My Rebellious Heart Page 6

"I must leave forthwith, Shana."

  "Leave ... to return to Frydd?"

  Barris silently cursed himself. So much had happened these past days ... the attack on Merwen ... the massing of English troops at Langley. He despised himself for leaving Shana to cope with her father's death alone, but in his heart he knew she would manage. In her own way, she was strong, as strong as any man.

  "I do not go to Frydd."

  She cried his name in protest. "Barris, you've been gone a fortnight already. You've only just returned—"

  "I know, love. But as you said only a moment past, we do what we must."

  His words were both determined and regretful. She searched his face almost fearfully, struck by the certainty that something was not right. "Where do you go?"

  He seemed to hesitate. "The countryside has been rife with discontent for months now, Shana. Our people are tired of kissing the feet of the English."

  "I ... I know. A sennight past my father received a messenger from Llywelyn, seeking aid and support to rise up against the Crown. My father sent my uncle's man away with his bags full of coin, and pledged men should the need arise." Comprehension dawned in a rush. Merciful heaven! No one hated the Englishmen's constant interference in Welsh affairs more than Barris. Would Barris heed the call of the warrior—the call to arms? She was suddenly terrified for him.

  She drew a sharp breath. "Tell me, Barris! Did Llywelyn ask the same of you? Has this message to do with my uncle—and England?"

  He laid his hands on her shoulder. "Aye," he admitted. "Our people hate how England has once again dropped its heavy hand on our shoulder. Many a small landowner is now penniless and destitute because of Edward's quest to line his coffers."

  She moaned her distress. "What heroics do you practice? Do you seek fame and glory by making war on England?"

  " 'Tis not fame and glory I seek, but independence for our people, Shana. You, of all people, know how strongly I feel about this! That is why I go to join Llywelyn and offer my services and support."

  "And what if he masses an army? Will you throw in your sword as well?"

  "I will serve in whatever way I can," he said simply.

  She caught her breath. "Barris, I fear for you— for us both!" She beseeched him desperately. "I've already lost my father. I could not stand to lose you, too!"

  "Shana, I can no longer stand from afar and watch King Edward crush our country with his fist. But your fear is misplaced, for 'tis your safety that concerns me before all else. I will do naught but worry if you stay here at Merwen. That is why you must leave—immediately."

  "Leave! Barris, if I go anywhere, I go with you!"

  "Shana, have you listened to naught that I have said? " 'Tis not possible!" He gave her an impatient little shake.

  Shana was stunned at the blackness of his glare—and at what he asked of her. "You want me to leave Merwen," she whispered. "Nay, I cannot. This is my home."

  "You must. Merwen has come under attack once already. I do not want you here if it should happen again."

  "Surely that is hardly likely." "We cannot be sure of that." He cut her off abruptly. "The point you made earlier is a valid one. What if King Edward does indeed plot to kill Llywelyn and all his kin? What then?"

  Shana fell silent. Though such a plot was surely unlikely, she found she could not completely discount the merits of his argument.

  "I want you safely out of harm's way," he went on. "You've an aunt in Ireland, as I recall."

  "Aye," she said slowly. "Alicia, my mother's sister."

  "Then promise me you'll make haste to Ireland as soon as possible. If I could, I would see you off myself, but alas, I must depart within the hour." When she said nothing, his grip on her shoulders tightened. "Promise me, Shana. Promise you will leave on the morrow, for I'll not rest easy until I know you are safe."

  Her nerves were wound tight as a spool of yarn. All at once the fatigue and strain were too much. She felt weary to the bone, too tired to argue. "I will go," she said numbly.

  Approval flitted across his handsome features. He lifted her hand and brushed his lips across her knuckles. "Tell me true, fair princess," he murmured. "Am I truly a hero to you?"

  Shana's throat was achingly tight. "You know you are," she whispered helplessly. . "Then let this hero depart with a memory sweeter than the promise of spring." This was the old Barris, the Barris she knew so well, charming and dashing, the rogue irresistible who plied her with soft-spoken words of love and promise. His mouth met hers. Always before when he had kissed her, his kisses had been carefully restrained, never daring to trespass beyond the boundaries of her innocence. But Shana was loathe to see him go; she clung to him shamelessly, her lips a sweetly tremulous offering. Barris made a sound that was half triumph, half despair. The pressure of his mouth on hers deepened to fervent intimacy; pleasure, warm and heady, swept along her veins. Though Shana yearned for his kiss to go on and on, it ended much too soon.

  He rested his forehead against hers. "Very soon this will all be over," he whispered. "I will come for you and then we can be wed as planned at summer's end."

  Shana buried her face against his shoulder. "I will miss you," she said tearfully.

  "And I will miss you, my love." Fingers beneath her chin, he guided her face to his. "My heart is empty and barren without you, love. Only you can bring springtime to my soul, princess—only you." He drew her close within his sheltering embrace one last time, then released her with obvious reluctance. "Guard yourself well, my love."

  Her eyes filled with tears. "And you," she whispered. She watched as he spun around and swept from the hall, his mantle flying out behind him like a banner in the wind.

  By some miracle she managed to hold back the sobs welling in her breast. But once she was alone in her chamber, a tear beaded down her cheek, then another and another. Like a rusty blade, a feeling of utter hopelessness pierced her chest. So much had happened, and in so little time! She dreaded the coming of dawn, for the morrow was hardly a day to look forward to. Barris would be gone and she knew not when she would see him again. And the Bastard Earl ...

  By morning he would be dead.

  Death, however, played no part in Thorne's plans. He had cheated it before—he would do so again. Sheer determination had stood him in good stead these many years. The need for survival was deeply imbedded within him, forged from those hellish days of his youth; he'd not have lived through his childhood without it. Nay, he was not one to accept his fate so easily, for the will to live was a powerful, driving force.

  The desire for revenge was just as powerful.

  His demand for a priest was little more than gut instinct. At the time, he'd had yet to form a clear-cut plan. He'd long ago dismissed the narrow window in the chamber as an avenue of escape, which meant he must go out the way he'd been brought in. If no opportunity presented itself, he would simply seize the moment and make his own.

  A servant brought food. Two burly men-at-arms blocked the doorway while the servant hurried inside. Their expressions reeked of smugness— clearly they thought the meal his last. He held tight to a simmering resentment while one of them untied his wrists. He decided it best to bide his time—one false move and he knew they would make certain he met his end prematurely.

  No one returned to bind his wrists.

  The hour grew late. At length Thorne stretched out on the bed. Though he lay relaxed and unmoving, his every sense was unfailingly alert. The muffled noises from belowstairs grew fewer and fewer, until there was nary a sound. The house hold had retired for the night.

  It was well after midnight when the drumbeat of horses' hooves reached his ears. Moments later footsteps sounded in the passageway outside. Thorne swung upright on the bed

  The door was flung open. The hazy glow of a rushlight preceded a voice. "Lord Weston? The priest is here." Thorne recognized the voice as Sir Gryffen's.

  A tall, thin figure shuffled past the old knight clad in a rough woolen robe, a deep cowl obscur ing his feat
ures. A disembodied voice emerge from deep within the folds. A clawlike hand wearily made the sign of the cross. "My son," he in toned in a wooden monotone. "Repent and the mercy of the Lord shall be forever yours."

  From the corner of his eye, Thorne noticed the heavy oak door begin to close. He rose to his feet in one smooth, fluid motion. Though outwardly calm, his muscles were already bunched and coiled, ready to spring forth at his command. Palms together in a gesture of humble submission, he started to sink to the floor before the priest.

  "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned"—in a burst of strength and energy his knee shot up—"and no doubt will sin yet again." The priest doubled over with a grunt; a two-fisted blow caught the back of his head and sent him crashing to the floor. Thorne glanced up in time to see Sir Gryffen rush through the door. He dove forward, the reflexes of a lifetime serving him well and true; his shoulder caught Gryffen square in the belly. The old knight pitched forward without a sound.

  His eyes glittering with the light of battle, he raised a fist high above the knight who lay sprawled at his feet. But the blow which would have put an end to the night's work was never to fall. Thorne hesitated only a split second, caught in a spate of conscience. The old man had spared his life in the forest outside Langley, and though he might regret it later, he realized he could do no less for him.

  His fist returned slowly to his side. "Now we're even, old man." Thorne did not dawdle, but quickly relieved the knight of his dagger and sword. Seconds later, a dark-robed figure exited the chamber, his head bowed low in doleful prayer for such a wicked soul as the earl.

  He paused only once, to survey the passageway before him. A shout of triumph clamored within his breast, but he allowed only the merest of smiles to cross his lips. He had attained his goal—he was imprisoned no more. But the time to relish his freedom—precious though it was—must wait a little longer. No, he was not yet ready to depart Merwen ... He had a score to settle with the princess.

  Chapter 5

  Shana was exhausted. Though eventually her body succumbed to her utter weariness, her mind did not. She remembered how bitterly determined she had been the night before she had set out for Langley. She remembered how shrewdly— and how coldly!—she had plotted to trap the man responsible for her father's demise.

  She had lured a man to his death, a voice in her mind taunted, only to find it did not bring solace to her wounded soul.

  Her sleep was restless and fitful, disturbed by dreams. Her father's face wavered before her. She saw herself cradling his head in her lap, trying frantically to staunch the flow of blood from the gaping wound in his chest. The image shifted and swirled.

  She saw a face as handsome as sin, with hair and eyes as black as midnight; those eyes condemned and accused, stabbing into her like the tip of a blade. Then, all at once, hazy light fringed the edge of her vision. She saw herself staring in horror at outstretched hands—blood smeared her palms. She scrubbed frantically with the edge of her kirtle, but the blood remained, a crimson stain that would not be removed. First her father's, she thought vaguely. And now the earl's ...

  A shadow fell over her. Suddenly there he was, his hands as bloodied as her own, leering even in death ... She saw herself turn and run blindly forward, into an endless void of darkness. Dimly she heard herself cry out. Then all she could hear was the sound of her breathing, raw and scraping as her tortured lungs fought for much-needed air. But there was no help for it, for suddenly the earl was there, his bloodied hand clamped tight around her mouth. Her eyelids snapped open. She came awake with a jolt.

  Sweet Jesus, this was no dream. A light from a candle flickered next to the bed. And she was staring straight into Thorne de Wilde's wickedly handsome features.

  An icy shock ripped through her. Both body and mind recoiled. She could only watch in horror as a slow-growing smile claimed his lips. But one thought spun through her mind—it was the smile of a demon.

  "Princess," he whispered, his voice as smooth as oil. "Has your lover Barris departed so early then? I must confess, I did not think to find you alone." The insult scarcely registered. Dazed and stunned, Shana could only stare at him in shock and disbelief.

  "What, princess? You are surprised to see me?" He stated the obvious. "Ah, but you should not be. After all, I did promise that you would be the first I would seek out the moment I was able."

  Sanity returned in a rush. His hand was huge, covering her nose and mouth so that she could scarcely breathe. Mother of Christ, did he mean to suffocate her? Desperate for air, she clawed wildly in an attempt to dislodge his hand. His grip was merciless. With his free hand, he swept back the covers. A steely arm hooked around her waist and plucked her from her bed. The world swayed dizzily once she was on her feet. Her mind was churning so that she could hardly think. How had he freed himself? Why hadn't he simply made good his escape?

  Shana scarcely realized when he slowly lifted his palm from her mouth. She could only stand there as he took a single step back, trying hard not to tremble. The very air around them seethed with the force of his presence, so vitally alive, so primally fierce ...

  So very full of menace.

  He turned slightly. A weak light wavered from the candle, but it was enough to reveal his form in its entirety. A ragged gasp escaped when she saw he wore the coarse, dark robe of a priest. Thorne intercepted the glance. 'It was most helpful of you to grant my request for a priest, milady. You aided my cause greatly."

  There was no remorse in that taunting voice. Shana's blood seemed to freeze in her veins. "You murdered him," she said faintly. "You murdered the priest! Dear Lord, a priest, yet!"

  He said nothing, merely laughed, a laugh that sent a prickly unease through the length of her. Triumph glittered in his eyes as he gave a mocking bow.

  "I assure you, he's done God's work for the day and he'll have no need of such attire this night. And it will assure me safe passage from Merwen—" there was an instant of deadly quiet, "as will you, princess."

  A chilling certainty gripped her mind. She heard herself speak, though she'd have sworn her lips never moved. "So what will you do? Kidnap me?" She shook her head. "Nay, even you would not dare ..."

  "Lady," came his reply, as bold and brash as he himself was. "I would dare much where you are concerned. Why, you yourself confirmed the order to see an end to me! Oh, yes, princess, I would dare just about anything, for what have I to lose?"

  The glitter left his eyes. He stared at her with ill-concealed dislike. "We waste time," he said flatly. "I want you dressed, princess, and quickly now." He strode toward the chest in the corner and threw it open.

  Shana remained where she was. Her heart quaked. Her hands trembled. She hid them in the skirt of her bed gown so he would not see. She wet her lips and gazed longingly toward the door. She knew the keep far better than he—she was fleet of foot, and in the dark he might never find her! If she could only reach the hall below, she could sound the alarm.

  The notion emerged, little by little. And so she retreated, little by little, as he rummaged through her chest. She bit her lip ... then whirled and bolted.

  She should have known better. As swift as she was, he was swifter. As quiet as she was, he was quieter still. He was at her side before she knew it, thwarting her cold. Hard arms imprisoned her, snatching her against him, jamming her back against the unyielding span of his chest. Shana kicked at him, succeeding only in entangling her feet in the encumbering folds of the robe.

  Still she struggled desperately, riot out of defiance but out of instinctive fear for her safety. The earl was not a man to forget a wrong done to him. He would see that wrong righted ... whatever the means ... whatever it took.

  She sucked in a lungful of air and prepared to scream 'till the rafters shook. But before she could make a sound that hateful hand clamped over her mouth once again, his fingers jamming into the softness of her cheeks. His arm tightened so that she was certain her ribs might snap. With a strangled little moan of defeat, Shana went limp,
convinced by the violence in his hold that he needed little provocation to pursue his threat further.

  "I'd like nothing more than to bind and gag you and drag you from here hand and foot, as I was dragged here." His grating voice rushed past her cheek. "You'd be wise to remember that, princess."

  He spun her to face him, gazing at her with eyes that seemed to bum her very soul—and left no part of her untouched. Shana flushed crimson, for only then did she realize her bed gown hid precious little of her body.

  He gave her a tiny shove toward her chest. "Get dressed," he ordered from between clenched teeth. "Else I shall do it for you."

  She bent and retrieved a gown of pale velvet. "Turn your back," she implored, clutching the gown to her breast. "Please." She wondered bitterly if he knew what that word cost her in dignity.

  "And give you the chance to bolt again?" Thorne crossed his arms over his chest and arched a haughty brow. "I think not."

  More than anything Shana longed to deliver a stream of curses at the top of her lungs, but something in his arrogant proclamation held her back. And indeed he allowed her no privacy. Her composure in shambles, in the end it was Shana who turned away, presenting him with the slender lines of her back. It galled her to remove her clothing in front of a man, for never before had she done so. Her fingers were made clumsy by fear and outrage—and the certainty that he surveyed her every move. Yet somehow she managed to maintain a modicum of modesty, slipping her gown over her head, then removing her night clothes behind the screen of her gown. When she'd finished, she hurriedly plaited her hair in one long braid down her back.

  She had barely turned than he was striding toward her. He grabbed her green velvet cloak from the peg on the wall and thrust it on her shoulders.

  Shana looked on uncertainly when he seized yet another cloak and spread it on the floor. He dropped a pile of clothing he'd pulled from her chest onto it then proceeded to tie the ends together. The task completed to his satisfaction, he rose to his feet. His fingers curled tight around her arm, he pulled her from her chamber. Shana was forced to keep pace as he steered her through the keep and outside toward the stables.