Secret Heart (35 page)

Roarke’s
tongue slid along her lips in a tempting, teasing motion. Jenia
opened her mouth on a soft intake of breath and Roarke seized full
advantage. Jenia moaned and opened wider, longing for more of him.
She didn’t doubt where this was leading, not after the passion he
had introduced her to during their night together at Calean. She
welcomed what would come next.

“
Jenia.”
He broke off the kiss to gaze at her with a question in his eyes,
and Jenia knew he’d stop if she asked him to proceed no further.
For all his tough manliness, Roarke would never force
her.

“
Don’t
stop,” she whispered. Sliding out of his arms, she backed toward
the bed. She had gained enough knowledge during her one night with
him to see and recognize the evidence of his desire flaring against
the lower edge of his tunic. She licked her suddenly dry lips,
noticing the way his gaze was caught by the slight
motion.

“
Come to
me, Roarke. Bolt the door and come to me.”

The look in his eyes nearly melted her bones.
Unable to stand, she sank down on the bed and sat there,
immobilized by rising emotion. In a moment the door was securely
fastened and Roarke was kneeling next to her, his hands clasping
hers.

“
How I
want you,” he murmured, planting kisses in her palms, one after the
other, and then on her wrists. “I find myself thinking of you when
I ought to be making plans and conferring with Garit and Lord
Giles.”

“
They can
wait,” she said. “You have set your plan and we can do no more
until Walderon appears. This time right now, these few precious
hours, belong to us. Lie with me, Roarke. Make love to
me.”

No well bred noblewoman ought to make such a
request, not even of her husband if she had one. Passionate desire
was for peasants carousing in the fields on Midsummer Eve. Ladies
were supposed to be above such base earthly needs.

Jenia no
longer cared about propriety. Most of what she’d been taught was
right and fitting for a noble lady had been stripped away from her
in the dungeon several levels beneath where she now sat watching
Roarke remove her low boots and begin to roll down the waist-high
hose she’d worn for riding.

In the
violence of Chantal’s death and her own danger, the old rules had
become irrelevant to her. She had emerged from the stormy sea a new
person, a woman who could shiver in delight at the touch of
Roarke’s hands along her calves and thighs, and then higher, more
daringly, into the moist warmth of her most sensitive place.
Chantal had never known such intense pleasure, and Jenia was not
going to forego it because of foolish stipulations about a
noblewoman’s proper behavior. When Roarke took his hand away from
her, she whimpered in protest.

“
Come,”
he whispered, tugging at her gown until she understood that he
wanted her to remove it. He helped her, and he took her shift off,
too. Then he settled her on the bed and stood above her while he
divested himself of his belt, tunic and hose and, finally, of his
linen undershirt.

She gasped to see him fully aroused, the
great, hard length of his manhood jutting out from the nest of dark
hair at his groin. His muscular thighs flexed as he lowered himself
to kiss her lips and her throat, to wind his fingers through her
hair.

And all the time she felt the stiffness
against her belly, teasing her as she grew ever warmer, ever more
eager to hold him deep within her body. When she could bear the
deprivation no longer she reached down and folded her fingers
around him, stroking gently.

Roarke went perfectly still.

“
You will
drive me mad,” he growled, and grabbed her wrist to remove her
hand.

“
Roarke,
please, I want—”

“
I know
what you want. This.” He tested her with one probing finger and she
knew he found her moist and hot. And eager. So eager.

“
Yes!”
Her hands clutched at his shoulders, her nails digging deep into
his strong muscles.

“
And
this.” He fitted himself to her and Jenia reared up against him,
unable to stop herself. Then Roarke was filling her, completing her
as they became one. He went still again, this time staring into her
eyes as if he wanted to read and know her soul.

“
You are
mine,” he said. “Now and always.”

“
Yes.” It
was a surrender, yet not a defeat, not in any way. “And you are
mine, Roarke.”

“
Always.”
His mouth on hers sealed what Jenia knew was a solemn oath more
binding than many a marriage contract witnessed by king and mages
and nobles.

“
Only
you,” Roarke whispered. “No one else for me. Never.”

“
Roarke.”
She wanted to make her own promise, to tell him she’d never
accept anyone else, either, but she discovered she couldn’t speak.
Suddenly her heart caught fire. The cleansing heat of Roarke’s
honest passion seared away the last bitterness of unjust
imprisonment and cruel death that had festered in her soul, until
in his embrace she knew every rule binding mortals was unnecessary,
except for the rule of love.

Treasuring that sublime knowledge, Jenia
burned along with Roarke, hotter and ever hotter as the flames of
their mutual desire leapt higher until, uttering a great cry,
Roarke shuddered against her. An instant later Jenia burst and
scattered into burning, aching pieces, each delicate cinder glowing
red enough to brand her heart and soul with love.

Only very slowly did the heat cool. When she
came to herself again she found that Roarke was still deeply
embedded in her, still holding her close, cherishing and protecting
her. They held each other for a long, long time before he gently
separated himself from her.

“
I meant
it,” he whispered, his cheek against hers. “I meant every word.
Never doubt me, Jenia.”

“
Good day
to you, Uncle Walderon.” Jenia stood on the battlements near the
main gate, from where she could look directly down at the troop of
horsemen on the other side of the moat. An errant breeze sent her
sheer silk veil wafting about her face. She put up one hand to
secure the golden circlet that was meant to keep both the veil and
her hair controlled.

Her
feelings were under complete control. She was perfectly calm, her
hand steady, though her heart was soaring, for this was the day of
justice, when Chantal would be avenged. Whatever King Henryk
finally decided to do with Walderon no longer mattered to Jenia.
Only this single day mattered. And afterward – well, she wouldn’t
think about afterward. She would take this crisp autumn day as it
came, rejoicing in the solid strength of the Nalo Mountains at her
back and in the sun’s warm glow. She’d make certain that by the
time the sun set that evening, Walderon would admit his guilt. He’d
spend the coming night in Thury’s dungeon.

At the
moment, Walderon and his men couldn’t enter the castle because
Roarke had ordered the drawbridge raised. Stopped on the far side
of the moat, they milled around in a confused way, a very
bedraggled little army with their bright clothing and their long,
colorful pennants soggy after an early morning shower. They did not
look at all like the brave company that Walderon had apparently
organized to act as his escort during his triumphant entry into
Calean City.

The breeze sharpened, a harbinger of colder
weather soon to come, and Jenia could see that several of the
squires on the opposite side of the moat were shivering. Only
Walderon, and Burke at his side, appeared immune to the discomfort
of the morning chill. From the look of Walderon, baffled irritation
was keeping him warm.

“
Who are
you?” he demanded of the figure in shimmering blue that stood high
above him.

“
Why,
Uncle, don’t you recognize your own, dear niece?” she called,
mocking him with a truth she distorted only a little. “As you can
see, I escaped from your henchmen and came here to Thury to wait
for you.”

“
What are
you talking about, wench? Thury is my domain. Have the drawbridge
lowered at once!”

“
Oh, no,
Uncle,” Jenia told him. “I will not permit your people to enter
Thury. Never again will they terrorize the good folk of this
castle.”

Jenia could hear the low murmuring of those
same castle folk who stood on the battlements or who gathered in
the outer bailey just below where she had taken her position. Her
words were aimed at securing their loyalty away from Walderon and
to her and her companions.

She shot a quick glance toward Roarke, who
remained concealed behind a merlon, as they had previously agreed.
He smiled at her and nodded as if to give her courage. But she
required none from him. She carried her own courage deep within her
soul. The memory of Chantal was all she needed to make her
brave.

“
If you
want to enter Thury,” she called down to Walderon, “you must come
in alone.”

“
What?”
Walderon squinted up at her in disbelief. “Impudent wench! How dare
you refuse entry to my men?”

“
You
heard me,” she called. “Come alone, or not at all.”

“
Don’t
go, my lord,” Jenia heard Burke say. “‘Tis a trick. You know that
cannot be Lady Chantal up there. The wench is an
impostor.”

“
Do you
think so, Burke?” Jenia cried. “How can you be so certain? As you
see, I survived my plunge into the ocean.”

“
No!”
Walderon yelled. “Chantal is dead. She cannot swim. If you were the
real Chantal, you’d know that.”

“
I was
borne up by the waves and carried safe to shore by my noble
outrage,” Jenia told him. “And here I am, resurrected and in
control of my own castle.” Sudden laughter bubbled up in her and
she let it come, loosing the merry sound so her uncle and his
henchman could hear it. Both Walderon and Burke looked shocked and
decidedly worried.

For the
space of a single heartbeat Jenia felt Walderon’s corrupt Power
brush across her mind. She had expected it, so she held her own,
slighter Power so deep within herself that his cursory search could
not detect it. She was telling the truth, for the most part, and
she was so honestly cheerful and confident that he must have
believed she really was Chantal, for his malignant touch quickly
departed from her.

“
Do you
think I am a ghost, Uncle?” she called. “I assure you, I am not. Do
you want to make certain of me? Then, come inside and take a closer
look.”

“
Don’t do
it,” Burke advised.

But Walderon, who was no coward, was already
dismounting. Tossing the reins of his horse to Burke, he strolled
to the place near the edge of the moat where the drawbridge would
touch down when it was lowered. He did not venture as far as the
short wooden boardwalk onto which the opened drawbridge would
fit.

Above
him, in the gatehouse windows, arrows were nocked into position as
the archers waited for Garit’s command to fire their
shafts.

“
My lord,
stop!” Burke cried in unconcealed dismay. “You endanger your own
life.”

“
How
loyal you are,” Walderon told him in a tone that implied he knew
exactly on what Burke’s loyalty was based. If Walderon fell from
power, if he was imprisoned or executed, Burke would receive the
same treatment, or worse.

“
Move
back, Burke, and take my men with you,” Walderon ordered. “They
won’t lower the drawbridge while you are all so close. I will call
you if I need you.”

Grumbling and swearing, Burke obeyed.
Walderon stood waiting, his head thrown back defiantly, fists
planted on his hips, and legs spread wide in a lordly pose that
denied any personal concerns, or any notion that he had lost his
control over Thury.

“
He wants
everyone to see he’s still the master here,” Jenia muttered to
Roarke, who was now peering through one of the crenels, the open
spaces in the battlements through which weapons could be
shot.

Next to Roarke a man-at-arms stood with his
back against the nearest merlon, the thick, upthrusting segment of
stone that divided one crenel from the next. The man was armed with
a crossbow, its deadly quarrel at the ready. When Roarke moved away
to join Jenia, the man-at-arms stepped to the crenel and stood
waiting.

But no
flight of arrows came from Walderon’s band, who were all retreating
across the meadow as their lord had commanded. Jenia heard the
creak of the windlass as the drawbridge began its slow
descent.

“
We’d
better go down there,” Roarke said to her. “By the time we reach
the inner bailey, the bridge will be all the way down and the
wicket gate will be open to let him inside. You did wonderfully
well, Jenia, as I knew you would.”

His smile warmed her. With an answering
smile, she took his arm.

During the meeting held on the previous
evening to plan their course of action, Lord Giles had suggested
they receive Walderon in the great hall, in a formal and stately
manner.

“
We ought
to emphasize that we hold Thury Castle rightfully, in King Henryk’s
name,” Lord Giles had said, “and that Walderon is a mere
interloper. He won’t like it, of course, but he’ll be outnumbered,
so he won’t be able to do anything about it.”

“
I don’t
care whether he likes it, or not,” Garit declared through set
teeth. He looked from Lord Giles to Roarke, and his glance was
fierce with the barely restrained anger that drove him.
“Understand, my friends, if I had my way, I’d personally skewer
Walderon the instant he walks through the wicket gate, and I’d not
care that I’d be striking an unknightly blow.”