Heather Graham (36 page)

“I can manage—”

“It’s so long. Like fire.”

“Terese—”

“If I don’t serve well, my lady, I will be cast out. And that wretched Comte Armagnac burned my village. I’ve nowhere to go.”

She knelt by the back of the tub and began washing Danielle’s hair. Her touch was light and assured, soothing. Danielle leaned back. Just when she had almost begun to doze under the gentle ministration, she felt a sharp tug on her hair.

“My lady! You were about to go under! To drown!”

She wasn’t going to drown, but she was growing sorely aggravated. “I’m fine, thank you!” She reached for the snowy linen towel by the tub and stood, wrapping herself in it. “Terese—”

“Sit by the fire, please, my lady, and I will brush out your hair. It is so dark and sleek, like sable.”

“Terese, you must be tired—”

“Nay, lady. I like the night.”

Something in her words made Danielle uncomfortable, but she allowed the girl to brush out her hair, and again she was startled by her expertise. While the fire dried her hair, Terese’s nimble fingers brushed it to a sleek shine. “You’re from here?” Danielle asked her.

“A village nearby. One that was nearly destroyed, and I with it.”

“Ah, well, thank God you are safe.”

“Aye, the earl saved me.”

“Did he?” Danielle inquired.

“You cannot imagine, my lady, what cruelties are being inflicted upon the people! Men—butchered! Even little children are slain.”

“I’ve heard. I’m so sorry, so deeply sorry.”

“Are you?” Terese’s touch was suddenly a little rough. “Rumor has it, my lady, that you have supported many of those who have ridden with Armagnac.”

Danielle stood, swinging around to stare at the girl. “Rumor is wrong! I would never condone such behavior. You may leave, Terese.”

The girl lowered her eyes, a slight smile playing at her lips. “Indeed, my lady. I will be in the antechamber. Please, call if you need me. I will be near. I am in my Lord MacLachlan’s service.”

Danielle was startled by the pain that enveloped her as she realized that the girl was not only denying her authority to dismiss her, she was hinting that she had become Adrien’s mistress.

“Indeed? Well, then,” she murmured, “if he requires your services, he will send for you.”

Terese turned around and opened the door between the antechamber and bedroom.

Adrien stood there.

“My lord!” Terese murmured. “May I bring you something? Is there anything—”

He was staring past her, at Danielle. “That will be all, Terese,” he said.

Terese stepped out—unhappily, Danielle thought. Adrien closed the door, his eyes on Danielle. He walked slowly into the room then, never taking his eyes from her as he removed his scabbard and sword, then drew his tunic over his head and stripped off his shirt. He wore tightly woven trousers that hugged his hips and legs, and his boots, and nothing more. She averted her eyes, wishing she didn’t long to touch him, and that the searing pain of jealousy would cease playing havoc with her heart.

“Is Terese accustomed to staying here?” Danielle asked, trying to keep her tone casual as if the matter were of no importance to her.

“Does it matter?” he inquired.

“No,” she lied. “How can it matter? You have made certain that it cannot. What you do makes no difference to me whatsoever. You wretchedly refuse to listen to anything I have to say, and trust any stranger over me. Naturally, however, if you’d like to keep company with Terese, I would appreciate it if you’d be so good as to leave me—”

“Indeed? So—you would go casting accusations my way when there is another man in your life every time I turn around, my lady. And, my love, what
you
do does matter to me. Incredibly so.”

“You are referring to a priest?”

“The man was no priest.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“You should have.”

“You’re being curt and cruel,” she assured him, looking at him at last. She drew the linen towel more tightly around her. God, that her heart would not leap so! His chest was pure bronze in the firelight. Sleek as satin.

“You’re a traitoress,” he replied flatly, but walked toward her as he said so.

“Not to France.”

He stood before her. “To me!” he stated vehemently. “By God, to me!”

She thought he meant to strike her, but he didn’t. He reached for her, savagely drawing her into his arms. His fingers cupped her chin, tilted her head back. His mouth descended upon hers. She longed to fight. She felt the force and heat and liquid fire of his touch. Her lips parted to his onslaught, and the heat seemed to saturate her. Her fingers slid through his hair; she clung to him. His lips parted just slightly from hers.

“I’m not a fool—wanting you does not mean that I trust you!” he swore angrily. But his mouth lowered, and he kissed her again, kissed her and kissed her, as if he could not have enough of the taste of her.

Pride came to her and she twisted free from his lips, pressing furiously against his chest. “No! You cannot ignore what I say and think and feel and then expect that I will want you, have you!” she insisted. “I swear I will have no part of you!”

“I swear that you will!” he countered. “My lady, I have spent endless days at battle only to hear that I must fight and kill more men because you encourage them to treachery. You’ll not tell me what you will and will not have!”

She let out a startled shriek as he lifted her with a swift and violent force and threw her upon the bed. Her towel was lost, entangled in his arms. He swore, wadding it, crushing it, savagely throwing it across the room and out of his way. Hands on his hips, he stared down at her, his pulse ticking madly against the veins in his throat. “You’ll not play games with me, lady wife, by God, not when you are the cause of the tempest!”

“You will not trust me!” she cried in protest, inching up against the bed. “You will not trust me—”

“I spoke with the bloody priest!”

“I did not encourage anyone to treachery. You had no right to drag me from Aville. I kept my word to you!” she cried back, shaking but determined.

“Ah … I have taken you from your precious home!”

“You have judged me unfairly. You have condemned me when I am not guilty. You—”

“Enough, Danielle, enough!”

He spun around on her and strode to the hearth. He leaned against the mantel for a very long time.

Then he began to walk around the room, pinching out the candles. When the last was dimmed, he stood again before the fire in the dim light, his back to her. She hugged her knees to her chest, clenching her teeth, watching him. She didn’t want to fight him. She just wanted to be with him. If he would just turn and force her into his arms …

But he didn’t. He left the shadowy illumination of the fire. She heard him strip down in the darkness and slide into the bed beside her.

But he didn’t touch her. He turned his back on her.

It seemed that a very long time passed. She was almost certain that he slept, when he shifted to his back, causing her to jump. “So I am at fault, Danielle? And you should be returned to Aville?”

“Yes,” she said, keeping her distance.

“I am to believe that you mean to keep the vow I forced from you, and no matter what I hear to the contrary, you’re true to the promises you made to me?”

“Yes.”

“The king has a special soft spot in his heart for you, though God knows why—you have defied him often enough. But he doesn’t trust you now, nor does his son.”

“The king believes every word you say to him. He always has, though God knows why.”

“Because I am honest and unwaveringly loyal?” he suggested dryly.

“I was loyal,” she whispered. “I was loyal at Aville. It is my home. It’s where I want to be.”

“If only …” he murmured.

She could not see his face in the shadows, yet there seemed to be some whisper of belief. She didn’t think she could bear the distance between them, the huskiness of his whisper. Yet neither could she accept his fury when she hadn’t done anything.

As of yet!
an inner voice taunted her.

“If only?” she queried softly.

“If only I could believe in you,” he said. “If only you could hold Aville for me—and King Edward,” he said very softly, and she waited for him to touch her.

He turned his back on her again.

He had dozed. He didn’t think he’d ever manage to do so that night, but he had. Exhaustion could be a strong force, even against the furor in his heart and soul. Yet, wanting her as he had, he had fallen asleep at her side. A bloody miracle.

And so …

He first thought that he was imagining or dreaming her touch. Her fingertips, like butterfly’s wings, over his shoulders, along the length of his spine. Her lips … at his nape, feverishly hot, delicate, erotic, moving down his back, over his shoulders, lower again …

He stayed very still, waiting, as angry as he was hungry, aware that he had hinted she might return to Aville if he could be convinced to trust her.

So she had her price.

Let her pay it.

And she did.

The tip of her tongue teased his bare flesh.

He could ignore her.

Would
ignore her, he assured himself.

Except that …

Her lips and tongue continued to move. Stroked with tiny little laps that wickedly teased and awakened. Moved up and town, her fingertips caressing … her kisses eliciting a strip of liquid fire that burned across his flesh, into his limbs, straight to his groin. Then he felt the supple length of her body, warm as a balmy breeze, sultry as sin, as she moved more closely against him, her softly exotic kisses running the length of his shoulders again.

He could, and would, ignore her …

Her hands moved over his shoulderblades, onto his chest, low down upon his abdomen, stroking, lower, lower, not quite low enough. He felt himself hardening, aching, hurting.

Be damned.

He turned, drawing her into his arms. Her body undulated against his, his fingers curled into the silky-clean seduction of her hair. She took him into her mouth, instinctively caressed him with her tongue. He cried out hoarsely, wrenched himself up and caught her by the waist, swiftly pinning her beneath him in the shadows. By God, indeed, she had her price, and if it had not been for that thought, he might have told her that there could be no other woman, ever, for him.

He took her with a searing, swift, force, scarcely able to contain himself until he felt her shudder beneath him before soaring to his own explosive climax. Exhaustion, satiation; and contentment filled him, and he drew her close, amazed, happy as he had never imagined, that she had come to him with such sweet hunger.

But then it seemed his mind snapped back and he remembered that he had teased her with the hint of a promise …

He lay still as she curled against him. Her voice, soft and young and innocent, teased his ear.

“Adrien?”

“My lady?”

“I … I did nothing. I swear it.”

“Ah …”

“Please, bring me back to Aville.”

The room was cast in shadow, yet he thought that he could see her beautiful face and the glitter in her emerald eyes.

He let her words play upon the air, as if he considered them.

Then he rolled to her, rested upon an elbow, and studied her lithe, supple form and luxurious hair in the shadows.

“Never,” he said flatly.

“But—but you said—”

“You’ll stay here, Danielle. And that is that.”

She looked away from him, biting her lip as tears stung her eyes.

“Seducing me is not the same as earning my trust,” he told her. “You can’t go home, Danielle. But may I say, as your husband, I was absolutely delighted.”

“Oh, you may go right to hell.”

“I could return the favor.”

“Don’t you touch me!” she cried, which was, of course, ludicrous, because she was powerless and he was touching her in many ways. Her head twisted to the side. “Don’t you touch me! I mean it, Adrien, get away, don’t … don’t … you’re a bastard, and I do not forgive you for this!”

Something within him hurt, for her voice was cold in a way he had not heard before.

“If only I could trust you!” he whispered.

She stared at him. “You could trust me! Please!” she cried, distressed. “You are hurting me.”

He thought that his weight might be crushing her, and he eased himself to her side. She leapt up, finding the huge linen bath towel and wrapping herself in it.

He sighed and stood, then walked over to her. “Danielle, you can’t go back to Aville. Not now.” He dropped to one knee, reaching for her chin. “Danielle,” he whispered softly, amazed to realize that his voice was growing husky, and that he wanted her again. Ached for her. He had been away too long.

She wrenched her face free from his touch, stood, and walked away.

“Don’t you touch me!” she whispered vehemently again.

He stood, too, wishing he wasn’t tempted to sweep her up and throw her down again. But the sun was rising—if he could make love to her just once again …

“I mean it, Adrien, don’t touch me. I don’t want you—I can’t bear … I can’t …”

“Make me believe in you,” he said.

“Don’t ever think to touch me!” she repeated.

He forced himself to shrug. “If that is your wish, my lady.”

As if he weren’t suffering the pain of hell’s fire and damnation. As if his limbs were not coiled into knots of agony.

He turned away from her and began to dress.

He knew that she watched him. He didn’t glance her way. He donned his pants, shirt, tunic, and boots, and swept his great cloak around his shoulders.

He walked to the door, opened and closed it.

And did not look back.

P
RINCE EDWARD AND HIS
forces were gone, riding the countryside—preparing to attack the French king, Danielle assumed. She chafed at being basically imprisoned, even though the Castle de Renoncourt was a fine facility and the surrounding land beautiful. She was allowed to ride, accompanied by two older knights, Gervais de Leon and Henry Latimere. From her first morning under guard at the castle, she studied her circumstances. One of the two knights was always near her, standing guard at the outer door. Terese did not seem to be in the castle, and Danielle was far more distressed than she was willing to admit to learn that the girl had accompanied Prince Edward’s troops. Neither was her husband’s squire about, having ridden to attend to Adrien’s horses and armor.