Rexanne Becnel (14 page)

“My unfailing conceit? And what of your senseless resistance? You condemn an institution created by God—a man and a woman married, with the mandate to go forth and be fruitful—yet you refuse to justify yourself. And lest you think to pretend to a piety you do not possess, keep in mind that I have already tasted of your passion, Joanna.” He jerked her fully against him so that her blanket parted and only her thin kirtle separated his naked chest from her own. “Deny it all you want, my icy little nun. But I know there is a fire in you—one both you and your husband shall relish burning within.”

For an instant longer they stood thus, pressed together in an odd sort of embrace, his body heat meeting her own with a sizzling awareness. His eyes were dark as they bored into hers, lit only by the golden flickering from the fireplace, and for a moment Joanna thought he meant to kiss her once more. Her entire body stiffened in anticipation—in horror and dread, she tried to tell herself. Yet when he stepped back from her she felt an unbidden shiver of disappointment.

No, never that! She denied the feeling as she scurried to the most distant corner she could find. Yet once more the truth was painfully obvious. Unable to help herself, she stared at him, her eyes wide and frightened. He stirred something in her. Something wicked and sinful. And what seemed almost as terrible, he was well aware of it. Despite her vow to shun the outside world and the temptations of the flesh, he used those very temptations to weaken her resolve.

Her eyes followed him as he crossed once more to the thick-paned window to peer out at the storm. His dark hair gleamed with golden highlights and the fire glinted off his bare shoulders and arms. Then her eyes slid down the wide-muscled curve of his back to his lean buttocks outlined by the sheet that circled his hips. A forbidden knot of warmth curled in her belly, and she forced her eyes to move down to his knees and calves, only to note the dark hairs so liberally sprinkled there. Oh, he was truly a devil. She shuddered, turning her eyes away from him. He was the devil sent to tempt her, and saints preserve her, she was tempted!

He looked over at her and caught her staring once more, but Joanna lowered her eyes in renewed confusion. He must not know, she warned herself as she nervously fingered the hem of her still-wet gown dangling beside her. He must not know how profoundly he affected her. That base and wicked part of her nature must be firmly buried beneath the anger and outrage she felt.

Yet even as she resolved to appear immune to his potent masculine appeal, her eyes stole up to peer at him once more, and she knew it was the hardest task she’d ever set for herself.

When her stomach let out a small grumble of hunger, she moved back to the fire. But in her agitation she stirred the soup so vigorously that it splashed against her wrist. “Christ and bedamned,” she muttered in annoyance, then looked up in shock, horrified by the words she’d just uttered.

“Christ and bedamned?” His taunting voice rang across the uncomfortably quiet room. “Christ and bedamned? If I did not know better, my Lady Joanna, I would think you succumbing already to the failings of the rest of us mere mortals. But you would not do that, would you?” He laughed then, keeping his astute gaze locked with hers. “She curses like a hardened fighting man; she parades around in a blanket and her undergarment; and she kisses with passionate abandon.” His voice grew husky as he stared at her, and her hand unconsciously tightened on the blanket as he went on. “Surely not the makings of a nun.”

Joanna was too shocked by his words—and too undone by the sudden knot deep in her belly—to respond. Dear God, how could she be so careless? How could she be so recklessly drawn to him?

“I … I did not,” she protested weakly. But even as she forced her gaze away from him, she knew her denial was untrue. She
had
kissed him with passionate abandon last night. She had not meant to, but she had nonetheless done so. Then, just minutes ago when he’d pulled her against him, she had been disconcerted when he’d thrust her away. Like a devil he drew her, tempting her to sin. Yet she knew she already sinned merely by the lust she felt.

And he knew. He knew.

There was a long silence before he spoke again. “Is the soup ready?”

Unwilling to meet his eyes, she reached forward nervously, for all intents and purposes concentrating on the soup. Yet her studied indifference to him only seemed to amuse him, she realized as she peered at him from beneath her long sheltering lashes.

“’Tis edible,” she finally muttered, but only because to ignore him seemed pointless under the circumstances.

“Then serve the meal.”

Joanna’s head jerked around at that arrogant command. “If you wish to eat, you’d best plan to serve yourself.”

“No, I think not.” He relaxed back in his chair, his bare legs stretched out before him, crossed at the ankles, and his fingers laced and resting contentedly on his stomach. “It occurs to me, Joanna, that you have no training whatsoever in the wifely arts. Since I have taken it upon myself to find you a suitable husband, it behooves me to make sure he will find you a suitable wife.”

“I’ll make no man a suitable wife, so you may save yourself the effort,” she snapped.

“Oh, it will be no effort. After all, I’ve little else to do as we wait out the storm. Now, let’s start with the serving of the meal. ’Tis your duty as chatelaine of Oxwich to see your husband and his retainers well fed and served as befits each one’s appropriate station.”

Joanna stared at him furiously. “They may starve for all the care they’ll receive from me. And so shall you.”

He sighed, a long exaggerated sound, and gazed at her in mock resignation. “If you would just try it, you might find your role as a nobleman’s wife most pleasing.”

“More the fool you, if you believe such a thing.”

“You found kissing rather pleasing.”

“I did not!” Joanna cried. Despite her vehement denial, however, she could not ignore the thrill his dark words roused in her.

“Liar,” he taunted. “I distinctly remember how your body went soft against mine. And how you opened your mouth and accepted the caress of my tongue.”

The blood seemed to roar through Joanna’s head, then coursed down in a heated rush to settle somewhere in her lower belly. It wasn’t true, she wanted to throw back at him. It wasn’t! She hadn’t reacted that way at all.

Only she had, and just remembering it filled her with strange, forbidden feelings. For a moment the air in the room seethed, the undercurrent of emotions between them was so powerful. But before Joanna could collect her scattered wits and come up with a properly dampening retort, he was on his feet and towering over her. The firelight gleamed hotly on him, just as it also heated Joanna’s skin. But the searing warmth she felt most acutely was centered deep within her nether regions. His eyes glittered as he stared down at her, and though she could have averted her gaze, she would then have been staring directly at that one portion of him that was so inadequately covered by the sheet. The very thought of his state of undress made her cheeks flame even hotter, so she kept her eyes on his face.

“I asked you before why you oppose the holy state of matrimony,” he said quietly, all the while holding her gaze with his own. “But you did not give me an answer. Will you give me one now?”

“’Tis enough to know that I do.” But Joanna’s words did not have any bite to them. She was too unnerved by the gentleness of his voice. His arrogance she could deal with, and his taunts and insults as well. But this thread of concern in his voice …

A long moment passed between them, broken only by the futile howling of the wind and the hissing of the fire.

“Has this anything to do with your father?”

She turned abruptly away, refusing to answer. But he crouched down beside her and caught her chin in his hand and forced her to face him, clearly convinced he’d found his answer.

“Not all men are like your father, Joanna. They do not all mistreat their wives.”

He watched her closely, clearly trying to gauge her reaction to his words and thereby find an answer to his query. But Joanna was too undone by his possessive touch and the compelling sound of his low-pitched voice to take any notice of what he actually said. She was going to suffocate if he did not release her, for she could not remember to breathe when he touched her so!

“Nor do they all mistreat their children,” he continued.

At precisely that moment she leaned back from him, tearing her chin from his gentle grip. The fire behind her nearly singed her loosened hair, but she was more alarmed by the fire in her veins.

At her sudden reaction, Rylan sat back on his heels as well, his face going black with fury. “Did he mistreat you?” he demanded to know. “What was it? Did he beat you? Or—” He broke off abruptly and just stared at her.

Joanna realized at once that he had misconstrued her reaction to his touch as a reaction to his words. Though her father had never shown her any kindness, he could not be accused of physically harming her.

“He did not beat me,” she corrected his hasty assumption. But his angry countenance only grew more grim.

“Did he—” He faltered in his words and Joanna looked at him in confusion. “Christ’s blood! Did he touch you? You know—” He broke off once more as if he could not put words to what he meant. But when Joanna only stared at him blankly, not understanding at all what he was getting at, he finally exploded.

“Did he touch you, by damned! Like … like he should only touch his wife?”

Comprehension came then, as well as a fiery stain of color on her cheeks. Dear God, she thought. Was such a thing even possible? Yet judging from Rylan’s fierce expression, it most certainly was.

“No!” she shouted. “He did … he did not do
that!
And you are quite beyond redemption to even suggest such a thing!”

Although his relief was obvious, he was nonetheless still irritated. “I am beyond redemption? Why, because you care for your father so dearly?”

He smiled grimly when her face reflected her answer to his gibe. “I thought not. But it only points up what is already clear. Your father has somehow soured you toward marriage. But it need not be as it was between your parents, Joanna. Not every man is the same.”

“Do tell,” she replied coolly. “In my experience—limited as it is,” she threw in sarcastically, “men are arrogant, vain fools who care not a whit for the lives or feelings of their womenfolk. They manipulate and use both their wives and their daughters as a means to whatever ends suit them. My father did it to my mother.” She raised her chin a notch and gave him her most condemning glare. “And you are trying to do it to me.”

He had the good grace to look at least a trifle guilty, she thought, and she decided this was a good time to put a little distance between them. She rose to her feet with as much poise as she could muster, considering that she was sandwiched between him and the fire and hampered by the bulky blanket around her. But Rylan stopped her when he gathered a handful of the blanket where it circled her knees.

“You choose to see only the bad side of me—of men. But there is another side.”

“Tell that to my mother,” she snapped, yanking the blanket from his loose hold. When she stalked away, however, he rose and followed.

“What happened to your mother?” he asked, his tone quiet again, not demanding.

“She is dead, as you must surely know. She is none of your concern.”

“But her daughter is my concern.”

Joanna whirled to face him, dismayed to find him so near. “I am
not
your concern! My life is my own, to be lived as I see fit. Nothing you do changes that fact. You may present any number of your court gallants to me, but I shall send them all packing.” She took a harsh breath and glared up at him, hoping her show of bravado would not fail her. “You cannot force me to say the marriage vow. You can drag me before the priest, but you cannot make me say the words.”

To her enormous surprise, her words did not rouse him to anger. That alone was dismaying, but then he smiled at her—an odd, almost regretful smile—and every thought flew right out of her head.

He was too near. She knew instinctively that she had to get away. But before she could collect herself, it was too late.

“I’ll not have to
make
you say the words, Joanna. I shall make you
want
to say them.” Then his hand caught her chin and his mouth moved down to meet hers.

Had her wits been about her—had she been better prepared for the voluptuous feel of his lips against her own—she would have ended the kiss as soon as it began. After all, he did not hold her there by force. Only his finger beneath her up-tilted chin kept her in place. She had only to turn her head. Or take a step back.

But neither of those possibilities occurred to Joanna. Rylan’s light touch on her chin kept her his captive as securely as the walls of a prison donjon might. And his lips …

Beneath the questing pressure of his lips she was undone. It was sweet yet forbidden; he burned her and yet filled her somehow with delight. He melted her very bones so that she thought she might dissolve into a puddle on the floor, yet he lifted her to unimaginable heights.

When his tongue stroked the seam of her lips she opened to him, seeking more of these wondrous feelings. But when his tongue slid within her mouth, caressing and teasing, mating with her own, the stakes suddenly increased. With a groan Rylan’s arm came around her, crushing her to him so that they met thigh to thigh, belly to belly. As their tongues danced and dueled, creating an inferno of emotion, she strained toward him, arching in artless abandon.

The blanket fell away as her arms encircled his neck, but Joanna was not aware of its absence. She knew only that she could not get enough of him and the way he made her feel. One of his hands held her head firmly while the other slid slowly down her back, past her waist and hips to curve around her derriere. At once Joanna felt a fiery surge deep in her belly. He pressed her hard against him until she was firmly held between the rigid pressure at his loins and the possessive caress of his fingers.