When her brother glanced toward the solar, Elizabeth looked fully upon Rafael for the first time. He had braced himself for her disapproval, but her gaze brightened with an awareness that made his own heart leap. She glanced over him and flushed slightly, as if she liked what she saw of him. Rafael dared to be encouraged that she might not condemn him with a glance.
She was even more beautiful at close proximity, and he admired how fearless she was in meeting his gaze after her survey. She was not a fool, for he knew she recognized what he was. Her gaze hardened then as she surveyed him, her disapproval so clear that he wondered whether he had imagined that glimpse of admiration.
She might not be an angel, but she had the audacity of one, which Rafael liked well enough.
“Would you escort my sister to the board while I make Lady Jeanne and the earl welcome?” Malcolm asked and Rafael could only comply dumbly.
The weight of Elizabeth’s hand on his arm was like a feather, her touch as cool as a river. He felt the curve of her breast brush against his arm and was aware of no other soul in the hall. She held her head high and did not look directly at him. Rafael caught the scent of her perfume and all within him clenched tightly.
It was not simple lust that fired his blood, though. He was smitten with no more than a glance, just as his hero Mìo Cid had been. For the moment, he simply savored the mingled sensations of desire, admiration and a keen awareness of the lady, for he expected only trouble from the choice of his errant heart.
Lady Elizabeth was Malcolm’s sister, which made her a noblewoman, and no man of property—even Malcolm—would let a man such as Rafael court his sister. It was a strange twist of fortune that allowed him to escort her as he did in this moment, and Rafael was a clever enough man to know that it might never happen again.
This might be the closest he ever stood to her.
This might be the sole time she ever touched him.
He savored every single step. She might speak to him. That would be the sum of it. At best, he might catch a glimpse of her again. Their paths could never be tangled, much less joined. He would never touch her more than he did in this moment—and for the first time ever, Rafael regretted what he had become.
He had had no choice, to his thinking, but still.
“Are you the one my brother replaces on Midsummer’s Eve?” Elizabeth asked just before they reached the high table. Her dislike of the notion was more than clear, and again he admired that she was so undaunted. Her gaze locked with his, her disappointment in him evident.
One censorious glance from this maiden and all his life seemed to fall short of the measure, a measure Rafael had not guessed held merit for him. All this she had kindled within him with a look and a single question. He should have been terrified that a virtual stranger could have such power over him.
Still Rafael welcomed the fact she had any curiosity about him. Confirming her guess could only show him poorly in her view, yet she would not have asked if she had been one to avoid the truth. In this moment, he felt ashamed of his own weakness and could not meet her gaze.
“I am,” Rafael confessed with reluctance, then continued with a rare honesty, “for he is a better man than I.”
If he had expected her to argue his merit, Rafael was doomed to be disappointed.
“Indeed,” she said, though her condemnation was less scathing than he had expected.
Did she see that there was hope for him? It was an unexpected and compelling notion. Rafael dared to meet her gaze and his heart skipped that the lady did not turn away from him.
Yet.
Her words were low, but ardently spoken, her clear gaze locked on his own with a resolve that made his heart pound. “I understand that when a man is given a chance, he is a fool not to seize it.”
Rafael was shocked that she fairly dared him to do differently. Elizabeth watched him closely, even as she challenged him to change his ways, then she lifted her chin and turned away, taking her place at the board.
It was unthinkable that Rafael should trade places again with Malcolm, that he should decline Malcolm’s offer and put that man back in his debt. It was neither reasonable nor fair to break a wager willingly made, but Elizabeth’s manner made Rafael feel a new guilt about the bargain he had struck.
How remarkable that a maiden like this, one who should have shunned him on sight, was the one who saw there was promise in him. How like an angel to peer into the secret heart of a man and find a glimmer of light. Suddenly, the land Rafael had come to despise showed such uncommon appeal that he doubted he would leave Scotland any time soon.
No matter how much it snowed, no matter how cold the winters at Ravensmuir, it was worth enduring any physical discomfort to linger near a maiden such as Elizabeth.
Indeed, she might take pity upon his condemned soul.
Rafael Rodriguez.
There was a name to light a flame in the heart of a woman devoid of sense, and truly, Malcolm’s comrade was a man who might steal that heart with a simmering glance. Elizabeth had never met the like of him. He was dangerous and dashing, so vital and virile that he made the men of her former acquaintance look like mere boys, regardless of their ages. The way Rafael smiled, as if he knew a potent secret or as if he might tempt her to partake of forbidden pleasures, made Elizabeth flush with awareness even though she knew his truth. He was dangerous and certainly wicked, a man who had undoubtedly despoiled many a maiden and broken many a heart.
Then carried on his way, without remorse.
How could a man who sold his blade be possessed of any remorse? Nay, this was a man who took what he desired, perhaps even savored it, then sought a new fleeting pleasure to satisfy him. He would be callous and reckless and readily bored, and certainly not one upon whom a lady should rely.
Unless, of course, she wanted her keep defended and could pay the price.
Elizabeth was sure Rafael’s price would be high.
She bit her lip and wondered what it was like to be despoiled.
Then she wondered whether she would ever know the truth of it, or whether Finvarra would seize her before she could experience the pleasure that man and wife could share.
She caught herself, realizing that even a brief encounter with a man who could not possess any morals had put dangerous notions into her thoughts.
Indeed, Elizabeth had not believed her own audacity when she challenged Rafael to be a better man. She had scarce recognized herself, but knew she had done as much for Malcolm’s sake. There was little time to be demure about the matter. She had been surprised that Rafael had not replied sharply that she tend to her own business. Instead, this fearsome man had given her an assessing glance, as if he could assess her merit with ease. His look had sent a shiver through her.
Followed by a dangerous and beguiling heat.
Oh, that heat was seductive. It hinted of all the matters Elizabeth yearned to learn, of the reason why Alexander and Eleanor were so quick to retire to their chamber on winter nights, of the sly smiles she saw her sisters grant to their wedded spouses. It was the reason her mind turned to such temptations.
Or he was the cause of that. Elizabeth had never seen a man more likely to live a life of adventure and romance, a man destined to travel far and wide, to make what he would of his life. He could have been the hero in an old tale, stronger, bolder, more reckless and handsome than any of his fellows—and destined to win every prize. Elizabeth wished she could have been immune to Rafael’s allure, but evidently she was woman enough to still feel a thrill in his presence.
Was it because he could read her thoughts? Was it because he obviously had expertise in the art she wanted to experience? Elizabeth was certain Rafael knew every nuance of how a man and woman might love. She was certain he would welcome the opportunity to demonstrate them all to her.
Even knowing it would be folly to invite his interest, Elizabeth wondered how a single kiss from Rafael would taste.
She did not doubt that it would change her view of kis
ses for all the rest of her days. Indeed, she doubted that any reputable man’s embrace would stand the comparison.
She would not dare to ask for such a token. Indeed, such curiosity could only lead her to woe. Nay, she had to convince Rafael to make a different choice, and that he had even considered her challenge for a heartbeat had been more of a victory than she had expected.
This was the man who should die in Malcolm’s place.
It would only be just.
Elizabeth studied Rafael, telling herself that she merely sought the means to awaken his sense of honor. That she was not certain he possessed one meant—she assured herself—that he required closer scrutiny.
It certainly was not hard to look upon him.
That Rafael was a mercenary was clear. He was as tall and muscled as Malcolm, both a sword and a dagger hanging from scabbards on his belt. There was a quiet ferocity about him, as well, and she knew he was keenly aware of his surroundings. Indeed, he looked like a man who would miss no detail, as well as one who could kill with his bare hands.
He was garbed in black, not a speck of ornamentation on his garb. His chausses were black leather, simply cut and plain. His boots were tall and wrought of black leather, so similar to his chausses that it was difficult to tell where one ended and the other began. Elizabeth also had no doubt that his legs were muscled and flushed a little to catch herself admiring them. On this day, he wore a white chemise of linen, the lace open at his neck to reveal both his golden tan and a tangle of dark hair upon his chest. His tabard was also black and fell to the top of his thighs, and he wore black gloves.
His eyes were darker than a midnight sky and his hair was as black as ebony. It possessed an unruly curl and glinted in the light. His skin was tanned to a deeper gold than that of Malcolm, so rich a hue that it must have been darker in the first place. His eyes were thickly lashed and surprisingly so, giving him a lazy and sensual look, one that was encouraged by the slight smile that curved his lips.
There was a whiff of the greater world about him, of conquest and battle, distant lands and potent kings. That had to explain her unholy fascination with him. Never mind that his voice was deep and his accent exotic. He moved with the lithe grace of a cat, at ease with his body and its power as he strode to the far side of the hall. He leaned back against the wall and crossed his booted legs at the ankles, watching the portal with narrowed eyes. His fingertips were not far from the hilt of his blade and he gave an impression of coiled vigilance.
Elizabeth understood that Rafael was prepared for whatever might occur. He was a fighting man with experiences far beyond her own. She knew of skirmishes and battles, but Rafael lived in the realm of war. He fought weekly, if not daily, dispensing death and capturing the spoils. There was no complacency or comfort in Rafael’s life, no moment to be at ease, no leisure. She wondered how deeply or how often he slept. Rafael had lived with death and Elizabeth did not doubt that he had killed others himself.
Indeed, that realization revealed why Rafael, of all men, should be the one to make her heart leap. His familiarity with death had an affinity with her curse to witness it everywhere. When the mortal world seemed colorless and pale in contrast to that of the Fae, when she felt cold and distant from her fellows, it was welcome indeed to be shaken awake by the sight of this man, and warmed by his vitality.
The strange thing was, Elizabeth realized, that she could not see the shadow of death upon him at all. Every man in the hall bore a shadow of lesser or greater degree, but not Rafael.
How could that be?
Two
Rafael folded his arms across his chest and steadily met Elizabeth’s regard, looking so long, lean and dangerous that her heart skipped. He suddenly smiled so hungrily at her that Elizabeth’s innards clenched. His confidence in his own allure was outrageous—and undeserved. He was not so finely wrought as that.
Well, he was as finely wrought as that, but what snared Elizabeth’s attention was that he was different.
Her mouth went dry at the realization that Rafael thought she found him attractive.
How hideous that he was right.
Worse, he savored that knowledge.
Worse again, Elizabeth did not doubt he would try to use it to his own advantage.
And she did not know how to play this game, much less what to say or do. Elizabeth felt maidenly and sheltered, a sense that she intensely disliked.
It was one she was tempted to change.
Aye, there was something about Rafael and his manner that challenged Elizabeth to make her life what she would have it be, just as he had certainly shaped his own. She yearned to be daring and bold, to defy convention—as her aunt Rosamunde had done—and to do all of that with Rafael. It was no small thing to lust for adventure, but in Rafael, Elizabeth had a treacherous sense that she had encountered a man who could fulfill all of her expectations.
If it suited him to do so. There was no telling how long such a man might be intrigued by her, if indeed he was, even now. He might simply be amused by her. That was an irksome notion. Elizabeth knew the right course and believed that only she could sway Rafael to do what was right—if indeed, any other soul could do so. Though she knew little of men, she would have to use Rafael’s interest in her to save her brother from Finvarra.
It was a prospect that made her palms damp.
It also meant Rafael would die, but better him than Malcolm. She reminded herself of the greater good. Indeed, did not all of these men expect to die without warning? Every day they survived must be a victory.
In contrast, Malcolm had left that life. He had a wife, a son, and a home. It was unjust that he should lose all of that, while Rafael survived.
Particularly as it had been Rafael’s folly that had gained Finvarra’s attention in the first place. Nay, a man of any merit paid his own debts.
Elizabeth straightened with new conviction. It was folly to find any appeal in such a man as Rafael, despite his allure, and she knew it, though her body evidently did not. The man did not even have a ribbon that might be bound to a true love! Perhaps it was knotted securely within himself, as if he was one who adored only himself. Perhaps he was incapable of love. Elizabeth nearly shook her head in disapproval. Rafael had an abundance of God’s gifts but wasted them with his choices.
She would appeal to him, solely to save Malcolm, not because she herself found any pleasure in it. Her heart skipped at the prospect, calling her a liar, but Elizabeth was resolved.
She could do this deed.
She would do it.
And if she learned something of the passion between man and woman in doing so, she would likely not regret that.
Rafael had not been impressed by the Earl of Douglas when that man had visited Ravensmuir before. He thought the older man showed too much interest in Malcolm’s new hall, an interest that smelled of covetousness. He and Malcolm had been in complete agreement with nary a word exchanged between them, and the earl’s tour of the building under construction had omitted all of the defensive details built into the walls. Still the earl had demanded Malcolm’s pledge to wed his niece, and Malcolm had agreed—believing he would be dead when that debt came due.
Jeanne proved to be like her uncle, only more so. Her gaze had swept over the interior of Ravensmuir’s hall in open assessment, and Rafael thought she might have defined its cost within a silver penny or two.
The contrast between her manner and that of Elizabeth was striking, and indeed, the contrast did Jeanne no favors. Rafael knew Malcolm’s sister watched him and cast a glance toward her, watching her blush when he caught her staring at him.
It was odd that he should be intrigued by her, for Rafael had no patience with innocence. He favored experience in women, confidence in one’s allure and skill abed. Elizabeth possessed none of these traits, though she had a boldness unexpected.
Yet Rafael was curiously tempted by her.
That she might be an angel sent to redeem him had been a foolish impression. Rafael knew t
hat no deity spared concern for his soul, and once away from Elizabeth’s side, his wits returned to remind him of that.
Indeed, he doubted he could be redeemed.
Under normal circumstance, that no longer troubled him, but on this day, the realization made him restless.
He considered Elizabeth, seeing that same confidence in her own security that all of Malcolm’s siblings shared, and wondered how his life might have been, if he had grown up in such safety. It did not bear consideration, as he had not, and he was what he was, but Rafael found himself wondering.
Even though he was a consummately practical man.
Why had she even come to Ravensmuir? Why had she come alone? Rafael doubted she had left Kinfairlie with the earl and marveled anew that a maiden would ride out at dawn, unescorted, even to travel to her brother’s nearby keep.
What madness possessed her guardian to allow it?
Or had she crept out of her home without approval? It was an intriguing notion, and he wondered at her true nature. Perhaps that was the root of it, for he would have found a defiant maiden more intriguing than a demure one.
Rafael watched Elizabeth as Catriona descended the stairs from the solar, the ring on her left hand revealing her identity. Perhaps Elizabeth also recognized the dress that her brother’s wife, Eleanor, had given to Catriona. Certainly, Malcolm’s new bride carried herself with the pride of the lady of the manor.
There was no doubt that Elizabeth guessed Catriona’s role and was pleased by it. Rafael saw the maiden’s eyes light in a mischievous anticipation that made him want to smile. Her gaze flicked between Jeanne and Catriona, and he knew she eagerly anticipated Jeanne’s reaction to the news that Malcolm was already wedded.
She was not so angelic as that, then. Rafael did smile that this lovely maiden was a little bit wicked herself.
Though he could not blame her, not when it came to women like Jeanne.
He wagered then that she had left Kinfairlie without approval, and perhaps without even her guardian’s awareness, and liked that even more.
All's Fair in Love and War: Four Enemies-to-Lovers Medieval Romances Page 102