Shana Abe (15 page)

It was signed, “Your Friend, Elisabeth de Corbeau.”

Well, at least Henry would be happy.

She slipped through the adjoining door so quietly that Roland almost didn’t hear her, not that it mattered. Before the sound came the awareness of her behind him, a provocative sensation pressing against his back, pleasurable and sharp. He was growing more familiar with it now, that intensity that only she could produce in him, and so when he turned to her he was still composed. The welcome on his lips died away, however, when he saw her.

Somehow he had not anticipated this. He had become accustomed to her in a more sensory manner over the past few weeks, noting the way of her more than the look of her. She had needed no enhancement to her beauty as far as he was concerned, and the state of her dress had never struck him in any other way than that the old bliaut was too large for her, creating some vague worry for her health.

But here now was Lady Kyla as others must surely have
seen her hundreds of times over, a glamorous flame of beauty so vivid it almost hurt to take it in.

The blue-and-gray gown was soft against her, hugging with startling clarity the figure he had been fantasizing about, outlining her breasts, clinging to her waist, her hips, to fall in secretive, feminine folds down to the floor.

His breath left him in an instant, he forgot to breathe, and then she walked toward him and the gown moved with her, showing him the curves and shadows of her body in a graceful flow of sapphire and pearl-gray, the silver links of a belt tilting low on her hips. The ends of the belt became lost in her steps, sliding and disappearing between her legs as she walked.

Roland felt himself begin to shake.

She paused as she reached the chair he had set apart for her, not meeting his eyes, then sat down, gathering the skirts around her.

It was as if he had never seen a woman before, never noticed how certain colors set off others, like the vibrant, deep blue to the burnished luster of her hair, the silken clarity of her pale skin. He had never before noticed that the squared cut of a bodice could frame so clearly the secret swell behind the cloth, suggesting what he had only dreamt of.

His wife
.

Roland gripped the back of her chair, moving it courteously closer to the table. From his stance above and behind her he could see over the top of her dark red hair, directly down that low neckline. He could watch her chest rise and fall, straining the cloth, pushing against it.…

He closed his eyes and backed away, finding his own seat.

She was quiet, of course, keeping her head modestly low, thinking her own mysterious thoughts and surely having no inkling of the direction of his own.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, covering his disorientation with a gesture to the food in front of them. “I’m afraid it’s mostly cold fare.”

“I could eat this chair itself, my lord,” she said sincerely.

She made him laugh, the unexpected humor in her
matching his own. “Perhaps we can find something a little more to your taste.”

He began to pick and choose for her from the array in front of them, selecting the choicest bits for her plate. She let him, silent again, watching his hands as they worked, moving over the cheeses, the cold roast, the bread. It was all so ordinary, so deceptively normal, the two of them alone together, dining together. And after all, they had done it before. Several times on the journey here he had joined her for a meal, judging for himself the depth of her appetite, what she favored, what she didn’t. Nothing so extraordinary in that, really, except that then he had been her captor, and she had been, in all honesty, his prisoner.

It had created a uniqueness to the scene, a grand pretense on his part that she was his honored guest and he was merely attempting to please her. Sometimes she had humored him, allowing him the game, but more often than not she had merely watched, an enigma to him, splendid in her solitude. And he had let her have her peace, though the burn for her would not dim.

Tonight was different. Both of them knew it, neither of them could acknowledge it.

She ate daintily, as was her wont, taking small bites. He found it difficult not to watch her eat; it was almost an art, the way she held the cheese between her fingertips, the way she closed her lips around the bite, the careful precision, the lowering of her eyelashes as she avoided his stare.

He ate almost nothing. He was not hungry, not in that way. His need was far deeper than that. Shadows from the braziers defined the valley between her breasts, sliding over the snowy skin, teasing him with light and dark.

“Everyone seemed very impressed with you, my lord,” she said into the silence, dipping a corner of her roast in hot mustard sauce.

“Really?” He toyed with the cutting knife on his plate, trying not to gape at the illumination of her.

“Capturing the outrageous Warwick, bringing her back.”

“Pay no attention to them, Kyla. They are fools.”

“Are they?”

“You know they are. They simply want to feed the scandal.” He shrugged. “They have little else to occupy them.”

“They came to Rosemead in droves,” she said. “Afterward, I mean.”

He didn’t say anything, so she continued, looking off somewhere over his shoulder.

“I would like to go back.”

“To Rosemead?”

“It’s my home.”

He considered this, the delicacy of the situation. “I think it might be best,” he said, attempting careful nonchalance, “if you were to stay away from Rosemead, at least for a while.”

She looked surprised. “Why?”

“I have told Henry I am taking you to Lorlreau. It’s what he is expecting. Rosemead is too close to London for him not to consider changing his mind about keeping you here.”

He was making it up, all of it, and desperately hoped she couldn’t tell. She scowled down at the table.

“You will see Rosemead again, never fear,” he tried.

“When?”

Roland let out his breath. “Someday. Someday after the scandal has blown over. Until then Lorlreau is the safest place for you.”

The scowl stayed; her fingers began to tap impatiently against the table.

“I am sending out men to investigate the death of your mother,” he said quickly. “It would be best to be gone by then.”

The tapping stilled. Finally she looked up at him, the light from the candles leaving her eyes clear and reflective, like mercury.

“I heard them congratulating you on your ruse.”

“My ruse?”

He wasn’t sure what she was talking about—his charade just now, or, for one heart-stopping moment, their marriage, that she thought it just a trick. But then she went on.

“Your letter, the one you sent at Glencarson. I believe they thought it quite clever.”

“Oh.” He didn’t want to talk about this, their history. It jarred the mood he wanted her in. “More wine?” He poured her more without waiting for her answer.

“It was, you know.” She looked at him thoughtfully. “Clever.”

“Thank you.” He picked up her goblet and handed it to her. “A toast.”

She held it, waiting, and he picked up his own and touched the rim against hers. “To Lady Strathmore, fair and daring.”

She gave a little laugh, disbelieving, but he didn’t smile back at her this time, just drank his wine. After a moment, so did she.

He set down his goblet with a thump.

“Are you tired?”

She gave him a quick, nervous look—the teasing lightness banished in a second—then spoke down into her wine. “No.” The goblet tilted, almost spilling on her. “Yes.”

Roland stood up, closed the distance between them. He took her goblet and put it on the table, then bent over and cupped her elbows with his palms, pulling her out of the chair. “Which is it?” he murmured.

She tilted her head back to meet his eyes, her own wide and luminous, and he knew right then that he was lost, because she was so lovely, and she was his, and nothing could stop him from tasting her again, from mingling the wine on her lips with his, which was what he did.

His hands gripped her arms, holding her in place as he bent her farther back, then sliding down to support her waist.

God, she was so sweet, sweeter than he remembered, and it was like she was the air around him, he needed to breathe her in to survive, he needed her to fill his lungs, his mouth, or he would perish in this surging fire that enveloped him.

He pushed the chair behind her out of the way without stopping his kiss, pulling her closer, feeling that soft, slender shape through the gown, the crush of her breasts against his chest, her hips a tormenting heaven against his.

There was no chain mail between them this time, nothing to prevent him from feeling her fully, only the thin layers of her gown and his own woolen tunic.

She was trembling slightly, kissing him back, but when he began to move them both to the bedroom she made a small sound, gasping for air. He wouldn’t let her protest—the wanting, the hunger quickening in him would not heed that—and so he swept her up in his arms and carried her to where he wanted her to be, the bed, laying her down and covering her with himself before she could move.

He had never wanted something this badly before in his life. Part of him was shaken by that knowledge, but the hunger devoured even that in the luscious curves of her beneath him, her hair spread like a sunset cloud around them.

He buried his face in it, the smooth, heavy silk of it, then moved over to her neck, stroking his hands down the sides of her body, lifting her hips to press harder against his, letting her feel how much he wanted her.

“My lord,” she said faintly.

He leaned over and kissed her again, invading her mouth with his tongue, plunging in over and over, an echo of the rhythm his body wanted to match with hers.

The placement of her hands on his shoulders became a barrier. She was pushing him away.

No!
his mind shouted, his body throbbed.

She began to arch herself beneath him, trying to get him off of her.

“Please,” she gasped, and he heard the anxiety in her voice.

It shattered him. He fell into little pieces around her, breaking off bit by bit, loosening his hold on her until without warning he had to drop his head into the curve of her neck, clenching his teeth, biting off the hunger while he was still able to manage it.

She was still now, panting, fingers digging into his shoulders in a frozen moment of rejection.

When he could he rolled off of her and onto his back, staring up at the darkened ceiling with a gritted parody of a smile.

“I beg your pardon,” he said.

Beside him she sat up but didn’t leave. After a long moment she spoke, smoothing her hands repetitively over her skirts.

“It’s just that … I don’t
know
you,” she said miserably.

He wanted to laugh at that but didn’t. It was too painful. “I was doing my best to remedy that, my lady.”

She didn’t get mad at that; he thought she might. Instead she stayed where she was, a lush blend of colors from the corner of his vision, her hair tumbled around her.

“I don’t know who you are,” she said slowly. “Are you my enemy or my friend? When I think I know the answer to the question you do something to change my mind. I can’t pin you down.”

“I am your husband,” he said carefully.

“Yes,” she replied, and nothing more.

He twisted to gaze up at her, watching her bite her lower lip. “Some would say that was enough,” he suggested gently.

Her head ducked down, he lost her face, the bitten lip, behind the curtain of her hair. “I know.”

Roland reached out his hand and captured a shining lock, twining it around his fingers and then his hand and then his wrist, pulling her closer and closer to him, until her face hung over his and his hand cupped the back of her neck.

“Don’t you think that’s enough?” he asked softly, holding her there.

The sensual line of her lips flattened out. “No, I don’t.”

“Are you certain? Do you know better than the church? Than the law?” He began to lightly pull her head down closer to his, feeling her breath on him, taking in her scent again.

“All I know is how I feel, Lord Strathmore.”

Her lips were almost on his, he held her in a steely grip but she would not go that last extra inch.

“I know how I feel, Lady Strathmore, and I feel that I have every right to get to
know
my wife better.” He emphasized the word to make his meaning clear. “And there is really no one in the world who would think differently than that.”

“Other than me.”

It would be so easy to close that last inch with force, both of them knew it. She was no match for him. If he chose to consummate their marriage right here and now there was really nothing she could do about it.

Except hate him.

He released her hair. “Other than you,” he agreed, and then sighed, tucking his hands behind his head, closing his eyes. There was even a shade of something like shame in him, that he would think of forcing her to please himself. Of course he wouldn’t. Of course not.

“I’m sorry,” she said, not sounding sorry at all.

“No more than I am, I assure you.”

There was a long period of silence, of him trying to control the stinging in his blood and her still beside him, unmoving, thinking about her virtue, or this monster she had married, or God knew what, Roland thought acidly.

At last she moved. “I will sleep in the other room, my lord.”

“No, you will not.” He sat up abruptly and saw her jump back, a reflex. It fueled the irritation mounting in him all the more, and mixed with the shame and hunger, making his voice curter than he meant it to be.

“I’ll sleep in the other damned room.”

He took a handful of blankets with him and left.

Chapter Eight