Devil's Knight

by Geri Borcz

  Rhys's scent permeated the soft fabric. A subtle reminder of bronzed skin, resilient muscles, and wild kisses. To Juliana's dismay, her insides tightened. Hunger, she decided, then chastised herself to cease that annoying habit. She needed to keep her wits about her to stay ahead of that conniving devil's plans.

  Still, a wicked thrill lingered.

  Wait until he saw her.

  She imagined his reaction to her air of understated elegance, and all but giggled. Not that she wanted to dress for his exclusive pleasure. Nay, her reasons were practical. Surely, he'd take her rebuffs more seriously, if she appeared more the gentle-born woman, instead of so much like a waif?

  As Lady Angharad brushed Juliana's tangled hair, they spoke of women's things and Juliana cringed anew in relating the welcome her new stepmother had received.

  "She seems to care for my father," Juliana added, "but she's delicate and unsuited to duty at Stanmore."

  "I'll wager she'll shape things to her hand," Lady Angharad said. "When a woman loves, there's naught she won't do."

  Before Juliana could mull that over, Lady Angharad added, "Am I correct that you wish to meet Isobel? I'm glad. She's most anxious to greet you, too."

  "She is?"

  "Oh, aye. Lean up." She fanned the drying strands. "Why, the little maid is fairly bursting with questions. And most like, will talk your ear off."

  Little maid? A pet name, surely. A pang of jealousy stabbed Juliana that Isobel rode so high in Rhys's parent's affections. She mentally shook herself. What did she care? She'd not take him to husband, nor ask revealing questions about his mistress.

  "Isn't she jealous?" Juliana heard herself blurt out.

  Mortified by that blunder, she pondered the confusion she heard next in the lady's voice.

  "'Tis true, she's had Rhys all to herself, but she's anxious to see him wed and minds little sharing him."

  Juliana all but fell off the stool. What addle-pated nonsense. Did his mistress bear no pride?

  "Surely her tolerant attitude comes because she thinks Rhys expects it of her?"

  "You won't hear Isobel grouse," said Lady Angharad. "She's badgered Rhys for months to take a wife. You, my dear, are a pleasant surprise."

  Some surprise.

  Opening her mouth to deny she'd wed him, Juliana thought better of it and swallowed the sharp remark. She may need an ally and feared to alienate this kind woman with blunt and damning speech about her son.

  Her stomach growled in agreement.

  Daft, she decided. Witlessness ran rampant in this castle.

  A half hour later, Juliana descended the spiral stairs. The hum from a crowd of people grew louder as she passed the archway to the gallery. She paused on the small landing, glancing to the men-at-arms who patrolled the narrow aisle. Daunting in full mail and holding pikes, they stood sentry at the recessed windows.

  She continued down, shudders of anxiety rippling through her. Would the hardened knights and men below show open hostility toward her for the trouble she'd wrought?

  At the entry landing, she smoothed the skirt's fine material with jittery fingers and patted the dry wisps around her face that refused to stay tucked into place. Lady Angharad had braided a crimson ribbon into the single plait that trailed down her back, taming the rest of her thick hair at least.

  "Lovely," his mother whispered.

  Juliana tried to smile, but the line resembled an uncertain grimace.

  "Not to worry," Lady Angharad said. "Just follow me."

  Smiling encouragement and taking Juliana's hand, the older woman crossed to the six wooden steps that led up into the great hall. As they climbed up together, the noise died down.

  By the time they emerged into the crowded hall, the only sound came from the crackling logs that burned in the hearth. And from Juliana's roaring stomach.

  All eyes focused on them.

  Momentarily uncomfortable, she saw with a small shock that she faced a room full of armed and standing men. Her heart paused a beat. Heat crept up her neck, and then up her face to rival the hue of her gown. She'd never commanded so much masculine attention. So much appreciative masculine attention.

  If she wondered about her acceptance, their welcoming faces calmed her fears. And if she wondered how the cut of the fine gown appeared on her, she need only glance into the men's sparkling eyes to see her beauty reflected.

  The heady sensation curved a smile upon her lips. She stood a little taller. Anticipation built within her. Would a certain pair of devilish blue eyes shine with the same exhilarating reaction?

  Oliver pushed himself forward and clasped her hands.

  Still dressed in mail, at least he'd cleaned the grime; his boyish features shone in the candle glow. When he spoke, the faint smell of ale fanned Juliana's nose, but the lilt in his speech said he imbibed with a surprising moderation.

  "I've never seen you look so--so nice." He leaned forward and placed a quick peck upon her cheek.

  Not effusive flattery, but she beamed in response anyway.

  "My thanks. And you? You're treated well?"

  "Well enough," he said, shrugging.

  Her happy smile drooped with annoyance. He lacked any concern for his continued good health.

  "More than fair," he stressed.

  "Praise God for protecting idiots," she mumbled, then said, "and your injury?"

  "Quiet," he whispered, blushing. "The lady gave me a poultice." He studied his boot tops a second. "Ah--should a tale come to your ear about me and border raiders..."

  "Have a care," Juliana whispered back. "Your boasting tongue may lead you straight to the dungeon."

  "Wheesh, no more than your carping," he said.

  "Not this eve, no thanks to you." She bent her head low and close. "We must talk more, later."

  "I'm not sure 'tis wise," he said.

  That hurt. In the last few hours, Oliver seemed to have grown so distant. Granted he put on his best face before threatening strangers, but now wasn't the time for him to seek his independence. She needed him.

  "Please," she added with a coaxing smile.

  Oliver relented and bobbed his head, a blond lock sliding onto his forehead. He squeezed her hands, then stepped back.

  The sea of smiling men shuffled out of the way. Following Lady Angharad's lead, Juliana stepped under the large Norman arch that dominated the room. Then emulating her hostess, she walked past the respectful ranks, nodding and murmuring to the cordial greetings she received in return.

  She blossomed beneath their admiring gazes. Radiant. Like the fair maidens in the songs, for the first time in her life, Juliana tingled to her core with their reassurance of her femininity and grace.

  What a difference from the usual notice given to her by the toady men in her father's home. That coarse lot scarce knew she breathed. Most times, meals at Stanmore resembled a frenzy of vultures around a corpse. Rhys demanded much from his garrison, and they gladly obliged.

  Juliana would ponder that later. For now, no matter what her future held, she'd cherish this warm feeling of being someone desirable. Suddenly anxious to bask in only one man's admiring gaze, she sought out the dais ahead.

  There, where the head table stood on a low platform in front of the large hearth, she glimpsed Lord Richard. He hovered over a young lady with startling eyes, mischievous eyes that twinkled with a zest for life. Their bluish-gray color stood out against midnight lashes and brows to capture the viewer's attention. A fragile thing who exuded unbridled energy, the maiden beamed, she smiled at Juliana so broadly.

  Chuckles sprang to Juliana's lips and she inclined her head in acknowledgment. Something about the young lady reminded her of herself. Behind the innocent facade, she suspected, hid a minx who would frazzle a saint's nerves.

  But no other woman graced the table. To spare Juliana the dishonor of supping with his leman? Or--nay, surely his mistress wouldn't hold herself so high as to enter after his mother?

  Juliana's gaze drifted to the ebony-haired man
who stood alone at the end of the raised platform, feet braced apart, awaiting them. Big. Unsmiling. Dangerous.

  A searing chill swept through her. She moistened dry lips.

  Phantom flames danced around Rhys's silhouette. The hearth glowed reddish-orange behind him, reflecting in the high black boots that hugged his muscled calves like a familiar lover. From head to foot, every inch of him seethed with controlled power.

  Heat billowed inside Juliana, melting her resistance. A barrage of conflicting emotions assaulted her. How did she ever mistake him for a mere messenger? To see him now, he appeared nothing less than the indomitable warlord.

  He'd tied his slick hair back, still wet from his bath. And he'd shed the heavy mail, again donning a black tunic that stretched across a powerful build, with matching chausses that emphasized the coiled strength. A jeweled belt at his waist now secured the large and deadly sword within its scabbard.

  Burning eyes stared back at Juliana. Like the fallen angel, Lucifer--menacing in his darkness, commanding in his height and breadth--Rhys tempted her soul. An undeniable temptation. She struggled against the burst of joy that eclipsed her common sense. And failed in the extreme.

  He plotted to gain her land and prepared to battle her family. Yet he, unlike any other man, evoked a wicked yearning within her depths that compelled her closer to his flame.

  She heaved a shaky sigh. God help her; she was becoming accustomed to feeling her insides turn mushy, like hot porridge.

  He frowned then, as black as his tunic, and caught her by surprise. Her glad smile wavered, then stilled. Her heart trembled.

  His angry gaze darted to her left, then to her right, then he glared over her head. The fury tightening his expression told her more than she wanted to know. Jesu, the lout. Of every man in the room, only he hated the way she appeared tonight.

  Humiliation replaced the special feeling. Chills crawled down her spine. What matter his opinion? Still, Juliana fought the urge to run back to the chamber above stairs and hide behind the thick door.

  Ahead of her, Lady Angharad reached the dais and extended her hand. Rhys took his mother's slender fingers with a light touch. After bending to kiss her cheek, he murmured to her, then escorted her behind the linen covered table where Lord Richard seated her to the left of his chair.

  When Juliana halted before Rhys, he lost his polite manners. He stood and perused her with a condemning glance, and like a naughty child, she suffered for a long, embarrassing moment under a flaming gaze that assessed her from head to foot and back again.

  She seriously contemplated kicking him for his boorishness. Juliana wanted to cry. The hairs on her nape bristled. Did he think her intruding upon the meal uninvited?

  "Lady Angharad suggested this," Juliana said in a forced whisper. When a second passed and he said nothing about her presence, she emphasized another point. "The lady swore your sister wouldn't mind my wearing this gown."

  "'Tisn't Morgana you need worry about," he growled low enough to carry across the head table. "I mind."

  Blood rushed to her face. Juliana's eyes widened. Her temper flared. Now that he imprisoned her within his stout walls, he begrudged her this trifle? She remembered the dungeon. Was that his game? Not only to take her land, but to strike a blow at Roger by humiliating his proud sister? Her empty stomach clamored an objection against any hasty action.

  "Do you know you've the manners of a goat?" she said.

  "And you've the tongue of a fishwife," Rhys countered. "We're a perfect pair."

  "You greedy oaf. Do you prefer that I appear before your men in rags?"

  "Aye," he said through clenched teeth and gripped her elbow. "But 'tis too late for you to change clothes."

  She recoiled from his honesty, as if he'd slapped her face. Did he plan to heap one misery after another upon her, until she groveled at his feet in supplication?

  Never.

  "Get your hand off me," she said beneath her breath. "You insufferable--"

  "You'll be my wife, Juliana," he warned. "Resign yourself to that and cease your tricks."

  "You're the master of tricks, not I," she said, wrenching her arm free. Only then did she remember her audience.

  She glanced from Rhys's grim expression and forced a cordial smile for his startled parents, then for the amazed young maiden. Juliana refused to create an unseemly display.

  The sudden murmur rising behind her drove home her desperate situation. And Oliver's. Tears of frustration burned behind her eyes.

  "You speak in riddles," Rhys said. "Come and sit."

  Juliana closed her eyelids, then opened them. Clasping her hands tightly together to control her mounting fury, she whispered, "Since it displeases you, my lord, I'll forego joining you and your family."

  Let him stew over those double-edged words. By the Saints, she'd dry to dust from starvation, before she sat at any man's table like a prize of war.

  "Don't test me, Juliana."

  She ignored his commanding tone and whirled, glancing neither to the left, nor to the right. With head held high and determined strides, she headed back to her chamber.

  "Be quiet, you traitor," she muttered under her breath to the gurgling protest that came from her mid-section.

  No one tried to halt her progress. Pleased that she'd quit the hall with such a bold exit, Juliana resolved to find a way to soon quit the castle.

  * * *

  Everyone watched the lord's new lady storm across the hall and head toward an archway. After realizing her necessary destination, though, few thought overmuch on her abrupt departure.

  Richard sidled close to his son.

  "Think Juliana knows that way leads to the garderobe?"

  Rhys frowned at his father's amusement and shot him a withering stare. He signalled his steward to serve the meal, while cursing himself for a besotted fool.

  "Daft woman can't find the stairs," he said. "Who can fathom what goes on in her head?"

  "I know the feeling." Richard chuckled.

  "She seldom makes sense, Papa," Rhys grumbled. "I fear 'tis a family trait."

  "And yet you wish to keep her?"

  "She belongs to me."

  Richard's eyes twinkled. "Then, you'd best mend the breach. Unless, of course, you prefer a cold bed."

  "As long as she's here, she won't contradict my orders."

  "Son," Richard said with a weary head shake, before turning to seat himself next to his petite wife. "Don't try to make sense of it. Just admit your error and ask her pardon. I know of what I speak."

  Rhys raked the hall with a steely gaze that dared any to interfere. His instincts screamed to him that since the first moment they met, he and Juliana had belonged together. Lacking the patience to wait until after the meal to confront her with this inevitability, he cleared the dais.

  More than one or two men raised a curious brow upon witnessing their unflappable lord follow close on the lady's heels.

  "Alain," Rhys barked, and the knight hurried toward him. "Watch that fair-headed lackwit."

  "Sir Oliver?" Alain whispered back in surprise, falling in step. "The lad's harmless."

  "Just keep him far away from my lady," Rhys said, then brushed past his man.

  Rhys had nearly exploded with rage upon seeing the smile Juliana had offered the bumbling blond knight. A genuine smile, one that lit up her face and dazzled the eye. One that invited a man to crush her in his arms and tenderly love her.

  If only she'd share one of those brilliant smiles with him.

  With long angry strides Rhys crossed the hall, glaring at the fringe of Juliana's sable braid as it emphasized the provocative sway of her shapely hips. Hips all too readily apparent through the snug crimson gown.

  Crimson. That fiery hue had set his blood to racing the minute he'd spied her. Curse Morgana for owning such an obscene garment.

  Behind him, servants filed in, distributing steaming platters down the rows of tables. The aroma of succulent food pervaded the hall. Benches scraped the fl
oor as the men seated themselves and plowed into their meal; none of them knew when they might enjoy a leisurely meal again. Subdued conversation buzzed to the beamed ceiling.

  Past the tables, Rhys slowed and muttered an oath. The seductive vixen cleared the archway and disappeared toward the garderobe on the left. He'd look the fool to his men, if he followed her any farther.

  "Son?" said Angharad, catching up to him and laying a detaining hand on his arm. He towered a head and shoulder above her, forcing her to tilt her head back to see his face. "What is amiss? You so admired the gown on your sister."

  A sinking feeling attacked him with that gentle reminder, adding to the discomfort of an arousal so full, it bordered on agony. Rhys avoided her all-seeing eyes and stared with a harsh expression toward the alcove ahead of him.

  "Then I lied," he mumbled.

  Angharad quirked a puzzled brow and dropped her hand.

  "God's teeth," he swore, squirming under the searching gaze. "If I must burn every scrap of cloth, she'll not wear that enticing color again for anyone's pleasure."

  Except his.

  His mother flashed him a knowing smile.

  "A woman likes a touch of jealousy in her man. But son, you make too much of it."

  "Jealous?" Rhys said. He snorted. "I'm not jealous. The woman thinks to ply her wiles. 'Tis that I'll not tolerate such unseemly behavior in my household. She'll learn her place."

  "And what would you have her do to please you? Rub ashes on her face and dress in rags?"

  He winced. "My lady, did you not see that every man present fairly drooled when she entered the hall?"