Danielle stifled a cry when Adrien’s fingers wound around her upper arm, for his hold was like steel, with no mercy. She found herself blindly propelled out the door. His fingers then entwined with hers as he raced her down the hallway, pausing as he neared the stairs, for more men had come up to meet him.
“Get me a weapon!” she cried.
“Not while I draw breath, milady! It would fester in my back!”
“I never brought arms against you!”
“I beg to differ!”
“You’ve too many men to fight!” she cried. “You’ll kill us both, unless you’ve men of your own waiting below.”
“I came alone.”
“Alone!” she cried in dismay. It seemed that all of the tavern had risen, and every man was reaching for a weapon.
“I try not to invite witnesses when I am hoping to prevent a rock-headed little wench from endangering herself in the act of betraying the King of England—not to mention me!” he retorted.
A crimson flood rose swiftly to her cheeks even as he cried out to her again. “Get behind me. Close. And if you even think to betray me here again, I swear before God, I’ll live long enough to make you regret it!”
She had no choice but to obey him, for he still held her fingers. She’d had no intention of giving him the least resistance, but it seemed that he was more furious than she might have imagined, even knowing him. Fear seemed to fill her heart anew as she realized that even now, as their lives were threatened, he would not be surprised at any betrayal from her.
There were numerous men to meet his sword, men practiced at illegal professions, but none of them so perfectly trained to battle and hand-to-hand combat. His first blow took the man at the top of the stairs, who fell backward, hurtling the others down like felled trees. Adrien stepped over them swiftly, dragging her along. His strength was tremendous. When a huge fellow charged them at the foot of the stairs, he swung her hard to the side before him, stepping aside just in time for the man to crash headfirst into the stairs.
“Duck!” Adrien charged her, and he did so as well as a cutthroat’s sword arced above their heads. Adrien rose, his sword swinging, and their attacker fell. He spun around, slicing the man who had come behind them, even before she had time to scream out a warning. He stepped over the dead men, wrenching her along with him. Another, in front of him, fell at a thrust from his sword. The others fell away, watching them.
He swiftly led her from the tavern, out into the night.
He might have come without armor or companions, but he had brought Matthew, the swiftest of his four war stallions. He saw the gelding she had taken from Prince Edward’s stables, untethered it, and slapped its haunches, sending the animal on its way. Then he pushed her ahead of him, throwing her atop Matthew before leaping up behind her. She didn’t look back, yet she could hear the roar of anger as men grouped together again and found their courage to follow. Adrien kneed the animal. The horse began to race. She felt its majestic power beneath her and the hard-muscled chest of the man behind her, hot and vital. She closed her eyes, leaning against Matthew’s neck in the wild ride as branches and leaves slapped at her face and tore at her cloak.
Matthew left the others far behind, and in time, Danielle became aware that they were out of danger, that Adrien raced on out of fury. He slowed when they came to the river, reining the stallion in at the bank. Both bridges were far downstream to the east.
He nudged the horse forward.
“It’s freezing!” she cried out in protest.
“You might have killed us both—and you are afraid of a little water?”
“I am afraid of nothing.”
“You lie, for you had best be afraid of me tonight!”
“If I would fear you at all, it would be because it appears you intend to drown us!”
“Nay, be glad of the water. Perhaps my temper will be cooled.”
They entered into the water. The cold was brutal.
“Oh, you can just go straight to hell!” she snapped, praying that he attributed her shaking to the coldness of the water and not to the wild stirring within her.
They reached the opposite bank and once again, he began to ride hard. The breeze whipped against her soaked clothing and she shivered anew. They rode on and on. Then she saw the stone walls of her own fortress of Aville.
The gates opened as they neared them and rode quickly in, then closed behind them at an invisible command. Adrien rode the stallion straight to the door that led to the manor keep. In the darkness, a groom stirred when called to take Matthew’s reins and care for him.
Danielle could scarcely walk when she was set upon the ground, but he was in a mood to grant no mercy as she tried to elude him, hurrying for the hall. He caught her arm, not allowing her a moment’s respite. She prayed to see a familiar face. Rem, Daylin, Monteine … anyone.
But the hall was empty.
“Upstairs, my lady!” he commanded, and she had little choice as he dragged her along to the master’s chambers.
She found herself all but thrown into the room, spinning to stand at the foot of the carved, four-poster bed, while he paced before the massive fire that burned in the huge fireplace.
She looked longingly to the door. She was shaking, for she knew what she had done. Treason against the King of England. And worse: she had betrayed him.
“No servants will attend you here tonight, milady. When I discovered your foolish treachery, I saw to it that I could bring you back unseen. These are no longer games you play with me! You and your indignant protestations of innocence! This was treason, Danielle. The servants have been sent out for the night. Don’t look to others for help.”
“I look nowhere for help!” she lied.
“Nay, lady?”
She refused to respond, but despite herself, she shivered wretchedly; her clothing felt like a glove of ice.
Suddenly he ceased his pacing and stared at her, seeing her discomfort. “Get those things off!” he roared. But she lifted her chin stubbornly, fighting a threatening rush of tears. “They are causing you to shiver,” he snapped.
“I shall shiver if I choose.”
“Indeed, you shall shiver, but because I choose—I want you to shiver in abject fear!” he growled. And as he started toward her, she took a step backward, crying out quickly. She was an idiot; she could hang for her offense.
“As you—command!” she gasped.
He halted, glittering eyes still offering her no hint that his anger might abate, his temper relent. But as her cloak fell to the ground, he turned to the bed, drawing from it the soft covering of Flemish wool. He waited. She gritted her teeth and cast off her shoes and hose, tunic and chemise. His searing gaze swept contemptuously over her, and he cast the blanket her way. She quickly wrapped it around herself. He drew his own soaked cloak from his shoulders, letting it fall, and stood in simple but expensive garments that hugged his muscled frame—hose, shirt, and tunic. He was every bit as tall as their renowned Plantagenet king, as well-versed in war, grown hard and solid, muscled like steel, in its pursuit. Indeed, she had learned the strength of those muscles, and felt a quivering deep within her even now, which she fought valiantly to ignore.
She inched her chin up, standing very still, determined not to cry out. She could explain, but he would never believe her.
“Sweet Jesu!” he swore soundly. “Edward does not deserve this hatred on your part!”
She forced herself to remain calm. “I wished no harm to Edward. I don’t hate him. I merely sought to warn King Jean—”
“King Jean is well aware there will be battle, and what aids the French king injures the English one! To help Jean, lady, you do great hurt to Edward!”
That gave her quite a tug upon her heart, for she felt for Edward as she did for Adrien. So very often, she had loathed him. Had been infuriated by him, determined to defy him, to defeat him.
And yet …
She loved him as well.
“My God!” he said s
uddenly, his voice thick and trembling with renewed anger. “Do you know that heads have rolled, that necks have been broken, for far less than you attempted this night? Good Lord, I should strike you down, you little fool!”
Guilt assailed her again. She could not let him see it.
“You are Edward’s lackey,” she ventured. “You have gained everything through him.”
“Including you?”
“Including my lands and titles!” she whispered.
“Would that I had been deprived! And, aye, lady! I am his lackey, I am his man, and I warn you now, don’t ever forget it again, or that you are my wife!”
“Well, sir, you came for me. I was duly stopped in my efforts. And I know that you will judge me and sentence me as you see fit—you condemned me when I was innocent. At least this time I am guilty of hoping to see King Jean live! But as you are in such a wretched mood, I am well aware that there’s nothing else I can say to you this evening. I cannot apologize for what I meant to do. I have never lied to you about my loyalties or—emotions.” But she had lied. She’d never let him know that trying to remain loyal to old vows had slowly become harder and harder, that she had long loved him as fiercely as she fought him.
She certainly couldn’t tell him such a thing now. And indeed, she needed to tread very carefully. She had crossed him before, and paid the price, but she had never seen him quite this angry.
Don’t think of it! she warned herself.
Head high, she started walking across the room. He had turned his back on her in anger once before. If only she could escape his fury now.
He watched her for several moments, not making a move, one brow arched high with amazement.
But she didn’t make the door.
“Oh, no, milady! You’re not leaving tonight!” he assured her, his long strides allowing him to beat her soundly to the door. He blocked it with the formidable wall of his body.
She stepped back, struggling anew for some dignity, pride, and control.
And courage.
“I should flay you to within an inch of your life!” he snapped out so suddenly that she jerked back, biting into her lip.
“I had to—”
“Ah, yes, the hell with the English blood in you—you had that French vow to keep! Well, that somewhat explains why you would so wretchedly use the very king within whose household you were raised.”
“Then give me over to the king!” she cried out, alarmed at how desperately she pleaded. “Let’s end this—”
He shook his head slowly. “End it? We’ve barely begun.”
“Surely,” she mocked, “you are needed elsewhere. You are the king’s champion. Have you no enemies to challenge tonight? No dragons to slay?”
He smiled. “No dragons this evening for me, my pet. Just one for you. Me.” His glittering gold eyes narrowed dangerously. “Tell me, milady, just what did you write to that dolt, Langlois? You had taken no vows? No marriage was consummated?”
Color stained her cheeks. “I merely said that I needed his assistance.”
“You were willing to lie with him to reach the French king?” he demanded.
She shook her head, blood draining from her face. “You were there! You know that I was not—”
“Ah, yes, my love, thank God that I am aware you were not willing to give anything away—for free.”
“How dare you—”
“How dare you ask?” he demanded, cutting her off, his voice deep and husky with fury.
She was still for a moment. The room seemed tight and small.
Once, she had been determined to deny him. Maybe she had been afraid even then of the tempest he would create within her heart. Maybe she had always known that if he touched her but once …
Adrien continued. “You seduced him with promises of your hand in marriage. Sweet Jesu, milady, but you speak of vows! I remember the vows you made to me, quite clearly, if you do not. Every vow.”
He was walking toward her. It was all that she could manage to keep from screaming aloud, from running madly and wildly, only to slam herself against the wall.
“I remember the vows!” she whispered.
He stood just inches from her, and she felt his tremendous strength and heat as if he touched her. His eyes raked her with their golden fire and now she did move back again, just inches, yet he followed her. She stood to the far wall and he set a palm against it, leaning closer to her still, and smiling once again.
“Ah, milady, do you know what astounds and dismays me most?” he demanded.
She wet her lips warily. “What?”
“That you could say that our marriage had not been consummated. Indeed, I remember even that first night so very well!”
“Aye!” she cried, newly alarmed, for he had thought her guilty of treachery that night as well. She decided she must go on the offensive. “You threatened to prove to that rabble tonight that our marriage was real. You call yourself a knight! You speak of chivalry—”
“I seldom speak of chivalry. And I merely informed the fools that a midwife could be summoned to prove that you were no sweet, innocent lass!”
She gasped. “You would have had me—”
“I would have given nothing to those wretched fools, milady, even to prove to your too-amorous but well-besotted Frenchman that you are legally and in every way very much a wife—my wife. But there is something I do most earnestly intend to give you!”
She swallowed hard, fought for courage, narrowed her eyes. “And what is that, milord tyrant?”
“A jog to your memory, milady wife. I had not realized I had so failed in my husbandly duties that you could forget such a thing as the consummation of your marriage.”
“Oh, you fail at nothing!” she cried out. “And my memory is just fine. I haven’t forgotten a thing—”
She broke off, gasping as she found her blanket wrenched from her and thrown to the floor. She recognized the glitter in his eyes as more than anger and she caught her breath in dismay, thinking of the times when she had longed for him, ached for him, and yet …
He would not forget what she had done tonight, and he would not forgive her, and she couldn’t even fathom where they would go from here. She hadn’t been his choice for a wife; her memory, especially now, seemed far more keen than he could ever fathom. As seconds flew between them, she felt the years cascading past, the pain, the anguish, the Black Death, the loss of so very much to them both.
“No …” she whispered.
“Damn you,” he told her.
She tried to wrench away. He would not allow it.
“You will remember who you are.”
“And to whom I belong?” she cried in protest.
“Aye, lady, indeed!
His lips touched hers. They burned, they were fire, like his eyes … they ignited the seeds of desire deep inside her, aroused her mercilessly. His palm cradled her cheek, his lips and tongue caressed her mouth. She closed her eyes, aware of nothing but her senses for several seconds …
Dear God, no, he would never forgive her this time!
His lips broke from hers.
She struggled from a fog, trying to remind herself that she knew him well, that he held her in contempt and distrust for this night’s work, and that she would be made to pay.
“Please …”
She heard the word, and was surprised to realize that she had issued the plea herself.
For a moment, he was equally startled. “Ah, lady? Beg mercy, would you?”
The taunt in his voice brought her eyes flying open full upon his.
“Not in a—”
“In a pig’s eye?” he suggested, using her term.
“You are the worst of knaves and I’ll never beg anything of you!” she promised, pushing wildly against his chest to free herself.
But his hands were suddenly upon her wrists. His eyes were burning into hers once again, and they were dead still together while the flames snapped and crackled in the hearth.
“I
ndeed, milady, tonight, by God, you will please me! For I want everything that I have remembered, the hungers of so many nights appeased. Aye, please me. Ease away the rage. I demand it!”
She found herself up and in his arms, and falling into the softness of the bed that had awaited them, his body wickedly hot as he pressed her nakedness down into the coolness of the linen sheets. Again his lips caught hers. With pressure now, with fierce demand. She tried to twist from his assault, felt the liquid flame as his tongue pressed past the barriers of her lips and teeth, entering into her, filling her sweetly. His hands raked over her naked thighs and hips, rose to cover and caress her breasts. His weight held her still; his hands commanded a magic of equal power, his lips seduced with ruthless hunger. He rose above her, casting aside tunic and shirt with an urgency that tore the latter, yet he didn’t seem to notice. She swallowed again, feeling the tremors fill her that had from the start when she gazed upon his body. He was bronzed and scarred upon the shoulder and chest, incredibly beautiful nonetheless, for his taut muscles were temptation in themselves, the copper sheen of the fire that danced upon them as haunting as the flicker of flame that drew a moth to a fire’s deadly heat.
She would not touch, she would not fall, she would not burn in the flames …
But she would, for he drew her hand to his chest, where it lay upon the thunder of his heart, the softness of the crisp red-gold hair. And she met his eyes still when he drew her hand ever downward, enclosing her slender, trembling fingers around the great shaft, life and fire itself. His body shuddered massively, yet his eyes pinned her still and when she would have gasped and drawn her touch away, his fingers curled around her own and a half-smile curved his lip.
“Lest you forget!” he whispered, and she discovered herself meeting his eyes, trembling within, and longing for him in the most traitorous way. Yet his gaze held her until he eased himself downward, parted her thighs, met her eyes once again. She cried out, trying to twist away again, knowing his intent. There was no escape. He ravaged her intimately with tongue and touch until it seemed that she plummeted into an abyss, writhing, gasping, and crying out again …
Heather Graham Page 2
