Mistress of Her Fate

by Byrne, Julia

  “I don’t know,” she said curtly.

  She felt him pass her in the darkness, then heard the sound of flint striking stone. A tiny flame appeared, illuminating a small circular fireplace at her feet. Beaudene hunkered down beside it and scooped a pile of cold ashes into his palm. He opened his hand, letting the stuff drift through his fingers.

  “Is something amiss?” Shivering, Nell wrapped her arms around herself, momentarily forgetting her grievances when she saw him frown slightly.

  “Someone has been here,” he answered absently.

  “Well, I suppose if you know of this place, others may also.”

  He shook his head. “Once the entrance is covered the keenest-eyed hunter couldn’t find it. Even in daylight. There’s only one other man who knows of this shelter.”

  “A friend?”

  “Once. But I haven’t seen him…for a long time.” Abruptly shaking off his odd mood, he bent to the task of preparing a fire. “’Tis not important.”

  She was too cold and weary to pursue the matter, but, curious now, she looked around. They weren’t in a cave, but a small square chamber at the end of the narrow corridor she’d traversed. Rocks were piled atop each other around the perimeter of the room to form surprisingly even walls, and the floor was of beaten earth. The air was still and musty but not unpleasant, what little smoke there was from the fire drifted upward to vanish into the darkness above her.

  “What is this place?” she asked wonderingly.

  Beaudene glanced up from the fire and shrugged. “Some sort of ancient burial mound, I think, judging by the bones in the side chambers. Roman, mayhap. Who knows?”

  “Bones?” She peered into the shadows beyond the fire and hurriedly crossed herself. “Sweet Jesu, we can’t sleep with a lot of corpses. ’Tis indecent.”

  “’Tis also damn wet outside but suit yourself.” He stood up and went back to the entrance where the horses waited.

  Obviously he couldn’t care less where she spent the rest of the night. But, indignation aside, she decided not to complain about the bones. There were too many other things on her mind. Besides, if they were Roman bones mayhap ’twas not so bad. They’d been pagans, hadn’t they?

  Stifling a groan as her muscles protested, she sat down by the small fire, rubbing some feeling back into her cold hands. When Beaudene returned with their saddles and his packs, the chill was beginning to leave her flesh and the fur trim across her breasts was drying in small, matted peaks. She watched in weary silence as he placed the saddles on the other side of the fire and tossed the leather bags down beside them.

  “Don’t sit there waiting for me to turn into a tiring-woman,” he said, throwing her an impatient glance. “Get out of those wet clothes.”

  Nell got slowly to her feet. “When you have the courtesy to wait outside.”

  “In case it’s escaped your notice, lady, I’m as wet as you are and the fire is in here.”

  He undid his belt as he spoke, dropped it to the ground, and stripped off his surcoat to reveal the fine cotton undershirt beneath. The shirt wasn’t as wet as the surcoat, but ’twas still damp enough to cling to an intimidating expanse of chest, revealing hard muscles and a disturbingly primitive looking triangle of dark hair.

  “Besides, ’tis a little late for modesty, isn’t it?” He slanted a mocking glance at her as he bent to pull off a water-logged boot. “I’ve already seen your charms.” He grinned suddenly. “Well, one of them.”

  A tide of heat swept over her face. “That remark is typical of an uncouth bodyguard,” she snapped. And told herself the fluttering in her stomach was due to embarrassment and not Beaudene’s unexpectedly wicked grin. “And you wonder why I’m not willing to throw off my gown while you stand there mocking me!”

  His other boot hit the ground. “You’ll not only throw off the gown, princess, but everything else as well.” He turned away to pick up one of his packs. “If you sicken on this journey because you’re stubborn enough to sleep in wet clothes, you’ll be nothing but a damned nuisance. Strip, or I’ll do it for you.”

  “When men fly!”

  He turned his head to look at her. His face was in shadow, but when he straightened and set the pack down, implacable determination was evident in every line of his body. He took a step forward to pin her gaze across the firelight and she wondered how eyes the color of amber could look so chillingly cold.

  “I intend to get some sleep,” he said very softly. “If you have a tithe the sense God gave you, you’ll do the same. You’ll be more comfortable if you’re warm and dry, and ’twill be easier on me if I don’t have to worry about you running off. There’s only one way to make sure of that, princess, and I’m big enough to enforce it.”

  His tone became even softer, as dark and still as the night. “Take off your clothes.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The air in the chamber seemed to thicken, to catch in her throat. Across the fire, Beaudene waited, big and powerful, his gaze intent on hers. He meant every word, Nell realized. He had given her a direct order and he intended to be obeyed.

  She stepped back a pace, shaking her head. “I’ll take off my gown to dry it, but nothing else. I’m not here for your amusement, and you know it.”

  One brow quirked. “I’m supposed to know it because you panicked when you weren’t in control earlier? The trouble with you, Lady Eleanor, is that the men in your life are blinded by lust, slaves to their desire and therefore slaves to you, obedient to your hand on the reins.”

  “And you’re not?” The reckless challenge was out before she could put a guard on her unruly tongue. But she couldn’t stay silent under the lash of his scorn. It hurt. It hurt more than she cared to admit, and instinct bade her strike back before she weighed the risks.

  “I won’t be your slave,” he agreed softly. His eyes gleamed in a sudden flare of sparks from the fire and she shivered at what was left unsaid.

  “You won’t be my anything,” she retorted. Unable to hold his gaze, she turned away under the pretense of unlacing her belt, striving for a show of unconcern. “Fortunately, that is one of the advantages of being one’s own mistress instead of some man’s wife,” she tossed back over her shoulder. “A lady may choose her lovers, and I don’t take mine from the ranks of bodyguards.”

  Holy Mother, had she really said that? She who had never taken a lover in her life was speaking as if they were legion.

  “And if a would-be lover refuses to abide by your choice, lady? If he decides to take you, regardless? What then?”

  Her fingers stilled on her laces. Laugh it off, she told herself. Laugh it off before he sees the fear in your eyes, hears it in your voice. He’s only a man. A man like all the others.

  But, dear God, why was it so hard to dismiss what he said? Why was it so difficult to treat him with the carefully calculated evasiveness she had used with men since that dreadful night three years ago? Beaudene was right. The men she knew were easy to control, each one left with the impression that, for the moment, she belonged to another and they would have to wait their turn.

  It was an act that had become second nature to her, and so well did she play the game of manipulation that only Tom, who lived in the same household, had guessed the truth. Guessed and kept her secret because he wanted her for himself, wanted to be first. And as long as her game remained just that, as long as her suitors were kept at a distance, unsure of the identity of her lover but convinced there was one, she had been safe.

  Until now.

  Until that moment in the hall when, instead of dismissing Beaudene’s insults with a careless shrug and a laugh, she had responded instinctively, as herself.

  Nell looked down at her hands and saw them clenched, white-knuckled, against her bodice. Very carefully she relaxed her fingers before she turned to meet the intent, watchful gaze of the one man who had changed the rules of the game on her.

  “Do you speak of yourself, sir?” she asked with feigned nonchalance. “I think not. No matter
who employed you, ’twould impugn your honor to force me.”

  He was silent for a moment, then a smile of amused appreciation curved his mouth. “You, Lady Eleanor, are a worthy opponent. You’re right. If I come from a concerned father, ’twould be an act of the most foul to betray his trust, and if I don’t—” He paused and the smile turned rueful. “Well, you’ve just put your own trust in my honor, princess. Only a conscienceless villain or a fool would use force against you under those circumstances.”

  “And you’re no fool.” She watched him warily as he retrieved his pack and loosened the cords. He extracted a long black wool mantle and walked around the fire to look down at her.

  “Nay,” he agreed. “Nor am I conscienceless. But remember, lady, there is more than one alternative to force, and villainy must be redressed.”

  “You speak in riddles,” she said with a light laugh. “Are you threatening to seduce me? Surely not. You prefer not to be one of a crowd, as I recall.”

  “The crowd no longer surrounds you, Lady Eleanor. You stand alone, with me.”

  Dread unfurled in the pit of her stomach.

  “That makes little difference,” she said, almost whispering. The effort of maintaining her cool demeanor was stripping her nerves raw, but if wit was her only defense she must use it. Think! Reason! The men she knew didn’t care how many lovers a woman took, but she thought this man would. The game was the same. Only the rules were different.

  “The crowd still exists,” she pointed out. “Whether now or in the past. As for the future, well, in truth, bodyguards are not to my taste. That being so, instead of trying to scare me with meaningless threats, you would do well to give me that mantle so I may obey your command to remove this wet gown.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Why don’t you just breathe in?” he demanded. “And let the damn thing remove itself. Another inch should do it.”

  It was too much. “Why don’t you stop baiting me!” she cried. “And stop leaping to conclusions while you’re at it. Margaret slashed my own gown to ribbons in a fit of spite while I was bathing, and the rest were already packed away so I was forced to borrow this one. And if you possessed the least notion of color and fashion, Sir Rafael, instead of being an ignorant clod, you’d know this gown was made for a blonde and not for me.”

  The instant those last furious words were out, she was wishing them unsaid. Beaudene’s gaze focused on her like a hawk sighting prey. The heat of his gaze almost peeled the clothes from her body, leaving her naked and defenseless.

  “Men don’t care about the color of the gown, princess. They only see the body in it.” The searing heat in his eyes stroked across her breasts. “Or mostly out of it, in this case. And before we go any further, ’tis Lord Beaudene.”

  “Is it? Well, I will call you ‘my lord’ if you stop calling me horrible names.” The words sounded childish in the extreme, but she was beyond caring. She felt hot all over, and shivery with it; the tips of her breasts were tingling against the cool fabric of her shift, and she couldn’t catch her breath. Not only was Beaudene playing games with her mind, he was doing something to her body, without even touching her.

  “You don’t like princess? How about temptress then? Seductress? Siren? They suit you better than prim and proper Lady Eleanor.”

  “Nell,” she got out, unable to say more.

  The single syllable had a wholly unexpected effect. The sardonic curve of his mouth softened and he tilted his head slightly, as though considering. “Nell,” he repeated softly.

  As if he was tasting her name on his tongue, she thought. And another ripple of sensation feathered across her over-heated flesh.

  Then he raised a brow. “So, what color was the gown you were planning to wear, Lady Nell? Scarlet?”

  “Heaven save me. A man of humor,” she muttered. “No doubt you will be astonished to learn ’twas green and gold.” And one of her favorites. Tiredness struck suddenly, wave after wave of fatigue breaking over her, as the events of the night took their toll. She was simply too weary to fight him. Too weary to care what he said.

  “What does it matter?” she asked softly, almost to herself. “Think what you like of me. You speak of honor so glibly, Lord Beaudene, but, bodyguard or baron, you’re no better—”

  “Don’t liken me to those men at Langley!” he snarled, shattering her apathy. His sudden rage was stunning. Sheer fury blazed in his eyes. For one fleeting, heart-stopping moment she thought Beaudene might actually strike her. The threat of violence filled the small chamber, beating at her with invisible wings. She almost cried out from the force of it.

  Then, as abruptly as it flared, the savagery in his eyes went from molten gold to frozen amber. He gave a short laugh, lifted the mantle in a mock salute, and tossed it to her.

  “You can trust me not to use force against you in one respect,” he growled. “But don’t push me too far, princess.”

  He turned away, snatched up his boots, and strode toward the dark corridor. “You have three minutes.”

  Nell stayed absolutely still, clutching the mantle to her as she would a shield. Trust him? How could she trust him? He hadn’t struck her—in truth his control seemed formidable—but that was hardly reassuring. He had killed a man before her very eyes while remaining completely in control.

  Somehow the memory of that cool, contained violence was more frightening than an outburst of rage. And, having seen Beaudene rein in both desire and anger, how could she help but wonder what it would take for him to unleash the full force of his emotions? What would happen to her if he did?

  She shivered. Trust him? She had once trusted another man, a man whose word should have been inviolate, and she had discovered just how much force men were prepared to use against a woman to have their way. Trust was for fools.

  And yet…

  Beaudene had held her helpless beneath him on the road and had not touched her intimately. Instead, he had covered her nakedness with a care that left her speechless and shaken. And, earlier, at the feast, he had gone out of his way to defend a serving-girl who meant nothing to him.

  A log on the fire crackled, sending sparks flying upward and she jumped, suddenly aware that she was wasting precious time. If Beaudene said she had three minutes that was precisely what he meant. Besides, she needed to rest. Even if she couldn’t sleep, she still needed rest before she could cope any further with a bodyguard who made veiled threats of seduction or worse.

  And if sleep eluded her, she would feign slumber if she had to act as she had never acted before.

  But an act wasn’t necessary. Even as she curled up in Beaudene’s mantle, her hand closing protectively around the crucifix still hidden in its pouch, even as the feel of the object reminded her of the other, secret, purpose of her journey, exhaustion claimed her. Sleep fell over her like a second mantle, closing her eyes, stilling her mind.

  * * *

  She was asleep.

  Hardly surprising, Rafe thought, because the three minutes he’d given her had stretched to ten. And during that time he’d wondered if ten hours would be enough to restore his control where Nell was concerned.

  Why had he felt that wild surge of fury when she’d been about to question his honor? It shouldn’t matter. She was simply a pawn, a means to an end by whatever method he employed. Seduction, or—

  What, he asked himself, looking down at her. The more honorable course of marriage? Take a wanton to wife? Which she surely was. If he’d had any doubts on that score after her fear of him on the road, they had been allayed in the last hour. By the Rood, she couldn’t have been more open about her lovers short of giving him a list of names.

  And yet, lying here sleeping, the mysterious, seductive depths of her eyes hidden, she looked…bruised…fragile…unutterably innocent.

  The other side of sin, he mused. Innocence.

  And he was all kinds of fool for thinking of innocence in relation to Lady Eleanor fitzWarren. That look of fragility was more likely caused by exhaustion.


  He went down on one knee beside her. Faint shadows lay beneath her closed lashes and her skin appeared almost translucent against the darkness of his mantle. He’d pushed her hard tonight, wanting to put as many miles as possible between themselves and pursuit so they could snatch this brief respite before a harder day of riding tomorrow. But she’d kept up, without complaint.

  His brows drew together. Nell had also given as good as he’d verbally served up, until that moment when she’d turned even paler and seemed to droop right before his eyes.

  “You have courage, princess,” he murmured. “Even if you are spoilt and wanton and damn near useless as a wife. And is it any wonder when you were brought up in that household?”

  Annoyed with himself, he got to his feet and yanked off his boots. God above, was he making excuses for the girl?

  He strode around to the other side of the fire, dumped his boots, and was reaching for his open pack when he stopped cold.

  There, lined up in a neat little row between Nell and his baggage, were a pair of dainty leather shoes, a pair of silken hose, two gold ribbon garters, the stained and muddied silver and blue gown, and a shift of the sheerest gossamer gauze.

  His gaze flashed to Nell. She was wrapped so tightly that all he could see from his half-crouched position was a glimpse of dark hair, but—

  She was lying completely naked within the enfolding warmth of his mantle.

  Desire ripped through him so savagely it nearly sent him to his knees. Slowly, he reached out a hand and lifted her shift, letting the filmy garment drift over his fingers and back to the ground. The delicate fabric was damp, rendering it completely transparent.

  A stifled sound, half-groan, half-curse, escaped him. Telling himself that Nell had merely followed orders and sensibly removed all her wet clothes did nothing to alleviate the heaviness in his loins. He wanted her so badly he ached.