My Rebellious Heart (22 page)

But it seemed she was to be spared by a most unwelcome source. All at once Thorne's destrier had appeared behind the king. Edward noticed the direction of her eyes and hailed him with raised brows. "Thorne, I do believe you have found a most worthy opponent," he cal ed out.

Shana stiffened, expecting Thorne to tip his lance forward for her favor. In what was certainly a breach of custom, Thorne handed his lance to his squire and dismounted. Her jaw tensed as he came straight toward her, his lips curled in an arrogant smile as he stopped before her.

The king merely laughed and transferred her hand to the earl's gloved fingers.

Shana sought to snatch her hand back but he would not allow it. He pul ed her slightly away from the stands so that they stood alone. Their eyes collided as he drew her fingers to his lips. "Milady," he murmured. "I beg some token of your devotion—for luck—before I take my place

on the field."

Beg? Oh, if only! But alas, she knew better—it was no less than a demand! Yet even as she straightened with resentment, a shiver tore through her at the feel of his lips warm upon her flesh—revulsion, she assured herself. "A dagger 'twixt the ribs?" she suggested.

Oh, she smiled with sweet malice. He allowed her this bit of impertinence, for it would not last beyond the morrow.

He bent his head low. "Princess, 'tis wel and good that you speak for my ears alone. But I have in mind something of a more personal nature."

Her smile withered. It was customary for a lady to give her veil as a sign of favor, that the knight might wear it on the field. Her temper simmered, for 'twas his fault she had none to wear! "As you can see," she said cool y, "I have none to give."

His regard was brash and insolent. "Then you leave me no choice but to take my own." He leaned close.

She gasped as she gleaned his intent, catching at his shoulders. "Nay!" she cried in alarm.

"Mother of Christ, not here, in front of everyone."

"Why not, I say?" His breath dammed his throat, for by the blood of Christ, she was lovely.

Thorne's gaze lingered on the rapidly blooming color in her cheeks. The gown was one of her own, a deep purple that brought out the silver in her eyes. Her neck was long and fragile, her hair bound high in a golden coronet atop her crown.

"You liked it well enough when I kissed you the night on the wall-walk." His lips curved in a faint smile. "I felt it in the quiver of your lips against mine ... the way you melted against me as if your legs could no longer hold you."

She cringed, for wrapped in his tone was the unmistakable sound of laughter. "You were sotted!" she accused in a whisper.

Not so sotted that he didn't remember exactly how she had tasted—like spring rain upon dry, barren earth—and how her softness molded his hardness as if they'd been made for each other. His arms closed hard about her slender form, dragging her close. A low laugh sounded in his throat at her gasp of surprise, and then his mouth

was on hers, sealing her parted lips like a brand of hottest fire.

It was over almost before it began. He smiled, for her eyes were still open, her lovely features more dazed than horrified. He ran a steel-gloved finger down the tip of her nose.

"Take heart, princess," he told her lightly. "At least I'll not make you a widow before you are a wife."

Shana's lips still throbbed from his searing possession, but a ready anger stirred to the fore.

By God, she would not stay after such an unseemly display! ... But she did. She couldn't look away as he mounted his destrier, a massive chestnut. His squire handed him his helmet and shield. He lowered the visor, his gaze stil commanding hers. Then like a gust of wind, he wheeled his mount. The crowd parted to make way for him like the sea at Moses's command.

It was Sir Quentin who pulled her back to the bench. Some tiny sound escaped as she saw that Thorne's opponent was Lord Newbury. The pair couched their lances and the marshal gave the signal.

Thundering hoofbeats rent the air, making her cringe. The destriers charged at full gal op, two great beasts racing headlong toward the other. Shana, unable to withhold a smal cry, half rose from her seat as Newbury's lance crashed into Thorne's shield.

"Ho!" Sir Quentin observed with zest. "He did

not even lose his stirrups!"

Shana's gaze was fixed sharply on Lord Newbury. His lips were contorted, his features arresting and intent, his eyes glittering and emotionless. She shivered, for she sensed in Newbury a desire for violence.

It was soon apparent this was the most evenly matched contest of the day thus far. The pair charged again and again, locking lances, grappling

for control, seeking to unseat and disarm the other. A hiss went up from the crowd as a lance was suddenly flung high in the air, flipping end over end in a slow arc before thudding to the ground.

It was Thorne's, but he wab not yet ready to concede defeat. All watched in silence as he wheeled his destrier one last time and threw aside his shield He reined to an abrupt halt, and sat stil , waiting. Newbury, certain that victory was his, wheeled his horse and charged his motionless target. Both steed and nder stood firm. Shana's heart beat high in her throat. Why had Thorne thrown aside his shield and made himself such an easy mark? And Newbury, the cad, was headed for him full-tilt! Surely at that speed, blunted or no, if the lance hit Thorne's chest with Newbury's ful weight behind it, it might easily pierce him through.

"Dear God," she said faintly. "He is mad."

"Aye," came Sir Quentin's tensely voiced response. "I do believe he is."

Though she wanted to tear her eyes away, she could only look on with a horrified inevitability, bracing herself for the moment of impact ...

It never came. The lance seemed destined to strike Thorne's chest, yet somehow his hand shot out in a lightning reflex, like the vengeful hand of God. He seized Newbury's lance and wrenched it from his grip. Newbury's hands flew high; his body twisted. The unexpected suddenness of Thorne's action was all it took to upset his balance. He tumbled hard onto the ground.

A roar of approval went up from the crowd. Many of the spectators swarmed onto the field.

Shana was jostled to her feet and swept forward. If she were ever to escape, it must be now; but a crowd had gathered before them, such that it was some minutes before she was able to slip through the mob and head back toward the castle.

Providence was with her. The bailey was deserted but for a handful of animals. Her footsteps carried her toward the stables. Inside, her gaze slid past the empty stal s. Anxiety stabbed at her and she stopped short. Where was Gryffen? Had Wil not been able to pass on her message? She grew frantic. Dear Lord, she couldn't leave without him ... yet how could she stay?

There was a thump from the furthest stal s on the right. Relief flooded her. No doubt it was Gryffen, readying the horses. She must take him to task for scaring her so, she decided, laughing a little as she flung the door aside.

"Greetings, princess."

Her laughter died in her throat. "You!" she gasped. "Mother of Christ! ... The horses ...

Gryffen ... where ..."

There was no need to go on. The earl perceived the situation only too accurately. "Neither you nor Sir Gryffen wil be journeying with borrowed horses this day, princess."

Her jaw wouldn't seem to work properly.

"How—"

"Our little friend Wil ," he said softly, "has indeed proved himself a loyal and faithful servant."

Her eyes closed. Her strength ebbed. Her legs threatened to fail her. Wil ! she thought helplessly, hopelessly. Her soul cried out in mute despair. Oh, Wil , How could you do this to me?

"You cannot escape this marriage, princess. You cannot escape me."

His devil's smile was back again, and this time al the fires of hel smoldered in his eyes.

Instinctively she began to back away. But just as she would have turned and run for her very life, she lost her footing and tumbled back with a cry.

Anger blazed in him, like a roaring bonfire. "Get up," he said through clenched teeth.

Shana didn't move. A paralyzing fear wrapped her in its shroud.

Thorne swore, his temper unconcealed. "So help me, you will obey me. And when we are wed you wil —"

"Never will I obey you—never!" Rash courage resurfaced and she bounded to her feet. "Nor will I wed you! Indeed, I'd gladly have any man—any man but you!"

"Why, lady, from your own lips, I am your chosen one!"

Smal hands fisted at her sides, she faced him boldly. "You are a bastard!" she hissed. She saw the way he went utterly still, his expression rigid. His very silence promised retribution ...

a vengeful one at that. But Shana was beyond caution. She hated his arrogance, his power over her. She hated him as she had never hated anyone in her life. And suddenly she was shouting it, over and over.

"I'l not wed a bastard. Do you hear? It matters not that you are cal ed lord, for 1 know what you are. It matters not that you are Edward's puppet—it matters not that he wil grant you this grand castle or a thousand others like it, for 1 wil not wed a bastardl"

For a timeless moment Thorne did not move—he dared not, for in that mind-splitting instant, he feared what he was capable of. Raw fury splintered inside his brain, clouding his vision with a crimson mist of rage.

In truth, he had no desire to bind himself to any woman, let alone this haughty vixen, princess or no. It was true he had attained both power and wealth through the grace of the king. But he had fought hard for what was his and he'd be damned if he would apologize because he'd not been born into it as many nobles were. He had grown to manhood with naught but the clothes on his back and a starving bel y; he had fought twice as hard

as any other before he was given his due. His bastardy had been a stain all his life, a stain he'd thought he had overcome. And now she dared to throw it back in his face! By God, she had just sealed her fate. A single stride brought them together. He snatched her against him in a grip she feared would crush the fragile bones of her shoulders. Her eyes were riveted on a face grown dark and dangerous, his features drawn into an iron mask of determination.

The very air seemed to pulse with the force of his rage. Only then did Shana realize what demon she had awoken in him.

He tumbled her down upon a bed of scratchy straw. Panic flooded her and she struggled wildly, twisting and writhing, but her puny strength was no match for his ruthless determination. She battled a rising hysteria, his body an oppressive weight atop hers.

"Thorne!" His name was a frantic, desperate entreaty. "Dear God, what—"

His mouth ground down on hers, bruising her with his anger, scalding her with a passion far beyond her limited experience. His kiss was endless, his tongue thrusting long and deep as blackness swirled al around her, and she grew faint from lack of air. She went limp beneath him, a strangled sound of anguish wel ing in her throat.

He raised his head to jeer. "What, princess, is this beneath you? As I am beneath you?"

Her heart plummeted, even as her fear spiraled. Tier fingers dug like talons into his shoulders as she sought to push him from her. Her resistance merely inflamed him further.

"I may not be the steed you expected to find this night, princess. But I shal provide you a mount just the same." With cool contempt he jerked her skirts up to her waist, exposing slender white legs, the soft fleece that guarded her womanhood and the secret part of her no other man had ever seen.

Shock jolted her entire body. She knew for certain then what he intended, just as she knew there would be no stopping him, no reasoning with him. "No!" she screamed.

He gazed down at her dispassionately, blind to her tears. "You bring this upon yourself, princess. Were you not fil ed with such venom, I would have preferred to make you mine without rancor. But you must ever provoke me, ever push when you should not." His tone was blistering. "Wel , so be it. You have not a care about me—1 shal have none of you." He reared over her, jamming her thighs apart with the weight of his knees, wrenching his clothing open.

His cal ousness rammed into her like a fist, even as he himself would ram into her. She could feel al of him, his incredible heat, the fiery brand of his maleness hard and swol en between her thighs.

"Pretend I am your beloved Barris," he sneered.

"Barris never touched me like this!" Her cry was laden thick with the threat of tears. "Dear God, 1 swear he never touched me!"

His lip curled. "How prettily you lie, princess. You forget 'twas from your very own lips I learned the two of you anticipated the pleasures of the marriage bed even before the ceremony." The surging tip of his shaft began to penetrate her silken flesh.

"Aye, I did lie!" she cried wildly. "I meant to taunt you as you taunted me. Never did Barris do any more than kiss me. I swear on the grave of my father, he did no more than kiss me!"

Thorne's head jerked up. Straw clung to her hair; her eyes were wild with fear. In that split second, the most outrageous thought flitted through his brain. The air was stifling as he beheld her, his features rigid with strain and rage.

"By God," he said furiously. "I know not when you lie and when you speak the truth. But there is one way I may learn the truth." With his palm he clamped the forbidden place between her legs, impaling her with eyes as wel as his touch. His gaze was merciless as a finger slid deep into her secret cleft ...

It met with the encumbrance of virgin flesh.

He froze. Raw fury splintered through him. The treacherous bitch—she had lied to him yet again!

Shocked and shamed beyond anything she had ever known, the probe of his fingers was as much a violation as that other part of his body would surely have been. A painful ache constricted her throat. She took a deep, ragged breath, battling a stinging rush of tears that threatened to surface.