Linda Barlow

by Fires of Destiny

  Grinning, Roger dropped to his knees beside her. “Wide-eyed, are you, lassie?” He pressed kisses all over her face and neck. “One would think you’d never seen it before.”

  Her brows arched mischievously. “The light in our cabin on the Argo was poor.”

  “True, more’s the pity.” He guided her hand to him. “Touch me, love, the way I taught you. Aye, that’s it.” He threw his head back, the tendons in his neck full prominent. After a moment he cursed softly and pushed her hand away. “On second thought, you’d better stop before I disgrace myself, leaving you unfilled, unsatisfied. Give me a moment.” He lay down beside her, fighting for control. She curled against him, her fingers dancing over his naked flesh, her lips finding the sweet hollow at the base of his throat and kissing him tenderly.

  At length Roger pushed himself up on one elbow and slid one hand between their bodies. He caressed her, taking his time now. Although he could hardly wait to sheathe himself inside her soft, hot flesh, he wanted it to be good for her. Perfect. “Your breasts are bigger, heavier. I can feel the difference, my love.”

  “Aye, and soon my entire body will be large and ungainly. Will you still want me then?”

  “Oh, yes. I’ll always want you. I’ll always love you. But for own your sake ‘tis a jolly good thing you’re with child and in need of tenderness. For I was of a mind to thrash you when I caught you, little rabbit.” His hand came up and gripped her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. “You ought to have trusted me. I was drunk that last evening when we talked. Were it not for that, I wouldn’t have been so callous. I have no great liking for my father, but blood is blood. I wouldn’t have sat back and allowed Sir Charles to carry out his threat.”

  “You mean you’d have given in? Sent me home yourself?”

  “I’d have done something. Married you, for a start. Offered to meet your father somewhere neutral, so I could have proved to him that what he saw that terrible night when I carried you off was a temporary madness, a mistake, an aberration. I can’t blame the man for fearing for your life, given the way I acted.”

  “I tried to explain to him. He still doesn’t believe me, you know. He seems to think you’ve cast a spell over me.”

  “Somehow I will have to convince him that I am not the rogue I’m painted to be.” He frowned at her. “I sometimes think I still have to convince you of that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Simply that I’m weary of people thinking me such a monster. Plotting to murder the queen, fratricide, patricide, rape—my colorful reputation bears little resemblance to the actual facts.”

  She turned her face away, heart-stricken by his words. “Forgive me, Roger.”

  His lips brushed her cheek; his teeth found an earlobe and nipped. “Not until you beg.”

  She sinuously arched against him, bringing their intimate parts in close conjunction, writhing and seeking him in a way she knew he would not be able to resist. “Like this?”

  He groaned; his body tensed in feigned reluctance. “You’ve remembered all that I taught you, I see.”

  “‘Tis hardly something one forgets!”

  For one more second he held back. “The babe, Alix? Will we hurt the baby?”

  “No, no,” she assured him.

  “‘Twill not cause you to miscarry?”

  She laughed gently. “If loving could bring on miscarriage, there would be very few children born into this world.”

  The words were scarcely out of her mouth when his hands were on her, caressing her breasts, her belly, her thighs. Gently he parted the soft folds of her sex, murmuring love words and erotic promises. Deliciously he stroked and courted her until his fingers were bathed in her moisture. Then, shifting quickly, he brought back his hips and thrust, filling her deeply, and again, more deeply still.

  “Oh, my love. ‘Tis very, very good!”

  He raised his head, not answering. For several seconds he did not move; he simply held her pinned to the ground by the force of his loins while he stared deep into her eyes with an indescribable expression in his brown eyes—fierce, possessive, and angry, cruel and tender, loving and demanding—all emotions rolled into one.

  The pressure inside her was intolerable. She moved fretfully against him, but he was inexorable. He kept her still, impaled upon his bone-hard flesh, his dark eyes all glittery and savage. Then, slowly, so slowly she thought she would scream, he began to move, watching her eyes, her face, her breathing with all the instincts of a predator. For a moment she thought that this was her punishment for leaving him. To be controlled, dominated by his sheer physical power. To be tortured slowly until she pleaded for release. To be held at the very threshold of ecstasy but denied the relief of falling through that golden doorway. His revenge. He was capable of such, she knew.

  But then he lowered his head and kissed her sweetly, and she knew she’d been mistaken. Something was driving him, yes, but it was not directed against her. Something was hurting him, numbing his mind. And she was his only sanctuary.

  Forgetting her own fears, desires, and needs, she held him tightly and told him of a love that was unchanging and eternal, enduring until death, and beyond. And in selflessness, she found a release more intense than any she had known before. Without striving, her body found its pleasure, just moments before he also stiffened and cried out. Together they seemed to glide above the earth, soulbound and united in a manner that defied the physical limitations of their senses.

  When it was over, he did not withdraw, but remained clasped in her arms, his skin slick, his heart hammering, and his breathing convulsive. As he continued to shudder against her, she finally understood that he was weeping. Roger Trevor, strong and confident leader of men, was quietly sobbing in her arms.

  Alexandra stiffened, shocked beyond words. Then, abruptly, she recalled the expression on his face this morning when she’d awakened. He knew, she realized. She did not have to tell him; he knew.

  With love and pity she caressed and kissed him, giving him what comfort she could. When at last he controlled himself, rolled off her, and pulled her fiercely to his side, she leaned over him and read the confirmation in his eyes. “You know about Francis, don’t you?”

  His voice was ragged. “Aye, lassie.”

  “Did Merwynna tell you?”

  “No. I puzzled it out for myself, as I should have done long ago.” He brushed away what remained of the moisture on his cheeks. “On some deep level of awareness, I must have known for ages. He said something on the night when he was wounded, but I couldn’t face it then. I suppose I deliberately put it out of my mind.”

  “He said something on the Argo, too. Just as he was coming out of his coma. I couldn’t tell you. I thought it would hurt you too much. And besides, I had no proof.”

  “He nearly succeeded in killing you.” Roger’s voice broke again. “My blindness nearly cost you your life.”

  “Ssh, don’t blame yourself. He did not succeed.”

  “The peasant boy I could have forgiven him. Even—God save me—my brother. But not you, Alix, never you.” His voice hardened. “What, exactly, did he do to you?”

  “He tried to drown me. He didn’t know I could swim. Or perhaps he did know, and forgot. I don’t think he really wanted to kill me. He may even have tried to save me at the end. He held out an oar; perhaps he leapt in after me. I’m not sure. It was foggy, and I couldn’t see the shore. I lost my sense of direction. I swam and swam. It was cold and I was sick with pregnancy and my own terror. I was drowning when I stumbled into shallow water. If Merwynna hadn’t found me, and if you hadn’t been there to carry me to warmth, I surely would have died.”

  “Oh Christ!” There was a silence; then: “Where is he now?”

  “I don’t know. He meant to dally somewhere, I think, then arrive at Whitcombe Castle after my body had been found.” She paused. “He attacked Priscilla Martin too. She’s probably dead. Do you want to hear the whole tale?”

  He sat up and reached for their
clothes. “Not now. Not until we get safely back to the keep.” He looked around them, his gaze going from tree to tree. “‘Twas folly to stop here in the forest like this. Why do you think I removed you from Merwynna’s? I can’t protect you here.”

  “Protect me? What need is there to protect me now? He tried to kill me to prevent you from finding out the truth. He failed. What’s left for him now?”

  “Nothing, perhaps. But there is none more dangerous than a desperate man. Particularly when he’s one of the finest swordsmen in Europe.”

  “Roger?” Her fingers touched his chest in sudden fear. “You’re not going to call him out, are you? He’ll kill you.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I’ve been practicing, and his sword arm isn’t the same since his injury.”

  “For God’s sake, Roger! Please. Promise me.”

  “I cannot make such a promise. There’s a part of me that relishes the idea of taking my naked blade to his throat.” His voice was rough, violent. He rose to his feet and helped her into her clothes. “Still, the next move’s his, isn’t it? Perhaps he’s fled and we shall never see him again.”

  “Perhaps.” But as they dressed and mounted the horse again for the rest of the journey to Whitcombe Castle, both of them silently acknowledged that the final conflict was inevitable. And probably very soon to come.

  Chapter 38

  Alan Trevor sat at the bedside of Pris Martin at the Cock’s Feather Inn and worried. She’d been sleeping for hours. Wasn’t she ever going to wake up? He had some questions to ask her. She’d been incoherent when he’d found her wandering aimlessly by the side of the London road. She’d been feverish, in fact, which was hardly surprising. Apparently she’d spent several hours outside in the rain. There was a nasty gash on her forehead, but Alan still didn’t know how or by whom she had been attacked. All he knew was that Alexandra had sent him after her to protect her, and, as usual, he had failed.

  On the day Alix had sent him after Ned, the boy had turned up dead. On that dreadful night when he and Alix had been captured by Geoffrey de Montreau and his men, his attempts to defend her had resulted in her being abducted, tortured, and sexually assaulted. He was not very effective as a protector, it seemed. He was not very effective at anything.

  He comforted himself with the thought that at least Mistress Martin was not dead. Perhaps if he had been with her from the beginning of her journey he could have kept her from whatever had befallen her. As it was, he had taken swift action in carrying her back to the inn, securing a room, and paying the innkeeper’s wife—a gruff soul, but gentle—to bathe her wounds and make her comfortable. Then Alan had settled down to do vigil at her side.

  While she slept, Alan had occasion to think upon many things. He wondered how Alix had known that Pris might be in need of a protector. Had Merwynna the witch predicted as much? Unconsciously, he made the sign against evil. Merwynna had always unnerved him; he didn’t like to think that there were cunning-folk who could foretell the future. No, surely it was just a coincidence that Alexandra’s fears of an attack on Pris had proved to be justified. Coincidence, coupled with the fact that so young and comely a woman should have had more sense than to travel alone.

  Comely. During the long hours of his watch, Alan had had ample opportunity to study the exquisite features of the woman who had been his eldest brother’s mistress. Her hair was black silk. Her sooty lashes were dense against her creamy skin. The innkeeper’s wife had stripped her of her wet clothes and put her naked under the blankets. Sleep had disarranged her position, and several times Alan had had to tuck blankets around her that had come loose and slipped down to reveal her bare arms, her throat, the pearly flesh of her breasts.

  Guiltily he had tried to repress his surprisingly strong physical reaction to this stimulation, but the few brief encounters he’d had with women since his initiation at the randy hands of the innkeeper’s mistress in Oxford had left him hungry. Of course it was Alix whom he loved and desired above all others, but, as if it had already accepted that there was no hope for him with her, his body was beginning to respond to other women. The long weeks of traveling with Alix had been purgatory. She had been as warm and affectionate with him as ever, but it was plain that she yearned only for Roger.

  Staring at Pris Martin, Alan found himself imagining what it would be like to kiss those luscious lips and stroke that soft ivory skin. He had always thought of her as a woman much older than himself, but in truth she was Alix’s age, only one year his senior. Naked and defenseless, she seemed even younger.

  Gingerly he placed a hand on Pris’s forehead. She was cool—no longer feverish. She stirred slightly under his hand; he jerked it away. Her eyelashes fluttered and her lips curled faintly, a smile of sorts. Alan was astonished at the tender, protective feelings that surged up inside him. He hadn’t been there for her when she had been attacked, but he was with her now, and he was damned if anybody was going to hurt her again.

  He had no sooner come to this decision than there was a loud rapping on the chamber door. He rose and opened it, exclaiming as he came face to face with another guest—a man he recognized. It was Sir Charles Douglas, and tramping up the stairs behind him was a troop of the queen’s guard.

  “Ah, ‘tis you, Alan,” the red-haired courtier said. He looked disappointed. “The innkeeper’s wife was gossiping. She mentioned the name Trevor, and said you had an injured woman with you.” He looked past Alan into the room. “Is it my daughter?”

  “Alix? No, sir, she’s home at Westmor Abbey. But what are you doing here? I thought you were staying in London.”

  “I was, but something came up.” As he spoke, Douglas jerked a thumb over his shoulder. Alan looked beyond him, and nearly swallowed his tongue. He was gazing into the malicious blue eyes of the handsome, elegant man whose occasional appearance in his dreams caused Alan to awaken in a sweat. God’s blood—Geoffrey de Montreau! He was here in Yorkshire. Only a day’s journey from Alix, whom he had tortured on the rack.

  Douglas cleared his throat loudly. “Our French friend here, who always has his ear to the ground, claims to have heard a rumor that your villainous brother might be in England. I don’t believe it, myself, since my own spies have got no wind of him, but Geoffrey went direct to the queen with his rumor, and she ordered me up here to investigate. She heard of Alix’s return, you see.” He shot a nasty glance at Geoffrey. “And she’s waxing romantic. If Alix is home, then her lover must be following her. Nonsense, I warrant—your devil of a brother has never chased a woman in his life. Why should he? They all fall at his feet. When he’s done with ‘em, he throws ‘em over for the next one in the queue. My daughter is nothing more than discarded goods for him now.”

  Alan couldn’t speak. The sight of Geoffrey de Montreau had filled him with revulsion.

  His adversary stepped forward, smiling his golden smile. “Have you seen your brother lately, Alan? The Queen is naturally interested in the whereabouts of so notorious a heretic and traitor. Indeed, the crown intends to try him for his crimes and put him to death.”

  “You dare to call Roger a traitor?” Alan sputtered. “You, who have betrayed your own country by turning coat and taking England’s part in this war?”

  Geoffrey paid no heed to this indictment. He spoke again, his tone steel under silk. “Where is he?”

  “He’s in the Mediterranean, with his ship.” It was no lie. As far as he knew, that’s exactly where Roger was. Unless… Christ Almighty. Had he followed Alix to England?

  “And Francis Lacklin? Does anyone know where he is?”

  “I do,” said a quiet voice from just behind Alan. He whirled. Pris Martin was sitting up in bed, the bedclothes pulled up to her neck for modesty.

  Alan rushed back to her side. “Pris! Lie down, you’re ill.”

  Although she seemed a trifle confused, it did not alter her composure. “It was you who found me, Alan? You who brought me here? You who have taken such good care of me?”

  “Aye,” said
Alan, blushing. “Alexandra feared for your safety and sent me to watch over you.”

  She smiled so sweetly that he momentarily forgot Geoffrey de Montreau.

  “Mistress Martin?” Charles Douglas was addressing her. He had thrust one strong arm across the doorway, preventing a frustrated-looking Geoffrey from entering the room. “I’m Alexandra’s father—d’you remember me? Forgive me for intruding, but I’ve a question or two for you. You have something to report about Francis Lacklin’s whereabouts?”

  “He’s in England,” Pris answered. “Indeed, he tried to murder me. And I very much fear, Sir Charles, that he is at Westmor, attempting the life of your daughter, even now.”

  Several voices spoke at once, Alan’s included, demanding an explanation. Her voice dry with anxiety for the girl who had so belatedly become her friend, Pris Martin gave them one.

  *

  Roger’s arrival at Whitcombe Castle with Alexandra was the occasion for much amazement and delight on the part of the baron’s retainers. He was popular with them, Alexandra noted; he always had been. The reports that he was an exiled criminal had apparently been the cause of much groaning here at his Yorkshire home.

  Dorcas extended a warm welcome to Alexandra, but seemed uneasy around Roger. When he asked to see his father, she quickly made an excuse. “He’s abed, resting. His heart is very weak.” She paused. “And I fear what may happen if you and he begin squabbling again.”

  “I promise not to squabble,” Roger tried to reassure her. When still she hesitated, he added, “I’m afraid this is a matter of some urgency.” Briefly he explained about Francis Lacklin. “If he comes here, as he is almost certain to do, there will be trouble. My father must be informed.”

  “I don’t know—”

  “Listen, Dorcas, if I were the one with a weak heart, possibly dying, I would still want to know what the devil was transpiring in my own household. I wouldn’t wish to be kept ignorant, treated like a babe in arms. My father, I am certain, will agree.”