Rexanne Becnel (12 page)

A small log, scratchy with branches, came careening along in the quick current. Lilliane did not heed its sudden appearance, but for Aere it was the last straw. The branches whipped her forelegs, then jostled around to strike her hind legs. In violent protest, the filly jerked back, rearing and scrabbling around for firmer footing.

Lilliane was completely unbalanced when the reins tore through her hands. She fell forward into the freezing water, then was carried swiftly away from the horse. By the time she could catch herself and struggle to her feet, the filly had bounded from the river, and with a wild neigh of fear, dashed madly away into the storm.

Suffering equal portions of despair and anger, Lilliane staggered toward the riverbank. Both her kirtle and gown were sodden and dragged heavily at her. She was chilled to her bones, and her teeth chattered violently. With no thought now but to find relief from the horrible cold, she pulled herself toward a slick, muddy bank. The rain beat furiously upon her and the wind seemed bent on defeating her. Even the river seemed determined to hold her down as it swirled her heavy skirts around her ankles. But doggedly she fought her way out of the water.

By the time Lilliane was out of the river, she was trembling. Tears mingled with the rain, and she had to cling to the gnarled trunk of a yew tree for support. There was no sign of Aere, and Lilliane abandoned all hope of finding her. She could only hope the flighty animal would find her way safely home.

As she leaned heavily against the tree, the sobs she had suppressed finally surfaced, and she succumbed to a terrible wave of self-pity. It wasn’t fair that this storm should have ruined her escape. It wasn’t fair that she should have to flee her own home in this way. And it wasn’t at all fair that her father had so adamantly decided that she must wed that beastly Sir Corbett! Neither Odelia nor Tullia had been so dreadfully treated, she recalled as she wiped ineffectually at her eyes. They’d been allowed to choose where their hearts had led. Why not her?

It was a question with no answer, at least none she cared to accept. Miserable as she’d never been before, Lilliane huddled in the meager shelter of the yew.

It seemed hours before the rain abated. By then it was dark. Only the faintest hint of moonlight darted from behind the high clouds that trailed the storm. But Lilliane now was presented still another problem, for the intense rain had filled the river to near overflowing. The crossing would have been dangerous on horseback; certainly it could not be made on foot.

The sound of the surging waters filled the night, drowning out everything else as she stared hopelessly toward the far bank. She could not cross, she admitted dejectedly as she turned slowly away.

It was then she saw the giant apparition.

Mounted on a huge steed, a man watched her in silence. The dark night did not reveal his identity, and yet Lilliane did not need to see his face to know who it was. For a moment her heart seemed to stop beating, and she could not move at all. Sir Corbett had found her. In the darkness of the night, in the fury of the storm, he had still tracked her down. It was impossible, and yet here he was. What manner of man was he? she wondered in frightened awe.

The moment seemed to stretch out interminably, for he did not speak or move. He and his war-horse might have been carved from the blackest granite, they were so still. Yet Lilliane could not mistake the anger and hostility that emanated from him.

She did not stop to weigh her alternatives. She did not consciously decide that the river and its surging floodwaters offered her more mercy than would this vengeful, cold-hearted knight. She only reacted instinctively in stepping back from his furious silence.

Her feet were so cold already that the icy water was barely noticeable to her. The water caught at her skirts and pulled at her legs, yet still she backed into it. Then the horse began to move toward her in slow steady steps and panic set in.

Like a woman possessed she whirled and ran into the frigid black waters. In two steps she was tripped up by her skirts. She floundered, yet still she struggled away from him. Then his horse was upon her and she felt a hard hand grab the back of her gown. Before she could stop him, he lifted her free of the river.

“Let me down, you vile bully!” she screamed as he plopped her unceremoniously before him. “Unhand me or I shall see my father flog you within an inch—”

“It is you who shall be flogged,” he said as he forced her arms to her side then clasped her hard against his broad chest. “Whether that honor shall fall to your father or me is still an unanswered question, however.”

The threat in his voice gave her pause, and a shiver coursed through her. “You’d best not lay a hand on me,” she warned in a voice that trembled despite her every effort to sound brave. “No matter our differences, my father will not countenance—”

“Your father,” he muttered in her ear, “wished me Godspeed in finding his wayward daughter—my wayward bride. Do not forget that our wedding day is at hand. Once the vows are spoken, neither your father nor anyone else shall have a say in the discipline of my wife!”

If she had been frightened before, it was nothing as compared to the pure terror his menacing words struck in her now. With a cry of complete despair she wriggled to be free of his steely hold and to slide off the horse, but that only unbalanced them both. Then the huge horse stumbled in the uneven footing of the river, and with an icy splash, they both were dumped into the water.

Lilliane came up first, mired within her skirts and blinded by her hair. But before she could find a foothold or even try to swim, his hand found her and with one swift tug he had her once more. As if she were only a pitiful bit of river debris, he hauled her ashore and dragged her up an embankment.

She was gasping for breath when he finally deposited her on an overgrown grassy clearing. He stood above her, silhouetted in the faint moonlight, breathing as heavily as she. He was every one of her childhood nightmares come vividly to life, she thought fearfully. A silent, faceless demon, blacker than night, more menacing than any daytime imaginings. And he was determined that she become his wife!

With a sob of defeat Lilliane buried her head in her arms. She did not want to cry before him, and yet there seemed no help for it. She had done all she could, but it had not been enough. With cold efficiency he had tracked her down and now she was truly at his mercy.

She wasn’t sure what she expected. Vile accusations and threats at the least. A beating at the worst. She was vaguely reassured that he would not kill her after fishing her from the river, although he most certainly must have been tempted to. When he neither spoke nor made a move toward her, she raised a muddy, tear-streaked face to him.

Sir Corbett, however, was not looking at her at all. Instead, his eyes were directed to his huge destrier. Barely discernible in the dark, the horse had made its slow, painful way onto the riverbank. But with every step it heavily favored one of its forelegs.

Sir Corbett started at once for his horse, but then he stopped and turned back to face her. He bent down on one knee next to her and lifted a heavy tangled lock of her hair, pulling it slightly.

“You have done your best to mock me. To bring shame upon me.” He pulled a little harder on her hair. “To drown me.” Then he bent low until his face was only inches from hers. Even in the dark she was terribly aware of the menace that glittered in his cold gray eyes. “But if you have caused permanent harm to Qismah I shall make your life miserable beyond your imagination!”

He did not give her a chance to respond, and indeed, Lilliane had no wish to. Cringing, she could only remain as she was, watching with frightened eyes as he gently led the horse up an easier incline. Then he tenderly checked the leg, running his hands expertly over the animal and all the time speaking in soft, indecipherable words.

In spite of her fear, Lilliane could not mistake the bond that existed between the horse and its master. It was a rare thing, she knew. Something she would normally admire. Yet it only increased her sense of dread, for she was sure that this hard-bitten knight had all his meager affection tied up in his war-horse.

Lilliane was sitting up, huddled miserably with her arms around her knees, when Corbett led his horse past her.

“Get up and walk,” he commanded curtly, not even bothering to look to see whether she obeyed. But Lilliane knew better than to thwart him further. No other words passed between them as they began to make their way back up the road: the silent knight, the limping horse, and the miserable, drooping girl.

L
ILLIANE DID NOT DARE
to question Sir Corbett, but her mind circled with a hundred thoughts. How would he punish her? Did he plan for them to walk all night in order to get back before the wedding? Would she have any chance to escape him? But he did not speak at all, and left to her imaginings, she began to assume the worst.

It wasn’t until they approached a darkened cottage that Corbett broke his angry silence. He roused the sleeping shepherd, who quickly agreed to help the forbidding knight. After seeing to Qismah’s comfort in the sheep shed, Sir Corbett turned to the man and handed him a gold coin.

“You will receive another such coin for your trouble if you heed what I say. Make straightaway to Orrick. Speak only to Sir Dunn and Lord Barton, and do not fear to disturb them.” He sent a penetrating stare toward Lilliane. “Tell Lord Barton his daughter is with me. I will personally see that she is delivered in time for the wedding.”

There was something in the choice of his words that set Lilliane atremble. The dark and frightening night she could handle. Even the chill wind that sliced through her freezing body was not beyond her ability to deal with. But to be left alone with this hard, vengeful man …

Without being aware of it, she began to back away from the weak circle of lamplight. She was exhausted by her ordeal, she was miserable with the cold, and terror seemed to overwhelm her. But for all his attention to his injured horse, Sir Corbett detected her movement at once.

“Stand where you are, woman! Do not think to escape this time.”

With a gesture of dismissal he sent the shepherd on his way. Only Lilliane was left to face his ill temper. She was braced for the worst, prepared for his furious outburst and even his heavy blow. But when neither came she chanced a quick glance at him.

Sir Corbett had not moved any closer to her. He still stood straight and tall, his muscular form outlined in gold by the wavering lamplight. But instead of the furious glare she expected, his expression seemed more speculative and assessing. And expectant.

Her heart’s rhythm doubled as she met his disturbing stare, but then his expression changed. It had been a trick of the light, she told herself as she watched him rub the great war-horse’s muzzle one last time. When he turned back to her, his face was a mask of control, and Lilliane did not know whether to feel relief or greater fear. But as she made her shivering way to the shepherd’s simple stone cottage, she was uncomfortably aware of his every step behind her.

The cottage was only one room, clearly the home of an unmarried man. A generous blaze burned in the little hearth, and it drew Lilliane immediately to it. As she knelt before it, stretching her frozen fingers to the welcome warmth, she glanced uneasily around. Aside from a simple square table, a three-legged stool, one armless bench, and an ancient wooden trunk with worn leather hinges, there were few comforts. But the cottage was reasonably clean. And it was warm.

She heard Sir Corbett set the bolt across the door, then started when he dragged the heavy trunk to block it as well. Then he sat down on the trunk, stretched his long legs before him, leaned back against the door, and contemplated her.

Lilliane did not at all like the smug smile that lifted his lips, for there was no measure of warmth in it at all. Nor could she long bear the endless silence.

“Shall you now seek your revenge upon me, Sir Knight?” she asked in as brave a voice as she could muster. “Shall you threaten me and accuse me and beat me?” She lifted her chin arrogantly, fully aware that her wet and bedraggled condition probably made her haughty air ridiculous. But she was Lady Lilliane of Orrick, she reminded herself. Daughter to the brave Lord Barton. It would be unseemly for her to grovel, no matter how great the threat. Sir Corbett had brought her to tears once this night. He would not do so again.

“It’s unlikely harsh words or even a beating will make you an obedient wife.” He shrugged as if it were of no matter to him at all, and Lilliane’s eyes widened in surprise. “Warmth is what I seek now,” he continued. And with that he tugged off first one boot, then another. His sodden tunic was next, and he flung it over the bench to dry. Then he looked at her.

“If you think to avoid our marriage by bringing on a deadly cough or fever, I vow you shall fail. Just as you have failed in your other plans to thwart me. Now remove your wet garments. Now!” he added when she did not comply at once.

“It is not … it is not … seemly,” Lilliane managed to choke out as she stared at him, aghast.

“We shall be wedded before this day is finished. I don’t see—”

“No!” she cried as she rose to a shaky stance before the hearth. “Betrothed or wedded, it doesn’t matter. I would willingly cast these wet garments from me were I alone. But not while you are present. Never!”

She did not know what he would reply to her words, so contradictory to his own. But the determination in his dark gaze as he rose from his makeshift seat gave her no doubt of his intent. Before she could gather her wits, he had her by both arms. His face was only inches from hers as he glared at her.

“Have you not yet learned? You will never win against me, woman. No matter how you rail or struggle, the outcome is set.”

Indeed, his words rang terribly true to Lilliane at that moment. Hadn’t he convinced her father to honor their betrothal, despite all her pleas? Hadn’t he found her when every logic said the storm should have slowed him down?

And now, trapped in this little cottage with him, could she truly hope to stop him if he decided she must remove her gown?