It was soon apparent this was the most evenly matched contest of the day thus far. The pair charged again and again, locking lances, grappling for control, seeking to unseat and disarm the other. A hiss went up from the crowd as a lance was suddenly flung high in the air, flipping end over end in a slow arc before thudding to the ground.
It was Thorne's, but he was not yet ready to concede defeat. All watched in silence as he wheeled his destrier one last time and threw aside his shield He reined to an abrupt halt, and sat still, waiting. Newbury, certain that victory was his, wheeled his horse and charged his motionless target. Both steed and rider stood firm. Shana's heart beat high in her throat. Why had Thorne thrown aside his shield and made himself such an easy mark? And Newbury, the cad, was headed for him full-tilt! Surely at that speed, blunted or no, if the lance hit Thorne's chest with Newbury's full weight behind it, it might easily pierce him through.
"Dear God," she said faintly. "He is mad."
"Aye," came Sir Quentin's tensely voiced response. "I do believe he is."
Though she wanted to tear her eyes away, she could only look on with a horrified inevitability, bracing herself for the moment of impact ...
It never came. The lance seemed destined to strike Thorne's chest, yet somehow his hand shot out in a lightning reflex, like the vengeful hand of God. He seized Newbury's lance and wrenched it from his grip. Newbury's hands flew high; his body twisted. The unexpected suddenness of Thorne's action was all it took to upset his balance. He tumbled hard onto the ground.
A roar of approval went up from the crowd. Many of the spectators swarmed onto the field. Shana was jostled to her feet and swept forward. If she were ever to escape, it must be now; but a crowd had gathered before them, such that it was some minutes before she was able to slip through the mob and head back toward the castle.
Providence was with her. The bailey was deserted but for a handful of animals. Her footsteps carried her toward the stables. Inside, her gaze slid past the empty stalls. Anxiety stabbed at her and she stopped short. Where was Gryffen? Had Will not been able to pass on her message? She grew frantic. Dear Lord, she couldn't leave without him ... yet how could she stay?
There was a thump from the furthest stalls on the right. Relief flooded her. No doubt it was Gryffen, readying the horses. She must take him to task for scaring her so, she decided, laughing a little as she flung the door aside.
"Greetings, princess."
Her laughter died in her throat. "You!" she gasped. "Mother of Christ! ... The horses ... Gryffen ... where ..."
There was no need to go on. The earl perceived the situation only too accurately. "Neither you nor Sir Gryffen will be journeying with borrowed horses this day, princess."
Her jaw wouldn't seem to work properly.
"How—"
"Our little friend Will," he said softly, "has indeed proved himself a loyal and faithful servant."
Her eyes closed. Her strength ebbed. Her legs threatened to fail her. Will! she thought helplessly, hopelessly. Her soul cried out in mute despair. Oh, Will, How could you do this to me?
"You cannot escape this marriage, princess. You cannot escape me."
His devil's smile was back again, and this time all the fires of hell smoldered in his eyes. Instinctively she began to back away. But just as she would have turned and run for her very life, she lost her footing and tumbled back with a cry.
Anger blazed in him, like a roaring bonfire. "Get up," he said through clenched teeth.
Shana didn't move. A paralyzing fear wrapped her in its shroud.
Thorne swore, his temper unconcealed. "So help me, you will obey me. And when we are wed you will—"
"Never will I obey you—never!" Rash courage resurfaced and she bounded to her feet. "Nor will I wed you! Indeed, I'd gladly have any man—any man but you!"
"Why, lady, from your own lips, I am your chosen one!"
Small hands fisted at her sides, she faced him boldly. "You are a bastard!" she hissed. She saw the way he went utterly still, his expression rigid. His very silence promised retribution ... a vengeful one at that. But Shana was beyond caution. She hated his arrogance, his power over her. She hated him as she had never hated anyone in her life. And suddenly she was shouting it, over and over.
"I'll not wed a bastard. Do you hear? It matters not that you are called lord, for I know what you are. It matters not that you are Edward's puppet—it matters not that he will grant you this grand castle or a thousand others like it, for I will not wed a bastard!"
For a timeless moment Thorne did not move—he dared not, for in that mind-splitting instant, he feared what he was capable of. Raw fury splintered inside his brain, clouding his vision with a crimson mist of rage.
In truth, he had no desire to bind himself to any woman, let alone this haughty vixen, princess or no. It was true he had attained both power and wealth through the grace of the king. But he had fought hard for what was his and he'd be damned if he would apologize because he'd not been born into it as many nobles were. He had grown to manhood with naught but the clothes on his back and a starving belly; he had fought twice as hard as any other before he was given his due. His bastardy had been a stain all his life, a stain he'd thought he had overcome. And now she dared to throw it back in his face! By God, she had just sealed her fate. A single stride brought them together. He snatched her against him in a grip she feared would crush the fragile bones of her shoulders. Her eyes were riveted on a face grown dark and dangerous, his features drawn into an iron mask of determination. The very air seemed to pulse with the force of his rage. Only then did Shana realize what demon she had awoken in him.
He tumbled her down upon a bed of scratchy straw. Panic flooded her and she struggled wildly, twisting and writhing, but her puny strength was no match for his ruthless determination. She battled a rising hysteria, his body an oppressive weight atop hers.
"Thorne!" His name was a frantic, desperate entreaty. "Dear God, what—"
His mouth ground down on hers, bruising her with his anger, scalding her with a passion far beyond her limited experience. His kiss was endless, his tongue thrusting long and deep as blackness swirled all around her, and she grew faint from lack of air. She went limp beneath him, a strangled sound of anguish welling in her throat.
He raised his head to jeer. "What, princess, is this beneath you? As I am beneath you?"
Her heart plummeted, even as her fear spiraled. Tier fingers dug like talons into his shoulders as she sought to push him from her. Her resistance merely inflamed him further.
"I may not be the steed you expected to find this night, princess. But I shall provide you a mount just the same." With cool contempt he jerked her skirts up to her waist, exposing slender white legs, the soft fleece that guarded her womanhood and the secret part of her no other man had ever seen.
Shock jolted her entire body. She knew for certain then what he intended, just as she knew there would be no stopping him, no reasoning with him. "No!" she screamed.
He gazed down at her dispassionately, blind to her tears. "You bring this upon yourself, princess. Were you not filled with such venom, I would have preferred to make you mine without rancor. But you must ever provoke me, ever push when you should not." His tone was blistering. "Well, so be it. You have not a care about me—I shall have none of you." He reared over her, jamming her thighs apart with the weight of his knees, wrenching his clothing open.
His callousness rammed into her like a fist, even as he himself would ram into her. She could feel all of him, his incredible heat, the fiery brand of his maleness hard and swollen between her thighs.
"Pretend I am your beloved Barris," he sneered.
"Barris never touched me like this!" Her cry was laden thick with the threat of tears. "Dear God, I swear he never touched me!"
His lip curled. "How prettily you lie, princess. You forget 'twas from your very own lips I learned the two of you anticipated the pleasures of the marriage bed even before the ceremony."
The surging tip of his shaft began to penetrate her silken flesh.
"Aye, I did lie!" she cried wildly. "I meant to taunt you as you taunted me. Never did Barris do any more than kiss me. I swear on the grave of my father, he did no more than kiss me!"
Thorne's head jerked up. Straw clung to her hair; her eyes were wild with fear. In that split second, the most outrageous thought flitted through his brain. The air was stifling as he beheld her, his features rigid with strain and rage.
"By God," he said furiously. "I know not when you lie and when you speak the truth. But there is one way I may learn the truth." With his palm he clamped the forbidden place between her legs, impaling her with eyes as well as his touch. His gaze was merciless as a finger slid deep into her secret cleft ...
It met with the encumbrance of virgin flesh.
He froze. Raw fury splintered through him. The treacherous bitch—she had lied to him yet again!
Shocked and shamed beyond anything she had ever known, the probe of his fingers was as much a violation as that other part of his body would surely have been. A painful ache constricted her throat. She took a deep, ragged breath, battling a stinging rush of tears that threatened to surface.
Thorne sprang to his feet with a scathing oath. Never in his life had he been so torn! He wanted to punish her—scorn the bewildered hurt in her eyes, scorn the very vulnerability that robbed him of his purpose if not his rage.
"Damn you, princess!" He cursed her savagely. "Damn you for your lies and deceit!"
Tears filled her eyes.
The sight sliced through him like a blade. Though he tried his damndest to harden his heart, he could not. Feeling sick inside, he knelt down beside her and pushed her gown over her nakedness.
"Shana." He smoothed a hair from her temple, then pulled her into his arms. At his touch, a dam seemed to break inside her. She burst into great, wrenching sobs.
She was still sobbing quietly when he laid her on the bed in her chamber. She pulled her knees to her chest and rolled to her side; tears squeezed from beneath her closed lids onto the pillow. Overcome by the strange, compelling urge to hold her, to pull her tight within the sheltering protection of his arms, he reached for her once more. But in the end, his hand fell limply to his side.
His mouth thinned to a hard, straight line. He chided himself bitterly that he had forgotten the lesson he had learned this day. Shana would not welcome his embrace. Nay, she wanted neither his comfort nor his passion ...
She wanted only deliverance.
Chapter 12
The shrill cry of a cock crowing lured Shana from the night's slumber. She lay very still, listening to the herald of a new day ...
Her wedding day.
A suffocating tightness crept around her chest as she thought of beloved Barris. His features swam in her mind's eye—black winged brows, eyes of tawny gold, the sensual curve of lips that gave a pleasure so sweet... Her heart cried out in yearning. If only she could erase the anguish of these past weeks, as if they had never been! She might still be with Barris, held close in the sheltering protection of his arms once again, his lips warm upon hers ...
She squeezed her eyes shut in mute despair. There would be no joy on this day, she thought achingly No wild elation in pledging her life and love to the man she cherished with heart and soul. Nay, instead she would be forever joined to a man who held for her not the smallest scrap of affection—a man with no heart ... Never had she felt so helpless. Never had she felt so alone.
A tap on the door preceded half a dozen maids who crowded the chamber. Shana lay huddled in her bed as a wooden tub was brought in and tilled with bucket after bucket of steaming water.
Laughing and giggling, the maids pulled her from the bed. Her hair and body were washed with some sweet scented soap. While two of them combed the snarls from her hair, the others set about readying her clothes. When her hair was dry, a shift of the softest linen, spun so fine it was almost translucent, was slipped over her head. Shana stood rooted like a tree as her wedding gown followed.
At last she was ready. One of the maids, tiny but plump with bright cherry cheeks, clapped her hands. "Oh, milady," she sighed. "You look like an angel from the heavens above."
How odd, Shana thought with a painful catch of her heart. Because she was about to embark on a path that would take her straight to the fiery pits of hell. The little maid pulled her before a small looking glass on the wall.
She could not have chosen better had she spent months combing the continent for suitable cloth. The gown was stunning. Pale blue samite shimmered in the sunlight, shot through with threads of silver. The bodice lovingly draped the gentle thrust of her breast, the slenderness of her waist. Fashionably wide sleeves fell almost to her knee; the skirt flared softly to the toes of her slippers.
Her hair was left unbound, falling in thick, rich waves clear past her waist. A sheer veil held by a dainty filigree only enhanced its shining glory. But no sign of pleasure marked her pale features. She stared at her reflection, feeling as if she'd been trampled inside.
There was a knock on the door. One of the girls soon rushed back across the chamber. "Look, milady! 'Tis a gift from the earl, to be worn with your gown!"
She carried a silver girdle encrusted with sapphires. The intricate design was truly breathtaking, yet Shana could appreciate neither its beauty nor
the sentiment behind such a costly gift. She wanted to scream at the girl to take it back—that she wanted no part of this marriage—that she wanted no part of the man who had sent it! The weight of the girdle seemed to drag upon her heart.
It came time to leave the sanctuary of her chamber all too soon. The benches in the chapel overflowed. Her steps carried her woodenly down the aisle, like a statue come to life. King Edward waited there in the front bench, lending all his attention as she approached. Shana pressed her soft lips together to keep them from curling in scorn. God, but she didn't know who she hated more— the earl whose wife she would become, or the king, who decreed that this farce of a marriage take place!
Her gaze shifted. Thorne was there before the altar, tall and formidable. His spine was straight as a stone pillar, his regard just as unyielding. He was every inch the noble lord, richly garbed in scarlet trimmed with miniver. The black mantle, held at the shoulder by a brooch, called to attention the width of his shoulders His face was a rigid mask, betraying no hint of his thoughts.
Together they turned to face the priest. Her soul cried out in anguish as he took her hand. How different this day might have been were it Barris she wed! Her gaze strayed helplessly to the man at her side. As if he sensed her regard, his eyes caught hers. She shivered, for in the instant before his gaze shifted back to the priest, she saw in his the unmistakable sheen of passion.
The wedding mass was lengthy and arduous. A curious numbness befell her; she felt as if a stranger now dwelled in her body and she watched from afar.
Then it was over. Through a haze she heard the priest pronounce the words that bound them as husband and wife. Sweet Jesus, she thought wildly. She was wed to a bastard—the Bastard Earl of England himself. Why, not even the king himself could save her now—as if he would! A hysterical laugh welled up inside her, a laugh she was unable to contain. In the next instant, bands of iron caught her close, bringing her up against his chest. Her newly wed husband smothered her laughter with his mouth.
She had but one glimpse of his eyes, burning like embers. He was angry; she sensed it in the fiery brand of his mouth on hers. She steeled herself to feel nothing, yet his kiss was starkly, demandingly persuasive; she fell prey to a slow, treacherous warmth, unable to fight it any more than she could fight him. Her senses were spinning by the time he released her lips. The sheen of mocking triumph she spied then made her scream inwardly. A huge feast followed, merry and alive and vibrant with music and the crush of people. Shana had been awed to discover King Edward traveled with his own bed, herbs and spices, and other foodstuffs; she'd been no less astounded at the numb
er of servants and attendants that comprised his retinue—he even brought his own cupbearer. Now with the horde attending the wedding feast, it appeared to Shana as if the whole of the kingdom had descended upon Langley.
The king wore a tunic of sendal, lavishly embroidered with leopards; visible beneath it was shimmering cloth of gold. He was not the only one so lavishly dressed, however. Shana had never seen such finery—men and women alike were adorned with huge brooches, glittering rings of gold adorned with gemstones, and necklets of sapphires and emeralds.
The Lady Alice was perhaps the most stunning of all. Her shimmering white gown displayed her voluptuous curves to perfection. Rubies dangled at her throat, matching the sheen of her lips.
There were jugglers and jesters, minstrels who filled the hall with gaiety and song. Wine and ale flowed lavishly. Servants streamed from the kitchens in a never-ending procession, bearing great platters of roast swine, boar, oxen, and lamb. Never in her life had Shana witnessed such extravagance.
Unfortunately her mind did not stray for long from the man who sat beside her at the high table. Though his manner was distant and remote, her pulse was racing, as though he ruled the very rhythm of her heart! Whenever their eyes chanced, to meet, she was the first to tear her gaze away. Her appetite was scant, though she nibbled occasionally on a leg of mutton simply to busy her hands.
She danced the first lilting tune with Thorne. Shana had no wish to dance, for in her mind, this was hardly an occasion to celebrate. Sir Quentin followed, but Shana stiffened when Lord Newbury presented himself before her, his smile reeking of smugness Her mind churned wildly, for custom dictated a bride could refuse no one— they might even kiss her at will—but the thought of dancing with Newbury had her in a panic. How could she refuse without antagonizing him or appearing ungracious?
But before Newbury could say a word, Sir Geoffrey appeared and took her hand. "Milady," he said smoothly, " 'twould please me to no end were you to grant me this dance." He led her away.
My Rebellious Heart Page 17