He drew in another deep breath to clear his muddled brain and smiled his pleasure as his lungs filled with the beguiling scent of woman, of flowers and spice, firing his blood hotter still. She must be far cleaner than the usual tavern wench as well; he’d not smelled such a wonderful fragrance since he’d last visited Gillian’s solar at l’Eau Clair.
The realization shot through him as sharply as an arrow—he could not mistake the sweet perfume of a noble lady.
A noble lady…
Christ on the Cross, what had he done?
Arms stiffening, Will levered himself up and tried to climb off her, sending a lightning bolt of agony through his head and arm, while the pulsing pain in his neck killed the throb of pleasure in his loins as effectively as a cold shower of water.
She moved at the same time, giving him a shove that pushed him over and off her. He slammed to the floor on his back and stayed where he’d landed, his vision fading in and out and a wave of dizziness making his stomach threaten to rebel. Will sprawled before the woman like a drunkard, unable to so much as sit up. The impact sent shards of pain through his neck and arm, as well, reminding him exactly how he’d come to this pass.
’Twas not too much ale that had brought him here, wherever “here” was.
Cursing beneath her breath, Julianna scrambled to her knees beside the man. His quiet moans of pain, as well as the solid thump of his body as it hit the hard oak planks, sent a wave of guilt through her. He lay so still, she wondered if she’d knocked him senseless.
She ran a soothing hand over his face, smoothing the hair back from his brow, and reached for the wet cloth draped over the bowl of water. Guilt tinged with regret, she admitted to herself as she eased the cloth across his bandaged forehead. Those few, brief moments of his weight atop her, his hard lean body obviously responding to the feel of a woman beneath him, had sent a shard of pleasure shooting through her before her years of training had jolted to life and she’d thrown him off.
She’d grown so used to fighting back at any physical contact—not that she’d ever before experienced anything like that—that her body responded as a warrior, not a woman.
Though why she should react with such intense lust to the inadvertent touch of a complete stranger shocked her nigh as much as the realization that she wished it would happen again….
With her patient awake and aware of her, of Julianna—not simply responding to a warm female body beneath his.
What else could account for his reaction? He knew no more of her than she did of him.
He pushed aside the damp rag, caught her hand in a surprisingly solid grip and squinted up at her. “Who are you?” he asked, demand lacing his voice despite its quiet tone.
“Hush.” She slipped her fingers free of his and reached to pick up the cloth from where it had fallen on the floor. “You must rest, sir. Who I am matters not a whit.”
His arms shook as he levered himself into a half-sitting position, then, his face nigh as pale as the linen swathed about his brow, settled his back against the wall. “I fear it does, mistress—” He caught hold of her hair and let it sift through his fingers, then tightened his grasp and raised the disheveled locks to his face and inhaled deeply. He glanced up at her. “Or should I call you ‘milady’?” His tone matched his gaze—sharp, measuring.
Challenging.
And she’d always loved a challenge.
A silent voice inside her brain warred with the soft, yearning part of her that wanted to inch closer to him, to tempt fate.
To tempt him.
Yet her good sense warned her to beware this intriguing man despite the way her senses fought to cease all thought—to feel, to react, to follow the instinctual draw of his body to her own.
Sound reasoning won out, and she gathered her hair in her hand to free it. “You need not call me anything at all,” she snarled.
Rather than release her, however, he wound her hair about his hand until his knuckles pressed against hers and she was forced to shift nearer to him else she’d fall. His breath whispered against her cheek, warm, distracting. “But I must,” he insisted, his voice low, rough, intimate. He gazed at her with undisguised heat. “Considering how close we’ve been.” He leaned closer still and brushed his lips over hers. “And are like to become.”
The insinuation coloring his voice—or was it the feel of his mouth upon hers?—sent a wave of heat through her body and a fiery flush to her cheeks. She mentally shook herself free of his spell and drew a deep breath. “That is most unlikely, sir, I assure you.” Heedless of whether or not she lost a hank of hair, Julianna wrapped her free hand about his to pry loose his fingers and jerked away from him, just as he released his hold. She fell sideways to the floor, barely avoiding the candle stand as she rolled clear, becoming tangled in her tousled cloud of hair in the process.
He slipped back against the wall with a thump.
“By the Virgin, you’re an insolent knave.” She thrust her hands through her hair, pushed it away from her face and scrambled to her feet, moving to stand over him. “I’ve a mind to send you down to the cellars to recover,” she added as she flung her hair back over her shoulder and bent to peer at him.
He didn’t groan this time, nor make any response at all to her threat. He lay slumped against the wall, his head lolled to the side and his face contorted with pain. The fury drained from her and she dropped to her knees beside him. A nudge at his shoulder produced no reaction from him, instead sending him sliding bonelessly toward the floor.
Catching hold of him, she bit back a curse and lowered him onto his pallet. He remained quiet, and he made no move to help or to resist her as she moved him into a more comfortable position.
Julianna shifted to sit beside him. “Dear God, have I killed him?” She touched the side of his neck and felt his lifeblood pulsing strong against her fingers. At least he still lived, though considering his treatment at her hands, ’twas a miracle. Perhaps he’d have fared better with the men who attacked him than he had with her, she thought with disgust.
What had possessed her? She was generally even-tempered and patient, able to weigh all sides of a situation, to listen and hold her temper in rein no matter the provocation. Yet her behavior toward this fascinating stranger was as foreign to her as he was, as though a different person altogether had suddenly inhabited her traitorous body. Her thoughts and actions felt so new, so odd, that she scarce recognized herself.
Enough of this maundering self-pity, she cautioned herself as she sat back on her heels and considered his still features in the flickering light. Easing her hand beneath his head, she sank her fingers into his thick, soft hair, satisfied when she felt no new bumps on his poor battered skull.
She checked his wounds to make certain they’d not begun to bleed again, eased him down onto his pallet, and adjusted his bandages before settling the damp compress on his brow. She drew a soft wool blanket over him and smoothed it into place with a sigh. There was naught more she could do for him now, save watch over him as he slept.
Julianna slid around and leaned her shoulder against the wall, keeping her gaze fixed on the bruise-marred symmetry of his face. Memories of the feel of his whiskers beneath her fingers, of his surprisingly soft lips brushing her own, would guarantee she’d get no rest herself this night.
’Twas just as well, for considering the blows to his head—several of which she’d caused by her own carelessness—she’d best keep watch over him to ensure he’d suffered no additional harm. She might as well enjoy the wakeful hours by reliving the brief contact they’d shared, for she doubted ’twould be an experience she’d ever know again.
Will woke alone the next time. Given what he thought he remembered from before—if it wasn’t a dream—he wasn’t sure whether that fact pleased him or not. He’d be happy to welcome the sweet-smelling siren he’d cradled upon his aching body once again, though he could certainly live without another battering by the anger-filled harpy she’d become.
He o
pened one eyelid with care, grateful he’d been cautious when the faint light seeping through the open shutters filled his head with a searing pain. Squeezing his eyes closed, he let his other senses explore the chamber, seeking a sound, a scent, the feel of another person nearby.
Seeking her.
He quieted his breathing and waited. He could sense no one else. Best to use the time to inventory his aches and injuries while he had the chance.
He felt battered enough to hurt even while at rest, of a certainty, but not so incapacitated as to keep him from fighting should he need to. His head felt nigh ready to fall off, but he’d suffered that same sensation once or twice after a night of hard drinking in Ireland and survived it. He couldn’t blame a cask of usquebaugh this time, however.
Blame his own idiocy, more like, or his lack of attention. To be attacked from above like the veriest untried lad…He’d been taught better—aye, and his instincts alone should have warned him even though his attention had wandered.
Had he grown so complaisant since he’d been knighted that he’d become mindless and soft? If so, he deserved whatever he got. At least he’d survived—and no one at l’Eau Clair would know of his stupidity.
Assuming he ever returned home. For all he knew, he was a prisoner here, held by the same knaves who set upon him. Perhaps the woman had been but another of their weapons, more subtle, meant to torture him into madness with her body.
Or with her temper.
He shook his head in disgust at his mawkish thoughts, an act he regretted at once. By God, but his skull throbbed! He’d fought near as wounded as this before, though he’d rather not do so again if he could avoid it. But until he knew where he was and who held him, he’d be wise to remain alert and ready to take advantage of any opportunity.
He dared not allow his vigilance to lapse again.
Nor would he let himself fall victim to the woman once more, should she return. Neither female wiles nor warrior ways would tempt him, he vowed, no matter how appealing she appeared in either guise.
The door hinges squeaked and the door swung wide, sending a draught of cool air into the room. The scent of spice and flowers flowed over him, as noticeable this time as before. His sweet-smelling temptress had returned.
Will fought back a smile and composed himself to remain still and silent while she entered the room and shut the door.
She crossed the chamber, her boot heels tapping lightly on the plank floor, and dropped to her knees beside his pallet. Her hand rested cool and light upon his brow for but a moment before she rose and moved several paces away.
Will waited as long as his patience could bear to ease his eyes open. Better prepared for the sensation of light on his aching eyes, he forced himself to turn his head to his left, where he’d heard her go.
Pain forgotten, he surged to his knees at the sight that met his gaze.
The woman stood nearby, the message pack he’d worn slung over his shoulder open in one hand, the bundle of Lord Rannulf’s messages from within the leather bag clutched under her arm. Even as he struggled to his feet, she muttered a curse and carelessly stuffed the letters back into the pack.
Except for one. Before he could stop her, she’d cracked the wax seal on the parchment square and shook it open. The color fled her face and her words grew louder and more foul.
By the rood, what if she’d opened the message from Rannulf to Pembroke and the king? Though he was unaware of the contents, of a surety ’twas nothing for her eyes.
Will gathered himself and lunged toward her. They fell back against the wall, the bag at their feet. “What do you think you’re doing? Put that down, you meddlesome wench—now!” he cried as he reached for the parchment she still held clutched tight in her hand. “Have you no respect for another’s privacy?” She jerked away and he caught her by the arm.
She fought against his hold, a fury cloaked in long brown hair and an anger he could feel in her shaking body. “Meddlesome, am I?” she snarled back he pressed her against the wall. “Traitor!”
The letter caught between them, they stared at each other.
Breath held tight in his chest, Will waited.
Chapter Four
Birkland Manor, Nottinghamshire
Sir Richard Belleville ignored the usual filth and noisy disorder that engulfed the bailey and made his way to the stable by a roundabout route guaranteed to afford him privacy. His irritation rose; the fact that he must skulk like a thief from one place to another in what was essentially his own keep grated mightily on his already-short temper.
Damn Rannulf FitzClifford anyway! Birkland was but a small part of the territory FitzClifford held for both himself and his wife. ’Twas a wonder he should recall ’twas his to command. But remember it he did, far too often for Richard’s peace of mind. The steadfast nobleman and his well-connected friends made Richard’s life a constant battle, as he sought to balance the commands and desires of Birkland’s owner against his own more profitable aspirations.
How could a man of wealth and power such as Lord Rannulf maintain his allegiance to a boy king, rather than take full advantage of the opportunity provided to put a true leader—one who would reward his friends well—in his place? The fact that Lord William Marshal, the vaunted Earl of Pembroke, stood as regent and advisor to young King Henry made little difference, so far as Richard could see. Pah, the man was ancient, a long way past his prime.
What did it matter that he’d been the most notable warrior in all England once, when that time had been decades ago? He was so old, ’twould be a miracle if he recognized his own vassals now. ’Twas a mystery why anyone would swear fealty to such a man and remain loyal to him and their weak king—and a misery for Richard, since his own loyalty rested wherever he could find the best prospect for personal gain.
And now to have one of FitzClifford’s lackeys nosing about…Generally Lord Rannulf sent orders by way of a messenger, not a trusted knight from his personal troop. Sir William Bowman had been a part of Lord Rannulf’s inner circle since before he’d won his spurs.
Something must have made FitzClifford suspicious about where Richard’s allegiance lay. What other reason could Bowman have had to break his journey at Birkland? To deliver a message from Lord Rannulf that said next to nothing, while affording Bowman the opportunity to pry into Richard’s affairs? It seemed impossible that word of his activities could have reached Fitz-Clifford, who dwelt in one of the most remote parts of the kingdom—and so swiftly, too—but he could think of no other reason for Bowman’s visit.
If the truth of Richard’s involvement in the plans to overthrow the young king came to light, the best he could hope for would be a swift death. No matter that he saw no sin in working to aid those with some power to gain it all; others would see his actions as treason.
He’d simply have to make certain he remained on the side that won.
He strode into the shadowy depths of the stable, shuddering at the sudden chill that skittered down his spine. The darkness brought to mind the torture, maiming and worse that had haunted his dreams in the two nights since Bowman had arrived at Birkland. A traitor’s reward—or the fears of a guilty man, mayhap—but also a powerful spur to goad him toward the successful completion of his plans.
Escorting Bowman on his way—into the maze-like depths of Sherwood, Richard reflected, giving a satisfied chuckle—had been a masterstroke. The man had even thanked him for his consideration! If the man found his way out of the wood, ’twould certainly delay his journey.
If he survived…
Yet Richard couldn’t quite rid himself of the sensation that he had an arrow aimed at his back as he stood on the battlements, poised and ready to help him lose his balance and propel to his doom.
Although he’d sent two of his own trusted men after Bowman later, to do whatever necessary to ensure that the man never left the infamous forest, his uneasiness had yet to diminish.
Perhaps the fact that he had heard nothing from the pair of worthless idiots
since they’d gone out after Bowman accounted for his continuing apprehension.
He’d taken care of every detail, he was sure of it. He couldn’t hide the fact that Bowman had entered Birkland—unfortunately too many people had seen and spoken with him for that—but Richard stood ready, if necessary, to swear Bowman hadn’t delivered any messages from Lord Rannulf to him.
In the event Bowman’s effects should survive though he did not, the message from Lord Rannulf, slipped back into the pack while Bowman slept, had been resealed with wax so neatly, anyone examining the contents of Bowman’s pack would never realize it had already been opened.
If anyone should come looking for Bowman, Richard would claim he’d never read Fitz-Clifford’s missive before Bowman left Birkland. It should work; his ability to feign innocence had served him well all his life. He’d no reason to believe the skill would abandon him now.
After all, ’twas possible Bowman had forgotten to deliver the letter, was it not?
’Twas a shame he hadn’t dared to relieve Bowman of the other messages he’d carried. He’d like to have gotten his hands on them, since Bowman had been on his way to Pembroke’s camp at Lincoln. There was no telling what important missive he might have brought; perhaps something useful to Richard’s plans, or his associates’ goals. What a feat ’twould be if he could gain possession of important information to pass along to the leaders of their rebellion!
If his men had not only stopped Bowman, but brought back his pack…Hell, he cared little if they didn’t stop Bowman, if only they’d stolen the letters.
Straw rustled deep in the far corner of the large building, distracting Richard from his musings. “There ye are, milord.” Johan spoke from the gloom. “I been waitin’ for ye a long time. Beginnin’ to think ye mightn’t o’got my message.”
Bride of the Tower Page 3
