Autumn Lord (6 page)

She was acting like she was
grateful.
She wondered how long this had been going on. There was

something comforting about being held close to his broad chest. He felt and smelled very male, and that

had lulled her into feeling protected. She just didn't know when it had happened, though she vaguely

remembered being carried through the darkened hall and up the stairs. Maybe she'd gone into a

shock-induced stupor at some point and her body and subconscious had responded to some primitive

female instinct.

It was disgusting.

Diane Teal, at heart you are a wimp,
she told herself as Simon set her down on a chair near the f

ireplace. The worst part was that she was actually reluctant to let him go.

"Awake at last, I see," Simon said as she snatched her hands away from him as though she'd been

burned. He straightened, aware of the emptiness now that she no longer filled his arms. Oddly enough, he

was not glad to be relieved of the burden: He went to the door and spoke to the manservant that waited

on the landing. "Yves, have my bathing tub filled."

While waiting for hot water he brought the water jug and basin from his bedside table. He supposed

he should call for Jacques, or that he should have taken her to the old man straight away. He should let

Jacques see to the girl's hurts. Instead, he poured water into the basin, set it on the floor, then knelt and

drew his dagger.

"Hold still."

Diane held her breath at the sight of the knife, then she closed her eyes to block out the sight of it

altogether. She heard Simon chuckle, and knew he was amused at her fear. Oddly enough, his

amusement was more reassuring than it was annoying. Her curiosity got the better of her when she heard

the dry rasp of silk being ripped. She opened her eyes to find that Simon had slit her skirt halfway up the

thigh.

She barely had the chance to wonder why before he said, "This rag will do to wash the blood off." He

dipped a strip of the torn cloth in water then raised it toward her face. Their gazes met as Diane flinched

as far back as she could into the chair. Simon sighed. "You know it has to be done. Just close your eyes

and tell me one of your tales while I work." When she hesitated, he added, "I promise not to throw you

out of the castle again whether I like your story or not. Go on," he urged gently. "It'll take your mind off

the pain."

She doubted that. But he was right, she didn't want to think about it. So, she closed her eyes as he'd

suggested, and called up comforting images that filled her mind in grainy black-and-white—none of

these colorized classics for her, thank you, Mr. Turner. She began reciting the best movie plot she could

think of.

Her voice came out as a dry croak from her earlier silent screaming, but it felt so good to be able to

talk that it was easy to ignore the discomfort. At first she concentrated on the words as hard as she

could, so hard that she almost didn't notice the gentle touch of the cool cloth against her bruised skin.

What she did notice was the touch of Simon's strong, sure fingers along her jaw as he moved her head

from side to side as he checked her for other injuries. Soon the gentle stroking of the cloth across her

abraded skin was more like a caress than washing. Then she noticed the warmth of his breath as he

leaned close to her. She sensed the size of him, how it blocked out the light of the fire, but not the heat.

Or maybe the heat was coming from him. Her voice faltered as she realized just how intimately close they

were to each other.

He was smiling, and it transformed his hawk-featured face. She realized for the first time that the man

was handsome.

"Go on," he urged, while she studied his transformed features like she'd never seen him before. "I was

enjoying this tale."

Then he sat back on his heels as the door opened. Diane deliberately made herself look at anything but

the man before her. She paid careful attention to the three people who came in. The servants carried a

large, steaming, wooden bucket in each hand. They moved efficiently into the shadowed depths of the

room, poured the water into a tub. Then two of them hurried out.

"Anything more, my lord?" the third man asked.

"Bring wine, cheese, and bread for my guest, Yves," Simon replied as he rose to his feet with leonine

grace. Diane reminded herself that she had never much liked cats. Yves answered Simon and hurried

out. Leaving her alone with the lion.

At least the big cat was in a good mood, because Simon was still smiling when he held his hand out to

her. "Come with me. Now," he added.

She shook her head.

His hard expression returned when she didn't instantly do his bidding. She wasn't used to

unquestioning obedience. He was. He grabbed her hands and pulled her to her feet. The next thing she

knew he'd also stripped the tattered remains of her skirt and tunic off her. She would have screamed in

outrage, but couldn't. Not because she had no voice, but because silent laughter crowded out her in

dignation at the look of consternation on Simon's face. His open-mouthed stare was so unexpected that

she forgot her aches in her own amused reaction.

"What the devil are you wearing under your clothes, woman?"

He stepped back, and looked her over like he'd never seen underwear before. Maybe he hadn't. At

least maybe he'd never seen anything from Victoria's Secret, in this case, an ivory satin Wonderbra, a

wispy bit of lace panties and sheer pantyhose that had long since become a road map of runs and tears.

She vaguely wondered what had happened to her shoes, then finally grew embarrassed as Simon's look

turned from consternation, to purely masculine interest.

"What is that wrapping covering your breasts?" he asked as he took a step closer to her. He reached

out to touch her.

Diane shook her head wildly, stepped back, and crossed her arms over her chest.

"Ah, it's there for modesty's sake," he said. She nodded. A puzzled expression lit his gold-hazel eyes.

"Then why is it covering so little? And why does it thrust your bosom forward, as though as an offering

meant to be taken in a man's hands?" While she blushed in shock, and felt her nipples go hard at what

had to be reaction to the creamy richness of his voice, he dropped his gaze to her panties. "And those,

my dear, are an invitation to sin."

She backed away as she realized just how vulnerable she was being alone with this man. He'd saved

her, and now he was gazing at her with a hungry expression she found far more dangerous than the mob's

attack. It was far more frightening, because something primal inside her reacted to the look in his eyes.

When she took another step backward, her injured ankle twinged. Diane gasped as pain shot through

her, waking her other aches from the mob's treatment of her. Her body forcefully reminded her that

arousal was not only inappropriate, but stupid, because it
hurt.
Pain was not an aphrodisiac, but Diane

was glad that she hurt because it brought her back to the strange, twisted reality of this situation.

Simon recalled his reason for undressing the girl when her face clouded with pain. The first stirrings of l

ust cleared, and he once again saw cuts and bruises instead of the firm young body of a beautiful woman.

Beautiful? he wondered sardonically as he made himself forget his arousal. When and why had he

decided this gold-skinned stranger was a beauty? Not that it mattered. What mattered was attending to

her ills.

He pointed to the bath. "Go on. The hot water will help."

She didn't put up any more silent argument, and he firmly turned his face away rather than watch her

hobble into the shadows where the steaming tub waited. He looked into the fire as he heard the first

splash of water followed by a soft, satisfied sigh. He was glad that she could make at least enough sound

to show her comfort.

He recalled how his body had tightened with sudden desire at the sight of her in her alluring

undergarments. It made him wonder what sort of sign of satisfaction this silent woman might make in the

midst of passion. Such speculation, he decided, was best not to dwell on.

From the flames, his gaze was drawn up to the banner newly placed above the fireplace.

The blue-green square of silk with its nine fierce dragons was the finest piece of needlework he'd ever

seen. A far more accurate representation of his coat of arms than the tapestry hanging behind the high

table in the hall. These dragons seemed alive. They shimmered and danced in the play of the firelight—

claws bared, fangs gaping. The girl had arrived in his castle with the emblem of his house wrapped

around her shoulders like an ornament. Or wrapped up like a gift for the Lord of Marbeau, perhaps?

Oh, Jacques,
he thought tiredly.
Would oblivion not be a better gift for the two of us? You still

suffer from an excess of hope, old man.

Hope was never something Simon had believed in, not even the hope of heaven. It held no reality for

him. One simply did what one had to in this life. He was convinced there was nothing more, even though

Jacques constantly tried to prove differently. But, then, the wizard had the power of his magic, it gave

him possibilities. Simon had only his lands and a sword to hold them with, and he was very nearly tired

of the game of war, which was the only life he could envision.

He reached up to touch the banner and traced the outline of one of the beasts. He wondered how

Diane had known of the nine dragons of Marbeau that slept in the hills surrounding his castle. Jacques

claimed it was a coincidence that she'd repeated old court scandals as a heroic
chanson.
Perhaps the

design of the banner was a coincidence as well.

"And Jacques is a senile fool," he murmured under his breath, knowing full well that his friend was

neither. Just—optimistic. Simon had given up optimism along with a great many other emotions. He

didn't want to be reminded of any of them now. So he turned away from the dragons that symbolized the

extravagantly emotional history of his house.

Yves returned and put a laden tray on the table next to Simon's chair. Simon dismissed the man with a

flick of his hand, then went to pour himself a goblet of wine. As he did, he noticed the pile of silk rags

lying at his feet. He glanced from them to the magnificent banner. Should he wrap the girl in it? He

wondered. Hand her back to Jacques the way he'd found her except for her clothes? No, Jacques

wouldn't appreciate such provocation, nor did Diane deserve the humiliation. What did she deserve?

Something to wear, for one thing, he decided. He went to the great carved wooden chest that sat at the

foot of his bed.

He paused a moment before opening the lid, and almost laughed at the notion of a supposedly

legendary warrior such as himself showing fear at opening a clothes chest. The room was mostly in

darkness. Away from the fireplace, the tiny flame of an hour candle at the head of the bed served as all

the light he wanted. The pleasant scent of dried herbs greeted him as he opened the chest. The herbs had

been reverently placed among the folded clothing by some devoted serving woman when she'd put the

things away for the last time. The smell was evocative of days gone by, as was the feel of the cloth as he

plunged his hands blindly into the chest.

They're dead things, he told himself, dead as the wife who wore them. It's your memories that make

you think this is worse than thrusting your arm into a pit of snakes. Simon knew that the past was

something to be ignored, forgotten. Or, better yet, conquered. Never mind what woman had once worn

this clothing. They would do for Diane for now.

He pulled out an armful of dresses and dumped them on the floor beside the shallow tub. The girl drew

up her knees and wrapped her arms around them when he approached. He could make out little more

than pale skin and a fall of hair darker than the shadows surrounding her. He respected her modesty and

quickly looked away.

"Clothes for you," he told her. "There's food waiting as well. Jacques can see to your hurts if you like.

But first," he added as his curiosity got the better of him, "sit by the fire for a while and finish telling me the

tale of Rick the innkeeper and the fortress of Casablanca."

"What is she doing here?"

"We need to talk."

Simon had been enjoying himself. Which, of course, was a foolhardy and dangerous pastime. He sat

with his legs stretched out before him, and a goblet of wine cradled in his hands. Though his muscles

tightened with tension, he didn't change his position as Alys and Jacques entered the room, both speaking