Heather Graham (26 page)

For a moment, he could not. The fire added to the see-through quality of the gown.

Tears touched her eyes. “Adrien, you promised!”

For a moment, she sounded like the child he had once protected. He believed in her innocence.

He bowed deeply to her, pretending that she wasn’t awakening every bit of desire in his system. “Good night then, my lady wife.”

He strode to the door, saw to it that the hall had emptied, and left her room, slipping quickly into his own. There, he ground his temple between his fists and swore loudly, damning himself.

If she hadn’t been so naive, so frightened, so innocent! If he hadn’t seen the dampness in her eyes …

He swore again, grabbed a carafe of wine, and sat before the fire, not bothering with a goblet at all.

He longed for sleep and he knew it would not come. Next best, he longed for a drunken stupor.

But neither would that come.

And still, he should have been sleeping long before he heard the creak in the hallway, and then the hushed whispering by her door. He bolted up, listening. The whispering had gone silent. Her door had opened, and closed …

“Danielle! Danni, quick!”

She had nearly dozed when she heard the whisper. She knew it was Simon, and she leapt up, her heart thundering in fear.

He had been so wretched at the wedding, in anguish when he had kissed her and wished her well, vowing his undying love for her once again. She hadn’t been able to stand his pain, and found herself telling him that although she had agreed to marry, she was not going to be a wife in truth.

She should never, never have whispered such a thing, she realized, because Simon was here now. At her door.

She leapt up and opened it as quickly as possible, anxious to shush him even as she desperately prayed that Adrien had not been aroused. Simon stood in the hall, his sword belted to his waist, his eyes warily on the door to the guest chamber down the hall. He strode into Danielle’s room before she could stop him.

“Simon—!”

He brought a finger to his lips as he looked about, striding to the bed and drawing the draperies from it. He sighed with relief when he realized they were really alone.

“Simon, you’ve got to get out of here!” she said desperately.

“Danielle, we cannot let this happen,” he told her urgently. “If your marriage has not been consummated, we can still do something to annul it. We’ll go now. I’ll take you to King Jean—he’ll manage something. We will have Aville back, we’ll—”

“Simon, hush! For the love of God, hush! I have always honored my mother’s family, but Aville is a part of Edward’s holdings! Don’t you understand? Most of the people here are very loyal to him—they know what happened the last time they fought him. They need the English here, they need the trade, the income from the alliance. Simon—”

“Oh, God, Danielle, but I love you!” He suddenly sounded as if he was choking. And just as suddenly, she found herself caught up in his arms, crushed in his embrace. His lips were warm and pressing upon hers and his hands … his hands were on her arms, her shoulders, her breasts, gliding over the sheer fabric of the white bridal nightdress. She tried to twist from his kiss, both stunned and afraid.

“Simon …” she protested against his lips.

Just as the door flew open.

Simon had not heeded her warning, but now he spun away from her, drawing his sword with lightning speed.

Adrien had come. He was still clad in nothing but the fur-trimmed robe—and naked steel, for he, too, carried his sword. His eyes were fire, his features as hard and cold as ice.

“If you touch my wife again, Comte, I will cut your foolish head from your body,” he advised calmly.

“The lady has been meant for me!” Simon cried out and lunged for Adrien.

“No!” Danielle shrieked, jumping forward, foolishly hoping to come between them. Adrien caught her by the arm and sent her flying back out of the line of their battle. She fell against the wall near the hearth, slipping down to the floor. Dazed, she struggled to her feet, desperate to stop the men somehow.

But the battle was frighteningly brief. There was but one clash of steel, and then Simon’s sword clattered from his hand and skidded across the floor to the open doors.

Heavy footsteps were heard in the hall as two of Adrien’s men came hurrying to find out what was causing the noise. Adrien clutched Simon by his sleeve, dragging him out to the hall.

Danielle found her feet and came racing after him, terrified for Simon and desperate to explain to Adrien that nothing had happened. But as she reached Adrien, she saw the extent of his anger. Tension blazed from every muscle, as well as from the glittering gold of his eyes. Still she dared to touch his shoulder, but he didn’t seem to feel it. She gripped his arm hard, tugging until he turned to face her at last.

“Adrien, please, you have to listen—”

“I’ll deal with you, madam, when I’ve done with your lover,” he snapped.

“Wait, Adrien—” she began, but could say nothing more. He caught her mercilessly by both shoulders and thrust her back into the room.

She felt his eyes, hard with fury. She moistened her lips, knowing that she had to plead now and plead eloquently if she was to save Simon. But before she could move or speak, he slammed the door in her face.

S
HE’D BEEN INSANE, SHE
thought, trying to reach him. She spun from the door, staring into the fire as she felt the chill of fear sweep around her. What was she going to do? She needed time to think, to get a hold upon her fear.

No! No! What she needed to do was to pray that the door would remain closed upon her forever, that the miracle of an escape would suddenly show itself …

What a coward she was! What about Simon? She had to help him.

But the door had barely closed before it thundered open again. Her hand flew to her chest, as if trying to still her heart from beating itself to death.

Hands on hips, he filled the doorway. She stared at him for what seemed an eternity, and yet no time at all. He strode into the room, slamming the door behind him with a vengeance.

Simon! she reminded herself.

“What—what have you done?” she demanded, trying to remain still and straight, to keep her voice strong and a pretense of courage about her. “What are you—going to do?” Despite herself, she faltered.

“I should kill you!” he hissed softly, his voice disturbingly quiet. “Wrap my fingers around your neck and strangle you. But then, I would cost myself a wife. At the very least, I should beat you until you scream for mercy.”

“I’m not afraid of you!” she told him, eyes narrowing. But she
was
afraid; her heart still hammered and she could scarcely draw breath. “You’ll not threaten me, and you will answer me! What have you done to Simon? If you’ve harmed him—”

She broke off because he was striding toward her with such swift menace that she couldn’t move until he was almost upon her. A gasp tore from her throat and she tried to run. She hadn’t a prayer. His fingers curled into her hair and over her arm and he wrenched her back around to face him with such a force that she lost her breath. Both his hands fell tight upon her shoulders as he snapped her straight. Her head fell back, her eyes rose to meet his, and she wanted to cower despite all her most stalwart pretenses. She had never seen him so angry, not even that day in the woods when he had been convinced she had nearly killed him by loosening the girth on his saddle.

She didn’t know whether to scream or weep. His fingers were brutal. “Let go of me!” she cried out, trying with all her strength to wrench free. “Arrogant, domineering, wretched, grasping Englishman!”

“Scotsman,” was his brief reply. He lifted her from her feet and threw her down upon the bed. Her sheer silk nightdress snagged beneath her. Her legs were bared, she was naked from the waist down. Delicate ties had broken at the bodice, exposing her breasts. Winded, she gasped for breath and tried to rise, tried to hold the flimsy fabric together. She made it up to her elbows, but then fell back and met the dark fury of his features. A wild panic seized her. He remained far more than half naked himself, for the fur-trimmed robe had fallen open and she was painfully aware of the many things she had noted about him before; the bronzed strength of his shoulders and arms, the expanse of his chest, the hard, lean contours of his belly. She was painfully aware of what she had not noted before as well: the shaft of his sex rose long and hard against her flesh. She drew her eyes back to his as he leaned over her. She tried swiftly and desperately to shove against him, but he moved so quickly, with such raw fury, that he seemed completely heedless of her. She felt his hand upon the slim length of her legs. He caught her knees, parted them, and eased his weight between them. She tried again to strike out. The fingers of his left hand vised around her wrists, pinning them just above her head. The fingers of his right hand lightly brushed her cheek, his knuckles stroked down her throat, over the bared mount of her breast. She inhaled raggedly, afraid, yet achingly aware of that touch. Desperate to fight it for the alarming sensation it aroused.

His eyes, alight with a shimmering glitter of pure flame, tore into hers.

“Poor, bloody, sweet innocent!” he hissed. “Time! Give you time! Time to welcome your French lover to your room just feet away from my own door!”

“You’re wrong!” she cried. “You don’t understand—”

“I full well understand his hands upon your breast, his lips upon your mouth. I wasn’t the one to plead
time
because of any innocence!”

“God, I could kill you!” he cried furiously. “Nothing wrong with his lips devouring you?”

“I tell you, you mustn’t hurt him. I swear, you don’t understand—”

“No.
You
don’t understand!” he told her flatly, and any further words she might have spoken were swept away as she cried out, stunned. His free hand had swept lower, over her belly, onto her mount. Between her thighs, touching, stroking, probing … a violent shiver seized her as she felt the tremendous intimacy of his touch. It seemed that something like fire burned there now. And she knew his intent.

“Wait!” she gasped, straining to free herself, but his grip upon her wrists was merciless, the bulk of his body far too hard and heavy to budge. His face was suddenly very close to hers, his eyes all but scorching her. His taunting whisper was almost a caress against her lips. “Wait?” he inquired. “For that French bastard to come before me again?”

“No—” she protested with a strangled scream, for he had meant then to wait for nothing. The fullness of his sex thrust into her like a knife. The pain seemed to sear through her body. She shuddered with it and surged against him, insane to free herself from the invasion, but she managed only to wrap herself more fully around him. To bring him more completely inside her, to a point where he would split her in twain. It didn’t occur to her that he had driven very hard and then gone dead still—until she realized that her hands were free. They lay upon his shoulders as her nails curled into his flesh.

His fingers wove into the hair at her nape. His eyes blazed into hers. “Sweet Jesu!” he exclaimed softly. It seemed that surprise had caused his anger to ease, just when she was longing to strangle him.

“Adrien!” she gasped, barely keeping the word from being a sob, longing to plead with him but not allowing herself the luxury of begging any small mercy.

“I cannot go back,” he said flatly.

She opened her lips to speak; they were caught by his. His kiss all but consumed her. His tongue swept, hard and passionately, deep into her mouth, her throat. Molten steel rushed throughout her limbs, radiating from between her thighs. She could hear or feel the pulse of his heart, or hers, and it was as if drums pounded in her head. She could not twist away, only feel, and the intimate sensations were both brutal and oddly delicious, mesmerizing, so engulfing that he was moving again before she realized it. Searing sensation remained; the agony faded. His lips parted from hers, touched them again. His hand stroked her cheek, her breast. A whisper of tantalizing flame licked over her, inside her, a hint of something mercurial and as excruciatingly sweet as the pain had been intense. She could not fight him; she could only cling to him, ride out the wildness of the storm, and feel strange whispers of promised pleasure within the red mist that had been pain. She became increasingly aware of him, the corded muscles of his body straining, the fluid movement of him, hard, graceful, reckless, relentless … swift … plunging into her again and again until she was all but numbed. She gripped his shoulders as if she held on for life, and burrowed her face into his neck. The whole of his body gave a massive shudder; he held taut and still above her, then moved once again, a groan tearing from his lips as a tidal wave of liquid fire washed from his body into hers.

She felt a trembling deep inside her. She wanted with all her heart to throw him off, free herself of the invasion, and yet she wanted to touch the satin sheen of his rippling flesh, to feel his kiss again. She wanted to run away as far as she could get. But she realized she would never escape the longing to feel him again, touch him, have him demand so much from her …

He had gone still, but he had not withdrawn. She closed her eyes, silent for once, and fought the tears that sprang beneath her lids.

“Look at me,” he commanded.

She wanted to do anything but.

But knowing him, she was afraid he would pry open her eyelids to have his way. She opened her eyes defiantly and found him staring down intently at her once again.

“You’re killing me!” she charged him in a furious, accusing whisper.

To her amazement, he suddenly smiled. “You won’t die,” he told her. “But I might well have killed you had I stepped into this room a minute later!”

“You are still mistaken, you bastard Englis—Scotsman!” she seethed, willing herself not to cry. “You must realize that Simon and I weren’t
lovers
—”

“But what might have been?” he demanded harshly. “It is difficult to feel guilt about taking your wife’s innocence too recklessly when she is pleading for another man. Thank God, milady, you did not become lovers. At least now I don’t feel quite so tempted to strangle you.”