Samantha James (21 page)

His hands tightened on the reins. A pulse ticked hard at the base of his throat. What madness was this that he was so entranced with her . .. and she a woman who carried another man's brat? And yet, he had never seen her more lovely... or more desirable. The notion spun through his mind that if he were not careful, she might well become an obsession . .. Christ, she was already! jeered an inner voice. He woke in the morning with the image of her face before him. In the heat of the night he imagined her slim young body beneath him, arching and twisting.

But Guy was ever aware that he'd best be wary of this dangerous attraction between them. He dared not touch her again, for he knew not what would happen. He wanted her, aye, in the age-old way where male dominates female. But he also wanted her in passion and tenderness, to touch her with caresses that flamed as well as soothed. It was as if a simmering heat had been lit between them, and it would take but a spark to set the flames raging. And Guy possessed experience enough to know that—whether wanted or unwanted—Kathryn felt it, too.

His hand lifted. He nudged his horse further into the clearing. He knew the exact moment she took note of his presence. Her laughter faded. Her smile withered. The spark was extinguished from her eyes as if it had been doused by a wall of water.

Guy was abruptly furious, with himself and with her. With Peter, she was ever vibrant, ever gay and laughing. But those wide green eyes were never tender, never laughing or indulgent when they chanced to meet his... and why the hell did he wish it were so?

Kathryn lowered Peter slowly to his feet, fighting an inexplicable sense of betrayal when the boy's chubby legs took him toward his father, his arms outstretched. The earl swiftly dismounted and caught the boy high in his arms. His hard expression softened as he whispered something in Peter's ear. Kathryn had gone very still. At the sight of those two dark heads bent together, there was an unexpected catch in the region of her heart.

The earl turned slightly and beckoned. Another mounted rider came into view, and Kathryn's mouth tightened. She should have known, she thought bitingly. It was Sir Michael, her ever- present shadow. She said nothing as the earl handed Peter to the younger knight. Sir Michael settled the boy before him on his saddle, wheeled his mount, and galloped away.

Kathryn had no chance to speculate why the earl sought her out. His attention had returned to her, his features as distant and remote as ever. "Your shoulder," he inquired coolly. "It pains you no more?"

She drew a sharp breath, dismayed by the thought which leaped into her mind. Her shoulder, no... But her heart. . . ah, her heart was another matter. Exactly why she didn't know. But somehow it was all twisted up inside with the confusing blend of enmity and fascination that so dominated her feelings for this man.

"No," she said faintly. " 'Tis healed completely. I feel no pain at all."

She waited nervously as he came within inches of her. As always, her body displayed an alarming reaction to his nearness. An odd restlessness burned fitfully inside her. He touched her nowhere, but she felt as if he did.

"I've yet to hear what you thought of my gifts."

The change in subject caught her off guard. It took an instant before she gleaned his meaning.

Yesterday the earl had taken her, Gerda, and Peter to the weekly village market. While the earl took his business elsewhere, they were left to themselves. After Peter tired of watching the jugglers and a dancing bear, they browsed among the merchants' stalls. Kathryn lingered at one displaying numerous fabrics. A bolt of velvet snagged her attention and she couldn't help running a caressing hand over the supple folds. The color was a vivid midnight-blue, shot through with threads of silver.

The merchant stepped up eagerly, looking her up and down. "A fine choice, mum. With such dark hair and a fair complexion like yours, I vow it's just the thing. And I've the entire bolt. Why, there's enough for both a gown and a cloak, too." The price he named was outrageous.

" 'Tis beautiful," she said, smiling slightly. "But I think not." She couldn't resist smoothing it once more with the back of her knuckles, unaware of her wistful expression. It was only when she turned to leave that she discovered the earl had been watching, standing but a few paces distant. The urge to hang her head was overwhelming. The earl's garments were fine. Next to him she felt almost poor and ragged.

Today, just after the morning meal, Gerda had bid her return to her room. There, spread upon the bed, were a dozen or more bolts of cloth— including the midnight-blue velvet—and all finer than anything Kathryn had ever seen in her entire life. She stared, dumbfounded when Gerda told her they were from the earl. Then, as now, she was at a loss for words.

She regarded him uncertainly. "Milord," she murmured, "your generosity overwhelms me."
And confounds me as well
, she added silently. "But truly, there was no need for you to do such a thing."

Think again, sweet wench
, Guy thought grimly. He was tired of seeing her garbed in such worn, threadbare attire and longed to pitch her entire wardrobe, what little there was, into the nearest fire!

He sighed. "If the cloth is not to your liking, you can choose something else—"

" 'Tis not that," she interjected quickly. " 'Tis beautiful, all of it, exactly what I'd have chosen myself." The confession slipped out before she could stop it. She understood the reason for such a lavish endowment—oh, only too well! She had saved his son from being trampled by his destrier. And a man such as he would not like being beholden to another, especially her! No doubt this was his way of discharging what he felt was his obligation to her!

If only he had done it—not because of Peter—but out of the goodness of his heart. How much more it would have meant if he had! She did not understand why she was so hurt. She knew only that she was. Nor could she find it in her to be angry.

But it would be just like him to make her explain, and that was the one thing she did not want to do. She lowered her lashes, but not before he glimpsed her distress.

His hands came down on her shoulders, stopping her when she would have eased away. "Kathryn," he murmured. "What is it? I thought you would be well pleased."

"Pleased! I know why you did this. 'Tis only because I saved Peter from your destrier. Mayhap you feel obliged to make some form of recompense! But I asked no repayment of you and I want none either! And 'twould be just like you to think that I. . . I did what I did... not for Peter... but for what reward it might bring! And you offend me sorely if that is what you think!"

Guy stared at her, aware of a twinge of admiration for such outraged pride. "Disabuse yourself of that notion," he growled. "I am grateful for my son's life, aye! But the cloth is a gift, Kathryn, not a reward! I did it because it pleased me to do so. Because it will please me even more to see you garbed in such cloth."

Both his words and his vehemence matched hers, making her breath catch. She didn't dare put an interpretation to it. . . or did she? She could feel the warmth of his fingers searing through her kirtle, and an unwelcome shiver of desire played upon her skin.

"I still cannot accept a gift of such extravagance," she said stiffly.

"And why not?"

All at once the dignity that had served her so well was in short supply. She struggled for a reply, her voice very low. "Because you know that I cannot repay you."

"And I repeat, Kathryn, the cloth is my gift to you—and a gift requires no remuneration. I would also add that 'tis you who now offend me by implying that I would expect such!"

Kathryn swallowed. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

"I find, however, that I am not averse to a small token of thanks."

His voice had deepened to huskiness—it was not at all what she expected.

Her gaze flew questioningly to his. She was expecting his usual mockery—what she got was something else entirely. A tiny smile lurked on his lips, aye, but with none of his usual vindictiveness. And his eyes were almost. . . tender.

A fleeting panic touched her spine. No, she thought helplessly. Oh, lord, what is happening to me? She was shaken and confused, yet again! His mouth hovered just above hers—and she remembered with scorching intensity exactly what it was like to have that hard mouth trapped against her own. She fell prey to a perilous curl of heat in her midsection, but when he tapped a finger to the tanned hollow of his cheek in silent indication of his wish, she wasn't sure if she was relieved or disappointed.

Summoning all her courage, she levered herself up on tiptoe, prepared to deliver a brief, hasty peck on the cheek. But just as her mouth grazed his cheek, he turned his head.

Their lips met. The contact went through her like an arrow of fire. It was her intent to draw back quickly, for she feared what his touch did to her. But she did not and it proved to be her downfall, for he was ever quick to press home the advantage.

Nor was this the chaste contact she intended; indeed, the kiss was no longer hers to control, had it ever been so. With a gasp her lips parted beneath the sweeping entrance of his tongue. He explored the silken interior of her mouth with such breath-stealing thoroughness that her taste was no longer hers, but his. It spun through her mind that she should wrench away—run while she had the chance. Her hands came up in a quick, reflexive movement, as if to suit the deed, then all at once her fingers twisted helplessly in the front of his tunic.

His arms were like iron bands around her back. His mouth possessed hers, stark and blatantly sensual. His head angled first one way, and then the other. With the pressure of his lips he coerced, then seduced; demanded, then persuaded. A dark, forbidden thrill ran through her. It was as if his kiss were no longer confined to her mouth, but blazed all through her. The sound of her breath, quick and ragged, filled her ears.

His mouth slid with slow heat to the tender place where her shoulder met her neck. Her head fell back with a delicious shiver. She felt his burning touch on her throat, even as his hand stole around her waist, then upward...

Kathryn's heart tumbled to a standstill as those treacherous fingers paused, hovering directly over the pouting peak of her right breast. She was shocked to realize that beneath her kirtle, her nipples were hard and pointing—they tingled, nay throbbed! From some little known place inside her, there came the urge to crush that lean, dark hand down upon the aching swell of her breast.

She began to tremble, shaken and confused by the yearning inside her, a yearning she did not understand. Through a haze she felt his head come up. He released her slowly. It took every ounce of courage she possessed to meet his gaze, for she knew well and true the gleam of triumph would be high and bright in his eyes. But his scrutiny hinted more of puzzlement than victory.

His fingers were beneath her chin. The back of his knuckles grazed her cheek. "What is it?" he murmured. The caress was but fleeting, yet Kathryn felt she would break from the tenderness of that touch, and it was suddenly more than she could stand.

She turned her head aside. "I believe you have your thanks now, milord." Eyes downcast, she was only barely able to keep the quaver from her voice.

For one horrible moment there was naught but silence. She feared yet another battle between them, but then he merely cupped her elbow and began to lead her back to the castle. She was glad he did not insist they ride. Instead he led his horse and walked beside her.

Guy could not help but notice her change in mood. She was subdued and quiet and totally unlike herself. He pulled her around to face him. "Why this melancholy mood, milady? Are you sulking?"

Her mouth opened, then snapped shut. "I do not sulk, my lord!"

He merely raised his brows in that sardonic way that never failed to rouse her dander, staring at her as though he would seize her thoughts for his very own. "What then?" he demanded. "You hide something from me, Kathryn. I know it." Before she could respond, he frowned and asked. "Has someone treated you ill?"

"Aye," she flared. "You have!"

His expression hardened. "Indeed, my dear Kathryn. 'Tis food from my table that fills your belly—and your babe's. My roof that keeps the cold and wind from that delectable little backside of yours during the long hours of the night." His gaze swept her from head to toe, as frigid as his voice. “I've seen to your every need!"

It was on the tip of her tongue to scream that there was no babe in her belly, but as always, his cold demeanor fired her temper. What difference did it make anyway? Men dealt in lies... and this wasn't even her lie!

"Aye," she said bitterly. "You've seen to my every need—all but the one that matters most to me."

His eyes were like twin chips of ice. "And what would that be?"

"The truth, milord?"

The truth, he echoed silently. His mouth twisted. Aye, the truth, he affirmed silently... such as it was.

She tossed her head and faced him boldly, uncaring that a sudden breeze whipped her hair and molded her gown to her body. "You wrenched me from Ashbury—from my home—from the arms of my only sister! And now you refuse to let me return!"

Ashbury. . . Ashbury! Guy wanted to grind his teeth in impotent fury. The chit thought of little else, save her own selfish wants!

"The truth, eh? I see the truth a little differently, for I've had it from your lips once already, Kathryn. Do you forget so soon how you planned to wrest Ashbury from your uncle, how you planned to use your lover Roderick to that end?" He gave a harsh laugh. "You covet Ashbury for your own, Kathryn. That is the only truth I see."