Heather Graham (20 page)

She paused, feeling as if she had talked too long about herself. And given away too much. But he had leaned back upon an elbow, still chewing upon his emerald blade of grass, and still watching her with a silver glitter of amusement about his eyes.

“I can imagine this place you describe. He rules like a king, which must make you a princess. So I can easily see why you were not overawed by marriage to a simple duke!”

“M’lord DeForte, it is just that I lived mainly among simple men. And I found many of them to be uncommonly brave, kind, and considerate of their fellow man. That, in itself, is nobility, I believe!”

“Bravo! Spoken like a true princess,” he teased her. “But tell me, do you really believe that Virginia is more beautiful than the stream I offer you here?”

“It would be difficult to choose,” she answered him politely.

He looked out across the bubbling water. “I think I agree,” he told her.

“You agree! You’ve seen Virginia?”

He nodded, a smile curling into his lip. “I do own numerous ships, you know.”

“And you’ve sailed on them?”

“Up and down the American coastline. Down to the islands. But I do like Virginia. I agree. What I’ve seen is exceptionally lovely.”

“Oh!” she cried recklessly, knocking his elbow from beneath him with a swift tug of her hand. Unbalanced, he fell flat, and rose swiftly with surprise as she started to leap to her feet. “You’ve let me run on and on, making a fool of myself!”

“Whoa, milady!” he commanded her, sitting up then, pulling upon her skirt so that she swirled back, falling down hard into his lap. “There was no attempt on my part to make a fool of you! I was curious about your life, that is all. All I knew was that my bride was the most hardheaded, independent creature I’d ever come across. I never stopped to realize how very homesick you must be at times, or that you might miss your father. I remember missing my own terribly after he—after he died. Are you homesick?”

“A bit,” she murmured uneasily, caught within his arms on his lap.

His knuckles grazed over her face very softly. “Perhaps my brook is not more beautiful. Perhaps things in the colonies are different—and better. In all of my life, I don’t think I ever saw a woman as beautiful as you are, Rose. Green fire in your eyes, copper in your hair. Your cheeks are the most delicate marble, your skin so perfect. And there remains this fantastic innocence about you. Can it be real?”

The breeze rustled around them. The trees shifted and bent. He kissed her lips, easing her back to lie upon his coat on the soft earth. His fingers fell upon the strings to her bodice and he untied them, watching her face. “You once threatened that I would pay for all that I’ve done to you. Do you still feel so determined?” he asked her.

She kept her eyes locked with his. “You accused me of treachery and tremendous malice,” she reminded him.

“Why did you marry me?” he asked her.

“You forced me to!” she cried. “Why did you marry me?”

“I think because I was furious,” he told her huskily. “Because I didn’t know … Why did you marry me?”

“Because the king stepped on my foot,” she replied honestly. He laughed.

His hand slipped inside her bodice, his fingers closing over her breast. She closed her eyes, swallowing against the onslaught of sensations. “’Tis broad daylight,” she reminded him.

“Ah, but this is my own little realm!” he assured her. “No one would dare disturb me here. Well, I imagine that you would, but since you are with me …” His voice trailed away. His lips touched hers.

But then he was watching her again. “Why did you finally agree to marry me—other than the fact that the king stepped on your foot?”

He was making it very difficult to answer any question. She tried to lie very still, to ignore the warmth that flared through her body. The center of his palm moved erotically over her nipple. She tried to remind herself that she was in the open air before a brook, but the breeze against her cheek only fanned the fire deep within her. He kept touching her.

She kept her eyes closed. She moistened her lips to speak. “There is no other reason. You were determined. The king was determined. I don’t think I ever did agree. You all managed that wedding without me.”

He laughed. “Not a bad night’s work!”

Her eyes opened upon his. “I had no part in the plan, Pierce. I was innocent and wronged, I swear it.”

Innocent. She had to be innocent, he thought. No angel had ever appeared more innocent. With her hair spread out upon the grass, her rich lashes fallen over her eyes, her lips so barely parted, she scarce seemed to breathe. Her face was alabaster. Her breasts, spilling from her brocade bodice, were a glimpse of heaven, he was certain. He felt sometimes as if he were falling under an exotic spell when he was with her. As if a mist of enchantment surrounded her. It was so easy to forget the violence and the fury, the things she had said to him, the threats she had made …

And the way that she held back. Laughing and tender one minute, pulling away the next. He couldn’t help but wonder what went on in her mind. Where her thoughts led. What secrets lurked in the beckoning emerald depths of her eyes.

He pressed his lips lightly to hers. Her eyes remained closed. “I think you said once that I should hang. That I should be put to the rack.”

“No,” she murmured. “Drawn and quartered.”

He smiled. She smelled like roses. The scent mingled with that of the richness of the grass. He shifted his position, slipping a hand beneath the hem of her skirt.

Her eyes flew open. Wide, startled … innocent.

“Pierce! We cannot possibly …” She hesitated, her cheeks coloring. For all the things that they had done together, the words were still difficult for her. “We cannot make love here!”

“But we can,” he assured her.

She tried to push up, looking around. He cupped her jaw, and caught her lips, pressing her back to the earth. A murmur of protest was swallowed into her throat. He kept his lips on hers, his hand beneath her skirt, teasing the flesh above her garters, stroking her thighs. Finding the soft, downy curls of her mound, slowly stroking down the crevice between it. Rhythmically, seductively, he entered her with his fingers. Touched softly, touched deeply. Found the exquisite little petal of her deepest sensation, and stroked and teased and caressed.

“Jesu!” she whispered against his lips. Her vulnerability was incredibly sweet and intoxicating. He barely shifted the extraordinary pile of her skirts and hastily untied his trousers. He impaled her very slowly, determined that she would open her eyes and meet his. She did so, her lashes falling again quickly, her arms reaching up to wind trustingly around his neck.

He could hear the bubbling of the brook behind him. Feel the breeze, so cool against his rising heat. Then there was the touch of the sun upon him, the rich scent of the earth. With the sound of nature pounding in his ears, he made love to her swiftly, headily, hungrily. A great surge of desire filled him, drowned him, burst over him.

Flooded from him.

And again he could hear the bubbling of the brook rushing gently by them. He lay down beside her, tying his trousers at his waist once again, smoothing her petticoats and skirts.

She was magic. In all his life, no one had ever aroused such feelings of tenderness within him:

But did she, in truth, still long to see him drawn and quartered for his arrogance? Or was that sentiment changing bit by bit? He wished that he knew. She was, even in her gentlest of moods, very proud. And independent. Being a colonial had made her so.

As he lay there, he heard someone carefully clearing his throat from a discreet distance.

Rose bolted to her knees, her eyes wild. Pierce pulled his coat from the ground, protectively wrapping it around her shoulders and looking to the source of their interruption.

“Lord of the domain?” she murmured reproachfully.

He smiled. “It is only Geoffrey,” he assured her quickly, which seemed to make no difference to her. He rose, catching her hand and pulling her to her feet.

He left her by the brook, his long strides quickly covering the distance between the stream and Geoffrey, where he stood beside his huge gray horse, patiently awaiting Pierce.

Rose pulled the coat more tightly about her, biting her lip and wondering what had brought Geoffrey out here, searching for Pierce. The breeze that had seemed to touch them so gently before seemed bitingly cold now. She watched the exchange that passed between the two with growing concern. She saw Pierce’s expression darken, saw him question Geoffrey sharply.

Then Pierce seemed to explode with an angry oath. He turned quickly, heading for his own horse, tethered to a tree branch nearby. He reached Beowulf, and Rose was certain that it was only when he saw her mare that he remembered her existence at all.

“Geoffrey, see to my wife!” he called.

Then he leapt upon Beowulf, and raced back toward the castle.

Rose flamed, humiliated that he would have left her half-dressed, in such an awkward position, and stricken that he had not taken the time to explain or excuse himself.

“Milady …” Geoffrey began politely.

“I can see to myself,” Rose told him firmly. She gathered what she could of her dignity, and walked past him to her mare. But when she reached her horse, she paused, turning back to him quickly.

“Geoffrey, what has happened?”

He looked down, shifting his feet uncomfortably.

“Geoffrey?”

“
Je ne sais—
”

“Don’t tell me you don’t know! You just came to get him!”

He sighed. “I don’t know if I should tell you, milady,” he said unhappily.

“I need to know!” she cried.

He hesitated. “I have just learned that Lord and Lady Bryant are somewhere near Dover.”

Rose gasped, and nearly fell back against her horse. She had known that he was determined to find Anne, to assure himself that she was well. And Rose desperately wanted her to be well. Alive and well. And happy.

But now it was over. The foolish Eden she had allowed herself to live in was dissipating into the truth. He would see Anne. Remember that he loved her.

And he very well might try to kill Jamison …

“Oh, God!” she breathed. “Why did you have to tell him?”

Geoffrey saw the tears that stung her eyes. His heart went out to her.

“I serve him,” he said simply. “He wanted to know.”

She fought the tears that threatened to spill from her eyes. “He’ll ride down there now!” she told Geoffrey. “And he’ll be angry and reckless.”

“I will be with him, milady. I swear to you, I will stand beside him.”

Rose stared at him blankly.

“Milady!” Geoffrey said softly. “He has to see that she fares well, that …” His voice trailed away.

Oh, yes. It was that question of honor, Rose thought wearily. She lowered her head. She didn’t want Anne to suffer either; she wanted Anne’s blessing.

But she was afraid. Terribly afraid.

How ironic. It was not so long ago that she had told herself she could not bear his touch. Now she did not think that she could bear life without it.

She stared at Geoffrey again, shaking her head. “He can’t go,” she whispered.

Rose bit her lip, then spun around and leapt atop her horse. She walked the animal slowly at first, then squeezed her knees into her flanks, and raced back to the castle.

She left her horse in the courtyard with a young groom and burst into the great hall. Garth came hurrying out, but she ignored him, racing up the stairs to the bedroom they had shared.

He was stuffing a clean shirt into his trousers, buckling his scabbard around his waist.

She stood in the doorway watching him. His eyes caught hers. Some emotion rode darkly within them, but Rose could not read it.

“Don’t go!” she whispered.

“I have to.”

“You’re still too emotionally involved.” She hesitated. “In love with Anne. You can’t kill Jamison or Jerome! You’d hang for it! Not even the king would be able to save you. All of England knows how you despise the pair of them!”

He arched a brow to her. A rueful smile touched his lips. “Didn’t you want me to hang once?”

“Don’t, Pierce!” she implored him.

He was decked out now with a clean coat, his sword, a pistol, and his sweeping cavalier’s hat. He strode to the door, but paused there, for she was blocking his way. “I have to go, Rose! By God, I owe her that!”

She braced herself against the doorframe, afraid that she was going to fall.

“You could be setting yourself up for a trap, Pierce,” she said swiftly. “You don’t really know where you’re going. You—” She broke off. She couldn’t say the words that were now trying to tumble from her lips.
Please don’t go, please, because I am falling in love with you and I want a future for us.

“Dammit, Rose! You tell me that you were no part of this thing, and so you must understand. Let me by!”

No. There was no sense in saying those words to him.

“You can’t kill in cold blood.”

“I have never killed in cold blood.”

“You have never been in such a fury.”

“And what are you now, Mistress Woodbine, an authority on my moods?”

Mistress Woodbine. He had already forgotten that she was his wife.

She curled her fingers around the doorframe behind her to remain standing. “Do as you wish then!” she cried to him.

He hesitated then, watching her face, drawing a hand up to it to cup her chin, and stroke the flesh with the callused pad of his thumb. She tried to wrench away. He caught her. Held her firmly. “Rose!” he murmured very softly. “Rose, you must understand—”

She was trying to understand. Trying to fight her tears. He wanted her, but not enough to stay with her now. She twisted away from him. “Go, milord DeForte! Go, kill Jamison or Jerome, or be killed. Avenge us all—slay someone!
And hang!
”

“Damn you, Rose!” He reached for her. She lashed out, nearly catching his cheek, but he was too swift, and he caught her hand. He pressed her against the doorframe. The coat fell from her shoulders, baring breasts and flesh that spilled from her untied bodice. He held still for a long, slow moment, staring at her. His eyes met hers.