Two days later, Liliane's heart jumped to her throat when Alexandre burst unannounced into her room while she was brushing her hair. Since there had been few female servants in Diego's essentially male household, she liked to braid and pin up her own hair. The sun Was setting, gilding the distant forest treetops that beckoned daily to her. Alexandre wore a fixed smile that seemed incongruous with the odor of brandy that clung to him. He moved with taut restlessness around the room, his chainse open to the waist and stuffed carelessly into his braies. He gave her a sidelong, curt nod, seeming to look for something, yet his eyes fixed upon nothing, not even her. His gaze seemed drawn to the west turret window and its waning sun. His anexpected entrance and distracted air made Liliane uneasy. "My lord," she murmured, pausing with her brush in her hair, "did you want something?"
Alexandre half turned to stare at her. "I want a wife," he said bitterly. "I do not want an opponent, I do not want a woman whose soft flesh might as well be made of armor, a woman who yearns for another man and lies with every breath!"
"I have been faithful beyond all duty. Why do you yet accuse me?" she whispered.
Alexandre moved to stand over her and, grasping a lock of shining hair, began to slowly twist it in his fingers. "Because at long last, I know what is in your heart." His eyes were as dark as ink. "Poor Alexandre, hope and connive as he might, has never had a chance. Your heart was gone before you ever set eyes on him. Given the whisper of a chance, you would fly from him as if he were stinking carrion." His fingers tightened, pulling her hair painfully. "To whom would you fly? To a lover who offers a delusion of ecstasy? Why dream of a phantom when you can be touched by reality?" His fingers locked in her hair. He drew her roughly to him, forcing her head back and arching her throat to his slowly lowering mouth . . . searing her white flesh with the brand of his kiss. His hand drew down her robe, caressing her neck and shoulders, stopping at her breast. She gasped and went rigid, her heart pounding. There was passionate excitement in his touch, yet a frightening ferocity, too, as if she were an obstacle to be conquered, possessed. As he pulled her up against him, gone was the moralist, the martinet; in his place was a man whose blue eyes burned with desire.
"No!" Liliane gasped, twisting away from his broad, muscular chest, the hardness that pressed demandingly against her. He abruptly released her and she stumbled, nearly felling against the bench.
"Save yourself, then," he growled, his words slurring angrily. "Let all that beauty and passion turn to dust while you wait for a man who no longer exists!"
Dazed with pain at her rejection, Alexandre stumbled blindly from the room. Although he had half anticipated her refusal, he'd still pursued her like a doomed bull taunted by a red scarf. He should not have had so much wine; he should not have crashed recklessly into Liliane's room. But his savage need for her had driven him on. He had let his devious secret and the resulting misunderstanding go on so long that everything seemed tangled into a hopeless knot. Although he was cunning and successful at planning battles, he'd contrived a tactical mess at home. He might sever the knot once and for all by telling Liliane the truth, but now he doubted if even the truth would help them. While Liliane might betray Alexandre, he had learned that she would not betray Jean, At first he had thought she was merely protecting herself, but now he realized she wanted Jean to get away safely. She loved him! Alexandre thought grimly how ironic it was that his alter image had practically sabotaged his marriage.
As Alexandre wandered listlessly in the garden, he found it hard to believe that he had once made love to this cool stranger. To believe that she had melted like honey in his arms, that she had been passionate, innocent—his love alone. It was a love he had to find again or risk losing his sanity. If she would not come to him as Alexandre, would she come to him as Jean?
A choked laugh escaped from his lips as he stared down into the rose-covered well by the garden walk. His reflection rippled as a pebble from the well wall fell into the water. Perhaps he was already losing his mind! Alexandre had become as much a fiction as the fey Jean. Who was he, this shadowy man, scarcely more real by sun than by moon? He no longer had substance; he had become an empty pretender, moving from one pretense to another.
Alexandre remembered sitting late one evening with Liliane before the fire in the great hall perhaps a month after the wedding. Their silences were long; her finely chiseled face wore a remote expression. "Have you ever been in love, I wonder?" he had asked in a sardonic voice covering the longing he felt. Her eyes had widened; she seemed startled, frightened, almost sad for an instant, and he had wanted to take her in his arms, to reassure her with his gentle caresses. He'd wanted to show her that real love was not as elusive as she thought—it would come again.
She had then startled him. "I loved Diego."
Not realizing how unhappy she must have been, he frowned. "Was he not old enough to be your grandfather?"
"He was a great man. A good man. So kind and patient I could never imagine his having savagely fought the Moors for twenty years." She smiled slightly. "According to his castellans, he was ferocious in battle, with strong arms that could wield a battle-ax and swim across the Quadaquavir River in armor."
Alexandre poked at the logs in the fire. "He sounds formidable, but what did you ever talk about?"
"He saved me from being married off at fourteen for barter. Had he been the dullest man in the world, I would have hung on his every word. As it was, he was a fine scholar and far from dull."
"Pity you have had to step down in life," he remarked dryly.
"I did not expect another Diego, but"—her eyes twinkled mischievously—"neither did I expect to have to reassure a man of twenty-six about his comparison with a man of sixty-eight."
Alexandre flushed scarlet. "I assure you I am not jealous."
But he had been. He had been jealous of the soft glow Diego's name brought to her eyes, the gentle tenderness that slipped into her speech. An old man and a lowly poacher had been able to touch her heart while he, Alexandre, could not. He felt more alone with this lovely woman at his side than he had felt even in the sighing desert wind of Palestine's nights.
Upon taking her as his bride, he had begun to dream of Liliane as one, his lips cracked with thirst, he had dreamed of white-foamed rushing water during the siege of Jerusalem. Now he saw her dancing in white and silver veils so gracefully that his throat grew dry, his hands reached out to touch the silky warmth of her, only to find the cool stone of the courtyard well. In its deep, dark depths, he was the only illusion.
The last of the sunset was disappearing, casting the castle walls in rust and gold, just as it must now be turning to russet flames the forest of Jean and Liliane. If he became Jean once more, he might lure Liliane there again. However, if she gave herself to him, he'd have won a hollow victory—he'd know for certain that it was Jean she loved, not Alexandre. Foreboding and despair overwhelmed Alexandre. Catching up a stone from the cobbles, he hurled it into the water. His image shattered, swiftly fading into gathering darkness.
* * *
Near midnight, Liliane slipped into her dark cotehardi and hose, then tucked her long hair up into the cotehardi hood. Just as she was strapping the silk cord about her waist, she heard a faint scratch at the door. Her heart seemed to stop for an instant, then its quick pounding reverberated in her ears. Another scratch, more insistent, sounded at the door. She stood frozen. A final scratch came, then an ominous silence reigned.
Liliane waited for nearly an hour before she opened the door a crack. No one was in the tiny hall. She eased the door open and stepped out, only to feel something brush against her foot. She stooped to pick it up, then stepped back into her room and rebarred the door to examine her find by candlelight. Two hawk feathers were bound together by a fine, black strand that looked like silk; it was horsehair. She frowned, puzzled, then smiled as she realized her mysterious gift must be from Jean. The hawk feathers symbolized their brief freedom together; the horsehair came from the mane of Jean's
black stallion. Liliane's spirits soared, Jean was alive!
But the next moment, her spirits sank. Nothing had really changed, for all that lay ahead was the promise of empty years. To keep her honor, she must not see Jean . . . and yet he must be warned that his brother suspected her of having a lover and that further communication between them might prove disastrous. Jean must leave.
* * *
Some time later, Charles made his report to Alexandre. "Lady Liliane has gone through the south wall. The watch spotted her just after I did, when she was climbing down the outside wall. I had to stop him from putting an arrow through her." His tone suggested that he had been sorely tempted to let the arrow fly.
Alexandre clapped him consolingly on,the shoulder. "You did well, ami. Do not worry; this will be milady's last night to prowl abroad. Have the workmen seal those last gaps in the wall at dawn." He headed for the stable.
Eyeing Alexandre's sheepskin vest amid ragged clothing, Charles tagged after him. "Going fishing?"
Alexandre flung a saddle blanket on the sorrel. "In a manner of speaking. A goldfish may not be sporting game in a garden pond, but "—an odd smile played around his mouth—"in the wild, it is another matter."
Charles handed him the saddle. "You may not find your goldfish alone, you know; sharks are likely to accompany this one."
"Not tonight," Alexandre replied shortly. He cinched the saddle and checked the bridle. For once, I am going to have my wife all to myself, he thought grimly.
But as he galloped off into the night, Alexandre was not as confident as he had pretended to Charles. Uncertainties darted like startled deer through his head. His concerns were overshadowed by one overwhelming fear—what if he could no longer be Jean? Jean was carefree, with a light tongue and light touch, while Alexandre had become suspicious, humorless and quick to take offense. Pulled this way and that by his bewildering emotions, he had adopted the role of a sober lord of the manor as his only security. How could he be able to play the rustic Jean convincingly enough to deceive Liliane? His appearance tonight before Liliane might well be disastrous. Muttering an oath of exasperation as he entered the forest, Alexandre suddenly spurred his sorrel, effortlessly jumping a fallen tog. He had better be waiting for Liliane at the lodge, not galloping in late on a horse she'd surely recognize. That was his last thought before the sorrel slipped as he landed, dumping him into icy nothingness.
A shiver crept along Liliane's spine as she spied a faint light glimmering through the dark trees. In moments, she had reached the clearing of the old hunting lodge, leaving the safe canopy of the forest behind her. Although the July night was warm, she suddenly felt cold and exposed. The stars were clear and close, the trees scarcely stirring in the gentle breeze blowing across the moonlit lake. She could hear only the lapping of the water on the shallow shore, the faint crackle of sparks from the old stone chimney. The snapping fire and the sighing wind brought back vivid memories of the night she had spent with Jean—the warmth of his body, his mouth as they lay by the fire. Her heart knotted painfully in her breast. Tonight, there must be no blissful joining of their bodies; there could be only parting and a loss even harsher than before.
Liliane dismounted and tied the black to a branch with trembling hands. There was no need to stable him; she would not stay long. If Jean would see her to the edge of the wood, she could walk the rest of the distance to the castle by daybreak, thus leaving him his stallion. Liliane hesitated. Far from having her longing dulled by time and distance, she had missed Jean more with each passing day; now her anticipation was unbearable. As she slowly lifted the door latch, she wondered, with the world to wander and new women to divert him, had Jean missed her half so much? She took a deep breath and opened the door.
The face that turned to her from the fire wore an expression that was bewildering. Anguish, relief and passion distorted his features so that for a moment she wondered wildly if this could be her Jean. He had aged; his boyishness was gone. He was as distraught as she. Relief mixed with pity as she saw that their brief tryst had cost him as much unhappiness as it had her.
"Oh, Jean," she sobbed brokenly. "Oh, my darling, I am sorry!" In another moment, she was in his arms, pressing kisses upon his face, clinging to him as if the world might crash from beneath her feet if he should move away. With a stifled groan, his mouth came down on hers. His kiss was harsh, urgent, taking her breath, her tears, making her need for him soar like the night's bright new stars. His hands that had tangled in her hair now roamed feverishly. His desire enflamed her; the roughness of his beard-stubbled jaw as he buried his face against her throat filled her with raw excitement . . . and the gradual, needling thought that only short hours ago, Alexandre had kissed her so, with the same demanding hunger. With a gasp, Liliane pulled away. "Jean, no ... we must not! I came only to warn you—"
"Of what?" His voice was hoarse and muffled against her throat. "What more need I fear when my soul is gone?" He lifted his head only to bend down, giving her another kiss that made her faint with an intense longing to forget everything but the warm hardness of his body, the heat of their desire. His lips grazed her ear. "You have taken my sanity, my honor . . . witch, witch . . . adorable, hateful, faithless witch . . ."
In desperation, Liliane turned her head away. "Were I faithless, I would not have come tonight. Oh, Jean, you must go! He knows ..."
His hands dropped from her as if he had been burned. She suddenly realized that his clothes were nearly soaked, his left shoulder and back smeared with mud. A trickle of blood appeared just above his hairline. "He knows what?" His mouth twisted in a wry smile. "I assume you mean your cuckolded husband, Alexandre?"
Distraught, Liliane ran her hand through her hair. Why was he so muddied and hurt? Why did he stare at her so strangely, almost as if he hated her? "Please do not tease. What's happened to you? Your head? Your clothes?" She caught at his sleeve. "Has Alexandre set his men upon you?"
He laughed shortly. "Why should he? I am no one. I might as well not exist."
"To Alexandre, you are very real. He does not yet know who you are, but he will soon, unless you leave."
He studied her. "Oh, I think Alexandre knows me well enough. As if he walked in my skin, I wager he imagines every silky inch of yours that I have touched. In his dreams you lie in his arms, he caresses your soft hair, your breasts so pale and smooth, traces the curve of your smile . . ." He turned abruptly away. ''Alexandre may be sometimes difficult, but he has a name, position. Why the hell are you here with me?"
Liliane bit back the fatal, useless words that sprang to her lips. If Jean knew how she had missed him, knew how unhappy she was, he would not want to go away and leave her again. But leave he must. "We shared a night I shall never forget," she said softly. "When I am old, I shall remember a beautiful youth who took my innocence and left me the poetry of his passion. Tonight I came only to, warn you that your-life is in danger. I owe you that little, at least."
He cocked his head, his blue eyes sharp and spearing her with his intense gaze. "Do you care nothing for Alexandre?"
"Before God and the law, he is my husband; that bond may not be broken."
"I did not ask you that."
"My life with Alexandre," she replied softly, lowering her eyes, "is none of your affair."
A wild frustration seized Alexandre. His warring emotions were like pincers tearing him apart. When he first saw Liliane standing in the doorway, he was Alexandre, confronted by proof of her betrayal. Then she flung herself into his aims, and he knew only that now he might finally have her, that he had to have her. Yet, when she pulled away, it was Jean she rejected; Jean, who was jealous. He was quickly losing his sanity! "What affairs are mine?" he snarled. "This sort? The sordid sort? Will you play the lady for Alexandre and the world, yet moon in your heart for the sinful bed of a thief? Will you cheat all and leave none in peace by being a hypocrite?" Liliane had become deathly pale, her eyes wide and pleading, but he could not stop. "Does being a whore in your thought
s and dreams add a certain fillip to your superficial virtue?"
She slapped him then, an expression of horror and disillusionment upon her face. What had come over her Jean, the man who had once beguiled her so? Choking back the tears, Liliane whirled and stumbled toward the door. He caught her before she could take another step, his hands hard on her shoulders, pulling her close.
"Do not go," he whispered. "If I lose you tonight, it will be forever." He turned her to him. Unresisting, she was limp in his arms, her face wet with tears. "Stay," he pleaded hoarsely. "Stay a little and leave me not so quickly to the hideous, lonely years. If you will not let me love you, at least talk to me. Without you, this fleeting spring has seemed a century of frigid winter. All that was once dear to me is now frozen and remote, all my hopes an empty waste. . . . Liliane, look at me. . . ."
She finally raised her head, her lovely, amber eyes filled with yearning and sorrow. "How little did we think that one heedless night, might lead to so much unhappiness! Did some cruel fairy bewitch us and haunt our deams with ephemeral visions? And now even sweet memory has turned bitter! We have come to hate the very cause of our distress."
Alexandre knew then that the impostor Jean could not, must not, survive this night if he and Liliane were to have any chance for a future—yet to destroy Jean was to destroy the part of him she loved. There was no choice; he had to risk everything. "Have you so little hope for happiness with Alexandre?" When she did not reply, he pressed further. "Tell me, Liliane. Alexandre is not a monster, but a man who needs love like any other. How could he not care for a woman as entrancing as you? If he seems slow to respond, give him time. He has much to overcome because of his hatred of your family. How can he be sure that you have not come to destroy him?"
"I mean no harm to Alexandre. As I have sworn fealty and faith to him, I would protect him with my life, but I . . ." She hesitated, as if afraid to say too much. Turning toward the fire, she continued, "Alexandre is a jealous man, Jean, and he has just cause; that much you must already know. Our first message was intercepted; it brought me wild delight, but stronger fear. Alexandre has power, Jean, which you have not. He can destroy you."
A Flame Run Wild Page 11
