by Brit Darby
De Lacy rode ahead and spoke with his men, and rode back to her. The other men quickened their mounts’ paces and soon were out of sight. The dust settled, other than the dirt swirled by the breeze. Alianor mustered an iron stomach and offered her companion a sweet smile as reward.
Quintin chuckled, pleased with the prize he had wrested from Lackland. He knew the King lusted after Alianor. It delighted him to claim her right beneath ‘Softsword’s’ arrogant nose.
He also knew Lackland might have forced her to his own bed by guile or wile, using the same threat he wielded to push her into marriage. But, it seemed the King needed alliances far more than he did a moment’s relief. By giving Quintin the woman he desired, he secured yet another nobleman to his cause.
The Irish incident with Marshal was still a sore spot with Lackland. Quintin reminded His Majesty of it whenever they spoke. He also liked the way the King’s eyes narrowed and how his nostrils flared at the mention of the old feud with de Braose. He kept the fires of suspicion stoked, hinting to the King there was rumor of more trouble, or mentioning de Braose was seen amassing more land, or building another castle.
It was all so easy and Lackland had taken the bait. Now, he had his heart’s desire at long last. Quintin smiled, satisfied, watching the woman riding beside him. How his loins ached already, wanting to plunder the sweet treasure between Alianor’s legs. He imagined her little honey-pot sweet and tight, aching for a real man. He found it amusing she had been wed to a sickly old knight, an impotent jest of a fellow who had not even the wits to lock his pretty prize up in a convent or a chastity belt.
They rode on for a while in silence. Alianor seemed to ride slower and slower, putting distance between them and his retinue of men. He chafed with impatience when she dawdled, looking about at the countryside. The sun dropped low into the west, its light fading with the oncoming night.
“We must move a bit faster, my dear. We’ll not reach Fountainhall before nightfall at this pace.” He tried not to sound as irritated as he felt.
“Oh,” Alianor seemed distracted. Studying her, Quintin decided black did not suit her. He would order this ugly outfit she wore burned. He would choose all her clothing and accessories. The first item to go was the old man’s wedding ring. Soon he would see it removed and replaced with his own band of ownership.
She blushed beneath his scrutiny. “Apologies, milord, I am so intrigued by the beauty here. Of course, we must hurry.”
Quintin nodded and touched his heels to his mare. He had cantered a few paces when he realized she was not beside him. Wheeling his horse back, he saw she remained in the same spot, the blood-bay indolently grazing. Annoyed by the simple-minded look on her face, he snapped, “What is it now?”
“Oh, milord,” she sighed. Alianor ducked her head shyly and peered up at him through her long dark lashes. “I am having the most untoward thoughts. I am so relieved my confessor is not here to hear them.” She tittered, pressing a hand to her lips. He watched her, irritation fading as he was intrigued by the way the sunlight glinted off her hair.
“I know you will think this overbold of me, Quintin, and truly I am shocked at my own musings, but …” She let her words trail off. She giggled girlishly.
He summoned an indulgent smile. He could relax a bit. She was, after all, his property. It pleased him to grant her an occasional whim. “But what, my dear?”
Alianor licked her lips, and he found himself fascinated by the innocent gesture. His loins stirred again. God’s nightshirt, he was hard as a pikestaff. He shifted uncomfortably in the saddle, massaging the ache with a gloved hand beneath his cloak.
His gaze devoured Alianor, lingering on the sweet swell of her breasts, sculpting the flare of her hips beneath the gown she wore. It seemed he had lusted after this blue-eyed witch for a lifetime already. The piquant anticipation of the pleasure he would have this night made him throb with excitement.
“I was wondering if you might oblige me in one small, silly little thing, Quintin.”
He feared he would explode when she looked at him like that. Through gritted teeth, he asked, “What is your wish, milady?”
“Do you think it proper I might have my first kiss from you, since I am to be your wife?” She toyed with a lock of her silvery hair, blue eyes wide as she gazed at him.
He was taken aback, surprised she acted so boldly. A lecherous thought overtook him. Aye, the little wench was hungry for loving, understandable when one considered she had been chained to a withered stick of a man for many years. He licked his own lips and grinned at her, mentally devouring her silken flesh, inch by rarefied inch.
“Why, what a delightful idea, dearest.” Spurring his horse closer, he leaned toward Alianor, and after a hesitation she leaned towards him. His mouth sought hers; his arm shot out and seized her in a fierce hug, almost pulling her from her saddle. He forced her lips apart, his tongue invaded, demanded she respond. He grabbed her breast and kneaded it roughly, testing her response. With satisfaction he felt her shudder.
The haunting, elusive violet scent of her drove him mad. It tantalized, teased him. He had waited so long to claim this woman and he chuckled low with satisfaction. “Aye, lovey,” he rasped against her ear when the kiss ended, “you’re hot for a man, I knew it. Well, my sweet bride, I intend to teach you how to please me, in many dark, delicious ways — oh yes, we shall have our little secrets, you and me.”
Alianor closed her eyes as tightly as she could. She tried to delay the inevitable a little longer by malingering along the way, but the landscape did not distract de Lacy as she hoped and he grew impatient.
In desperation she offered the kiss, but he took it as invitation to maul her outright. He dragged her from her saddle onto his, facing him, and yanked her against his broad chest. He cut off her surprised gasp with a hard kiss. She fought back nausea. She tried not to feel those big hands groping her breasts, painfully squeezing, pinching her nipples through the cloth. Impatient with the fabric covering them, de Lacy moved on to her legs. She started when his hand plowed beneath the layers of her gown, tearing her smock aside and stroking the bare skin of her thigh.
He laughed when she flinched. “You’re like a high-strung little filly, Alianor,” he said, burying his hot, moist lips against her neck. “Sweet Christos, I want to be your stallion — mount you, make you buck and scream with pleasure, discipline you to accept my lusts.” He thrust a big hand into her hair, ignoring her cry of pain as he crushed his mouth against hers.
De Lacy’s kiss was destructive, possessive, plundering in a way Alianor had never experienced before. Despite the danger of enraging him, she struggled. Her love for Liam overcame any fear she had of this loathsome Norman. He did not seem to notice her resistance at first. His open mouth slid wetly against hers; he groaned and panted with the rut of desire exuding from every pore of his being. “I don’t think I can wait any longer, my silver vixen.”
His hand slid up her bare hip, and he grabbed her buttock, bruising and kneading the tender flesh until she thought she would scream.
“God’s wounds, but I need you. Now!” he cried, burying his face in the cleavage of her breasts and fumbling desperately with the laces on his breeks.
Chapter Twenty
“WHAT’S SHE UP TO?” Liam said aloud, as the water swirled about his and Niall’s waists.
“What do you mean, lad?”
“Alianor,” Liam said, turning his head so he might see his uncle hog-tied to the post beside him. “What do you suppose she’s planning?”
“What makes you think she’s planning anything?” Niall sputtered as a wave rushed up and doused him full in the face. He shook his dripping head, gasping. “I hope the colleen would not be foolish enough to try an’ escape de Lacy.”
Liam thought of nothing else since she’d left. Alianor was calm — too calm about this situation. He knew she loved him, even if she’d never said so outright. He believed it with all his heart. As he believed she was about to do something
crazy.
“Aye, she’d cross the devil’s own bastard to save us,” Liam muttered as a passing wave lapped his chin while the overall swell rose to his chest.
Niall twisted and strained against the ropes, trying to see him better. “You think?”
Liam could hear the hopeful note in his voice and knew Niall’s initial calm resignation and acceptance of death had fled in the wake of the icy reality of the incoming waves. He didn’t want to die anymore than Liam did. Now death was close at hand, both men wanted to live more than anything.
Liam’s head snapped back against the post. “Ah, that’s it. She called me William, Niall.”
“That’s nice, lad. What the hell difference does it make what she called you?” Niall’s voice was tense with strain. Liam didn’t take offense.
“I don’t know how to explain it, but I know she meant to tell me something with those words.” Liam felt a stirring in his heart, a confirmation he was right.
Aye, Alianor was up to something and this worried him. What could one woman do against all of de Lacy’s men? Not to mention the king of villains himself. De Lacy employed a number of Irish natives among his servant ranks, and Liam knew all the rumors about his unsavory proclivities. Including the story he had murdered his first wife. If Alianor pulled the wrong string with the man, provoked him to a murderous rage — he couldn’t bear to think of it. Mother of God, what was she going to do?
WHILE DE LACY’S ATTENTION focused elsewhere, Alianor found what she fumbled for in her girdle belt. The little dagger Walter had given her for protection — the same one Liam had returned to her by way of apology — was well-hidden in a special pocket sewn into her girdle.
With one fluid movement, she yanked the weapon from its scabbard and placed the razor-sharp edge to his throat. “If your hand moves one inch further, Quintin,” she whispered into his ear, “I’m afraid I’ll have to kill you.”
The unveiled threat brought de Lacy’s head up with a snap. Wisely he stilled when the blade dug into the tender flesh where it was pressed. A drop of blood trickled down his neck and absorbed into his scarlet tunic, leaving no trace but making the point mere words could not.
“Now, I truly hate disappointing my anxious would-be husband, but I have had enough of being mauled. You will forgive me if I call this cozy little assignation to an end?”
He swallowed hard, a look of fury in his cold gray eyes. “Foolish wench,” he muttered, careful not to move lest the knife cut deeper, accidentally or otherwise. “You’ve not been properly schooled in womanly ways. Coventry let you run wild. A little discipline will take the fire from your belly.”
Alianor tilted her head, considering. “I suppose it might. Beat a dog or horse or woman enough, you can rob the spirit from any living thing. I imagine you speak from experience, milord. I heard Lady Juliana oft sported fresh bruises upon her countenance.”
“Juliana crossed me once too often, milady.” His gaze seared into her. “Do not make the same mistake.”
“Oh, I do not intend to, sirrah. Certainly, I do not intend to end up a broken pile of bones at the bottom of Fountainhall’s steps.”
Rage flared in his eyes. He spoke through gritted teeth. “You will never find a place far enough away from me, Alianor. You are mine, you belong to me, and you cannot escape me. You will pay for this transgression — and pay dearly.”
“Perhaps.” Alianor smiled at him with icy deliberation. “It’s a chance I’m willing to take, and one far preferable to rape, even from a husband.”
De Lacy made a move to dash the dagger from her grip, but she expected treachery. She twisted away from him. In doing so she scored a path with the dagger tip across his left cheek.
When he shouted in pain, she leaned back and brought her right foot up. She landed a foot-punch squarely in the middle of his barrel chest, sending him tumbling back over the horse’s rear like a lead weight to the ground. She heard him grunt with pain as he impacted earth, hard.
As de Lacy scrambled to his feet, clutching his bleeding face, Alianor wrenched about in the saddle so she was facing the right way, ignoring her twisted skirts and bare legs. She grabbed up the reins, and circled him, out of range. “If you hurry, milord, you might evade the storm and catch up to your men before midnight.”
“Bitch. Come back here!”
Alianor laughed and dug her heels into the gray’s ribs. At her whistle, Biorra came galloping after as she knew he was trained to do.
As the horses bolted into the evening shadows, she heard de Lacy cursing and stumbling after her. She chuckled under her breath, and leaned low over the horse’s neck for more speed. She did not waste another thought on de Lacy, but rode as if all the curs of hell snapped at her heels. She made a beeline for the coast, back to Liam and Niall.
ALIANOR CRAWLED TOWARDS THE cliff’s edge, above the spot where de Lacy had ordered the two Irishmen bound in a grisly sacrifice to the sea. It was dark, but her eyes adjusted to the dimness, aided by the sliver of moon arcing above the water.
She cursed the gown impeding her progress. At least she had chosen the right color by chance. She had assembled an all-black trousseau to make herself less attractive to de Lacy, but it served as camouflage in the night. She needed every advantage.
Staying low, she wriggled ahead on knees and elbows in short bursts. Finally she stopped behind a low mound of scrub to assess the scene. De Lacy’s man stood guard, his duty to ensure Liam and Niall did not escape their fate.
The man strolled along the cliff’s edge and she wondered if she might be able to catch him by surprise and topple him over it. It was too risky, she decided. If he heard her approach and countered, her physical strength was no match for a man’s and, in the end, she might be the one hurled over the precipice, or perhaps they would both fall in the ensuing struggle. Neither case served Liam and Niall.
Alianor glanced down at the boiling sea and saw the two men submerged in the churning surf. The tide was up to their chins, water choking them with each successive wave. The storm threatening earlier had hit the coast at last, wind whining and sea surging. She couldn’t waste another minute.
She had plucked a crossbow from de Lacy’s saddle and lugged it along. Fortunately, it was already cocked and loaded, for she had neither the time nor the brute strength to do so herself. She pivoted a bit into position, still prone, and rose up to her elbows to aim the weapon.
Archery was one of her skills and Alianor sought her target with only a twinge of remorse. This man had secured Liam and Niall to the pilings, laughing as he did so. Alianor had watched him tie them with efficient and deliberate cruelty, yanking the coarse ropes so tightly it cut into their wrists. This man was like his master and deserved his fate. Without further hesitation, she steadied her aim.
A faint “snick” and the guard wavered, clutching at his chest. The quarrel had squarely pierced his heart, a swifter and more merciful death than his master chose for Liam and Niall. He was dead before he hit the ground. Alianor whispered a quick prayer for his soul, and tossed the crossbow aside. She leaped up and half-slid, half-ran down the steep slope to the water’s edge.
She yanked her little dagger from her girdle, and without another thought plunged into the water. Dagger in hand, she treaded through the churning surf, and when it reached her shoulders she took a deep breath, tossed away her fear and dog-paddled out to the pilings.
The two men were nearly invisible, the dark, swirling sea surrounding them all. Alianor caught only occasional glimpses of Liam’s dark head silvered by the moonlight between the surge and ebb of the tide. Fear collided with despair. Was she too late?
Her strength faltered in the icy water. Her muscles cramped in protest and her heavy gown threatened to drag her down. Gasping, she struggled blindly on, praying she did not swim in the wrong direction.
She bumped into something; the sea had shoved her up against one of the pilings. She seized the wooden post and clung for dear life. Waves battered her against the rough wo
od, splinters grazed her palms and cheek and she almost dropped the dagger. Panic drove her, but time was running out — by now the men might be fully submerged.
Alianor had no choice but to dive into the dark abyss. Holding the old terror at bay, she took a deep breath, released the post and went down. She pushed off with her feet, striking out for the next piling.
As luck would have it, she encountered a flailing leg instead. Instinct took over when her mind faltered, and she groped for the bindings holding Liam to the post.
She hacked at the rope with the dagger, in a frantic burst of strength that surprised even her. The rope sagged and his struggling body did the rest. He headed for the surface, and when she came up beside him they both clung to the piling, gasping and choking for air.
“Alianor,” he called to her over the thundering surf. “The knife — give me the knife.”
Weakly she handed it over, knowing she didn’t have the strength left to dive again and cut Niall free. Liam disappeared beneath the angry black waves. Alianor gripped the piling, her fingers bloodied from splinters. The tide surged back and forth, the strong current trying to drag her into the undertow.
Liam was gone a long time. She feared the worst and a shuddering cry broke from her lips. No — she could not lose him!
Niall’s head burst above the ocean’s surface, her last vision as the surf tore her from the post. Darkness engulfed Alianor; invisible fingers clawed at her and dragged her down into the icy depths.
She struggled up to the surface, and gasped down one gulp of air. “Liam,” she screamed into the void. Or perhaps she only thought it. “Liam.” A hard jerk sucked her back into the wet darkness. It was as if a monster from the deep seized her by the legs, pulling her down, down into his swirling domain.
Màthair. Athair. Alianor’s mind cried, the words making no sense in her conscious mind, yet somehow hauntingly familiar. I am joining you in your watery grave.
