Knight's Caress (7 page)

Despite Tedric’s vow not to be swayed by Amberlie’s loveliness, he found he truly couldn’t take his gaze from her for long. In his eyes, she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. There was something exotic about the color of her eyes, the way her dark-winged brows arched haughtily whenever she deigned to glance at him. And her mouth was perfectly shaped and perfectly kissable; her lips had felt like velvet and tasted sweet like spring berries. He’d never forget that first kiss, and he laughed dryly to himself, because there wouldn’t be another one. He didn’t trust himself to stop kissing her, and knew that just to touch her was dangerous.

But soon, his torment would end; it had to end. That morning he’d sent three of his trusted men to the keep to speak to Guy de Bayonne about the exchange of prisoners. It was highly possible that de Bayonne could hold his men, but Tedric thought it unlikely. The man would have to be mad to place Amberlie de Fontaine in any more danger, and Tedric had heard the rumors that his cruel enemy lusted after his dead nephew’s widow. Tedric believed that Edytha would be released, but his heart lurched in his chest as he realized he’d be forced to return Amberlie to de Bayonne. He needed to forget, to feel nothing for his captive. The sooner he parted with her, the better off he’d be, he resolutely decided —and swore under his breath.

“Watch your shoulder!” Tedric shouted in aggravation to one of his men who wielded an ax at an invisible enemy. “If you were in combat with a Norman, you’d have lost your arm by now!”

Amberlie heard Tedric’s shout and looked in his direction. He oversaw a group of men who parried and thrust in mock battle, and she realized he had their complete attention. He was their leader, the man whom the displaced Saxons followed and to whom they looked for guidance. Even at a distance, Tedric was a huge man, wild in appearance, but there was something about the way he held his leonine head that reminded her of a king amongst his doting subjects, rivaling even King William himself. Despite her hatred for him, she watched in fascination how the muscles in his upper arms strained, how he stood with legs wide apart, his calves strong and thick, but yet lithe of limb. He was a magnificent-looking man, she decided silently, but felt the sting of her own traitorous thoughts when his cool blue eyes met hers. Hurriedly, she turned her head away and went about stirring a pot filled with barley soup.

“‘Tis time for Lady Mabel to sup,” said one of the women, and handed a wooden bowl to Amberlie to fill. “Make yourself useful and bring it to her.” No please or thank you was forthcoming, and Amberlie grimaced at the woman’s rudeness. But, strangely, she was becoming used to it, realizing that her situation here was little different from her situation in the keep, for the servants there thought more of Julianne than her.

Carrying the evening fare, Amberlie made her way to Lady Mabel’s side. Glenna’s cold gaze swept over her, and she’d have rudely swiped the bowl from Amberlie’s hands if Tedric’s mother had not stopped her. “I should like very much if Lady Amberlie would tend to me,” Lady Mabel said softly. “You may go now, Glenna.”

“But I cannot leave you alone with this Norman witch, my lady,” Glenna protested hotly. “‘Tis foolhardy.”

Mabel smiled pleasantly but her tone was stern. “I trust the Lady Amberlie shall not harm me or wish me ill. Will you, child?” Mabel asked Amberlie with a probing look.

“I would not harm you, my lady.”

Mabel seemed satisfied, and gestured toward Glenna to leave them alone, something Glenna did with little grace, sending a black scowl in Amberlie’s direction before she left. “You mustn’t mind Glenna, my dear. She’s quite possessive of me but is truly harmless.”

Amberlie wasn’t certain of that, but she warily smiled at the older woman and sat on the rushes beside her to hold the bowl while Mabel daintily sipped the broth. This was the first time she’d met Tedric’s mother, and she could see that Tedric resembled her in the strong chin, the probing eyes. But where Tedric’s features were angled and chiseled, Mabel’s were softly refined. Finally, after a few more sips, Mabel waved the bowl away.

“You’ve hardly finished, my lady,” Amberlie noted.

“‘Tis enough,” Mabel said dismissively.

“Is there anything else I may do for you?”

Mabel squeezed Amberlie’s hand. “Aye, tell me how is my daughter. Is she well? I fear so for her.”

“She is well,” Amberlie reassured her. “Old Magda keeps close watch over her.”

“Magda, you say? Aye, ‘tis good. She is trustworthy.” Mabel’s features relaxed some but her eyes were guarded. “How do I know you’re telling me the truth? Edytha isn’t like others … and she could have come to great harm in a nest of Norman vipers.”

“To my knowledge, my lady, no one has harmed your daughter,” Amberlie said more harshly than she’d intended. These Saxons must believe she and her people were some sort of demons straight from hell, without thought for other people. Yet, if she’d lived through what Mabel and the others had apparently lived through, then she’d probably feel much the same.

Mabel’s mouth trembled and tears filled her eyes, turning them from a wintry blue to the color of a clear lake. “I’m sorry, but ‘tis hard for me. Edytha is my only daughter and … different.”

Amberlie patted her hand. “Your daughter will be safely with you soon. I know my family will return her unharmed.”

“‘Tis hard for you too,” Mabel observed, as if seeing Amberlie for a human being with feelings and emotions. “You’re a gentlewoman, unused to such a rough existence, as was I until a year ago. Sleeping in caves and moving to Weymouth’s cellar when we must flee is no life for a sick woman. I want only for this to end so I may go home—I want to go to Woodrose Keep—but ‘tis gone from me. ‘Tis gone and won’t be reclaimed, but my son doesn’t admit this to himself.” Mabel smiled sadly and lay upon her pallet. “I shall sleep now. In my dreams, I am home with my husband and children beside me, and I am happy once more.”

The poor lady. Despite Amberlie’s predicament, brought about by this woman’s renegade son, Amberlie felt deeply sorry for her.

Amberlie left her and walked through the damp labyrinth of corridors, but realized she was headed away from the cave’s opening. Then she noticed a torch flickering to her left. Deciding this was the direction she’d taken earlier, she headed toward the light, and entering a deeply shadowed rock-hewn room, she bumped into Tedric. He appeared just as surprised to see her as she was to see him. But he recovered more quickly than she. “Do you search for me, my lady?” he asked in a voice that sounded husky and melodious at the same time. He spoke so close to her ear that she felt his breath upon her cheek.

“I … am lost,” she answered in a breathy voice, alarmed to realize that she was in Tedric’s chamber and very much alone. In her hand she carried the soup bowl, but all she noticed was how warm she felt in his presence. In the semi-darkness, she caught his musty male scent, and something inside her responded to this maleness and the intimacy of the situation.

“I am lost too, my lady, lost beyond all reason,” he whispered, and his words slid warmly over her like black velvet. She felt his arms go around her waist, pulling her against him, which she didn’t protest because suddenly she’d ceased thinking clearly. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to lift her face and encounter Tedric’s lips as he claimed hers in a kiss which was sweet and demanding, so passionate that her body willingly melted into his.

Molten heat crawled through her blood, flaring hot and bright like torches in a dark night. His mouth tasted like freshly drunk wine, his tongue sliding sensuously to mate with hers. Tedric’s hands came to rest upon her bottom at first, massaging her buttocks until he pulled her up against his rock-hard arousal. Amberlie groaned, her body instinctively pushing into his as she responded to a primitive need. It had been so long since a man touched her and kissed her like this—so long since she’d felt any physical desire—that she moaned like a hungry beggar who’d been served a supper. She would have given into her debauched longings, would have followed Tedric to the furs, if not for the sound of a laughing child from somewhere nearby. The sound instantly broke her trance.

“Non!”
she violently exclaimed, and lifted the soup bowl to hit the side of Tedric’s face. The broth spilled over his cheek, neck, tunic, and her hand. She didn’t stop to think about her action; all she wished was to stop the passion in her veins for this man—this barbarian who’d murdered her husband.

“Teasing witch!” Tedric growled, and held his head before grabbing her wrist when she would have fled. His clasp felt like iron. “I’d throttle you if I were another sort of man.”

She didn’t tell him that he appeared almost laughable with the soup dribbling down his face. But Amberlie was far from laughing as the import of what she’d done sunk in. He could very well make her suffer now, suffer at the hands which only moments ago had promised great pleasure. But he wouldn’t use her as his leman, and she wouldn’t allow herself to give in to her baser instincts with a man who had killed her beloved Henri.

“I —hate—you to touch me! I hate you!” she shrieked, and attempted to pull away, but he wouldn’t release her. Instead he came up close to her, so close she felt the thunderous beat of his heart. His eyes were now a deep furious shade of blue, so blue they shone almost black in the torchlight.

“‘Tis obvious, my lady, that you’re either over-starved for affection or used to giving away your favors. I’ve yet to discover which, but I do tell you that you’re more trouble than I’ve bargained for.”

“Free me then, you barbarous knave!”

A cruel smile twisted Tedric’s lips. “I do not remember hearing such a plea from your wanton lips seconds ago.”

Amberlie’s flush reached her hairline for she couldn’t dispute him. She’d acted like a promiscuous washwoman, and glanced away from him in shame.

“I’ll take great delight in turning you over to your kinsman on the morrow.”

The import of his words caused her head to snap back to his face. Her eyes widened, and her dark brows shot upwards. “Guy has agreed to release your sister?”

“Aye,” he replied with such coldness that Amberlie wondered if this was the same man who’d kissed her so passionately.

Hope rose within her. Tomorrow she’d be home again, away from this horrible cave and these swinish Saxons —one in particular, whom she’d be pleased never to see again, “I am to be set free tomorrow,” she said, but it sounded more like a question than a statement.

“Guy de Bayonne has agreed to my terms and promises no reprisals.”

That didn’t sound like Guy, Amberlie thought, but she didn’t contradict Tedric. All she dwelled upon was going home. Even life with Guy and Julianne was preferable to being held prisoner. When Tedric dropped her arm and said nothing else, Amberlie made a move to leave. His voice stopped her. “My lady, you’ve made a mess and will clean it up—beginning with me.”

 
“What do you mean?” Amberlie clutched the material of her gown in her perspiring hands, definitely not caring for Tedric’s commanding tone.

“You’ve spilled broth upon my chamber floor,” he told her with a curt nod at the earthen floor.

“You’re living in a cave,” she reminded him.

“Aye, but this is my home until fate deems otherwise, lady. My tunic is soiled and broth covers my face. Come here.”

Amberlie hesitated; her heart beat hard against her rib cage. She didn’t trust Tedric not to touch her again, but worse, she didn’t trust herself to stop him if he did. She shouldn’t have hit him with the bowl, and now she would pay for her impetuous action by being forced to touch him again. Damn the man! “I’m not a serf,” she countered haughtily.

“Nay, you’re my prisoner until I release you,” he reminded her. But she wondered if there was a hint of a threat that if she didn’t do as he wished, he wouldn’t release her. He found a coarsely woven rag and threw it at her. Catching it, she glared at him when he imperiously muttered. “Clean me, my lady.”

“You’re an ill-bred lout,” she mumbled under her breath, not failing to see his jeering smirk as she mustered her courage and attended him. With shaking hands, she wiped the broth from his face, careful not to make direct contact with his skin. Her eyes unswervingly traced the scar on his cheek, following the thin, pale line to where it ended at his jawbone. The cut looked deep enough to have caused great pain when it was first inflicted. Tedric noticed her preoccupation with the scar, and Amberlie, seeing how intently he watched her, clumsily smeared the broth’s remains into his tunic.

“Aye, ‘tis true you’re no serf,” he told her with a twinkle in the depths of his ice-blue eyes, as he stilled her wrist with his hand. “I doubt you’ve ever attended anyone in your life.”

“I have,” she insisted, hating the feel of his iron hold on her. “I used to attend my husband at his bath before he was murdered.” The moment she uttered those words, she wished she’d remained silent. The merry twinkle disappeared from his gaze, and his eyes grew hooded. She wasn’t certain why she’d mentioned such a private aspect of her marriage to Henri, unless it was to taunt Tedric with her memories, to make him squirm with the knowledge of all he’d taken from her.

“Leave me,” he whispered in such a low, ragged tone of voice that Amberlie strained to hear him. For a few seconds, it seemed she was rooted to the spot, but her legs swiftly carried her away from Tedric when she noticed the cruel twist of his mouth, the cold, unrelenting stare directed at her.

She found herself by her own pallet, and sinking onto the rushes, she pulled the sheepskin around her in an attempt to ward off the sudden chill which threatened to freeze her very heart. Never had anyone looked at her with such contempt.

Somehow she’d forgotten that Tedric was her enemy, a fact she must never forget. Clearly, the man had kissed her for his own amusement, had touched her as a diversion to while away the time until he released her. She meant nothing to him, and she hated herself for responding to him.

Amberlie noticed Wick, who sat a short distance from her. He stared at her, and for the briefest instant, he flashed her a smile. “My thanks to you for providing me with a coverlet from the cold last night,” she said, and stroked the soft sheepskin. “‘Twas very kind of you, Wick.”

Wick shook his head. “‘Twasn’t me, but Lord Tedric. He be the one who covered ye.”

“But—he was the one who commanded that I receive no coverlet,” she insisted.

“Ah, ‘tis a soft heart he has, my lady. He’d not see ya shiver from the cold and catch a chill.”

Pulling the sheepskin tightly around her, Amberlie reclined on the rushes. So it was Tedric who’d disobeyed his own orders and covered her. What a perplexing man he was!

She guessed she should be grateful to him, but she wasn’t. That simple act of kindness only indebted her to him, and she wanted to owe nothing to Tedric the Barbarian. He’d killed her sweet Henri, forcing her into youthful widowhood. Because of Tedric, she would now be forced to marry a wealthy nobleman, and heaven knows what ill treatment she’d be subjected to at another man’s hands. Henri had been gentle and loving with her, which was peculiar given the fact that he’d been Julianne’s child. She didn’t know what her future held now—and all because Tedric had ended her dear husband’s life.

“I vow to find a way to make him pay for taking you from me, Henri,” she whispered softly, hoping Henri’s spirit heard her. “Some way I’ll avenge your death, somehow I’ll bring Tedric to Norman justice.” She meant each word she said, but she wouldn’t admit that her vengeful attitude stemmed not so much from the loss of her husband as from her own alarming response to his murderer’s stirring kisses.