My Rebellious Heart

by Samantha James

  Guilt knifed through him. God alone knew he hadn't meant to hurt her ... or had he?

  Buried deep inside was a part of him that understood why she had released Barris; he dared not believe she meant to defy or disgrace him. Indeed, the need to protect and defend was a powerful force …

  As powerful as love, he acknowledged bitterly.

  Lord Newbury had led the virulent outcry condemning his wife. "She freed a prisoner of the Crown!" he had charged. " 'Tis treason as surely as the Dragon committed treason! She deserves ten lashes—nay, twenty!"

  Thorne fixed him with a glare. "You overstep your bounds," he told the other man sharply. "I command these forces. Lord Newbury, and you may content yourself with the knowledge that my wife will indeed receive a fitting punishment." Newbury backed down beneath his iron tone, but Thorne took silent note of his fierce glare. As furious as he was with his lovely wife, he would die before he would let any harm befall her. But he did not trust Newbury; thus his decision to remove her to Weston.

  Mayhap, he realized tiredly, he should have told her. But alas, once he had seen her, he had not been able to hold his tongue in check. His anger was resurrected like a boiling tide within him. Some demon inside provoked his merciless taunts, and 'twas hardly in her nature to sit meekly while he raged at her. And so the never-ending battle between them began anew ... Ah, if only he'd not been so very, very angry, he might have curbed his temper.

  But there was no pain greater than the pain of betrayal. The unfairness of it roiled within him. He could not banish the tortured voice inside which cried out that she owed her loyalty to her husband—not to Barris, the man she had once loved.

  His jaw locked hard and tight, for the question was like a thorn in his heart... Did she love him still?

  Four days hence his disposition was so vile even Geoffrey sought to stay clear of him. He strode from the stable one evening, determined to find solace in the bottom of his wine goblet as he had these last nights. He almost didn't hear the urgent shout that hailed him.

  "Milord ... milord, stop!"

  He turned to see Cedric jump from the back of a chestnut roan. The man was covered in dust from head to foot. Thorne wasted no time unleashing his displeasure.

  "You had best have a blasted good reason for forsaking my command so swiftly, man! As I recall you were to remain with the Lady Shana until I bid you otherwise!"

  The red-haired giant dropped down on one knee. "And never would I dream of disobeying your orders, milord, were the circumstances not dire indeed!"

  Thorne's heart leaped. Panic seized him. "What!" he cried. "Never tell me you did not reach Weston!"

  The huge man-at-arms shook his head and lowered his gaze, for he did not relish the news he must deliver. "Your lady refused to journey there, milord! Sir Gryffen bade me return that you would know she is at Merwen."

  "Merwen!" Thorne swore furiously. "By God, she has the audacity of no other!"

  "Milord, there is more."

  Thorne's gaze sharpened. Cedric's tone had taken on a quiet note that did not bode well.

  "Merwen has been burned to the ground. An old woman there—she said the keep was torched by English troops."

  Throne let loose a vicious oath and spun around. Moments later he and his mount thundered through the gates.

  His mood was scarce improved when he arrived at Merwen. He paused, his heart twisting as his gaze swept the blackened landscape. It took no stretch of the imagination to envision Shana's reaction on discovering her childhood home in ruins. She would be devastated!

  "Milord! 'Tis glad I am that you came so soon!" Sir Gryffen appeared then, rushing over to grab his bridle.

  Thorne wasted little time on preliminaries. "Where is she, Gryffen?"

  The light in the old knight's eyes was all at once extinguished. He gestured over his shoulder toward a grassy knoll. "She spends most of her time at her father's grave," he said heavily. "I tried to get her to stay in the village, but she'll not hear of it. She refuses to leave though we must sleep in the stables. Ah, there she is now."

  Thorne half turned. She was bundled securely beneath a heavy cloak, for the chill of fall had swept in. Her progress through a copse of trees was plodding. She walked very slowly, as if it hurt to move. Beneath the cloak, her shoulders slumped dejectedly. She did not see him, for her head was bowed low.

  There was a strange tightening in his chest. She seemed very vulnerable just then, he thought with a pang, so lost and alone. Thorne sensed her despair, and for the space of a heartbeat her pain was his own. He had to force himself to harden his heart. He strode toward her and placed himself square in her path.

  So heedless of his presence was she that she collided full tilt with him. Thorne caught her by the arms to prevent her stumbling. Her head came up and her lips parted softly in mute surprise. Her closeness roused an immediate and undeniable reaction. He was nearly overcome by the urge to crush her to his chest and smother those sweetly pursed lips with his own. The shock in her eyes lasted but an instant. Thorne cursed silently as she wrenched away with a gasp. Outrage flared high and bright in her eyes.

  "How did you know I was here?" Thorne did not have a chance to answer, nor was there a need to. Her attention skipped past his shoulder to alight on Gryffen. "Gryffen," she cried with impotent helplessness. " 'Twas you, wasn't it? Oh, how could you?"

  "What, Shana, do you feel betrayed? Ah, wife, so now you know how it feels! But do not blame Sir Gryffen that your husband found it necessary to retrieve his errant wife." He gave an exaggerated bow "Forgive me, sweet, but did I not make myself plain? As I recall, I gave orders you were to travel to Weston."

  She tipped her delicate chin high. She faced him as ever, fearless and aloof "It did not please me—" she began.

  "And it displeases me to find you here, princess, when you should be at Weston!"

  "It displeases you, aye, and I understand why! No doubt you did not wish me to witness your handiwork." The sweep of her arm encompassed the rums of the keep. She faced him again, fiery and inflamed, her rage nearly choking her. "Was it not enough that I lost my father? You command the English forces second only to the king! Is such glory not enough for you—must you seek still more? Did you truly have to sacrifice my home for the sake of your own gain?"

  Something surfaced in his eyes, something that might have been hurt. But Shana did not recognize it, for the torment in her soul blinded her to all else. She plunged on recklessly.

  "But my feelings do not matter, do they, indeed they never have! Aye, what matters is that the king be duly impressed and reward you for your glory. Mayhap, milord, he will grant you another earldom in addition to Weston and Langley. Dear God, I begin to wonder whether I am wed to a man or a monster!"

  Thorne stiffened as if his spine were forged of steel. He was keenly aware of the workings of her mind. He'd known she would believe he ordered Merwen burned, for she was ever willing to believe the worst of him, to condemn and accuse. A simmering fury was ignited inside him that she took up her contempt for him again so quickly— and with such fervor!

  "Princess, you will believe as you will no matter what I do or do not say!" He transferred his attention to Gryffen. "Sir Gryffen, please ready your mounts. We leave for Weston at once."

  "Weston!"

  "Aye. I'm taking you home—"

  "Home!" Her voice grew thick with the threat of tears. "I have no home thanks to you! And I vow I'll not set foot in England again!"

  "Princess, I vow you will." With a sparseness of motion that belied his size, he moved like silent lightning, shackling her waist and dragging her close. His smile was savage, his hold merciless. Shana gave a strangled cry as she was heaved upon his shoulder and jounced to the stable like a sack of grain.

  So he commanded ... and so it was.

  The journey was a nightmare. In her heart Shana sensed she had wronged him and wronged him sorely. She regretted her behavior, yet how could she tell him? His profile was remote and unyielding, as
inflexible as a mountain of stone. Thorne spared little thought for comfort, riding half the night before stopping for shelter at a monastery. Shana arose the next morning, tired and miserable, feeling as if a pitching, rolling sea had lodged in her stomach. Such sickness was unlike her. She didn't know if it was strain or the babe that made her feel so poorly ...

  The babe. Sweet Jesus, she had yet to tell Thorne! She gnawed her lip uncertainly, her mind leaping forward. How would he take the news of his impending fatherhood? She swiftly glanced his way. His eyes deigned to catch hers—the fierceness of his glare discouraged the notion. Her shoulders slumped. She couldn't tell him now, not when he was so distant and unapproachable.

  Shana wasn't certain but she thought they traveled in a southeasterly direction. The clear weather gave way to cool, moist air, a sure sign that autumn had fallen upon the land. They passed field after field where laborers worked furiously to pull in the harvest and ready the land for winter.

  Late in the evening on their third day of travel, her eyelids began to droop. Exhausted and dazed, she felt herself drifting . . .

  "Shana!"

  A harshly familiar voice jarred her back to consciousness. Disoriented, Shana stared down at Thorne, who now stood beside her horse. He plucked her from the saddle and into his arms. Blazing torchlight obscured all but the fact they were in a large bailey. His hold upon her was tight and hard, almost ruthless, as if he expected resistance.

  Indeed, resistance was the last thing on Shana's mind. She squeezed her eyes shut and buried her face against the corded strength of his neck, relishing the enveloping strength of his arms around her back. His scent drifted all around her, all man and musk and warmth.

  Despair clamped tight about her heart. God! She thought starkly. To be locked fast within his embrace was all she had longed for, but now it was spoiled by his anger and her carelessness.

  She was only half aware as he addressed two gaping servants who hurried to light tapers, then scurried before them. They followed the wavering yellow light up the stairs and down a long corridor, twisting and turning until at last Thorne bore her through a set of double doors and into a massive chamber.

  "My lady would like a hot bath, Adelaide, and a warm meal as well before she retires."

  "And you, milord? Will you dine here in your chamber as well?"

  There was an instant's silence. Shana heard his response, clipped and precise as he lowered her to the floor. "In the hall, Adelaide, for as soon as I am done I must be on my way back to Langley."

  Adelaide bobbed a curtsy and left. Thorne would have followed in the woman's wake had Shana not called out his name. He halted, his features hidden in shadow. She swallowed her uncertainty and spoke, her voice rather breathless.

  "You are leaving—already?"

  "Aye." His tone reflected his impatience to be off.

  "But—'tis dark! Will you not wait until morning?"

  He parried her question with another. "Since when have you concerned yourself with my welfare, princess?"

  His sharpness stung. She lowered her gaze and

  clasped her hands in front of her so he would not see her shaking. Silence spun out between them, dark and endless.

  His laughter was a horrible sound. "You see? You've no need of me, princess—you give me no reason to stay Indeed, I'd find more comfort in a bed of snakes than with you!"

  She caught her breath. Lord, but he was cruel! She wanted to clutch at him, to cry that she was tired of arguing, to beg him to stay! More than ever, she longed to recapture the wonder of those days and nights spent in the woodsman's cottage. Yet now, standing in his frigid presence, those long hours entwined in each other's arms, wrapped in splendor, might never have been. Now that memory died a frail, withering death.

  She averted her face. "Go then," she choked. "Go then and leave me be!"

  He did not. She could feel the weight of his gaze, heavy and oppressive. She did not know that Thorne had finally noted her pallor and cursed himself for pushing her so hard. But all at once her stomach began to churn anew Specks of green and yellow danced eerily before her eyes. She fell to her knees and clamped a hand over her mouth as her stomach heaved violently.

  A chamberpot appeared from nowhere. To her utter shame, Shana was horribly, wretchedly sick there before him, spasms racking her body. She thought she would hear him laugh and taunt her once more, yet when she lurched upright, it was Thorne's hand on her waist, his strength lifting her and bearing her to the bed. She sagged back against the pillows. Never in her life had she felt so awful!

  It did not end there. "Are you with child?" His voice, relentlessly imperious, stabbed at her.

  Her heart was pounding so hard it hurt. She sought to turn her face aside but he caught her chin between thumb and forefinger, not allowing it. His hold bespoke no affection, only ruthless demand.

  " 'Tell me, princess. Are you with child?"

  "Aye," she managed shakily. "Aye, if you must know, I am—"

  "If I must know! Milady, I have every right to know. Or was it your intention that I should never know?"

  His face reflected a familiar, closed tightness She gaped at him, unable to say a word. A bittersweet pang rent her breast. Now that this moment was upon her, she had hoped—prayed!—that it might be different. That Thorne would be sweet and tender and loving and not this formidable, iron-hearted warrior she could neither reach nor touch ... She tore her gaze away, but she could not hide the crippling anguish that flooded her eyes.

  He confronted her harshly. "Is that why you ran away to Merwen? Did you think to hide away in Wales and rob me of my son—my heir?"

  He was seething. Flames blistered and seared the very air between them She had stirred his wrath before, but not like this—never like this!

  Something snapped inside her. She was suddenly as furious as he.

  "Your son!" she burst out. "Your heir ... You cannot know the shame I bear knowing that I carry your child—God, if I could I'd bear you a bastard! Aye, a bastard for the bastard! ..."

  Some nameless emotion splintered across his features in that shattering heartbeat before he whirled away from her Only later did she recognize it for what it was.

  Pain. A world of it.

  She slumped to the bed, for her head was swirling giddily again. Though she could not see for the tears that blinded her, she heard his footsteps cross the floor. A smothered sob tore from deep in her chest. Tears fell like rain, scalding her cheeks, the very depths of her heart. She stumbled to the door and flung it wide. Thorne was already gone.

  He did not return.

  The days turned into weeks, the weeks into months, and she heard nary a word from him. Indeed, it was as if he had forgotten her existence ...

  And little wonder, she reflected with bitter self-disparagement. Nay, she did not blame Thorne She had taunted him, provoked him, cursed him to hell and back. She had sought to hurt him where it would hurt the most.

  Dear God, she had.

  I'd bear you a bastard ... aye, a bastard for the bastard ...

  Time and again she woke in the midst of the night, haunted by the memory of that last, horrible encounter, tears wet upon her cheeks. She cringed inside, that ugly cry echoing over and over until she thought she would go mad.

  How, she wondered with helpless frustration, did things always get so out of hand? It seemed they were both too stubborn, too well grounded in pride to yield before words flew like weapons, drawing blood until there was no turning back.

  And so she cried and cursed her stormy heart, her foolish, foolish tongue. She mourned the love that had never been ... the love that would never be.

  The only thing to lift her sagging spirits came from a most unexpected source—Weston itself. Thorne's home proved a sheer delight. A high stone wall circled the keep and both Baileys, with four round towers. Weston, however, was not as austere and forbidding and monstrous as Castle Langley. It sat high on a headland near the southern coast of England. Shana walked often along th
e bluff, heedless of the wind snatching her hair and skirts, for she had quickly grown accustomed to the salty tang of sea air. To seek respite from the crashing seas, one had only to turn northward, where Kill after hill stretched far and wide, fold upon fold, velvety and green.

  The keep itself was but four stories high, its whitewashed walls clean and spare. Numerous windows filled the interior with light and sunshine. There were nearly a dozen window seats plumped with cushions. Brilliantly colored tapestries lined the walls and elegant woven rugs warmed the floors. Indeed, Shana might well have found it a wondrously delightful haven ...

  But there could be no peace in her heart until there was peace in the land.

  The bite of tall turned to the frigid chill of winter. If only her heart lay barren and fallow like the fields, she would not be so at odds within herself! She was torn between England and Wales, those she had left behind in Wales, and those she had come to care for here in England. Sir Quentin. Geoffrey and Cedric ...

  And Thorne

  She fretted endlessly, wondering if he was safe, praying to the heavens that no harm would come to him.

  Still there was no word from him.

  One afternoon in mid-November, Shana was descending the stairs to check on the preparations for the evening meal. Several young maids were scurrying across the hall toward the entrance to the bailey. One of the girls glanced back over her shoulder and spied her.

  "Milady!" she cried. "A rider approaches!"

  Thorne! Shana's hands flew to her cheeks. She whirled and fled to her chamber to change into a fresher, more flattering gown. Her heart was skidding in anticipation by the time she reentered the hall. But her efforts were all for naught, for the man who warmed himself before the blaring fire in the hearth was not Thorne.

  It was Sir Quentin.

  Her heart plunged. She stifled a cry of frustration. Sir Quentin chose that moment to turn; she quickly masked her disappointment.

  He clasped both her hands within his. "Lady Shana, I cannot tell you the pleasure it brings me to see you again!"