A Flame Run Wild (3 page)

Liliane suddenly disliked this man's taunting air and his bold, brilliant blue eyes. She knew his arrogance was empty, tinged as it was by bitterness. His mockery of Alexandre de Brueil seemed aimed at himself as well. Like many lone wolves with noble blood, he saddened her. Right now she had too many problems of her own to welcome those of a stranger. This wiry buck might have made a very handsome lord, but instead he was merely a poacher stretching his luck. Eventually his luck would run out and his neck would stretch as well. That would be a great pity, for he was quick and keen. His movements as he lay the fire were deft and agile, and his mobile face intrigued her. He resembled one of the lean and hungry young amirs always preying on Almansor's power. The amirs often ran to fat and dissolution by middle age, but she could not imagine this man weakening. His thick auburn hair and ink-blue eyes, startling as star sapphires against his deep tan, were the only indications of his European heritage.

Aye, he was a very pretty lord of hedgerows and snares. She was not altogether sure he was not a snare himself. This might be sunny, southern France, but he was brown as a currant and shivered as if the damp spring were alien to him. Jacques had told her that Alexandre de Brueil had just returned from Palestine. Might he not be expected to be brown and sensitive to the cold? "Sirrah"—she sauntered to the fireplace and leaned against it—"have you in your freedom passed all your life in Provence?"

Continuing to arrange the logs of wood in the grate, he held up a bronzed hand. "Obviously not." He glanced up at her, a knowing look in his blue eyes. "I trailed the Count de Brueil to Palestine, for which I was not thanked with loot but saddle galls and flux."

"Yet you saw the Christ's Holy Sepulcher?" she pressed. "Was that not some recompense for your pains?"

Alexandre arranged wood chips atop his meager pine stack. "Aye. I saw the Sepulcher . . . through a whining, lying scrabble of peddlers with bolts of cloth from Christ's shroud and forests of splinters from His cross. I could fair build a cathedral from His bones and roof it whit the palms He kissed." He carefully placed the last chip. "God has left that place and gone into the desert." He was silent for a moment. "Jehovah strides that wilderness and leaves the cities to hypocritical vermin."

"So, you have faith, after all," she said softly.

With a brief laugh, he flicked flint against steel. "Not enough to go on quests. I shall not linger here, but venture to the north where the king fights the English and there is gold to be had. Then I shall go to England and bribe my own land out of Prince John." His eyes challenged hers. "Why are you wandering about the woods? Surely not to seek a dragon?"

Liliane began to toss off a careless retort, then she suddenly paused and said gravely, "I do pursue a quest, perhaps for a dragon, or perhaps I seek myself. It is as if I am lost in a hall of mirrors that turn, and warp, and cast back the sun and clouds in strange shape's. Your flute in the forest bewitched me and led me to follow its call." Her light laughter held a touch of uncertainty. "You have a very fine forest, but I confess some fear of a dragon."

He rose, standing half a head over her. "I will protect you," he said quietly. She was startled by his sober tone, but more by the unsettling expression in his blue eyes. He was looking at her like a man might a girl who beguiled him. She suddenly became afraid that he saw through her disguise. A shiver ran up her spine. She was alone with a vagabond thief whose nearness stirred her with strange anticipation. Never once had she allowed herself to look at a man other than Diego, never once had she imagined another man touching her body, filling her with that secret flame that Diego in his fading virility had left unkindled. The intense blue eyes searching hers filled her with uncertainty. As if deceived by mirrors, she saw in those luminous pools her own white body entwined in his dark one, his hands hidden in her golden hair. His mouth ... so near . . . parted as if he could see her vision, and his breath caught.

"Who are you?" he whispered. "Tell me . . . you have nothing to fear from me."

Nothing? A cold chill seized Liliane. She was the pawn of murderers, the promised bride of the lord of this demesne who in his power might seek harsh revenge for any impingement of his honor. However, she was less afraid for herself than for this rugged drifter without land or power to protect him. She feared that this mysterious stranger might stumble into peril if she did not use her wisdom to save them both.

Liliane tried to regain her common sense. Why assume that this man had discovered her disguise? For safety's sake she had dressed much the same way by ship and coach, thereby journeying from Spain without discovery. At times, Diego and his men nearly forgot her sex, so expert had she become in passing as a boy. Why then, she wondered uneasily, did this poacher's stare seem so intimate? Was he fond of boys, as were so many Moorish males? Perhaps she had even led him on by pretending to be a fop, uninterested in women!

She stepped hastily away from the young Frenchman. "Protect me, sirrah? I can find-my way about well enough." Pretending boredom, she walked across the room. "Tell me, as you seem to know this place, is there nothing we may drink to warm ourselves? The rain has given me a slight chill, but you are shaking."

"There is Italian brandy wine," Alexandre answered thoughtfully.

Liliane heard the wet plop of his sodden cotehardi as he slung it over a chair, and she turned abruptly in alarm. She watched him pull his wet chainse over his head. His shoulders and arms were better muscled than she would have assumed. In the dim light she could see scars marking his fine, lean torso. Despite his scars, he was beautiful. Determined to maintain her own guard, Liliane had no wish to see him naked. As his damp curls disappeared through the hanging laces of his chainse, she protested uneasily, "Come, man, this place is as drafty as Gibraltar in a gust and your fire is feeble. Do you see me as a nursemaid if you take ill?"

"I have few illusions about the skill of maids, and if you dislike the fire, cut your own wood." He flung away his boots, which were followed by his wet braies. Catching a glimpse of his slim white flanks, Liliane hastily averted her eyes. Padding from the room, he tossed dryly over his shoulder, "By the way, my name is Jean and I do not commonly make love to boys."

Rain or no, Liliane decided that it was high time to leave. Before she could reach the door, he had returned with an armload of dry clothes. He tossed her a pair of musty braies and a chainse, then stood by the fire to don his clothes, possibly to preserve her modesty, she thought ruefully, since he obviously had none.

Rain drummed overhead, rattling the leaking roof. Liliane sighed and inclined her head at the door he had just used. "Is that the bedroom?"

He raised a brow. "Zounds, I have met snappish lap dogs, but rarely a modest one." Then ignoring her, he pulled on his dry braies. "Suit yourself. That is the bedroom and I am sure the mice will be fascinated."

Liliane hurried into the room. Jean had not exaggerated. A field mouse scampered into its hole at the sight of her, then peered out again, its whiskers twitching. The room was simple yet beautiful. An ancient chest stood in one whitewashed corner. Greenish rain-softened light slanted across: the room from the deep casement window. The window's heavy, irregular glass held tiny bubbles, reminding Liliane of a rising sea beyond it, wandlike emerald willows melted into an amber lake. The bed was white and downy. A simple pottery bowl filled with wax served as a lamp; beside it lay a worn, illuminated book of Persian poetry.

Liliane was overwhelmed by a sense of stillness. It was as if she had waited to walk into this room all her life. In her mind a small chime sounded a single, caressing note. Alexandre de Brueil has slept here, she thought. Tim room is too well kept, the bed too fresh, unless this Jean the poacher has kept it so. Still gazing at the room, Liliane pulled off her cap and her mantle, and slid out of the rest of her wet clothes. What she had thought were braies were actually Moorish pantaloons, which swelled full to gather at the ankle. She was reaching for the tonic when a soft laugh at the door made her catch the garment to her chest and whirl around.

"Lucky mice." Jean's amused, admiring gaze dropped to the tunic she clutched to her breasts. "You have a splendid back," he observed lightly. "Certainly strong enough to cut your own wood."

"What do you mean by spying on me?" she demanded, frightened and furious.

At her flushed cheeks and smoldering stare, his own eyes grew hot. "I thought you had finished dressing; you took long enough. Why play at being a boy? You are lovely." His gaze swept to the silky fall of her hair, then down to the pale swell of her breasts, and his voice grew taut. "And ripe. Alexandre de Brueil is a lucky man."

The fire in Liliane's eyes flared. "Why do you say that? I have never seen him!"

"Come, are you not the lady he is to wed—and bed 'ere the morrow's moonrise? His bride is fair, I hear, yet"—his voice lowered—"I knew not she was gold as a mote of sunlight and fair as a spring-dewed morn. Nay," he breathed, "thou seem wizard-spun, a changeling maiden with such sorcery in her eyes and form that may lure mortals and magicians alike to folly."

Liliane was reasonably accustomed to flattery, but no man had ever spoken so to her, not even Diego, who had surrounded her with love and friendship. Although she was not vain, she suddenly knew that in many ways she had been a stranger to Diego. He had not sensed the secrets of the sensuality she was beginning to realize lay within her. Not so this Jean, with his alert, penetrating gaze. He watched her as if awaiting a mistake, a revelation . . . something she must not give him. She was to be chatelaine of this demesne, the wife of his half brother. Already he knew too much and was rapidly guessing more. She must confuse him, escape this place and go to Castle de Brueil as quickly as possible. "As you say, why play games? I see mine is up," she forced herself to reply coolly. "My name is Pilar and I am meant not to marry your Alexandre de Brueil, but ray cousin, Louis de Signe."

His eyes became so hard and flat that she stiffened. She could not tell whether he was contemptuous or somehow disappointed.

Bitter and angry, Alexandre was galled to the core. This lovely, tantalizing creature was not to be his on the morrow, but go to a pig of a Signe. He knew Louis, who was nearly twice Pilar's age and dissolute as a baboon. In mounting fury, Alexandre stalked from the room.

As he waited by the fire for Pilar to finish dressing, Alexandre quickly made up his mind. This Pilar had a cool tongue, but she was shy of men . . . rather, shy of a man who openly desired her. Her uneasy blushes at his nakedness suggested she was yet unpracticed in love. Alexandre squared his jaw. Before dawn, he would see that she was experienced. She would know pleasure before she knew the pain of mating Louis. God knew what creature he himself was to wed on the morrow, but Pilar, with her hair caressing her slender hips, fired his blood as his rich widow was scarce likely to do. With charm and luck, he might persuade Pilar to be his mistress rather than marry her baboon.

But what could he offer her? He had no money to keep her richly, and he was loath to promise the wealth of a wife he had not yet seen. Alexandre had pleased many women, if he believed their passionate sighs, but he was not fool enough to consider himself so splendid a lover that a woman would exchange her future security for the pleasure he could give. Also, Pilar might well be far less delighted than he to offend the Signes. He frowned. Women were unpredictable and Pilar had shown herself to be particularly so; he might gamble on that unpredictability. Although the odds were stacked against him, he had won on less. However, given her Current mood, she seemed bound to bolt at any moment. The rain' was letting up and unveiling the twilight. How to keep her captive was the first problem.

Alexandre strode outside, untethered her mare and gave;tis rump a sharp slap. Her hair streaming over her back in a long golden plait, Pilar raced out in time to see her horse disappear through the dripping trees.

She glared at his innocent face. "Just why did my mare bolt?!"

"Wolves," he replied blandly.

"Wolves? Wolves who broke into full cry just as you bounded from the door, I suppose." She looked mad enough to spit. "What are you doing out here?"

"I came to fetch some wood." His smile was disarming. "The fire is low and I thought you would grow cold."

"There, my scheming lad, you would be right," she ground out, leveling the javelin at his middle. "Cold's the word, and that's all you will get from me this night. Lift so much as an eyelid in my direction and you will be fit only for the priesthood by morn." She backed into the lodge, jerked shut the door and bolted it, then stemmed all the wooden shutters, leaving Alexandre to watch the last of the feeble sun sink.

Alexandre swore softly as he began to shiver again. As the woods grew dark, he debated kicking in a window, then thought better of it. By the end of twilight, the rain would resume and she would take pity on him. If she did not, he would be dog sick on his wedding day. Grimly, he figured that would probably be an appropriate condition.

For an hour, Liliane simmered. Soon the rain began again. The heavy drops against the shutters made her uncomfortably aware that Jean was being soaked by the cold downpour. Revenge was not quite as sweet as she had anticipated. But he deserves it for running off my mare! she argued fiercely with herself. Castle de Brueil is nearly nine miles from here. If I miss the wedding, all hell will break loose!