Samantha James (9 page)

There was an odd tightening in his gut. She
lay before him, naked and wondrously so—like a feast provided for his sole pleasure. Merrick would not have called himself a man had he spurned the temptation roused by such a vision of loveliness. He could count each curve of her ribs, yet she had gained some flesh in the little time she’d spent with him.

Her chest rose and fell with every breath. Her breasts were small but sweetly curved, tipped with nipples the color of pale pink roses. Her belly was flat and concave. Dark gold fleece crowned the treasure between her thighs. Despite her slenderness, there was a soft, womanly roundness to her that roused all that was raw and hungry and male in him. Her skin was pale and umblemished. He knew that if he were to touch her, she would feel like warm, rich silk. Blood rushed hot and thick to his loins, pooling there until he swelled taut and rigid as marble.

Merrick could not help himself. Her mouth was soft and full and slightly parted, moist as a morning dew; it was as if she were begging to be well and thoroughly kissed. Suddenly that was exactly what he longed to do—kiss her into oblivion. Taste for himself her unguarded response. Bury his rod inside her, deep and hard as he slaked his passion…

With the tip of a finger he traced one deep pink circle, the gentlest caress. Beneath his fingers the peak hardened to a tight little bud. The glint in his eye bespoke his satisfaction. Even in sleep, she responded to him. Defy him she would—fight him to the very end—yet her
body was not so immune to him as she would pretend.

A faint smile rimmed his mouth. If she knew he saw her thus—touched her thus—he would bear the sting of her fiery tongue. A dark resolve slipped over him then.

He would not lay a hand on her this night. Nay, not a finger. For he wanted her awake. He wanted to watch her as he brought her to climax. He wanted to hear her moan her passion into his mouth, feel her flesh clamp tight and hot about his own.

Beating down his regret, he stripped. But when he would have pinched out the candle flame, he caught the glint of dark gold eyes gleaming at him from beneath the chair.

It was her cat—the cat whose claw marks even now striped his shoulder.

He strode across the floor and threw open the door. Grabbing his tunic, he whipped it toward the animal. “Begone with you!” he muttered. “Now, you wretched creature!”

With a hiss and swish of his tail, the cat leaped from his hiding place and ran through the door.

Pacified at last, he crawled into bed beside Alana. Sweeping the hair from her brow, he pulled her close and closed his eyes. Soon he joined her in slumber.

Not so with Alana.

She was exhausted, weary in every way. But while sleep came easily and for a time numbed the whole of her body and mind, it did not
remain a healing balm for long. Deep in the murky abyss in which she sought refuge, her restless mind gave her no peace. A dark side of the spirit slipped over her. Aye, and the dream, the dream she so dreaded…

It came yet again.

The same…yet different.

She was close to the sea, so very close. The briny scent stung her nostrils; the bracing force of the wind whipped her hair and skirts. The sound of the surf pounded in her ears. Her vision was filled by the dark outline of sea and sky
.

But all at once the smell of the sea became the stench of death, cloying and sickening. Twisting images and shapes shifted and loomed and circled in every direction; darkness caved in, closing around her so that she could scarcely draw breath. Desperate to escape, she began to run, as if she were beset by demons and devils. Yea, and mayhap ’twas true, for
he
was there again
.

He sat upon his warhorse, huge and dark. Beneath his helm, his eyes glittered. Terror turned her blood to ice. His sword was held high above his head. Even as she stood paralyzed in fear, that massive blade swung down…

She could not move. She could only scream, and scream and scream…

“Saxon! Awaken now. You are safe…do you hear me, girl? You are safe…”

Safe
? Oh, she recognized that voice. She recognized the strength of those arms swept tight around her back. In some distant part of her mind, she knew she had awakened. The light from a candle wavered at the bedside. But her
frenzied mind could neither accept nor comprehend such comfort—and from him yet!

Nay, she thought faintly, she would never be safe. In that shattering instant, she knew only that Merrick was all that she feared…
everything
that she feared.

“Don’t touch me. I tell you, do not touch me!” With a strangled sob she broke his hold and scrambled back against the wall, clutching a pile of furs to her breast.

His lips pressed together. “What madness is this that you shrink from me so? ’Twas just a dream, do you hear? Dreams are not real, they cannot hurt you.”

Alana shook her head wildly. “You are wrong. ’Tis not just a dream. This will happen. I tell you
this will happen
.”

His eyes narrowed. “Tell me of this dream, Saxon.” She said nothing, merely stared up at him. Sheer, naked terror still coursed through her veins. He prompted her again sharply. “Tell me, Alana. Tell me what would frighten you so.”

Alana shook her head. The breath that filled her lungs was deep and racking. “I saw death,” she whispered. “I saw darkness. I saw
you
.”

I
saw darkness…I saw death…I saw
you…“You raised your sword high,” she gasped out. “You raised it high to…to strike me dead…”

He gave an impatient exclamation. “What nonsense is this, Saxon? I need no sword to overpower one such as you. And murderer though you think I am, I do not prey on helpless women. And you, lady, could never defend yourself against one such as me.”

Still she shrank from him, as if he were the most loathsome of creatures.

Merrick’s regard sharpened, as well as his mind. He recalled that very moment when he’d first laid eyes on her in the forest. She had stared at him, her features pale and stunned and almost…stricken.

It came to him like a sudden blow. She had been terrified of him even then.

“That first day in the forest,” he said slowly. “You stared at me as if I were some apparition from Hell.”

Alana shuddered, struggling to find a courage that was proving vastly elusive. She spoke haltingly, her voice barely audible. “’Twas because I—I had seen your face before.”

The sound he made was one of impatient exasperation. “Nay, that cannot be—”

“It’s true, I swear by all that is holy! I-I
had
seen you before.”

“Where?” he demanded. “In this dream?”

Alana stared at him. The remnants of her dream had begun to fade. The pounding of her heart was slowing. Merrick was here, aye—and oh, he demanded as fiercely and arrogantly as ever! Reality crept in slowly. Yet he did not seek to hurt her, she realized dimly.

“Aye,” she agreed shakily. Her gaze fell. She went on, her voice etched with a weary bleakness. “You thought it such a great jest that the villagers call me witch. But they truly believe I
am
a witch.”

His reply was swift and vehement. “And are you?”

Her emotions were a wild tempest. She ducked her head, grateful the silken fall of her hair hid her burning cheeks. But to her shame, tears glazed her eyes. “I do not know,” she whispered.

He said nothing. She felt the touch of those ice-blue eyes like the prick of a dagger.

“I—I should not be here,” she said suddenly. “I should be with Simon—”

“Simon’s fever is gone and he is doing very well now. He can do without your care this night.”

It was less an explanation than an order. Alana swallowed nervously, reluctantly lifting her gaze. A mistake, that!—for now her vision was filled with a view of an awesomely muscled chest, bare and disturbingly virile with its covering of wiry dark hairs.

He paid her no heed as he pinched out the candle. He lay back down, one strong arm tucked beneath his head. Alana quickly followed suit, sliding back beneath the furs. Embers from the fire cast out feeble fingers of a faint orange glow. Alana lay with her eyes wide open. She and Merrick touched nowhere, yet she felt his warmth like the burning blaze of a fire. The certainty that he was naked sent a flurry of alarm skidding down her spine. Yet as time marched on and he made no move to touch her, she realized he presented no threat but the one that lurked in her mind.

Beside her, Merrick turned his head. “This dream, Saxon. It comes to you often?”

Alana hesitated. “Only of late,” she allowed, her voice a mere thread of sound.

“And you’ve had other dreams before?”

Her lips pressed together. Oh, but he was a clever one! “Aye,” she said curtly.

“How long have they come to you? Always?”

“I—I cannot remember.”

He persisted. “This is why the villagers call you witch? Because of these dreams?”

Though she longed to deny it, to deny him, she didn’t dare. “Aye,” she said again.

“I would know the nature of these dreams, Saxon. Do they foretell the future?”

She glanced at him sharply. His regard was steady, as steady as hers was reticent.

“Sometimes,” she allowed.

Her reply was grudging yet he paid no heed. “And do these visions come true?”

She shivered, caught fast in a swirl of memories she’d rather not recall. “Some do,” she said, her tone very low.

The mattress shifted. Alana tensed, sensing his regard. But all he said was, “Tell me.”

Her lips trembled. She’d come to know him well enough to know he’d not allow her to shirk his questions. Slowly she began to speak.

“I dreamed once of the alewife, who was soon to bear a child. In my dream her babe was born with his feet turned inward.”

“And was it so?”

She nodded. Her fingers linked together over her breast as she went on. “There was a cottar who once lived in the village. I dreamed I saw his son standing atop the cliffs near Brynwald, high above the sea. Then all at once”—Her voice caught; her knuckles grew white—“All at once I saw him falling, plunging toward the raging waters of the sea.”

“What then?” he asked after a moment.

“The next evening he was found dead, lying on the beach below Brynwald.”

She both felt and heard his surprise. “But—how?”

“The villagers whispered that I pushed him. Only my mother and Aubrey believed it could
have been an accident—that the boy fell. Only they believed me innocent.” She drew a deep, uneven breath. “So now you know, Norman. Now you know why they call me witch.”

When he said nothing, her eyes sought his; they were but a glimmer of light in the darkness. She started when a strong hand came to cover hers where it lay atop her breast.

“Ah, but if you were a witch,” she heard him say, “you’d have fled me long before now.”

“Ah, but I did try—”

“Fled,” he stressed flatly, “and
succeeded
.”

Did he mock her? Alana could not tell. Though she clearly discerned the outline of his head, the muscled bulge of his shoulders, his features were dark and shadowed. Then all at once he turned his head. He was frowning blackly.

“Come here,” he growled. “You’re still shivering.”

His mouth was tight. It chased through her mind that she had displeased him yet again. She started to shake her head, but before her protest could find voice, he had turned and gathered her against him, drawing her close to his side.

Alana didn’t move; she didn’t dare. She was all at once heartstoppingly aware that he was naked. Her hand lay curled atop the dark breadth of his chest. Her cheek lay snug against the sleek hard flesh of his shoulder.

She would never sleep, not like this, not with him beside her! Yet his warmth was like a cocoon around her, his presence a refuge.
Her mind began to swim. It wasn’t right that she should feel so—so safe. Nay, it made no sense, for he was all that threatened her. Yet curiously, it was as if nothing or no one could harm her…

It was morning when she next awoke. She lay huddled on her side in the bed, her senses still foggy with sleep. She felt absurdly cold, for Merrick did not lie beside her.

She couldn’t help but ponder the night just past—not the terrible dream that plagued her but, rather, what had followed. An elusive memory stirred—a whisper of breath across her cheek, the merest brush of a hand on her brow. Her heartbeat quickened. She had lain in Merrick’s arms throughout the night and into the morn. They were strong, those arms—so very warm and strong!—yet frightening, too, in some way she couldn’t define.

The door creaked. Merrick strode in, as bold as ever. Alana started to sit up only to sink back in abject horror as she realized she wore not a stitch of clothing. A wise decision, too, for at that precise instant two young lads wrestled an oval-shaped wooden tub through the door. At Merrick’s direction, they placed it before the fire. Several more traipsed through the door hauling buckets of water. Hidden deep within the furs, Alana watched with wide eyes as the tub was filled with steaming hot water.

Once the procession had ended and the last youth had gone, Merrick closed the door. He turned to face her, a half-smile on his lips, one
dark brow cocked at an arrogant slant. Alana glared at him, a trifle annoyed that he was fully awake—aye, and fully dressed!

She nodded at the tub. “I suppose you expect me to bathe you,” she said stiffly. While she was well aware it was the custom for the lady of the manor to assist male guests with their bath, she was hardly the lady of the manor…and loath though she was to admit it, he was hardly a guest.

His maddening smile ripened. “The bath is not for me, Saxon.”

Alana’s jaw firmed. “I dislike such games, Norman. If not for you, then for whom?”

He swept a gallant hand toward the tub. “Why, who else, Saxon?”

Her glare turned to one of outright suspicion. “Surely not I—”

“And I would say again, who
else
but you?”

Oh, he did not fool her! This was naught but a trick for she knew he was well aware of her nakedness.

She shook her head wildly. “No,” she said, her voice but a breath. “I-I cannot. I will not!”

His smile vanished. “You will, Saxon. Because I ask it. Nay, because I demand it.”

In but the blink of an eye, all traces of amusement had fled. His features hardened. His expression grew closed and tight. There would be no arguing with him, she acknowledged dimly, just as there would be no denying him.

So it was that in the end she tugged a wide fur around her shoulders and scooted to the
edge of the bed. A slim white thigh flashed into view as she extended a bare toe downward to the cold stone floor, then raced across the floor. Her grip on the concealing fur didn’t lessen until the very last instant. She clambered over the side of the tub. In her haste she banged her knee and sloshed water everywhere, but Alana cared not. Quickly she sank beneath the water.

But the sanctuary she meant to find was simply not to be. Merrick did not leave as she hoped—prayed! Nay, the wretch, he advanced still closer, to tower before her at the foot of the tub. With no shame whatsoever, he gazed down at her. To Alana’s everlasting mortification, his regard was as bold and brash as the man himself!

Her face burned painfully. Indeed, the whole of her body went hot, for she was well aware he sought to see what she would much rather he did not! Water sloshed anew as she wrapped her arms around her knees and hugged them close to her breasts.

And still her torment did not end.

Slowly he moved around so that he stood at her back. Her heart seemed to jump in her chest when he knelt just behind her. She twisted around, trying to see him. “Wh-what are you doing?”

He reached for a cloth atop a nearby stool. “Lady, I should think ’twould be obvious. You have no maid to attend to this duty. Therefore, I will attend you.”

A maid? Oh, now he mocked her cruelly!

“I need no assistance, Norman. And I would be most appreciative were you to leave.” Her resolve was firm, but her confidence had begun to waver.

And so had her voice.

She did not see the way Merrick’s gaze narrowed intently. Her modesty chafed, for surely he was hardly the first man to see her naked. And indeed, his desire to see her so had scarcely been satisfied. Instead he’d been granted tantalizing glimpses of pale, perfect flesh; glimpses that were ever a temptation, a temptation that only sharpened his hunger and made it ever more difficult to put aside.

But the time was nearly at hand. Soon, he promised himself, she would be his. Soon…

A coarse fingertip swept a blazing path across the gleaming slope of her shoulder. “Leave?” he echoed lightly. “And deprive myself of this pleasure?”

“Pleasure! Must your pleasure always come at my humiliation?” No longer did she look at him. Her voice was low and choked.

Merrick chastened himself harshly. He must be mad to allow this to happen, for who but a fool would let such tearful protestations sway his desire—and aye, his intent! If she were spitting and angry and defiant, the match might have been well met. But as it was…

“So be it, Saxon. If you require no assistance then I shall offer none.”

The cloth landed in the water with a loud
plop
. A wedge of soap quickly followed. Alana didn’t wait to count her good fortune but set
to work washing herself hurriedly. The flesh of her shoulder still burned where he had caressed her, and she scrubbed there furiously until she winced in pain. Had she been alone, the bath would have been a veritable heaven. But with Merrick present, the sooner she was finished and once again dressed, the better. With that in mind, she ducked her head under, then quickly lathered and rinsed her hair.

She wrung out the heavy tresses as best she could and tugged it into a long rope over her shoulder. It was then she saw a length of linen had been placed within reach. Merrick, she saw, stood before the window, his hands behind his back. Alana hastily assured herself that his gaze lay elsewhere, then rose. Water sluiced down her body as she stepped from the tub.

Rather clumsily she wound the cloth around her breasts and back; it hung nearly to the floor. Glistening droplets of water still clung to her shoulders and arms. She shivered, for she’d been far more concerned with seeing her body decently covered than dried. Stepping before the fire, she shook her hair loose and combed through the silken tresses with her fingers, leaning toward the heat that it might dry more quickly.

So intent was she that she didn’t notice Merrick’s attention was now wholly on her. His gaze was drawn to her unwillingly—unendingly. The linen cloth clung damply to her, provocatively revealing the slender shape of her—small, round breasts like firm,
ripe fruit, hips that flared alluringly. The bare skin of her shoulders gleamed with the lustre of a pearl; it beckoned his touch. An odd sensation gripped his belly, like a fist drawn low and tight. He longed to strip away that wretched cloth and explore with lips and hands all that she sought to withhold from him so desperately.

Across the chamber, Alana glanced around, searching for her chemise and bliaud. From the corner of her eye she saw that Merrick no longer faced the window. She spied her clothing lying at the foot of the bed. But just as she would have reached for them, a dark hand imperiously pushed hers aside and grabbed them up.

Alana bristled. “What is this, Norman! Would you steal the very clothes from my back?”

He strode to the hearth. As if he heard nary a word, he tossed the handful of cloth into the fire. There was a pop and a hiss. Flames licked high and bright.