The Crimson Lady (11 page)

Almost, but not quite. The Crimson Lady had been trained well; the only reaction she would ever betray would be by choice, not accident.

“You are beautiful,” Braedan murmured.

“It is a beauty made for your pleasure alone,” she answered, forcing herself to repeat the odious words she’d said thousands of times before. To speak in the low, modulated tones she’d perfected so long ago. Her eyes burned with the hatefulness of what she was doing, but she continued on with her performance as her finely pitched instincts told her it must be played, glancing up at him through her lashes in the semblance of shyness she knew would increase the heat of his fantasy tenfold.

Aye, she was good at what she did. Acting the part came with such wicked ease that it should have frightened her, were it not so very necessary to maintaining her composure right now, and she felt both sickened and grateful for the gift of detachment that came with plying her notorious skills.

“I want you. Badly,” he said, his quiet voice an admission of guilt that was echoed by the shadows in his eyes.

“I know,” she whispered.

She stood unmoving before him, feeling herself curl away deep inside where she would be safe, unconsciously emptying her mind in that way that had become a means of survival for all of those years…preparing herself for the inevitable step that would come next…the completion he would demand from her. He would impose a physical joining with her body, just as Draven had done, whether or not her mind and heart agreed to it.

She had had no power to refuse back then, owned as she was by the man who had purchased her innocence—and she had no will to deny Braedan now. The fact that it was she herself who had led him to the brink with this
illicit enticement only made that more certain, and so now she would make the decision to finally step over and off the edge of the cliff that had been looming before her. She would commit this act and make herself a whore in truth, bringing her outward self at last to a place that would match the dark inner reality Draven had forged in her all of those years ago.

That would match the perceptions the rest of the world already held of the seductive temptress that was Giselle de Coeur.

“But you do not want
me
, lady.”

The simplicity of Braedan’s statement and the raw emotion behind it jerked her from her center, forcing her out of that floating place of nothingness to which she’d retreated. What did he mean? She frowned, shocked and unbalanced by the direction he’d suddenly taken.

“
Want
you?” she repeated dully.

“Aye. You have no feeling for me in that way. No desire, no need for my touch upon your skin, my hands upon your body, as I have for you.”

He spoke in a husky murmur, his words surprising, revealing an insight that couldn’t be real. His assessment was as brutally honest as if he’d seen a glimpse of the truth, even though she’d painted her mask on so flawlessly, so cleverly. It was impossible…a figment of her imagination. It had to be, and she was angry with herself for even entertaining the notion. To accept it would be intolerable and far more dangerous than clinging to the dark reality she’d lived with for nearly eleven years, the certainty of men and their ways, of their voracious wanting and thoughtless taking.

“I am well versed in every imaginable act of love, Braedan,” she said carefully, struggling not let her inner
turmoil show. “Anything you desire, just speak it and it shall be done, to a level of fulfillment you never dreamed possible. That is all that matters.”

“It is not all that matters to
me
.”

“It is the way of things,” she answered, exasperated. “You cannot change it.”

“Tell me why, then,” he demanded in a husky growl, gripping her shoulders and forcing her to look at him. “Why is that all you want? Why do you think it is right to feel no desire, to have no need for me, and yet be willing—nay seem eager even—to bed with me?”

Her composure was slipping; she could feel it sliding further from her grasp, and she lashed out blindly, fearful, adrift on waves that would crush her like tinder against the rocks if she didn’t find a way to maintain her control. But he was relentless, his touch like velvet steel, imprisoning her with warmth and strength, and squeezing her heart even as he released her arm to cup her chin in the tender insistence of his palm.

“Tell me why, Fiona. If I can command anything I wish of you, then I demand you answer that question for me.”

It was the hoarse utterance of her name that finally pushed her past saving, and she scrambled to clutch at the oddly dissolving fragments of her protection—the pragmatic, reserved persona she’d hid behind as the Crimson Lady—only to feel it trickle through her fingers. A raw, aching cry ripped from her throat, so low and anguished that at first she didn’t recognize it as coming from herself. But the safety of her rage was still there, battling for precedence, gripping her as she struggled to free herself from the painful pleasure of his touch, the impossibility of his words.

“Nay,” she gasped, her heart wrenching and her body feeling as jumpy and exposed as if she’d been strung up and left to twist naked in the wind. “I cannot—” Her throat tightened, cutting off the rest of her words under a flood of hurt and pain so overwhelming that she couldn’t go on. She jerked backward again, trying to free herself from him, but he wouldn’t let go.

“You must tell me, lady,” he murmured, pulling her to face him, to look into his eyes again. “Tell me why.”

“Oh God, Braedan, stop it. It just cannot be otherwise! I cannot feel want, or desire, or need. Not in that way. I can drive men to lust, perform every carnal skill to perfection—and to my shame, my body sometimes responds by instinct to the acts that have been performed upon me—but inside I am dead. It is cold and empty and—”

She broke off again, blinking, her voice cracking with the strain, frantic and panicking at the warm shades of understanding sweeping across his face as he looked at her. Anger reared its head anew, clawing forth in a last, desperate attempt to erase that look of awareness from his face.

“I feel nothing when you touch me, Braedan,” she burst out in a choking cry, his silence more painful in its tenderness than a thousand biting arguments might have been. “
Nothing
. Do you understand? With you or with any man.”

He remained quiet in response to her impassioned outburst, his expression somber, his eyes so gentle on her. She held herself stiff against the onslaught of bitter emotion, afraid that if she even breathed too deeply she might crack. But then he touched her again, reaching out to stroke her cheek and slip his hand beneath the damp
weight of her hair at her neck to tug her to his chest, and suddenly the last bit of her resolve shattered, crumbling into a thousand pieces as a guttural sob broke forth along with the hot liquid that seeped from between her tightly squeezed eyelids.

“Ah, lady, it is a shame,” he murmured, stroking her cheek, her hair, even as he held her in a comforting embrace against him. “A sad and wasteful shame that it is so.”

She fought to stifle her crying, her nails biting into the flesh of her palms as she held back against the urge to let go in his arms. It was so hard to be strong. She kept her eyes closed, simply breathing in and out, soaking in the scent of Braedan’s skin, the solid warmth of his chest beneath her cheek, hearing the firm and steady beat of his heart. His powerful hands cradled her to him like a precious creature to be cared for and loved.

“Do you want to talk of it?” he asked gently. “I will try to listen without judgment if I can.”

Another sweep of something indescribable surged through her—gratitude, perhaps? Or maybe even tenderness. It had been so long since she’d felt anything like it that she wasn’t sure of its origin. But fast behind it came the darker flow of memory and anguish and impotent pain. To talk of those years with Draven, of all that had happened, all that had led her to what she was right here and now, so damaged and detached that she knew not the truth of her own feelings…it was a step she knew she could not take without being crushed by it, with or without Braedan to help her. Not now. Perhaps not ever.

Wordlessly, she shook her head, opening her eyes at last and pulling away from him enough to dash her fin
gers across her cheeks. He still held one of her hands, his thumb moving back and forth along her palm as he continued to look down at her with that warm expression full in his eyes. Her chest felt heavy, her world shaken by the unexpected gift of his understanding.

She cleared her throat, glancing away before meeting his gaze again, a frown creasing the tiny area between her brows as she fought to keep from crying anew. Then she simply shook her head again, knowing not what to say, how to explain.

“I understand,” he murmured gruffly. “It will come in time, I think, and when it does, I will listen. Until then, know you that you have nothing more to fear from me in our arrangement together. I vow that I will not pursue anything between us again without your consent.”

At her nod, he squeezed her hand, holding her gaze for an instant more. When he finally released her and stepped back, neither of them moved farther, and she couldn’t help but wonder if he didn’t feel as she did right now, off-balance and changed in some powerful way.

After a bit he glanced down, seeming to become aware again that he was wearing naught but a simple cloth round his waist. His mouth quirked up on one side, and he shook his head. “Perhaps it would be best if I dressed now.”

While he gathered his discarded clothing on the bank of the pond and donned the fresh garments he’d brought with him, she twisted away to pull on her borrowed gown as well, tying the belt firmly round her hips. Soon they were both fully clothed, and he turned to her, the bit of worsted slung over his arm. She felt strangely hesitant
before him, she who had faced countless men in far more intimate settings, with the prospect of far more intimate acts ahead of her than the ruse of marriage they would need continue to play once they returned to the encampment.

“We should go,” he said at last. “Your brother will wonder what has become of us if we tarry longer.”

He was right, of course, yet in some odd way she wanted to hold on to this moment for just a little longer. She could never speak such a thing to him, though, and in truth, she wasn’t sure she would, even were she able to find the words for it. It was all too new, these feelings and the understanding they seemed to have reached here together. Too fresh. She needed time to mull over what had happened.

They started down the path back to the settlement, a profound silence surrounding them, the weight of it not so much awkward as full with their spent emotions. By the time they arrived, her eyes felt heavier than she could ever remember, her head so tired from all that she’d experienced today that she thought she might fall asleep the moment she rested it, even if it was on a hard stump or moss-covered bit of rock. But she needn’t have worried about the shelter they would have for the night. Will and Joan had moved their own belongings farther back into one of the hollowed trees, giving up some of their precious space for Braedan and Fiona to spread out blankets near the shelter’s entrance and make a bed for themselves.

With a sigh, Fiona stretched out, a fuzzy warmth surrounding her as Braedan shifted into place behind her and pulled another blanket over the top of them. It felt natural, somehow, not frightening or painful, as had al
ways been her experience before when she’d been compelled to lie next to a man. It was pleasant, even…

Encompassed in the peacefulness of the clear night and the security of Braedan’s arms, Fiona sighed, and closed her eyes—and for one of the few times in her life, drifted off into easy, dreamless sleep.

Rest did not come so freely to Braedan. He could hear Will’s muffled snores and Joan’s occasional coughing behind them as he lay very still, soaking up the feel of Fiona stretched out so close to him. He listened to her soft, even breathing and took in the faint scent of vanilla that clung to the dampened mass of her hair near his cheek, watching how the dying fire’s embers cast her face in a flickering, rosy glow. All seemed calm and peaceful.

But still sleep eluded him.

So much had happened, it fair boggled his mind to think on it. What he’d learned today about Fiona—about himself—made the prospect of easy rest impossible. Those moments beside the pond with her had stunned him, disrupting his certainties and rattling his preconceived notions of the woman she was. He’d gone to find her there with something dark and dangerous at work inside of him, something that had driven him to seek her out in private; he hadn’t been able to stop himself. She’d gotten inside his defenses, somehow, tempting him, teasing him with her lush beauty, the idea of what she was and what she’d been to other men before him luring him like a forbidden fruit, waiting to be tasted.

And then to have to endure the tantalizing illusion of acting as her husband, the one man all the world would think privy to the pleasures of her body…

Braedan rolled onto his back, slowly, so as not to disturb her, throwing a forearm across his eyes. It had been too much, pushing him toward a resolution that he’d decided could be found only in the slick heat of her most intimate embrace. He’d intended to bed her on the pond’s bank, to take her savagely and completely…to lose himself in her softness and thereby banish the desire for her that seemed to seethe inside him. He’d gone to the spot where she bathed with that purpose, even though in doing so he would be forsaking the vows he’d made after the excess he’d indulged in as a crusading knight. But it had been the only cure he could conceive of for drowning his maddening want for her.

It hadn’t gone that far, thank God. He’d still been man enough to recognize the emptiness in her eyes and pull back before it was too late. She would have let him take her, he knew that, but their joining would have been nothing more than a chore for her to finish, a job to be done—and he’d realized, suddenly, that it wouldn’t have been enough. He wanted more from her, a deeper completion that he was only beginning to recognize.