by Tamara Leigh
Glancing from the hard-set jaw and the eyes closed in pain to the fists clenched upon the hood, Joslyn felt the feelings he fought—feelings he did not wish to have for the brother who had so terribly wronged him. As Queen Philippa had said, Liam's had been a hard life. True, he'd had his father's love, but with it had come the burden of what he had taken from Maynard in having it and, too, the hate and resentment of others for being so loved.
Joslyn knew she must have walked to where Liam sat, but could not remember doing so. Sinking to her knees beside him, she reached out as she should not have and placed her hand upon his shoulder.
Immediately, his eyes sprang open, but before he could cut her with his angry words, she entreated,
"Do not say I cannot feel for you, for I do. I feel your pain as surely as if it were my own. I ... I wish you freed of it."
Surprisingly, his eyes did not fill with offense. "And how do you propose to free me?" he asked, too softly.
Though Joslyn sensed danger in being so near him, especially in touching him, she ignored the warnings. "Though I know not all of what has gone before me," she said, "it cannot be your fault that Maynard drank and gambled to excess. The blame lies with him, with Anya and Ivo, and even your father, but not with you, Liam."
Doubt in his eyes, he leaned toward her, causing the muscles of his shoulder to flex beneath her palm. "Is it guilt that speaks from your mouth?" he asked, his breath warm upon her brow, his eyes probing hers to the depths of her soul.
Guilt? For having birthed Oliver to take Liam's place as baron of Ashlingford? Nay, if it was guilt, surely regret would follow, and never would she regret her son, who was all the good that had been of Maynard. "Not guilt," she said, wishing Liam would not come so close. It was far too disturbing.
He pressed nearer. "Then what is it you feel for me? What makes you care?"
Her heart was beating much too fast. Joslyn removed her hand from his shoulder and clasped it with the other in her lap. What did she feel for him? Compassion? Pity? Love? With that last shaking her as she had not been shaken in a long time, she dropped her gaze to her hands. Where had such a foolish thought come from? Of course she did not love Liam. How could she?
Gently, he lifted her chin. "What, Joslyn?" he asked again, his eyes searching.
Knowing that if she examined too deeply what she felt for him she might confess to something far more damaging, Joslyn swallowed and said, "Compassion. That is what I feel for you." Then she watched and waited for his anger to rise. But it did not.
As if outside himself—or perhaps it was inside he had gone—Liam lowered his eyes to her mouth and then to the rise and fall of her breasts. "I would rather you desire me," he said, his voice a caress that raised the fine hairs covering Joslyn's arms.
The breath trembled out of her. Lord, but she did desire him! Surely he knew. After all, when last they had been so near she had been ready to give herself to him, and most likely would have had he not—
Remembering the humiliation of how he had brought her to surrender only to cast her aside, Joslyn wrenched her chin free of his grasp. "Ah, nay," she exclaimed, falling back on her heels. "I will not allow you to do this to me again." Desperate to be away from him, and from all he was capable of making her feel, she pushed to her feet. However, she had taken only one step back when he caught her wrist. She gasped. "Let me go, Liam!"
He rose to his knees and pulled her toward him. "This time we will finish it, Joslyn," he said. "My vow to you."
Finish it? Then he would not leave her wanting as before? Barely had she thought the thought when the feel of him swept her toward a place void of reasoning. As he urged her down beside him, she felt first the muscles of his chest against her woman's place, then the hard flat of his abdomen, and last his arousal.
Joslyn fought to resist him, but it was too late. She burned, like never before. An exquisite ache engulfed her, her breasts strained to know his touch, and a need to be filled and filled again seized her.
"I want you, Joslyn." He spoke low, the green of his eyes eclipsed by the black. "Pray, do not deny me."
The feel of him against her—the strength and power in that part of him she longed to take inside her—made it difficult to breathe. She wanted him too, she admitted to herself. More than anything, she wished to know the answer to this incredible need he had awakened within her. But would the truth of it be as sweet as the longing?
As if her silence was consent, Liam lowered his head and grazed his lips across hers. "Kiss me, Joslyn," he murmured. "That's it. Open your mouth."
Though a small voice warned her otherwise, she barely heard it above the passion breaking over her. Trembling as Liam swept his tongue across hers, she closed her eyes, leaned into him, and curled her fingers into his flesh.
"Aye, Jos," he rasped, then deepened the kiss with a hunger that grew him harder against her.
She was melting, Joslyn realized, like honey set too long in the sun. Feeling Liam's hands move over her—the curve of her breast, her waist, her buttocks—she did what she would never have believed herself capable of. She began touching him as well.
Slowly, she drew a hand down his chest, over the swells of his abdomen, then lower. . . . Sliding it inward to where their bodies pressed his manhood between them, she lightly ran her fingers up the length of him held back only by the fabric of his braies.
A tortured sound escaped him. "God, Joslyn," he growled against her mouth.
Realizing through the desire enfolding her what she did—Joslyn Fawke touching a man as she had never touched one before, wanting him as she'd never wanted any other—she experienced a moment of consternation. But then her body guided her to thrill to the lips Liam trailed from her mouth down her neck.
She dropped her head back. "Liam," she said on a sigh.
He pushed her gown away, then put his lips against her bared shoulder.
Joslyn's breath was coming fast and shallow. She squeezed her closed eyes tighter. How long ere he laid her back? she wondered. How long before they joined as man and woman? Soon, she hoped. Soon.
Fitting his hand to her hip, Liam slowly glided it down her thigh to the ground and lifted her skirts. He touched the bare flesh of her inner thigh, lingered over it, and began stroking his fingers upward.
Joslyn knew what he sought and, knowing, pressed her hips nearer his as she held to that part of him which would soon make them one. However, though she thought herself ready for his touch, when he feathered over her woman's place she jerked against him.
And then his fingers found their goal.
Joslyn tried to hold back her cry of pleasure, but it parted her lips and sailed upon the air.
"Are you ready for me, Joslyn?" Liam asked, his voice grown as deep as that place inside her none but he had ever touched.
She opened her eyes and looked into a face become so familiar it was as if she had always known it, from the strong line of his mouth to the red hair falling over his brow. With no words to answer him, she nodded.
Still touching her with one hand, Liam lifted the other and pulled the string of his braies. They slid off one hip, then the other, and a moment later freed him.
Joslyn would not have thought herself so bold, but she lowered her eyes to gaze upon that part of a man she had never seen before. True, she was no maiden, but it had been dark. . . .
Liam's mouth claiming hers thrust the memories out of reach. It was no gentle kiss, though. Indeed, it was almost savage. However, rather than frighten Joslyn, it stole her breath.
Hungrily, he kissed her down to the ground, and when she lay in his shadow he pulled her skirts high.
Feeling no shame, wanting only to complete what had been begun between them days past in a London alleyway, Joslyn instinctively arched her lower body and brushed against him.
Liam groaned, then pressed himself to her entrance. "Once," he murmured thickly. "Tis all it will take, Joslyn. I promise you."
That his words made it past the needs of her body wa
s nothing short of a miracle, but somehow they filtered into Joslyn's mind. What did he mean? she wondered. That after making love to her once, he would be sated and have no further need of her? That he could walk away from her forever? Aye, she concluded with a heart suddenly torn, there was no other meaning behind what he had said. He wanted her, and though he thought that lying with her once would be enough for him, she knew it would leave her with such a raw hurt she might never heal.
Liam was only a breath back from entering her when she twisted her body sideways. "Do not," she managed to say past the tearful lump in her throat.
Instantly, he stilled. "What is this?" he demanded.
Refusing to look at him, for she had no wish to suffer the anger that would come into his eyes if it was not already there, Joslyn said, "Release me. We . . . cannot do this."
"But we have done it, Joslyn," he rumbled.
Shaking her head, she began pushing her skirts back down. "No more," she said. "Tis a mistake."
Though she resisted, Liam pulled her chin around. "What do you mean 'a mistake'?" His eyes raked hers. "We both want it. Where is the mistake in that?"
"I do not want it," she said.
His nostrils flared. "Little liar."
He was right—she was a liar, but only in part. Though she did yearn to know him intimately, she wanted more than that. More than what he wanted. "Let me up," she said again.
His jaw clenched, Liam stared down at her. "We are not finished," he said, and lowered his head to recapture her mouth.
Caught between the passion he caused to flicker back to life and the hurt of his words, Joslyn squeezed her eyes closed. She could not do this. She mustn't. But how to deny him—and herself?
The same as he had denied her the last time he had touched her like this. . . . Remembering what he had said that had wrenched her with such incredible pain, Joslyn grasped hold of it and shifted her mouth from beneath his. "You will hate yourself do you lie with me, Liam," she said, "for you forget that I was Maynard's first."
He covered her mouth again, but only for an instant before he pulled back. "God, but you are near as cruel as I, Joslyn Fawke," he swore beneath his breath.
Expecting his loathing to pour out upon her, Joslyn steeled herself for it. However, nowhere was that emotion evident on his face. In fact, the only expression he wore was one not unlike regret.
"What is it?" she asked.
He rolled off her. "You are right, I would hate myself." He tied up his braies. "Though not for the reason you believe."
Not for having been Maynard's first? Joslyn wondered. Was that what he meant? Or did she misunderstand?
Liam stood. "Tis past time you were back to the castle," he said, and surprised her by offering her his hand.
Wishing he would explain himself, Joslyn stared at it a long moment—his large calloused palm, the long fingers tapering to blunt fingertips that only moments before had touched her private place.
"Come," Liam said.
Remembering herself, Joslyn placed her hand in his and, without effort, was drawn up beside him.
Immediately he released her, snatched his hood and tunic from the ground, pulled one on after the other, and started out of the wood. However, he had gone only a short distance when he broke his stride and looked back at where she had yet to move. "Make haste, Lady Joslyn," he said, once again formal. "No need to give the villagers anything more to make rumors of."
They had been in the wood a long time, she realized with dismay. But worse than the talk of villagers, would the men-at-arms ponder aloud on what she and Liam had been doing so long out of their sight? If so, surely word would reach Ivo, and she would be made to suffer his ridicule yet again.
Resenting the priest for knowing what was her desire, and wishing there was some way she might rid herself of him, Joslyn lifted her skirts and hurried to where her palfrey patiently awaited her.
Behind the plow once again, his loins still heavy with want, Liam watched Joslyn ride away. God, but he had been so near to having her—and would have, had he not voiced what he'd so wanted to believe: that in filling her once he would exorcise his desire for her forever. He had hurt her with that, though he had not realized it until, desperate to stay him from ravaging her, she had reminded him that she had been Maynard's. As if it would repulse him. And God, but it should have!
Seeking an outlet for the anger he turned on himself, Liam thrust his body forward with the plow. He had to get away from Ashlingford, and soon.
15
Liam was gone.
Joslyn had known it the moment she'd lifted her head from the pillow this morn. Though hardly a word had passed between them for over a week, his imminent departure had been in the air yesterday. During and following supper, through the tense silence prompted by Ivo's presence, Joslyn had watched Liam as he'd talked at length with the knights, the servants, and the steward. She'd been unable to interpret much of their conversation, but still she had known. And now he was gone with nary a word of parting. It shouldn't hurt, she told herself, but it did.
"Unca Liam'll come back, won' he, Father Ivo?" Oliver asked.
Remembering Emma's promise to bring Oliver to her following morning mass, Joslyn searched past those going out of the sanctuary before her and caught a glimpse of her son's upturned face below the figure of the priest.
Ivo had positioned himself outside the doors to acknowledge the dozen or more filing out of the chapel—from their demeanor, every one of them grateful that his monotonous delivery was finished. Now, as Joslyn watched, he bent down to the boy's level.
How would he answer Oliver's question? she wondered, with no small amount of misgiving. Would he speak ill of Liam? Would he tell Oliver his wish that Liam might never return?
"At least Father Warren believed his own sermons," one knight ahead of Joslyn grumbled to another.
The second knight nodded. "I am told Ivo gave him no warning—simply came to him before mass this morn and told him to leave."
Joslyn frowned. During the service she had fleet-ingly wondered at the absence of the other priest but, guessing the man was simply not feeling well, had thought no more on it. Now she knew how wrong she had been. Ivo had installed himself in Father Warren's place—as soon as Liam had departed. It could only mean he intended to continue on at Ashlingford. Inwardly, Joslyn groaned.
At her approach, Ivo straightened from Oliver. "Lady Joslyn," he said, inclining his head.
"Father Ivo."
He smiled, though the gesture was strained with what could only be displeasure. "Your son wishes to know when William will return," he said. "'Twould seem he has grown quite fond of him."
"Not Wil'm," Oliver protested. "Unca Liam."
Ivo's brow creased, but he said nothing.
Laying her hand atop Oliver's head, Joslyn explained. "Father Ivo prefers to call Lord Fawke by his English name, William. 'Tis just another name for him."
Oliver looked up at her. "I like Liam better. You, Mama?"
"I do too," she answered.
"Wanna see what he left me?" he asked, excitement quivering on the edge of his voice.
Only then did Joslyn notice the arm he hid behind his back. She smiled. "Aye, show me."
With a flourish, Oliver swung his arm up and whipped the air with his newly fashioned scroug stick. "For my top," he said, with as much pride as she'd ever heard in his voice.
"Ah, 'tis handsome," Joslyn said, admiring the branch Liam had pared of its smaller limbs. "'Twas kind of Lord Fawke, wasn't it?"
Oliver's head bobbed up and down. "An' know where he left it?"
"With Emma?"
"Nay, un'er my pillow."
Under his pillow. Meaning . . . while she had slept, Liam had come into her chamber to place the stick beneath Oliver's pillow. Had he seen her in naught but her chemise, the covers kicked down around her feet as she'd awakened? She swallowed hard. "What a nice surprise, Oliver. You must remember to thank Lord Fawke when next he comes."
; He nodded. "I will."
Attempting nonchalance, Joslyn looked back at Ivo. "And how did you answer my son when he asked if Lord Fawke would return?"
His eyes were like flint as he replied, "I told him that William would return. He always does."
Obviously much to his regret. Joslyn nodded and reached to take Oliver's hand.
"We need to speak, Lady Joslyn," Ivo said.
She wasn't surprised. But much as she would have liked to refuse him, she knew it would be better to have it over and done with. "Oliver," she said, "there is something Father Ivo and I must discuss. Why don't you practice with your top, and when I am finished we will explore the cellars."
He nodded and turned to where Emma stood outside the chapel. "Wanna see me spin my top?" he asked.
"Of course I do." Emma held out her hand to him.
Returning to the chapel, Joslyn crossed to the bench she had occupied during mass and lowered herself back to it.
Ivo closed the chapel doors and walked past her to the altar.
"Yes, Father?" Joslyn prompted, knowing it was Liam's visit to her chamber he wished to address.
After a long moment, he turned to face her. "You have not heeded my warning."
"Your warning?"
"Come, Lady Joslyn, surely 'tis not necessary for me to remind you of your talk in the wood with William a sennight past."
He knew more than she had expected. Although Joslyn had hoped that his silence these past days meant the contrary, it now appeared he had merely been waiting for the right opportunity to confront her.
"Or did you even talk?" Ivo asked knowingly. "Of course we talked," Joslyn said, indignant.
Ivo seemed not at all put off. Stepping toward her, he said softly, "But then you sinned, didn't you, Joslyn Fawke?"
