Love at First Sight (12 page)

“What—” Caught unaware, the lord stumbled over his feet as he was pulled backward.

“Come away,” Sperville croaked, and steadied him.

The baron drew his sword, his eyes shifting in all directions as he backed toward the door. Golde raised a brow. Obviously, he believed himself endangered.

Sperville pulled the door shut and she grabbed her tunic. She’d just managed to settle the material down around her ankles when she heard the lord’s indignant bellow.

“The witchwife!”

She snatched her corded belt from the bed and tied it about her hips as the door burst open. Dark-faced, the baron stalked into the room while Sperville hustled to keep pace.

“To what purpose do you skulk about my private chambers, wench?” the lord demanded. He drew to a halt and scanned the room, as if he would locate her position.

She waited for Spindleshanks to reply. After all, ’twas the chamberlain who’d procured the use of the baron’s tub for her. When he did naught but level a disgusted look at her, she gave her attention back to the baron.

“Do you accuse me of thievery?”

His sightless gaze riveted on her, black and forbidding. “I can think of no other reason for your presence.”

“Beg pardon, mi’lord highness.” Her tone was syrupy. “Did you not suggest Sir Sperville might arrange a bath for me? And were he not so concerned with his own neck, he would tell you so.”

Spindleshanks scowled. “The maid speaks the truth, though I had no inkling she would require the better part of an evening to bathe.” He cast her a sour look before returning his attention to his master. “No harm has been done, and you have more immediate matters to attend to.”

Delamaure’s features grew impatient. “You are right. Hie yourself off, wench, and keep yourself away unless I summon your presence.”

Golde crossed her arms over her chest. “I will hie myself off, all right. But not before we have discussed your children’s behavior.”

For a moment it appeared he might strangle. “Chil— Behav—” He sucked air through clenched teeth and when next he spoke, ’twas with the succinctness of a scholar addressing a dull child. “As I told you earlier, I am much involved with more important affairs. I have not the time at present”—his tone grew angrier with each word he spoke—“to worry over trifles which have no bearing on aught but worthless social graces.”

Golde clamped her teeth together and narrowed her eyes. Were all men consumed with such a sense of self-importance? Even Spindleshanks was eyeing her as if she were a bothersome gnat.

Spinning about, she marched to the tub and snatched up her shoes and dirty clothing. If his toadship couldn’t bestir himself on his children’s behalf, neither would she.

Still, she could not resist goading him with a parting remark. “’Tis no wonder your offspring are such maladjusts. They have been cursed with an officious, boot-licking halfwit for a father.”

As the baron’s jaw knotted, so did Spindleshanks’ face pale. Golde smiled tightly and headed for the door. But she got no farther than two steps before the lord clutched her arm. The shoes and clothes slipped from her grasp as he jerked her back in front of him.

Her breath caught at her body’s agitated response.

“’Tis you who is the maladjust, Mistress Dowd. Boys were not made to sit about stitching and simpering over the beauty of one another’s needlework. Though their mischief-making can become tedious, my sons have oft been a source of great pleasure to me.”

She now understood a cat’s craving to be stroked. If her flesh had its way, she would rub herself up and down the length of the lord’s body until he . . .

Plague take the bastard! What mean imaginings he inspired.

Horrified with the simile of cat to owner, she lashed out. “Alory scrambles to hide in corners while squalling like a babe to avoid his brother’s foul innuendos. Ronces curses Nicolette and takes great satisfaction in telling her you are not her father. And Nicolette relates how you chopped their mother into tiny pieces.”

She struggled to pull her arm from his grasp. “Maladjusted I may be, but my worst nightmares are naught compared to your children’s thick-comings.”

The baron’s features grew ferocious. His nostrils flared like a maddened bull’s, and his grip on her upper arm tightened until her fingertips tingled.

“Leave us,” he hissed at Sperville.

Icy currents of fear coursed through Golde’s veins. A pox on her wicked tongue. Staring into the venomous planes of Delamaure’s face, she prayed for deliverance. How had she managed to convince herself of his benign nature? Not only did he appear capable of murder, he seemed bent upon the deed. She wrenched her arm frantically to free herself.

“Mayhap ’twould be best, sir—” Spindleshanks began.

“Gainsay me now,” Gavarnie interrupted, his tone deadly, “and you risk your position with me.”

The chamberlain backed toward the door, his features waxen before the yellow candlelight. Golde clawed at the baron’s fingers with her free hand. “Sperville!”she pleaded, to no effect. The chamberlain continued his retreat.

She bent her head, prepared to sink her teeth in the lord’s hand, but his hold was such that she couldn’t reach. Panic seized her when the door closed behind Spindleshanks, and she kicked the baron’s shin.

“Vicious bitch,” he snarled, clutching his leg. His grasp loosened and she jerked against it with all her might. Just when she thought her escape assured, the brutal lord again tightened his grip. But instead of halting her movement, he was carried with her as she lost her balance.

She stumbled to the hard floor and the baron followed, landing beside her. Before she could roll away, he swung a leg over her hips.

Pinning her wrists above her head, he rose over her on his knees. “I have had measure in full of you, hellhag. You prey on the young and weak, stinging all with your waspish tongue that you may feed on their frailties.”

His face was a scarce hand’s span from hers and his breath fair scorched her cheek. Yet she could not look away. His black eyes held her gaze like a hangman’s noose. In them she saw the ugly truth. Deny it all she’d like, she had indeed grown accustomed to belittling others.

He shifted his weight lower on her hips, and incredibly, a pulsing ache curled like smoke through her loins. ’Twas not to be believed. How could she respond thus when the man was about to kill her?

“If you wish to leave this island with your tongue intact, you will relate in a moderate tone all my children have said.”

Golde winced. How was she to relate anything with her body demanding her attention like some wayward brat? It seemed she could feel each tiny point of contact between her body and his.

“Well?” he challenged when she made no immediate reply.

Recalling her chagrin at his critical insight regarding her waspish behavior, she licked her lips and started to apologize. But he would doubtless consider it a ploy, and she was not so certain it wasn’t. He had managed to scatter her wits until she knew not her own thoughts.

Confused and angry at his ability to so unsettle her, she taunted, “What know you of moderation? If you would cease bellowing like a bull and threatening all in your path, you might hear what goes on about you.”

Summoning all her strength, she bucked her hips in an attempt to dislodge him. But instead of falling sideways, he pitched forward. Her yelp of dismay was smothered when his chest landed against her face as he extended full-length atop her.

He raised himself on his elbows and drew his knees beneath him on either side of her ribs. Immediately she was aware of his groin where it pressed into the soft flesh just below her breasts.

In the same instant, the baron’s breath caught. Twas as if lightning cracked between them, melting them together. His grasp on her wrists tightened and his muscles grew rigid.

For a moment she could not move, so intense was the heat that surged through her. It collected in fiery pools in her breasts and between her legs. Groaning, she squeezed her knees together.

Then she realized what she’d done.

Had the lord heard her? Could he feel her desire quicken?

No sooner had she posed the last question than Delamaure slid, slow and sure, down her body, dragging her wrists lower over her head. His male root came to rest against her woman’s collop and she could not prevent the shudder that tore through her. The pressure his body provided was so exquisite, ’twas near painful.

His features held the look of a wolf circling a flock of sheep. Bold, yet cautious lest the shepherd discover his presence. His lips were parted, his eyes sharp as jet.

She had to stop this, and now. But how? A stinging comment? “If you would at least lick the drool from your slavering lips, mi’lord, that I will not be drowned.”

He arched a brow, then gave her a cunning smile and did her bidding. Spellbound, she watched his tongue glide over his upper lip, leaving a faint, glistening wake of moisture. ’Twas as if he were licking every intimate spot on her body, and she squirmed against the unwelcome feelings.

He paused and smiled again, this time with satisfaction, and she realized she was holding her breath. Then he traced his bottom lip and sucked it.

By the raven! The man was enough to make a nun forsake her vows. She must escape before he snatched her wits completely. If she could trick him into releasing his hold.

“Mi’lord.” She winced at the raspy timbre of her voice. She’d hoped to sound alluring. Clearing her throat, she hurried on. “Allow me to remove my clothing.”

“Mmmm,” he purred agreeably. But instead of letting her go, he lowered his head and pressed his lips to hers.

She had never imagined such torture. When he gently pulled her bottom lip between his teeth and sucked, she gasped. To her mortification, her hips curled upward, straining for contact with his body.

In response, he ground himself against her and slid his tongue in her mouth. Far from appeasing the hungry ache that gnawed at her senses, his actions did naught but tease her woman’s flesh until she feared she might perish from ravening need. She had to escape before she disgraced herself.

Tearing her lips from his, she panted, “Mi’lord. The bed. Let us adjourn. . . .”

All thought of tricking him into releasing his hold vanished as his lips traveled down her neck. She closed her eyes against the torrent of pleasure that seized her. She scarce managed to brush her throbbing core against him before he lifted his hips, just out of reach.

Frustration hissed through her clenched teeth. He was tormenting her a’purpose with his cat-and-mouse movements. She attempted to spread her legs that she might gain better access to his groin, but his knees wedged tightly against her thighs to preclude her intention.

Then he lowered his hips and raked her collop with indolent sureness. There was no mistaking his rutting desire. The knowledge that he wanted her inflamed her passion until she was naught but a quivering mass. Why did he not take her?

His lips captured hers again and she moaned into his mouth. Shifting his weight, he moved one leg between hers and she writhed against the thick muscles of his thigh. If she did not gain relief soon, she would burst.

His lips slid from her mouth to her ear and he whispered, “Ease your pace, sweet witch. I am near to spilling myself in my braies.”

Her bid to comply with his wishes failed and she shook her head, afraid to speak lest her tongue betray her and beg him to end her suffering. He pulled his leg from between her thighs and she stifled a whimper as he stretched out beside her.

Switching his hold on her wrists, he grasped them in one hand while the other moved to her breasts. He kneaded the sensitive mounds, each in turn, while nibbling the lobe of her ear. His harsh, rhythmic breathing blew through her like white-hot quicksilver, and she bit her lip when he rolled a hard nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

“Have done,” she pleaded at last, beyond caring how shameless she sounded. She would degrade herself further if need be. Anything to quench the fire that consumed her.

She felt the skirts of her tunic and chainse jerked upward, then the lord’s hand slid between her thighs. Her legs trembled as he massaged the flesh there, his fingers working upward until they slipped beneath her drawers and reached the place that needed filling. She opened wide for him and bucked against his touch, silently urging him on.

For a moment he stroked her center, and she grew anxious at the relentless pressure building inside her. ’Twas as if her raging hunger had turned inward. Now, beyond her control, it was about to devour her.

Then the lord slipped a finger inside her. She squeezed her thighs around his hand, desperate to draw him deeper, when abruptly he pulled away.

“No!” she cried, and twisted her body in an attempt to mold herself to the front of him.

“Cease, greedy wench,” he commanded, his tone stern.

She stilled and stared into his displeased, uncompromising features. He had found fault with her.

And what man would not? she berated herself. She’d acted with less restraint than the lowest of whores. Tears of shame welled in her eyes and she pulled as far from him as his hold would allow.

“What is your age?” he demanded.

She squeezed her eyes shut as a sob billowed in her throat. When his fingers touched her face, she turned her head away.

“You are more prickly than a bramble bush,” he groused. Capturing her jaw, he pulled her face back to him.

His fingers traced her chin and lips. Instinct told her that the musky scent on his hand was hers, lingering proof of her scandalous behavior. She swallowed hard, willing the ever looming sob to remain locked behind her clenched teeth. The pad of his thumb swept upward, roaming over her left cheekbone, until he reached her eye.

“Why do you cry?” he questioned sharply.

Unable to answer, she shook her head.

“My patience is near flown, wench, and your silence does naught for my temper.”

She opened her eyes and glared at him. “Why do you not say you find me offensive and be done?” she choked. “There is little you can do to further humiliate me.”

A light rap sounded at the door, but he ignored it.