Heather Graham (2 page)

“Sweet Jesu, milady, by God, will you just be still! I’d not hurt you, if you’d just let me touch you—” Langlois began. Then he was suddenly quite silent. He wasn’t staring at her, but at something … someone else. A towering, cloaked figure who stood just behind her.

The she knew what the sound of the explosion had been—the door shattering. And the man who had broken it down loomed over them.

He was very tall and broad-shouldered; his presence dominated the room. His hood hung back from his face and his features, chiseled like stone, rugged and striking, were in no way hidden. His hair was thick, fire-blond, while his brows and lashes were a deeper honeyed shade, adding to the effect of his gaze. Eyes of true gold stared down at them both with a deadly glitter.

The sword in his right hand was pointed at the Frenchmen’s throat.

Adrien! Danielle thought, and though she was desperately grateful for the Frenchman’s downfall, terror and dismay filled her heart. Adrien. Oh, God. He had caught her. She had only meant to warn Jean, and nothing more.

Adrien—oh, God.

He might well hang her himself. She had thought he was away, fighting; she had never imagined that he might discover her in this endeavor! He had been gone again, fighting his never-ending battle, and it had been so long! How many times had she lain awake, longing to see him …

But not like this—oh, God, not like this! In his eyes she saw deadly fury.

Yet he spoke so calmly.

“Touch her, my good man, but once again,” Adrien warned, “and I shall sever that protrusion of your lower body that makes you act like such a fool … before I lop off your head!” His voice was almost pleasant, yet deeply chilling, and Danielle felt a wall of ice come sweeping down upon her. Langlois rose slowly and carefully, for Adrien’s sword remained at his throat where a pulse beat furiously against the flesh.

“Now you, Danielle,” Adrien commanded, his eyes on Langlois and not on her.

She rose, cheeks flushed with humiliation.

“How—how long were you standing there?” she asked.

“Long enough,” he said, and did not glance her way.

“And you let him maul me so—”

“You seemed to be doing fine on your own,” he snapped curtly. “In fact, I was not at all sure you desired a rescue, since you were so intent on this assignation.”

“Aye!” cried Langlois. “Indeed, I am the man to come to the lady’s rescue, and indeed, my lady, you needn’t fear now. Who is this lout? Be aware this house is filled with men loyal to the French king, men who will mow down this English knave!”

“Call them,” Adrien suggested, his voice little more than a whisper, his eyes glittering like twin fires from hell. Despite herself, Danielle trembled, then spun around with fear, for she could hear the pounding of footsteps along the hallway. A fat man in an apron, obviously the proprietor of the establishment, ran into the room, followed by two big men armed with knives.

“Do you need assistance, milord?” the fat man demanded of Langlois.

“Indeed!” Langlois cried wryly, for it was quite obvious he stood in discomfort, a sword tip still at his throat.

“I seek no trouble with you, and with the dead already upon my conscience, I’d not add more corpses here!” Adrien informed the gathering, not a muscle twitching. “I don’t intend to kill the comte, just leave with the lady—”

“She came to me to escape the English!” Langlois cried. “You will not leave with her—I mean to wed her—”

“Well, that, sir, cannot come about, for she has a husband,” Adrien said dryly.

“No true marriage—”

“True in every way.” Adrien said. His eyes lit upon Danielle and she struggled to breathe as she felt the touch of gold fire. He looked from her back to the men and smiled icily. “I would be delighted to prove it, if the lady is not willing to admit it. A midwife can be called.”

“But—” Langlois began.

“Alas! I am aware that the lady used her wiles upon you, milord comte, and she does so exceedingly well! Unless one knows her, of course. Which I do. You were duped, sir, and that is why you draw breath this very instant.” He stared at Danielle, a hard, rueful smile curled into the corner of his lip. “She is charming, is she not? But as I’ve said, I know her well, and you, sir, should now be warned to beware of such devious and seductive charm and beauty! I’ll let you live today …” His eyes left Danielle’s face and he stared sharply at Langlois, “But if we meet again, sir, you die!”

Langlois gasped, realizing just who had accosted him. “MacLachlan!” he cried out.

“Indeed.” Adrien inclined his head. “Ah, yes! I am that savage, heathen Scotsman. Comte,
c’est moi
.”

For a moment, Langlois looked decidedly ill. Adrien’s reputation for expertise in tournaments and in battle was well known throughout the Christian world. A flick of the wrist, and …

But Langlois seemed to think Adrien outnumbered.

“Take him!” Langlois cried out, and the two cutthroats started forward to do his bidding, the one to the right of the proprietor raising a honed blade and slashing down with tremendous strength.

Yet the man was a simple barroom brawler; Adrien had spent his life learning to do battle. Steel met steel, and Adrien drew back first, as swift as mercury, and the man fell to the floor. A cry flew from Danielle’s lips.

“Seize him, fool!” Langlois shouted to the second man, who started forward, stared at Adrien’s blade, and swiftly retreated. Langlois let out a strangled sound which was silenced when Adrien’s swordpoint pressed against his throat again. “Adieu, milord comte! I should kill you, but I will spill no more blood than necessary over this treachery. She did summon you.”

Danielle stifled a cry when Adrien’s fingers wound around her upper arm, for his hold was like steel, with no mercy. She found herself blindly propelled out the door. His fingers then entwined with hers as he raced her down the hallway, pausing as he neared the stairs, for more men had come up to meet him.

“Get me a weapon!” she cried.

“Not while I draw breath, milady! It would fester in my back!”

“I never brought arms against you!”

“I beg to differ!”

“You’ve too many men to fight!” she cried. “You’ll kill us both, unless you’ve men of your own waiting below.”

“I came alone.”

“Alone!” she cried in dismay. It seemed that all of the tavern had risen, and every man was reaching for a weapon.

“I try not to invite witnesses when I am hoping to prevent a rock-headed little wench from endangering herself in the act of betraying the King of England—not to mention me!” he retorted.

A crimson flood rose swiftly to her cheeks even as he cried out to her again. “Get behind me. Close. And if you even think to betray me here again, I swear before God, I’ll live long enough to make you regret it!”

She had no choice but to obey him, for he still held her fingers. She’d had no intention of giving him the least resistance, but it seemed that he was more furious than she might have imagined, even knowing him. Fear seemed to fill her heart anew as she realized that even now, as their lives were threatened, he would not be surprised at any betrayal from her.

There were numerous men to meet his sword, men practiced at illegal professions, but none of them so perfectly trained to battle and hand-to-hand combat. His first blow took the man at the top of the stairs, who fell backward, hurtling the others down like felled trees. Adrien stepped over them swiftly, dragging her along. His strength was tremendous. When a huge fellow charged them at the foot of the stairs, he swung her hard to the side before him, stepping aside just in time for the man to crash headfirst into the stairs.

“Duck!” Adrien charged her, and he did so as well as a cutthroat’s sword arced above their heads. Adrien rose, his sword swinging, and their attacker fell. He spun around, slicing the man who had come behind them, even before she had time to scream out a warning. He stepped over the dead men, wrenching her along with him. Another, in front of him, fell at a thrust from his sword. The others fell away, watching them.

He swiftly led her from the tavern, out into the night.

He might have come without armor or companions, but he had brought Matthew, the swiftest of his four war stallions. He saw the gelding she had taken from Prince Edward’s stables, untethered it, and slapped its haunches, sending the animal on its way. Then he pushed her ahead of him, throwing her atop Matthew before leaping up behind her. She didn’t look back, yet she could hear the roar of anger as men grouped together again and found their courage to follow. Adrien kneed the animal. The horse began to race. She felt its majestic power beneath her and the hard-muscled chest of the man behind her, hot and vital. She closed her eyes, leaning against Matthew’s neck in the wild ride as branches and leaves slapped at her face and tore at her cloak.

Matthew left the others far behind, and in time, Danielle became aware that they were out of danger, that Adrien raced on out of fury. He slowed when they came to the river, reining the stallion in at the bank. Both bridges were far downstream to the east.

He nudged the horse forward.

“It’s freezing!” she cried out in protest.

“You might have killed us both—and you are afraid of a little water?”

“I am afraid of nothing.”

“You lie, for you had best be afraid of me tonight!”

“If I would fear you at all, it would be because it appears you intend to drown us!”

“Nay, be glad of the water. Perhaps my temper will be cooled.”

They entered into the water. The cold was brutal.

“Oh, you can just go straight to hell!” she snapped, praying that he attributed her shaking to the coldness of the water and not to the wild stirring within her.

They reached the opposite bank and once again, he began to ride hard. The breeze whipped against her soaked clothing and she shivered anew. They rode on and on. Then she saw the stone walls of her own fortress of Aville.

The gates opened as they neared them and rode quickly in, then closed behind them at an invisible command. Adrien rode the stallion straight to the door that led to the manor keep. In the darkness, a groom stirred when called to take Matthew’s reins and care for him.

Danielle could scarcely walk when she was set upon the ground, but he was in a mood to grant no mercy as she tried to elude him, hurrying for the hall. He caught her arm, not allowing her a moment’s respite. She prayed to see a familiar face. Rem, Daylin, Monteine … anyone.

But the hall was empty.

“Upstairs, my lady!” he commanded, and she had little choice as he dragged her along to the master’s chambers.

She found herself all but thrown into the room, spinning to stand at the foot of the carved, four-poster bed, while he paced before the massive fire that burned in the huge fireplace.

She looked longingly to the door. She was shaking, for she knew what she had done. Treason against the King of England. And worse: she had betrayed him.

“No servants will attend you here tonight, milady. When I discovered your foolish treachery, I saw to it that I could bring you back unseen. These are no longer games you play with me! You and your indignant protestations of innocence! This was treason, Danielle. The servants have been sent out for the night. Don’t look to others for help.”

“I look nowhere for help!” she lied.

“Nay, lady?”

She refused to respond, but despite herself, she shivered wretchedly; her clothing felt like a glove of ice.

Suddenly he ceased his pacing and stared at her, seeing her discomfort. “Get those things off!” he roared. But she lifted her chin stubbornly, fighting a threatening rush of tears. “They are causing you to shiver,” he snapped.

“I shall shiver if I choose.”

“Indeed, you shall shiver, but because
I
choose—I want you to shiver in abject fear!” he growled. And as he started toward her, she took a step backward, crying out quickly. She was an idiot; she could hang for her offense.

“As you—command!” she gasped.

He halted, glittering eyes still offering her no hint that his anger might abate, his temper relent. But as her cloak fell to the ground, he turned to the bed, drawing from it the soft covering of Flemish wool. He waited. She gritted her teeth and cast off her shoes and hose, tunic and chemise. His searing gaze swept contemptuously over her, and he cast the blanket her way. She quickly wrapped it around herself. He drew his own soaked cloak from his shoulders, letting it fall, and stood in simple but expensive garments that hugged his muscled frame—hose, shirt, and tunic. He was every bit as tall as their renowned Plantagenet king, as well-versed in war, grown hard and solid, muscled like steel, in its pursuit. Indeed, she had learned the strength of those muscles, and felt a quivering deep within her even now, which she fought valiantly to ignore.

She inched her chin up, standing very still, determined not to cry out. She could explain, but he would never believe her.

“Sweet Jesu!” he swore soundly. “Edward does not deserve this hatred on your part!”

She forced herself to remain calm. “I wished no harm to Edward. I don’t hate him. I merely sought to warn King Jean—”

“King Jean is well aware there will be battle, and what aids the French king injures the English one! To help Jean, lady, you do great hurt to Edward!”

That gave her quite a tug upon her heart, for she felt for Edward as she did for Adrien. So very often, she had loathed him. Had been infuriated by him, determined to defy him, to defeat him.

And yet …

She loved him as well.

“My God!” he said suddenly, his voice thick and trembling with renewed anger. “Do you know that heads have rolled, that necks have been broken, for far less than you attempted this night? Good Lord, I should strike you down, you little fool!”

Guilt assailed her again. She could not let him see it.

“You are Edward’s lackey,” she ventured. “You have gained everything through him.”

“Including you?”

“Including my lands and titles!” she whispered.

“Would that I had been deprived! And, aye, lady! I am his lackey, I am his man, and I warn you now, don’t ever forget it again, or that you are my wife!”