He greeted her coolly. "You are just in tune to see me off, princess."
Her lips compressed. "Do not tell me. You go to find the prisoners."
His eyes flickered. "Sir Quentin and his men will see to that. Geoffrey and I have another task, princess, for it seems the Dragon has been busy once again. Up until now he has rallied people to his side with wit and words. But now he has chosen to wield his sword as well as words. Aye," he said harshly on seeing her eyes widen. "The Dragon and his men attacked a group of English knights camped for the night. They were slain while they slept—"
"While they slept? Indeed, milord, mayhap the Dragon has taken his cue from you—for this raid sounds much like your attack on Merwen'"
Thorne's lips thinned. He did not bother to disavow her claim, for she had closed her mind against the truth—just as she had closed her mmd against him!
"So what will you do, milord? Search him down like an animal?"
"Nay," he said grimly, "like the traitor he is. And by God, we will find out who he is—most assuredly we will also find out where he is."
She could no longer hide her scorn. "Oh, that would please you, wouldn't it? The king would love to see the Dragon captured, while you would love to see the deed done by your own hand! Indeed, 'tis naught but a means to an end, for we both know you merely covet Castle Langley and the wealth and titles it will bring you!"
Thorne had gone utterly still. His mind spun adrift, hurtling him back through space and time, to the blazing sands of the Holy Land. A bittersweet pang pierced his chest. He had been so young then, so unprepared despite the bitter blows fate had dealt him. He thought of the first heathen he'd slain—the first man he had ever killed ...
Through a haze, he heard Shana's voice; it sliced through him, like a blade of finest steel.
"In truth, milord, 'tis your own greed and selfishness that will perpetuate this war with Wales. To men like you, war means power and strength, glory and riches. Bloodshed and lives lost mean nothing!"
His features grew taut. "Indeed," he said rigidly. "Well, let me tell you a story, princess, a story of a boy who thought his journey to the Holy Land was the answer to all his prayers for a better life—a boy who thought fighting God's battles would be just as you say, all power and strength and glory.
"Ah, but he was so wrong, princess. The desert heat was like wave after wave of hell itself. He was sickened by his first battle, for the nauseating stench of sweat and blood and rotting guts was everywhere. There was no escape from it, just as there was no escape from the screams of agony. But escape was his only thought, and so he fled toward a village at the edge of the sand.
"This boy was frightened as never before, his heart pounding like a pagan drum, his lungs bursting. And it was then that a man stepped out of his tent. The man posed no threat, no harm, for he was not even armed. But the boy saw only his? sun-baked skin, black hair, and almond eyes. He struck out ... It was only later, as the man's wife lay weeping over his corpse, that the boy realized ... He had killed a man not out of bravery, but out of fear. And he knew then there was no glory in war. There was only death and darkness and despair."
Stunned, Shana stared up at him. "Dear God," she said faintly. "That boy was you ..."
Thorne's lips twisted. A terrible storm brewed within him, an awful brooding, an endless ache ... and an endless rage. "Aye," he said harshly. "I was that boy. And aye, I covet Langley. Oh, you may deny me what little I've ever had, you who always have been coddled and indulged. But by God, I'll not apologize for it to you or anyone else."
He snared her by the waist and marched her forward to where his squire held his horse. His troops were already in formation, lined before the palisade. His pennon, blood red with its fiercesome two-headed creature of the deep, whipped in the breeze as if to taunt her.
His arm was like an iron manacle around her back. She gasped when he dragged her close— closer still!—so that she stood squarely between his booted feet.
"You will see me off, princess." His whisper was fiercely demanding. "You may not play the role of devoted wife anywhere else, but you will do so before my men!"
Shana was stung, seared to the core. Thorne's expression was unyielding—and after what he had just told her yet. He thought her cold—but he was no less so himself! In her hurt, she lashed out blindly.
"I—I'd much rather play the grieving widow!" she burst out.
Thorne swore with bitter wrath. "By God, woman, I will count as blessed every day I am spared your vile tongue!"
"And I your presence!"
His temper exploded. "Think on this while I am gone, princess. The English did not start this conflict. But if your people want war, then war it shall be."
His mouth came down on hers. His kiss was starkly possessive and hotly demanding. Oh, she tried to hold back, but her body displayed a frightening will of its own. Her hands found his back and dug in, as if she sought to bind him to her forever. Her lips parted, an invitation she was powerless to withhold. His tongue dove swift and deep in tantalizing play. She forgot that his men looked on—she forgot everything but the fiery heat of his mouth on hers, his body hard and tight against her own.
It was over as abruptly as it had begun. He left her standing in a whirlwind of dust, her heart still pounding a bone-jarring rhythm.
Not once did he look back.
Chapter 16
That day was to linger in Shana's memory, not only because of Gryffen, but because Thorne's prediction proved all too true.
The battle had indeed begun in earnest.
Always ... always there was the sound of war. The smithy pounded at the forge from dawn until daybreak; in the bailey carpenters fashioned wooden screens called mantlets which the archers used as shields; men shouted as they prepared to ride out, their horses plumed and decked out in the trappings of war.
Reports flooded in daily of mounting resistance against English rule. The Welsh deeply resented Edward's show of right and might along the Marches. Scarcely a day went by without skirmishes somewhere along the border.
She overheard Thorne with Geoffrey one evening. Llywelyn had seized on their marriage as an insult to Wales and used it as an excuse to incite more violence. Forays led by the Dragon against the English had become bolder—and more deadly.
Only last eve Sir Quentin had limped into the hall. Shana had been sitting stiffly at Thorne's side when she caught sight of Sir Quentin. One sleeve of his tunic was split nearly to the shoulder. Wrapped around his arm was a blood-soaked bandage. His face was filthy and smudged, his temple scraped raw and bruised.
Thorne leaped to his feet with a scathing oath. "Bloody hell!" he swore. "More of the Dragon's handiwork?"
Sir Quentin acknowledged with a weary nod. "He's a crafty one, I'll give him that."
Thorne's features were tightly drawn. " 'Tis his way to strike here and there unexpectedly, to appear and disappear."
Sir Quentin shifted his weight to his other leg, wincing as he did so. "It was too late to return to Langley last night, milord, so we prepared to make camp half a day's ride afield. No sooner were we off our horses than the Dragon sent his men sweeping down from the hills—we saw him from afar, wearing a mantle of blazing scarlet. 'Twas a battle slanted in his favor from the start, for most of my men were unarmed and ill-prepared ..."
Evening found a somber group burying a dozen bodies outside the walls. Shana had surveyed the procession through eyes that stung painfully, one burning question etched in her brain—what victory was there in death? She could feel no triumph at the loss of these English soldiers. Some of them were so young, hardly older than Will. But despite her brimming sadness, a niggling voice inside berated her fiercely. It cried that in allowing sympathy for the English, she betrayed her people. Her heart twisted. Especially when she thought of her father ...
Over the course of the next month, Thorne was often gone. On the rare occasions he was back at Langley, he did not speak to her of the battles being waged. Shana did n
ot pretend to misunderstand why—he did not trust her. Nay, she decided bitterly, he did not bother to hide his suspicion of her. It was there in every glance, every sharp look
cast upon her when she chanced to pass by him, together with his men.
But even as conflict raged across the land, conflict raged within her heart. No matter how she tried to deny it, it preyed on her mind that Thorne had not demanded his marital rights since the night the prisoners had escaped. Nay, he did not touch her, not out of duty or in passing, for though he kept his possessions in his tower chamber, he slept elsewhere.
Shana assured herself she was vastly relieved, yet there was a questing restlessness deep in her soul that burned fitfully all through the night. Nor could she control the frightening rush of awareness whenever he was near. She had come to recognize the sound of his step, the pleasant scent of the soap he used, the way he tightened his jaw whenever he was displeased—and with her it seemed that was always!
Boredom was a constant companion, for it was hardly' easy being such an outcast. She found solace in the precious hours she spent with Will. They spent most afternoons behind the kitchen near the garden where she had begun teaching him to read and write. Her method of instruction was highly rudimentary—she availed herself of neither vellum nor quill—but Will was an apt pupil, clever and quick to learn.
She had come to look forward to these lessons, for it provided a time when she need not worry about the earl, or the war, or anything else. The garden was quiet and secluded, a veritable haven. Lines of vegetables grew stout and sturdy, interspersed with riotous bursts of deeply hued violets, elegant pink roses, and sunburst lilies.
"This is the last place I expected to find you, milady," injected a dry male voice.
Both Shana and Will glanced up almost guiltily from where they knelt in the dirt. Will had been painstakingly tracing letters below the ones she had carved. Sir Geoffrey stood there, a winsome smile on his face, the sun glinting off his fair hair like a halo of gold.
Shana flushed, for she could only imagine the picture she presented. Her forehead and neck had grown damp from the heat. Her braid hung limp and half undone down her back, and no doubt her cheeks were smudged with dust. Will shot to his feet like an arrow. "I'd best get back to Sir Gryffen," he muttered.
Geoffrey's mouth crooked. He glanced from the stick in her hand to the letters scratched in the dirt—WILL TYLER—then back to her face.
"Does your husband know this is how you spend your days?" he teased.
Shana tossed aside her stick and sat back on her heels. "Now why would he," she returned lightly, "when he knows so little of me?"
Geoffrey was not fooled. His smiled withered. He lowered himself to the ground and propped his back against a stone wall covered with vibrant green ivy.
"Are you still so unhappy?" he asked quietly.
Shana lowered her head, wanting to be honest, yet wondering if she dared. "King Edward gambled and lost when he thought this marriage would end hostilities between England and Wales," she said at last. "Now 'tis Thorne and I who pay the price of his mistake." She could not quite conceal her bitterness. "We have naught in common save our regret for this marriage—that and our distaste for each other."
He arched a brow. "The state of your marriage might be much improved were you to discard your weapons," he stated calmly.
That brought her head up in a flash. "What?" she cried. "I have no weapons!"
He shook his head. "Milady, a woman has far more weapons than she realizes. She may deal the strongest warrior the mightiest blow of his life— and with naught but a word, or even a look."
Shana bit her lip guiltily. Geoffrey was right. Deep in her heart she knew it. She stared fixedly at the fragile blush of a pale pink rose, no longer conscious of its sweet scent. She tugged her skirts around her knees, the frail peace she had found here shattered.
"Aye," Geoffrey said softly. "You prick your husband in his most vulnerable spot."
"Vulnerable?" Her laugh held little mirth. "Geoffrey, his heart is surrounded by a fortress of stone, if indeed he has a heart!"
"Thorne is not a man easily befriended," Geoffrey admitted. "But to refuse him ... to reject him—you wound him, Shana. And sometimes hurt is masked as anger."
"So what would you have me do? Embrace him with my whole heart, when I know full well he will never do the same?" Her tone was stiff. "Me-thinks he would not care, or even notice."
Ah, lady, Geoffrey thought. That's where you're wrong, for methinks you are oft on his mind whether he wills it or no.
He chided her gently. "You say Thorne knows little of you. But you know even less of him. And here is an example, milady." He pointed to where Will had scratched out his name. "Thorne's mother wanted naught to do with her bastard son. She turned him out into the streets of London when he was far younger than Will. He wandered about not even knowing his name, if indeed she had ever given him one."
Her horror at the woman's callousness must have shown. Geoffrey caught the look and smiled grimly. "Aye, I cannot imagine such heartlessness, but life can be cruel when one is a bastard. He was so well known at the fairs in London for his thieving and such that the merchants began to call him Thorne because he stirred up so much trouble— and de Wilde because he was so wild and unruly."
Unbidden, a treacherous little pain knotted Shana's heart, a pain she fought but could not extinguish. Indeed, it was only too easy to throw back the curtain of the past and envision Thorne as an undisciplined young boy.
Rebellious ... yet defenseless.
Proud ... but always hungry.
Desperate ... but never weak.
Geoffrey laid a strong, sun-browned hand atop hers where it rested on her knee. "He is a man who has been shunned his whole life through," he said earnestly. "Would you, his wife, spurn him, too? I know of no man more loyal—or more honorable—than Thorne."
Unbeknownst to both of them, black, piercing eyes absorbed their every move. Thorne despised the seething doubt that spread along his veins, like a conquering army. He cursed the bite of jealousy that nipped at his soul. Over and over these past days he'd tried to scathingly dismiss his beauteous young wife from his mind, yet thoughts of her intruded no matter what he did or did not do.
Oh, he'd sworn he would have no care or consideration of her, for she had none of him! Yet a maelstrom of tangled emotions roiled within him like a wind-tossed tempest. With her head bowed low, the sweep of silky lashes dark upon her cheeks, pink lips parted ever so slightly, her manner betrayed a humble vulnerability ... a vulnerability that made a man long to sweep her in his arms, to shelter and protect her for the rest of his days. But her appearance belied the vixen he knew her to be, for his lovely wife was hardly without guile.
Nay, he couldn't blame Geoffrey for reaching out, for succumbing to temptation and touching her hand just as he did now. Mayhap she was a witch, he reflected caustically, that she now sought to beguile and captivate his friend, even as she had already lured him beneath her spell.
But he'd not stand idly by and watch the pair play him for twice the fool—and so help him, they would know it.
Geoffrey spotted him first. He arose and stood stiffly as Thorne approached. Shana's gaze quickly tracked Geoffrey's She had been so very determined to feel no softness, no weakness for this battle-hardened knight, yet her heart ached at the sight of him. If he was sometimes hard and distant, could she truly blame him? A sharp, knife-like twinge pierced her chest. Her own childhood had been so full of laughter and love, but for Thorne there had been no one to hold him, no one to guide him ...
No one to love him.
Before anyone could say a word, a shout pierced the air. "Milord!" Will charged back toward them. "Milord, you are needed at once. There is a messenger at the gate with a missive from Llywelyn!"
Geoffrey's eyes cleaved to Thorne's. "Llywelyn!" he exclaimed. 'Thorne, this could be good news indeed! Perhaps he wishes to surrender!" Shana was forgotten—or so she thought.
"Mayhap," he said coolly. "Then again, mayhap not. But we shall see, eh? Have him brought to the hall." Shana would have stepped back but Thorne's arm shot out. He curled his fingers around her upper arm and brought her to his side. "Nay, my love, stay! There's no need for you to rush off so quickly."
My love? Oh, he fooled no one, least of all her, she thought with a wrench of her heart. The softness within her faltered. His hard lips were curved in a smile, but there was something almost fiercely quelling in the touch of his eyes upon hers.
He led the way into the great hall and gestured for two chairs to be brought forward. Shana protested stiffly that there was no need for her presence. Again he offered that tight-lipped smile.
"Are you not interested in your uncle's message?" He sat, pulling her down beside him with an insistent tug on her fingers.
"My uncle's only interest in me," she said quietly, "is to further his own."
"If you have so little liking for your uncle, I wonder that you do not join our cause against him."
Her chin came up. "My uncle may fancy himself prince of all Wales,"— she spoke very low, that only he might hear—"but better a true Welshman than the king of England. And if you do not understand this, milord, then perhaps you know little of the loyalty Sir Geoffrey claims you possess in such abundance."
His eyes flickered. She had the feeling she wounded him, but there was no time to speculate. Three burly knights escorted the messenger into the hall. Though he appeared weary and travel stained, there was a proud, almost arrogant tilt to his head.
The messenger bowed low. Straightening, he addressed himself not to Thorne, but to Shana. "Princess, I presume?"
Shana nodded and offered her hand.
He brought it to his lips. "Your uncle inquires as to your welfare, princess. I trust you are well?"
There was a moment of supreme discomfort. She nodded, keenly aware of the weight of Thorne's gaze heavy upon her.
The man persisted. "You have not been mistreated?"
My Rebellious Heart Page 23
