‘No,’ Alinor whispered. ‘And I don’t know why not!’
He chuckled at her childish exasperation. ‘Are you cold?’
‘Well, I am,’ she admitted. ‘But that normally doesn’t stop me sleeping. I don’t suppose you have a blanket anywhere?’
‘I don’t,’ he replied slowly. ‘Unfortunately soldiers tend to travel light. I do have a suggestion, though.’
‘What is it?’
‘If you come over here, you can lean against me. It will make you warmer.’
She frowned at him, absorbing the full import of his words. A thread of excitement fluttered along her veins. ‘Guilhem, are you mad? I can’t! It’s out of the question, after—’ She stopped, abruptly, her face flushing with embarrassment. What had she been about to say? That every time she came too close to him, they seemed to end up kissing? She couldn’t say such things to him! Besides, if she did, it sounded as though she expected him to do such a thing. As if she wanted him to kiss her! Her heart quailed in self-doubt at her last outrageous thought: who was she trying to hoodwink? She wanted him to kiss her again.
He held his hands up in mock innocence. ‘Alinor, this is no time for maidenly modesty. I can see you’re shivering. Come over here and take advantage of an honourable offer. I promise I will keep my hands to myself; we have an audience, after all.’ He quirked one eyebrow at the sleeping soldiers. A sudden, unbearable longing gripped his belly as she began to move; he knew he was taking a chance.
‘Here, sit against me, lean back,’ he ordered gruffly, as she crept over to him. He would maintain a stern, distant attitude towards her. ‘The ground is drier beneath the tree.’ Alinor slid down beside him, her hips nudging his, slim legs against his own. Even through her veil, he could smell the sweet lavender fragrance of her hair, her skin. His heart quivered with delicious anticipation; he bit his lip, steeling his resolve.
‘How many layers are you wearing?’ he asked sternly, trying to ignore the sweet press of her body.
A luscious warmth spiralled through her, a warmth spiced with masculine scent: heady, invigorating. An exquisite feral heat curled across her shoulders and down the icy length of her spine, making her shiver, making her warm.
‘One chemise, one under-gown of silk, one over-gown of wool, my cloak,’ she chanted out, stretching out her legs along the grass in front of her, wriggling her toes to try and warm them. ‘Stockings, inadequate shoes. Surely that’s enough?’ Her veil rustled against the coarse wool of his tunic as she moved her head fractionally.
His cheeks warmed as she named her garments and he visualised each one of them. The vision of Alinor clad only in her diaphanous chemise at Claverstock, when he had hurriedly left her chamber, charged across his mind. ‘Aye, it should be,’ he managed to croak out. ‘Try to go to sleep now.’
She made a small sound, a sigh of contentment and nestled her head into the crook of his arm. Something poked sharply into his skin through his borrowed tunic.
‘What is this?’ he said, exasperated. Putting his hand on her head, he encountered her silver circlet, complete with knobbly filigree-silver decoration. ‘I’m going to take this off,’ he declared. ‘It’s jabbing into my shoulder.’
‘No, don’t, my veil...’
But he had already removed the circlet from her head and her veil, unsecured, slid down across her shining hair and fell to the ground in the puddle of light silk.
‘...will fall off,’ she finished lamely, self-consciously lifting her hand to the hastily pinned wimple.
‘Do you normally sleep with that on?’ He gestured to the length of cloth gathered around her neck and the sides of her face. Her skin gleamed, lustrous alabaster in the moonlight.
‘Of course not.’ Alinor laughed. ‘But I must keep it on in company.’ She glanced over to the soldiers.
‘They won’t even notice, they’re all asleep. It’s probably all that stuff on top of your head that’s keeping you awake,’ Guilhem said.
‘I meant you,’ she replied, significantly. ‘You count as “company” as well.’
‘Oh, me?’ he answered, a little too breezily. ‘It doesn’t affect me one way or the other. I just think you’ll be more comfortable, that’s all.’
Her heart closed up a little at his statement. It made sense that he would be completely unaffected by whatever she did, or whatever she wore, or didn’t wear. He was completely immune to her. And the sooner she came to terms with that, the better.
‘So be it,’ she muttered. Her fingers pulled at the few pins holding the wimple in place. In a matter of moments, the long cloth wrap was folded and set on a neat pile consisting of her veil and circlet. She scattered the hairpins on top of the wimple. ‘There,’ she declared. ‘Now maybe you’ll be able to sleep.’
Guilhem tipped his chin up in the air, resting the back of his head against the trunk, feeling the woman settle against him. Alinor’s body was warm and supple, her golden hair glistening like ropes of spangled stars a few inches beneath his chin, her light fragrance permeating the air beneath his nose. This was a test, a test of his own devising: the ability to withstand such temptation at close quarters. Sleep was something that evaded him for a long, long time.
Chapter Seventeen
Alinor woke early; it was dark. She shivered, though her body was warm, cradled securely against Guilhem. His thick arm was braced around her shoulders, curving below her armpit, forearm nudging deliciously against the sensitive skin of her breast. His hand rested on her hip. Keeping her eyes pressed shut, Alinor expelled the air from her lungs, luxuriating in the feeling of contentment, wanting to hold on to, to savour the sensation. If only it could always be like this; if only she could wake up like this every morning, with the man she loved.
With the man she loved. The words scoured her heart, ripping at the tender flesh. How foolish she was to even imagine such a scenario; Guilhem had made it perfectly clear what he thought about her, so why did she keep on torturing herself with impossible dreams? Her eyes popped open, stung by the horrible reality of her situation. This was no idyllic trip into the countryside, despite the hopeful, misguided route of her thoughts. This was Prince Edward giving an order to Guilhem which he would carry out, despite his own misgivings. She was stupid if she even thought otherwise.
Her breath puffed out, a pall of white in the chill air. The moon threw down a soft glow, enough light for her to discern the sleeping bodies of the soldiers, bundled like large rocks around the smouldering wood of the fire. Above her head, the branches of the trees criss-crossed like lace against the velvet sky, stars sparkling high. And from somewhere over to the right of the clearing, Alinor could hear water, the trickle of a stream gurgling over stones.
She licked her lips. Her throat was sore and parched. Suddenly it seemed imperative that she should drink, then wash her face and neck before everyone woke up. Despite the cold night, the journey yesterday had been hot and gruelling; dirt clogged the pores on her face with a slick coating of dust and sweat. Surely the stream was not that far away; the sound of the water was loud, close.
Slowly, with infinite care, she lifted Guilhem’s arm from her lap, placed it gently on the ground. Not wanting to wake him, she shuffled forward on her hips, skirts bunching up around her knees, and managed to extricate herself from the muscled loop of his other arm. The damp grass scuffed the underside of her heels. Turning, she rolled herself on to all fours, wincing. Her stiff muscles protested, screamed out with the movement, aching from the day before. Lifting her head, she peered up at Guilhem, expecting him to be asleep.
His eyes were wide open, his dark-blue gaze sparkling down at her, amused.
‘I thought you were asleep!’ she whispered, the edge of accusation in her voice. He must have witnessed all her careful movements in trying to extricate herself. ‘I was trying not to wake you!’
He quir
ked one eyebrow upwards. ‘Going somewhere?’ In the moonlit shadows, the planes of his face seemed carved, more sharply delineated.
‘Not really,’ she said hastily. ‘I was going to the stream, to wash and have a drink.’
‘I’ll take you there,’ he offered, pushing one hand through his tousled hair.
‘Really, there’s no need; it’s only over there.’ She pointed vaguely to a spot through the trees.
Guilhem laughed softly. ‘No, it isn’t.’ He jerked his head in the opposite direction. ‘It’s over there, much further than you think. I wouldn’t want you to lose your way.’ He rolled away from the tree, an easy movement, and on to his feet.
Alinor sat back on her heels, brushing off a dried leaf from her skirts. ‘You mean you don’t want me to run off,’ she murmured quietly. Her hair gleamed, a wrap of pale-gold silk around her head: rippling, vibrant.
‘That, too, although I don’t think you’d be that stupid.’
‘Don’t worry, Guilhem, I realise I have no choice in this matter.’
He stared at her bowed head, shoulders hunched, defeated, and hated himself for what he was forcing her to do. She was one of the bravest, most intelligent, most beautiful people he had ever met.
Alinor cocked her head on one side, regarding him with her huge, clear eyes, pools of limpid green. ‘Although,’ she said slowly, smiling, ‘you could just say you lost me. I promise you, I would completely disappear and Edward would never find me.’
Guilhem laughed. ‘He would never believe me.’
She folded her arms across her chest. Jammed beneath her hips, her toes were beginning to prickle and she wriggled them, trying to increase the blood flow to her feet. ‘Couldn’t you say you slipped up? Took your eyes off me for a moment?’
‘It would never happen.’ He shook his head.
‘Why not? Because you’re such a perfect knight, because you never make a mistake? Everyone is fallible, Guilhem, even you.’
His heart coiled with grief, sadness. How right she was.
‘Enough,’ he growled at her, eyes darkening. ‘You can goad me all you like, but it isn’t going to happen. You and I are going to find de Montfort together.’ He extended his hand. ‘Come now, if you want to wash before the others wake up.’
She chewed miserably at her bottom lip, but accepted his help, allowing him to pull her up from the ground. ‘I hate this,’ she whispered as she stood beside him. ‘I hate what Edward has asked us to do.’
‘I know,’ Guilhem said. ‘But it won’t be as bad as you think it is. And I will be with you, all the time.’
Alinor reached down to scoop up her wimple.
‘Leave it,’ Guilhem advised. ‘It will be easier to wash without. ‘ His gaze lingered on her uncovered hair, the pure-gold strands silvery in the moonlight, twisted into the plaited coil at the nape of her neck, the wispy curls tickling her ears. With the encumbrances of fashion removed—the wimple, the veil, the circlet—her glowing innocence was evident for all to see.
Alinor followed his confident stride through towering thickets, the low-growing shrubs and arching ferns that grew in the damp, spongy soil beneath the trees. Her skirts rustled and snagged against fierce, wayward brambles and she wrenched at the material time and time again to free herself and keep up with Guilhem’s fast-receding back. At last, they reached the stream, a wide, shallow river, with trees poking out at odd angles from the bank, roots undercut and exposed by the vigorous force of the water in times of flood. But now, the water level was low, expanses of small stones shining white and dry in the middle of the river.
‘Here,’ Guilhem said, stepping down a series of uneven, lumpy ridges, stopping halfway to help Alinor down. Lifting her skirts, she clung gratefully to his fingers, placing her small feet where he had placed his, until they stood at the water’s edge on a level, gravelled area, crunchy underfoot with flinty stones. Releasing Alinor’s hand, Guilhem pulled his leather flagon from his belt and crouched down, filling it before offering it up to her, water sluicing over his hand. Alinor took it and drank.
The water was ice-cold, delicious, flooding her mouth and throat with sweet-tasting liquid. She gulped greedily, wiping the stray droplets away from her lips, and grinned at him. ‘I cannot tell you how good that tastes.’ He smiled, taking the flagon from her, replacing the stopper.
Dropping to her knees at the water’s edge, skirts splaying out from her hips, Alinor plunged her hands into the flowing water. Cupping the liquid into her hands, she splashed her face, rubbing away the dust and dirt and grime from the day before.
‘This might help,’ said Guilhem, handing her a square linen handkerchief. ‘It’s clean.’
She dipped the white fabric into the water, watching the fabric swirl in the shallows, before wringing it out and wiping the back of her neck, her throat. Conscious that Guilhem was watching her, she rinsed the handkerchief and wrung it out, intending to give it back to him.
‘Thank you,’ she said, hitching around.
Guilhem was pulling his tunic over his head.
Blood pulsed in her chest, a great tidal wave of desire; she jerked her head back, stunned. ‘What are you doing?’ she squeaked. Her fingers dug into the wet handkerchief like a lifeline. She scrabbled to her feet, stumbling on the loose stones, hem soaked with river water.
Guilhem threw the borrowed garment on to the gravel beach, a look of disgust crossing his face. ‘I need to wash, too,’ he said, ‘especially after wearing that stinking thing.’ He laughed, stepping forward towards the water, braies snug across his slim hips, his roped thighs.
‘Keep your braies on!’ she blurted out, her voice bossy with panic.
He chuckled. ‘Of course, Alinor, I have no intention of offending you.’
Her heart fluttered; she felt loose, untethered, as if someone had cut her adrift from her moorings and pushed her out into a wild, unsteady sea. Her stomach wobbled, a sweet anticipation, unfulfilled. She couldn’t look at him, yet, somehow, she seemed unable to drag her eyes away. He bewitched her. The moon, with its rich, luminous light, bathed his torso in a sheet of limpid silver, highlighting the iron-clad expanse of honed, ridged muscle, the flat stomach. His skin glimmered, like polished marble, a god of old, an Adonis.
Her knees sagged treacherously; desire hummed along her veins, growing, threatening to burst. Her fingers itched to touch, to trail across that silky stretch of skin, to test the warm muscle, to feel... ‘I will go back,’ Alinor muttered. Wrenching her gaze from him, she stared hazily at Guilhem’s tunic, lying in a crumpled heap. Her hands were shaking.
Guilhem had knelt by the river, ducked his head under. He turned towards her, droplets flying from the wet ends of his hair. ‘No.’ he said, ‘I’ve finished.’ Water sluiced down his powerful arms, the ripple of muscle, as he stood, and she watched helplessly as the trickles of water streamed across the shadowed cleft of his navel, disappearing beneath the waist of his braies. Her stomach churned; she felt as if her heart would burst. How much longer could she endure this? How much longer could she stay in his company without revealing that she cared for him? Before she made an idiot of herself?
Picking up the hated tunic, Guilhem dried his skin roughly. ‘See,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I told you I wouldn’t be long.’ The water smelled fresh on his skin, a clean invigorating scent.
‘Let’s go then,’ she said, her voice jagged with emotion.
He caught her arm, loose fingers encircling her sleeve. ‘Wait, what’s the matter? Have I done something to offend you?’
Shaking her head, she smiled faintly. ‘No, it’s nothing. Thank you for bringing me here, I feel much better.’
Hearing the false note in her speech, too formal, he tipped his head to one side, the now-damp tunic crumpled in one fist. ‘That’s not it. It’s something else, isn’t it?’
Yes, she
wanted to scream at him, it is something else! I desire you! I love you! The words bubbled up in her chest, building and building until she thought she would explode.
Her lungs compressed, releasing one long slow breath as she tried to rein in her rapid, insane thoughts. ‘Your wound,’ Alinor said, reaching out for something, anything to say: a distraction, a diversion from her true feelings. ‘I noticed it was looking a bit red—is it healing properly?’ She glared purposefully at the faint line on his bare shoulder; there was nothing wrong with it, the skin had knitted together perfectly. ‘And you’ve taken the bandage off!’
‘What?’ Guilhem said, surprised. ‘Is that all you’re worried about?’ The low moonlight slanted across his face, highlighting the shadowed hollows of his cheekbones.
She tried to adopt a tone of brisk, practised efficiency. ‘Does the wound feel hot?’
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘No.’ His eyelashes, wet from the river, stuck out like black feathers around his eyes.
Steeling herself to stop her shaking fingers, Alinor placed her palm flat on the wound; the skin was cool, dry. Flicking her hand away, she tucked it down beside her skirts. ‘It’s fine.’
‘Well, that’s good then,’ he said, his tone suspicious. ‘If you’re sure that’s all you’re worried about?’
She nodded, the movement jerky, unrestrained.
Clutching his tunic, Guilhem turned, bent down to pick up his leather flagon from the grass.
Alinor gasped, clapped her hand across her mouth in shock. Across Guilhem’s back, cruelly accentuated by the stark, unforgiving moonlight, was a huge white scar, the skin raised and puckered, running in a diagonal line from shoulder to waist.
Her heart opened, flew to him. ‘Sweet Jesu, Guilhem, what is that—that scar on your back?’
He spun around, all levity dissipated, his face a dark mask, eyes hollow. Pulling the tunic roughly over his head, he yanked it down across his hips, his thighs. ‘It’s an old wound,’ he muttered.
Commanded by the French Duke (Harlequin Historical) Page 20
