Linda Barlow (22 page)

Alexandra drew a jerky breath and lifted her face to his. His slightest touch could make her forget that there was anything else in the world between them besides this craving, this passion. Eagerly her lips parted. Her fingers trembled as she fixed them on the thin fabric of his shirtsleeves. Aching with desire, she closed her eyes and waited for him to bend his head and take her mouth.

But he didn't. He pushed her away and rose to his feet. By the time she'd opened her eyes, he had already flung another log on the fire and turned to Merwynna's shelves. "Is there anything to drink in this hovel?"

"If you mean spirits, no."

He swore and slammed his fist down on the herb table. Alexandra bit her lip and tucked her knees up, hugging herself.

"What are you thinking?" she asked, watching him stare for several minutes into the fire.

He turned abruptly and allowed his gaze to rove her body, leaving no doubt in her mind what he was thinking. But his reply denied it: "That there are several points about your story that disturb me. Will's behavior in particular. You knew him well; you were betrothed to him. If you say he wasn't likely to do what he did that night, I'm inclined to believe you."

"And Ned, Roger. Why would he hang himself? It just doesn't match up with what I know of him. I mean, whoever heard of a peasant boy hanging himself in a fit of melancholia?"

"You told me yourself that he led a wretched existence. He was the butt of everybody's jokes, the village outcast. Peasants have hearts and souls too. They're just as entitled to be bitter about life as the rest of us."

"I know, but the timing is suspicious—you'll have to give me that. He'd been trying to find me, trying to tell me something. He gave me the broken dagger, and he was terribly frightened. Now he's been silenced forever."

"Where is this broken dagger you keep talking about? I’d like to have a look at it."

"It’s back in my chamber at Westmor." She described how she had found the blade that fit the broken hilt in the ditch where Will’s horse had thrown him. "You saw the hilt that day in the forest when you and Francis Lacklin were practicing swordplay. I thought you had recognized it."

"I remember noticing that the hilt was carved of ivory, and I did wonder about that," he said slowly. "It looked foreign, possibly Turkish, but I’m not an expert. It also looked old and broken and not worth worrying about."

"Ned was worried about it."

"You’ve already admitted that the boy was a half-wit."

Ignoring this objection, she continued, "The only people who knew about that dagger were Ned, my mother, Pris Martin, Francis Lacklin, and you."

"Pris Martin? The widow? How did she know about it?"

"She happened to be there when my mother passed the broken hilt along to me."

He considered. "It’s hard to imagine her strangling anybody. What, if anything, had she to do with Will?"

"Well, she was acquainted him, of course. Your family has been kind of her since her husband died, and my mother has also tried to help her. But, no, I can’t see her as a murderer, either."

"Almost anyone can be a murderer if they have sufficient reason."

"What about Francis Lacklin? He's been in the Mediterranean region. Might he own a Turkish dagger?"

Roger was silent for several seconds. She looked curiously at his face, but she couldn't guess what he was thinking. Finally he said, "He might. But I can’t think of any set of circumstances where he would feel free to slaughter my brother."

"I don’t trust him," she said with some trepidation. She didn't want to reveal how much she knew about Roger's interaction with Lacklin. It was clear that he already suspected her of knowing something. That must have been what he’d meant out on the cliff when he’d accused her of interfering in his affairs. Treason might not be a horrific a crime as fratricide, but if he were ever caught, he would die for it. "It seems to me that he's far more concerned with secular power than he is with religion."

"In his eyes, they go together."

"He's nearly as bad as the queen: if people don't agree with him, they must be either converted or destroyed."

"He's not that fanatical."

"He was at Whitcombe when Will died."

Roger was staring down at the bandage on his hand. He was considering the possibility, she would swear it. Her mind leapt. It could have been Francis Lacklin. Before his accident, Will had become disillusioned with heresy. He had been about to recant; at the end he had even asked for a priest. Perhaps he had guessed that Lacklin was plotting against the queen. Perhaps he had threatened to reveal what he knew to the baron, and Lacklin had felt it necessary to silence him.

"Of course he's not here now," she said reluctantly. "He left for London. We know Ned was alive this morning."

Roger raised his eyes. He glanced at Alan, then back to her. His mouth twisted. "I just can't believe that Francis would dirty his hands in such an affair. Even if he did have some reason for doing away with Will, he would refrain for my sake. In honor I'd have to avenge my brother's death. I'd have to challenge him. And since he's more skilled with the sword than I, he would be forced to kill me. Which he would never do. No, Alix, you'll have to do better than Francis if you want to convince me that there's anything more than your fertile imagination operating here. I know him; he can’t be guilty."

He sounded confident. She was shaken. In a few seconds she'd seen Roger accomplish what she herself had been unable to do: acquit a friend of suspicion. His sense of loyalty was stronger than hers. If their positions had been reversed, he would never have doubted her the way she'd doubted him.

She felt ashamed again. Rising, she went to search Merwynna's shelves for a headache powder. "I can't think anymore. I feel ill."

He pulled her stool closer to the hearth and made her sit on it. "Your hair is still wet, and you've been sick. Get closer to the fire." He returned to the shelves and began rummaging. "I hope there's something to eat in here. All this excitement is making me hungry."

"Me too." She smiled tentatively at him. "This afternoon in the cave, I was certain I'd never eat again."

"Idiot," he said, giving her soaking hair an affectionate tug. He found bread and cheese and laid them on the table. "This looks tempting. Let's have some supper. After that we'll discuss how I'm going to punish you for your vile suspicions of me."

Alexandra laughed to hide her sudden ungovernable yearning.

Chapter 11

Outside Merwynna's cottage it was raining again, and the wind had risen to a whistle. Merwynna had not returned. She often stayed away for many hours if a new mother's labor was protracted. Even if the babe were already born, Alexandra knew of no family who would send the midwife away on a night such as this.

After a supper of hard bread and cheese, Roger moved aimlessly about the tiny cottage, poking into Merwynna's strange jars and packets before finally sitting down to stare at his sleeping brother. "He's resting easily. Will he sleep through the night?"

"Undoubtedly. I gave him a hefty dose of medication."

"You don't need me then. I'd best go."

She surveyed the bandage on his head. "You're in no condition to go anywhere."

"Have you forgotten the searchers? There are three of us missing now."

"I don't care. 'Tis a wild night, and too long a distance to Whitcombe for you to tramp with your injured hand and that lump on your head." To emphasize this, she went to the door and opened it, waving a hand at the driving rain. "No one will be out in this. Your men will conclude that we've sought shelter for the night."

He came to her side and stared into the storm. When he spoke, his voice was tense. "It is far better, Alix, that I go."

His deep brown eyes, the arch of his eyebrows, the warm curve of his throat, his clever, long-fingered hands... She retreated to the hearth. Am I mad? she asked herself. Of course it was better that he go. Now that her fear of him was gone, there was nothing to restrain all her other feelings. "Your head must ache," she heard herself say.

He shut the door, contemplated it briefly, then sat down again on the empty mattress. "Aye." He glanced at her where she was standing in front of the fire, her red hair loose on her shoulders. "I'm a mass of aches and pains, thanks to you. You're something, Alexandra Douglas. You draw a dagger against a sword. You, an untrained young woman, stand there proposing to fight an armed man, a mercenary, a seaman who knows every filthy trick there is. I've never seen anything to match it."

"Oh well, you'd have carved me up in no time if you'd really been the villain I thought you were," she said in the quick, bright way she spoke when nervous. "It was considerate of you not to use your filthy tricks on me. No doubt I deserved them."

"And swimming that black lake to get the boat for Alan, even though you must have known it would enable me to catch you."

"I couldn't just leave him there, could I?"

"Gallant Alix," he said, not looking at her now, staring instead into the fire.

She sank onto her stool. An image came back to her—Roger's face just above hers in the dark, his body pressing her hard against the floor of the cave. The feel of him, the warmth of him.

She gazed into the red coals before her. The only sounds were Alan's breathing and the crackle and hiss of the burning wood. A translucent orange log stretched and crumbled into ash, consumed by its own propensity to flame.

"As soon as the rain lets up, I'll go."

She couldn't bring herself to speak.

"You can manage here alone, can you not? I'll return in the morning with enough men to carry him home."

She drew a deep breath. "I wish you wouldn't go."

"Think what you're saying, Alix." His voice was harsh.

"It's not as if we're alone," she retreated, nodding at Alan.

Roger raised his eyebrows at his brother's sleeping form, then shook his dark head slightly, frowning. Outside, the rain pelted the trees, thudded into the thatch above their heads. It was violent, short-lasting. It was bound to let up soon, and then he would go. He intended to leave Whitcombe soon. Who knew when she would see him again?

"You should always wear your hair loose."

She turned to meet his eyes, her face hot from the fire. She felt his glance take in not only her hair but her entire body. She felt as if his hands were moving over her. The simple tunic she had donned in place of her damp shirt had short sleeves and a rounded neckline. The fabric was thin, and the hemline fell somewhere in the vicinity of her knees. She had put it on for dryness, not for modesty. By the time his eyes came back to hers, the heat in her face had nothing to do with the fire.

"The truth is, sweetling, I've no wish to go anywhere."

She smiled at him, saying lightly, "Alan claimed you were threatening to seduce me."

"Actually, I have a strict policy of not debauching virgins, particularly when I don't intend to wed them."

"Whatever your policies are, you've never been famous for your self-restraint."

"No. Still, a sailor's life requires some discipline. I can control myself. You needn't pull another knife on me."

And suddenly she couldn't bear his bitterness. She rose and blindly crossed the few steps to him, kneeling down on the mattress beside him. "I made a terrible mistake today because I failed to follow my heart. I don't want to do that again. I don't want to reason, argue, or spar with words. I just want to do what I feel."

He hushed her with his fingers on her lips. His roughness against her softness was a sweet enticement. "Where feelings are strong, action is dangerous, love."

She kissed his fingertips. "I don't care."

"Listen to you." His voice vibrated as if he were trying to speak lightly, but not quite able to manage it. "Your mother would tear her hair out, lassie. Haven't you been warned about lecherous villains like me?"

"Endlessly." She knew she was courting disgrace and dishonor, but she couldn't help it. He wanted her. She could feel it in every fiber of her body. He really wanted her. She took his hand and pressed it into her thick mantle of hair.