Samantha James (8 page)

“No!” she cried. “
No
!”

“Scream all you want, girl.” His laugh was grating. “Merrick is not here to save you now.”

“Ah, but he is. And it would appear that the lady still does not favor you, Raoul.”

It was Merrick. Raoul cursed roundly and let her go. Alana staggered slightly, her knees
weakened by sheer relief. Oh, it made no sense that her tormentor should be her salvation, yet in that moment Alana could hardly deny she welcomed his presence as never before.

“Alana.”

Her gaze swung to Merrick’s features, partially hidden in shadow. It struck her that this was the first time he had used her name.

“Yes?” She was still breathless from her struggle.

“I would speak with Raoul alone.”

Alana needed no further explanation, nor further prodding for that matter. She turned and bolted down the passageway.

Once the two men were alone, silence abounded, a silence borne of a curious tension. Merrick stood with his hands linked behind his back. He said nothing. Only the frigid scope of his eyes bespoke his displeasure.

Not so with Raoul. An easy smile twisted his lips. “What would you have me say, Merrick? She is a tasty morsel, eh? And ’tis hardly the first time we’ve had an eye for the same maid. Besides, you’ve yet to take her to your bed.”

Merrick’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know?”

Raoul shrugged. “I overheard the wench tell her sister.” He spread his hands wide. “So if you cannot handle her, my lord, of a certainty I shall—”

“Do not lay a hand on the girl again lest you wish to lose it.” Merrick’s tone was silky smooth. “I would hate to see your sword arm useless, Raoul. Do I make myself clear?”

Raoul’s smile slipped a bit. He nodded.

“Excellent,” Merrick murmured. “The girl is not fair game for you or any of the others. Make certain they know it as well.”

Raoul nodded and left. Merrick watched as he disappeared into the shadows, then he turned and strode toward his chamber.

Alana was sitting before the fire when Merrick walked in. At his entrance, she jumped up. He stood unmoving just inside the entrance, his expression wholly unreadable, eyes locked upon hers. And as the silence ripened between them, so did her unease.

She shifted nervously. There was a sharpness about him that boded ill. “What is it?” she asked, her tone very low. “Why do you stare at me so?”

For an instant she thought he would not reply. Then he said slowly, “You cause trouble in ways I’d not expected, Saxon.”

She wet her lips, still uneasy. “What do you mean?”

“Only this. From now on, you will not serve the others. You will serve only me.”

Her breath caught. “What! Don’t you have enough Saxon slaves to do your bidding?”

He approached her, until they stood but a breath apart. The merest hint of a smile grazed his mouth, but his eyes were cold. “You misunderstand me, lady. For indeed, I’ve decided your duties shall change.”

Alana stared at him. An awful suspicion began to take root in her mind. “What!” she said faintly. “Never say you want me to—”

“I can see you take my meaning. You will serve me, Saxon, and me alone. You will do whatever I wish. Whene’er I wish.”

For an instant she could only regard him in stunned incredulity. But fast on its heels came a raging fury. “Do you think I do not know what you are about? You do this only to spite me for trying to leave!”

He ran a fingertip down the delicate slope of her jaw. “Nay,” he said softly. “I do this to please me. And please me you will, lady.”

“I’d rather you locked me away never to see the dawn again,” she said bitterly.

“Oh, now that I do not doubt. And indeed, I wonder that I do not do just that. You are a temptation, Saxon, and I admit, I was foolish to think this would not happen. You see, I watched my men tonight…I watched my men watch
you
.”

Her lips parted in surprise. “Nay,” she said faintly. “You are wrong—”

“I am not. They undressed you with their eyes. They covet you for their own. But I alone will have what they covet. I will not share you—and they will know it.”

“What of me? What about my wishes?” she burst out. “And you wonder why I would seek to leave here! By God, I would ally myself with the devil himself, for I’d rather have anyone, anyone but you, Norman!”

He smiled tightly. “Even Raoul?”

Raoul
. The very mention of his name made her skin crawl. Yet in that instant she hated Merrick far more, hated him for his mockery.
Most of all, she hated him for the power he wielded over her.

He raised a brow. “No, then. I thought not.” His hands came down on her shoulders, disturbingly warm and strong.

“Aye,” he said again. “You will serve me, Saxon. In any way I choose. In every way I choose. And you will begin this night.” His tone was soft, so soft a shiver danced down her spine—delight or fear? “You will begin even now,” he whispered.

She was drawn close against his chest—so close the beat of her heart seemed not her own. There was a subtle tightening of his hands on her shoulders. His dark head bent low, blotting out the light. Her eyes fluttered shut. She braced herself inwardly, conscious of a strange inner trembling. It was then that the oddest notion took hold. Surely she didn’t want him to kiss her. Surely not…

But his lips never touched hers. There came a violent pounding on the door.

“My lord,” someone shouted. “Come quickly. Your nephew Simon…I fear he is dying!”

R
aoul’s mood was vicious as he walked away from Merrick. Someday, he decided furiously, someday Merrick would not be the all-powerful lord. Yes, he vowed, someday the tables would be turned…

He hadn’t gone more than a few steps when a rustle of movement snared his attention. His head whipped around. There, hidden in the shadows of an open doorway, was Alana’s half-sister. She tried to step back when she realized she’d been discovered, but Raoul was too quick. With a growl of rage he wrenched her forward.

“Curse you, wench, I know what you are about! Do you spy on them—or me?” he demanded.

Sybil’s eyes flashed. “Mayhap I should ask the same of you!”

Raoul’s jaw thrust forward. He did not refute her.

Sybil tossed her head. “Aye, I saw you in the hall when I was with Alana. You lurked
below the stairs, listening to all we said.” She smiled sly. “Indeed, Raoul, ’twould seem we have much in common.”

She eyed him boldly, her hands braced on generous hips. She paid no heed to the way her bliaud stretched taut over her breasts, clearly displaying their rounded shape. “Mayhap more than you think,” he muttered.

She did not flinch from his blatant regard, but met and matched it with her own.
Here was one who well realized her power over men—and no doubt used it to her every advantage
, he thought. An admirable trait, he decided vaguely, though he was hardly wont to let a woman exert such control over him. Nay, he would far rather admire her in other, more pleasurable ways.

A primitive lust had already begun to boil within him. His eyes glinted. The two were sisters, not so alike in appearance, but both were beauties nonetheless. His desire had been piqued by the proud, haughty one, whom he still wanted. But he would settle for this one…

He snatched a candle from an iron spike mounted on the wall. Quickly he scanned the chamber behind her. Neither weapons nor trunks lined the walls. No one would be returning here to spend the night.

Sybil cried out when he grasped her arm and pulled her within. Raoul whirled on her.

I’ve seen the way you look at Merrick. You want him,” Rauol growled. “And I want her. So let us make do with each other in the meantime.”

With that he seized her in a bone-crushing embrace. His mouth ravaged hers in a kiss of bruising intensity.

“Stop,” she gasped when she was at last able to break away. “I do not fight you.”

He raised his head and raked her with a burning gaze. “And why not, wench? Do you not despise the Normans as your sister does?”

Her eyes gleamed. “Nay,” she answered. “Indeed, what does it matter that you are Norman? You are handsome and well muscled”—her gaze swept down his body—“and well endowed from the feel of it.”

His grip on her eased ever so slightly. “Methinks you are not as cold as your sister, wench,” he muttered.

Sybil laughed, a low, sultry sound. “I give you a solemn vow here and now, Raoul. I will please you far more than she.”

He allowed her to wiggle from his arms. Displaying no embarrassment whatsoever, she let her bliaud slip from her shoulders. Her chemise followed and then she was naked.

He stared with avid boldness. Her breasts were jutting and white and full, crowned with huge dark nipples. Dark curls grew lush and thick at the juncture of her thighs. With burning eyes he watched as she smiled and tipped her head back. Her gaze never leaving his, she licked the tips of her fingers, then slid them slowly around her nipples, leaving them shiny wet and erect.

Her eyes half-closed. Raoul’s hand fumbled with his braies as she played with her breasts.
His hand closed around his rod, pulsing and stiff. He began to work his hand forward and back. His blood pounded. His breath came harsh and fast.

Sybil paused in her self-ministrations. His prick seemed to swell and grow and thicken beneath her very eyes. She grew hot all over, especially there in the secret place between her thighs. In an instant, she was there before him, naked and on her knees. She licked her lips.

“Let me,” she whispered. “Let me.”

Raoul cast back his head and groaned. With deft, sure hands and hot, wet mouth she brought him to the brink of heaven.

“Enough,” he growled. He dragged her up and to her feet then took her mouth in a ravening kiss. She met him openly. Eagerly. Her hands slid into his braies to smooth sleek, hard flanks, even as his fingers slid through damp, dark curls to her woman’s mound.

“Tell me, wench,” he rasped. “Are you as wet there as you are here?” His mouth opened on hers. Their tongues dueled wildly.

Her legs parted in invitation. Boldly he stroked hot, pink flesh fairly weeping with dew.

Her head arched back. A seductive smile curved her lips. “I’ve always wondered…do you Normans do it differently?”

His head jerked up. His eyes were glittering.

Her smile widened. “Show me, Norman,” she invited. “Show me your prowess with your lance of steel…”

In answer he gripped her buttocks. Bracing his legs wide and lifting her high, he brought her fiercely down on his engorged manhood, impaling her hard and deep. Spasms of ecstasy shook her. She clutched at his arms and moaned deep in her chest, a keening sound of rapture.

Their coupling was wild and savage. They didn’t make it to the bed, or even to the table. There were no further words. There was only panting and groaning, the sounds of mutual lust.

Simon was indeed sick, and deathly so, from the look of him. His skin was pasty white. He writhed on the floor in agony.

Merrick knelt beside him. “Simon.” His voice was hoarse with concern. “My God, boy, what ails you?”

Simon’s features were a mask of pure anguish. “My belly,” he gasped. “There are…swords in my belly.” He gazed pleadingly upward. “Help me, Uncle…I pray you…help me.”

Never in his life had Merrick experienced such helplessness. An acrid fear clutched his insides. He was half-afraid his man was right—that Simon might die.

No…no!
He could not let that happen. Genevieve had entrusted her only son to his care. He could not fail her…he could not fail Simon!

His mind tumbled and churned. They had
brought no physician with them from Normandy. Indeed, there was no one to whom they could turn…His mind screamed. How could this have happened?
How
? A fleeting notion took hold…

“Take the boy to the bedchamber across from mine,” he barked out. He whirled and retraced his steps.

Alana jumped when the door crashed open. She rose, clasping her hands before her. “How is he?” she asked quickly. “How is Simon?”

“Mayhap you are the one to tell me, lady.” Merrick spoke from between clenched teeth.

Alana stared at him. Her mouth went dry, for his countenance was terrible to behold. The very air around him seemed to sizzle and burn.

She gave a tiny shake of her head. “I-I do not know what you mean,” she said uneasily.

A vivid curse filled the air. “You choose to play the innocent but I will know the truth, lady.” Alana cried out as he seized her arm and proceeded to march her across the hall. Her head was still spinning when he stopped beside a narrow bed. She drew a sharp breath as she looked down at Simon.

Beside her Merrick was taut with fury. “He was with you most of the day, Saxon. And someone heard the two of you arguing. So did you do this? Did you cast some witch’s spell over him that he might sicken and die?”

Outrage came later. For now, Alana was only hurt that he could think her so cruel. “Nay!” she cried. “God’s blood, he is only a boy—”

“A Norman, lady. And you’ve made your feelings toward us quite clear.”

Alana stared down at Simon. ’Twas clear the boy was in dire straits. He clutched his knees to his chest. He moaned almost constantly. She touched his forehead. His skin was hot as fire, yet moist and clammy, beaded with sweat.

She shook her head wildly. “I would never harm him,” she whispered. “He is just a boy…I could never harm anyone!”

Merrick made a sound of disgust and spun around.

Alana ran after him. “Wait!” she cried, snagging his elbow. “I-I can help him, if only you will let me.”

“You?” His lips curled. He made no secret of his doubt.

“Aye! My mother was the village healer. I helped her countless times over the years, from the time I was a child.”

He said nothing, merely stared down at her with narrowed eyes.

“Ask Sybil, if you don’t believe me. Ask any of the villagers. They would have naught to do with me after she was gone, but as God is my witness, she taught me all she knew of herbs and potions.” Her fingers trembled where they lay on his forearm. Beneath her fingertips, his muscles were knotted and tense.

Still he made no answer. “Please.” With her eyes she pleaded with him. With words she beseeched him. “I would help Simon, if only you would let me.” She held her breath and waited.

Just when she thought he would refuse, he spoke. “No tricks; Saxon,” he warned harshly. “You will heal him. Else you will pay the price.”

Alana nodded. A chill went through her as she turned away, for Merrick appeared utterly ruthless, utterly demanding. She returned to the bedside, her mind working furiously. Her mother had taught her well, but it was just as she claimed—her skills had seen little use. She prayed that she might remember…And she prayed that Simon would live.

Else she might very well die.

Perchance some force from on high had been looking out for her that day. Alana gave thanks that she’d had the foresight to rescue the pouch with her mother’s herbs. Simon burned with fever, yet shook with chills from head to toe. Pain wracked his entire body. He thrashed wildly, his limbs scarcely at rest. She prepared a tea to help ease the cramping in his belly. Merrick lurked just behind her shoulder, ever watchful, ever on guard. He made her so nervous she nearly spilled the goblet in which she’d poured the steaming brew.

She took a deep breath and turned to face him. “Must you watch me so?”

He folded powerful arms across his chest. “I watch you to make certain you do not poison him.”

Alana held fast to her temper. “I do not poison him. I would give him something to ease the cramps in his belly.”

“Indeed.” He stepped close and sniffed. “It smells most foul, Saxon.”

Her eyes were snapping. “If it will ease your mind, Norman, I will drink it first.”

He said neither yea nor nay, so Alana took a generous sip of the tea. After a moment, he gave a terse nod. “Proceed, then.”

Gritting her teeth, Alana turned her back on him, resolving to forget Merrick’s presence. Nor was it difficult, for Simon’s condition grew steadily worse. At first he could keep nothing down. His fever rose ever higher, hot as fire. At first she suspected he’d eaten food that mayhap had been spoiled. Yet no one else had sickened. More than once, it crossed her mind that perchance Merrick was not wrong after all. Mayhap someone
had
poisoned him…

She spent the whole of the second night bathing him with cool water, from head to toe. He was barely conscious and could ingest neither food nor water. The cramps in his belly were still ferocious. His breathing was fast and labored. His lips grew chapped, his skin withered like parchment.

Alana became desperate. Her mother had oft warned her that such signs were dangerous. She could help him, if only he could drink! In sudden decisiveness, she took a reed and thrust it into the tea. By holding a finger over the top, she was able to draw the liquid into the reed and then dribble it into the corner of his mouth. Her patience unending, she sat there hour upon hour, praying he swallowed enough of the brew to ease the pains in his belly.

For three long days she stood vigil at his bedside. Merrick often hovered near. Knowing he examined her every move made it difficult to concentrate. Several times he commanded she leave, that someone else might take her place. Alana curtly refused. No doubt he thought she could not save the boy, but she would prove to him she hadn’t lied, no matter what!

Her efforts were rewarded by the evening of the third day. Simon’s fever broke. His breathing was almost normal. He fell into a deep, untroubled sleep.

Alana knew instinctively that the crisis had passed. The relief that flooded her was immense. Merrick had gone to the hall for the evening meal. Numb with fatigue, she decided to lay her head down, just for a bit. Faith, but she couldn’t remember when she had been so tired! She would rest, just for a moment…

That was how Merrick found her. She sat on a low stool near the bedside, slumped forward. She was sleeping, he realized.

He moved across to the bedside, taking care to be quiet. His gaze slid to Simon. His regard sharpened, for Simon’s color appeared almost normal—and he seemed to be slumbering peacefully. Touching the boy’s forehead, he breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief. Praise God, Simon’s fever was gone!

His eyes returned to Alana and lingered. Despite his efforts to harden his heart, there was something oddly vulnerable in her pose.
Her cheek rested atop one hand; the other lay curled in a small fist amidst the rumpled linen sheet.

“Saxon.” The sound was but a breath of air. He paused, experiencing a rare moment of indecision, then he lightly shook her shoulder. “Saxon,” he said again, more loudly this time. Still she didn’t stir.

She was exhausted, he realized grimly, and little wonder. She had refused to let anyone else tend Simon—never had he encountered such stubbornness in a wench! His thoughts were tinged with both exasperation and a grudging respect. Nay, he couldn’t fault her care of Simon. Indeed, if not for her, Simon might even now lay cold in his grave.

He strode belowstairs to summon a maid to sit with Simon, then he returned to the chamber. He hesitated, then bent low to gather her in his arms. Faith! but she weighed scarcely more than a child!

In his chamber, he pulled back the furs and lowered her gently to the bed. He made short work of unwinding the hides that bound her feet, flinging them to the floor, his mouth tight with disapproval. He did not stop there but continued his task, easing her bliaud from her shoulders and down her body. Her chemise came next; it was so worn in places it was nearly sheer, he noted grimly. Though his hands displayed far more care than haste, his last tug caused a rent in the linen he knew could not be repaired.