool, but it appeared that a nip in the air had not kept him from stripping down and plunging into the stream himself. He was clad in his tight-fitting hose, but his hair was glistening with water, and his bare chest remained damp. Elise started inwardly, realizing she had never seen his naked chest before. The expanse of his shoulders was somewhat awesome, and she reflected ironically that it was not now so surprising that he had managed to shatter her door. Crisp, dark hair grew in abundance across his breast, slimming triangularly to his
waist, and helping to hide the numerous scars that gave credence to his years upon the field of battle. His belly was lean and flat, yet even there she saw the taut ripple of muscle, and she closed her eyes once more, trying to still the tremor of fear that seized her. He was her husband; she did not ever want to find herself at his mercy again . . .

  “Elise, we should be under way.”

  She rose silently and folded her blanket, then faced him. “I’d like to go to the stream alone.”

  “I’m sorry,” he told her, his hands casually upon his hips. “I don’t trust you.”

  “If I were going to run, I would have done so last night while you slept—”

  “Would you have, now? It would have been difficult, lady, since you slept soundly long before I did. No, I don’t think that you would have run last night. You were very tired; I would have caught you before you had taken the first step. Shall we go to the stream?”

  “Bryan, I beg of you!” Elise pleaded. “Give me a moment’s privacy!”

  He hesitated a minute, then shrugged. He plucked his shirt from a branch of the tree. “Be back quickly, Elise,” he warned her.

  The urge to keep going when she reached the stream was so strong that she could barely subdue it. But she knew that he would be upon her like lightning drawn to metal, so she quickly enjoyed a refreshing wash in the cold water, then hurried back. Bryan was fully dressed when she returned, with his sword securely in its scabbard, and his mantle pinned about his shoulder. He had laid out the bread and cheese once more, and Elise silently knelt down to eat. He did not join her, and she assumed he had already eaten, for he was impatiently standing by the horses. She took as long as she could to eat, and knew it was time to stop goading him when he drawled out, “My horse, Duchess? Or your own?”

  They rode in silence until well into the afternoon, at which time they came to a cluster of cottages that seemed to be a small village. Bryan came to a halt before one of the wattle-and-daub homes and dismounted from his horse, tossing the reins to Elise.