by Geri Borcz
"My lord, I am come at the king's behest." A quick glance over Baldwin's graying head acknowledged the robed man. "I trust the good Father has reviewed his message with you?"
Baldwin growled and gained his feet. "Not one to mince words, eh?"
Rhys knew his greater height had prompted the man to rise. Few men felt comfortable with him towering above them. Though half a head taller than Baldwin and just as broad, Rhys suspected that beneath the rich brown tunic lay a body as rocky as the bearded face.
Then Rhys changed his mind. He didn't intimidate the border earl at all. Instead, the man met his silent challenge and stood before him, issuing one of his own.
Rhys decided he preferred not to tangle with this man, if he could avoid it.
"I like that," said the earl, staring him straight in the eye. "Adington, I've a proposition to offer you."
Roger shifted his weight.
"I'm listening," said Rhys.
"The land is my daughter's." Baldwin moved to the table and poured wine into two goblets. Turning back, he extended one cup to Rhys. "You've met Juliana?"
Raimund stifled a choked laugh.
With a brief head shake, Rhys declined the drink.
"We've bumped into each other," he said.
Baldwin sipped from his drink, for a moment studying the younger man over the rim.
"'Tis her dowry," he said, lowering the cup and ignoring the blood-red drops that trickled onto his silvered beard. "If we settle a price as the king implies, it leaves her with naught." Baldwin slammed his goblet to the table, sloshing the contents, and met Rhys's gaze again. "Henry or nay, I'll not consider that."
Rhys hid his surprise at this show of compassion. "And your proposal?"
"My daughter's hand."
A growl escaped Roger. He stepped closer.
"Wed with her and the land is yours," Baldwin finished, halting his son with a quick glower.
Rhys had never expected the offer. On the outside, he remained cool and calculating, but on the inside, his stomach dropped to his boots.
What game did the earl play?
Behind him, he sensed his two men perk up, and beside him, he sensed Roger's eagerness to run him through.
So, Baldwin and Roger disagreed. Perhaps the scarred man had acted a bit hasty in his father's stead? Still, Rhys lacked the desire to be caught in the middle of this family's quarrels.
He wanted the land, and more than Juliana's hand, Rhys wanted her--preferably naked beneath him on a soft bed.
But marriage?
"And if I refuse?" Rhys knew the unpalatable answer, but he needed to hear from Baldwin's mouth whether he backed Roger in this scheme.
Rowland abandoned his lazy stance, straightened, and bellowed, "Refuse? You dare to insult my sister?" His face flamed to match his russet hair, and he took a menacing step forward.
Raimund's punishing grip on his upper arm stopped him.
"She has another suitor," barked Baldwin. "If you still wish the land, then you may deal with her husband."
That settled one matter--the twins didn't side with Roger. But neither did they oppose their brother. Rhys crossed his arms at his chest.
"What do you gain from this?"
"Whether you or the other," the earl growled, "either way brings me more allies and discharges the king's order. So what say you, my lord?"
An impasse. Baldwin stood to gain everything he sought. He obeyed the king and taught his son a lesson by neatly maneuvering Rhys into bearing the brunt of Roger's displeasure.
God curse the wily old earl.
There was little choice for Rhys in the tug of war. He neither wanted nor needed a wife--especially a troublesome wife, one to whom he must teach the limitations of her gender.
But he'd not abandon her to a life of hell. And from something he gleaned in the old man's craggy face, Rhys suspected the earl counted on this, as much as he counted on Rhys's desire for the land.
Curse it. If he had to fight Roger, so be it. If he had to take a wife, so be it.
Though, in all honesty, the advantages to him in taking the earl's tempting daughter far outweighed the negatives. For one, the news would please Isobel.
Rhys stared back at the older man, none of his emotions reflected in his face.
"I accept your terms, Earl Baldwin," he drawled. "I'll wed with the Lady Juliana."
Roger whipped his sword from its scabbard, and shouted, "The land is hers."
"And I'll stomach you to get it," Rhys shot back, and answered with the singing whine of his own blade.
The twins jumped forward, yelling to their brother in unison. But Costin and Alain moved quicker to block their path.
"Hold." Baldwin raised a meaty hand, stepping between the blade tips. From behind the chair, the priest froze in mid sneeze.
"So, too, you cur," Roger snarled, glaring past his father into hard blue eyes, "is the choice of husband."
Roger still brandished his sword, sucking in air through clenched teeth and vibrating with the force of his fury.
Rhys's eyes widened a fraction at this news.
He'd goaded Roger, rather than expressing his true desires in the matter, but in the second he stared at the undisguised venom in Roger's eyes, his hand tightened around the hilt until the knuckles whitened.
"Enough." Baldwin shot a hot glare to the twins, until they backed off. "There'll be no blood shed this day."
He waited to see the king's men ease their stance, before he turned a threatening gaze upon Roger.
"No matter to whom I give it," the earl barked in his face, "I'm a man of my word."
Roger shifted his glare to his father. Baldwin's stony countenance never wavered. Finally, Roger backed down with a snort and replaced his sword.
Alain, Costin, and Rhys also sheathed their swords and eased off.
"My son speaks true. His sister is a widow, and as such, I gave her the choice." Baldwin stared at Roger then and said, "The choice is still hers."
After a moment's hard pause, he turned back to Rhys. "Since she has two suitors, we'll let her decide which one to take for husband."
Baldwin waited for his reaction.
Rhys cursed to himself. Then with deliberate moves, he turned his back to the room, stepped to the table, and lifted the other wine goblet to his lips. He sipped, slowly.
Why did Roger press the issue? By rights, no contest existed between Rhys and Malcolm. But who knew a woman's mind? Especially that woman's? God's death, is that what Roger counted on?
Rhys knew he'd piqued Juliana's anger more times than not. Jesu, she might well refuse him out of perversity.
If she used her wits and accepted him, fine and good. He'd expend his passion on her delectable body and deal with her anger later. But he hadn't lived as a military man for naught.
He had no intention of letting this battle go to another.
The seed of a plan that had rooted earlier in his mind now grew and blossomed, and a new determination gripped him like talons. Strategies, honed by years of fighting, tumbled through his battle-quick mind in rapid succession. It took only a second for him to contemplate.
Aye, if need be, he'd decide for Juliana.
Rhys harbored no aversion to swift action. The daunting knowledge streaked through his mind that he gambled on the wrath of two kings, but his instincts promised the reward outweighed the risks. And he always followed his instinct.
He all but laughed aloud with eagerness.
If it came to it, surprise would work to his advantage, a quick strike now and fall back to the safety of his walls. His immediate concern, once there, centered on fending off the reprisals of two small armies. He needed more men. Confident his family would stand with him, Rhys decided the time had come to call upon their powerful backing.
A feverish excitement built in him, and like a man compelled, he set his course.
Aye, he owed Isobel the chance for a mother's guidance. And nay, his honor wouldn't accept Juliana as a sacrifice to Roger's ha
tred.
But beyond them all, Rhys realized as desire coiled his insides, he meant to keep the fiery Juliana for himself.
No matter what foolishness she spouted to her father, one way or another, Rhys would claim the earl's daughter.
Tonight.
He put the goblet down and turned to his future father-by-marriage.
"As you wish, my lord," he said. "Shall you call the lady now and hear her answer?"
~~~~
CHAPTER 6
Prisoners heading to their execution walked with more eagerness than Juliana, as she inched down the torch-lit corridor toward the chamber reserved for family use.
In her mind, the comparison fit, except their troubles ended at the scaffold. Once she faced her father to hear him outline his plans for her and that marauding Scot, one way or another, her troubles increased.
Of course, he could prolong her agony with a stern lecture first about the morning's debacle. Juliana shivered.
"I'd forgo begging his mercy," Oliver whispered, "in favor of drooling and twitching like a simpleton."
"I could froth like a rabid hound," she whispered back, "if you think it would aid my cause."
"Do not overplay it," he said. Flashing a reassuring grin, he patted the hand that rested on his arm.
For the tenth time, she adjusted her mantle to cover the soiled gown she hadn't time to change. Near the door to the solar, she tightened her grip on Oliver's arm, took a deep breath, and stepped into her future.
She caught sight of her brothers, and ignored them. Instead, her gaze focused straight ahead to the brawny figure of her father who stood next to his favorite chair.
Determined to grovel at his feet and utilize every wile she possessed, Juliana loosened her fingers from her cousin's arm--until a shadowy shape pierced her awareness.
She caught herself a second before she bolted to the earl, and drew in a sharp breath. From near the window seat, inquiring eyes met her startled gaze, and Rhys stepped forward.
Juliana's nails squeezed Oliver's arm, until he winced.
Unsmiling, Rhys moved with the ease of a cat, power seething from the muscles that shifted beneath his tunic.
Juliana bristled at the mild contempt in his appraisal.
His gaze traveled from her head to her toes and lingered on her chest. Beneath the layers of cloth, her breasts tingled. Curse him. She pulled the concealing mantle tighter at the neck.
That movement prompted his gaze to return to her face, and anger rose within her chest. The wolfish smirk and the possessive look in his eyes clearly told her his thoughts.
"Good eve, my lady," he said on a brief nod.
Such simple words, but the sound as richly male as the stubble that highlighted his jaw. The man reeked of confidence, his gaze blazed with it. A woman could drown in those eyes, that velvety voice, that raw male intensity.
Of course, her father had included Rhys in order to gloat over his reaction when he heard that he'd come for naught. By the Saints, if Rhys thought she'd beg upon hearing her father's dreaded words, then she'd disappoint him.
"And to you, my lord of Adington," she said, summoning all the frostiness she could muster.
So much for groveling. She'd stand forever, before she'd let that arrogant lout think he'd won an inch with her. Composing herself, she swept past Rhys into the chamber like a queen and made her obeisance to the gruff border earl.
"You're well come back, father."
"Ana," Baldwin said with a hint of pride. He gathered her hands and pulled her closer to him.
His coarse beard tickled her face as he placed an affectionate kiss, first on one cheek, then the other. She inhaled his familiar scent--leather, outdoors and wine. Up close, she noted he wore his tiredness like a loose garment, a look so at odds with the fierce strength she'd come to expect.
"I've missed you," he whispered, before pulling back.
"And I you, my lord," she said.
Juliana quivered inside. She focused on her father, and smothered within the wall of men that moved to surround her. And block her escape. To the left of the twins swept the dark outline of the king's men, poised like vultures on a fence post.
Rhys headed the trio, standing so close she sensed the heat from his body. The scent of cloves clung to him. Her insides knotted. To her front, Roger's scarred face hardened as he glowered at her from beside their fiercesome father.
And Father Duncan's placid countenance blinked at her from the narrow space between their two broad shoulders.
Bekton Abbey rose in her mind.
"I've been most patient and indulged your whims long enough, my lady," her father said, before piercing her with a no-nonsense gaze. "But I've given you my word, and I'm honor bound to stand by it. Your brother, Roger, has placed one suit before you." He nodded toward Rhys. "And my lord of Adington brings another. As I promised, my lady, the choice of husband is yours. So which of the two is it to be?"
What?
Heat rushed to her face at the same time words to correct his faulty memory leapt to her impertinent mouth. To one day stand before him and suffer untold coercion to choose between the lesser of two evils wasn't exactly what he'd promised.
She bit her tongue. Judging from the hardness of his weathered features, he'd not tolerate any insolence.
Instead, she licked parched lips. Her father expected an answer.
And he expected one now.
~~~~
CHAPTER 7
Rhys recognized Juliana's nervousness. It had taken him a second longer to recognize the lackwit from earlier, a handsome man when clean. Nay, more lad than man, but that reassurance didn't ease the unfamiliar tightness gripping Rhys's chest.
The lad stood too close to her, looked too concerned for her, and shared too much affection with her. By God, Rhys would soon set the blond straight.
Juliana's eyes glistened with trepidation and there was a faint tremble to her luscious mouth. That look was so at odds with the undaunted spirit Rhys had come to expect.
Protectiveness welled within him. Again, she evoked an elusive feeling within Rhys, the urgency stirring deep in his gut. Ridiculous. Her skin was too bronzed from the sun, her chin too stubborn, her hair too unfashionably dark. Yet those flaws dimmed beneath her fiery nature, quick wit, and sensual allure.
A sensuality that called to Rhys. He'd glimpsed the crimson gown that hugged her curves, curves that had haunted him all day. God's teeth, that color set any healthy man to wondering what it would be like to slowly slide the rustling fabric off and lick every inch of warm skin beneath.
From now on, Juliana would wear crimson only for him. If she wore anything at all.
Rhys saw the threat Roger conveyed to her, but could do nothing about it, except pray she didn't buckle beneath her brother's will.
Given the choice, Rhys preferred not to fight his way out. Even so, his muscles coiled and uncoiled, ready to do battle.
* * *
Juliana heard Roger growl low in his throat and felt him loom closer. A menacing reminder.
Sweet Ana, for the love you bear me, do as I bid. His earlier plea for her blind loyalty tumbled in her confused mind. And ate at her raw nerves.
Through the corner of her eye, she caught Rhys angling himself nearer. Pressuring her without words, he exuded a masculinity that washed over her in a compelling tide. Her heart pounded a frantic beat.
Holy Mary and Joseph, the indecision.
Roger would never forgive her betrayal, and she couldn't risk the possibly of one day being pushed aside by Rhys.
Curse all men.
What if she did deny them both? Dare she risk the formidable wrath of her father and eldest brother by defying them in front of the king's men?
Stall for time.
How?
Think.
She drowned beneath her father's impatient glare, her brother's harsh gray eyes, and Rhys's potent gaze. Slowly, Juliana dropped her eyelids, then opened them again and shot a pleading look to the
priest who wore a sympathetic expression.
As if on cue, Father Duncan sneezed.
"My lord," he said through a loud sniffle. He pinched the end of his reddened nose between a bony thumb and forefinger and tugged several times. "'Tis a weighty decision you've, ah, ah, placed upon the lady's delicate shoulders." He sneezed. "Might I beg a moment to offer her my counsel?"
Saved by a nose.
Juliana heaved a momentary sigh of relief.
'Tis a good time to ask for Extreme Unction.
Baldwin snorted, glowered at the man, then wiped the over-spray from his tunic shoulder. He waved the priest forward.
"I'd see this matter settled anon, my lady," he warned, turning back to his daughter. Then he pointed to a far corner of the chamber. "Aye, seek your privacy in all haste."
She'd hoped to escape their presence, but this precious breathing room, if only for a short while, came gratefully.
"Good Father," she whispered after a moment as she huddled with her back to the other men, "bless you for your quick thinking."
His leathery face beamed, before he recovered a thoughtful mien. "'Tis a tangle, but one, thankfully, not without a solution."
"And how do I wrest myself from this impossible situation?"
"To any Christian woman," he whispered, "I'd advise against the Scot."
"Heaven forbid," she agreed. "I'd sooner wed a goat than Malcolm."
"Well, aye, my lady," Father Duncan whispered back, wiping his nose on his wide sleeve. "Count yourself fortunate that your father is an honorable man."
