My Rebellious Heart

by Samantha James

  Her gaze lit upon Sir Quentin, who rode at the head of a dozen or so men. The shiver that racked her form had little to do with the frigid air. She was still reeling from the shock of finding her captor none other than Sir Quentin, who had always been so charming, so obliging and agreeable ...

  At first his motives for stealing her away had been a mystery. But these hours on horseback had given her ample time to think, and while his motives were still rather cloudy and vague, a nagging suspicion had begun to form.

  At last they slowed near a fork in the road. The gurgle of a stream could be heard nearby. The group edged toward a clearing near the side of the road. Hands at her waist pulled her from her horse. She was half-dragged, half-pushed toward a huge boulder and ordered to sit.

  She placed her hand on her belly instinctively. Worry about her babe had been etched on her mind the night through. The tiny being within her stirred, a slight butterfly movement, but it was all the assurance she needed.

  The men had begun to heap branches in a pile. Soon a hearty blaze was roaring. A number of the men had dragged blankets and saddles from the horses and spread them on the ground. Shana glanced uneasily around the clearing. Clearly Sir Quentin expected no one to follow. She lowered her head, huddling beneath the warmth of her cloak as a stinging breeze lashed her cheeks.

  Sir Quentin approached. She strained away as he reached for her. But he merely removed the gag. Her throat was parched and her tongue felt like a batted wad of wool. She wet her lips and struggled to speak Her voice emerged a dry rasp.

  "It was you, wasn't it? You ravaged the village of Llandyrr—and the others. Was it you who raided Merwen, too?"

  He gave a mocking bow. "Why, Merwen was the first!" he boasted. "I must admit, I found it quite amusing when you dared to lure the Bastard from Langley—a pity you didn't have him killed after all, milady. You would have made my task much easier. But I knew even then that you were worthy of me—"

  "Why?" she asked tiredly. "Why would you do such a thing? What could you possibly hope to gain?"

  His smile vanished. Pure hatred twisted his features into an ugly mask,

  "What else but Castle Langley? God, but I praised the day old Lord Montgomery met his maker, for he was my liege lord and I served him well in the hopes that he would reward me! Ah, but then the king stepped in I admit I was a fool, for I did not think he would hold title to it until this blasted affair with Wales was righted. I had no choice but to throw in my sword with the king! But the chosen leader of Edward's united forces was none other than his favorite—the Bastard Earl! I knew then that I would lose Langley to the Bastard unless I took steps to smear his name in the eyes of the king, for I was not about to watch all I had plotted for fall into the hands of another—especially the Bastard!"

  Shana shrank back. The venom that blunted his features was terrifying. "I—I do not understand. It was your duty to put down the rebellion. How could ravaging Welsh villages possibly aid your cause and not the king's."

  "Edward saw no need to take innocent lives The Dragon urged the Welsh to take up the call to arms, and my men and I did the same. We incited your people to rally against the English by pillaging their villages and ruing their hatred of us! And that's not the half of it, my dear." He laughed, a grating sound that set her nerves on edge. "I've learned a trick or two from marauding Welsh raiders in my day. My men and I even launched several night raids on English troops—in the guise of the barbarous Welsh! Oh, and I almost succeeded, for Edward was furious with the Bastard Earl that so many English soldiers had been killed.

  "Oh, but you and your husband aided my cause greatly, milady. He was so quick to point the finger at you and your man when the Welsh prisoners escaped." He slapped his thighs and chortled in glee.

  Her lips parted. "Mother of Christ," she said faintly. " 'Twas you who set them free, not Gryffen ."

  "Aye, my dear, and then later you played right into my hands when you freed the Dragon!" A leering grin bespoke his satisfaction. "Neither you nor the Bastard ever failed to disappoint me. I knew when I returned to finish the job at Merwen that you would blame him—and you did!"

  Shana listened numbly, her insides knotted with self-loathing. Quentin, not Thorne, had returned to burn Merwen to the ground. She screamed inwardly, for the pain was like a knife sheathed inside her. Quentin had deceived her, but only because she had allowed it. Oh, there had been doubts, but she had never even bothered to try to absolve Thorne of guilt. Nay, she had been so willing—aye, eager!—to believe the worst of Thorne. So willing, she thought in shame, that she had been blind to the evil in Sir Quentin.

  But she was bund no more. Clearly he had but one motive, jealousy and greed. Bile burned her throat that he had cruelly robbed so many of their lives—her father among them, and his own people yet! Her rage erupted like spewing oil.

  "Bastard!" she hissed. "You are the one who is the bastard, not Thorne! You killed my father, you murdering wretch! You murdered your own people! God, you are a monster!" She sprang at him, lifting her bound hands high to claw at his face. He subdued her easily, catching her wrists with brutal force and jerking them down to her sides. None too gently he shoved her back against the boulder.

  "Come now, lady, none of that! You may save your friskiness for later, pet, when we've time to enjoy it."

  She gaped at him, at last taking in his meaning. His grin widened. He trailed his fingers down her throat. She shivered in revulsion and turned the full force of her glare upon him. "What will you do with me?" she asked coldly.

  "We travel to Scotland, I've relatives there. And soon, my dear, soon you will know the touch of a real man and not some low-born bastard."

  His gaze scraped over her, leaving scalding shame in its wake. "Thorne will come after me—"

  His laugh was chilling. "Will he? Milady, no doubt he will not even discover you gone until morning. Mayhap he shall seek warmer comfort in the bed of the nearest serving wench. Tomorrow he shall be delivered a note from you, saying that you can stomach this marriage no longer and have gone to seek shelter in a convent. No one will question your motives for leaving for 'tis well known the two of you are ever at odds. And everyone knows how wretched and low you've been since Llywelyn's defeat."

  She swallowed, trembling to think he might be right. Thorne had been so angry with her tonight. She had felt it in the way he held her, in every smoldering gaze that passed between them. Despair bled through to her soul. No doubt Thorne would think himself well rid of her!

  "You forget Will," she said suddenly, seizing-on the thought as heaven-sent. "When he is found hurt and bleeding Thorne will know there has been foul play."

  Quentin's smile was chilling. "Nay, milady. The boy would have to possess a head of stone to survive the blow he was given." He shrugged. "They will think him trampled and no one will even care."

  I care! she cried silently. Fear filled her chest. Oh, Wilt, you can't be dead ... not you, too ...

  She gathered her cloak close about her shoulders, and along with it her courage. "You cannot mean to keep me. My babe—"

  He scowled. "A home shall be found for it. I'll not have the spawn of a bastard in my house!"

  Shana lurched to her feet. "You fool! Do you think I'd let you take my child, the child of the man I love more than life itself? Do you think I'll allow you to lay those filthy hands on me having known his touch? God, you are mad!"

  And all at once he was. The menace that rampaged over his countenance was frightening.

  Shana realized she had gone too far "Mad, am I?" he raged. "By God, bitch, I wonder that the Bastard has yet to cut out your tongue." He hauled her upward, balling a huge fist and raised it high to strike her. She did not flinch, but closed her eyes and braced herself for his blow.

  Then it seemed as if all hell broke loose. A hoarse shout of alarm went up. The hiss of steel sliced the air. Hoofbeats shook the ground beneath their feet. Quentin whirled with a vicious curse. The night was alive with men and horses swarming ac
ross the clearing. Shana cried out in shock and began to back away, for her beleaguered mind was slow to comprehend the scene played out before her.

  A hand clapped over her mouth. An arm wrapped around her waist. She twisted wildly yet she was borne from her feet and carried far distant into the shadows.

  Her feet touched the ground. "Do not right me, milady," whispered a dear, familiar voice in her ear. "’Tis only I, Sir Gryffen."

  Her relief was so acute she nearly collapsed. But the next instant she whirled in his arms. "Gryffen," she choked out. "Thorne—"

  "He battles with his men, milady. Do not worry, for they outnumber the others two to one."

  The ring of steel against steel was unmistakable. They could hear men shouting and yelling—and screaming in agony. She spied Thorne among the riders who darted into the throng, his sword raised high. The next instant she lost him in the fracas.

  Quentin's men were going down all around. Thorne was aware the end was but moments away. Fiercely he scanned the figures darting to and fro, at last sighting the quarry he sought. When next Quentin spun around it was to find a tall, formidable presence blocking his path.

  "I pray you enjoyed this day you spent as Earl of Langley," Quentin spat. "For it is destined to end this very night!" Quentin grasped his sword with both hands and swung with the force of all his fury.

  Thorne parried the blow with a clash that rang out like thunder. "I think not, my friend."

  "Friend! When were you ever my friend? You stole Langley from me, all that should have been mine—and now I shall rob you of it. Aye, and your wife, too! For it was I, friend, who killed her father. And now I shall have the pleasure of killing her bastard husband as well!"

  Moonlight glittered bright as day, glinting off steel. Shana spied the pair. Twice she sought to push past Sir Gryffen; twice he blocked her way.

  "There is naught you can do, milady!" His eyes pleaded with her. "Thorne would never forgive me were I to let any harm befall you—I would never forgive myself!"

  She struggled against scalding, bitter tears, battered by wave after wave of excruciating remembrance, praying for the safety of all, but mostly for one man who held all that was hers to give. The battle waged before her was so much like another she nearly screamed aloud for the anguish that ripped at her insides.

  So much the same ... and yet different. For this time she stood rooted beside Sir Gryffen, an unwilling spectator to this fierce and grisly clash.

  Once again her limbs were trembling. Dread abounded in her heart, tor her soul was in terror for the safety of one held near and dear. She prayed as never before that the outcome would not be the same ... She had already lost her father. Pray God she would not lose her husband ...

  "Thorne," she whispered. And then it became a scream of panic. "Thorne!" Her heart in her throat, she stared in horror as Quentin's blade slashed wide. The Mow would have cleaved Thorne's head from his body had he not ducked in the merest nick of time.

  The battle had dwindled to naught but the two of them, Thorne and Quentin. Thorne's men looked on, confident of his victory.

  Not so with Shana. She stood with frigid hands pressed to her face, unable to tear her eyes away as their blades clashed again and again. Stroking. Lunging. Her body jerked each and every time that dreaded sound split the air. Quentin pressed on, ever bolder, ever more fierce. With a gasp she realized Quentin was backing Thorne toward the huge boulder where she had sat. Quentin thrust viciously, his face contorted, his blade aimed straight at Thorne's chest. Thorne fell back behind the boulder, hidden from view, and Quentin was hidden, too.

  Then there was nothing.

  The chill that swept through her turned her veins to ice, for the quiet was even more terrible than all that had gone before.

  She jerked out of Gryffen's grasp and stumbled away, heedless of the grass and branches lashing her ankles and hands. Then she was running across the clearing ... running until her lungs burned.

  She weaved among the bodies, littered across the ground like fallen limbs, after a storm. She reached the boulder. Hard hands caught at her shoulders. She started to bat them away, only to behold grim, sweat-streaked features. Black, razor-sharp eyes, fiercely aglow, trapped the misty depths of hers.

  "Thorne!" She threw herself at him, sobbing, crying, anxious to reassure herself that he lived and not caring a whit that his mail dug into her like a hundred razor-sharpened teeth. He was alive, not dead ... it was Quentin who sprawled on the dirt behind them, his blood black upon the earth.

  After a moment, Thorne drew back. The steel-gloved hand that pushed back her hood was not entirely steady. "God's blood," he muttered. "I thought I'd lost you."

  "And I you!" A stinging torrent of tears rushed down her cheeks. "Thorne, it was Quentin who carried your pennon and twice attacked Merwen. And Llandyrr and the other villages. You were right. He sought to dishonor your name and sully your reputation with King Edward so that Edward would give Langley to him and not you."

  His eyes darkened. With his knuckles he slowly skimmed the tears from her cheeks. "I know. Will heard them—"

  "Will!" She clutched at him. "Oh, Lord, how is he? Pray do not tell me he is gone, too! Quentin said the blow to his head was mortal!"

  He gave a raspy chuckle. "Will has quite a lump on his head, Shana, but I have no doubt he will outlive the lot of us by a good number of years."

  She sagged against him. "I am so glad ..."

  He rested his chin against her bent head, breathing in the scent that was sweeter to him than any in this world. "No more so than I, love."

  Love ... Her heart squeezed. The vibrancy of his tone, along with the slow, sweet kiss he claimed then and there led her to believe he was not so inclined to be rid of her after all ... Indeed, the heat in that kiss kept her tingly and warm all the way back to Langley—that and the pressure of his arms around her, for he lifted her before him on his saddle. She lay snuggled against his chest for the duration of the ride.

  A violet haze veiled the treetops and jutting towers of Langley when they approached shortly before dawn. A watchman let out a whoop and waved his arms to announce their leader's return.

  Despite the early hour, quite a crowd had gathered by the time they rode into the bailey. A cheer went up as Thorne reined his horse to a halt.

  Shana stirred against him, for she had fallen into a light sleep. Her eyes widened at the sight of the crowd and their hearty welcome. She touched Thorne's jaw with a smile. "I think they approve of their new lord," she said softly.

  Simple as her statement was, she could not know how much it meant to him. "And I," he countered huskily, "think they cheer because they are glad to have their lady safely back where she belongs."

  She blinked as if in confusion, but when she turned and gave a tiny wave to the crowd, a resounding roar filled the air. She straightened, for she found the prospect pleasing, quite pleasing indeed. Awash with the golden glow of the rising sun, the stark gray stone of Langley's walls and towers no longer seemed so harsh and forbidding.

  Everyone soon clustered around, anxious to hear all that happened. Shana stood quietly, but whenever Thorne's eyes chanced to rest upon her, they spoke only to her. At last the masses began to disperse. Shana touched his arm, her fatigue etched in the shadows beneath her clear gray eyes. "I fear I am quite wearied," she murmured by way of apology.

  Thorne nodded, his gaze cutting across to Sir Gryffen before returning to his wife. A current of understanding passed between them. She had told him how Quentin, not Gryffen, had released the Welsh prisoners. Thorne had replied he had only this night suspected as much, but she had felt the sudden tension in his hold.

  "I will join you shortly," he told her. She gave his arm a squeeze and slipped away.

  It wasn't long before she heard his approaching footsteps. She said nothing as he crossed to the hearth. She moved to join him there, standing behind him as he focused on the flames licking up the chimney.

  "All is well?" she queried sof
tly.

  A spasm tightened his features. His tone was heavy when at last he spoke. "Gryffen was whipped for naught, Shana, and it was done at my behest. He says it does not matter, but I find I am not quite so prepared for leniency as is Sir Gryffen."

  Tiny lines of regret remained etched beside his mouth. In that instant, Shana saw her husband more clearly than ever before—mayhap for the first time ever. There were no shadows, no doubts, to cloud her judgment. Oh, he was stern and harsh at times, but he was also strong and masculine enough to show compassion and mercy with no shame.

  "Sir Gryffen is a man much like my father," she said at last. "Forceful and strong when the need arises, but capable of gentleness and forgiveness— indeed, my lord, the bravest, most admirable— and honorable—kind of man." She slid her arms around his waist and rubbed her cheek against the powerful lines of his shoulder. "Thorne," she whispered, the sound scarcely audible. "You are such a man, too."

  Thorne was stunned at the wetness that seeped through his tunic. He turned to find her eyes swimming with tears.

  He caught her hands in his, his gaze scouring hers. "What is this?" he exclaimed. "Shana, now is not the time for tears."

  But the tears only flowed faster.

  "Thorne," she choked out. 'Just before my father died, he said ... 'Be true to yourself above all others, for your heart will never forsake you.' But I have been so afraid to trust in my heart—even more afraid to trust in you!" The words tumbled

  out in a rush, one after the other, for once started she could not seem to stop.

  "He—he also said there was no greater measure of a man's worth than his honor and loyalty. Edward said much the same thing today." She seized his hand and pressed it against the swell of her belly. "Thorne, you are just the man to teach that to our son—or daughter! I pray that this child will be like his father—like you! And ... oh, Thorne ... my father and the king were right … and I have been so wrong. I have wronged you. And I pray that it is not too late, that you can find it in your heart to forgive me, for I love you so ..."