My Rebellious Heart

by Samantha James

  She reached instinctively for his brow, then sighed deeply in relief. "The fever is gone." She straightened, pushing aside the thick curtain of her hair. "How do you feel?"

  Thorne discovered his voice was hoarse and raspy. "Like I've swallowed every drop of brew in a village alehouse." He shifted his torso with a marked grimace. "And like my wife has taken her fists and pummeled the whole of my body that she might take me to task for it."

  She favored him with an uninhibited smile. "When you are better, mayhap." She combed her fingers through the mass of snarls tumbling down her back then twisted it into a long rope and pulled it over her shoulder. She was anxious to see how his wound fared.

  Thorne looked on as she unwrapped the bindings. Despite his malaise, he was mildly amused when she carefully averted her gaze as she bunched the sheet over the joinder of his legs, a becoming flush on her cheeks. He realized his memory of the night was rather vague and he queried her. He was stunned when she told him last night was the second they had spent here. He frowned when she sprinkled a white powder over the jagged edges of his injury; the flesh seemed to pucker and tighten.

  "What is that?"

  She did not look up as she spoke. "Maeve said 'twill draw the poisons from the wound and aid the healing—"

  "Maeve?"

  "Aye. Remember you told me about a farm not far from here?" He nodded. Her fingertips slid under his knee, guiding it higher so she could begin winding a clean strip of linen around his thigh. "Maeve and her husband Avery live there. You were in a rather poor way when we arrived. Your injury far surpassed my meager knowledge of the art of healing. We should be thankful Maeve knew what to do and was willing to show me." She raised her eyes to his, her expression betraying little of her thoughts.

  So she had gone for help ... out of concern for his well-being? The possibility both puzzled and intrigued him.

  It pleased him far more.

  Indeed, he'd have liked to question her further, but she had crossed to the hearth to set about preparing something to eat. He balked at the broth she soon carried to his bedside, muttering he preferred something more substantial. She insisted he needed to recover some of his strength first. Thorne was appalled to discover she was right. He was ashamed to admit he was weak as a babe in arms. She helped him sit up, but he had no more than half finished the broth when his hands began to shake. Without a word Shana took the bowl from him and spooned the rest into his mouth.

  He slept off and on most of the day. By evening Shana relented and dished up some of Maeve's lamb stew for their supper. She was feeling rather proud of her efforts as nurse, for he greedily devoured more of the bread and stew than she. Afterwards she changed his binding. With him awake and surveying her every move, she was heart-stoppingly conscious of the hardness of his limbs and bronzed, hair-roughened chest in a way that she had not been when he was unconscious. She was almost relieved when he drifted off to sleep once more

  Shana had settled for a hasty grooming this morning. She had found several cakes of soap in a cupboard. She hoped Maeve's son would not mind that she used it. While water warmed above the fire, she loosened her hair and allowed herself the luxury of combing it through for the first time in two days. By the time she'd finished working through the tangles and snarls, the water had warmed to a comfortable temperature.

  Standing before the fire, she stripped to her shift and scrubbed her bare arms. It felt so heavenly she impulsively lowered the shift to her waist to soap the dust and grime from her chest and shoulders.

  Little did she realize the feast she offered up to avid, hungry eyes yearning for just such a glimpse of her. For the space of a heartbeat, she was framed in the flickering glow of the fire, a perfect silhouette. Slender arms lifted her hair from her back, outlining in pale gold splendor the supple, trembling thrust of pink-tipped breasts. His heart skipped nigh unto his throat, for those sweet curves proved a temptation no man save a eunuch could ignore. Though it cost him no little amount of pain, he half turned that he might avail himself of such bounteous charms more fully.

  Quite by accident her gaze slid back over her shoulder. It gave her a start to behold his eyes open and full upon her, dark and unreadable. Though he had seen her naked before, she felt inexplicably shy and flustered. Hurriedly she slid her arms into the sleeves and smoothed her shift in place. Though she knew she dallied overlong she doused the fire and spread the embers thin with the iron poker. At length she straightened, turned and started forward, only to come to an uncertain halt when she realized she had nowhere to sleep.

  Nor was she the only one to come to that conclusion. Thorne frowned over at her. "Where did you sleep last night?"

  She bit her lip. "On the stool beside the bed," she said at last.

  "And the night before?" His frown grew sterner. He suspected he'd not like the answer.

  He was right. She pointed to the wall alongside the door. "There," she admitted in a small voice.

  Thorne scowled. Wincing a little, he eased his body sideways. An arrogant brow arched high was a silent command that she join him.

  Shana's eyes widened as she took his meaning. "Nay!" she said quickly. "Thorne, I cannot. What if I should jar your leg and do you harm?"

  But Thorne had long since noticed the deep purple shadows beneath her eyes. "You harm me more by your stubbornness," he growled. "Mayhap it's time you learned I can be just as stubborn." He threw back the sheet and made as if to rise.

  His ploy worked. She was at his side immediately, small hands pressing him back. "Aye, but you are a fool," she accused crossly. "And indeed a most stubborn one at that!" Already she was sliding in beside him. Thorne relished the sweetness of an easy victory. If only all were won so easily!—and with such great reward.

  His muscular frame dominated most of the narrow pallet. Shana had no choice but to turn on her side and press against his uninjured side. His arms came around her almost tentatively. She did not stiffen or retreat as he expected, but nuzzled against him with a breathy little sigh. With his free hand he lifted a ribbon of honey-gold hair tangled amidst the dark pelt on his chest. Wrapping it around his fist, he closed his eyes and let weariness overcome him.

  Neither had moved when Thorne awoke early the next morning.

  Two mornings later she pronounced him well enough to rise. With her assistance Thorne arose and limped around the cottage. His muscles protested mightily, for they were stiff and sore. He was sweating and weak as a day-old kitten by the time he collapsed onto the pallet. Immediately a cool, feminine hand wiped his brow, drawing the sheet to his waist and urging him to drink the soothing tea she brewed.

  It struck him then ... certainly Shana did not appear overeager to return to Langley, as he thought she might be. The cottage provided shelter from the elements, but even Thorne found their lodgings meager indeed and their comforts less than meager. She had but two gowns, no maid to see to her personal needs, no servants to cook and serve her food. He'd been so convinced she was a woman used to having her way, while he was a man used to making his way ...

  It disturbed him mightily to think he had so misjudged her. For all that she possessed a will of iron, there was an underlying gentleness about her that had escaped him ... until now.

  It was little wonder that he was not chafing with the enforced confinement, he reflected one evening. His derisive smile was directed solely at himself. He was not a man to spend his days lying idly abed, wasting the hours in foolish extravagance.

  But he could scarce tear his gaze from his wife, for she was truly a vision of loveliness beyond price. She moved about the cottage, slender and enticing and graceful, throwing a chunk of wood to the fire that blazed beneath a black iron pot His warm gaze thoroughly approved the span of her hips as she bent to the soup now simmering. Her lovely mouth pursed in concentration, she selected first one herb and then another before lifting the lid and adding a handful of each. Yet Thorne could hardly deny the fierce swell of satisfaction that surged like a tide within him now. This
was, he reflected thoughtfully, a side to his wife he had not expected ... but it pleased him nonetheless. Aye, it pleased him sorely, for he liked watching her tend to the fire and their meal... and to him.

  Lord, but she stirred him unbearably. His eyes lingered on her nape, where the fragile slope of her neck met soft wisps of honeyed hair. He longed to press his lips against that vulnerable spot and inhale the fresh, womanly scent of hair and skin; take down the silken tresses swept up on her crown so that long silken hair flowed over his hands and body. Her tender care and concern for him only fueled the fire in his loins; only she could heal the empty ache gouged deep in his breast.

  But he also wanted her to come to him willingly, and so he knew he must bide his time.

  "I must confess, princess, never did I think I'd see you engaged in so domestic a task as preparing your husband's meal with your own hands." She whirled, eyes aflash, but she softened as she saw he neither mocked nor jeered. "Do not tell me. You think me selfish, shallow, and vain, eh?"

  Princess, if you only knew. He chuckled, both unwilling and unable to part with the truth and spoil the rare camaraderie that had marked these past few days.

  "Well," he chuckled, "I did wonder how you persuaded Maeve and Avery to part with the fruits of their labor." He had been napping yesterday morn when the pair delivered a sack full of fresh fruit, so he had yet to meet them "Mayhap," he mused, "you relied on your sweet nature."

  "According to you, milord," she said lightly, "I have none." That she could banter about that long-ago day when he had so adjudged her was a precious measure of just how far they had come. He leaned back against the blankets she had stuffed behind him. His gaze never strayed as she ladled soup into a bowl and brought it to him. His expression was aggrieved when she straightened. "Will you not feed me, wife? I find myself feeling poorly of a sudden."

  Oh, the rogue! Such innocence as he feigned was entirely misplaced in such a wolfish countenance. Shana hadn't missed his keen inspection of her gaping bodice as she bent low to place the bowl in his hands. Shana planted her hands on her hips and sought to summon a righteous indignation. "Milord, you seem to me remarkably improved. Indeed, methinks you are not as helpless as you would have me believe."

  Thorne shook his head. "You've a hard heart," he sighed. "Methinks I'd not have to look far to find a softer maid who is not so wont to sharpen her tongue against me."

  "Indeed, I suspect you need look no further than the girl at Langley who danced for you alone."

  His smile was brazen. "Or," he mused, "mayhap the Lady Alice."

  She swept on him a gaze of cool disdain. "Ah, yes, the Lady Alice. Now there is a lady who is selfish, shallow, and vain. Well, you are welcome to her, milord—and she to you." Her temper high, she marched back to the fire and slammed the lid back unto the kettle.

  Thorne stifled a laugh. His wife was not so indifferent to him as she would pretend. And these past days had found him hoarding in his heart a hundred different things that might have been insignificant to another ... but not to him.

  The gentle sweep of a hand on his brow, the furtive little glances at him that she thought he did not see, the way her hand lay curled against his chest as she helped him shave and bathe ... those things did not lie. He hadn't forgotten the wild fear in her eyes when she bent over him, thinking he was dead. Then there was that smile, watery but blindingly sweet, and all for him ... only for him. Thorne's heart soared, like a falcon amongst the clouds.

  She took her meal before the fire, her spine so stiff Thorne was sorely tempted to laugh aloud.

  Their hunger now sated, it was time to change his bandages. Shana did not bother to pull up the stool but instead perched on the edge of the bed. She was glad to note the wound was healing nicely. There was no sign of poisons and the jagged edges had begun to knit together, though the spot where she had placed the tip of the knife was still a brighter pink than the rest of his skin. She traced it gently, murmuring an apology.

  "Oh, you need not apologize princess. I've no doubt you took great pleasure in wielding your blade while I lay helpless and unaware."

  Her lovely mouth turned down. "I could certainly make use of one now," she muttered. "Methinks I'd like to cut out your tongue."

  "Indeed, princess, 'tis a longing I'm familiar with!"

  Oh, but he was impossible to make light of her so! There was simply no arguing with the man, so why bother? She began to wind clean linen around his thigh, doing her best to concentrate on the task. Unfortunately, she couldn't avoid the sight of his naked chest no matter how she tried. Recalling how she had bathed the sleek muscles of his chest and shoulders kindled a feeling that was part pain, part pleasure.

  Dismayed by her reaction to his nearness, she tried to rise. He caught at her hand and rugged her down beside him again. "Do not leave yet, sweet. I have a question for you."

  Sweet. How easily the word slipped from his lips. An odd little pain gripped her heart—if only he meant it!

  The pressure around her fingers tightened ever so slightly. There was naught in his manner to threaten her, yet threatened was suddenly how Shana felt. The knowledge that he was in no shape to chase after her did little to ease her mind. She stared at his hand, so strong and dark against her own, and all at once despaired the ripeness of her memory. Her body remembered, too, recalling the intimate play of those lean fingers upon her breasts. Lifting. Cupping Brushing the roseate tips until they thrust hard and tingling and aching against his palm, as they did even now ...

  "What question?" Her voice was faint. Just looking at him made it difficult to swallow. She wanted to run her fingers through the dark mat of hair on his chest and belly. She longed to test for herself the binding tightness of his arms ...

  "Am I wrong in thinking Shana is not a Welsh name?"

  She nodded. " 'Tis, not Welsh but Irish. My mother named me, you see. She was an Irish princess." She sighed wistfully. "My father always told me 'twas her fondest wish to take me to her homeland, to show me the land she loved so dearly. But she died when I was very young, so young I scarce remember her."

  Thorne listened quietly, slowly weaving his fingers through hers. Their hands thus joined, he Drought her knuckles up slowly to press upon each one a feathery kiss. Emboldened by his curious tenderness, her eyes met his.

  "Thorne—" the pitch of her voice had gone very low, "Geoffrey told me how you came by your name." She hesitated but an instant. "I'm sorry your childhood was. so empty. I know what it must have been like for you—"

  His grip on her hand tightened so that she nearly cried out. "Do you?" A strange, cold note had entered his voice. "Do you know what it's like to eat the scraps meant for the dogs and think them a veritable feast? Nay, princess, I think not."

  Shana gasped, stunned at the lightning change in him. His hard expression was uncomfortably familiar. She could almost see him closing in on himself, shutting her out, as Will had.

  He dropped her hand and thrust her from him, scowling blackly "Geoffrey had no right to tell you," he said harshly. "I need no one's pity, especially not yours!"

  "Thorne, I—I do not understand why you are so angry! What does it matter that you had no name when you were a boy? You are a knight of the king—indeed, one of the king's most trusted knights! Of a certainty there is no shame in such accomplishment!"

  His smile was cruel. "Ah, so now we speak of shame! Well, let me ask you this, sweet. Do you deny the contempt you had for me the day we wed? Do you deny that you, sprung from a prince and a princess no less, felt no shame that the king forced you to wed a bastard—a bastard who spent his childhood without a name yet!"

  Each word was like the thrust of a dagger, piercing deeper and deeper. She remembered those many times she had struck out blindly, wanting nothing more than to wound Thorne as she had been wounded—to strip him of all pride and dignity, as hers had been stripped from her.

  There could be no doubt that she had succeeded.

  But there was no triumph, no elation in
discovering this long-delayed victory. There was only the shame he spoke of, a deep, scalding shame that she had been so cruel with her reckless taunts.

  She rose to her feet, her only thought to withdraw to safer territory. She saw the world through a misty blur. The only thing clearly visible was the iron clench of his jaw.

  "How can I forget when you must always remind me?" The threat of tears bled through to her voice. "Aye, I said many things, things I now regret, for I spoke in anger, not in truth. You believe I think so little of you that I look down on you as if you were the lowliest of creatures. And if you choose not to believe me, though I heartily proclaim otherwise, then—then 'tis not I who wrong you, milord, but you who wrong me."

  Thorne's mouth twisted. Even as she humbled herself before him, she was as proud, as regal ... as untouchable as ever.

  "I would not mistake you, sweet. Do you now mean to say you suddenly find me worthy of you, a princess?"

  With trembling voice and quavering heart, she spoke the only truth she knew. " 'Twas you who deemed yourself unworthy, Thorne," she shook her head, "not I"

  He cursed beneath his breath. "This is no game we play, princess. Would you have me believe you find this marriage not such a hardship after all?"

  "Aye," she whispered.

  Gritting his teeth, he struggled to his feet, paying no mind to his nudity. A dark, piercing ache spawned deep in his loins heated his blood, pounding with a need too long denied, a need for which there was only one release. He yearned for a woman to yield to him all that he sought... and more. He lunged for a woman to banish the blackness from his soul, the darkness in his heart, an ache so deep and intense it bordered on pain. But nay, not just any woman; only one would do. Only one, with eyes like silver fire, with hair like living flame ... only one, Shana.