Rexanne Becnel (40 page)

When her breathing at last came easier, he moved one of his hands from around her shoulder to cup her face. His palm, hard and callused, was gentle as it held her head pressed against his chest. She felt a slight movement of his throat, as if he meant to speak, and then his hesitation. She shifted slightly and let out a shaky sigh. Only then did his words come.

“I’m sorry, Joanna,” he murmured against the top of her head. His lips moved upon her wildly tangled hair. Was that a kiss? “I’m sorry I brought you here. I didn’t know—No,” he broke off. “That’s not true. I knew, but I didn’t want to believe how much you hated this place. We’ll leave in the morning.”

He pulled away from her then tilted her face up to his. In the dark Joanna could see very little, but the look in his eyes was clear, and in that moment she knew he was sincere.

She nodded, then returned her face to the damp warmth of his chest. She didn’t want to think or feel or do anything else but just be. She wanted to sit there in the comfort of his embrace and simply be with him.

She must have dozed, for she came awake with a start when Rylan moved.

“Shh,” he murmured as he lay her back against the rug. In the dark he found the laces of her gown and loosened them. He pushed her bunched skirts higher, then tugged the gown over her head.

Joanna winced as the muscles of her back tightened against the pain of movement. When Rylan moved one of her legs to better reach her shoes, however, she groaned out loud.

“Sore from the ride, are you? Saddle sore and heart sore as well.”

He pressed her back against the rug and shifted his own position so that she would not have to move her legs. The shoes came off and then her hose as well. His hands were warm and very gentle, yet Joanna could not force down the tension that inexplicably gripped her. From the tips of her toes, up through her aching legs to lodge somewhere in the depths of her belly, a sudden warmth engulfed her.

When his hands began to move against her calves, massaging the knotted muscles there, her heart’s pace doubled. With every heated pass of his strong fingers up the curve of her calf to the tender place behind her knees, her breathing became more shallow. Then his hands slid up beneath her kirtle to rub the long muscles of her thighs, and she forgot to breathe at all.

“Relax,” he whispered as he found the sore spot on the inside of each thigh. “Breathe slowly and try to relax.”

Joanna nodded; she could not speak. But a low groan of contentment did escape her lips.

“Here?” He focused the attention of both his hands on one thigh, kneading and stroking, pressing but not too hard on the knotted muscle then working it until it relaxed. He shifted to her other leg and began the same ministrations.

Had it been another set of hands bringing such blessed relief to her, Joanna might happily have succumbed to the soothing rhythm and drifted into slumber’s beckoning arms. But sleep was an impossibility, for these were Rylan’s hands, and while they eased one portion of her disquiet, they roused a clamor elsewhere.

Her heart pounded an unsteady rhythm, tortured by the indefinable yearning that had overtaken her. Part physical, part emotional, Joanna only knew that she did not wish him to stop. She shifted restlessly and his hands slid higher. But as she caught her breath in anticipation, he paused. His hands rested on the soft fullness of her upper thighs. In the close quarters of her niche she heard the ragged pattern of his breathing. No longer was the stone enclosure cold; his presence had heated it until she was nearly melting with desire.

Then it was Rylan’s turn to groan and turn away.

With that one simple motion he destroyed Joanna’s tenuous composure. All her feelings of loneliness and rejection rushed to fill the void, and she felt foolish tears sting her eyes once more. She rolled onto her side, turning her back on him, but every muscle in her thighs and back protested. “Ohh …” She groaned in sudden pain.

“You must move slower,” he bit out as if he were angry with her. But that only caused her to curl into a tighter ball, unwillingly groaning again as she did so.

“Christ and bedamned,” he muttered. Then she felt the warm length of his strong body curl around her.

“No!” she cried, trying to elbow him in the stomach.

“Yes, dammit! Just lie still.”

With a stone wall at her face and his equally rigid form behind her, Joanna had little choice in the matter. One of his arms curved around her waist and he drew her fully against him. For the span of several heartbeats they stayed thus. Then she felt his lips moving against her hair, seeking out the skin at the nape of her neck, and she could not maintain her show of indifference. She wanted him to hold her. Why must she pretend otherwise?

“’Tis not the way I meant to spend our wedding night.” He breathed the words against her hair.

“Last night was our wedding night,” she reminded him.

He grunted. “I am cursed, it seems. First those unbending monks and now …” He didn’t complete his thought.

Joanna swallowed hard. “And now a weeping wife,” she finished for him.

She felt his silent chuckle against her back “No. And now my wife is too sore from riding horseback to provide me the ride I desire above all things.” For emphasis he pressed his hips against her derriere, allowing her to feel the rampant need that gripped him.

Joanna instinctively pressed back against him, only to earn another stab of pain in her back. “Bedamned!” she swore in a low but heartfelt tone.

This time Rylan laughed out loud. “At least we shall suffer together, my sweet little dove. My passionate bride.” His voice grew husky and his free hand roamed down her side to rest upon her hip.

“Our time is coming, Joanna. Our hunger shall be fed. Our thirst shall be slaked.” His hand slid farther until it met the bared skin of her thigh. Then, like one burned, he yanked it away.

“Sleep now,” he told her in a strained voice. “Tomorrow shall see you feeling better. And me, God willing, as well.”

R
YLAN WAS GONE WHEN
Joanna awoke. For a long quiet while she simply lay there beneath the fur throw, staring up at the familiar stone ceiling above her. She’d not seen those cracks and fissures in five years, yet even in the gray morning light she remembered every one. The ceiling of her wall chamber—her cave, she’d often thought of it—was rough and unfinished, unlike the smooth facing of most of the castle’s walls. It was hardly a grand place, but it had been far better than sleeping in the open hall with the retainers, or on the floor of her parents’ chamber.

Slowly she stretched, testing her sore muscles. Although stiff at first, they gradually loosened as she flexed them. She had Rylan to thank for that, she realized as she wondered where he was.

The sounds of activity carried up the stairwell from the hall below. Tables were being dragged into place. Benches were moved alongside them. A pot clanged as it was settled onto the hearth to keep warm. A door banged closed. The voices, however, were muffled, and Joanna did not need to wonder why. A new master was arrived. Everyone would step very lightly until they had taken his measure. Would he be harsh or fair? Would he be jovial or grim? Should they learn to fear him or love him?

Joanna pondered that last question. Rylan’s men-at-arms did not appear to fear their lord, although they did respect him. They had openly laughed at him when he’d come back wet from his walk in the woods. Of course, the rapport between men of war was considerably different from that between nobleman and servant. Still, she could not envision him as a cruel taskmaster. If he did but smile upon his people and set out to be charming, they would quickly fall into his camp. After all, hadn’t she done so despite her determination not to?

Frowning at that admission, Joanna pushed herself to a sitting position. Her gown lay neatly folded. Her shoes were placed side by side in the corner with her hose laying above them. A comb had been left for her use and a shallow bowl of water as well. There was no reason for her to stay abed any longer.

Even as she dressed, however, she could not push aside the fact that Rylan had indeed drawn her into his camp. Though he possessed the arrogance typical of his rank, and then some—witness his initial abduction of her—he nevertheless also had a considerable capacity for kindness. He had been kind to her last night and compassionate as well. He’d held her and comforted her. He’d eased both her troubled heart and aching body. But most surprising of all, he’d restrained his passions even though no one would have judged him harshly had he not.

Joanna twisted to pull the laces of her gown snug down the left side of her waist, ignoring the slight pang of still-sore muscles. Last night she would have welcomed him in her arms, but he had turned away, though she knew he’d done it as a kindness. Through the night he’d held her close and she’d slept soundly in the security of his embrace. Yes, she was well and truly in his camp now. She did not fear her husband. But was what she felt for him love? There was desire between them, of course. But honesty compelled her to admit that there was more. She had turned to him for comfort and he’d gladly given it. If she turned to him in love, would he give her that as well?

She pushed her unbound hair back from her cheek, but before she could consider that new question, she was startled by a half-grown kitten that leaped into the niche. For a moment they stared at each other, both equally surprised by the other. Joanna swallowed hard, overcome with the same abhorrence she always felt for cats. The kitten seemed just as dismayed, however, for it meowed and whipped its tail around as if to say some stranger had invaded its domain.

“Shoo!” Joanna stamped her foot and flapped her skirts at the aloof animal. “Get away from here, you … you …”

To her agitation, the skinny creature ignored her completely. With a disdainful turn the cat spied the rumpled fur throw, then, shedding its feline reserve, made a wild tackling leap for the coverlet.

Joanna gasped in alarm as the kitten buried its head beneath a fold in the fur, then burrowed in and flopped to its side. The animal’s tail twitched in excitement and all four paws came up to scrabble at its imagined playmate. Then it stilled, righted itself, and twisted around so that only its face poked out.

Clear yellow eyes in a plain gray face peered curiously up at Joanna, and for that moment she forgot to be afraid. Another kitten had played these same games with her long ago. It too had been gray with yellowish eyes. Only it had been much smaller. She rubbed her wrist nervously, then looked down at the narrow white scar she yet carried from that day.

As if she had only just recalled where she was, Joanna stiffened in fear. Right up the stairs was the room where her mother had died—No, she had not died there. She had died outside when she’d thrown herself into the dry moat. But she’d been prodded to her death in that room. Abused and berated by a cruel husband who wanted one thing only from his wife: a son.

For a moment Joanna was glad the castle had come to her. She was glad her unfeeling father had been thwarted in the end. For what had any of it gained him? A son or a daughter—even had he died childless—Oxwich was not his concern once he was gone. Why had he seen fit to destroy her mother over it?

The kitten made a crazy leap, then skidded to a halt in one corner. Joanna peered at it with wide, troubled eyes, but she was not as afraid as she had been. Her fear had been replaced by an ineffable sorrow. What would be would be. The last few weeks had proven that to her beyond any doubt. She had only to endure a little while longer at Oxwich. Then she would never come back again.

She turned to leave, but the little cat, as if realizing its audience was departing, made a sudden dash for the stairs. Joanna stumbled back, still ill at ease with cats. But when the creature disappeared up the stairs instead of down, she stared up behind it. Her parents’ chamber was up there. She wondered if anyone stayed there now.

Then she shook her head, clearing her foggy thoughts. She didn’t care who stayed in that chamber. She didn’t care about anything having to do with Oxwich at all. As if proving that to herself, she made her way downstairs at a determined pace. She would eat. She would meet the various servants and retainers. Then she would leave, never to return.

Rylan’s voice carried clearly to her across the subdued murmurs of the others. While a few people broke their fast, others served and cleaned up. A small group waited in a knot to speak to Rylan while he held court at a wide table beneath the hall’s three narrow windows. The bands of light fell at a sharp angle, just glancing across Rylan as he bent to make a notation on a parchment with a long quill pen. For a moment the bright sunshine glinted off his dark hair, almost halo-like, and Joanna slowed to a halt on the bottom step. Then he looked up as if he had been waiting for her and smiled.

Everyone’s head turned to see what had brought such a look to the new lord’s face. Their stares lengthened when they realized it was the old lord’s daughter, their new mistress. But Joanna spared no glance for any of them. Her gaze remained locked with Rylan’s and she could not look away.

There was something in his smile, something that reached out to her and touched her in a way she’d never been touched before. Her earlier thoughts returned, but where she’d wondered then at her feelings for him, now—in the warm glow of that smile—she knew. It was love she felt, love and trust and a bone-deep need that went beyond mere physical longings. Somehow he’d opened the locked door to her heart and gotten inside. She knew she could never turn him out now.

As if he read her thoughts, Rylan rose and laid his quill upon the table. In the silence of the watching hall he made his way directly to her, all the while holding her within his dark, compelling gaze.

“Good morrow, my lady wife,” he greeted her in a warm tone. “If you are prepared, I will introduce you to your loyal people. Then we can break our fast together.”

Overwhelmed by the sudden tumult of new emotions, overcome with the consequences of what loving him truly meant, Joanna could only stare at him. How truly magnificent a man he was, she thought, dumbfounded. So tall and handsome though clothed in his typically understated fashion. His long hair was drawn back with a cord, and his only ornament was his finely jeweled girdle. As always, however, his noble bearing stamped him a man not to be ignored.