He had never felt so helpless.
By Christ, he would miss her when they left this place. Never again would they be together as they had this past month. Every morning when he rose to the bells for prime, his mind was filled with her. As he dressed and washed his face, he thought, Soon I will see her. All through the day, he contrived to be with her, just for the simple physical pleasure it gave him to be in her company. When he was close to her, he reveled in her scent, which was like a wild, untended meadow, earth and grasses and sweet blossoms all warmed by the sun.
But when she wasn’t there, as now, he ached with wanting to be near her. How he ached. He had never ached like this, never felt so needful.
It was a cunningly cruel joke of God’s, and he had to admire it. For the first time in his nine and twenty years, he’d been shown how it felt to have his emptiness filled by a woman... only she was a woman he could never have. He would return to Harford all the more empty for this brief taste of the unattainable.
God must still be punishing him for having abandoned his family to their cruel fate. Hadn’t he already paid for his mistake? Hadn’t they? Hadn’t little Louise? With an oath, he snapped the book shut and slammed it on the table. In the numbing silence that followed, he thought he heard something—a whimper. A child?
He waited, listening. Nay. He was imagining things. It was thinking about Louise that—
There it was again. A halting, fretful moan.
It had come from behind the leather curtain of Lady Martine’s chamber.
After a moment’s hesitation, he rose and carried his lantern to her doorway, listening. Presently the silence was broken by another muffled cry. Was she having a nightmare?
He cleared his throat. “My lady?” He heard an inarticulate murmur of distress. “My lady?” he repeated, a little louder. Then she spoke, and he strained to hear the mumbled words, but couldn’t make them out.
He parted the curtain just far enough to see into the little room. Her narrow cot stood against the wall immediately to the right of the doorway; he could have reached down and touched her sleeping face, but he stilled his hand.
She lay on her stomach, her one long braid dangling off the side of the bed. The linen sheet was crumpled about her hips, revealing the bare expanse of her back—the fine bones, the elegantly subtle curves, the narrow waist. Her pale skin, illuminated by the meager light filtering through the horn panes of the lantern, took on a faintly golden glow. It looked as smooth as ivory, and the impulse to touch her, to caress that silken flesh, to toss aside that sheet and take her in his arms, nearly overwhelmed him.
He must leave.
But as he turned, she spoke again. This time he could make out the sleep-slurred words, edged with panic: “Mama’s wedding gown is in the lake!” It was more the voice of a frightened little girl than that of the self-possessed woman he knew.
Her breathing quickened, and she tensed, her hands twitching convulsively. A moan of fear arose from her, and he saw that her face gleamed with perspiration, despite the coolness of the night.
He stepped into the room, letting the curtain close behind him, and set his lantern on the floor. Taking hold of the crumpled sheet, he pulled it up to her shoulders. Beneath it, her hands began to clench and unclench violently.
“My lady.”
“M-Mama’s... w-wedding gown—”
“Wake up, my lady.” He sat on the edge of the bed and gently shook her shoulder. “Wake—”
Her eyes flew open and she jerked awake, crying, “Mama! Mama!”
Her face held a look of pure terror, and she shook uncontrollably. With no thought except the instinct to comfort, Thorne stretched out next to her on the little cot and gathered her in his arms.
Chapter 13
She shivered at his touch, like a hatchling just taken from the nest. But he did not release her. He held her tight, stroking her through her cocoon of linen sheeting and murmuring comforting words, as he had done so many times with agitated young falcons. “Shh, ‘twas just a dream...”
“Th-Thorne? Sir Thorne?”
“Aye.” He brushed a wisp of hair from her damp forehead. “You were having a nightmare.”
She moaned despairingly and nodded against his chest. Without thinking, he brushed his lips to her hair, inhaling warm sunshine and sweet lavender. Her body felt invitingly warm and soft; he wanted to wrap himself around her, bury himself within her. With an effort, he reminded himself that he was here to lend solace.
He heard her soft intake of breath as the intimacy of their situation struck her. It was the middle of the night, and she lay enclosed in his arms, naked beneath her thin sheet.
Gathering his wits, he said, “I’ll go fetch your brother from church.”
She shook her head. “Nay. I—I can’t bother him every time. It’s just a dream. It’s nothing.”
He rubbed her back to soothe her. “You’re trembling from nothing, my lady. Do you often have nightmares?”
“Just the one. Every night it’s a little different, but it always ends the same way.”
“Every night? This happens to you every night?”
“Lately. The closer I get to—to the wedding, the more it comes.”
After a few moments of silence, Thorne said “Tell me,” and tightened his arms around her. He could not be all that he wanted to be to Martine, but he could be a comfort. He could share her pain, perhaps even ease it, if only she would let him.
“It’s about my mother, about finding her body in the lake. She was... she’d been so beautiful, and suddenly she was just this thing, this grotesque thing.”
“Oh, my lady,” he whispered.
“If it weren’t for Rainulf, I would have died, too. He saved my life. Not only that, he made it worthwhile. He educated me. Everything I am, I owe to him. I’d do anything in the world for him.”
“Even marry Sir Edmond.”
Her answer emerged as a whisper. “Aye.”
“Even though the very thought of marriage terrifies you.”
She nodded.
“Perhaps... perhaps you’ll like being married. Edmond’s not such a bad sort, just a little young.” The words sounded hollow even to his ears. “You could probably learn to love him.”
“Dear God, I hope not!” Her vehemence both gratified and alarmed him.
“You’d prefer a loveless marriage?”
“I’d prefer no marriage at all. I dread the very idea. But since my preferences don’t seem to matter, I’d much prefer a civilized, bloodless union to one of love. Men use the love that grows in women’s hearts to control them, keep them in their place, or even to destroy them if that becomes convenient.”
He hadn’t realized the depth of her bitterness. “I’m surprised you agreed to this marriage even for Rainulf’s sake.”
“He gave of himself in my time of need, and now I’m going to do the same for him.”
“Are you willing to forfeit the rest of your life for him?”
“I’ve made my decision. There is no ‘rest of my life.’ I’ve lived quite well up till now, thanks to Rainulf. Now it’s his turn.”
What could he tell her? That she should default on a betrothal contract that he himself had arranged, and upon which his future depended? Thorne was not a man accustomed to self-doubt, so it was with some degree of confusion that he now pondered his role in negotiating this union. For Rainulf to benefit from her marriage was one thing, since she felt she owed him his freedom. But she owed Thorne nothing, and he hadn’t hesitated for a second to barter her hand in exchange for property.
And now... now that he couldn’t stop thinking about her, couldn’t stop wanting her, needing her...
Things that had been simple were now complicated. The control he maintained over every aspect of his life seemed to be slipping away. His feelings, his desires, always so carefully schooled, rioted within him. They put him in mind of a bear roaring in frustration at being baited, straining at tethers that threatened to snap at any mo
ment.
Through the hush of rain outside the window came the distant chanting of the long midnight service, dreamy and hypnotic.
He looked down at the woman in his arms, so warm, so sweet. Against his bare chest, through the thin sheet, he felt the delicious roundness of her breasts, the thrumming of her heart... She still quivered with anxiety.
To be here with her this way, in her chamber at midnight, sharing her bed, was insanity. He knew he should leave, but he couldn’t, not while she was so overwrought.
He would try to ease her mind, to soothe her enough for her to get back to sleep, and then he would leave. He lifted her braid, which felt remarkably heavy, pulled off the ribbon that held it, and began unweaving the plaits. In a few moments she relaxed in his arms, and her breathing steadied.
She said, “Do you ever think about fate?”
“Fate?” He trailed his fingers through her loosened hair, a blanket of golden silk.
“I do,” she murmured. “I think fate is like a ribbon, a long, golden ribbon. It trails through our lives, and at first we just notice it slipping around us every now and then. We don’t give it much thought until one day we discover that we’re completely bound by it, wrapped tightly within its power, incapable of breaking its bonds.”
He smiled at such fanciful imagery from such a rational woman. “Hasn’t Rainulf told you about free will? ‘Twas my very first lecture from him.”
She chuckled. “Mine, too. Free will exists, make no mistake. That makes it all the more frustrating to find oneself a prisoner of fate.”
He pulled his fingers lazily through her hair. “I like to think I have more command over my destiny than that.”
“Everyone does. But haven’t you ever felt as if you were being carried along by forces you couldn’t control?”
He instantly pictured the raging, tormented bear within him. “Nay,” he lied. Well, not entirely a lie. Yes, he was being carried along by unwanted feelings for Martine, but they were feelings he could control. The bear wouldn’t break free if he had the strength to hold it back.
“My mother was a victim of fate,” she said. “Her love for Jourdain kept her captive for years. ‘Twas only at the very end that she was able to break free. Drowning herself was the first, and last, independent act she ever performed.”
His hands stilled in her hair. “You praise her suicide as an act of free will?”
“I don’t praise it, but I do understand it. In a way, I even admire it. ‘Twas the only way out, and she made the decision and acted on it.”
“There was nothing admirable about what she did, Mar... my lady. I know she was miserably unhappy, but you’re wrong to misinterpret her weakness as strength. She surrendered. And in doing so, she condemned her child to almost certain death.”
“Then it wouldn’t have been so bad if she hadn’t been responsible for me? If she hadn’t had a child?”
“This isn’t some academic dispute, my lady. Don’t set up hypotheticals. The fact is, she had a daughter for whom she spared not a single thought when she took her own life.”
“I survived.”
“Thanks to Rainulf. But you carry deep, unhealed scars, do you not? These nightmares of finding her body... ‘tis a wonder they haven’t driven you mad by now.”
After a moment, she said, “The worst part isn’t the body. I usually don’t even see that. It’s the water itself. In the dream, it turns to blood. A lake of blood.” She shivered and wrapped an arm around him. “I’ve been terrified of water ever since that day. As a child, I swam constantly, but I haven’t in years.”
“But you did,” he pointed out. “When you saved Ailith.”
“I had no choice.”
“Ah, but you did have a choice. You could have given in to your terror and let her die, but you didn’t. You exercised your free will and overcame your fear and saved her.” She seemed to ponder that. His fingers entwined themselves in her hair once more, and she sighed.
“You should swim again,” he said, “just for your own pleasure.”
“I’m afraid,” she whispered.
“Fear exists to be conquered.” He stroked her scalp, massaging with his fingertips. “You should swim.”
“Mmm.”
“You should.”
“Mmm-hmm.” She grew heavy in his arms.
“Tell me you will.”
“Hmm?”
“Tell me you’ll swim again, soon. It’s important. Once that fear is conquered, you can work on the rest. Promise me.”
She mumbled something blurry that sounded like “I promise.”
He smiled ruefully. “You’re humoring me.”
She didn’t answer that, merely snuggled against him, warm and drowsy.
“You are,” he said, “but that’s all right. I’ll take what I can get.”
* * *
Men were laughing.
Martine opened her eyes. Someone was in bed with her, his arms enfolding her, one long leg thrown over hers. She breathed in his familiar, masculine scent.
Thorne.
From the other side of the curtain, she heard voices. More laughter, followed by muffled conversation. “What—” she began.
Thorne clamped a hand over her mouth. Even in the half-light from the lantern, she could see his incandescent eyes, read the warning in them. She nodded, and he took his hand away.
Bringing his mouth to her ear, he whispered, “They came back while you were asleep, Rainulf and Matthew. They’ve been talking out there ever since. I can’t very well let them see me leaving your chamber in the middle of the night.”
Again she nodded. It was still dark outside, but raining harder, and she had the impression that she had slept for a while.
She lay nestled snugly within his embrace, her outside arm draped over his waist. Her hair was loose, and he had a length of it wrapped around one hand. He was bare from the waist up, and they were crushed together like lovers. She felt a surge of panic before recalling that nothing had happened between them, nothing like that.
He had listened to her, had soothed her fears, had held her until she fell asleep in his arms. He hadn’t kissed her. No, she was sure he hadn’t. She would remember that. And she would remember if he had taken advantage of her in any way, done anything he shouldn’t have.
It would have been little trouble for him, had he wanted to. A simple matter to pull the sheet aside and do as he wished. He was not a saint, but a man, with a man’s appetites. And he was strong. She could feel the long, hard muscles of his legs, the unyielding planes of his chest. He could easily have overpowered her, had his way with her.
Or perhaps he wouldn’t have had to force her. A man like Thorne would know how to coax a woman into giving herself to him. He would know how to touch her, how to caress her secret places until she begged him to take her. She grew warm thinking of the things he might have done, the things she might have wanted him to do.
His breath ruffled her hair. He held her so tightly that she couldn’t tell whether the racing heart that shook her chest was her own or his. When his breathing quickened, hers followed suit. Her skin had never felt so tender, so ultra-sensitive. Every part of her that he touched burned with a strange and thrilling pleasure.
She turned to look at him. When their eyes met, she saw in his a raw and desperate need that exactly mirrored her own. He knows how I feel, she thought with amazement. He knows because he feels it, too.
She felt his hand tighten its grip on her hair, and then something else, a movement against her belly, his body stirring, growing hard. Her own body throbbed in response, needing him there, between her legs, needing him to fill her, to possess her.
She tensed, her mind a pandemonium of confusion, as he abruptly drew back from her.
What she wanted, she mustn’t want. If his restraint failed, would she have the will to resist him?
More laughter from the main hall. Thorne pulled his arm out from beneath her, propped himself up on an elbow, and reached toward the lea
ther curtain. With deliberate care, he pulled aside an edge and looked out, then closed it.
He sat up and rubbed his arms, the muscles jumping in his back and shoulders. With a ragged sigh, he dragged his fingers through his long hair.
She reflected on his reputation for self-control. He exercised it this night, she knew, for both of them. Part of her felt disappointed, another part relieved.
He had been a friend to her. Not just tonight, but all during this past month while they had been guests at St. Dunstan’s. Granted, it was not a simple friendship. In truth, it had become quite complicated, even dangerous. Nevertheless, they shared something remarkable and precious and thrilling, something they would have to give up when they returned to Harford tomorrow.
Already she mourned the loss of that intimacy, grieved for its passing. She needed to thank him for his friendship, to tell him how much she would miss their time together.
“Sir Thorne—” Even before he whipped around and pressed his fingers to her mouth, she realized she had spoken too loudly. She heard the conversation cease in the main hall, and then the scrape of chair legs on the floor.
Thorne lowered his mouth to her ear, his weight on his elbows, one to each side of her head. “For God’s sake, keep him out!”
“R-Rainulf?” she called.
“Martine?” She could hear the worry in her brother’s voice. “Are you all right? Is it the dream?” From the sound of it, he stood just outside the doorway.
She took a deep breath and answered with studied nonchalance. “Nay. Nay, I’m fine. Just talking to myself.” Thorne nodded his approval, and she smiled.
There came a short pause. “I’m going to bed now. You get some sleep. We’ve got a long ride ahead of us.”
“All right. Good night.”
Thorne and Martine listened carefully as the men on the other side of the curtain retired to their chambers. When quiet descended once more, she looked up into the infinite blue of Thorne’s eyes as he held himself over her. Her heart twisted to think that in two weeks she would be Sir Edmond’s wife. Nothing could ever come of her feelings for Thorne. Nevertheless, she felt compelled to share her feelings with him, even if it was foolish, even if there were consequences.
Lords of Conquest Boxed Set Page 155
