One kiss would be the price of her audacity.
One kiss would be all he would claim from her.
But Rafael’s plan was doomed to go awry, just when he was certain it would succeed.
For Elizabeth, instead of fleeing his bold touch, embraced it. She caught her breath and arched against him in silent demand for more. She slid her fingers into his hair to pull him closer as she returned his kiss with an ardor unexpected.
Indeed, she seemed to have a hunger for him that echoed his own for her.
When she emitted a little purr of pleasure, then touched her tongue to his, Rafael knew his strategy had failed.
Given the two options available—that Rafael would accept her offer and seduce her thoroughly or that he would show himself to be a man of honor and retreat—the choice he had made was infinitely preferable to Elizabeth. His kiss fed that newfound heat within her and awakened a desire for more of his touch.
He had moved so quickly to claim her, that he might have been merely awaiting her invitation. She loved that he saw no need for pretense, for honesty between partners was key to Elizabeth’s thinking. Rafael was a man who seized opportunity when it was presented.
He had that in common with heroes in tales, to be sure.
Elizabeth had been startled when he had locked the door. She liked that they would not be interrupted, though, and savored his quick thinking. She had been surprised that he had come toward her without removing his garb, and indeed, the way he gripped the hem of his tabard and mail coat indicated that he would not. For a moment, she had been taken aback and doubted her choice, but then he had stared down at her as he unfastened her braid. His eyes shone with intensity and desire, his admiration of her not only clear but reassuring. Elizabeth saw the reverence in the way he spread her hair over her shoulders, and knew he was under the same spell as she.
Elizabeth had been surprised when his warm hand had closed over her breast. The sensation was exciting and pleasurable, but could not compare to what he did after that. The way he cupped her breast and teased her nipple, catching it between finger and thumb, made her squirm with a pleasure she could not have anticipated.
She had seen his eyes gleam with satisfaction before his mouth closed over hers.
His kiss was demanding and powerful, exactly as she had always hoped kisses might be, and the way he pinned her against the wall with his body was beyond thrilling. Elizabeth felt trapped, claimed, and utterly feminine. He was all muscled strength, all power and passion, so vital that she ached to sample all life had to offer. The size of his erection made it clear that she was not the only one in desire’s thrall and she welcomed that revelation. Her body hummed with new awareness and she wanted to rub herself against him to feel yet more.
Indeed, if this was but the beginning of the pleasures a couple could share, Elizabeth did not understand why married couples ever left their bed at all.
Rafael was staking a claim and Elizabeth knew it well.
She wanted him to know that she was his for the taking.
Elizabeth pushed her hands into the dark silk of Rafael’s hair and drew him ever closer, opening her mouth to him and surrendering fully to his touch. He knew this course and could guide her well. She followed his lead, letting him know that she trusted him utterly. She arched her back and pressed her breast more fully into his hand, even as she opened her mouth to invite more of his kiss. Who could have guessed that such pleasure existed? Who could have imagined that she could save Malcolm by experiencing such as this? It seemed too good to be true.
And it was.
Rafael tore his mouth from hers and muttered something she did not understand. It might have been a curse, he said the words so vehemently, and Elizabeth feared he would step away from her. Instead, he surveyed her, his eyes glittering, and his throat working.
He bent his head so quickly to take her other nipple in his mouth that she gasped aloud. He caught her waist in his hands and lifted her before him, his grip tight and sure. The way he kissed her turgid nipple and then suckled her, first gentle and then demanding, made Elizabeth moan with pleasure. She locked her hands into his hair, holding him fast against her, not wanting him to stop.
Rafael muttered another curse against her skin, then his teeth grazed her taut nipple. Elizabeth thought she might faint with pleasure. She whispered his name and found herself abruptly cast toward the portal of the chamber. She looked back at the silhouette that was Rafael even as he cast her borrowed chemise at her.
“I could take you here and now,” he said, his tone fierce. “I could claim what you so readily offer and despoil you forever.”
Elizabeth heard some warning in his tone. “We have a bargain,” she insisted.
“Which proves your thinking to be faulty.” Rafael raised a finger and his gaze was hard. “You have no means to ensure that I keep the wager you would make. I could seduce you and still let Malcolm pay my debt on the morrow.” He spun back to the window, bracing his hands on the sill. “You have much to learn of strategy, mi piqueño ángel. Now find your way to your bed.”
That he would dismiss her, like a naughty child and after that potent kiss, was outrageous. “What if I will not go?”
“Then I spoke aright that you would see me condemned.”
Elizabeth frowned, her thoughts and her desire churning. “I thought you wanted me.”
“You were wrong,” Rafael said, his tone harsh. “I meant only to show you the folly of your choice.”
Elizabeth could not believe it. “But that kiss...”
“Was a lesson and a warning.” Rafael cast a glance over his shoulder at her. “I have no interest in despoiling innocents. You were lucky in that, and may not be so fortunate again.”
Elizabeth felt her cheeks burn that she was not woman enough to tempt Rafael. She was mortified that she had nearly surrendered her greatest asset and might have surrendered it for naught at all. She reached for her own chemise, disheartened.
She had only just pulled it over her head when she realized the truth of what Rafael had done.
He had his back to her and he had folded his arms across his chest, his feet braced against the floor as he stared out at the earl’s camp and pretended to ignore her. The air fairly crackled between them, though, and Elizabeth smiled with new confidence. It was a sign that he was not so indifferent as he would have her believe.
Indeed, he defended her from himself.
He was protective of her, which was not a sign of indifference.
She donned her chemise, certain of her conclusion. Elizabeth chuckled, watching how his shoulders tightened.
“I see no humor in the situation,” he said stiffly.
“I do. For you, Rafael Rodriguez, have much to learn of hiding the fact that you are a man of merit.”
He spun to face her but Elizabeth smiled. “The villain that you profess to be would not have denied his own pleasure. He would have seized all that I offered, then broken his word, leaving me soiled and Malcolm condemned.” She shook a finger at him. “But you could not do as much. Be warned, Rafael, for I have your measure now.” She held his astonished gaze for a potent moment, then turned the key in the lock, flung open the portal and left the chamber.
She heard Rafael swear violently behind her, once again the tone and not the words revealing his vexation, and she wondered if he spoke in Spanish when impassioned.
Elizabeth realized then that she might never know.
Nay, if Rafael took her challenge and surrendered to Finvarra in Malcolm’s place the next night, then he would be the one lost forever.
Elizabeth halted then and glanced back, shaken by the realization. If she won her way, then Rafael would die, and against all expectation, Elizabeth would miss him. She might have turned back, but two warriors climbed the stairs to join Rafael in watching the mustered forces beyond Ravensmuir’s hedge. Elizabeth bit her lip, fearing she might not have any chance to speak to Rafael alone again.
She had wanted him to tak
e Malcolm’s place, for she had believed that to be right, but now, she did not want either of them to die. Could Finvarra be swayed from collecting his promised due?
Tuesday, June 22, 1428
Feast Day of Saint Alban and the Apostle James (the Less). Midsummer’s Eve.
Five
At the dawn, the drums began.
There was no opportunity for Elizabeth to speak with Rafael once she left the solar with Catriona. Indeed, he seemed to avoid her apurpose and his mood appeared to be grim, although he might have scowled because of the pending battle. Even with the Sable League in his hall, Malcolm’s forces were greatly outnumbered by those of the earl.
Elizabeth witnessed the parlay and heard the earl’s demand that Malcolm cast aside Catriona to wed Jeanne. She saw Jeanne on the field beyond the hedge, that woman’s spurned hand supposedly the reason for the attack. She noted the earl’s considerable preparations and understood that Malcolm’s refusal to take Jeanne as his bride was only an excuse.
The earl coveted the new Ravensmuir. Clearly he had no concern with claiming it by force.
Malcolm refused to cede his new wife.
Stalemate.
The first arrow was shot over the walls, burning a trail across the morning sky.
“And so it begins,” muttered a mercenary in her proximity. Elizabeth realized she had not truly believed there would be a battle. But warfare there was, quickly and in quantity. Once the first volley had been fired, the battle erupted in truth. Arrows fell from the sky like rain and men tried to climb the outside of the gatehouse walls. She winced as the first pot of boiling oil was tipped over the roof and the men below screamed in agony.
As anticipated, other men tried to come around the ends of the hedges, but were sliced down by Malcolm’s men. There was smoke and fire on all sides, shouting and screaming, and a chaos beyond Elizabeth’s expectation.
When she first saw a man fall and his blood spill, she waited for him to rise unscathed. A part of her mind knew he would not, but she had not believed until that moment that men truly would be slaughtered over the seal of Ravensmuir.
Until she saw that they were.
Elizabeth was shocked by the savagery of it all, by the relentless assault upon her brother’s new keep, and by the determination of his comrades to see his holding defended. They fought steadily all the day, with no respite, seeming to need no rest.
There might be none alive to pay Finvarra’s tithe this night!
Elizabeth had to do some deed to assist. Otherwise, she knew she would watch Malcolm and Rafael alternatively, fearing over their fates. She carried water, and soothed Avery, and bound wounds in the hall, though she had no particular skill with that task. There was scarcely a moment to sit down, much less to take a reprieve. Her heart thundered all the day long, though, fear and agitation ensuring that she did not want to pause.
Her thoughts spun all the day long. She thought of Malcolm fighting for his home and knew that Catriona feared for his survival. She thought of Rafael and was relieved whenever she caught a glimpse of him. He was always fighting, seemingly tireless, and perhaps invincible.
She saw the warrior with doom on his brow fall in the bailey and not rise again. The others fought on, stepping over his corpse, never missing a strike. There was proof that none of them truly ever expected to survive any battle they joined. When his body was carried into the hall, with respect and regret, she learned that his name had been Reynaud.
Elizabeth paid little heed to the Fae, though they cavorted merrily in Ravensmuir’s hall, as if anticipating some great celebration. She knew what that festivity might be and did not feel nearly so thrilled that Malcolm would die to ensure their welfare, even if he survived this day. She did not glimpse Finvarra, though she might have liked to have words with him.
The shadows were growing long when the Fae abruptly abandoned the hall, scurrying along the rafters and leaping out the windows. In the twinkling of an eye, they all vacated the keep, their move prompting Elizabeth to straighten and turn, peering after them. The sun had not quite set and the western sky was streaked with fiery color. Still there were will-o’-the-wisp twinkles in the distant shadows. Still the earl’s men beat their war drums.
Yet Elizabeth heard the Fae music, tinkling faintly as it carried to her ears.
Malcolm’s reckoning was upon them. She raced to the solar, joining Catriona at the window and clutching that woman’s cold hand. In the distance, she saw another army mustering, one wrought of shadows and starlight, one indifferent to the battle waged between the armies of mortal men.
The Fae came, and they came for Malcolm’s soul.
Rafael was agitated.
It was not ideal to be in such emotional tumult. He, like so many others, fought most effectively when he was dispassionate and focused. It was best when he was attuned to every movement in his proximity and when his body responded immediately with force. It was most effective to sense the mood of the other side, to anticipate any chance in their tactics or strategy. He should have been filled with the awareness of war and naught else.
But Rafael was snared in a dangerous tumult. His blood was fired by the fleeting taste he had had of Elizabeth. He could fairly feel her lips against his, the soft exhalation of her breath, the cautious caress of her fingertips on his skin. Worse, his mind was in turmoil, her conviction of his true nature leaving his guts churning.
There was some honor in his soul, after all. Elizabeth had seen the truth of him. Otherwise, she would not have been a maiden by the time he let her leave.
That realization launched a dozen questions, the most pressing of which was whether he truly could let Malcolm keep that wager in his stead. But a day before, Rafael had known the answer without doubt.
On this day, thanks to a maiden’s trust, he wondered.
Otherwise, the day of fighting could have been any one of a thousand from Rafael’s past. He hacked and slashed, jabbed and sliced. He was a ferocious opponent and he knew it, a man of considerable skill and a measure of luck.
Thanks to the distractions fed by Elizabeth, however, Rafael did not survive unscathed. A blow came abruptly from one side, a move and a man he had not anticipated. He parried and felt the weight of the blow upon his own sword, making the blade sing in protest and his shoulder ache. He roared and thrust, nicking his opponent’s throat before that man’s broadsword swept at his guts.
’Twas the same manner of blow that had felled Franz. Rafael leaped backward, evading the sword’s bite, but glimpsed a battle axe blade descending toward him. Rafael spun madly, cursing that his own lack of attention was the reason he found himself so beset. The axe glanced off his upper arm, and he was relieved it was not severed, though the pain was so considerable that it might not be saved. He felt the chain mail driven into the wound and gritted his teeth against the agony. Fury saw his attacker felled in short order, then Rafael dove after the first. He kicked that man, slit his throat, then glared about himself.
He caught his breath and felt the warm trickle of blood on his arm. He had near lost an arm, or part of it, and it was his own wretched fault. A quick exploration revealed that the cut was not so deep as he had feared. He would not lose his arm, provided he cleaned the wound later. He wiped his hand across his brow as he scanned the bailey for another foe, as furious with himself as any other.
Elizabeth distracted him. She tore his mind from the task before him, and such a temptation as the one she offered could see him slaughtered. Worse, it could see him maimed. As in so many matters with Rafael, he favored one option or its opposite, with no tolerance of any point in between. He could tolerate a scar, as indeed he had many, but he would be hale or he would be dead. To be maimed and unable to earn his way would be the worst fate of all. Rafael had been hungry and powerless, and he would never be so again.
Another volley of men began to make their way around the far end of the hedge. Reynaud had fallen, and he could see that Gunter was slowing. Rafael strode toward them, avo
iding the hail of arrows, determined to sharpen his attention. There was no tolerance in battle for a man to be distracted. Survival depended upon being alert, and Rafael was usually more alert than most. He heard the boiling oil poured from the gatehouse summit, or more accurately, he heard the screams of those who were burned by it. He smelled the many burning fires and leaped into the battle at the end of the hedge with a roar, slashing at the attackers with two blades.
This was his life. This was his destiny. Battle of this violent nature was what Rafael knew best. Rafael came to the aid of his fellows more than once and left more than one warrior dead with nary a scrap of remorse. This was his trade, his skill, his reason to arise each day. It was a grim and gruesome business, but killing was all he knew.
It did pay rather well, no matter what delicate maidens might think of it.
It was the music that alerted Rafael to the demons’ return, that cursed music that had enchanted him once before. He cringed at the sound of it, wanting to be mistaken about its source.
But he was not. They came again, those foul fiends, came to collect their wicked toll, just as they had sworn to do. As before, it seemed they could only ascend to the realm of mortals during the night, for the glowing red orb of the sun had touched the horizon when Rafael heard the first notes. Clearly they were of another realm, for it made no difference to their progress that Ravensmuir was at war, its keep besieged, its bailey and field littered with fallen warriors. Perhaps they savored the blood on the field, for the dead had been in their company six months before.
Despite his better judgment, Rafael raised his head to look at the approaching force. Even though the entangled barrier of the hedge, he could see that they were otherworldly and unholy, and the sight of them made the hair stand up on the back of his neck. He was exhausted but the sight of these fiends quickened his blood and made him grip his sword.
All's Fair in Love and War: Four Enemies-to-Lovers Medieval Romances Page 108
