Rebellious Love

by Maura Seger

  The velvet-brown eyes of the woman who had cared for Verony since her birth filled with tears. "No, child," she murmured, "it's no dream. You're back where you belong, and mine to look after once again. So Lord Curran says, God bless him!"

  This last piece of information, uttered with remarkable sincerity, shocked Verony to full awareness. Despite Hilda's restraining hand, the young girl straightened abruptly. "What are you saying?" she demanded. "Lord Curran brought me here? That can't be."

  "And who else do you think could have carried you into this keep, right up to this very room," Hilda insisted tartly. Beneath the snow-white wimple framing her finely lined face, her expression regained much of its accustomed authority.

  "But-but... I stabbed him," Verony breathed, struggling against a growing sense of unreality. "In the forest. I remember. He caught me with . . . That is, he caught me poaching. He was going to ... I thought... his men ..." A dull flush stained her cheeks. "I couldn't get away, so I stabbed him. I thought ..."

  "What did you think, child?" Hilda asked gently. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, she took both of Verony's hands in hers.

  The young girl looked at her dazedly. Surely this was a dream? She could not be lying in her own room, with her old nurse tending her. She must be unconscious and dying, perhaps even dead. Yet everything about her proclaimed that she was very much alive and even safe, if only temporarily.

  "I thought they were going to kill me for poaching," she explained in a low voice. "But I was afraid that before I died, they would rape me. So I tried to make them slay me right away. But it didn't work. I am here, and Lord Curran must be very angry." She broke off, struggling to hide her fear. If only she knew what punishment he intended for her, she would be better able to meet it courageously.

  Looking up, Verony was startled by the sheen of tears in her nurse's brown eyes. Hilda's chin wobbled precariously as she gathered her charge in a loving embrace. "Poor little thing! It was that father of yours who put such thoughts into your head. No wonder you expect the worst. But you must know, Lord Curran is not the same sort of man. He is—"

  Hilda broke off, interrupted by a knock at the chamber door. She opened it to reveal two serving women carrying a tray of food and an ewer of steaming water.

  "Well, don't just stand there," the nurse snapped. "Put those things on the table."

  The women obeyed, gazing at Verony surreptitiously. She did not recognize them, but supposed they were members of the d'Arcy household sent to help look after their lord's comfort. Dimly she remembered that Curran's mother, the Lady Emelie d'Arcy, was renowned for the beauty and hospitality of her home. She would not be likely to let her son go off to the wilds of his new manor without proper servants.

  Whoever had trained the women, Verony thought a moment later, had done the job well. Whereas she had always had to struggle against the servants' natural fear of her father and his men, and the general slovenliness the late Baron spread about him, these women showed neither timidity nor lack of skill.

  Within minutes the table was laid with a clean cloth, the room filled with the scent of freshly baked bread and herbed chicken, and soap and fresh towels were put out next to a basin of hot water. Hilda surveyed the results critically before brusquely dismissing the women. They stole a final glance at Verony as they hurried away.

  "They know what they're about here," the old nurse admitted grudgingly. "Had this place cleaned out and well stocked in no time." Wrapping a cloak around Verony's slender shoulders, she guided her to the table. "Now eat all of that," Hilda directed automatically. "The Lord knows you were never a big girl, but now you definitely need some weight put on you."

  Verony hardly heard her. She was too busy staring at the meal laid out on the table. After so many months of only the poorest food and little enough of that, it looked like a feast. Her mouth watered and her stomach growled in pleasant anticipation, but still Verony held back. The hardships she had shared with those who protected her were far too fresh for her to enjoy such unexpected bounty.

  As she had since the time Verony was a little child, Hilda seemed able to read her thoughts. Gently but firmly, she eased her into a chair. "Be sensible. There is no way for you to share this food, and you surely wish to regain your strength."

  Hilda was right, of course, but knowing that did not make the young girl feel any less guilty. Hesitantly, she picked up a sliver of chicken. It melted on her tongue, prompting her to take another. She ate silently, concentrating on the food as she had never before had reason to do. Watching the slender little figure huddled in the cloak from which only one small hand emerged, Hilda was hard pressed to keep from weeping. Relief at her lady's safety coupled with a sensible understanding of what she must have suffered in the last year made the old nurse tremble. To hide her discomfort, she busied herself by laying out clothes.

  By the time Verony had eaten all her shrunken stomach could hold, a complete outfit was spread over the bed. She stared at the soft linen chemise, blue silk tunic with bands of white satin, and the surcoat of white wool embroidered in gold. She had last worn those garments on her final visit to the royal court at London, just a few months before her father's death. The clothes, along with almost everything else she owned, had been left behind when she fled the keep. If she had thought about them at all in the intervening months, she would have presumed them looted or given away by the new lord. But instead there they were, freshly aired and pressed, waiting for her to don them.

  "Come, lovey," Hilda murmured, "we must get you ready."

  Numbed by a day already far too full of surprises, Verony did not even think to ask what she was being prepared for. It was a very subdued girl who allowed the old nurse to stand her in the center of the room near a lighted brazier whose heat dispelled the chill. Stripped of the stained, torn cloak and bedraggled tunic, she was gently washed clean.

  Hilda winced as she saw the bruises inflicted by the knights and the other evidence of her young mistress' suffering, but she said nothing. When Verony was scrubbed and lightly perfumed with the scent of jasmine, Hilda wrapped her in a soft blanket before sitting her on a bench beside the bed. There she brushed the waist-length tresses until they shone like burnished copper in the fading light.

  The linen chemise fell softly against Verony's skin, followed by the graceful tunic with long, tight sleeves buttoned from elbow to wrist. The sleeveless surcoat had a slight train, the weight of which pulled the fabric back far enough to reveal soft, pointed shoes of creamy leather. Intricately carved gold brooches that had belonged to Verony's mother were set at her shoulders, and a belt woven of golden strands tightly girded her small waist.

  Her hair was left uncovered. Once she would have adorned it with a transparent veil held in place by a jeweled chaplet. But that was a symbol of rank she no longer felt able to wear. Hilda's efforts to persuade her otherwise had no effect. The old nurse gave up reluctantly, only after assuring herself that licr charge looked every inch the lady even without further ornament.

  The weariness and fear stilt all too evident in the young girl's eyes convinced Hilda not to argue further. "You are truly beautiful," she assured her gently. "Of course, you always were."

  Verony smiled faintly, touched by her nurse's loyalty. If Hilda had been nearby the year before, when word came that the Baron de Langford was dead and his lands seized by the crown, she would undoubtedly have insisted on accompanying Verony.

  Courage Hilda had aplenty, but the rigors of the forest would certainly have been too much for her. Verony offered a silent prayer of thanks that her old nurse had survived. Whatever happened, she was grateful for this time with the woman who was as much her mother as the lady who had died giving her birth.

  Recalled to herself by a sudden, sharp rap at the door, Hilda went swiftly to open it. Two men-at-arms stood in the corridor. Almost as tall and broad as their lord, the knights wore chain mail and carried longs words buckled at their sides. Their faces were grim as they surveyed the women.
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  "He wants her now," one informed Hilda gruffly.

  Verony paled. So the brief interlude of comfort and care was over. She swallowed with difficulty, turning away to keep the old nurse from seeing how her shoulders trembled. Only long practice in discipline and courage enabled her to walk silently from the room.

  Perhaps because she so desperately needed some distraction from her fear, Verony allowed her curiosity free rein as she walked through what had once been her home. She could see few changes, but that in itself was telling. The second-story gallery looking down on the Center Hall was swept clean and sweetly perfumed with fresh rushes. The torches set at regular intervals burned brightly without excessive smoke. The air above the hall was clear enough to indicate that the main chimney was being regularly swept.

  To someone raised in the household of a lady of accomplishment such as Emelie d'Arcy, such amenities would be taken for granted. But Verony had been forced to battle filth and disorder to achieve even the smallest victories. She was glad to see that the household she had so laboriously raised to a proper standard was being well maintained.

  Nor did the condition of the servants escape her notice. All were clean and well dressed, industriously occupied and seemingly adept at their various tasks. Some she recognized and of those a few were brave enough to discreetly nod or even dare a small smile. Most were new arrivals, and they seemed in command. Her suspicion that Lady Emelie ordered the smooth running of her son's household was strengthened.

  Glancing downstairs, she saw that sleeping pallets were rolled neatly against the walls, trestle tables and benches still glistened from the sand and water rubbed into them after the midday meal, and few dogs were in sight. Those allowed in the hall were well behaved. They lay quietly by the huge fireplace, gnawing on bones or sleeping. Only one of the shaggy hounds lifted its head as Verony was led up the steep stone steps to the earl's private quarters.

  There the knights paused. Standing between the massive men, hemmed in without actually being touched, she had to fight down the desperate urge to lice. They waited through long, seemingly endless moments until an aged knight came out to greet them.

  A wave of Sir Lyle's hand was sufficient to dismiss the knights. Left alone, the grizzled warrior and the beautiful, frightened young girl faced each other.

  Verony's eyes were unnaturally dark as she studied the man who had supported her identity.

  White-thatched and black-eyed, he stood tall and supple despite what she guessed to be his sixty-five years. His face was tanned and seamed to the consistency of leather, but he had what under different circumstances might have been considered a kindly look. Certainly there was nothing threatening in his manner as he returned her scrutiny. At worst, his expression could be called stern.

  Straightening under the careful gaze that seemed to see right through her, Verony forced herself to remain calm. Pride demanded that she meet whatever was to happen with dignity. But try though she did, she could not quite suppress all sign of her fear. Her delicate skin was ashen and a faint tremor made her shoulders quiver.

  "Come on then," Sir Lyle said abruptly. Taking her arm, he half pushed, half pulled the young girl inside.

  The high, stone room set just below the castle battlements was the private retreat of the resident lord. In the old baron's day, the chamber was the scene of drunken bouts and other activities better not discussed. Despite Verony's best efforts at cleanliness, the air always hung sodden with the stench of raw wine, and the furniture and floor were littered with debris. But now a quick glance told her all that had changed.

  Even in the dim light of copper braziers, she could see that the room was immaculate. Like all the rest of the keep, it was swept clean and laid with fresh rushes. Tapestries warmed the walls. There was a sense of order about the single table set with a brace of candles, the chairs drawn in a circle for easy talk, the immaculate hangings around the bed.

  The bed . . . Verony's throat tightened painfully. She was helpless to keep her gaze from the man lying there. Curran d'Arcy's powerful, bronzed arms lay crossed beneath his head. His naked torso gleamed in the firelight. Sculpted muscles rippled down the long line of his chest and flat abdomen, disappearing beneath the blanket that covered the rest of him.

  He had been staring at the ceiling when she entered, but at the sound of the door opening his focus shifted. Gray-green eyes impaled her mercilessly.

  Before the sheer impact of his gaze, Verony faltered. The breath caught in her lungs, and her heart hammered frantically. Never in her life had she been so aware of compelling masculinity. Curran's blatant regard, combining antagonism and lust, unleashed a response within her that she could barely credit. Slowly, irresistibly, the first glimmers of answering desire lit the dark shadows of her terror.

  The gray-green eyes moved to Sir Lyle. "Leave us."

  Dimly Verony thought she heard a faint chuckle as the knight withdrew. Resentment shot through her. There was nothing humorous about the situation. As the door clicked shut behind her, she stiffened in every muscle. He would get nothing, she vowed, without an all-out struggle. With luck, she would at least find the escape of unconsciousness before he raped her.

  "Come here," Curran growled, sitting up in the bed.

  Verony stood rooted where she was, refusing to move. Mutely she shook her head.

  Slanted black eyebrows raised in astonishment. "You don't have any sense at all. Are you simple-minded?"

  "Of course not!" she burst out indignantly before realizing he had meant to provoke her. Her soft, vermilion mouth drawn in an angry line, she turned away. Stubbornly, she focused on the corner of the room farthest from him.

  Silence, but only for a moment. So softly that she had to strain to hear him, Curran said: "I told you to come here." There was no mistaking his ominous tone. He was holding on to his temper only by the thinnest edge.

  Still Verony refused. Her mouth was dry, and her stomach clenched, but she would not move. "I am not some sheep to go placidly to my own slaughter! Whatever happens here will be by your will alone."

  Much as he tried, Curran could not deny a spurt of admiration for her daring. A faint smile curved the corners of his sensual mouth before he abruptly recalled himself. Tauntingly, he demanded: "Would you prefer I come and get you?"

  Verony backed up a pace, eyes widening as he began to pull aside the blanket. "N-no ....!"

  "Then pick up that medical kit and come over here."

  Startled, Verony followed the direction of his pointing hand. There was a small wooden box on the table, as well as a basin of water and fresh towels. Uncertainly she glanced at him.

  "If I have to tell you again ..."

  Without giving herself time to think, Verony crossed the room in rapid strides. Picking up the supplies, she carried them to the bed. Careful to stay just beyond the reach of Curran's long arm, she stared at him wide-eyed.

  "Well. . ."he drawled, letting his gaze linger on her rounded breasts and the narrow curve of her waist. There was a slight stirring beneath the blanket which, mercifully, did not penetrate the young girl's confusion.

  "I-I don't understand what you . . . want me to do "

  With mock patience, drawing out each word, Curran explained. "I want you to repair the damage you did in the forest." When still she did not seem to understand he pointed at the angry slash on his left shoulder. "You wounded my pride, madam, as well as my flesh. I have never been so easily attacked."

  "I did not mean to . . ." Verony began, only to break oft. They both knew she had most certainly meant to wound him. It seemed futile to try to explain that the proof of her success sickened her. She had seen many wounds in her short life, but never before one she herself had inflicted. The sight Of his torn skin surrounded by dried blood made her stomach reel. Helplessly Verony swayed.

  "Don't you dare faint!" Curran snapped. "If you try it, I'll know you're faking." His face darkened threateningly. "You're no shrinking maiden too shy and delicate to face the coarser side of
life. Far from it! Never have I met such a hellion. You are a menace, madam, with or without a weapon!"

  The muscles of his massive shoulders suddenly stiffened as a possibility occurred to him. "Damn it! For all I know, you may have armed yourself again."

  Words of denial sprang to Verony's lips, but she was powerless to utter them, for in that instant Curran stepped swiftly from the bed, revealing the full magnificence of his bronzed male beauty. Looming over her, he snatched the supplies away, then yanked both her hands into one of his and drew her hard against his body.

  A scream rose in Verony's throat. Frantically she tried to struggle. But iron bands locked her to his steely length. His arm tight around her tiny waist, his granite thighs pressed intimately to her softness, he filled her consciousness. The castle, the room, even the sense of her own being faded before the implacable onslaught of his sheer size and strength. Aching awareness flared within her as his large hand passed slowly, lingeringly over her curves.

  Not an inch of her remained untouched, from her vulnerable white throat to her shapely thighs lightly covered by the surcoat and tunic. Savoring beauty more exquisite than any he had yet encountered, Curran deliberately allowed his skillful fingers to manipulate the hardening peaks of her breasts. Until a low, broken sob forced him to realize that her response was one of fear rather than desire.

  Abruptly he released her, returning to the bed and pulling the covers back into place before he looked at her again. Verony stood with her slender arms wrapped tight around herself, futilely trying to shield her body from his eyes. Her head was bent, the red-gold curls spilling in a silken cascade of light. She trembled, moaning softly.

  "Stop that!" Curran demanded, shame burning him. He was not one of those who found pleasure in the abuse of women. On the contrary. Such brutality filled him with disgust. Embarrassment followed hard upon his guilt, making him speak sharply. "Get control of yourself. I want this wound dressed right now."