by Julia Latham
“Of course not,” she scoffed, keeping her hands busy by ripping the bread into even smaller pieces. “I have not been away from my mistress since she was held captive, and I worry what is going on at Alderley.”
“If it eases your mind, I told Philip to pay attention to the tower as much as possible. He’s already befriending the soldiers, so I’m sure he’ll be able to prevent anything from happening.”
“But…why would he form friendships, and then risk that to antagonize the soldiers?”
Sir John shrugged, and seemed to attack a piece of cheese with too much eagerness.
“Is he doing this…for my lady?” she asked softly.
“Until both your bailiff and I are recovered, Philip and I will remain at Castle Alderley. It only makes sense to help where we can.” Then his blue eyes focused on her. “Because your mistress only has you to help her. Bannaster seems determined to keep her alone and desperate.”
She nodded, shredding a piece of bread in her fingers. “And did you find another way to help?” she blurted out.
He stiffened. “What do you mean?”
“Someone lowered a basket of food to the window from the top of the tower.”
Wearing a frown, he said, “It was not me, nor my clerk.”
She was almost disappointed, because at least if it was him, she would have known who their benefactor was. But now…
“You look so sad,” he murmured.
When she glanced up, he dropped back on one elbow, his head a little below hers.
And too close.
He reached up, and she froze in shock as he touched her cheek, letting his fingers skim it gently. Instead of feeling soothed, it ignited a fire beneath her skin, as if it burned where he touched, but not with pain. Something more focused and dangerous. She shuddered, her breath caught on a gasp. His gaze suddenly focused with clarity on her as he cupped her cheek, cradling it for a moment. His skin was so warm against hers, his palm rough, but that somehow made him more attractive to her.
With just the pressure of his fingers sliding onto her neck, he slowly pulled her forward, her face over his, until she was forced to brace her hand on his chest or fall into him. Her world had narrowed until it was only him—his blue eyes, his parted lips, his hand holding her in place. Her resistance was token, fleeting, and then gone. She wanted to know how this felt, to be desired as a woman. It was a heady, strange, intoxicating feeling.
She closed her eyes as their lips touched. She kissed him gently, tasting strawberries and a heat that was all his. His lips were surprisingly soft, surprisingly in command, moving against hers in a way that made her insides seem to heat and melt and coalesce into something new. His hand on her neck held her in place, yet she did not resent the control; indeed, it was thrilling and wicked, allowing her to feel seduced.
When his tongue boldly threaded between her lips, she was so startled she granted it entrance without a thought, and the deepening of pleasure was a surprise she welcomed. He turned her head so their mouths could widen and mate. With only the slightest hesitation, she met his tongue with her own, and a battle of supremacy was joined. He groaned into her mouth, pulling her closer. Her hand on his body gave way, and her chest fell against his. It was a pleasure-pain that made her breasts ache. Somewhere inside she thought only he could give her what she needed.
And with that, her doubts began a slow bubble back to the surface.
When his fingers slid from her neck and up against her wimple, she pulled back, breaking the kiss. His head was still beneath her, his mouth wet, his breathing as labored as hers.
“I have never seen the beauty of your hair,” he whispered.
She pushed away from him and sat back on her heels. Contemplating uncovering her hair reminded her of all the secrets that she also kept covered. “Nay, what was I thinking to allow such familiarity?”
He took a deep breath, eyes closed, his face pained. “You will not kiss me again?”
“The day grows long,” she said firmly, pointing to the west. “I did not wish to stop for a meal, let alone—” She broke off, embarrassed. “Do not ask me for such intimacy again.”
John stared at Anne, stunned by the vehemence of her reaction. Hastily, she began to pack away the remains of their meal. He had never met a maid who did not want his kiss, although he admitted that many were motivated by the promise of payment. Sex had always been a part of it—whenever a virgin had caught his eye, the lure of adventure and the road had drawn him away before he could become entangled.
Anne’s anger puzzled him. She had even said her parents wanted to see her married soon—would not a bailiff be more prestigious than a common farmer? He had thought she would respond to his seduction happily, which of course would hurt her more in the end.
But this anger seemed…wrong, and it made him think about the other unusual things about her. For a maidservant who had grown up in Castle Alderley, she seemed surprisingly remote from its people, as if everyone went out of their way to avoid her.
Anne herself seemed a good-hearted woman; he could only conclude that her treatment by others was due to her mistress. More and more it made him wary of the woman he was supposed to marry—the woman he was betraying by kissing her maid.
Nay, he was rescuing Lady Elizabeth. Only Anne had access to the tower. Anne, with the luscious mouth, with the heavy breasts that had pressed against him so fleetingly. He felt a kinship with her, perhaps because she was as common as he’d been before his elevation to the title.
Mayhap it was time to tell her the truth, he thought. Only then would he be able to cease his flirtation with her. She was heroic, after all, the only person between her mistress and Bannaster. She’d braved Milburn’s wrath to try to send a missive to the king.
But she was so angry with him right now. After washing her face and hands in the stream, she patted water on the back of her neck as if she were overheated. Was she angry with him—or with herself, for forgetting her mistress in a moment of pleasure?
And how could he know if he could trust her with his secrets, when her own people shied away from her?
He could not think of an answer now; he would talk to Philip for a rational opinion, because John feared he himself was no longer objective where Anne was concerned.
He came up on his good knee, his splinted leg out to the side. The leg itself barely ached anymore, but he could not remove the splint without looking suspicious. He braced the crutch under his arm and maneuvered himself to his feet. When he’d moved off the cloth, she knelt down to fold it up and stuff it in the satchel. Though he knew he shouldn’t, he remained near her, watching her below him, wishing he could push her down into the grass and—
He had to get this desire under control, before its wildness turned back upon him and ruined everything.
Elizabeth resisted all of Sir John’s efforts to engage her in conversation on the way home. She was angry with him, but mostly angry with herself and the way she’d just let him seduce her senses, seduce her lips. She had to force her mind not to think of his heart thudding beneath her hand. And the taste of his mouth—
Oh, she was furious with herself. He could not remain bailiff here, whomever she married. How could she look at him every day, knowing what they’d done together?
When the cart rolled into the inner ward, she didn’t even wait to see if Sir John needed help getting down. She simply grabbed the satchel and ran inside. Supper was over, and already the soldiers were beginning their nightly indulgence in ale. One or two of them grabbed for her as she hurried by, but she ducked away and headed for the kitchens. Adalia wasn’t there, only several scullion boys cleaning spits and firedogs. Adalia was probably with her son, and Elizabeth didn’t want to disturb her. The cook was a widow, and only had so much time to spare for her child.
Elizabeth desperately needed to talk to another woman. She was fixated on her first kiss. She kept trying to imagine what it would have been like with William, such a gentle, sensitive poet. William wo
uld never have thrust his tongue into her mouth. It was wrong—indecent!
Then why had it felt so good?
With a groan, she fled the kitchens and found herself heading for the tower. Surely they would allow her entrance even if she didn’t bring food with her.
Elizabeth curtsied to both soldiers. Young Lionel, Alderley’s representative, flushed as if she shouldn’t have to debase herself for him.
“Lionel, might I see Lady Elizabeth this evening?”
Bannaster’s soldier leaned his staff across the door, barring her way.
Lionel winced. “M—Anne, Master Milburn gave explicit orders that you were not to be allowed up today.”
“But Lady Elizabeth won’t know that!” Anne cried. “She will be so frightened. I only want to tell her—”
“She knows,” Bannaster’s soldier said impassively.
Elizabeth beseeched Lionel with her wide-eyed gaze.
“She was down here not an hour ago,” Lionel said. “Worried about ye, o’ course. We told her through the door that you’d been ordered to stay away today, but that you’d be back up in the mornin’.”
She leaned back against the far wall in relief and closed her eyes. “So my lady will rest easy,” she murmured. If she couldn’t talk to Anne on her own, at least she could be comforted by that. “My thanks, Lionel.”
She turned and walked away, not paying attention to where she went. She was tired and sad and distraught, and all she had were her thoughts to comfort her, not the wise words of a friend. Her plan to send for help had turned upside down, punishing Anne, the poor girl who suffered the most in this terrible affair. Elizabeth’s punishment had only given Sir John greater access to her, and she’d responded to his kiss like—
A hand suddenly covered her mouth, and her scream was only a muffled thing. An arm snaked around her waist, pulling hard until her breath left her lungs.
“Told ye I’d find ye another time,” rasped a voice in her ear.
His beard moved against her neck as he spoke, and she knew at once who it was. It was the soldier who’d grabbed her in the great hall at supper last night.
She struggled against him, but her arms were held tight to her sides. She kicked, and he only laughed and lifted her off the ground. Wildly, she looked around—she had no idea where she was.
When his free hand squeezed her breast hard, she cried out. She sank her teeth into his hand, and it was his turn to moan in pain. She kicked harder, bending her knees to reach up behind. To her surprise, he gave a muffled “oof” and doubled over her back. Her feet touched the floor, but he still gripped her hard. With one hand, he yanked at her neckline and pulled. There was sickening rip of fabric, air wafted against her breasts, and her fear rose so fast she felt dizzy with it.
“Release her!”
She almost didn’t recognize Sir John’s voice; it had deepened and roughened and sounded dangerous.
The bearded soldier turned around to face this new threat, keeping her back to his front. He had her wrists pinned together with the same hand that held her body firmly to his.
Sir John loomed out of the dark corridor, the crutch in his hand like a weapon, and in the other a small dagger. His damp hair fell across his forehead; his day’s growth of beard made him look menacing—and the scar completed the effect. He was no longer a bailiff, but a warrior—a warrior with a broken leg, she realized in dismay.
The soldier guffawed. “I seen you watchin’ her, cripple, but I got here first.”
“Let her go, and I will leave you unharmed,” Sir John said, limping forward step by step, closing the distance between them.
The bearded soldier didn’t retreat; he only held Elizabeth up like a prize. “Unharmed? Think ye I cannot kill ye easily?”
“Not while you’re holding a hostage.”
Sir John didn’t even look at her. All his attention was focused on his opponent. Even when the soldier pulled her hands lower, and she realized her bare breasts peaked between ripped fabric, Sir John never looked at the display.
“Don’t ye want to see what I won?” the soldier said gleefully.
As the crutch swung over Elizabeth’s head, she ducked and heard the crack against her assailant’s skull. He let go of her as he stumbled back, and she darted beneath Sir John’s arm. Falling onto her hands and knees, she rolled onto her back in time to see the bearded soldier draw his sword. She gasped, but he was already staggering from the first blow. He raised his sword high, but Sir John bent and elbowed him hard in the stomach. The soldier stumbled about, roaring his outrage, thrusting his sword wildly as Sir John danced between the blows.
Sir John swung the crutch again, catching him beneath the jaw. His body arched backward, feet coming off the floor, before he slammed onto his back and lay still.
“The cripple won,” Sir John said with satisfaction, standing over the body.
Elizabeth propped herself up on her hands, then caught the bodice of her gown as it sagged forward. Her head spun as a flicker of black dots danced before her eyes.
“I didn’t need you to rescue me!” she cried, falling backward, as the floor rushed up to greet her.
Chapter 10
Elizabeth suddenly realized that Sir John was carrying her, and she didn’t remember him lifting her from the floor.
And that made her even angrier.
“Sir John!” she cried, outraged.
“Shh!” he looked behind him, then back down at her sternly. “Do you want someone to see you like this?”
She felt his arms warm and hard behind her back and beneath her knees. If anyone saw him carrying her—and then she saw her bodice, and realized that the scraps left revealed a dangerous amount of cleavage. With a gasp she grabbed the fabric and tugged.
“Where are you taking me?” she whispered.
“To my bedchamber, where we won’t be disturbed.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but then it dawned on her that his arms were around her, and he wasn’t using the crutch. It was tucked beneath his arm, rubbing against her legs with each stride.
He wasn’t even limping.
She glared at him in suspicion, knowing he couldn’t have healed in just a day. But then he was shouldering a door open, and they were in his bedchamber. Philip was not there.
He put her down on his bed, and she scrambled back to her feet, holding her bodice closed.
Sir John arched a brow at her. “For someone who just swooned, you’re remarkably agile.”
“I did not swoon!”
“Your eyes were closed and you didn’t respond to your name.” He put his hand on her shoulder and said, “I was quite concerned.”
The warmth and sympathy in his eyes was touching her too deeply. She felt scattered and helpless, and hated feeling at the mercy of men. She had kicked her assailant—she would have gotten away on her own. But Sir John had once again risked himself to help her.
“I do thank you for your assistance,” she forced herself to say. “I was not paying attention to where I was going.”
“I know. I was following you.”
“Again!” she cried, her anger stirring back to life.
“I felt the need. You were distraught when you left me, and I worried about what you’d do. But I don’t need thanks for my rescue efforts, only your silence.”
“My silence?” she asked, beginning to frown.
And then he tossed the crutch onto the bed and started to pace.
Without a limp, just as he’d walked through the corridors.
Unease was a dark heaviness in her belly. “You lied about your broken leg?”
“I had to. I had to make sure that Bannaster—and now Milburn—could not force me to leave.”
She found herself more intrigued than frightened. It was crazy to still feel so trusting of him. “If you want me to be silent about your false injury, you have to tell me why. It was obvious you were beaten.”
He gave her a wry grin. “I had my own men do it.”
&nbs
p; She frowned in disbelief, but he held up a hand.
“I hope, when you hear the whole story—and when you explain it all to your mistress—you will both accept what I’ve done, knowing it has been for the right reasons.”
“And what have you done?” she demanded.
“My name is not John Gravesend. It’s John Russell, and I’ve come to rescue Lady Elizabeth, my betrothed.”
Elizabeth didn’t remember sitting down on the bed, but she found herself there, feeling stunned and overwhelmed. Her mind only seemed capable of considering the silliest part of this—that this man was nothing like the boy she remembered, who was short and round and under his mother’s rule. And hadn’t his hair been lighter?
“I…don’t know whether I can believe you,” she finally whispered, staring at the body of a strong—and strong willed—man. “You are nothing like…my lady described.”
“She saw me when I was thirteen,” he answered. “As I told you this afternoon—and most of it was the truth—my father despaired of me.”
So he had come to her…at last? She had thought she was helping herself, and instead she was being rescued—by her own betrothed.
Her betrothed—who was kissing her when he thought she was a lady’s maid?
Elizabeth felt the simmer of anger beneath her bewilderment boil over into fury. She had been about to blurt out her own identity, but now she thought better of it. How could she trust such a man? The entire story might be a lie—after all, she was the greatest heiress in England, and men would do much for her fortune and the earldom.
He grimaced at whatever expression he saw on her face. “I know what you’re thinking—I have not treated you well since I arrived. But you have to understand that I did not know whom I could trust here. I saw you as the person closest to my lady, the way for me to reach her the easiest.”
He thought it was easy to use her? “Why did you not arrive as yourself and demand your right to speak with your betrothed?” she asked in a tight voice.
