Linda Barlow (7 page)

She held his gaze, and this time it was he who looked away. But she had recognized something in him which she had never seen before: a kind of pained resignation, as if he had realized that he must tread carefully, be courteous, but keep his distance, taking care not to injure an old friend who had grown old enough to make unwelcome demands on him. He sighed faintly, dragging a hand through his thick dark hair. Something about the gesture called up her earlier impression of the world-weariness from which he seemed to be suffering. What was wrong with him? Had he undergone some heartsickness, some tragedy? An unhappy love affair, perhaps?

"Roger, good heavens, I was a child when last we saw each other. You were so much older, and yet you actually played with me. Naturally I adored you. You were a hero to me."

"I'm no fit suitor for you," he said, as if she hadn't spoken. There was an odd, almost haunted look in his eyes. "Believe it. I'm no hero now. The things that happen to young women who get entangled with me are..." He paused, as if searching for the right words. "...highly unpleasant."

This made her curious, yet only half her attention was on his words. She was surreptitiously looking at his body. There was no doubt about it: he was as comely a man as she had ever seen. With his dark, lively eyes, and his tough, yet graceful build, he was much more magnetic than either of his brothers. There was something about the sheer physicality of him, the way he moved and carried himself, even the way he breathed, that called out to her and drew her.

Averting her gaze to stare into the low-burning fire, Alexandra examined her heart. Despite her denials, she suspected that it would be easy to fall in love with him. It was not just his looks, but his entire manner: he was mysterious and exciting, even dangerous. She was already feeling his pull deep in the most secret places of her body. She wanted to touch him. She wanted to slide her palms over his skin and feel his fingers stroking her in return.

She could imagine herself longing for their fathers to arrange a marriage between them, and awaiting its formalization in a breathless haze of anticipation. And yet, because she possessed little in the way of feminine vanity, she could also imagine a lack of enthusiasm on Roger's part; an understandable desire, considering his history, for a woman more courtly and sophisticated than herself.

No, she told herself firmly. The vague thoughts on the matter that had been running through her head all day would have to be dismissed forever. A union between her and Roger was impossible. She must accept it. Moreover, she must make sure he did not suspect that the idea held any appeal for her. Rather than worry about hurting the feelings of some silly country maiden, he would withdraw his friendship. She certainly didn't want that.

"I really wouldn't fret. I assure you, my father has no interest in such a match. He's given up whatever designs he may have had on the barony of Whitcombe. And as for me,"—she gave him her most earnest smile—"I never had any."

"So you've discussed the matter with Sir Charles?"

"When Father was here for Will's burial, the subject of my marriage came up," she admitted. "I' faith, he seemed adamantly opposed to you. He said you had an unsavory reputation and that you were unsuitable for me."

Roger grimaced. "Very sensible."

"So, as soon as my father secures a position for me, I'm to go to court and look for a husband there. I suspect he intends to dangle me before every titled nobleman between the ages of seventeen and seventy."

"You father knows a great many people. No doubt he'll arrange a splendid match for you."

"No doubt," she said glumly.

His dark eyes searched her expression. "You don't wish to marry?"

"I don't wish to be bartered in exchange for riches or property, no. Nor do I care to have my lifelong bedmate forced upon me by my father."

He raised his eyebrows. "What a radical view. Your father is likely to be a much better judge of husbands than you."

"Would you allow your father to choose a wife for you? You're up in arms at the very idea."

"I've had more experience in these matters."

"You mean because you've had all sorts of mistresses while I'm still a maiden? I'm not convinced it makes a jot of difference. Some people are good judges of character, whatever their experience."

"Meaning you, I take it?"

"Yes, I believe so," she said, stating her main source of pride.

"And what does your excellent judgment tell you about my character?"

Alexandra pulled a wry face. "Now you're mocking me. I suppose I deserve it. I don't know, Roger. You're a mystery. I can't see very far into your dark and twisted soul."

She spoke lightly, and she expected him to stop looking so serious, but instead his frown deepened. "I would advise you not to try, either." He emptied his cup and poured more. "You'll only get hurt if you do, so kindly concentrate on someone—anyone—else."

"Now you're making it challenging."

He did not find this remark amusing. "I am in deadly earnest. You're an unusual young woman, and I'm fond of you, but I live in a world that is different from your own, and I do not welcome intruders."

She stood up with a jerk. "What do you imagine—that I intend to follow you about the way I did when I was a child?"

"Sit down," he said in the same tone he had used to intimidate Alan. "I haven't finished with you yet."

Her skin was burning from her scalp to her neckline. "And I'm not one of your junior seamen. I shall pay no heed to your commands."

His mouth twisted, as if annoyed, and he rose and came to stand over her. Mayhap he wasn’t accustomed to having his orders defied? She could feel the heat of his body, just inches from hers. An astonished cry escaped her as one of his hands reached out to wind itself into her thick red hair.

Jesu! "What are you doing?"

He made no reply. There was sharp escalation in the quakings that had been rippling through her belly ever since this conversation had begun. He tilted her head back so she would have to meet his eyes. His pupils were dilated so much that the brown of his eyes was merely a rim around two black, heated centers.

They stared at one another in silence. It was an angry stare, a challenge, almost. At least it began as such. Then something altered in the depths of his eyes. He made a low sound in the back of his throat, and pulled her flush against his body. "Alix," he breathed, his lips brushing her ear.

She knew she should extricate herself, and she would, of course, in just a moment. His embrace was most improper. He was holding her against him in such a manner that she could feel all the planes of his body, his hard muscles, his throat, his chest, his belly, his hips and, good heavens, what was
that
? How very interesting. She ought to make him stop. It would be highly wanton of her not to protest at all. But she couldn’t seem to shape the words of any sort of objection. It felt very nice. In fact, it felt lovely.

"You've grown up to be a woman I could easily fancy," he said in that same soft, seductive tone. He took her chin between his fingers and allowed his thumb to rub rhythmically over her lower lip, which relished the sensation. She shivered deliciously as her heartbeat accelerated.
Was he serious?
"I desired you from the moment I saw you primly praying by your dead lover's tomb."

She was sure her eyes must be round with surprise; she probably looked an idiot. She didn't know what to do or say. She thought perhaps she should try to draw away, but before she could do so, his grip on her tightened. Her head spun. She didn't want to draw away, of course. She liked being right where she was.

"Were you really innocent of him?" His hand slipped down over her throat, fingering the opal pendant where it lay flat against her skin just below the hollow at the base of her throat. The pendant seemed to be burning into her as he stroked it. He tugged on it a little, and the simple cord she had threaded it on loosened at the back of her neck. The pendant slid lower on her chest, and the tumult inside her increased as his hand slid lower also. She heard a soft rustling of cloth as his fingers explored her. Was he going to…? Jesu! She gasped as he touched one of her breasts through the simple homespun fabric. The sensation was intense. It ripped through her, causing hot tingles from head to toe. Her body arched against his, and his hand further disarranged her low-cut bodice. She felt warm fingers against bare skin. As he caressed her gently, the tips of her breasts hardened, feeling full and exquisitely sensitive. The tightening in her belly blossomed into a fiercely throbbing ache.

"Roger, I really don't think…" her voice trailed off as she made a half-hearted attempt to free herself.
He couldn't be serious!

"What, shy? I wonder how long that would last if I put my mind to arousing you. Red-haired women are said to be lusty."

His head inclined as if to take her lips, and she could scent the wine on his breath. Of course! He had been drinking. That was why this was happening. If he hadn't been in his cups, he would never even have noticed her.

Hurt and furious, she tore herself away. "That’s enough." She retreated a couple of steps. "I'm not some tavern wench to be toyed with in your drunken lechery."

His entire body tensed, his nostrils flared, and for an instant, she sensed that he might seize her again. Would he force her to respond to his caresses? Not that he would have to use force, she admitted to herself, painfully aware of the sensual excitement churning in her blood.

He swallowed and visibly regained control. He looked abashed, regretful even, but his voice was harsh as he said, "Get away from me, little virgin. Go to bed before I prove to you that you’re not as different from tavern wenches as you seem to think. I could take you, and make you swoon in pleasure under my caresses. But I'll be damned if I'll wed you."

"By the Mass, nobody asked you! You
do
have a high opinion of yourself, I see." She wrenched the bodice of her frock back into its proper place so violently that she jarred the pendant cord, loosening it further. The pendant slipped off and fell among the rushes at their feet. Absurdly, tears came into her eyes. "And you're a whoreson bastard when you're drunk."

Roger reached down to retrieve her gift, but because she was determined not to let him see her watery eyes, she turned away before he could hand it to her. "Good night," she mumbled, seizing one of the candles from the mantelpiece to light her way. Without looking toward him again, she fled in the direction of the stairs.

"Alix, stay!" His voice sounded sober, as if he'd realized how vilely he'd behaved. But she pretended not to hear. With her candle casting long shadows on the stone walls around her, she flew up the winding staircase to her familiar chamber.

* * *

Lying face down in the middle of the huge four-poster that took up most of the space in the small room, Alexandra reviewed the events that had just taken place. Her body was alive with a maddening tension that increased as she relived the feel of Roger's thumb on her lip, his fingers on her breast. Lust, she told herself, a little dazed by the idea. She was lusting after Roger!

Dear heavens, she moaned, flinging herself over so she was stretched out on her back. She pushed herself up on her elbows and surveyed her breasts, belly, and hips as if she'd never seen them before. Tears forgotten, she smiled at her slender young woman's body, and then abruptly broke into laughter. So this was what sexual passion felt like. For years she had wondered what it would be like to yearn after a lover. She had felt stirrings, certainly; she had fallen madly in love with her share of cheeky grooms and handsome men-at-arms, but never had her desires been deliberately aroused by any member of the opposite sex. She was a gentlewoman, and betrothed to the heir of Whitcombe—no man would have dared to dally with her. Only Will Trevor had possessed the right to do so, and he had never touched her.

Before Will's death, Alexandra had often wondered what their intimate life would be like. She had not been drawn to him. Will had never aroused this aching in her loins. But Roger...
I could take you and make you swoon in pleasure under my caresses.
Her cheeks flamed at the image his words evoked. No doubt he was right!

Still, she reflected with no small degree of regret, it had been the wine speaking. He didn't really feel that way about her. How could he? As her mother was constantly reminding her, she was too tall, too slender, too awkward, and nowhere near alluring enough.

In the morning he would be embarrassed. He would very likely apologize. She recalled his tone of voice at the end as he'd tried to call her back. He'd already realized that his treatment of her had been reprehensible.

Perhaps she shouldn't have fled so precipitously. She shouldn't have left his gift behind. He probably thought she had torn it off on purpose, no longer wishing to keep a present from him. This was untrue, and she didn't want him to think her so petty and ungrateful. Perhaps she should go back down and claim it.

The sensual tension in her lower body tightened at the thought of going back down to that dark, cavernous hall where Roger Trevor lounged in front of the flickering fire. What if he touched her again? What if he took her in his embrace and kissed her eager lips, running both hands over her breasts this time, and pressed her even closer, his loins moving against hers, his tongue sliding into her mouth...