Sharon Schulze (12 page)

How else could he help slay the phantoms that haunted her?

“Why do you taunt me, why do you strike out at me every chance you get?” Nicholas grasped her upper arms to hold her still. Beneath his palms her muscles tightened as her tension grew.

“Do I make you feel trapped?” he asked, dragging her up so close to his face that every panting breath she took blew across his lips. “Do I threaten you in some way? Is it me, or is it because I’m a man?”

Her eyes grew frantic, and even as he watched he saw her begin to distance herself, escaping to a place deep within her where he knew he couldn’t reach. “No you don’t,” he said, shaking her. “Stay here.”

A whimper darted through her lips and her eyelids closed. “No, Catrin. You cannot run away. Look at me.” Nicholas eased his grip when she whimpered again, but he refused to release her. “Look at me,” he growled when her eyes remained closed.

“Let me go!” She turned into a writhing, fighting fury within his arms. “Let me go, don’t touch me,” she repeated, her voice as fierce as her struggles.

A reaction! Nicholas would have fallen to his knees and given thanks if he hadn’t been otherwise occupied. But Catrin in a frenzy was a formidable opponent, requiring all his attention.

He let her lash out, easily evading the worst of the blows. Eyes still shut, she squirmed and clawed at him. As he dodged her fist before it connected with his nose,
he wondered if she even knew who she fought All her attention seemed focused within.

He gradually became aware that the breathless cries she made were words, words that made his blood run cold as their meaning became clear.

It was the only explanation that made any sense.

She’d been raped.

S
o much became clear to him now, especially Catrin’s strange behavior when the fever held her in its grip. At the time, he’d wondered whether her words and actions were part of a fever-induced dream.

It was far more likely she’d been reliving a nightmare.

And he’d forced her to relive it now. Nicholas released her and, shifting to sit beside her, wrapped her in his arms. “Hush, Catrin, hush. No one will harm you ever again,” he soothed, scarcely aware of what he said as he sought to haul her back from the nightmare. Clearly it was a place of terror and fear for her, and he’d driven her to it.

His arms crossed over her chest, he held her to him, brushing his lips along her brow as he murmured comforting nonsense. Eventually he felt the fight go out of her, leaving her slumped back against him. Drawing a deep, shuddering breath, Catrin brought her hands up and clasped them around his forearms. When he tightened his embrace she sighed and turned her head, brushing her cheek along his throat where his shirt was unlaced.

“I’m sorry,” Nicholas whispered into her hair. “I didn’t mean to push you so hard.”

He felt her near silent, mirthless laugh. “Didn’t you?” she asked in a weary voice.

“Aye, I did. But I didn’t realize what your reaction would be.” He leaned back against the wall, settling Catrin more comfortably across his lap. “I only wanted you to tell me why you respond the way you do to me.”

“It’s not you, Nicholas.” She brushed her hand along his forearm, absently stroking the blond hair growing thickly there. “Well, perhaps it is you, though not the way it might seem.”

“I don’t understand. You’ve attacked me from the moment we met. I hadn’t even had a chance to open my mouth and show you what a dolt I am.”

Under normal circumstances his comment would have lured an answering insult from Catrin, but she only ducked her head. After a moment he heard her murmur against his neck, “It was because you’re so handsome.”

“I’m pleased you think so, but what has that to do with insulting me?” Since his looks had never mattered much to him, he was surprised to discover that her compliment did please him.

“I didn’t want to be attracted to you,” she said in a small voice, burrowing deeper into his lap as though trying to escape some danger.

If she kept that up, he’d be the menace, for she’d soon be sitting atop an ever growing threat. He liked the feel of her slight weight snuggled against him too well.

After chastising his single-minded body for its rebellious behavior, he forced his attention back to her words. “If I allowed myself to like you—” she sighed and tightened her fingers, her nails biting into the muscles of his arms “—it might be harder to resist the temptation to know you better.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“There is for me, Nicholas.” Her voice was laced with pain. “I have nothing to give anyone.”

“How can you say that? You’re beautiful, brave, and you have a mind that would put most men to shame—”

Catrin shoved aside the joy his compliments gave her. “And a temper that would drive most men to murder.” Her nails dug into his arms so deeply, she wouldn’t be surprised to find she’d drawn blood. She eased her grip. “But those things mean little when weighed against the rest. I’m no virgin.”

He cradled her within his arms. “But you weren’t willing. From what you said, you were—”

“I was raped.” Such a simple word for such a horrible act. It would have to suffice, for she doubted she could be more specific than that. It should be enough to silence him, at any rate, and to bring an end to the burgeoning attraction between them.

She prepared herself for the moment he’d push her away. No good could come from self-pity; ’twas a lesson Catrin had had plenty of opportunity to learn. Raising her chin, she forced a thread of steel into her voice—and her spine. “It doesn’t matter how it happened. No man wants another’s leavings.”

There. The simple truth, ungarnished with excuses or prevarications. Surely he could accept it.

“And how do you know that?” Nicholas asked, his tone as harsh as hers. “Have you allowed any man close to you since it happened?”

“Only you,” she whispered.

His arms felt like bonds, holding her close where she didn’t belong. Catrin tried to wrench away, but Nicholas wouldn’t let her, instead wrapping her tightly in his embrace, one hand pressing her head against his chest.

His heart beat beneath her ear, the steady pounding
chipping away at her resolve until all she had left was a pulsating sense of loss where her own heart should be.

God, how the emptiness hurt!

Turning in Nicholas’s clasp, Catrin slipped her arms around his waist. “When he raped me,” she sobbed, “he didn’t just destroy my innocence, he violated my whole life.”

Nicholas held Catrin in silence, attempting to rein in the fury burning in his blood when he considered all she hadn’t said. He couldn’t believe that the loss of her maidenhead, as terrible as it must have been for her, would have been enough to reduce her to this state. The Catrin he knew would have likely gelded the bastard and gone on with her life.

This had to be something more, something far worse than losing her virginity, he thought. He glanced down at her as she sobbed in his arms. She was a strong woman; whatever had been done to her must be correspondingly vile.

Eventually her tears ceased, and she rested unsteadily in his embrace. She didn’t remain that way for long. Shoving her hair aside and swiping at her cheeks with her sleeve, Catrin sat up.

He could see that she intended to pretend nothing had happened. But he had no intention of permitting such folly. Catrin had held this pain within her too long, allowing it to fester. Whether she knew it or not, she needed someone to listen. He was willing—nay, more than that—driven to hear what had befallen her.

Besides, if he didn’t learn the rest, wondering about it would drive him mad.

“We should eat before the food grows cold,” Catrin said, shifting her weight from his legs. She trembled as she rose to her knees, giving the lie to her indifferent tone.

Nicholas caught her by the arm and pulled her back onto his lap. “To hell with food,” he snarled. “We’ve gone this long without it, a little longer won’t matter.” Ignoring her resistance, he settled her astride his lap, his hands on her waist holding her still.
“You
need to talk, Catrin.”

She raised her chin in the stubborn fashion he’d come to know well, meeting his stare. He caught his breath; her tears had lent a luminosity to her eyes, enhancing her beauty. By God, but she was lovely—the arrogant tilt of her head, the way her hair curled wildly, framing the delicate loveliness of her face.

But Catrin was no dainty flower, frail and weak. Her beauty lay in her strength, her ability to survive with courage in a brutal world. In his eyes she defined the very essence of womanhood.

She was magnificent.

Nicholas directed his body to ignore the surge of longing rolling through him as he stared in frank appreciation of the challenging, delectable woman seated on his lap. ’Twas lust, nothing more, an appetite unlikely to ever be appeased.

Especially in light of what Catrin had told him.

He knew she’d suffered at the hands of a man. Even if she were willing to disregard all the other reasons she should not entangle herself with him, Catrin likely had no desire to involve herself with any man.

She tossed her head and flipped her hair back from her face, some of the ebony strands grazing Nicholas’s cheek. He sucked in his breath, battering down the ache arising from the inadvertent caress, and directed his attention to her words.

“I don’t wish to talk. Release me, if you please.” The haughty lady had returned with a vengeance, he thought,
amused by the contrast between Catrin’s tattered clothing and the air of command she wore like a mantle. “All I need is food and rest.”

“Well then, perhaps I need to hear you talk.”

“I don’t care what you want, milord.”

“At least tell me who did this to you so I—”

“He is dead,” Catrin said flatly. “He cannot harm me further.”

But what of the harm he continues to do you?
Nicholas asked himself.

She looked at him curiously—perhaps his thoughts showed on his face. Reining in his frustration, he schooled his features to a bland expression. He’d find another opportunity to explore this further.

“You needn’t concern yourself with this.” She wriggled as she attempted to slide off his legs.

“Sit still, Catrin,” Nicholas said sharply, clamping his hands about her waist. He squeezed his eyes shut and urged calm on his rampaging manhood. Didn’t she realize what she did to him when she moved like that? A sigh escaped his lips; perhaps she didn’t know. “When you squirm it only makes things worse.”

Opening his eyes, Nicholas saw that the lofty dame had disappeared, leaving in her place a curious wood sprite.

“Makes what worse?” She reached out and stroked her hand along the place where a muscle twitched in his cheek—only one of the visible signs of his tension, he thought, his mouth curving into a smile. Surprisingly her touch soothed him, and her answering smile eased some of the strain coursing through him. She didn’t realize the reactions she prompted by the most innocent touch of her hand, he reminded himself. It was up to him to resist the temptation she so unwittingly presented.

Perhaps this wasn’t the best time to try to wrest the
details from her. She didn’t want to talk about it. How could he blame her? He knew what it was to live a lie, to hide the essence of his being. The Nicholas Talbot most people knew was naught but a lie, a creation designed to hide his true nature from those who would scorn him if they knew what he truly was like. Try though he might, his noble blood could not completely erase a man who was the product of his origins, a mercenary.

And if he thought about facing the place of his remembered fears and humiliation, his heart began to pound wildly in his chest.

He’d rather face an army of infidels than consider returning to Ashby.

But he had no choice in the matter. Catrin needed care he didn’t know how to give. And if they didn’t surround themselves with other people, he didn’t know if he could defy the longing to make Catrin his. The yearning had grown so strong, so quickly, he feared he’d awaken somenight and discover he’d already done the deed—or tried to. And given Catrin’s experiences, and her temperament, that could cost him his manhood, at the very least.

And well it should.

Reaching up, Nicholas placed his hand over Catrin’s, savoring the softness of her palm against his cheek for a moment before lifting her hand away. “I’m sorry,” he said, his smile turning rueful, then disappearing altogether. “You’re right, I shouldn’t press you. I’m sorry for what happened to you, Catrin. But you shouldn’t think it reflects on you—or makes you less appealing as a woman. I thought you were tempting before. I still do.” His hands still clasped about her waist, he lifted her off his legs. “So I think I’d better remove the temptation before my body overrules my mind and does something we’ll both regret.”

Catrin couldn’t prevent the slight lift her heart gave in her chest at his words. Though she knew it was wrong, she allowed herself to enjoy them for the nonce; it felt so good to believe that a man, a good man, desired her. Nothing could ever come of it, of course. Despite what he’d said, Nicholas couldn’t possibly have a place in his life for someone like her.

But just for a moment, she told herself—for now it would do no harm to believe him. To trust him.

And surprisingly, she did trust him. A large part of her hesitancy around men came from the fact that she no longer believed she could discern a man’s motive. After all, she’d made it easy enough for Madog to abduct her by her own naïveté. And since then, she couldn’t help but suspect every man of evil intentions.

She knew it was foolish, but she simply couldn’t help herself.

She’d always reacted too strongly to Nicholas Talbot for that very reason. As she’d told him, she found him attractive—more than attractive, now that she knew him better.

She watched in silence as he cut a slice off the piece of meat and handed it to her skewered on her knife. “Eat it slowly,” he warned, taking a portion for himself. “Your stomach might rebel, otherwise.”

Despite her growling stomach she did as he instructed, nibbling at the succulent meat. To distract herself from asking for more, as well as to satisfy the vague, odd feeling she’d gotten when Nicholas mentioned Ashby, she asked the first thing that came to mind. “Is Ashby a large keep? I’ve not heard much about it except that it commands a fine view of the river Dee.” She licked some grease from her fingers. “The king’s affairs must be important to drag you from your home. At least this sorry
business gives you an opportunity to return sooner than you expected.”

“Ashby isn’t my home,” he replied, all his attention seemingly centered on pulling at a loose thread on the knee of his chausses. “It’s a possession, nothing more.”

“All the same, I imagine you’ll be glad to return.” Nicholas looked up, his expression nearly startling a gasp from her. She hadn’t seen this much pain in his eyes when he’d pushed the arrow though his arm. “We don’t need to go there if you’d rather not.” She placed her hand over his restless fingers.

His hand turned beneath hers, capturing her fingers in a tight clasp. Just as suddenly the tormented look left his face, replaced by a self-mocking air. “’Tis foolish, is it not, for a grown man to fear a place? But Ashby holds only bad memories for me, and I’ve not set foot there for twenty years,” he said with a twist of his lips. “I didn’t even go back once I inherited it.”

“Surely you grew up there. Didn’t you at least visit over the years?” Granted, her knowledge of Norman ways was limited, but what he said sounded unusual.

His jaw tightening, Nicholas leaned closer to her, his face nearly touching hers. Catrin almost pulled away from him when she noticed the odd gleam in his eyes.

“Visit?” he scoffed. “My uncle wouldn’t have permitted us through the gates. My family wasn’t welcome at Ashby, milady, or in any other noble household. But then, mercenaries seldom are.”