My Rebellious Heart (42 page)

Something snapped inside her. She was suddenly as furious as he.

"Your son!" she burst out. "Your heir ... You cannot know the shame I bear knowing that I carry your child—God, if I could I'd bear you a bastard! Aye, a bastard for the bastard! ..."

Some nameless emotion splintered across his features in that shattering heartbeat before he whiried away from her Only later did she recognize it for what it was.

Pain. A world of it.

She slumped to the bed, for her head was swirling giddily again. Though she could not see for the tears that blinded her, she heard his footsteps cross the floor. A smothered sob tore from deep in her chest. Tears fel like rain, scalding her cheeks, the very depths of her heart. She stumbled to the door and flung it wide. Thorne was already gone.

He did not return.

The days turned into weeks, the weeks into months, and she heard nary a word from him.

Indeed, it was as if he had forgotten her existence ...

And little wonder, she reflected with bitter self-disparagement. Nay, she did not blame Thorne She had taunted him, provoked him, cursed him to hell and back. She had sought to hurt him where it would hurt the most.

Dear God, she had.

I'd bear you a bastard . . aye, a bastard for the bastard ...

Time and again she woke in the midst of the night, haunted by the memory of that last, horrible encounter, tears wet upon her cheeks. She cringed inside, that ugly cry echoing over and over until she thought she would go mad.

How, she wondered with helpless frustration, did things always get so out of hand? It seemed they were both too stubborn, too wel grounded in pride to yield before words flew like weapons, drawing blood until there was no turning back.

And so she cried and cursed her stormy heart, her foolish, foolish tongue. She mourned the love that had never been ... the love that would never be.

The only thing to lift her sagging spirits came from a most unexpected source—Weston itself.

Thorne's home proved a sheer delight. A high stone wall circled the keep and both Baileys, with four round towers. Weston, however, was not as austere and forbidding and monstrous as Castle Langley. It sat high on a headland near the south-ern coast of England. Shana walked often along the bluff, heedless of the wind snatching her hair and skirts, for she had quickly grown accustomed to the salty tang of sea air. To seek respite from the crashing seas, one had only to turn northward, where Kil after hil stretched far and wide, fold upon fold, velvety and green.

The keep itself was but four stories high, its whitewashed wal s clean and spare. Numerous windows fil ed the interior with light and sunshine. There were nearly a dozen window seats plumped with cushions. Brilliantly colored tapestries lined the wails and elegant woven rugs warmed the floors. Indeed, Shana might wel have found it a wondrously delightful haven ...

But there could be no peace in her heart until there was peace in the land.

The bite of tal turned to the frigid chil of winter. If only her heart lay barren and fal ow like the fields, she would not be so at odds within herself! She was torn between England and Wales, those she had left behind in Wales, and those she had come to care for here in England. Sir Quentin. Geoffrey and Cedric ...

And Thorne

She fretted endlessly, wondering if he was safe, praying to the heavens that no harm would come to him.

Stil there was no word from him.

One afternoon in mid-November, Shana was descending the stairs to check on the preparations for the evening meal. Several young maids were scurrying across the hall toward the entrance to the bailey One of the girls glanced back over her shoulder and spied her.

"Milady!" she cried. "A rider approaches!"

Thorne! Shana's hands flew to her cheeks. She whirled and fled to her chamber to change into a fresher, more flattering gown. Her heart was skid-ding in anticipation by the time she reentered the hal . But her efforts were al for naught, for the man who warmed himself before the blaring fire in the hearth was not Thorne.

It was Sir Quentin.

Her heart plunged. She stifled a cry of frustration. Sir Quentin chose that moment to turn; she quickly masked her disappointment.

He clasped both her hands within his. "Lady Shana1 I cannot tell you the pleasure it brings me to see you again!"

Shana summoned a smile. "Sir Quentin," she greeted. "What brings you to Weston?"

His gaze was warm and avid on her upturned features. "I am on my way to London with a message for King Edward. Since I was so near, I thought I would stop to see how you've fared these many weeks."

Shana swal owed—if only her husband saw fit to inquire as to her welfare!

His grip on her fingers tightened. "We have missed you at Langley, milady."

"Sir Quentin, you flatter me." She forced a laugh, a trifle uncomfortable that he held her hands for so long. She tugged gently, and he released her. Shana turnedto cal for Adelaide.

When the woman appeared, she asked that food be brought for Sir Quentin.

"Have you news of the war?" She haltingly posed the question a short time after he sat down to eat. "We hear so little here at Weston."

Sir Quentin helped himself to a wedge of pigeon pie. "I fear you'll not be pleased by what news I have to share," he said with a grimace. "The fighting continues to escalate. King Edward's forces gather to the north and to the south.

Shana said nothing. The news was al she feared, yet no more than she expected. She folded her fingers in her lap and gathered the courage to

voice the question that preyed on her mind since the moment of his arrival.

"And Thorne? I—I trust these past months have found him wel ."

Sir Quentin's brows shot up "What! Do not tel me you've had no word from him!"

"Aye, but . .. 'tis just that it has been some time ..." Shana sought desperately to salvage her pride. She arose and beckoned for more ale, unaware of the faint distress that flitted across her features

She did not see the smirk which creased Quentin's lips.

He departed a short time later. Shana watched him ride through the gatehouse. A wrenching pain squeezed her heart as she walked back into the keep. Sir Quentin's appearance had only sharpened her anxiety—if only the fighting had not escalated! It was like a knife inside, knowing Thorne might ride out from Langley, never to return. She had horrible nightmares of him lying wounded and dying in some rutted field, his chest a mass of blood, much as her father had died ...

Oh, if only she could see him, she would tell him how much she regretted their stormy parting ... her spiteful words. She would tel him she did not hate him, nay, not at al !..

She woke one morning in early December, and knew she could stand neither her guilt nor this ache of separation any longer.

If Thorne would not—or could not—come to her, then she must go to him.

n his own way, Thorne was just as torn— between wife and king, desire and duty. But he fought his war on not one but three fronts— Llywelyn and Dafydd, the scoundrel who stil persisted in blackening his name ... and with his own wife!

He could not explain the way he'd felt that long-ago day he'd left her behind at Weston. He had been wounded in battle, battered and aching in every muscle, tendon, and bone so that he could hardly move. But the hurt she'd dealt him was far beyond any he'd ever known—it was as if she'd pierced heart and soul ... with naught but the prick of her tongue!

It was with weary resignation that he'd come to realize ... his feelings toward Shana had changed, but the circumstances which had brought them together had not. Weston was his pride and joy, the fulfil ment of his life's dreams. And now he wanted nothing more than to share it with his wife, and their child; to build his life with them, and around them ...

But one tremendous obstacle remained. He had no doubt Shana considered him her fiercest enemy. If there was no peace between England and Wales, how could there be peace between them?

In the days that fol owed, it was a question that caused him no end of frustration.

Thorne and Sir Geoffrey rode at the head of their troops one chill afternoon in early December. The temperature was bitterly cold, for the countryside was locked in a hard freeze. Castle Langley was just across the next rise. He was wearied to the bone, for he and his troops had fought hard these past days. King Edward was determined to put an end to Llywelyn's bid for independence before the end of the year. Thorne was just as determined to see the deed done so that he could turn his attention to appeasing his wife .. . and to mending his marriage.

And that, he suspected grimly, might prove to be the fiercest battle of all.

Such was the bent of his mind as he rode across the drawbridge and through the gatehouse a short while later. He dismounted near the stable and tossed his reins to Wil , sparing the lad a brief smile. But no trace of a smile crossed his lips as he mounted the wide stone steps toward the hal -There he beheld a slender, feminine figure outlined before the hearth, a figure whose lanes were alluringly familiar.

He stared, convinced the snow-covered landscape had dazzled his sight, for the smile that graced those sweetly curved lips was utterly dazzling ... and brought to bear only upon him ... He caught first her hands. The harshness left his features. Then his arms came around her. He crushed her to him, his embrace almost rough in its desperation, but Shana did not care, for her heart now soared among the clouds.

After a moment, he drew back. "God's blood,"

he muttered almost gruffly, but his eyes were as warm as the summer sun. "Where did you come

from? I was convinced my eyes had deceived me."

She inclined her head toward Sir Gryffen, who

had just entered the hal from the bailey. "Sir drytfen and 1 departed Weston yesterday.

We've not been here an hour." She ducked her head, suddenly uncertain despite a welcome that was far more than she had dared hope. "I've had no word from you," she murmured. "I— I wondered if al was wel ." She bit her lip. "You'll not send me back, wil you?"

A streak of longing, like a molten blade, cut through him. The way she nibbled her lower lip left it dewy and moist as summer rain. The blaze of heat gathered low in his middle was a painful reminder of their closeness—and of how long it had been since he had touched her, kissed her, made love to her ...

Send her back7 He had despaired the loss of her soft form nestled warm and pliant against his own far too many nights to say her nay. He could no more send her back than slice off his sword arm.

His hand tightened ever so slightly where it rested on her shoulder. "The roads are not safe for travel these days," he said curtly. "You risked much by coming here—but aye, you may stay."

Shana released the pent-up breath she'd been holding. This was hardly the hearty approval she'd have liked, but at least he was not angry. He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and led her inside the hall, away from the cold toward the hearth

There he halted. He set aside his helm, then slowly turned to face her. His hair was rumbled in a way that made her long to reach out and smooth the glossy black locks across his forehead. Her heart went out to him, for his features were drawn. He appeared immensely tired. He stared at her; she was struck anew by the somber air that clung to him. Only then did she sense a whol y uncharacteristic uncertainty in his manner.

A tingle of unease slipped up her spine .. . "Thorne, what is it? Is something wrong?"

Thorne sighed for he knew he had no choice but to tel her the truth. He had delayed too long already. " 'Tis Barris, Shana."

"Barris." His name was but a breath. Wide gray eyes locked on his face.

He gripped the hands she unwittingly flung out. "At first our search for the Dragon proved fruitless," he began quietly. "Indeed, he eluded our troops for so long I thought mayhap he'd left Wales."

He stopped. Shana's breath came fast, then slow, then fast again.

"A fortnight past, several of Lord Newbury's soldiers caught sight of him. They succeeded in trailing him to a vil age in Glamorgan where he took shelter for the night in a sheepherder's hut." There was a stifling pause. "At dawn they set the hut afire."

Every vestige of blood drained from her face. Her throat worked convulsively. "His body ..."

She could say no more, nor was there a need to. 'There was no need to search for a body.

Someone guarded the hut throughout the night, Shana And they remained until it was burned to the ground." The timbre of his voice grew rough. "Barris is dead, Shana."

He felt the jolt of shock that ripped through her, as surely as he felt her strength begin to ebb.

She staggered, her knees threatening to crumple. But when he would have reached for her she wrenched away with a sob that wrung him in two. Thorne watched her flee up the stairs.

He made no move to fol ow her. Slowly he made his way to the table and cal ed for ale.

A shadow fell over him. "You are quick to seek respite in drink, man," growled a voice from

above. "You are even quicker to evade your duty to your wife!"

It was Sir Gryffen, his countenance aglow. Thorne row to his full, imposing height. "You dare much, old man," he said tautly. "Indeed, you make me sorely want to forget you hold my wife's affections so dearly. Mayhap you should recall that were it not for my restraint, you would even now lie as cold as the Dragon."

Gryffen paid no heed to the dangerous glitter in his eyes. "Ah, so now you would tout your merciful ways! But methinks otherwise, milord, for I would never forsake the lady of whom we speak—most especially in a time of such need! Can you say the same?"

Thorne's eyes flickered as he realized the old knight was seething. He snorted. "What do you imply, old man? That my lady has need of me? You," he stated grimly, "know far better than any other of all that lies between the lady and I. She does not turn to me—indeed, she makes it plain she wants me nowhere near!"