Linda Barlow

by Fires of Destiny

  And so he had the pleasure of lying flesh to flesh with his love again, but in far different circumstances than he had anticipated. With infinite tenderness he covered her, warming her breasts against his chest, her belly and her thighs with his own. He pressed kisses against her throat, her cheeks, her forehead, her lips. But he felt not the slightest trace of desire—there wasn’t room for it beside his fear. For the first time in his life he had no carnal thoughts about the woman he lay with; he cared for nothing but her heartbeat and her continued breath.

  Soon he was hot from the fire and the woolen blankets, and Alix’s body no longer seemed so cold. Merwynna was sitting beside them with a bowl of some aromatic brew, stroking her forehead with one long, craggy finger.

  “What happened out there, Merwynna, do you know?”

  The witch shrugged. “When she wakes, she will tell us.”

  “I love her. I love her as I have never loved before, never dreamed of loving. She is my life.”

  “Then ye must be strong, for there are more trials ahead for ye both, I fear.”

  “And the outcome? Can you prophesy happiness for us in the end?”

  Merwynna sighed. “I cannot see. I wish I could, but that power has not been granted to me. I do not know how this will end.”

  Alexandra moaned and stirred slightly in his arms. His heart rate quickened. “She wakes.”

  “The Goddess be praised.”

  Alexandra was dreaming. Once again she was in her lover’s arms; once again she felt his hard-muscled body against her own. She touched her fingers to the smooth skin on his chest, ruffling the wiry tendrils there. She snuggled closer, feeling his pulse beat steadily beneath her cheek, his humid, sweet-smelling breath fanning her hair. His long legs were tangled with hers, his hips, his loins taut and hard against her softer curves. She shifted contentedly. She loved his body. She loved him.

  She’d had this dream before. She had had it so many times in the weeks since she’d left Roger. It was more vivid than usual this time. She resisted waking; she didn’t want to find herself alone in a cold bed. She wanted the dream to go on forever.

  “Sweetling,” he was whispering in her ear. She loved the way he called her that. Nobody except Roger had ever called her sweetling. Nobody except Roger had ever held her so close, made her feel so safe and protected. Roger would keep her from harm. Roger would protect her from Francis Lacklin, who wanted her dead.

  She came awake with a cry that tore the heart out of Roger. One moment she was nestling in his arms, the next she was struggling to free herself from demons.

  “No! Not my babe!”

  Roger swore and shifted his weight to free her straining limbs. Not my babe? The words drove through him like a lance. Was she with child? His hand fell to her flat belly and hovered protectively. Had his seed taken root in her body?

  “Please! I’ll keep your secret. I saved your life.”

  “Hush, lassie.” He was trying to keep his voice gentle despite the tension that was ripping through his gut. What the hell was she going on about? Keep whose secret? Had someone tried to kill her? He’d tear the blackguard apart. “You’re safe now, Alix, safe. It’s me, Roger. Lie still.”

  “Roger?” Her eyes had opened, but she was looking at him as if she didn’t trust them.

  “We’re in Merwynna’s cottage. She’s here too, see?” He gestured toward the wise woman. Alexandra’s gaze shifted to Merwynna for a moment, then back to him. She still seemed dazed. She drew a long, shuddering breath, and then closed her eyes again. A tear slowly formed at the corner of each.

  Gently he caressed her hair. “Alix?”

  Her response was slow, labored. “I remember now. I nearly drowned. I saw my own body below me, struggling to keep afloat.” Her breath shuddered, racking her slender frame. “How did you find me?”

  “Merwynna discovered you unconscious on the bank of the lake, and I carried you back here. What happened, love? Did someone try to kill you?”

  Instead of answering, she looked to Merwynna. “The babe? Is she still…?”

  The witch tenderly brushed a lock of red hair off her patient’s forehead. “Aye, lass. She’s well-protected inside ye; don’t be worrying about the babe.”

  “Alix, are you with child?” Roger was at the mercy of a confused rush of emotions—joy at her recovery of her senses, towering rage at whoever had tried to kill her, and a strong desire to be alone with her, away from Merwynna the witch, who could hear every word they exchanged. He didn’t know how he felt about the child. Since Celestine’s death, pregnancy had frightened him.

  “You’re not angry, are you? Our babe will be born in April.” She couldn’t help remembering the Voice’s qualification: If you survive.

  “I’m not angry, no, but I will be if we are not quickly wed, Mistress Independent. I hope you plan to stay by my side long enough, this time, to make your vows.”

  Her tears began to flow more rapidly now. When she pressed her face against his neck, he could feel them hot against his bare skin. “I’m sorry,” she choked as tears turned into sobs. “I missed you so, and ‘twas all for naught. My father wouldn’t admit it, but I suspect his threat was all bluster and bluff.”

  “Hush, love, don’t fret about it now.”

  “You shouldn’t be here, Roger. It’s dangerous. I’m afraid for you. Geoffrey’s still in England, you know, and if he hears you have returned, he’ll come after you. If you’re caught you’ll be tried for treason.”

  “Alix, you haven’t answered my question. Who tried to kill you?”

  She burrowed her face against his throat, well aware that she had given him no answer. She didn’t know what to say. No longer was she concerned about the consequences to Francis. From the moment he’d thrown her out of the boat, whatever sympathy she might have had for him had died. But it would hurt Roger deeply to know the truth. Apart from herself, Francis Lacklin was the one constant friend he had. He trusted him with his life. How could she tell him? And yet, he would have to know.

  “She must rest,” Merwynna put in before Alexandra could determine what to say. “I want her to drink this broth.”

  “And I want to know who the devil tried to kill her!”

  Alexandra made a small sound in the back of her throat. “I’ll tell you, love, I promise. But not now. The tale is long and you won’t want to believe it. I’ll tell you, but let me rest a little first.”

  Roger curled his fists in frustration. He had already begun to have some thoughts on the matter, thoughts he didn’t like at all. “Very well. But the next time you wake, I expect some answers from you. Do you hear me, woman? You’ve tried my patience sorely these last few weeks.”

  “I hear you.” She tried to smile. Obediently she drank Merwynna’s brew, then settled down once again in her lover’s arms. Almost instantly she began to drift. Peacefully, wrapped in a cocoon of security and love, she closed her eyes and slept.

  *

  Roger dozed on and off throughout the night, but the half-dreams he kept falling into were ominous, and the constant presence of Merwynna with her strange eyes and her foul-smelling potions put him on edge. Rising just before the dawn, he dressed in his now-dry clothes and paced the small cottage, firing questions at Merwynna, who was bent over her herb table sorting scratchy little plants, roots, and berries, ignoring him. Finally, wound up enough to break things, he left the cottage to pace instead along the shore of the lake. If someone had indeed tried to kill Alix, he intended to find out who, how, and why. Even if the knowledge shattered his peace of mind.

  Roger was not a blind or imperceptive man. But his heart was shying away from examining the evidence that his brain insisted he consider. Alix’s hysterical, half-conscious words had been haunting him all night. I’ll keep your secret. I saved your life.

  Roger could think of only one person whose life Alix had saved recently. The tale is long and you won’t want to believe it. Roger smashed his fist against a tree, hardly noticing the bloody scrape t
he rough bark delivered. Where the hell was Francis? Had he really gone south, as he had claimed? Or had he traveled northwest, to Westmor? Had he been the one who had attacked Alix?

  Why was he thinking these things? Was it because the gloomy forest reminded him all too clearly of another night, one year before? A peasant boy who had killed himself against all expectation and sense. A proud-eyed woman who violated her Madonna image one afternoon by confessing an affair with his dead brother. A Turkish dagger that had lain in the ditch where Will had cracked his head…or had it cracked for him. And a red-haired girl who’d never stopped insisting that murder had been done.

  How many times did these facts have to sift through his brain before he was willing to acknowledge the pattern they were forming? Francis Lacklin had been present at Whitcombe on the night of Will Trevor’s accident. He had been camping in the forest at the time of Ned’s death. And he could have been here, at the lakeside with Alix, yesterday afternoon.

  Roger picked up a handful of stones and flung them one by one into the water. What had Francis said as he lay bleeding on the riverbank, believing himself about to die? He had tried to confess something, but Roger had not listened. Had he wished to confess to Will’s murder? But why would he have killed Will? Why, dammit, why?

  God’s blood! Roger’s head was aching, but the thoughts, now whirling like a top, wouldn’t stop.

  He flung one more rock into the water. The splash it made seemed to echo around the lake. He turned and stalked back toward Merwynna’s cottage. He had to talk to her; he could bear the suspense no longer. If Francis was a murderer, he wanted to hear the truth of it from Alexandra’s lips.

  Chapter 37

  When Alexandra awoke that morning, she was groggy, but not out of her senses. Her sleep had been peaceful, and she had felt safe, knowing Roger was nearby.

  Merwynna came to lean over her; she smiled and reached for the old wise woman’s hand. Looking past her, she saw a man entering the cottage. The rising sun was just behind him, and its light dazzled her eyes, making him seem larger, broader, obscuring his face. The welcoming grin she was sending his way died on her lips as, for an instant, this tall dark-haired man seemed to change into the figure from her nightmares, the killer with the deadly sword at his side.

  Roger saw the fear come into her eyes. He saw the way she cringed backward on her mattress, and he read the word her lips formed in the second before she recognized him and her terror dissipated. “Francis?” she mouthed.

  “Alix, it’s me,” he said, moving slowly toward her. But inside him the demons were gathering, for he knew now that he had guessed correctly.

  “The sun was in my eyes.” She managed the smile after all.

  He did not smile back. He wasn’t seeing her; he was seeing himself, a grief-stricken boy leaping from the dark family pew in a sweet-smelling, ornately decorated chapel…rushing past the coffin that bore the last earthly remains of his beloved mother…standing up in front of an entire village of shocked retainers to accuse his own father of murder. His father, whom he had looked up to and imitated. His father, who, inexplicably, had turned against him, tormented him, beaten him. He had never understood why, how he had offended, what he had done wrong. He had turned to his mother for comfort, his beautiful, laughing mother, who was dead.

  Christ! Screaming in rage, rending his clothes in grief… then burying those feelings for years. Burying them deep. Fleeing from Whitcombe and the father he hated, and finding another man to look up to. Another man to imitate. And, very slowly, very tentatively, another man to love.

  And now, after years of trust, another betrayal.

  His father was not a murderer, after all. But Francis Lacklin was.

  “Roger?” Alexandra had pushed herself up to a sitting position, cursing her own jumpiness and wondering what had brought that tortured look to Roger’s face. Had Merwynna told him about Francis? She glanced at the wisewoman, whose expression gave no help, no hints. “Is aught amiss?”

  Roger’s sensual lower lip curled with irony. Is aught amiss? Nothing much. Nothing but the world blasted to smithereens. Nothing but every truth there is destroyed. Except one. Alix. He focused on her green eyes, her sweet, worried face. Her bright hair. Alix. His candle in the dark.

  “Are you feeling better?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes. Much better.”

  He snatched up her clothes from in front of the hearth and thrust them at her. “Dress yourself, then. I have a horse outside. We’re going back to Whitcombe.”

  “But surely—”

  “Now.”

  And so within a very few minutes she was sitting astride a big gray gelding dressed in her old gown and wrapped up warmly in a blanket. Her bare feet were hanging down on either side—they had not been able to recover her shoes from the lake—and Roger’s chest was jammed against her back, his thighs feeling hard and lithely masculine on either side of her own, his breath fanning the tendrils of hair on the back of her neck. The early morning sun cast a subtle rosy light through the stark trees. Unlike yesterday, the new day was fair. And there was sultriness in the air that promised unseasonable warmth.

  They did not speak. Alexandra waited in vain for questions that did not come. She sensed powerful passions burning inside him; she felt them in the rigidity of his body. This, she remembered, was the man she had fled from, the man who had stalked her for two months and several hundred miles, abandoning his ships, his men, and his planned voyage to the Middle Sea to pursue her into the country where he was now considered an outlaw. He had been gentle and forbearing with her last night, yes, but the arm that encircled her waist was not particularly gentle now. He held her possessively, implacably, as if to warn her she would not escape from him again.

  Not that she wished to escape. In fact, as she cast her eyes down and saw the tan flesh of his forearm around her, the strong sinews, the well-shaped bones of his wrist, Alexandra felt a quicksilver flash of excitement. She remembered the deft and tender movements of those hands upon her flesh; hands that had not touched her in far too long.

  Sensing her thought, Roger altered the position of his hand slightly, enough to allow his fingers to slip inside the opening of her blanket and brush across her breasts. An earthquake of desire rumbled inside her. She leaned more completely against him, seeking the pleasures his body could provide. His hand came up, covering one of her breasts, kneading it, then moving to take the other. As his thumb flicked over her nipple, a sigh escaped her.

  His horse slowed and stopped under the thick branches of an oak. Both Roger’s hands were on her breasts now, and his lips were nuzzling the back of her neck. He threaded kisses up under her hair and around the side of her jaw. His teeth took her earlobe, bore down, pulled slightly. His tongue darted inside the shell of her ear.

  Alexandra made a sound deep in the back of her throat. Desire, yearning. Roger echoed her with a groan. Quickly he dismounted and held out his arms for her. They were deep in the ancient oak grove where she had once relaxed and laughed with Roger and Francis Lacklin. The huge trees were thick around them, mysterious, silent, and wise. They offered shelter; impassive, they judged not, they knew no sin.

  “Come to me, beloved.”

  She stared at him, his dark hair, his eyes burning with silken command. His body, tall and lean and beautiful. His hands, which reached for her. His fingers were long and autocratic, beautiful. She remembered the sensual magic they could weave.

  She brought her leg over the horse’s neck with little of the grace she’d struggled so hard at court to acquire. He didn’t seem to mind her clumsiness. He was smiling as she slid into his arms.

  Roger carried her into the shade of a giant oak and set her down. With gentle hands, he unwrapped the blanket from her body and spread it upon the ground. Then he swiftly unfastened her gown. His fingers had begun to shake, and he couldn’t stop kissing her—her eyes, her mouth, her fingers, her throat, and every inch of bare flesh he revealed as he stripped the fabric from her. He j
erked the bodice down to her waist and pulled her close, rubbing her breasts against his chest. His eyes were glazed, his breath impossibly fast.

  “Christ, love, I’m out of my head with wanting you. Two months of celibacy is enough to drive me to the edge of madness.”

  “You’ve taken no other women to warm your bed?”

  “God, no. The thought sickens me. It’s you I want, only you.” He grinned. “Curious, isn’t it? I’ve never felt this way before.”

  “I’ve always felt this way. You’re the only man I’ve ever wanted.”

  His hands tightened in her hair. “After you left me, I imagined you with Alan… you’ve always loved him—”

  “As a brother.”

  “—and he has a passion for you. Oh, I trusted you. I trusted you, but sometimes, even so, my mind conjured up images that made me wild with jealousy and rage. Wild,” he repeated, dropping his head to take her mouth. He kissed her deep and hard, taking fierce possession. “God’s blood, how I want you. I could die of it.”

  “I know. I feel the same.” And she did. She wasn’t sure if it was the two months of celibacy, or the need for an affirmation of life in the face of death, but she was drunk with desire. Her wits were fuzzy and there was a conflagration throughout her body, centered deep and radiating outward. His kisses burned her, set her aflame.

  He pressed her down on the blanket, careful not to hurt her, yet possessed of a ferocious passion that could barely be controlled. In a few rapid, economical movements, he finished stripping her, and then attended to his own clothing. While he tore at his points and hose, her fingers brushed over him, teasing the tense sinews bunched beneath his smooth skin, luxuriating in his strength, his ardor, his slightly threatening masculinity. And then he was naked, his body as lithe and beautiful in her eyes as a pagan god’s. Her eyes admired his strong yet slender frame—the wide, angular shoulders, the expanse of golden-tan flesh on his chest, lightly dusted with wiry black curls, the trim waist and taut hips, the tight buttocks, and long, graceful legs. And most glorious of all, his cock, full and swollen and yearning for its haven inside her body.