by Geri Borcz
"Understand what?"
"Your wishes," he whispered, sliding a finger down the curve of her jaw, "matter not a whit."
Despite herself, a thrill coursed through her body. Before she gathered wits to respond, he spanned her waist and hoisted her atop the horse.
"I hate you," she lied.
"Forever?" he chuckled, before dropping his hands.
Juliana glared down at him, but with little other choice, she adjusted her seat. His threat to Oliver was uppermost amongst the clamor in her head.
"Where do you take me, Rhys?"
"Home," he said, settling his head gear and mounting behind her in the saddle. The leather creaked with his weight, before he slid her onto his lap.
She glanced around--nothing about the shadowy thicket looked familiar. Unease soured her nervous stomach.
"Whose home?"
Alain took the lead again, and Rhys goaded his horse to follow.
"Yours."
He smiled, she could hear it. Juliana worried about his sudden change of heart. Rhys wrapped a possessive arm around her, pulling her snug against him.
The faces of Roger and her father awaiting her at Stanmore rose in her mind and struck dread in her heart. She squeezed her eyes to shut out their demanding image, and without conscious thought, snuggled closer to Rhys for comfort.
* * *
The horses trekked across the land's subtle contours and ridges, following the hidden banks of a rambling stream. Around them, unseen water gurgled softly and awaking creatures murmured to each other through the rustling leaves.
Dawn peeked through the overhead branches, so Alain signalled to Rhys and took advantage of the gray light to scout farther ahead. Soon, he vanished into the trees, without a sound to mark his passing.
Winding through the thicker terrain at his own pace, Rhys kept his horse to a steady gait, unwilling to jar the sleeping woman in his lap. The nearer he moved toward Adington, the farther they were from danger.
He hugged Juliana close to him, savoring her light weight in his arms and mulling over his progress thus far. Meager, but nonetheless progress. He relished the challenge of gaining this skittish female's trust and now harbored no doubts that, aside from the land she brought to him, the taming of her wildness would reap ample reward for the trouble.
Sudden tension gripped him. He sucked in air through his teeth as his body responded to the graphic images arising in his mind--her moist tongue glistening in the pale light, her sweet taste, and her eager hands. Aye, he'd launched the siege upon her citadel, but the day was not yet won.
He smiled to himself.
Then behind him, a squeal and a guttural snorting split the air, followed by a horse's answering scream and Oliver's displaced cry.
Instinctively, Rhys hauled on the reins and spun his mount on its haunches. He caught sight of a riderless mount tearing away through the trees using a stumbling, three-legged stride.
Oliver lay sprawled upon the ground, fumbling for his sword, pain etched into his face. Ahead of them, a grunting beast returned Rhys's stare through enraged, beady eyes.
Juliana bolted awake and sucked in a breath, but stayed quiet.
Backed against the water and a choking tangle of vines, the cornered boar charged.
Oliver struggled to his feet, but tripped and crumpled, rolling in time to miss the deadly tusks that passed within a hair of his unprotected head.
"Stay down," Rhys bellowed to him, above Juliana's shriek.
He shoved her forward on the saddle and thrust the reins into her hands. With an instinct as certain as death, he knew she wouldn't take flight while the lackwit was in danger.
Rhys vaulted from the saddle, drew sword, and crouched to meet the next wild charge. And with head low, tusks aimed to kill, the snorting boar barreled toward him.
~~~~
CHAPTER 11
In the last second, Rhys sidestepped the beast's deadly aim, shoving all his considerable weight behind a hard sword thrust. But he deflected one tusk a fraction too slow.
Pain bit his thigh, before he slammed to the ground.
"Rhys. Rhys?"
From flat on his back, he heard Juliana's voice above Oliver's attempts to calm the excited horse. Safe, she was safe! No thanks to her bumbling lackey. Had he stayed alert and reacted as trained, this mishap would never have occurred. When Rhys's trembling fingers strengthened, he intended to strangle that sorry knight.
Another breath and Rhys's stupidity hit him.
The lackwit was unharmed. They had a horse. Juliana was troublesome and unyielding, not a fainthearted and vulnerable fool. Nothing blocked her escape.
In that unlikely moment, Rhys laughed at his own insanity in wanting her.
Craning his neck, he saw the large, lifeless boar lying near him, his sword driven to the bloody hilt in the thick black neck. Rhys dropped his head back to the ground, stared through the dawn above him toward the tree tops that swayed gently in the early morning breeze. His leg throbbed.
"Have you gone mad?" Juliana asked.
Momentarily dumbstruck, Rhys stared at her as he tried to fathom why she hadn't left him.
"Aye, I think I have."
"You're hurt, Rhys."
She knelt beside him and cupped a warm palm to his jaw. Concern bathed her face. Tears pooled in her eyes, and his heart slammed against his ribs.
Perhaps he owed the lackwit his thanks, instead?
The faint scent of roses drifted to his nose. He covered her delicate hand with his and pressed, inhaling the comforting smell that offset the sickeningly sweet tang of fresh blood.
"I...I..." Her misty gaze raked his face. "Oliver's life..." she managed past a small catch in her voice.
Rhys's throat tightened as anger sprouted within him. God curse fickle women. She worried most about that sorry lackwit. Again! By the Saints, he'd drive that clumsy lad from her heart, if he had to tie her to his bed for the rest of her days.
Obstinate woman. But beneath Rhys's anger lay an unreasoning hurt. How witless to imagine she might harbor the slightest feeling for him beyond a lustful yearning. No doubt she cheered on the accursed boar.
"Sorry to disappoint you," Rhys growled, finally sitting up. "You're not rid of me yet. I live." With angry motions, he worked off his helm. "And he's no more hurt than before."
"Why, nay. I meant—"
"What?"
"N-nothing. Oliver's tending your horse."
"Cease hovering over me," Rhys said, shrugging off her helping hand. "I know what you meant." He pushed back his coif and shook his head, releasing his matted hair to the breeze. "Be useful for once and aid me to stand."
She gasped, and her eyes widened a second before they narrowed. "Your pardon, my lord."
Her coolness fueled his ire. Wordlessly, Juliana took his helm, rose and put her shoulder under his arm. He shifted his weight and used his other hand to push himself to his feet.
"I see the boar didn't knock the churlishness from you."
"Hold your tongue," Rhys snapped, and perversely, leaned onto her.
To his surprise, she accepted his heavy weight without staggering or complaint. That irritated him, too. Any other female would crumple in gratitude for his heroic deed. The woman was, by far, too capable.
"My lord," said Oliver, scattering dirt as he limped toward Rhys to offer extra aid. "You've saved my life and have my thanks. Are you badly hurt?"
God's death. Rhys had impressed the lackwit at least.
Oliver sidled next to him and slipped under his other arm, then drew Rhys's hand across his thin shoulder.
"'Tis but a scratch," Juliana said, "mores the pity."
"A scratch?" Oliver said.
Rhys's mouth turned into a line that resembled a pout, but with her head low, she missed it.
"Cease, Oliver," Juliana said. "'Tisn't as though his leg dangles by a thread."
Rhys shot a disgruntled glare to the top of her head as they moved toward a fallen log. "Woman, you have n
o mercy."
"None," she agreed.
That sounded vaguely familiar.
"Look at the size of that beast," breathed Oliver. "He ran from the brush and attacked my horse before I could move."
A sarcastic cut bubbled in Rhys, but he pushed it down.
Juliana's loyalty to this bumbler knew no bounds. She held him high in her affections, and Rhys suspected that to call him to task in her presence would only serve to alienate her further.
Though she was Rhys's to command, her opinion of him mattered. Why it mattered, eluded him. Jesu, she addled his wits.
"Careful, my lord. Ease down," continued Oliver. "I've secured your mount, but I fear mine's done for. 'Twill be of little use to ride, even if I find him."
Lowering himself to sit on the bumpy log, Rhys stretched out his injured leg. On the outside of his thigh, at mid-point, a jagged hole gaped between the torn iron links. Blood oozed from a puncture that throbbed instead of pained.
"See, not too deep," Juliana said. "And far from crippling."
She bent next to him, and in contrast to her matter-of-fact tone, fingered the wound with a gentle touch.
Gauging from experience, Rhys agreed with her estimate, but his tongue would rot off before he told her that she was right. He wanted her to smother him in sympathy. He wanted her to care, but he refused to beg.
"Best we hurry and quit this place," said Oliver, perusing the area with a nervous glance. "Lord Roger may come upon us."
"Alain's done well in muddling our tracks," Rhys said. "Adington's not far."
"You're taking me to Adington?" Juliana choked out, and for a heartbeat Rhys could have sworn she looked relieved, rather than worried or outraged.
"I said as much," Rhys gritted out, "did I not? Sir Oliver? Watch for Alain to return anon. Roger will not find us, yet."
Oliver ceased his prattle and stepped back a respectful distance. Sweat glistened on the his ashen face, and he favored one leg.
"The tumble aggravated your injury?" Rhys said.
Oliver touched the sore spot at the same time Juliana stifled a sound. Rhys wondered about the hot blush staining the younger man's face. Embarrassment?
Nay, Rhys had seen him in front of Stanmore's gate, and it didn't take a scholar to deduce that his injury owed in some manner to vexing Juliana. She'd held that bow for a reason, other than to bash Rhys’s chin.
"Some, my lord," said Oliver.
"Forget looking for your horse," he said. "If you can sit, you may ride with Alain. Now, fetch my sword." Rhys waved a hand toward the prize kill, then studied the younger man who limped to his bidding.
"Your leg," Juliana said, clucking her tongue. "'Twill need cleansing. We need to remove the mail."
"Not until we're safe," Rhys said. "Bind it for now."
"As you wish," she said on a curt nod.
Before he could direct her to use the soiled tunic in his saddle bags, she parted her mantle and gathered her skirts. Bunching the cloth to her knees, she revealed the now ragged underskirt.
"So eager, Ana?" Rhys bit out, tilting his head up to her.
A becoming blush spotted her cheeks, and he tried not to think about gliding his hand up the silky length of the supple legs bared to his gaze. Or pressing his ever present arousal against the juncture hidden from view.
"Dolt, do you think of naught else?"
Not since meeting you, sweet Lady.
She bent at the waist, the pink tip of her tongue caught between her lips as she ripped the chemise.
"I mean to use this to bind your injury now and tend to it later," she said.
Splinters of yellow light fell across her, highlighting her hair like dark flame and softening her features. Every move bespoke of sensual grace and teased the rigid flesh confined in Rhys's chausses. He clenched his teeth against the nagging desire to test her hidden fire. The image of her giving pleasure to another man ate at him.
"'Tis ruined," she said, "so it matters little to use--"
He grabbed her hand and yanked her down on the log beside him.
"--More," she finished on a gasp.
Sitting hip to hip, her hand imprisoned in his, he leaned toward her until their heads touched.
"What is he to you?"
Rhys jutted his chin in Oliver's direction. She didn't try to pretend misunderstanding.
"Release me," she said.
"I'll hear the truth, Juliana."
His grasp held firm. Not a breath of air squeezed between them.
"Now you'll hear the truth? Why ask now, my lord?"
In Rhys’s memory, no woman ever made him work for her attentions. Then, too, no woman ever scraped his nerves raw like this one. He teetered between wanting to throttle Juliana for her insolence and applauding her tenacity.
He kissed her, instead. Locking her close with one hand, Rhys anchored her head with the other and overwhelmed her into obedience with questing lips.
His initial intention to teach her a cold lesson about misplaced bravado soon became lost in the sheer pleasure of her taste. She parted her lips under the pressure of his demanding tongue, and he ravished her mouth like a hungry man. Hot, deep, and thoroughly. And from the tiny whimper she uttered deep in her throat, too short a kiss, Rhys guessed.
He lifted his mouth from hers and stared into her surprised eyes.
"You'll be my wife, that's why," he said. "Can another make you feel that?"
She swallowed. "Feel what?"
"Don't play the innocent, Ana," he whispered. "You tremble. Quiver with want."
"Nay, I don't."
"Aye, you do. Your body begs for me to touch, Ana, everywhere. You grow hot and melt for me. You want me inside you."
She gasped. From shock at the ripples of pleasure that shook her body? Or from hearing that he'd correctly read her silent need? He couldn't decide.
"Why you arrogant. . ." Her eyes widened and her color increased. "What I want is--"
"Me," he insisted.
"You to leave me alone," she corrected. "Find another's land to covet, for I'll never warm your bed."
"You will," he growled, squeezing her hand. Rhys wanted to shake an admission from her. He wanted to make savage love to her. God, he burned for her, like no other woman. "The day will come when you not only warm my bed, but you'll seek me out, willingly. You want me, Ana."
"You're wrong," she repeated.
"And I want to see you, all of you," he continued in a silky voice. "I want to watch you in your passion, hear you cry out my name. Scream. I'll wager a woman of fire, like you, screams. You do, don't you, Ana?"
She heaved a ragged breath. "Haven't you?" She cleared her throat and spoke again in a stronger voice "Haven't you proclaimed that he's my lover?" She jut her chin in Oliver's direction.
"And I've yet to hear you deny it."
"When did you offer me the chance?"
"You have it now, my lady. What is that lad to you?"
Rhys stared into her eyes, holding his breath, waiting for her answer.
Eyes gone smoky stared back at him; defiant, sultry, hesitant eyes that lured him to explore the woman within. The breeze lifted sable wisps and blew them against her cheek. Her scent invaded his nostrils. Again, a deep urgency stirred in Rhys, an elusive sense of dread that spurred his need to claim her for himself.
"He's not my lover," she whispered, tugging her hand free and regaining her feet. She bent to tear long linen strips and an angry rip emphasized her words.
Rhys's mouth flattened upon hearing that less than definitive answer, and he glared at the crown of her head.
Always a fighter, aye, he liked that quality about Juliana. Never give in, no matter the opposition, no matter the odds. So much about her pleased him, and so much strained his patience. Again, he stretched his leg out, the muscle stiffening.
"I'm not blind, my lady."
"So you say," she snapped.
"Do you deny that you care for him?"
"Nay, I do care, but--"
/> Whatever more Rhys hoped to learn became lost as Alain rode through the trees with a dozen men in tow.
* * *
Guarded by Rhys's men, the group rode hard and fast to Adington, leaving the dense cover for open fields not too far from where he'd felled the boar. Once again, Juliana sat mounted in front of Rhys, gripping the pommel, while her insides knotted with myriad emotions. This time, she held herself forward because she tried not to put too much pressure against his injured leg.
She gasped as Rhys's hand clasped her tight against him, and before she could protest, he put his cheek to her temple and said quietly, ""Why did you stay, Ana? Freedom was yours, why didn't you take it?"
Her first thought was to lie, but the husky note in his voice tugged at her heart and she heard herself admitting, "You needed me."
In reply, his bristly jaw rubbed against her temple, and she felt his lips touch her cheek.
Jesu, the man confused her. He risked his life to save Oliver. But why? He could have left him to his fate. And only a blind man would miss her cousin's less than able skill, yet Rhys passed up the chance to ridicule him.
Warmth enveloped her heart. Then she mentally shook herself. Fool. Surely, Rhys harbored some foul reason for his deed. She just didn't know what it was yet.
The sun rapidly burned off the lingering chill, promising another warm day. Birds in flight squawked overhead, and ahead of them, golden rays blunted the starkness of Adington's curtain wall and high stone keep.