White Lion's Lady

by Lara Adrian

  Someone else grinned at Isabel and chimed in with, “Wed to a husband as handsome as yours, no woman with eyes in her head would ever turn him away!”

  Assenting remarks and feminine laughter traveled around the table. The jocularity was stifling to Isabel, the weight of her falsehoods and the risk of getting tangled in them pressing in on her, making her anxious to escape the sudden attention. “Will you excuse me, please?” she asked, trying to act casual and failing, if the concerned looks she received were any indication.

  “Oh, poor dear! Are ye ill?”

  “She has grown rather piqued.”

  “No, I'm all right,” Isabel replied as she rose from the table, cradling the bundle at her waist to keep it in place as she got to her feet.

  “Are you going to be sick?” asked the young woman across from her. “Shall I show you to the garderobe?”

  Isabel shook her head vehemently. “No. I'm fine, really. I-I think I just need a bit of air.”

  Several of the ladies clucked their tongues in sympathy, then began sharing stories of their own pregnancies. Isabel left the chatter in her wake, hastening out of the great hall as if on winged feet. She did not stop walking until she was more than two-score paces down the corridor, ensconced the dim solitude of the drafty hallway. Resting her back against the cool stone she willed her heart to slow, her gaze lighting on a beautiful tapestry that hung on the opposite wall.

  It was a colorful rendering of a woodland scene, lush with dark green trees and variegated leaves. Red deer grazed in one section of the piece, while in another a clutch of winged fairies held hands and danced atop spotted mushrooms as a snow white unicorn looked on. The picture had an instant, calming effect on Isabel, making her recall happier, less complicated times in her life. Times when she actually believed in wood nymphs and mythical beasts. And true love.

  How long ago those days seemed to her now. How complicated things had become in the past few days. Not just her life, but her thoughts, her feelings. It was but a few days ago that she was kidnapped from her caravan, a few days ago that she found out her captor had been Griffin. A few days ago she despised him, wanted nothing more than to be delivered away from him as far and as fast as possible. And now . . .

  Now, Isabel did not know how she felt. With each passing hour, with each step closer to Montborne, she found she was becoming more confused. Conflicted, no longer sure what she believed in. No longer sure what she wanted.

  She sighed, thinking it probably wise to return to the hall, when she thought she saw the tapestry move slightly. Suspicious, she looked down and realized that the weaving had a rumple in it. It also had feet. Two small pink silk slippers stuck out from below the tapestry's fringed edging, betraying the hiding place of a sprite of decidedly mortal stock. Isabel was about to call the imp out when approaching footsteps sounded in the corridor. A harried nursemaid trundled into view, dabbing at her brow and wearing a look of complete exasperation.

  “Good morrow, goodwife. I don't suppose you happened to see a rather willful young girl pass this way in the last few minutes?”

  “No,” Isabel answered truthfully. “No one has passed me here at all.”

  “Oh, confound it,” grumbled the maid. “I fear Father Aldon will not be happy about this one bit. 'Tis the third time this week little Marian has managed to escape her catechism. To think the child's parents actually have a mind to wed her to the church one day!” she exclaimed, woefully shaking her head as she crossed herself.

  Without waiting for any sort of reply from Isabel, the nurse was storming off once more on her fruitless chase, disappearing down the snaking corridor in a flourish of swishing skirts and unintelligible mutterings.

  “'Tis all right,” Isabel said to the tapestry after she was gone. “You can come out now.”

  From behind the thick weaving, the Hexfords' daughter appeared. She glanced down the hallway, then turned a frown on Isabel. “How'd you know where I was?”

  “Why, the fairies told me, of course,” she answered, gesturing to the circle of embroidered imps.

  “Nuh, uh,” little Marian said, shaking her head even though her eyes sparkled with intrigue. “You're jus' teasing. Fairies don't talk.”

  Isabel raised her brows in mock surprise. “No? Well, they certainly did when I was your age. Mayhap if we are very quiet, and concentrate very hard, we'll hear them.”

  She pressed her ear against the tapestry and pretended to listen intently. It did not take long for Marian to do likewise, smiling up at Isabel as if the two of them shared a wonderful secret.

  “Come here,” the little girl said, slipping her pudgy fingers into Isabel's hand. “I'll show you something.”

  Isabel spared the noise of the hall but a moment's pause before happily following Marian along the corridor and up the tower steps. There was a chamber at the top of the spiral staircase, a child's playroom by the looks of it, with a rocking pony and a miniature table and chairs carved out of birch and peopled with a collection of stuffed cloth dolls, each one wearing a different colored gown, all of them equally elaborate.

  But it was not until Isabel stood in the center of the room that she noticed the true wonder of the place. Painted on the whitewashed stone walls was a continuing panel of changing scenery, so incredibly lovely it fair stole her breath. On each of the four walls was a depiction of the seasons in turn: Spring, with its new green leaves and blossoms, baby animals peering innocent and wide-eyed from behind tree trunks and lush ferns; Summer, awash with flowers and sunny skies; Autumn, resplendent with jewel-rich hues of warm gold, red, and orange; even Winter was a sight to behold, with white frosted pine trees and snowflakes falling from an indigo sky, the sliver of a pale blue moon illuminating a perfect rendition of Hexford Castle, spangled with garlands of holly and dripping icicles.

  When Isabel could only stare in awe, little Marian pulled her toward the arrow-slit window where sat a chest of some sort. It was a cage, Isabel realized, hunkering down beside the girl to peer inside the woven wire walls. Fresh grass lined the bottom in a blanket of green, and atop it sat an assortment of small pots containing fragrant flowering plants of all varieties. Fluttering about this pleasant little prison was nearly a dozen butterflies, their happy colors and sprite-like behavior wringing a giggle from both Isabel and her new friend.

  “They're beautiful,” Isabel said, smiling warmly, the very sight of these creatures gladdening her heart.

  “My papa brings me one each time he goes away,” little Marian replied. “Want to hold one?”

  She lifted the lid on the cage and instantly the butterflies took flight, pouring up into the chamber like leaves caught on the wind. Isabel gasped, horrified that all of Marian's pets were escaping so easily. But the little girl did not seem worried in the least.

  “Stand still,” she instructed Isabel. “Like this.”

  Spreading her short arms wide and gazing up at the rainbow of color fluttering above her head, she waited quietly, moving not a muscle, a feat that seemed next to impossible in a person of such boundless energy. But her patience soon paid off. In moments, one of the butterflies alighted on her sleeve, then another followed, and another. Marian giggled and turned to Isabel, beaming.

  “Now you try.”

  Isabel mimicked the little girl's stance, tipping her head up and delighting in the dizzying cloud of butterflies dancing in the rafters. She bit her lip, waiting breathlessly for the first to land. A set of orange and black wings spiraled down and perched on her upturned palm. Next, a pale butter-colored beauty floated haphazardly toward her, settling on her shoulder. To Isabel's delight, several more landed in similar fashion, peppering both she and Marian in splotches of beating, living color.

  Isabel could not stifle her joy. She laughed in wonderment, so caught up in the moment, she scarcely heard the heavy footsteps ascending the tower stairs. Marian heard it well enough, her startled gaze snapping to Isabel.

  “Oh, no! 'Tis my nurse!” she whispered in alarm. A quick
shake of her arms sent her butterflies scattering, and, without another word, the child dashed out of the chamber.

  “Wait!” Isabel cried. She took a hasty step forward, but it was too late. Marian was gone, little more than a rush of pattering feet retreating down the opposite wing of the hallway.

  Left to her own defenses, Isabel tried to gather the swarm of escaping insects, cursing herself for following this whim and not at all sure how she could explain herself to the child's keeper. She attempted to shoo a couple of butterflies into their cage before the nurse reached the door, but it was no use. The stubborn creatures tumbled on the air, spinning away from her like mischievous pixies. Isabel heard the footsteps halt at the chamber's threshold.

  “I can explain this,” she offered hopelessly, and whirled around to face the nurse.

  But little Marian's maid was not the person standing there, glaring at her in thunderous silence.

  It was Griffin.

  His gaze slowly raking her from head to toe, he stepped inside and closed the door.

  Chapter 13

  Griff had been more than a bit concerned when he found Isabel missing from the great hall a few moments before. A hasty search of the garderobe had met without success, as did his thorough patrol of the corridors. He had been scouring every corner for signs of her, growing angry with himself for not keeping a better watch, when suddenly, inexplicably, from down the high tower steps floated a butterfly. Then he heard it--the sweet sound of Isabel's laughter coming from somewhere abovestairs.

  Storming up the steps two at a time, he had been prepared to greet her with every ounce of his mounting fury. He crested the top of the stairwell and drew up short at the threshold to the chamber, fully intending to scold her for her recklessness. To demand an explanation for making him fret over her disappearance.

  But Griffin could think of nothing to explain the vision he beheld in that moment.

  Against a backdrop of painted daisies and wild summer orchids, surrounded by a dazzling cloud of butterflies, Isabel stood across the room from him like an enchantress stepped out of a dream--beautiful, bewitching, a fantasy of earth and air and sweet temptation. A provocative version of the waif he had first met in Droghallow's woods a decade past.

  “Griffin,” she said breathlessly, regarding him with a look of mingled repentance and surprise. “Thank heaven 'tis you! You must help me put these butterflies back in their cage before someone else finds us here.”

  His gaze locked on her, Griff stepped farther into the room, not the least interested in retrieving the wayward insects. He watched her stretch, biting her lip and reaching up with her open palm as if to catch a raindrop. Two paces carried Griff directly behind her, close enough to touch her as she gently placed a butterfly atop a flower and closed the lid. She turned around and drew in her breath, clearly startled to find him crowding her so deliberately.

  “Th-the Hexford child was playing a game--hiding from her nurse,” she stammered. “I did not see the harm . . .”

  Her voice trailed off as Griff reached out and brushed the backs of his fingers down the silky waves of her unbound hair, tracing the delicate outline of her face with the edge of his hand as he gently dislodged a topaz-colored butterfly that clung to her fiery auburn tresses.

  “Oh,” Isabel gasped, giving a nervous-sounding laugh as he brought the jewel-toned insect away on his finger and presented it to her. She took it, then turned and set it in the cage with the other, replacing the lid without a sound.

  When she did not face him again, when she stood there in tense silence, her back to him, her slender spine rigid, Griffin slowly, tenderly, placed his hands on her shoulders. He heard her soft intake of breath, felt her fine bones quiver as his palms settled lightly atop her arms. Her head tipped back as he caressed her, tentatively at first, scarcely touching her, almost afraid that if he moved too boldly, that if he clutched her too tightly, the sweet illusion would dissolve like mist burned away in the morning sunshine. He feared that if she knew how badly he wanted her, how tormented he was becoming by the very thought of her, she would pull away and run.

  But she did not pull away.

  God help him, she did not run.

  “Oh, Griffin,” she said in a broken, barely audible whisper. “What are we doing?”

  He answered her truthfully, slowly shaking his head in a state of hopeless, helpless confusion. “I don't know.”

  As he said it, he swept aside the glossy mass of her hair, then leaned forward and pressed his lips against her nape, satisfying the curiosity that had been plaguing him since the tavern two days ago. As he knew it would be, Isabel's skin was warm, soft as velvet and sweet as cream. She melted into his arms even while she trembled, tucking her cheek to her shoulder and granting him full access to the delicate column of her neck, the tender lobe of her ear.

  Her soft mewl of pleasure made him hungry to taste her mouth. He slipped his fingertips under her slim jaw and gently coaxed her around, tilting her face up to meet his. For a moment, he could only look at her, mesmerized by the beauty of her face, ensnared by the depth of emotion glittering in her smoky topaz gaze.

  She trusted him.

  It was there in her eyes--a hopefulness, a belief in him that Griff himself could hardly fathom.

  Not at all sure he wanted that burden of responsibility, Griffin dipped his head and claimed her mouth in a savage kiss. He pulled her into his embrace, testing the seam of her lips with his tongue, an insistent pressure that she yielded to with little resistance. When she parted to let him within, he nipped at her lower lip, catching the plump flesh between his teeth, then ravishing her with a languorous, sensual mating of their mouths.

  All the hunger he had felt for her these past hours--nay, these past torturous, maddening days--poured out of him as he crushed her lips with his. He wanted to be gentle. He meant to sample her kiss and be done with it, to appease the maddening urge and think no more about wanting her. God curse him, he had not the will to be gentle, nor to walk away. Not when she was clinging to him so deliciously, her body echoing the fevered wanting of his own, her mouth open for his plunder, her soft gasps of surprise and pleasure like a siren's song at his ear, luring him into dangerous waters.

  She said his name and he waded farther into the roiling tide, leaving the satiny sweetness of her mouth to kiss a descending path along her the velvety line of her jaw and neck. His hand came up between them, seeking her breast. He cupped the pert mound through her gown, kneading it, wanting to tear away the offending barrier of her bodice so he could see her, so he could feel the tight bud of her nipple bead like a pearl between his fingers. Splendor of God, but if her kiss intoxicated him so, the smallest taste of her sweet body would surely send him into mindless oblivion.

  Nay, he was already there, he realized. His desire for her in that moment was unlike any he had ever felt--quicksilver, molten. Consuming all reason in a swift conflagration of pure, primal need. Without a thought for what he was inviting, Griffin skimmed his hands down the outline of her slender form, his callused palms rasping against the rough-spun fabric of the commoner's gown she wore. Just past her hips, he curled his fingers into the skirts, gathering up the thick folds of linen to permit his hands beneath. She sucked in her breath when he touched the bare skin of her thigh, a startled gasp that he caught with another hungry meeting of their mouths.

  She was quaking in his arms, her limbs aquiver as he smoothed his hands over her velvety skin, up the lithe muscle of her flank. She moaned as he dragged her skirts higher, seeking the supple, round curve of her bottom. Then, vaguely, through the haze of want clouding his senses, Griffin realized that her hands were no longer twined in his hair, but in between them now, pressing flat against his chest in resistance.

  “Griffin, no,” she gasped against his mouth, turning her head away from him. “We mustn't . . . I can't . . .”

  “Don't be afraid. I'm not going to hurt you,” he soothed against her ear, and although he meant it, the rough sound of h
is voice was surely enough to convince her otherwise. He released her skirts, letting them fall back down around her ankles as he reached up and cupped her face in his hands. He kissed her, staring hard into her darting, anxious eyes. “I won't do anything you don't want me to do,” he murmured against her mouth.

  “But we should not be here like this together. We should not be doing this.” Her breath hitched, shuddering out of her on a quivery sigh even as her head tipped back in pleasure. “Oh, God . . . Griffin, this isn't right.”

  “Does it feel right?” he demanded roughly, knowing how unjust it was to ask, but too needful of her to be fair. He kissed away any weak reply she might have made, smoothing his hands down her back and gripping the swell of her buttocks in his hands. He drew her up onto her toes, pressing her pelvis against his straining arousal, grinding into her with the force of his desire, the full measure of his passion. She squirmed with virginal frustration, her fingers curled into the shoulders of his tunic, clenching at his biceps, her slender thighs quivering where they met the solid length of his own. “Tell me anything has ever felt more right to you than this maddening hunger, this torturous heaven.”

  “Please,” she gasped, more breathless sigh than protest. “Oh, God . . . Please . . . “

  Griff bent his head to hers, sucking at the tender flesh below her ear and taking wicked pleasure in the way her back arched, her breasts flattened against his chest, her breath all but robbed by his ruthless assault on her senses. “Tell me that this fierce longing is mine alone and I will rein it in,” he rasped, his mouth partially open where it still touched her neck. “Tell me, sweet Isabel, that my touch doesn't please you, and I swear, this is the last you will feel it.”

  “Oh, Griffin,” she sighed, dropping her forehead to rest against his breastbone, her body still warm and trembling in his arms.

  With the edge of his fist, Griffin tipped her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Can you look me in the eye and tell me that you do not want me as much as I want you?”