Samantha James (25 page)

Alana’s hands twisted in her lap. She was dangerously close to tears, and she hated both herself and him for bringing about such weakness.

“Of course not! Oh, why can’t you see? Radburn has given you no trouble these many months, but he was not meant to labor in the fields. He was trained to be a knight, as you were. And—and that is what he should be!”

Merrick’s lip curled. “You champion him well, Saxon. Dare I ask why? Dare I ask the nature of the kiss you shared?”

For a mind-splitting instant, Alana could
only gape. Then she protested heartily. “We shared naught—”

“Ah, but you did.” The twist of his lips resembled a snarl more than a smile. “I saw your hand on his arm, sweet. Your lips on his cheek.”

Alana despised the flush that even now heated her cheeks. “I but comforted him—”

“What need has he of comfort?
Your
comfort, I would add?”

The truth nearly spilled from her lips, but she had promised Genevieve she would not betray her secret. Even as a burning ache seared her breast, she was filled with a stinging resentment that he could think so little of her.

Bravely she raised her chin. “You refuse? You will keep him in the fields?”

Merrick’s jaw snapped shut. “Aye!”

Alana’s eyes were smoldering. “You refuse only because
I
ask it,” she cried.

“I refuse because I am lord here, Saxon. I would remember that were I you. And a word of warning,” he said fiercely. “If I should see you with Radburn, both of you will regret it. This I promise. By God, this I vow.”

Sheer outrage brought her to her feet. “Oh, how foolish of me to forget! My duty is to please you, is it not?”

He stopped before her. “Your duty—and aye, your affections!—are to me, your lord and husband. And it seems you need a reminder, Saxon.”

Strong hands caught at her arms, brought her close, so close she could feel the unyield
ing breadth of his body. She opened her mouth to cry out, but there was no chance. She had but one glimpse of glowing heated eyes before his mouth trapped hers.

Her cry was smothered deep in her throat. His kiss was not the sweet caress she knew him capable of, but a punishment. Though he did not hurt her, she could feel the anger in his touch. Struggling to be free, she tore her mouth from his and shoved at his chest.

“Nay,” she gasped. “Nay!”

Slowly he raised his head. His tone was as grim as his tightly drawn features. “What! Do you deny me yet again, Saxon?”

A suffocating tightness seemed to wrap around her chest. “Aye,” she stated with aching heart and tear-choked voice. “I would
not
deny the man who is my husband, the father of my son. But I would deny the man who proclaims himself my lord and conqueror.”

He snatched her against him with a force that wrenched the breath from her lungs. His fingers bit into the tender flesh of her arms. A low, strangled moan broke from her throat even as his head dipped low.

But the hurtful kiss she expected to bear was not to be. For one long, paralyzing moment their eyes met and clashed, his dark with some nameless emotion, hers bright and sparkling with tears. With a muffled oath he flung himself away…

Then there was only the sound of her heartbeat drumming in her ears.

The tension sapped her courage and
strength. She sank to the floor in a heap, awash with a blinding despair.

Nothing had changed, she realized with stark, wrenching clarity. She was Merrick’s wife—his
wife
—but still he did not trust her. And alas, he was still her lord and conqueror…

She meant nothing to him, nothing at all.

P
erchance it was inevitable. Later she was certain it was so, for Merrick did not return to their chamber…and her dream returned that very night.

The same…yet different.

All around loomed shadows and darkness, an endless sea of black. The stench of blood lay thick in the air. Bloodcurdling screams pierced the night. Then all at once thunder and lightning broke the sky wide open. As if from above, she saw herself, frozen there amidst the terror and the evil. Then she was within herself once more. Her feet began to move. Her heart pounded with stark, frantic terror. She was running…from something…nay, some
one.

Bodies lay strewn all about. Normans. Saxons…and men from the North
.

Her eyes snapped open. She bolted upright and pressed her fingertips into her forehead. A sick sense of dread churned in her belly, for all at once she knew…

“Danes,” she whispered, and then again: “
Danes
.”

A figure screeched shrilly and backed away—the maid who had just crept in to wake her mistress.

“Nay,” Alana cried wildly. “Do not be afraid of me. Oh, don’t you see? ’Tis the Danes! The Danes will come here…to Brynwald! They will attack and—”

With a shriek the woman darted from the chamber.

By eveningtide it was the talk of the keep—how Alana had been visited by another vision and was convinced that Danes would attack.

Within a sennight, all thought her mad.

Merrick was more furious than ever.

And much to her despair, all was as it had been before. Alana was heartsick, for Merrick’s manner with her was cold and remote. He returned to their bed but they lay ever apart, ever distant. No tender words were whispered in her ear; he made no move to renew the passion that had once flared so brightly between them. Her nerves were scraped raw, for whene’er they were together, the air between them was charged with the fury of a thunderbolt.

She lay on her side late one morn, nursing Geoffrey, alone in the chamber. With a fingertip she tenderly traced the curl of one tiny ear. The slightest smile touched her lips. Already he resembled his father greatly—aye, and in temperament as well, for when he was hungry, he was demanding and would ever have his way. But surely he would grow to be handsome and strong and brave and proud…

A sound nearby alerted her to another presence. Merrick stood there in the doorway, so tall and commanding he stole her breath. Yet an empty despair encircled her heart, for never had he appeared more aloof than at this moment. Instinctively she tugged the sheet over the bareness of her breast, for with his manner so distant she was shy about displaying herself so before him. She did not see the way his expression tightened.

He wasted no time stating his business. “I plan to spend the day hawking, Saxon. I suggest you spend yours packing your chest, for I am sending you and Geoffrey to London on the morrow.”

Stunned, Alana stared at him. “London,” she echoed. “Will you be going?”

“Nay.”

An awful tightness lay heavy in her breast. “Then…why would you send me away?”

He gestured impatiently. “The villeins fear you, Alana. I would assure your safety from them.”

“My safety! You—you lie, Merrick! You would be rid of me!” Her cry was a mixture of outrage and fear. She started to raise up, only to remember Geoffrey.

“You will not be alone,” he told her, his eyes pure ice. “Genevieve may accompany you.” There was an awful finality to his tone. He spun around and left.

But Alana would not be so meekly accepting. Quickly she rose and put Geoffrey in his cradle. The babe wailed loudly, but she raced
after Merrick as if Satan himself were at her heels.

She caught up with him in the yard, just as he would have mounted his horse. Panting, she seized his elbow. “Merrick, what of the Danes? You must believe me, for I know it will happen—and soon! You must prepare the keep for battle—”

He whirled on her, his expression as fierce as she’d ever seen it. “Cease this display, Alana! You make a fool of yourself!”

From behind her came a sneer. “Pay her no heed, my lord, for ’tis but a trick. She would blind us to the truth—that she murdered Father Edgar. And now she seeks to gain favor by crying that the Danes will come.”

Alana turned in rage. “Scoff if you like, all of you, but I tell you they will come! And you will be sorry you were not ready!”

“Mad, she is,” proclaimed the lout beside the first. “A mad witch!”

Merrick stepped forward. “Enough!” he shouted. “I will hear no more!” He leveled on the pair a glare so blistering they paled and fell back a step. His jaw clenched and he turned back to Alana, snaring her arm and urging her into the hall where they might speak in private.

She placed her hand on his forearm. “Merrick, I beg of you,” she implored. “Do not do this. Do not send me to London.”

He gazed down at her dispassionately. Beneath her fingertips his arm was rigid. “You plead so prettily, sweet, but I would know…Why are you so determined to stay? Is it because you cannot stand to be parted from
me—or from your handsome young Saxon?”

She stiffened.
Damn you!
she thought.
Damn you to hell!
In that instant, she almost hated him. His arrogance. His power over her fate. “You are wrong about me,” she said feelingly. “And you are wrong about Radburn. Indeed, you forget he fought for your sister—”

Merrick’s jaw locked anew. “And he fought for you, too, sweet. Let us not forget that.”

Her fingers locked convulsively around his forearm. Her heart cried out.
How can you do this?
she screamed silently.
It’s always been you…only you…Oh, don’t you know that I love you?

But all that seared her breast would never be spoken. She would neither cry, nor beg nor plead, for there was little point. Merrick did not love her, she realized with heartbreaking candor. He would never believe that she loved him.

And it seemed he did not want
her
.

Tears burned the back of Alana’s throat. Gathering what little of her dignity remained, she raised her chin. “I can offer no more assurance than what I have done, Merrick. I have been faithful to you in every way, in every deed. Never have I betrayed you, though I know you think otherwise. So I would ask you once more. Do not send me to London!”

His mouth tightened. “’Tis you I think of, Saxon. The people distrust you. Matters are still unsettled here and feelings still run high against you.”

“And what of you? Do you believe I killed Father Edgar?”

For the space of a heartbeat she fear he would not answer—or perhaps she feared he might. At last he said, “Nay. I do not.”

Through some miracle she did not retreat from his regard. “Then tell me this. The others think me mad. Is that what you think as well? That I am mad? A mad witch?”

He remained brutally silent, and in that silence she read a bitter truth. ’Twas then she saw the one thing she’d not thought to see in his eyes…the one thing she could not bear to see. A glimmer of doubt.

His posture was inflexible, yet when he spoke, it was not what she expected. “Mayhap you are,” he said harshly. “God help me, I do not know anymore! I know only that these dreams of yours have come to naught.”

When she would have protested, he shook his head. “Nay, Saxon! Need I remind you of your foolishness? You dreamed I raised my sword high to strike you dead. Yet never have I hurt you, never! You’ve come to no harm at my hand, nor will you!” His lip curled. “If I can hold no store in your dreams, ’tis little wonder.”

His scathing denunciation cut her to ribbons. Ever conscious of his thin-lipped scrutiny, she drew a sharp, painful breath and swallowed her heartache. “No matter what you think of me, Merrick, I tell you my dream will come to pass. Brynwald is in danger of attack from the Danes. Do not disregard this!”

He did not turn away as she thought he would. “We will talk more on this when I return, Saxon. For now, I suggest you ready yourself for your journey.”

Her hand fell away from his arm. So it was true. He thought her mad, as mad as the others believed her to be. A corner of her heart seemed to shatter, then another and another. How she stopped herself from sobbing aloud, she knew not. She could bear such condemnation from the others for she had known it all her life, but not from Merrick…never from him.

He spun around. Not once did he deign to look back. She was left alone…alone as never before.

Raoul was mayhap the only one who did not doubt Alana’s claim that the Danes would soon attack. Concealed behind a corner, he grinned as he listened to the heated exchange between Alana and Merrick. Rubbing his hands together with glee, he recalled the moment just a few days past when he’d first conceived his plan.

Merrick had dispatched him to carry a message to Robert, a fellow Norman who ruled a large fief to the north of Brynwald. He’d spent the night at an alehouse upon his return. It was while he supped that he noticed a youth across from him. He wore a cap and boots and leggings of a fur Raoul did not recognize. Even as he watched, the youth sidled closer to the Norman men-at-arms who occupied the bench behind him. The youth’s head
cocked to and fro; he semed to be listening intently.

Such behavior was quick to arouse Raoul’s suspicions. When the youth slipped out the door a few moments later, Raoul quickly rose and followed him.

“Hold there, boy!” he shouted once he was outside.

The youth stopped, then slowly turned.

Raoul stepped before him. “Who are you?” he demaned.

The youth’s eyes flickered, but he said nothing.

“I saw you listening to those soldiers,” he barked. “Now answer me, boy!” When the boy again said nothing, Raoul snarled and snatched the cap from his head. Hair the color of straw stuck out in every direction. Raoul swore. “Bedamned! Are you one of the Danes?”

The youth’s eyes flickered. When he would have remained silent, Raoul seized his arm and twisted it behind his back. “If you value your life, you will tell me who you are,” he said between his teeth. “And do not pretend you do not understand me, for I know you do or you would not be here!”

The youth was bent nearly double. “I am Dagnor,” he gasped, “son of Rasmus the Fair.”

Raoul did not lessen his grip. “And why are you here? To spy?”

“Y—Yes!” the youth stammered. “My father sent me to discover what rich fiefs lie near.”

Raoul’s eyes began to gleam. He allowed the
Dane to straighten but kept a bruising grip on his arm. “So,” he mused. “You return to your father now?”

The youth nodded.

Raoul allowed the boy to straighten but kept a bruising grip on his arm. “I would have you take me to him, boy.”

Dagnor gaped. “Why?”

Raoul laughed. “Because I can help him with what he seeks. A rich fief…and your life, boy.”

Recalling that night roused a potent satisfaction. A slow smile crept across his lips. All he had dreamed of was within his gasp. Brynwald…and Alana.

Indeed, ’twould be his this very day.

Even as the sun rose high in the sky Alana’s spirits dipped low. At Genevieve’s urging, she spent most of the day making ready for the journey. Though a part of her longed to blatantly defy her husband, she decided bitterly that Merrick would have his way, no matter what her wishes.

Late in the afternoon after feeding Geoffrey, she laid him in his cradle and summoned a maid to stay with him. Needing solace from the world that battered her, she sought refuge where she had found it so often before—along the rocky beach below the cliffs.

There, as a lonely wind whipped her hair and skirts and stung her cheeks, she railed against herself and Merrick. For all that lay between them…

For all that would not.

The sound of her name being called roused her from her despair. Thinking it was perhaps Merrick, she flung up her head. But alas, it was not.

Instead it was Raoul. He stood before her, his hands braced on his hips, his demeanor one of supreme and utter arrogance.

Beneath her mantle, Alana straightened her shoulders. “Let me pass,” she said quietly.

“I think not, my love.

Her glare burned hot as fire. “I am not your love,” she snapped.

“Ah, but you will be.” His smile was feral.

An icy tingle of foreboding ran down Alana’s spine. But before she could say a word, Raoul’s smile widened.

“Unfortunately, I fear your prediction was not quite right, my love. For you see, the Danes will not be coming after all. Indeed,” he went on softly, “they are already here.”

One by one, a half-dozen men filed out behind Raoul. Their hair was shaggy and unkempt as the beards that obscured their faces. Clad in rough, furry animal skins, to Alana’s startled eyes they appeared as massive giants.

Held fast in the grip of a staggering horror, her mind screamed silently. If only her dreams had deceived her. If only her eyes did as well. For God above, Raoul did not lie…

They were Danes.

Though Merrick heartily enjoyed hawking, he could summon little enthusiasm for such sport this day. In truth, he was sorely vexed by the fiery Saxon he’d taken to wife, for she strained his temper and his patience as no other.

It was then he was forced to acknowledge the truth—’twas not Alana with whom he was angry. ’Twas himself, for he could not forget her wounded expression, her eyes wide and shimmering with tears. His accusation hammered in his skull, again and again.

Mayhap you are mad
.

A bitter self-loathing blackened his heart. His conscience stabbed at him. He had hurt her, hurt her immensely. God’s blood, he didn’t know what had come over him! His mood had been black as sin; some devil within seized hold of him and would not let go.

He should never have taken her into his home. Into his bed. He should never have touched her. Loved her…Yet he could imagine no other in his life.

In his heart.

A wrenching pain clawed at his insides. They shared a son, a son that would bind them through all eternity. He did not doubt that she loved Geoffrey…but did she secretly wish the babe’s sire were a certain handsome young Saxon? He scowled, glad that Simon had ridden off to retrieve the rabbit he’d killed.