A Flame Run Wild

by Christine Monson

  With shaking hands Liliane reined in the stallion. If Jean had a brother, he was Alexandre de Brueil. Brueil was finely clothed in a crimson tabard embroidered with his leopard and unicorn device over a gold chainse; his long horseman's legs were encased in olive-green hose with tawny ankle-length boots. His neatly trimmed, auburn curls glinted in the sun. He was also clean-shaven. Despite his rich clothes, he was Jean's twin—or was he? Could even brothers have the same vivid blue eyes, that irresistibly reckless smile? And then she saw the difference in the smile: Alexandre de Brueil's was tight-lipped, as if he had swallowed a rusty horseshoe.

  The mass of people in the courtyard were staring at her as she gaped at her bridegroom, and she suddenly realized that she must stop peering as if she'd been sold the wrong goods. "Count de Brueil?" she ventured hesitantly.

  "I am at your service," answered Brueil, his gaze hard. "'You are the Countess del Pinal, I presume."

  Liliane saw no trace of recognition in his expression. He surveyed her coldly, then glanced about as if to look for her missing retainers. She saw that Jacques's eyes narrowed in irritation and Louis looked as if he would like to strangle her. He and Jacques must have searched for her all night before they had given up and come to make excuses to Breuil for her lateness. They must have feared that she would not come at all. Good! She'd had her first tiny ounce of revenge against them. She enjoyed thinking of their unease among so many armed castellans in an enemy camp. Six burly guards had intercepted her a short distance from the castle and escorted her across the narrow drawbridge into the cobbled courtyard. The Messieurs de Signe must have been received by a large complement of guards. Castle de Brueil was a tidy fortress and the castellans on the ramparts were sharp-eyed. The Signe party, shorn of their escort beyond the moat, must have squirmed for many an hour.

  "We meet at last, Monsieur le Comte," she murmured, watching Brueil. His uncanny resemblance to Jean still made her uneasy.

  "I trust your journey was pleasant," Alexandre replied with a bland smoothness that only made her more uneasy. Why should he be annoyed unless he had been prepared to dislike her on sight? Was he piqued because she was late or . . . because he was Jean . . . because she had fooled him? But how could it be? How could he have come so far afoot in time to dress and greet Jacques and Louis?

  "The journey was pleasant," she replied with feigned lightness, "so much so, I fear I dawdled. I do apologize for being late." She extended her hand to Jacques. "Uncle. Cousin." She did not bother to look, at Louis.

  Jacques, obliged to help her down from the saddle, wheezed slightly as he lowered her to the paving! "Dear Liliane. We were a little concerned at your tardiness. But, then"—he patted her hand—"we were sure that once you realized the time, you would ride as if your life depended on not offending the count."

  Easing her hand from Jacques's, Liliane glanced up at Alexandre de Brueil. "I came on the wings of Jove and a very fine horse, Uncle. We Signes are great romantics, Count, particularly Louis. Sometimes I really believe he would kill for love ... if he could just find the right girl."

  Louis gave her a venomous look. She flashed him a bright smile.Then as if he were not worth her attention, Liliane turned to scan the de Brueil retainers standing three deep behind the Signe party. Brueil could not afford matched livery for them, but they looked alert and well fed,, not dull-eyed and verminous as were so many of her uncle's servants, even in their celebration finery. She recognized Signe relatives in the crowd; among Brueil's people were only castellans and servants.

  "My household," Brueil said, indicating with a sweep of his hand. "My mother trained them well. I believe you will find them courteous and willing." His tone said that he did not much care whether she did or not, only that he did not encourage her to meddle with their management.

  Liliane nodded to the retainers who bowed en masse. Alexandre led the party indoors, and then Liliane was greeted by a stark great hall with the customary window slits replaced on one side by hallways; the larger one led to the bailiwick, armory and kitchens; the other small haH probably led to the upper chambers. Fresh reeds were strewn about the floor, and the place was scrupulously clean, but no bright banners and tapestries adorned the walls; no heraldry mounted the three huge, drafty fireplaces. The glassless windows On the eastern side offered superb, if narrow views of the Aleppo pines and Helm oaks dotting the meadows that rolled to the distant shore. At sight of the sea, the knot of anxiety within Liliane eased a trifle. She had lived within sight and sound of the sea for so long that she had dreaded brown inland silence.

  A plump berry of a priest was waiting. Hearing the courtyard commotion, he had jumped to his feet. Although he was now composed, the tasseled cord at his waist was still swinging.

  With few preliminaries, the service began. When the time came, Alexandre de Brueil's slim, brown hand upon hers felt strange; she tried to imagine it holding a flute. His rigid face did not seem that of a musician; instead she saw him at strategy tables or hidden behind a visor.

  The priest droned on at length. Liliane had not heard so much Latin in years. Although it lent majesty to the service, the words grew monotonous as the sun waxed high and the onlookers began to stir in their hot garments. Liliane amused herself by translating the Latin into Arabic. A small smile teased the corner of her lips as she imagined the priest's horror, could he divine her heathen whims.

  Alexandre caught her enigmatic smile. Why now, he wondered grimly, does she smile while last night she bewailed this moment* Was her dread of marriage but a sham to be easily rid of her hedgerow lover? His already tight temper was growing frayed. He was definitely coming down with a cold. His head ached and his throat was scratchy and sore. Right now, he would give a good deal to be back baking his brains in the Holy Land and bedding whores who bit his coins and gave him no trouble.

  He should have considered the complications when he met this demure-looking Liliane, but when he had seen her bare to the waist in those Moorish pantaloons, her slim, white back curved like an Indian gupta and her tempting breasts scarcely hidden by his chainse, his brain had turned to suet and his loins to flame. Now what in the name of King Philip and Saint George was he going to do about their wedding night? Philip was an unabashed libertine who would take his pleasure with Liliane, then board her up in a tower come morn. And Saint George . . . well, George's dragon-killing lance had a certain naughty charm. Should he prod her with his own lusty lance and make her squeal for more "amour"?

  After the wedding ceremony had mercifully ended, Alexandre was content to remain silent, leaving Jacques and the priest to keep the conversation flowing during the modest wedding feast. Shirred eggs with cream and leeks, roast pig and lamb with last season's potatoes, and cabbage followed by good broth loaded down the banquet table. Brandy pudding finished the meal. Alexandre had been able to afford only three musicians; they now circled the tables providing a cacophony of harp, flute and horn that heralded the bedding to come. Liliane's smile was gone; she was white against the dramatic colors of her bridal costume. Alexandre knew that he must be pale with tension, as well. His eyes were watering with his coming cold, and the hand that clenched his goblet was like ice. The music and cheers of the assembled gathering resounded like the clamor of hounds about cornered prey.

  Alexandre took a deep breath and rising, held out his arm. "My lady?"

  Liliane stood, wavered for a moment, then rested her hand on his arm. "My lord."

  Amid the din of ritual catcalls and congratulations, they left the hall and mounted the stone steps. The winding staircase was narrow, the profound silence of the upper floors making them seem very alone. Liliane preceded Alexandre, and he watched her gently swaying as if mesmerized. His head suddenly felt as if it were weighed down with bricks. He sneezed violently and the echo resounded through the drafty turret.

  "Milord?" Liliane turned. "Are you unwell?"

  She sounds almighty hopeful, he thought, his resentment mixed with sympathy. Does she think I relish bedding h
er? Damned right, I relish it; she has a shape out of paradise! "Madame need not worry. I shall perform my duty," he answered stiffly.

  Her eyes lit with some amusement. "Duty, milord? Faith, you are more romantic than my cousin Louis.''

  His head lifted in quick challenge. "Come, did you expect romance of this union?"

  "Civility, at least."

  "Ah, then, rest assured, civility you shall have aplenty." His hand went past her ear to push open his chamber door. Their feces were a breath apart.

  "Have you a . . . less civil, less dutiful brother?" Liliane blurted with a hint of desperation.

  Startled, Alexandre hesitated. He saw that she had not meant to question him so bluntly, yet to consummate her marriage with an unpleasant mockery of Jean was obviously distasteful to her. His eyes narrowed as he decided upon his tack. "Scarce two hours under my roof and you have the audacity to suggest my father has strewn the countryside with bastards?" His head tilted slowly as he gave her a wolfish smile. She suspected that he was Jean, but she could not be sure. He would make certain that she knew he was Alexandre, and only Alexandre. Jean was Action; Alexandre was reality. And Alexandre would discover why she had agreed to a marriage that she deemed so repellent. He suspected that Jacques had put her up to something that could prove lethal. He could not imagine that her character was so black that she would make an attempt on his life, but she was undoubtedly Jacques's spy. Whether or not she was willing, she might give away information to feed Jacques's always dangerous ambitions. He would test her faith before letting her know how fully his heart had lain in her hand; he would not yield it again so lightly. "For all I know, half dozen of my brothers may roam with the deer, Dona. I am the only legitimate one—the only one harnessed to duty. If you prefer another lover, I warn you not to take him too close to my shadow. My sense of honor is keen."

  Liliane was both quick to cover her impulsive ploy and take real offense at his implication. Her eyes narrowed with indignant fury. "You mistake my meaning, sir! I merely suggest that you would do better to approach me with something of a lover's tenderness. I am well aware that this match means naught but gold to your coffers, but does that require that you greet me with coldness and insults? I have vowed before God and man to be your wife, and I shall fulfill that vow in every way. My honor, too, is strong. Needs that my honor duel yours, thereby killing all our hope for felicity?"

  Alexandre had already learned that she was magnificent in anger. Now, with her eyes flashing like her jewels, her breasts heaving, she was a marvelous golden vixen, and he longed to kiss her with a passion that matched her own. He also wanted to reassure her, yet he feared she would recognize him as Jean. Alexandre and Jean must remain separate entities until the time came, if it came, to reveal that they had once been one for a single, enchanted night. If he took her now, she would see through his deception. They were too close to the memory of their night together. He would end by whispering all sorts of idiocies in her ear, telling her of his ridiculous gladness that whatever she was, she was his. But she wasn't. He could never let himself forget that she was Jacques's . . . and Louis's. She belonged to them first and always.

  "Dona," he began, trying to think how he was going to explain not making love to her when she was so ravishing that her very nearness was making him dizzy. Her perfume mixed with the faint scent of the fresh meadows she'd galloped through. ... "Ah, bella Dona . . ." he breathed. As her eyes widened, a tickling sensation seized his nose. He gave a violent sneeze and heard his bride's faint, nervous giggle. He steered her firmly into the room, backed rapidly out and closed the door. His last glimpse of her face told him that she was dumbfounded but vastly relieved.

  A half hour later, Alexandre sauntered into the great hall, the look on his face hiding the glum disappointment in his heart. With the pact so obviously completed, Jacques and Louis went quickly over the written contracts, then departed for their own neighboring fief in the north. Alexandre politely saw them off, then climbed the winding staircase to a turret window, where he watched them file homeward. The Signes had been picking at the Brueil borders for nearly three centuries. They would be back, one way or another, and they had left Liliane as their key.

  That night, Liliane prayed that Alexandre de Brueil would not change his mind about consummating their marriage, that whatever his reasons, he would leave her alone. Sometime after midnight, she left off tossing in his big bed and began to wander about the spartan chamber. Pacing the cold stone floor she wondered why he hadn't come back. Eventually, she arrived at two possibilities: he was indeed Jean and he reseated her lies and aversion to their marriage: or he was really Alexandre and he wanted only her money as revenge against the hated Signes. However it seemed that he could not possibly be Jean, who had loved her. Her Jean would not have left her alone tonight in such confusion and unhappiness.

  Sleepless for the rest of the night, Liliane went to the southern window to watch dawn, rise pink and dusky over the calm sea. Whoever he was, this cold man that she had married, she must try to reach him for his sake as well as her own. Alexandre de Brueil had reason to hate and mistrust her family. Louis had been vicious from childhood and Jacques . . . Jacques was a clever pig who wanted all he had ever seen. He should have been an Italian profiteer with his love of art, gold and deception. Having little interest in women, he was married to a sweet little simpleton who doted upon him and asked no questions. He was as faithful to her as one might be to a particularly comfortable, cushioned chair.

  Louis was less predictable. She took care never to be alone with Louis.

  And Alexandre de Brueil did not want to be alone with her.

  Life would be much easier if he trusted her. As for love . . . She sighed, looking out at the dawn's elusive pink and gold playing over the gray sea. Better take one step at a time, she counseled herself.

  * * *

  After catching Liliane's Moorish mare, Alexandre was less morose than on his wedding day. He had not slept at all during the night, so at dawn he had gone riding in search of her white mare. The animal was far too valuable to let wander and be stolen; yet in his heart, he thought the return of the pretty mare might please his bride. He had not given her a very pleasant reception, after all. To be different from Jean the poacher was one thing; to be an ogre was another.

  The sun had climbed halfway to noon before he found the mare grazing in a meadow near the shore. Luckily, she had not stumbled on her reins and damaged herself. She shied away as he walked his own black stallion near her, so he eased the stallion's reins and let it do the work of herding. He had little energy left, for his cold had settled into his head and chest now, and two nights of scant sleep had left him drained. Soon the stallion nosed the mare close enough to let him catch her rein. As he headed back to the castle, he toyed with the prospect of finding his new bride abed, fresh, rosy and drowsy. Should he amend his neglect of the previous night?

  He had gone only a little way when he saw a rider on a sorrel destrier coming across the fields toward him. The rider was Liliane, dressed in her page's gear, her hair streaming in a long braid. His eyes alight with anticipation, he spurred to meet her, but as the couple closed on each other, he saw she was pale with suppressed anger. Scarcely another second passed before he realized why. Having saddled his stallion without looking, he was riding "her" horse. Quickly reining in, he decided to put matters right. "Dona," he said heartily, "what luck to meet you!"

  "As a matter of fact," she replied in a taut voice, "I was concerned about my stallion. When I went to the stable, I thought he might have been stolen."

  "No need for concern. I was just exercising your wedding present." With an innocent look, he paraded the mare.

  "An uncommonly fine animal," she observed dryly. "Not the sort one encounters just wandering around."

  "Indeed not," he agreed with a quirk to his lips. "I had quite a time finding her."

  With an easy movement, Liliane dismounted into the budding furrow of the field. "I hope you did no
t pay too much. She has a cracked left hoof."

  "Really?" He sounded convincingly dismayed. "How can you tell?"

  Liliane did not believe Brueil's ignorance of the mare's condition any more than she did the rest of his tale. She had seen his skill with the stallion. As he had ridden toward her, he had been half asleep, yet his knees guided the stallion as if man and horse were one ... as if they were familiar with each other.

  Too familiar. Had he known where to look for the mare? "I know horses," she replied evenly. "Particularly those from Andalusia."

  "Andalusia? I only buy horses like this one from the Crescent." Aware of the direction her thoughts were taking, Alexandre affected a supercilious tone. "This mare," he lied baldly, "came from Damascus."

  Liliane stroked the mare's nose. It whickered at her familiar touch. "The Caliph Almansor's sixth cousin once removed is also from Damascus," she said lightly. "Is that not remarkable?"

  "As in coincidence?" Alexandre became stern. "Dona, are you accusing me of lying about this animal?"

  Liliane's eyes widened with feigned innocence. "Never. I would not dream of wrongly accusing you of anything so dishonorable and common—"

  "Never have I seen a woman more inclined to look a gift horse in the mouth!" Feigning indignation, Alexandre leaped off his stallion. "Ungrateful wench! Who are you to prate of 'common' when you lack the common courtesy to accept a gift generously given!"

  Liliane felt a twinge of remorse. Count Alexandre was poor, after all, and he was trying to impress her. To be obliged to take a rich wife from a family he hated must be very damaging to his pride. She could at least give him the benefit of the doubt. She replied in a soothing voice, "Thank you, milord. I certainly do not mean to sound ungrateful. The mare is beautiful."