Wild Hearts

by Virginia Henley

  She was sure the hot irons would burn and maim her for life, but the blacksmith plunged the metal into cold water. It hissed hideously, and steam rose from the bucket, along with a stench of hot iron that nauseated her. Tabrizia realized that the uncontrollable temper of a redhead was no myth. She bitterly regretted that she had done this thing. She had been an utter fool to goad him, knowing him as she did.

  The thing that really alarmed her was his sensuality. His anger seemed to go hand in hand with his lust. Provoke his temper and you had an uncontrolled rampant male, who sooner or later would not be denied.

  The blacksmith knew his job, for when he shackled her, the irons were only heavy, not hot as she had feared.

  "How many keys?" demanded Paris.

  "Two, milord."

  "Melt one down while I watch. There will be only one key, and it will remain in my possession. That way my family cannot sneak to free you behind my back!" He took her directly to his chamber and manacled her to his bed. "You raved about being free as if you were a prisoner here, instead of a guest. Now you will taste what it is like to be a prisoner." The harsh treatment covered his true feelings. He wanted her safe, under his hand, where she could do herself no harm. She was so determined to be free of him, he knew she would escape if she could, and somehow the thought was unendurable to him. He spotted Alexandria hovering outside the chamber door. "I forbid you, all of you, to have any contact with her!" and he strode out fiercely.

  She knew his bed was meant to be a symbol to her. She knew he would return to finish her subjugation. "Alexandria," called Tabrizia. There was no answer. "Alexandria! Get in here," shouted Tabrizia.

  "Paris forbade me;" whispered, Alexandria.

  "To hell with Paris," shouted Tabby, her anger bubbling to the surface. "I'm naked. Go and get me my clothes. I need shoes and stockings; my feet are freezing!"

  Alexandria ran swiftly, making sure she wasn't observed, and was back in a few minutes with Tabby's clothes. The first problem was the black silk stockings. The first one went on fine, but the second had to be carefully threaded through the iron manacle before she could pull it up her Ieg. She slipped on the red leather slippers and asked for her garters.

  "I couldn't find any," said Alexandria, looking over her shoulder in case Paris should reappear.

  "Give me yours," demanded Tabrizia, her anger and urgency climbing with every second. The garters had pink rosettes on them, but her predicament blinded her to their prettiness. "Mary and Joseph, I can't put on any of my clothes! Oh, no, no, this cannot be happening. Alexandria, I can't put my arms or legs through any of my clothes so long as I am chained to the bed." Her eyes blazed in her frustration.

  "Well, you look most fetching," offered Alexandria.

  "For God's sake, please find me something to wear before he returns. You are to blame for this as well as I, damn it!"

  "Let me think, let me think. You need something to go around you with no arm or leg holes. Oh, I know! Shannon has a black corselet. We can take the laces out, wrap- it around you and thread the laces through again."

  "Alexandria, bring that little dagger you got at the fair."

  "What do you intend?" asked Alexandria, her eyes wide.

  "I intend to defend myself at any cost. Go quickly, before he returns."

  Tabrizia looked down at herself in dismay. The corselet pushed her breasts higher, exposing the upper half completely. Alexandria surveyed her optimistically. "The front comes down low enough, to cover you, but the back is cut high, to allow for your buttocks."

  "You mean I have a bare bum!" concluded Tabrizia bluntly.

  "I'll put another log on the fire and poke it up into a good blaze. If you are still cold, you'll have to wrap in the fur cover on Paris's bed. I must go, Tabby. He wouldn't hesitate to beat me."

  "You don't need to tell me your brother is uncivilized. I know it," she said, tucking the dirk welt down between her breasts. "You had better make yourself scarce for the rest of the day. He knows full well that you are involved in this up to your eyebrows."

  When she was left alone, her anger festered within her. She despised herself for having cowered before him on the sands. She should have flown at his face and scratched his eyes out. She sat on the bed and stared at her iron bracelets, willing them to dissolve. Of course, they didn't, but she felt a power growing within her that would explode the instant she was released. She didn't know how long he would leave her chained, but the longer it was, the stronger she would grow. Rogue Cockburn was in for the fiercest display of temper he'd ever witnessed! He would come to ravish her, but she swore she would die before she would allow him to take her. She hated him with a passion she had never felt before. Her blood was up now. A true redhead's fury was building within her, and when it was unleashed, he would feel its full impact.

  She ran her hand over the thick wolf pelt on the bed. The man lived in absolute luxury. Witness the black velvet bed gown with dragons embroidered in gold thread. Her eyes fell on his bedside table, where reposed a jewel-encrusted golden goblet. Lying negligently beside it was his emerald earring, his diamond ring, and a huge cairngorm clasp from one of his cloaks. The walls were hung with rich tapestries to keep out the cold and, at the same time, add beauty to the chamber. No rushes on Cockburn's floor! Deep-piled rugs from the Orient, probably taken at sea from some poor, unsuspecting China clipper. A window embrasure was piled high with soft velvet cushions, above which the long, slitted window looked out over the purple Lammermuirs.

  Darkness fell. The fireplace cast grotesque shadows across the walls. A log fell, and she jumped out of her skin. Her heart was still pounding when she heard the unmistakable sound of his footsteps. He entered carrying a torch, which he set in a wall bracket. She sat absolutely motionless, and waited. He lighted candles on the mantelpiece and on the desk against the far wall. The room, now flooded with light, showed not a miserable chained and frightened girl but a woman who stood defiantly before him with eyes blazing: He blinked as he beheld the erotic garment and black silk stockings. His desire for her stunned him with its sudden intensity. No girl this, but a woman ripe and luscious to quench his insatiable thirst. He decided upon a placating tone and began, "Tabrizia, I am sorry for my accursed temper. When I began to cool down and come to my senses, I realized that the longer I kept you chained, the more your anger would build."

  She kept absolutely still and tried to breathe slowly.

  "Let me unlock these manacles. I'll have some supper brought up for us, and we can be private." He knelt first and unlocked the manacle around her ankle. She held up her wrists, encircled by the heavy irons, and watched intently as he turned the key and unlocked the chains. The instant she was free she screamed, "Bastard!" She picked up his black robe and ran over and threw it onto the fire. "Whoreson!" she spat, taking the torch from the bracket and setting it to the bed hangings.

  Bemused by the temper tantrum and the bared buttocks, he asked, "Would you burn my bed?"

  "My only regret is that you are not in it, you swine!"

  He quickly smothered the flames, but while he was doing so, she grabbed up the jewels from the bedstand and ran toward the slitted window, intending to fling them into the wind. He was too quick for her. He grabbed her hands and forced her to drop their contents to the rug, then his arms swiftly encircled her, and he clamped her against his long, hard body. His mouth found hers, and for once his kiss was not brutal. He savored her mouth tenderly; his hands slipped down to caress her bare buttocks and press that part of her body for which he longed.

  Still panting from her exertions, she was almost blinded by her anger. She snatched the dagger and with full force drove it toward his hand. At, that precise moment, he moved his hand to her thigh, and the dagger plunged into the cheek of her bottom. She screamed in pain as the dagger fell to the floor and the blood streamed down her leg.

  "What is it, sweetheart?" Paris exclaimed, alarmed at the writhing pain visible on her face. He held her at arm's length, saw the self-in
flicted wound and urgently inspected it. Relief flooded him when he saw it was superficial.

  She clung to him, sobbing, "Paris, help me, I'm stabbed!"

  "Hush, sweeting, hush. It's not nearly as bad as you imagine."

  Her hand came away from her buttock, scarlet with blood. White-faced, she sobbed, "I'm dying!"

  He smiled to reassure her.

  "You laugh while my lifeblood drains from me?" she gasped, stricken.

  "My lamb, my honey love, I'm sorry. Come, let me tend it quickly." He lifted her in his arms and laid her facedown on his bed. From a cupboard in the corner of the chamber he took a wooden box filled with bandages and ointments used to tend many of his own wounds over the years. He washed the wound with gentle hands and applied a clean pad, putting a deal of pressure on it. Her tears filled his pillow as he murmured soothing words to her. He could see that the blood flowed freely in spite of his efforts, so he said calmly, "Do you think you could be very brave and let me put a stitch in it?"

  "Yes... no, I couldn't! Perhaps you'd better... oh, I don't know!" she wailed as the searing pain grew.

  "Your bottom is so beautiful, I couldn't bear it to be scarred."

  "You are laughing again!" she accused.

  "I couldn't be that cruel," he assured her. "Here now. I've mixed a little laudanum with some brandy." He held the jeweled goblet to her lips, and she choked the fiery liquid down. He waited for it to take some effect. She cried out as he efficiently put two small stitches into her flesh, but he noted with relief that she didn't scream. He hoisted her against his shoulder and carried her up the short flight of stone steps to her own chamber. He pulled back the covers and laid her facedown.

  "You'll be asleep soon," he soothed, brushing her hair back from her face with tender fingers. "You must admit the situation was comic, darling. I never saw anyone stab themselves in the arse before."

  "You are a rotten beast, Rogue Cockburn. Don't think for one moment I shan't pay you back!"

  CHAPTER 7

  It was broad daylight by the time Tabrizia awoke. She stayed put for a while, but it grew uncomfortable when she couldn't roll over onto her back, so she gingerly slipped from the bed and tried walking a few steps. She was sore, but it could be borne, she decided. She unlaced the black corselet, now quite repugnant to her, and stripped off the black stockings. She bathed her wound gently, winced as she patted it dry with a soft towel and pulled on a pair of cotton bloomers.

  Mrs. Hall came in quietly with a tray of breakfast. "Tsk, tsk, lassie, the whole castle is abuzz with tales of yer behavior." She put down the tray and opened the wardrobe. "Here's yer petticoat. Sit down, lass, and eat while I pick out a pretty frock for ye."

  "I'll stand, thank you, Mrs. Hall." Her eyes brimmed with tears as she moved carefully about the room.

  "Whatever must his lordship think of ye?"

  Tabrizia blushed hotly. "I'll never speak to his lordship again as long as I live!" she vowed. "In fact, I'll avoid all the Cockburns today, thank you. I will visit Anne; there's sure to be no Cockburns within a mile of her."

  "Watch out for that Mrs. Sinclair, I dinna trust the woman," warned Mrs. Hall.

  "I don't care for her myself, but she is Anne's creature— obeys her like a dog. I don't think I need fear her."

  Anne was in a pristine white night rail with silver ribbons. The pale hair glowed with a halo effect, making her look like a madonna. A box of chocolates lay open on the bed, which she graciously offered to her guest. Tabrizia popped one into her mouth and reached for another. You look very serene today," complimented Tabrizia.

  "While you look agitated," said Anne with a smooth malice in her tone. "Is my husband disturbing you with his advances, I wonder? The man probably desires you because you are so like his sisters. Incest is not unheard of in these parts, you know."

  Tabrizia was horrified at her words.

  Anne's laughter tinkled out. "There, my dear, I've shocked you! Pay no attention to me. Lying here all day gives me an acid disposition. Sinclair, bring the paintings," she ordered, and insisted Tabrizia have another chocolate.

  Tabrizia was surprised to see that the portrait was finished. It was lovely to look at. Anne had painted her without flaws. As a matter of fact, Tabrizia thought it flattered a little too much. The portrait was beautiful, with almost saintly overtones.

  Tabrizia picked up the portrait to admire it. On impulse she turned it over, and there, to her horror, was a very different portrait. It was Tabrizia in death. Her neck had a knotted cord about it, choking until the eyes had popped out of their sockets. The mouth was open in a gaping scream. She swiftly laid the canvas on the bed and without a word, walked quietly from the room.

  Harvest time was a great festive occasion, and it was almost upon them. It was an old tradition for the castle to feed everyone who lived on Cockburn land, including all the sheep crofters and the people from the villages. The younger Cockburns were busy the whole afternoon practicing country dances for the festival and never noticed that Tabby wasn't around.

  When Paris sat down at the evening meal, his first question was, "Where is Tabrizia?"

  When they couldn't tell him, he immediately left the table and went in search of her. He found her huddled on the staircase that led from his bedchamber up to her own. She gripped her middle tightly, her lips gone white with pain.

  "What is it?" he asked, alarmed.

  She shook her head in misery, unable to put her agony into words.

  He lifted her gently and took her up to her bed. The moment he laid her down, she moaned and began to vomit. She hung over the edge of the bed, helplessly retching. In an instant he was holding her One arm held her gently, while the other held her stomach rigid, and miraculously it stopped trying to turn itself inside out. He soothingly massaged her knotted stomach muscles until they began to relax. Ordinarily, she would have been mortified to have him see her vomit, but she felt so ill, she was pitiably grateful for his care.

  Paris was worried. She was only slightly better in spite of disgorging what had made her sick. He felt her head to see if she was fevered, but if anything, her skin had a cold, clammy feeling. Her ghostly pallor was alarming. "Are you feeling any better at all?" he queried.

  She nodded mutely.

  He brought water and towels and, with tender hands, washed the nastiness from her. Then he bent and efficiently cleaned up the mess she had made on the floor. He slipped off her shoes and urged her beneath the warm covers. He sat on the bed and waited a few moments until she seemed more settled, then he began to question her. "What did you eat today?"

  "At breakfast I had only what your sisters had, and they took no harm," she said slowly.

  "What about lunchtime?" he persisted.

  She shook her head. "I took no lunch. I wasn't hungry after I visited Anne."

  "Anne? You went up to Anne's chamber?" demanded Paris.

  "Yes," faltered Tabrizia, "she had been painting my portrait."

  "Did you eat any of Anne's chocolates?" he demanded.

  "Yes." She raised wide eyes to his.

  "My God Almighty. My wife is a morphia addict. I bring her the filthy stuff myself every time I go into Edinburgh." He was livid. He got up from the bed to pace the room. "I'll kill the bitch!" he swore. The room was so small, it caged him, imprisoning them both. His anger was so great, she could feel it, taste it almost. She knew fully his male recklessness, his strength, his cruelty, and she feared he would do murder. She could tell that what he held within him festered. If she could get him to talk, it would cleanse him, perhaps calm him to a degree. She dare not tell him of the grisly portrait Anne had done of her, or he would know Anne had deliberately tried to harm her, so she soothed, "It was an accident. Anne could not know the stuff would make me deathly sick."

  He laughed bitterly, shaking his head. "You know nothing of her corruptness."

  "No," she whispered, "tell me."

  He moved to the small window and gazed with unseeing eyes into the black n
ight. "A month after we were wed, she told me she was with child. At first I was elated. Then Anne took to her bed, said she was having a bad time; but I discovered she was ill because she had been taking an apothecary shop full of medicines to rid herself of the burden. I think that's when my loathing began. I hated her for what she had tried to do to my child. I got Margaret's Mother, Mrs. Sinclair, to nurse her and watch that she take no more filthy concoctions. I must have been extremely gullible where women were concerned. I had no idea she was carrying another man's child until she gave birth only six months after the wedding." He stopped talking: He was reliving the pain of it all.

  "She must have been in a great panic, knowing the child was not yours," said Tabrizia softly.

  "Why do you make excuses for her?" he demanded, turning dark, accusing eyes upon her.

  "To keep you from doing murder," she confessed.

  "Aye, murder. I suspect that's what she did to the wee bairn."

  "Many babies die, Lord Cockburn."

  "This one did, after a week of Anne's tender loving care."

  Tabrizia had to know, so she asked quietly, "Did you beat her for killing the child or for being unfaithful to you?"

  "Beat her?" he repeated with incredulous fury.. "Believe what you will, everyone else does. She cannot walk because she was injured during delivery, or so she swears. She began to take morphia and became addicted. How it first began, I'll never know, but I think it has affected her brain. The woman is mad. I even suspect her in the death of my father."

  "But Anne cannot walk."

  "Can't she?" He brooded darkly, then he saw the fatigue in her face and came to the bed. "Will you be all right?" he asked softly.

  She nodded, and he left the room quietly.

  Before sleep claimed her, she puzzled once again at the complexity of the man. Tonight she had glimpsed a side of him that he kept hidden from others. Her feelings for him had undergone so many changes since the night he had kidnapped her, she was confused as to what her true feelings were. He could be mocking and arrogant, hot-tempered and cruel, then cold-blooded and icy. But when he chose, he could be tender and gentle, wooing a woman with a compelling magnetism that made her senses betray her own body. She fell into a fitful sleep, dreaming one wild dream after another, where Rogue Cockburn changed from hunter to jailor to lover.