The Legend (18 page)

He cast Ivy another sidelong
glance and was surprised to find her focused on him. He smiled faintly, moving
beyond the trivial discourse he was attempting. "What is it, demoiselle?
You seem distant."

She held his gaze a moment. Then
she looked away. "'Tis nothing," she said softly.

He stopped; so did she. Raising a
black eyebrow, he clasped his hands behind his back. "Nothing indeed. You
have been unusually quiet. Is there something the matter?"

"No, truly," she
repeated, but there was uncertainty in her eyes. She was confused and he knew
it.

"You are looking at me
strangely,” he said.

"Was I? I did not mean
to."

He took a step closer, towering
over her. "Aye, lady, you did. You are still uncertain of me, are you
not?"

Her smile faded, her cheeks
flushing as she gazed up at him; smooth, brown, beautiful. "I.... I never
said that," she stammered.

"You did not have to. I can
read it in your eyes."

"I am thinking nothing of
the sort," she said quickly, hoarsely. "I was merely....
thinking."

"About what?"

She paused a moment. As with her
other bold qualities, she had never been lacking in the trait of honesty.
Gazing into his eyes, she felt compelled to answer his question.
"You."

His eyebrows flickered slightly,
a faint smile creasing his lips. "I would have never guessed. What, may I
ask, are you thinking?"

She cocked her head thoughtfully,
her gaze trailing down his armor. "I am thinking that you confuse
me."

"And you confuse me."

Her eyebrows rose with surprise.
"I do? How?"

He did not say anything for a
moment. Then, slowly, a mailed hand came up to gently grasp a blond tendril.
Ivy froze, feeling the heat from his flesh through the steel gauntlet as if it
was searing her tender skin.

"Because you are the only
woman I have met that seems to be willing to make an attempt to know me before
passing judgment," his onyx eyes were soft. "Have you decided whether
or not to damn me?"

She cocked an eyebrow, slowly.
She had been pondering that very dilemma since their introduction. "And if
I do not?"

The corner of his mouth twitched
as he continued to rub the silken strands of hair between his fingers.
"Then you would be the first. And I find that confusing."

"Why?" 

He chuckled softly. "Because
I have grown accustom to rejection, I suppose. I would not have the first idea
how to handle feminine acceptance."

Ivy gazed at him, uncertainty in
her eyes. "No woman has ever accepted you as you are? Not one?"

He shook his head, the brilliant
stars reflecting in his raven-colored eyes. "Look into your heart and
answer you own question, demoiselle. Not even you have accepted me as such, and
your reaction to my color has been considerably mild in comparison to
some."

Ivy swallowed, feeling ashamed as
well as confused. "I.... I believe I must grow accustomed to your color
before I can truly accept you as my betrothed," she met his gaze again,
her brow furrowing in thought. "Truthfully, how can you resent women for
being shocked with your appearance? Certainly, there are very few English women
who have seen a man of color before."

His smile faded. "I resent
those who overlook the soul of a man simply because he is different."

She did not say anything for a
moment, pondering his words. "Your bitterness is causing you prejudice
against the entire English race as the result of a few who have judged you on
the basis of your skin."

He stared at her a moment, seeing
a seed of truth in her words. Sound, intelligent words from woman who was
beginning to understand him just the slightest. "Mayhap I do indeed harbor
more than my share of bitterness. But more than a few have judged me by my
color," his voice was faint. "I am only human, demoiselle. Bitterness
is a negative quality of the human character."

She continued to gaze at him, a
lengthy, thoughtful pause. "So is stupefaction."

He cocked an eyebrow. "And
you refer to me?"

Looking deep into his black eyes,
she could feel all doubt, all reserve fading. Never had she met with such
honesty, such aching desperation for acceptance. Before her was a man of
uncommon patience and grace, of uncanny emotion and wisdom. In the short time
she had come to know him, it was the most obvious of his qualities. More
obvious than his dark skin. The fog was lifting in Ivy’s mind and the truth was
as bright as the sun.

"Nay," she whispered.
"I was referring to me."

She stopped fighting herself,
giving in to the acceptance, the approval that had been struggling to break
forth. For once in her life, her stubborn nature was conquered by her inner
convictions. Ivy de Fluornoy was finally growing up.

His brown lips, smooth and
glossy, drew her open stare. She found herself wondering what they would feel
like, mingled with her own pink. As quaking heat flooded her limbs, she was
unaware when the odd weakness caused her to sway in his direction.

Ali was aware indeed; had he not
reached out to grasp her, she would have pitched forward. His mailed gloves bit
into her arms, holding her steady, noting the heated expression with disbelief.
Had he not known better, he would have thought she was intending to seduce him.

"You truly do not know how
to handle feminine acceptance?" Ivy heard her own breathy voice, aware she
wanted him to kiss her in the very worst way.

Ali's breathing tightened, a
peculiar tingling sensation filling his big body. The hands that steadied her
suddenly came alive, caressing her arms tenderly before pulling her into a
crushing embrace. Enveloped by the shadows of the massive fortress, they were
shielded from the sentries on the battlements and quite alone.

Onyx orbs locked with those of
pure blue. Ivy gazed up into his magnificent face, so consumed with his alien
beauty that she was nearly possessed by it. All that seemed to matter was that
he was more man than she would ever need.

"Demoiselle," his voice
was raspy, tight. "Would you allow me to kiss you?"

She swallowed, licking her lips
to alleviate the odd dryness that plagued them. "You would kiss a woman
who confuses you?"

He watched her pink tongue
moisten her soft, sensuous lips and he resisted the urge to sink his teeth into
the fleshy morsel. Every moment that he held her, every second that he delayed,
his control slipped further. He did not want to frighten her with an aggressive
move, not when he was so desperate to gain her trust. But when a faint smile
danced across her quivering lips, his composure crumbled into dust.

"Aye, demoiselle, I
would."

CHAPTER
SIX

Peyton awoke to a dark room and
an empty bed. Groggily, she rolled about in search of Ivy, but her sister was nowhere
to be found. Puzzled and concerned, she crawled from the great bed and moved to
the window, gazing sleepily over the bailey.

The courtyard was completely
silent. A handful of soldiers stood watch on the battlements and the moon was
gone from the sky, indicative of the late hour.  Scratching her head, Peyton
turned away from the window and focused on her aunt. Wide-eyed and hypnotized,
Jubil never slept while entranced.

She hadn't seen her aunt in
nearly two days and was not surprised to realize that the woman probably hadn't
moved a muscle during that time. Jubil sat where they had left her, beside the
lancet windows in a mindless fog. She and Ivy had briefly entertained the idea
of taking Jubil with them when had fled the previous evening, but their aunt
was in no condition to make an escape. Leaving the older woman to the
graciousness of their liege had been a difficult decision, but a necessary one
in their opinion.

"Where's Ivy?" she
asked as if Jubil could gaze into the mystic vapors and locate her errant
sister.

Jubil did not reply and Peyton
ran her fingers through her mussed hair irritably. The potions Jubil ingested
usually wore off in two or three days, but her aunt was still exhibiting signs
of full entrancement. Different potions caused her to display various
characteristics, like continuous laughter or catatonic states. Jubil was still
flying high with this most recent concoction and Peyton was losing her
patience.

"Jubil, what did you take
this time?" she leaned down and shook her aunt gently. "Jubil, do you
comprehend me?"

"Thorn apples," came a
faint whisper.

Peyton studied her aunt a moment
with grim resignation. Jubil was highly sensitive to thorn apples and she
believed them to be the most powerful of her potions, allowing her days of
visions and flight. Peyton reconciled herself to the fact that Jubil would
maintain her irrational state for several more days at the very least.

Unable to enlist her aunt's help
in locating Ivy, Peyton retrieved her brocade robe from the large oak wardrobe
and wrapped it tightly about her slim body. As she was moving for the door,
Jubil suddenly called out to her.

"You do not like him, do
you?" she said.

Peyton gazed at her aunt a
moment, suspecting to whom she was referring to but unwilling to play the game.
"Who, Jubil? I have no time for your gibberish."

"Alec, sweetheart,"
Jubil said in a weak voice. "He is not your James and you do not like him."

Peyton felt herself being
teetered off balance by Jubil's perception, but she still refused to play the
game. She had no desire to discuss her emotions with a madwoman.

"Go back to sleep. I shall
return when I have found Ivy."

"The sorcerer's violet shall
help your indecision, sweetheart. Have no fear that soon you shall love Alec
more than you ever loved James."

"I do not want to love
him!" Peyton suddenly exploded, rushing to her aunt and turning her
violently, face to face. Jubil's eyes were glazed and fearful as she looked
into Peyton's angry features. "Do you hear me, Jubil? No love potions or
spells. No sorcerer's violet brews, or poppy love potions, or distilled rose
elixirs. I do not want your help with Alec!"

"He is a great man,
Peyton," Jubil stuttered. "I have seen him with his sword in hand. I
have seen Lancelot and Galahad and Cuchulain bow at his feet and beg to kiss
the soles of his shoes. Queen Maeve begs for his seed to bear a son worthy to
protect the throne of Ireland."

Peyton reeled away from the
woman, disgusted and furious. "Queen Maeve is a Celt legend, Jubil. If she
existed at all it was centuries ago, as did the rest of your dream warriors.
Alec is a man, like any other, and I am tired of your prattle about his
greatness. I will hear no more!"

Jubil, limp in her chair after
Peyton's rough shake, averted her gaze and focused on the wall once again.
"You underestimate him, sweetheart. He is the greatest swordsman England
has ever seen and you have been given a great mission in life. No woman can ask
for more than to be the wife of a magnificent warrior and perpetuate his
blood."

Peyton stared at her aunt,
wondering how in the world Jubil knew that she and Alec were to marry. Someone
must have told her, of course, but she couldn't help the creeping uneasiness at
Jubil's words.

"No more," she said
hoarsely, stumbling toward the door. "Another word and I shall cut your
tongue out."

But Jubil did not heed her words;
she simply stared at her niece with a blank expression. Peyton was almost through
the door when she heard her aunt's voice again, soft and hoarse. "You have
met the woman with a taste for female flesh, have you not?"

Peyton almost ignored her. Shaken
and angry, she found herself pausing at the bizarre, unrelated statement.
"Of whom do you speak? Your potion is making you insane, Jubil.”

Jubil merely blinked, her blue
eyes gazing at Peyton but not truly seeing her. "The unhappy one. She is
afraid of you."

Peyton stared at her aunt a
moment longer before letting out a hiss of exasperation; she had no time for
such nonsense and moved to shut the door. As the door was nearly closed, she
heard Jubil's final utterance.

"Alec's sister, sweetheart. She
is afraid of you."

The door shut softly and still
Jubil sat, staring at the wall. Her eyes were dull and unfocused, but her mind
was soaring above the clouds, unaware that her niece had vacated the room.
Unaware that Peyton had indeed heard the hushed whispers of a madwoman.

Unnerved by Jubil's muttering,
Peyton fought to control her jitters and her anger as she went in search of her
sister. She had no idea where to begin, truthfully, but it seemed most logical
to begin in the solar where she had last seen her. The corridor and the stairs
were void of servants as she made her way to Brian's well-appointed room.

It was empty, as she knew it
would be, but she felt a distinct sense of despair nonetheless. With a weary
sigh, she moved to the great desk that contained Brian's belongings and gazed
absently at the papers and signet stamps.  Her mind was exhausted and her head
was still aching and, somberly, she deposited herself onto Baron Rothwell’s
great hide-covered chair.

Ivy was with Ali, she had no
doubt. It did not matter that Ivy had been defiant upon initially meeting her
intended, fighting and cursing him every step of the way. That brief show of
opposition had been the only sign of rejection Ivy would offer in her own
defense; since the moment Ali had taken her away to converse in private, it was
as if Ivy had been transformed.

Ivy had told her that she had not
yet come to accept him as a true man, or as her betrothed, merely acknowledging
that she was coming to tolerate his company. To Peyton, it appeared to be a far
sight more than mere tolerance. It seemed to be infatuation.

Unfortunately, Peyton was still
too wrapped up in her own confusion and depression to be able to spare her
sister some much needed understanding. What she truly needed was her sister's
calm wisdom telling her that she was doing the right thing by marrying Alec
Summerlin, but it was apparent Ivy cared for no one but herself.

Peyton thought about Ali for a
moment, coming to the realization that her frustration wasn't based on the fact
that she found Ali repulsive or bestial; on the contrary, she was becoming
rather curious about him in an odd sort of way. It occurred to her that she
resented the fact that Ali seemed to be diverting Ivy's attention when Peyton
was in need of her. That, she discovered, was the foundation of her resistance.
He was taking Ivy away from her.

Ivy was all she had in the world.
With their father gone, there was no one left to console and support her, and
hot, tired tears welled in Peyton's sapphire eyes. She let them fall, feeling
them bathe her cheeks in comforting warmth. It felt good to cry, to cleanse her
puzzled soul, and the tears fell freely onto the tempting swell of her breasts.
She was completely miserable.

Alec was strolling past the solar
at that moment when he caught a snippet of a sob. On his way to bed after a
long conversation with his father, he ignored the noise and continued onward
until something inexplicably made him stop.

He had no idea why he should
concern himself over a sniffle, but a peculiar hunch forced him to turn around
and peer into the solar. His sky blue eyes passed over the empty room and he
nearly turned away until his sights came to rest on the top of a red head of unkempt
curls. Half-shielded by the high back of the chair, he heard Peyton sob again.

"Peyton?" he asked
softly, stepping into the room. "What's wrong, sweetheart?"

Startled, she wiped hastily at
her cheeks as he approached. His concerned gaze left her stammering for a
convincing answer. "N-nothing, my lord," she hiccupped. "My head
hurts s-still and I was walking a-and the ache has not gone away."

He did not believe her for a
moment.  The woman who met him in a physical confrontation and matched verbal
daggers with his sister suddenly looked extremely fragile seated in his
father's great chair. Her cheeks were damp and there were even tears on the
luscious white rise of her beautiful breasts.

He stood over her, hands on his
hips. "Pauly can give you something for the ache. It must hurt terribly if
you are crying so."

She nodded, afraid to answer
because her lower lip was quivering; once she started crying, she could easily
slide into a jag and carry on for hours. She was fearful that she would turn
into a blathering fool if she tried to speak and hoped he would simply leave
after receiving a satisfactory answer. Instead, he knelt before her and put his
great hands on the arms of the chair, trapping her.

"Is that the true reason why
you are crying? Or has something else upset you? Must I run a knave through for
distressing you this night?"

She shook her head, wiping at the
tears that refused to stop falling. It occurred to her that they might be here
all night if she refused to answer him, and it furthermore occurred to her that
he might know where Ivy had gone. There was one way to find out.

"D-do you know where Ivy
is?" she sniffled.

He smiled faintly, the soft glow
from the hearth caressing his masculine features. "Of course. She is with
Ali and his parents. Is that what has you terribly upset? Then put your mind to
rest and know that she is properly escorted and in no danger whatsoever."

She took a ragged, deep breath
and met his gaze for the first time. Another tear fell and before she could
dash it, Alec reached out a thick finger and flicked it away. His gaze was
terribly tender on her, his smile gentle, and she felt herself being drawn into
his trap.

He was cold and insensitive, she
reminded herself quickly. Remember his rebuff, his stinging indifference.
Remember before you forget everything and allow yourself to believe him to be
tender! And for God's sake, remember James!

"Th-thank you," she
struggled to regain her composure as she tore her eyes away. "I-I can
return to bed now, knowing she is safe."

But he wasn't moving and she was
still trapped on the chair. When she dared to look at her face again, his
expression was still soft.

"May I tell you something?"
he asked.

Since he wasn't moving, she made
sure she was pressed flush against the back of the chair, far away from him.
She hoped it was far enough. "What?"

He opened his mouth to speak, but
suddenly closed it again. With an embarrassed little chuckle, he averted his
gaze and stood up. "I was going to say that.... well, 'tis not important.
Would you allow me to escort you back to your room, my lady?"

She should not have wondered, but
she was curious with his sheepish manner. He almost seemed ashamed of what he
was about to say and caught himself before he could humiliate himself further.
The focus of the conversation shifted as Peyton dried her tears.

"I told you this morning
that I would demand one thing from you in this marriage, Alec. Honesty,"
her voice was steady now. "What is it that you were going to say?"

He looked down at her, finally
snatching a stool by the hearth and seating himself next to her chair. His pure
blue eyes watched the dying embers thoughtfully. After a moment, he sighed.

"I was going to say that I
was proud of the way you handled my sister," he said softly. "To see
you at this moment appearing so vulnerable and delicate, I have difficulty
believing you and the woman who matched vicious barbs with Thia are one in the
same."

She was genuinely surprised.
"You are proud of me?"

He nodded, his gaze finding her.
"There is a fire to your spirit. I think I shall enjoy our marriage, my
lady. At least I hope so."

She could see that he was
absolutely sincere and she believed him. Her chest tightened strangely and her
limbs began to tingle as he continued to gaze at her with his magnificent blue
eyes. It was the same quivering feeling she'd experienced earlier when he had
kissed her and she suddenly found herself wishing he would kiss her again.