My Rebellious Heart

by Samantha James

  "Cedric?"

  He gestured over his shoulder. The soft line of her lips thinned as he indicated the red-haired giant who stood guard in the hallway.

  "You may also walk in the bailey," he went on. "Do not tell me. With you or Cedric in attendance?" Her tone dripped honey. She struggled to hold tight to a patience that was fast unraveling. "Aye." The glint in his eye told her he took a perverse delight in reminding her. "But do not give me cause to regret allowing you this freedom, princess. I would remind you mat the right to revoke such privilege is solely in my hands."

  "I believe you've made that abundantly clear, milord." This time she did not bother to disguise the bite in her tone.

  He approached her. "I hope so, milady. For your sake, I truly hope so." His smile was as frigid as her expression.

  Shana watched warily as he closed the distance between them, halting so close that she had to tilt her head in order to meet his gaze. But meet it she did, her eyes moving slowly up the corded column of his neck, past those rigidly carved lips that no longer smiled, to inevitably mesh with his. His eyes were dark and depthless; she found it disconcerting that he betrayed no expression, neither scorn nor indifference.

  A faint alarm seized her. Despite all her claims to the contrary, his presence was more than a little intimidating. His size alone was enough to make even the mightiest of warriors take heed—and though she was tall for a woman, she scarcely reached his chin. She found herself admitting that this man alone possessed the ability to make her long to turn and flee to the ends of the earth, never daring to look back. But she dared not let him know it... oh, no, for if she did, it would be but one more weapon he would use against her.

  And he needed no help on that score.

  "This marriage of yours, princess. When is it to take place?"

  Shana blinked, momentarily taken aback. Whatever she had expected him to say, this was not it.

  "Barris and I plan to wed at summer's end."

  "And what if you are still here? What if he has failed to surrender your ransom?"

  There was a leap of hope in her breast. "You've sent a demand for ransom then?"

  Her eagerness grated on him; Thorne did not bother to ask himself why. "Not yet," he stated smoothly. "There is, you see, the matter of deciding what settlement is to be made." He tapped his finger to his lips. "Is he a sheep farmer, like so many of your people? Mayhap he could be persuaded to part with some of his precious sheep. It seems a fair enough trade, don't you think—a flock of sheep for a princess?"

  His tone was laden with mockery. Shana's nails dug into her hand. She yearned to hear the crack of her palm against that hard cheek—soon, she promised herself, she would.

  "Whatever your price," she said quietly, "Barris will not fail me."

  "Indeed. It occurs to me mayhap I should instead ask a paltry sum to ensure that he takes you off my hands." Thorne circled her slowly, surveying her keenly. Her spine was rigid, her silvery eyes full of mutiny, but she endured his barbs remarkably well. Yet he could not find it in him to admit she was a worthy adversary.

  She regarded him calmly. "If that is your wish, you have only to free me here and now."

  "Here and now? Nay, milady." A wicked grin made a brief appearance. "I've no doubt you'd not leave without sticking a dagger in my back."

  "The thought is tempting, milord"— a sweet smile curved her lips, "tempting indeed."

  He stopped directly behind her, so close his breath stirred her hair. The tension thickened, along with the silence. Shana's thoughts grew wild and disjointed. Did he mock her still? Or did he contemplate turning her threat around and throttling her here and now? She frantically wished he would move that she might see him. Long seconds passed in which she longed to scream her frustration. Her knees were like melted wax; she feared they would buckle any instant.

  "Milady," he murmured. "I can feel you trembling. May I ask why?"

  Oh, but she'd had enough of his baiting. She whirled and fixed him with a glare. "Why else?" she snapped. "I tremble in revulsion!"

  "Indeed?" he inquired smoothly. "Mayhap we should put it to the test."

  She did not like his slow-growing smile, nay, not at all! But the notion had no sooner bolted through her mind than strong hands took possession of her shoulders, branding her with their heat. She had one terrifying glimpse of fiercely glowing eyes; her lips parted and a swift aborted sound escaped.

  His mouth closed over hers, smothering her cry of alarm. For one mind-splitting instant Shana feared it would be as it had been before, when he had sought to conquer and defeat. And aye, his arms caught her full and tight against him—he left no room for retreat. Again his lips plundered the softness of hers, only this time ... this time there was naught of force in the touch of his mouth on hers, nor the searing blatancy that so shocked her last eve—and oh, how she wished there were! For then she might have summoned the determination to resist. Instead, his lips conveyed to her a stark, compelling persuasion that sapped the strength from her limbs and stripped from her all will to resist.

  Yet she had to try. She told herself it was just as she'd said—he roused naught in her save revulsion and disgust. But to her horror, she discovered that though her lips might form the lie, her body was of a different frame of mind altogether ...

  In some ever-distant corner of her mind, Shana was appalled that this man whom she hated and despised should find in her a willing captive. But her heart beat the rampant rhythm of a drum, echoing in her ears, thrumming throughout her body. Harris's kisses had hinted at heat and fire, but this—ah, this was pure flame! Pierced by a dark, sweet pleasure she did not understand, time lost all meaning as he kissed her, spinning her into a dark vortex where nothing existed save the intoxicating pressure of warm lips full upon hers.

  By the time he raised his head, Shana could do naught but cling feebly, her fingers twisted into the front of his tunic.

  Thorne was no less affected than she, but experience allowed him to shield it. He had not mistaken the tremor of her lips beneath his, he thought, with a purely triumphant satisfaction. Her head was bowed low, the curve of her lashes silky and dark against the heightened color of her cheeks. He felt as well as heard the deeply ragged breath she expelled. She sought to step back but he retained his possession of her shoulders.

  "Why, Shana, what is this?" He shook his head. "You tremble still. Do I dare to hope you would have me prove my point yet again?"

  Her subdued pose was deceitful. Her head came up, her eyes blazing as if she would unleash upon him all the furies or the earth. He was smiling, oh-so-gallant, oh-so-pleased with himself.

  "If I tremble," she said coldly, " 'tis because the only way I can stomach your touch is to think of Barris—to pretend that his lips, not yours, lay warm upon mine." She wrenched herself from his hold and snatched up the linen napkin from her tray. Knowing full well he gauged her every move like a hawk, she blotted the taste of him from her lips.

  By the time she dropped the cloth to the table, his smile was wiped clean. Shana relished her satisfaction like a plump, tasty fruit. "Aye," she added sweetly. "Barris alone makes me burn with passion. Of a certainty not you, Englishman, never you!"

  The glitter in his eyes had gone cold. When he spoke, the mildness of his tone masked an edge of steel. "You appear to have been most familiar with your betrothed, princess. I find I am curious—did you lay with him as well?"

  A rash boldness descended upon her. "Aye, milord, many times over—and with the greatest of pleasure, for he is truly a man above all others! He knows well and true how to make a woman respond to his every whim and will."

  His lip curled. Shana was stung by the venom she glimpsed in his dark, hard features. "Then, pray, milady, pray that he finds you of value." With that he left her, as swift and silent as the night. The taste of victory was hollow indeed. Shana made her way slowly to the bed, immensely shaken without knowing quite why. She should have been glad, for it seemed the earl truly meant to spare her.
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  But her father had not been so lucky. Nor had Gryffen, and the priest ...

  Tears glazed her eyes. Seized by a bitter despair, she pressed a hand to the burning ache in her breast. Her father was gone, and a part of her along with him. Never had she felt so lost—so very alone! She'd have given anything for life to be as it had been before, to be back at Merwen, and far, far away from here. But she was trapped here in this wretched pile of English stone ...

  And she had the awful feeling her life was about to be forever changed.

  When Thorne strode into the stable, Geoffrey was lounging against a post supervising the saddling of his horse. "Thorne! You're looking very fit this fine morn!" He straightened and greeted his friend with casual ease.

  A jet-black brow climbed high as Thorne halted nearby. "Indeed," he drawled. "Well, if I do, 'tis probably because I slept better than I have in more than a sennight." He paused, watching with half a smile while a highly uncomfortable Geoffrey strived mightily to conceal his anxiety—with precious little luck.

  Thorne gave a dry laugh and clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Your eyes give away your every thought, my friend. But you need not worry—the lady's virtue, questionable though it is, is still her own."

  Though Shana's name had yet to be spoken, a silent current of understanding passed between them. Gone was the dissension that had marked their last encounter.

  Geoffrey sighed and shook his head. "Considering who she is and what she's done, I shouldn't give a care about what happens to her. But like it or not there's a part of me that cannot help but be concerned."

  Thorne gave him a long, slow look. "Not still smitten, are you, Geoffrey?"

  "Nay!"

  "You've a soft spot for a woman, any woman, Geoffrey. I pray it won't be the death of you someday."

  "Aye!" Geoffrey admitted. "But I do believe the Lady Shana has taught me a lesson I'll not soon forget. I'll not be so easily deceived by the next pretty face I meet."

  "Nor will I, Geoffrey. Nor will I." A thin-lipped smile touched Thorne's mouth. "And while we're on the subject of the lady fair, my guess is that although she'd been pampered and indulged, she's far from helpless. Unless I'm sorely mistaken, she's a wench who can handle just about anything."

  "Even you, Thorne?" Geoffrey's tone conveyed a lightness he was suddenly far from feeling.

  Thorne calmly stated his prediction. "Let's just say the lady may have met her match."

  Geoffrey's regard sharpened. Thorne's words made him faintly uneasy, but there were some matters in which he dared not overstep his bounds. Thorne's behavior both yesterday and this morning warned him that his friend would brook no interference where Shana was involved.

  "I've a few men riding in from Fairhaven." Geoffrey decided a change of subject was in order. "I thought I might ride out and give them escort. Will you come as well?"

  There had been no reports of Welsh raiders in the area during the two days he'd been away, but Thorne was not about to let down his guard. He nodded. "Aye, I believe I will. It might be wise to make certain your men meet with no unexpected surprises."

  It was Cedric who delivered the noonday meal. Shana picked at the bread and rich stew, finding she had no more appetite than she'd had last night. At length she pushed aside the tray with a downward tug of her lips. She'd spent the morning restlessly pacing her cell, thirty steps in length, twenty-five in width—and though it lacked neither comfort nor space, it was indeed naught but a prison.

  No doubt, she thought with a sniff, the earl expected her to cower here in this chamber, fearfully anticipating his return. But a coward she was not—and fear was the one thing she'd not let him glimpse at all cost! Such resolve spurred her to her feet; she marched toward the wide oaken portal, quick to assure herself her bravado had little to do with the fact that she'd seen the earl and Sir Geoffrey ride out earlier this morning. Dauntlessly determined, she threw open the door.

  Cedric looked up from where he sat carving a chunk of wood. On seeing her standing in the doorway he clambered to his feet, nearly knocking over his stool in his haste.

  "Milady! Is there something you need?"

  "Aye!" she said sharply. "If I don't get a breath of fresh air I shall surely perish!" Lifting her skirts she started to sweep past him.

  "But ... milady!..."

  One small slippered foot was daintily poised on the first step of the stair; she glanced back at him, a slender brow arched high.

  "The earl informed me I might walk in the bailey, Cedric. Is this not true?"

  "Aye, but ..." He faltered once more, his expression harried and distressed. Shana was given the distinct impression he had expected to neither see nor hear so much as a peep from his charge. A wholly unexpected amusement softened the compressed tightness of her mouth. Unlikely as it was, it seemed this huge hulking man who could crush her senseless with one swift blow was just a little in awe of her!

  "Cedric,"— she spoke his name, the bite in her tone absent as if it had never been—"I have no wish to make trouble for you. I wish only to stretch the ache in my legs and feel the warmth of the sun for a time. I pray you will not deny me in this." She lifted her eyes, wide and clearer than the skies above, to his. A battle-hardened man who had known little of a woman's tenderness, Cedric caught his breath. Rumors abounded about the captive Welsh princess—it was said that beneath her guise of loveliness lurked the soul of a she devil. But it was not so much the lovely vision he beheld, as the softness in her voice—the gentleness in her eyes—that prodded in him a gnawing doubt.

  He cleared his throat. "I'll not deny you, milady. But neither can I permit you to go alone."

  The most fleeting of smiles touched her lips. "Then let us dawdle no longer," was all she said. She picked up her skirt and descended the stairs, Cedric following behind.

  The sun on her face felt glorious. The bailey was humming with activity. Young groomsmen swept out the stables, while the blacksmith pounded nails at the forge. The laundress supervised two young servants as they pounded sheets in a huge wooden trough. But Shana soon discovered that one turn about the bailey was quite enough. The brittle stares she collected along the way began to make her feel uneasy.

  It was then she spotted a familiar face. The boy Will was loitering near the kitchen, kicking at a pebble in the dust. He was a loner, an outcast, as she was, she thought with a twist in her breast.

  "Will!" She waved at him as her feet carried her across to him. He stood his ground as she approached, but she received no answering smile in return. Shana had but one thought—this was not the curious-eyed urchin who so appealed to her that first day here. Nonetheless, she greeted him pleasantly.

  "I was hoping I would see you, Will! You've been well, I hope."

  He stared up at her with sullen eyes. "I cannot think why you should care," he retorted.

  Her smile wavered, for his tone was laden with such venom she felt she'd been struck.

  "You were not so hostile the day we met," she said slowly.

  "I didn't know who you were then! Indeed, it seems no one did!"

  A pang of hurt shot through her. She had the gnawing sensation Will's sudden dislike of her was not only because he had discovered she was Welsh, but also because she had attempted to capture his hero, the earl.

  "I have no quarrel with you, Will." She attempted to reason with him. "How could I? You are just a boy. I certainly do not think of you as my enemy."

  "And what about the Earl of Weston, milady? Do you think of him as your enemy?"

  "Aye!" The admission slipped out before Shana could stop it.

  The boy's features grew hard as coal. "Then that makes you mine, milady." He marched off.

  It was that conversation that drove Shana back to the tower chamber. Whatever Cedric thought of the incident, she knew not. She fled the bailey without a backward glance. Cedric followed, but she paid scant heed to him, for right now she could bear no further condemnation, whether spoken or unspoken.

  In the tower, her
steps carried her without volition to the window. Feeling both trapped and beaten, helpless and hopeless, she stared sightlessly out toward the soldiers' tents that blotted the endless stretch of countryside. A flurry of birds swept high into the brilliance of a cloudless blue sky, soaring and swooping toward the western horizon ... toward the misty hills of Wales.

  A melancholy longing welled up inside her. How long before she was back at Merwen? Barris said he would be away only a few days, but what if his business kept him away longer? What if he did not receive the earl's ransom note for days— even weeks? What if the messenger lost his way— worse, what if he were beset by raiders? Barris might never know she was here, for he would think her dead, as the earl had planned!

  Her mind raced on. Though it pained her sorely to acknowledge it, the earl had been merciful thus far. Her circumstances could have been far worse, for he could have imprisoned her while awaiting Barris's response to his demands. But how long would his generosity last? Any time the earl was so inclined, he could see her entombed below this sprawling keep, in complete and utter isolation, to rot away in some dank, cramped cell with foul, fetid creatures of the night her only companion.

  She shivered. The very thought of rats had always made her skin crawl. Yet Shana could not imagine feeling more forsaken than she did at this moment.

  At length she collapsed on the bed, staring up at the ceiling with dry, burning eyes. She prayed that Barris had already returned home and would soon ransom her; she prayed for deliverance from this English beast. In the end, it was not exhaustion, but sheer boredom that eventually lulled her into a light sleep.

  The chamber was awash with the pink blush of twilight when she awoke. Smothering a yawn, she pushed herself up in time to see the earl step through the entrance.

  Arms crossed over his chest, he took in her rumpled appearance with a jeer. "Your status betrays you, princess. If you think you are going to laze in bed all the day and night, I shall have to see to it that you have something to occupy your time."