Then she blinked, and that instant of madness passed. If he was tired or worried, it was his own doing. He deserved all this and worse. She broke the hold of his disturbing gaze and concentrated on her little store of medicines.
“Perhaps there is a way,” she murmured as a devious thought occurred to her. She lifted her head then and sent Cleve a taunting smile. “If you partake of the same remedy—if your men see you are willing to trust my healing skills—mayhap then they will not be such cowards. Unless, of course, you are too much the coward to do it.” She laughed out loud and met his lowering gaze. “Yes, that shall be the price of my aid—you must partake first of the cure. Have you the courage?”
The silence that followed her challenge was all-pervasive. Even the shrill oriole seemed to hold its breath in anticipation of Cleve’s answer to her outrageous suggestion. As Wynne stared at him, even she was not certain how he would reply. Nor did she understand where this strange idea of hers had come from. It could work of course. But she knew that it was not the welfare of Henry or his other sick mates that had prompted her. She’d already determined that they had contracted the same illness that had most recently affected a goodly number of people in the several villages in Radnor Forest. She’d dosed them all with a tea of liver lily for their vomiting, and yellow gentian and sallow bark for their fever. In two days they’d invariably been cured. No doubt they would have recovered even without her aid. It just would have taken a little longer.
But Cleve did not know that, and as she awaited his reply, she found herself praying that he rose to her challenge.
“What is this cure you propose?” he asked, a wary note in his voice.
“Liver lily. And a blend of two very effective herbs I just happen to have with me. A healthy person will still benefit from it, for it but soothes the stomach and clears the head. An ailing body, however, will benefit from it most markedly.”
Their gazes remained locked for so long an interval that Wynne began to sweat from the very intimacy of it. But she refused to look away.
Then he smiled, and once more she felt the intensity. Only this time it was relief, not yearning, and she could not keep from smiling in return.
“Do your worst, madam, while you have the chance. But I promise you, Wynne,” he said, whispering this last for her ears only, “I shall expect from you the same sort of expression of faith in me. There will come that moment when you shall have to commit your trust to me.” He lifted one hand and touched her cheek ever so slightly. “The time will come, and not too distant. Don’t forget then that I trusted you today.”
When he finally released her from his compelling stare, she turned at once to her task, for it was a supreme relief to concentrate on the measuring and mixing of the proper remedy for her patients. Anything to escape the overpowering sense of losing her will to this man.
He was her direst enemy, she reminded herself. A man paid by some marauding English lord to steal a child of hers. There could never be anything even approaching trust between the two of them.
Yet Wynne knew there was something building between them. Something that had begun as purely physical, but now was becoming emotional as well. Why else did her hands shake so?
She swallowed and glanced over at Druce. Where was he when she needed him anyway? Why wasn’t he beside her, preventing Cleve FitzWarin from affecting her in so disturbing a fashion?
But Druce was easing his own ailments with a crust of bread and a slice of cheese. And anyway, she’d just told him in no uncertain terms not to involve himself in her dealings with Cleve. Cnaf, she muttered in frustration. Knaves, all of them.
When the tea was prepared, and the other two powders dissolved in a small amount of cold water, she finally raised her gaze back to Cleve. “Here it is; drink only one fourth of the content of each cup.”
Henry watched with wary eyes as Cleve took the two cups she handed him. Richard and Marcus also stared at him, their pale faces cautious with hope. The other men, however—the ones who had not been so miserably afflicted—only appeared doubtful. From their tall, powerful leader to the small, mysterious Welsh woman their suspicious gazes flitted. Only Druce and Barris appeared confident about the outcome.
And Cleve, she amended. He looked completely confident as he took the medicines from her, letting his fingers slide over hers for an instant. Then he gave her a faint mocking smile and took a long pull from each of the vessels.
When he tasted the second preparation, however, his face puckered sourly. “My God, woman! Did you select only the vilest of your many remedies? It does taste like the overripened leavings of the garderobe!”
He wiped his mouth with the back of one fist and grimaced once again. But then he laughed and passed the two cups to Henry. “Show your mettle, man. Do not quake and quiver before this slight maid. She is more bark than bite. Drink up,” he ordered with a grin directed at Wynne.
Though Cleve had risen manfully to her challenge, Wynne nonetheless frowned at his levity. As Henry cautiously sipped the remedies, she turned back to her medicines, collecting them and folding them back within her purse. In one fell swoop it seemed that Cleve had undone her. What had begun in wicked humor—a rare chance to best him—had somehow turned around on her. Like a fool she’d challenged him, but he’d risen to it.
What had she actually thought to win? she wondered as Marcus and Richard edged forward to take their portion of her remedies.
But more important, what had she lost?
15
THEY REMAINED THAT WHOLE day in camp. Four times did Wynne dose Richard, Henry, and Marcus with her foul-flavored concoctions, much to their complaint. But the very fact that they became more and more vociferous in their objections only proved to her that they did already mend.
The children enjoyed themselves very well, running and exploring; practicing with their bows; climbing trees. Arthur especially delighted in the break from their riding, for Cleve gave over several hours of his time to the child. They examined various forms of rocks until Arthur’s collection bulged from the small haversack he carried. They located five different types of birds’ nests, three of which were empty, but the other two were occupied with hungry little nestlings.
The other men, English and Welsh alike, also fell prey to the children’s high spirits. Only Wynne stayed somewhat apart.
It was difficult for her to remain aloof, however, for there was little enough to do. Straighten the bedding in the tent. Prepare the meals. Measure and mix the medicines. In between times she sat upon the grassy edge of the uneven Dyke and stared across the narrow divide toward her homeland.
She pointedly ignored Cleve FitzWarin, and somewhat to her confusion—and even dismay—he ignored her. Just as well, she groused, setting her chin in her palm as she squinted to see any evidence of Black Mountain on the horizon. He was the last person on earth to whom she wished to speak.
Yet as the hours passed and the heat of the late afternoon came upon them, she knew that was not true. She tilted her head slightly so that she could spy upon him without appearing too obvious. He and Druce had returned from a short hunting expedition bearing three rabbits and four squirrels. They were in good spirits as they tossed the game to the other men for cleaning. Cleve especially looked exuberant, with his face brown as a berry and his dark hair tossed by the wind. He was so tall and straight, so strong and vital, with his tunic removed and his thin chainse clinging to his damp body.
Lucky the maiden who awaited him at Kirkston Castle, Wynne unhappily admitted to herself.
When he looked up, straight at her, she did not even try to look away. Only when he said something aside to the others, then started her way, did she turn her head to stare back at Wales.
She heard his footsteps and fancied she felt the very earth tremble as he lowered his long-legged frame to sit beside her. But she stared doggedly at the western horizon and the clouds that hid the downward arc of the sun but temporarily.
“Ah,” he exhaled noisily, a con
tented, masculine sound. “I’ve had a hard time of it today, Wynne.” He waited for her response.
“Oh?” She didn’t look at him.
After another short silence he continued, undeterred by her obvious refusal to appear interested. “I could not decide the cause of my enormous good spirits this day. I thought it was my return to my homeland. But as I hunted, I found that my eyes were sharper and my aim truer. Then I realized that it was your doing.”
“My doing?” She chanced a very brief sidelong glance at him, which she immediately regretted. Why must he plague her with his easy grin and relaxed posture? Why didn’t he just leave her alone? She frowned and glared at a cloud shaped absurdly like a woman riding upon a dragon’s tail.
“Yes, your doing. That vile stuff you mixed up is even better than you predicted. I have been invigorated the entire day, and the others do heal before my very eyes. Yes, ’tis of your doing. You are every bit as skilled as you did boast,” he finished in a tone so excessively sincere that it rang false.
She shot him a suspicious look. “You are more bothersome than ever the most difficult child.”
He laughed out loud, causing her frown to deepen. “Leave me be, Cleve FitzWarin. I do not wish your company.”
She watched as, with an effort, he controlled his grin. “Ah, Wynne. I wonder if there is anything I could do to make you smile.”
“I told you. Leave me be.”
“I don’t think that will make you smile,” he replied. Then before she knew it, he took one of her hands into his. “Surely there is something else.”
“There is nothing else,” she vowed, once she had her wits back. “Let me go,” she added, tugging hard to remove her hand from his warm and intimate grasp.
“Perhaps you would enjoy a stroll along the Dyke. We could watch the sunset,” he continued as if she’d not said a word. “Or ride together. There is a meadow not far from here where the deer will come out to browse at dusk.”
“No, I … I will not go anywhere with you,” she stammered. She was conscious of the hard thudding of her heart and the heated rush of blood throughout her body.
He leaned nearer. “Smile for me, fair Wynne. Give us a smile. You do it so rarely, and it does light up your face in the most wondrous fashion.”
They were like love words, soft and enticing, flirtatious and beguiling. Oh, why was he saying them to her?
“I cannot … I cannot smile at you,” she managed.
“You mean you will not,” he pressed on. “You are far and away the most stubborn wench I’ve ever met. But you’ve smiled on me before; you can do it again.” He paused, and his dark eyes burned into hers with golden lights. “Must I kiss you again to bring that smile to your lips?”
“No!” She gasped the word as all the emotions she’d fought to hold at bay came tumbling past her weak barriers. Just the thought of him kissing her made her stomach tighten in the most unimaginable fashion. Like violent shivers, only come from the inside out and caused by heat, not cold, the waves of longing coursed through her. He lifted her hand to press against his chest, making it even worse, for the strong beat of his heart seemed to penetrate her fingertips and up her arms, then all the way to her own heart.
As if he knew the damage he was doing to her willpower—as if he could actually see her insides dissolving under his deliberately sensual attack—he kept his dark and glowing eyes steadfast upon her.
“Why no?” he prompted, searching her face, lingering at her lips. “Why don’t you want to kiss me again? I was so convinced that you liked it those other times.”
Wynne saw the slow, seductive grin that curved his mouth. She had liked those other kisses very much. Too much. And he knew it. Just this glimpse of his tempting grin brought all those feelings back to her, stronger than ever.
With a groan she closed her eyes. She simply could not be strong when he was so close and staring at her so boldly. But as if her lowered eyelids were a permission he awaited, a sign of her surrender, Cleve pulled her nearer until their faces were but inches apart and she could feel the very warmth of his breath.
“Open your eyes, my Wynne. See the one who would bring you every physical pleasure if you would but accept it.” Then his mouth touched hers ever so lightly, and her eyes did indeed pop open.
“You see?” he murmured, moistening her lips sweetly with the words. “There is something between us—some fire—that no amount of denial can change. Here, open to me.”
Like one mesmerized, she did as he said, parting her lips to his command, accepting the devastating thrust of his tongue within the sanctum of her mouth. Like the sleekest velvet it slid upon her sensitive inner lips. Like fire it licked into her, igniting the deep and smoldering embers of her darkest and most secret emotions. With unerring accuracy he stroked and roused her until she strained forward, accepting him wholly and wanting ever more.
In an instant she lay in his lap. One of his arms circled her back while the other cupped her face, tilting her backward to accept his thrilling caress. Her own hands gripped his chainse, and she felt the dampness of his skin. And the warmth. At that moment she would happily have crawled beneath the flimsy linen. Anything to be close to him, to touch his flesh with her own.
“Tonight, my fairest love. Tonight once the camp sleeps, I will wait for you,” he murmured against her now-seeking lips.
Her answer was a long and hungry kiss. She didn’t want words any longer, for there was no common ground for them with words. They were an ocean apart with words. Yet when they met like this … it was as if she were at last complete. A whole person. All her senses raised to new heights by his very nearness. Her skin fairly glowed from his touch. The taste of him, the unique scent. If she could but hear his voice every day of her life and see his smiling face …
But it went beyond even that. Far beyond. Like the most sharpened of her visions, the clearest sense of him came to her. Of him and her together, joined in the old way. Joined in the way men and women have joined all the ages of time. But better and stronger, and more right than was imaginable.
“Tonight.” He kissed the word down her neck, heating the tender flesh there to new heights.
“Tonight,” she answered somehow, though there was no breath within her to say the word. Yet even with the sound of her own voice, she knew it could not be that simple.
His hand slid down her side, skirting the edge of her breasts, then lower, past her waist to rest upon the swell of her hip. He pressed her harder against him so that she was aware of the rigid arousal beneath his braies.
It was both a wonder to her and fearsome as well. She did both long for and dread what he desired of her. How could a woman be so torn apart, so pulled in conflicting directions? Yet there was no denying the aching fullness in her belly and breasts. It was as if her very insides longed for the touch of him, and she knew at last why women could long for that very same act which in different circumstances could be so cruel and demeaning.
Groaning, she sought his mouth once more, and acting the aggressor, she held his head while she kissed him. He took her tongue into his mouth, then before she could taste her fill, thrust back, possessing her in a frighteningly aggressive manner. They slid a little way down from the edge of the Dyke, rolling slightly into the coarse grass so that he half lay upon her. One of his thighs parted hers, and she felt the hard pressure of his desire pushing against her belly. His tongue thrust too, filling her mouth, possessing it rhythmically until she was fair to bursting with unnameable desires.
“Sweet Mother,” he panted, pressing his kiss against her eyes and cheeks and ear. “Ah, sweet witch, how I burn for you.” He took her earlobe in an almost painful bite, then pressed his fiery kiss further, stroking into her ear so that she twisted convulsively beneath him. Squirming away from him. Squirming nearer.
His hard thigh slid against her legs, rubbing between them in the place where all her desires now seemed to be centered. Not conscious of her actions, she pressed up against him, for sh
e desperately needed some relief to this cruel desire he’d fired in her.
“God, do not do that,” he groaned against her ear. “Else I will no longer be able to control myself.”
She turned her head slightly, silencing his words with a deep kiss, pouring all her longing and need into it. She wanted to consume him. She wanted him to consume her.
Someone cleared his throat, but she was only vaguely aware of it. After a pause, however, the high, whistling notes of a familiar Welsh melody pierced her consciousness, and she went stiff with panic. Druce!
Cleve, however, was not nearly so alarmed as she. He only raised his head to peer over his shoulder, up toward the edge of the Dyke, above which the top of Druce’s dark head was barely visible. “Begone from here, man.”
The whistling stopped. “I need to speak to Wynne.”
Cleve stilled Wynne’s panicked attempts to rise with a stern look. “I need to speak to her as well. And she needs to speak to me,” he added, giving her a lusty wink
Druce cleared his throat. “I’ve no doubt at all that she does. However, I must act in her best interests, and at the moment I fear her … ah … her ‘conversation’ with you is not in her best interest.”
Wynne felt her face go scarlet with shame. Druce knew exactly where she’d been heading. Though she’d told him not to interfere with her, at that moment she could have wept with relief that he had ignored her. Another kiss or two, another caress from Cleve, and she would have cast all caution to the winds.
She could not meet Cleve’s eyes, but she felt his searching gaze upon her face. “Wynne?” he asked. Then, when he did not receive an answer from her, he moved his mouth nearer her ear. “Till later.” He murmured the heated words in a sweet, sensual threat. Then he kissed her ear once again until she was arching in silent plea beneath him.
“Do not make this harder than it already is,” Druce called impatiently.
Cleve chuckled before pulling back from Wynne. “That would be a physical impossibility,” he whispered wryly.
Rexanne Becnel Page 18
