My Rebellious Heart Read online

  He bowed low over the hand she extended, bringing her fingers to his lips. "Sir Geoffrey," she murmured. "I am—Lady Shana." Shana held her breath, afraid he might ask from whence she came.

  Praise the saints, he did not.' "Milady, your young friend mentioned you are on your way home from Ireland. I hope your journey has not tired you overmuch."

  "Not at all, milord."

  "Do you need lodging for the night, mayhap?"

  For all that he was English, his eyes were warm and kind, his manner gracious and genteel. She decided to throw caution to the wind. "In truth, Sir Geoffrey, I am here to seek audience with the Earl of Weston."

  Bloody hell! Geoffrey uttered a silent curse of good-natured vigor. What was it about Thorne that so drew the female of the species? He eyed her curiously. "Milady," he murmured. "Do I dare ask why?"

  She lowered her gaze. "It concerns a private matter, my lord."

  Geoffrey sighed. Whether the matter be business or pleasure, it seemed he would have to concede this beauty to Thorne. "In that case, milady, I've no choice but to aid you in your cause." He offered her his arm.

  Thorne had watched the pair from the corner of his eye. He could only guess at their conversation, but he'd seen Geoffrey's charm thaw the iciest of maidens more than once, thus he was mildly surprised when he saw the pair approach.

  "Thorne," Geoffrey greeted. 'The lady here has expressed a desire to make your acquaintance. Lady Shana, may I present Thorne de Wilde, Earl of Weston." With a flourish he transferred her hand from his elbow to the earl's. "Milady, I deliver you into Thorne's hands, with the utmost regret, I might add. But I wish you well on your journey home from Ireland."

  With that Geoffrey was gone. Shana found herself perversely wishing he had stayed. Her heart was drumming so that her chest hurt. Such forwardness was hardly like her, but only now did she consider what interpretation the earl might apply to her conduct. Would he think her loose or wanton? God forbid!

  He was broader than he looked from afar, yet still lean. His skin was weathered bronze from wind and sun. Shana had not thought to find him handsome, yet he was, and wickedly so. His jaw was square, ruggedly configured. His eyes shone brilliant and hard, as black as his heart, she decided with no little amount of rancor.

  He did not kiss her hand, as Geoffrey had done, but he held her fingers far longer than she liked—and she had the feeling he knew it. It was all she could do not to jerk away from his hated touch.

  "Lady Shana, 'tis a pleasure indeed to be sought out by one so fair as yourself. In truth, 'tis usually only my enemies who single me out."

  His words gave her a weighty pause, for he hit dangerously close to the truth. The merest of smiles lurked about his mouth, but there was a cruel slant to it that made her want to flinch. She quelled it swiftly, for already he'd proved he'd not be an easy one to fool; she must be ever wary and watch her step.

  "Your enemies, my lord? Are there so very many then?"

  Still he smiled—a devil's smile, she decided, yet his voice was chillingly soft. "A wise man once told me one should discover all one can about one's enemies. However, I can scarce believe one as lovely as you could harbor ill toward anyone. And yet, I wonder why you should so honor me."

  She wasted little time in her reply. "There is little to wonder about, my lord. 'Tis said you are King Edward's arm, come to conquer the Welsh. Why, your name is on everyone's lips—I daresay, in every household."

  There was naught but silk and honey in her tone, but her words, so pleasant to the extreme, grated on him like iron scraping rock. A curious tension sprang up between them, for he sensed her words were almost a challenge, a challenge he did not fully comprehend. He leveled on her a gaze of probing intensity, yet her own never faltered. After a moment, he decided he was mistaken.

  "You know these Welsh," he said with a lazy shrug. "Their fondest wish is to stir up trouble."

  Aye, thought Shana with a fervid prayer. The more, the better.

  His gaze, dark and depthless, rested upon her. "Where did you say your home is, milady?"

  "As I recall, milord, I did not."

  Once again Thorne's eyes narrowed. If this was a game she was about, she'd find that two could play as well as one—and she'd find herself well matched.

  "But you've journeyed all the way from Ireland?"

  "Aye, milord." A flicker of disquiet ran through her. Had she aroused his suspicion? He asked so many questions and that was something she'd not counted on. "My home," she hastened to add, "is nearly a day's ride from here. But before I venture on my way," a strange jolt went through her as she laid her hand beseechingly on the sleeve of his tunic, "I must speak with you in private, on a matter most urgent."

  The touch of her hand went through Thorne like a brand. He remembered well the feel of her hand lying in his. It was dainty and soft, small and supremely feminine; it proclaimed to the heavens— and to him—that she was a woman who had never known a hard day's work in all her days. Was she the pampered paramour of some nobleman, mayhap? One who had been cast aside in favor of another?

  She was too lovely to remain unclaimed for long, that was for certain. Indeed, so close at hand she was utterly exquisite, even more than he'd imagined. Her features were finely sculpted and flawless, her lovely mouth hued with the palest of rose. Wide gray eyes, clear and translucent as a rushing mountain stream, gazed mutely into his. All that was male and primeval within Thorne clamored to the fore. A surge of desire, potent and unchecked, heated his veins. He damned the concealing hood that hid the glory of her hair; what little he could see was rich and tawny-gold.

  But she wanted something from him, he realized curiously. And all at once he wondered just how far she would go to achieve her purpose ... whatever that purpose might be.

  So it was privacy she craved, was it? Nay, he decided with a touch of cynicism, in this he was not averse to obliging her. Nor would she be the first to ply her body in exchange for some small favor. Privacy would indeed suit what he had in mind.

  "Come," was all he said. A single movement flattened her hand against the crook of his elbow. With the pressure of his palm, he fettered her to him as surely as a shackle encircling her wrist. He paused only for a word with a young serving girl Another twenty paces took them to a tower door and through. Before she knew what he was about, he was leading her up and around a winding stair, through yet another door and into a large chamber.

  The door swung shut behind them with a dull thud.

  There Shana gaped in shock, the beat of her heart wild and rampant. Her gaze skimmed the huge curtained bed, then the shield propped against the far wall—it bore the same two-headed beast as his pennon. Mother of Christ, this was his private chamber! She'd been prepared to come face to face with a savage lion. She had not been prepared to face the lion in his den.

  She dare not stay with him here, a man with his reputation yet! With a gasp she pulled free. "This is your bedchamber!"

  "You would berate me for honoring your wishes? Milady, you wished to speak with me in private. This is the one place where we may achieve at least a semblance of privacy."

  Without further ado, her hood was plucked from her head. She could only stand in shocked disbelief as warm fingers deftly freed the brooch that held her cloak in place. She felt it whisked from her shoulders and then he raked her with a glance so unabashedly brazen it stripped the color from her cheeks. It lingered on the shining coronet atop her head, the thrust of well-rounded breasts beneath her gown, the sweep of gently rounded hips.

  No man had ever dared to gaze upon her thus—as if she were a common strumpet—and by God, none would ever do so again!

  Both his gall and his utter calm were maddening.

  "Milord," she chose her words carefully, "I fail to see why we cannot conduct this meeting elsewhere."

  "And I fail to see why we cannot conduct it here. Or do you fear I will think you make advances no proper lady should make?"

  Fire sparked in her eyes. " 'Tis n
ot my conduct I question!"

  Jet brows shot up. "What! You question mine? Lady Shana, surely you cannot think my intentions less than honorable."

  Less than honorable. Aye, he had that right! But his mockery kindled a ready indignation. "You mistake my reasons for accompanying you here. 'Tis not for such—" to her horror she felt herseh0 falter, "such sport as you may think."

  His parry was swift and unrepentant. "And why should I think thusly? After all, milady, might I remind you, 'twas you who sought me out. Though I must say, I do wonder that you dared to come to Langley unescorted."

  Shana flushed. She could find no words to refute his, for he was right. Usually only a woman of questionable virtue dared to travel alone.

  "Indeed, milady, it occurs to me that mayhap you are in need of a protector ..."

  Her chin came up and she fixed him with a glare both challenging and defiant. "I fear no one," she stated clearly, "least of all any man. And I have no need of a protector."

  No, Thorne thought slowly. She did not. Her annoyance did not escape him. She was, he realized, not used to being questioned.

  He was both piqued and irritated, though he knew not why. The color of her hair was unusual, a dark gold, shot through with copper, rich and gleaming. Her beauty struck him like a blow to the gut. But the Lady Shana also projected a surety of herself that was rare in a woman. Her posture was coldly dignified, her demeanor one of haughty pride. Why, she acted as though she were the queen herself!

  Thorne found himself possessed of a sudden, ruthless desire to see her tumbled from her throne. "If I wanted you, mistress, I'd not hesitate to say so. But lovely as you are, at this moment I fear your charms escape me. I am too tired and hungry to partake of..." he smiled benignly, "such sport, as you call it."

  Ah, but he was bold! Fury wrapped its stranglehold around her. The man was a beast, with no manners whatsoever. She opened her mouth to deliver a scorching retort, but as if on cue, there was a knock on the door. He bade a young maid enter. The girl carried a tray laden with food which she deposited on a small table before the hearth. She curtsied, then left.

  The earl crossed to the table, then turned to her, as if she were no more than a troublesome afterthought. "Will you join me, milady?"

  Shana took a deep, calming breath, secretly glad she'd curbed her wayward tongue. She dared not antagonize him, not yet. She let him seat her, then serve her, all the while faultlessly polite. And all the while Shana thought secretly that he need not bother. He disliked her. He disliked her intensely—she could feel it with all that she possessed.

  She accepted only wine and a small portion of herring. The earl attacked his meal with relish; clearly her presence did not hinder his appetite. Shana chafed restlessly and wished he would hurry; she was anxious for this encounter to be over and done with.

  He sliced a tender morsel of roast lamb and offered it to her. The tempting aroma teased her nostrils, yet she hesitated. She wanted the tidbit, she realized, but was loath to take it from his hand. She chided herself impatiently, wondering what madness seized her. It was usual for a man to carve for a woman; she'd often eaten thusly from Barris's fingers, so why was she so reticent?

  She shook her head. There was a subtle tightening of that harshly cawed mouth. Had she given herself away?

  At length he pushed aside his trencher. "For a woman who professed the need to speak to me on a matter most urgent, you are remarkably silent, milady."

  His voice held all the warmth of a winter wind blowing from the mountaintops. It seemed, Shana concluded grimly, that he played at pretense no more.

  "I merely wished to let you eat in peace," she said coolly. "But if you are ready to tend to business, I shall gladly oblige."

  "By all means, please do so." His expression was distantly aloof.

  Shana took a deep breath. "You have come to Castle Langley in order to bring the Welsh to heel, have you not?"

  "I've made no secret of that, milady."

  Her heart began to beat with thick, uneven strokes. "I believe you've also come to roust out the rebel known as the Dragon."

  He went as still as a statue, yet she sensed a rapier-sharp alertness which had not been there before.

  "And you. Lady Shana—" his lip curled, "you profess to know the Dragon's whereabouts, is that it?"

  His scorn stirred her anger. "I did not say that I know,, milord. I am, however, acquainted with a man who does know." She gathered every scrap of her courage and went on boldly, "A pity you would refuse my help, milord. Because no man's sword is all-powerful—I daresay, even yours."

  "So you are wise as well as beautiful. Milady, I begin to wonder what treasure I've stumbled upon."

  His sarcasm cut deep. She bit back an impotent cry of fury and despair. She could never hope to lure him from the castle—never! She had thought herself so clever, but alas! she was not clever at all, for she had just gambled greatly and lost.

  She rose to her feet and blindly turned, her every intent to flee this chamber ... this devil's lair! But she hadn't progressed more than three steps than he was there before her, tall and commanding, as formidable as a fortress of iron.

  Only now no mockery dwelled in his countenance. There was only a silent probe of eyes that cut sharp as a blade.

  "This man, milady. Who is he?"

  "His name is Davies," she lied. "He is kin to one of my housemaids, a freeman who has proved his loyalty to my family countless times over the years." A stab of guilt sheared through her, even as she spoke—a part of her was appalled at how easily the lie came to pass. But she had only to remember how she had held her father's body, all bloodied and dirty, limp and prone and lifeless ... and once again, bitterness sealed her heart. "And how does he know the Dragon?"

  "The Dragon sought him out for his skill in bow-making. He is to meet Davies several days hence."

  "Where?"

  She shook her head. "I do not know. Davies thought it best not to tell me."

  Thorne's eyes narrowed. "Why didn't he come to me with this information?"

  "He is Welsh, milord, though he married an Englishwoman. He does not wish to have his identity known for fear of being branded a traitor by his people. And he dare not come to Langley for fear of being branded a liar. He will meet with you at a clearing in the woods. But he bade me tell you it must be this very night, otherwise it may be too late."

  She held her breath and waited. Her story was well thought out—indeed, her mind was filled with little else on the long ride here.

  Thorne stared at her in silent speculation. Did he dare believe her, considering the outrageous stories he'd heard these past few days? He found himself admitting he could find no fault with her explanation, and yet .,.

  "Your motives. Lady Shana, elude me. Indeed, I must ask myself why you should so trouble yourself."

  Lord, but he was a crafty one! She assumed an outrage that was not entirely feigned. "You forget 'tis I who oblige you, milord!"

  "And I say again, there must be some reward for you."

  Shana tried not to panic, for he stared at her with scorching intensity; those devil's eyes never once strayed from her race. He unnerved her, she realized, as no one had ever done. And for all that he was but a man, it was as if he were a wall of stone. She sensed no softness in him, none at all.

  "You are right," she said, her voice very low.

  "My reasons for coming to you are not without selfishness."

  Ah, so now the tale would finally be told. Thorne arched a brow and waited.

  Her lashes lowered, shielding her expression. "I ... I recently lost someone very dear to me, milord ..."

  "Who?"

  "My husband." She wet her lips nervously and uttered a silent prayer that the Lord would not strike her dead for such blasphemy. "The Dragon himself was responsible for his death."

  The earl's silence was never ending. Shana's nerves were scraped raw. She dared not look at him, for fear she would give herself away and he would discover her deceit.
At length he spoke, and there was neither pity nor condemnation in his tone, only a curious whimsy.

  "Somehow you do not strike me as a grieving widow."

  Shana thought wrenchingly of her father. "I spend my grief in vengeance,"—she spoke with quiet fervor, for God above knew it was the truth—"a vengeance only you can satisfy, milord." At last she looked at him, and it was all there in her eyes, the bitter ache of her loss.

  Something ... a tingle of warning ... prickled up his spine. It whispered that all was not as it should be. For all that she chanced to meet his gaze with earnest regard, she was cloaked in mystery ... veiled in secret allure.

  But her distress was genuine; the pain that shadowed her face was real. And so Thorne dismissed the flicker of disquiet within him, for she was but a woman. Of a certainty she could do him no harm.

  He turned and swept her cloak from the chair, then held it out for her with an arrogant arch of jet-black brows.

  Shana could hardly believe her good fortune. "You'll come with me to meet Davies?" Even now, her steps carried her blindly forward. She turned so that he could set the cloak upon her shoulders.

  Rich green velvet caught her snug in its enveloping folds. "Aye, milady, I'll go with you,"— husky laughter reverberated at her back—"and mayhap we'll soon catch ourselves a dragon."

  Chapter 3

  Shana did not like the sound of that laughter, It hinted at an arrogance that revealed Thorne de Wilde as a man who knew little of defeat—and much of triumph. Try as she might, she couldn't quite banish the feeling that she, not he, was the one about to ride straight into a trap.

  It didn't take long for several grooms to saddle their horses. They left the gates behind within minutes. Several times Shana cast a discreet but distinctly wary glance over her shoulder, anxious to make certain Thorne had not given orders that they be followed.

  The purple haze of twilight spread its veil across the land. Birds and insects ceased their strident call; there was naught but an almost unearthly stillness. She shivered in spite of herself. Behind them, Castle Langley jutted into the sky, looming like a silent sentinel.