My Rebellious Heart (23 page)

Thorne sprang to his feet with a scathing oath. Never in his life had he been so torn! He wanted to punish her—scorn the bewildered hurt in her eyes, scorn the very vulnerability that robbed him of his purpose if not his rage.

"Damn you, princess!" He cursed her savagely. "Damn you for your lies and deceit!"

Tears fil ed her eyes.

The sight sliced through him like a blade. Though he tried his damndest to harden his heart, he could not. Feeling sick inside, he knelt down beside her and pushed her gown over her nakedness.

"Shana." He smoothed a hair from her temple, then pul ed her into his arms. At his touch, a dam seemed to break inside her. She burst into great, wrenching sobs.

She was stil sobbing quietly when he laid her on the bed in her chamber. She pulled her knees to her chest and rol ed to her side; tears squeezed from beneath her closed lids onto the pil ow. Overcome by the strange, compel ing urge to hold her, to pull her tight within the sheltering protection of

his arms, he reached for her once more. But in the end, his hand fel limply to his side.

His mouth thinned to a hard, straight line. He chided himself bitterly that he had forgotten the lesson he had learned this day. Shana would not welcome his embrace. Nay, she wanted neither his comfort nor his passion ...

She wanted only deliverance.

he shril cry of a cock crowing lured Shana from the night's slumber. She lay very stil , listening to the herald of a new day ...

Her wedding day.

A suffocating tightness crept around her chest as she thought of beloved Barris. His features swam in her mind's eye—black winged brows, eyes of tawny gold, the sensual curve of lips that gave a pleasure so sweet... Her heart cried out in yearning. If only she could erase the anguish of these past weeks, as if they had never been! She might stil be with Barris, held close in the sheltering protection of his arms once again, his lips warm upon hers ...

She squeezed her eyes shut in mute despair. There would be no joy on this day, she thought achingly No wild elation in pledging her life and love to the man she cherished with heart and soul. Nay, instead she would be forever joined to a man who held for her not the smal est scrap of affection—a man with no heart ... Never had she felt so helpless. Never had she felt so alone.

A tap on the door preceded half a dozen maids who crowded the chamber. Shana lay huddled in her bed as a wooden tub was brought in and til ed with burket after bucket of steaming water.

Laughing and giggling, the maids pulled her from the bed. Her hair and body were washed with some sweet scented soap. While two of them combed the snarls from her hair, the others set about readying her clothes. When her hair was dry, a shift of the softest linen, spun so fine it was almost translucent, was slipped over her head. Shana stood rooted like a tree as her wedding gown fol owed.

At last she was ready. One of the maids, tiny but plump with bright cherry cheeks, clapped her hands. "Oh, milady," she sighed. "You look like an angel from the heavens above."

How odd, Shana thought with a painful catch of her heart. Because she was about to embark on a path that would take her straight to the fiery pits of hell. The little maid pul ed her before a small looking glass on the wal .

She could not have chosen better had she spent months combing the continent for suitable cloth. The gown was stunning. Pale blue samite shimmered in the sunlight, shot through with threads of silver. The bodice lovingly draped the gentle thrust of her breast, the slenderness of her waist. Fashionably wide sleeves fel almost to her knee; the skirt flared softly to the toes of her slippers.

Her hair was left unbound, fal ing in thick, rich waves clear past her waist. A sheer veil held by a dainty filigree only enhanced its shining glory. But no sign of pleasure marked her pale features. She stared at her reflection, feeling as if she'd been trampled inside.

There was a knock on the door. One of the girls soon rushed back across the chamber.

"Look, milady! 'Tis a gift from the earl, to be worn with your gown!"

She carried a silver girdle encrusted with sapphires. The intricate design was truly breathtaking, yet Shana could appreciate neither its beauty nor

the sentiment behind such a costly gift. She wanted to scream at the girl to take it back—that she wanted no part of this marriage—that she wanted no part of the man who had sent it!

The weight of the girdle seemed to drag upon her heart.

It came time to leave the sanctuary of her chamber all too soon. The benches in the chapel overflowed. Her steps carried her woodenly down the aisle, like a statue come to life. King Edward waited there in the front bench, lending al his attention as she approached. Shana pressed her soft lips together to keep them from curling in scorn. God, but she didn't know who she hated more— the earl whose wife she would become, or the king, who decreed that this farce of a marriage take place!

Her gaze shifted. Thorne was there before the altar, tal and formidable. His spine was straight as a stone pillar, his regard just as unyielding. He was every inch the noble lord, richly garbed in scarlet trimmed with miniver. The black mantle, held at the shoulder by a brooch, cal ed to attention the width of his shoulders His face was a rigid mask, betraying no hint of his thoughts.

Together they turned to face the priest. Her soul cried out in anguish as he took her hand.

How different this day might have been were it Barris she wed! Her gaze strayed helplessly to the man at her side. As if he sensed her regard, his eyes caught hers. She shivered, for in the instant before his gaze shifted back to the priest, she saw in his the unmistakable sheen of passion.

The wedding mass was lengthy and arduous. A curious numbness befel her; she felt as if a stranger now dwel ed in her body and she watched from afar.

Then it was over. Through a haze she heard th-priest pronounce the words that bound them as

husband and wife. Sweet Jesus, she thought wildly. She was wed to a bastard—the Bastard Earl of England himself. Why, not even the king himself could save her now—as if he would!

A hysterical laugh welled up inside her, a laugh she was unable to contain. In the next instant, bands of iron caught her close, bringing her up against his chest. Her newly wed husband smothered her laughter with his mouth.

She had but one glimpse of his eyes, burning like embers. He was angry; she sensed it in the fiery brand of his mouth on hers. She steeled herself to feel nothing, yet his kiss was starkly, demand-ingly persuasive; she fell prey to a slow, treacherous warmth, unable to fight it any more than she could fight him. Her senses were spinning by the time he released her lips. The sheen of mocking triumph she spied then made her scream inwardly. A huge feast fol owed, merry and alive and vibrant with music and the crush of people. Shana had been awed to discover King Edward traveled with his own bed, herbs and spices, and other foodstuffs; she'd been no less astounded at the number of servants and attendants that comprised his retinue—he even brought his own cupbearer. Now with the horde attending the wedding feast, it appeared to Shana as if the whole of the kingdom had descended upon Langley.

The king wore a tunic of sendal, lavishly embroidered with leopards; visible beneath it was shimmering cloth of gold. He was not the only one so lavishly dressed, however. Shana had never seen such finery—men and women alike were adorned with huge brooches, glittering rings of gold adorned with gemstones, and necklets of sapphires and emeralds.

The Lady Alice was perhaps the most stunning of all. Her shimmering white gown displayed her

voluptuous curves to perfection. Rubies dangled at her throat, matching the sheen of her lips.

There were jugglers and jesters, minstrels who filled the hal with gaiety and song. Wine and ale flowed lavishly. Servants streamed from the kitchens in a never-ending procession, bearing great platiers of roast swine, boar, oxen, and lamb. Never in her life had Shana witnessed such extravagance.

Unfortunately her mind did not stray for long from the man who sat beside her at the high table Though his manner was distant and remote, her pulse was racing, as though he ruled the very rhythm of her heart! Whene'er their eyes chanced, to meet, she was the first to tear her gaze away. Her appetite was scant, though she nibbled occasional y on a leg of mutton simply to busy her hands.

She danced the first lilting tune with Thorne. Shana had no wish to dance, for in her mind, this was hardly an occasion to celebrate. Sir Quentin followed, but Shana stiffened when Lord Newbury presented himself before her, his smile reeking of smugness Her mind churned wildly, for custom dictated a bride could refuse no one— they might even kiss her at will—but the thought of dancing with Newbury had her in a panic. How could she refuse without antagonizing him or appearing ungracious?

But before Newbury could say a word, Sir Geoffrey appeared and took her hand. "Milady," he said smoothly, " 'twould please me to no end were you to grant me this dance." He led her away.

Shana released an audible sigh of relief. "I am in your debt. Sir Geoffrey, for in truth your arrival was most timely."

His broad shoulders lifted in a shrug. "Thorne told me what happened with Newbury on the

wall-walk. Besides," he added lightly, " 'tis my duty to rescue damsels in distress."

She replied in kind. Her husband, she noted almost resentfully, was with the Lady Alice. "Ah, and does it matter whether the damsel be English or Welsh?" She was not entirely jesting, for Geoffrey's bearing toward her had not completely lost its coolness.

Something that might have been shame crossed his handsome features. "I bear you no malice," he said with a slight smile. "You are wed to my greatest friend in all the land. Should you ever need it, my sword is yours."

Shana was genuinely touched. "And I would be heartily glad to cal you my friend as well,"

she said softly.

His smile faded. "Lady Shana," he said slowly, "I would like to speak plainly, if I may." At her nod, he went on. "I believe you do Thorne a deep injustice by believing him guilty of sacking your home."

A spasm of bitterness crossed her features. "You know the circumstances. Sir Geoffrey What else am I to believe?"

"His word, milady, is al the proof I need."

Shana averted her face, saying nothing. Indeed, what could she say? she wondered bitterly.

She had wed a stranger—an enemy, no less. How was she to yield her trust when he had yet to earn it?

Across the hall, Thorne broodingly surveyed the pair as they swung in a circle. Her gown clung provocatively, displaying to perfection her lithe curves and youthful form. Beneath her headdress of silver, her hair swirled about her like a curtain of honeyed gold, it beckoned for a man to slide his fingers through the thick, lustrous strands—to coil it about hand and wrist —to bring her close and bind her to body and breast. She tipped her chin high, the arch of her throat long and graceful. She

graced his friend with a slow, sweet smile that he, her husband, had yet to see ...

A slow burn began to simmer along his veins. Aye, my friend, you may dance with her, you may wish her golden beauty for your own, but she is mine, my friend ... mine alone.

Thorne recalled his furious rage last eve. He'd been so angry at her deceit, his rage had blinded him to all else. The dawning realization came to him only now ... No other man had touched her virgin flesh. She was untainted—unspoiled. The first thing in his life that was.

truly pure and innocent. A surge of fierce possessiveness shot through him. He would be the first to teach her the secrets of her body—and his. No other man, he vowed, would ever

touch her.

She was his—and his alone.

Shana's head had begun to ache by the time she was al owed to sit once more. The Lady Alice had forsaken Thorne, for he had resumed his seat at the table.

She felt the weight of his stare as she neared him, like a thousand pricks from a dagger. Her face seemed frozen. She could neither speak nor smile. A tingle of panic trickled up her spine as she pondered what thoughts he might hide behind those dark eyes. Did he seek yet another way to hurt her? She wanted nothing more than to turn and flee as if the hounds of hel snapped at her heels.

Imprisoned in those black eyes like a web from which there was no escape, she nearly stumbled. He reached out and caught her by the waist. Fire streaked through her at the place where his hands touched. She jerked herself away and hurriedly sat.

The night dragged on. Thorne partook but sparingly of food and drink. Shana sat like a stone, her nerves scraped raw. Heat emanated from his body

like a great roaring fire. His scent was clean and pleasant, but she was agonizingly aware of the sinewy length of thigh stretched far beyond her own, for he seemed all massive power and strength.

Her gaze strayed again and again to his hands, carelessly curled about his goblet. They were long and bronzed, his fingers lean and strong, bhe swallowed, her mind wandering where it would with no hope of restraint. She could neither forgive nor forget the way he had forced her thighs apart last eve—the ruthlessly intimate trespass dared by that accursed hand. It was far too easy to envision those lean, long-fingered hands, forcing her to his will once again, her body crushed beneath the unyielding breadth of his.

An icy dread seeped along her veins. How could she endure that night after night? Of a certainty she could expect no tenderness, no gentleness from him. But he did you no harm last eve, a voice inside whispered.

Aye, she thought. He had stopped. Shana knew not why; nor did she think she cared to know.

Her memory of him carrying her to her chamber was cloudy and vague. In some shadowy corner of her mind, she could have sworn the touch of infinitely gentle fingertips had dwelt upon her cheeks. A voice softer stil had whispered, "I'm sorry, princess."