My Rebellious Heart Page 8

  "I'll bear that in mind." Geoffrey's smile was no more. He took her arm, his lips set sternly as he pulled her away.

  The noise from the hall grew faint. The man beside her was silent. The charming rogue she'd first met was gone, his warmth vanished. One glimpse at his rigid profile convinced her he was angry. A dozen explanations came to her lips; she dismissed them all, for what need was there to apologize to him? Yet when they finally reached the tower stair, the urge had become overwhelming.

  He threw open the great oaken panel and wordlessly gestured her inside. She stepped within and quickly turned; he reached to close the door.

  She thrust out a hand. "Wait!" she said in a rush. "Sir Geoffrey, I—I must tell you ... I truly did not mean to deceive you."

  "Princess Shana," he began, then raised a brow. "Is that truly who you are or is there more you neglected to tell me?"

  "That is my name, though there is no need to call me princess—"

  "Ah, so there was some truth in the story you told me. However, milady, I was taught that the sin of omission is as great as the sin itself."

  Shana winced. She sensed that, under other circumstances ... if he were not English and she were not Welsh ... she might have liked him. "I could hardly tell you who I was," she said quietly. "I regret that I had to deceive you, but if you will let me explain—"

  "Another time, perhaps, milady. I fear I'm not in the mood to decipher lies from truth."

  With that he was gone. Shana was left staring at the massive door.

  Silence surrounded her, as thick and enveloping as a dense curtain of fog. Her gaze traveled furtively around the empty chamber. A chill seized her. Why had Thorne ordered her brought here—to his chamber? She should have been relieved that she hadn't been thrown in the dungeon, yet she was not. His words rang in her mind like a death knell. 'Twas you who started this blasted quest for vengeance, but I will see it finished. Rest assured, I will repay you measure for measure, by fair means or foul.

  Terror winged through her, nearly robbing her of strength and courage. A servant knocked on the door, bringing a tray of food, but Shana could not force it down. Her thoughts wandered at will and she could not stop them. Her heart began to race.

  What form, she wondered frantically, would his punishment take? She had dealt a blow to his pride, a blow he'd not soon forget... nor forgive. Nay, he'd not be prone to leniency. Her mind conjured up a dozen horrible images. He might have her whipped or beaten, mayhap even executed. Or would he choose to torture her slowly, bring death to her little by little—he might even let her live in daily terror for her life! A tremor shook her slender form. Sweet heaven, which would be worse?

  In desperation she spun for the door. She wrenched it open and threw it wide.

  A shadow fell across her. A burly, red-headed guard blocked her way. Shana's gaze widened as it slowly trekked upward to the man's features. Lord, but he was a giant!

  No trace of emotion crossed his features. "Is there something you wish, milady?"

  "Nay," she managed to say.

  In frustration she slammed the door shut. Even as her fists clenched at her sides, hot tears pricked her eyelids. She was caught here, like an animal in a trap. She began to pace the length of the chamber and back again, cursing Thorne de Wilde, cursing her own helplessness. At length she gave a despairing half sob and sank down in a heap against the wall.

  It seemed that whatever fate was to befall her, for now she was destined to wait.

  In truth Thorne had no wish to hurry the moment he would see her again. She roused too many emotions in him, emotions he wasn't sure he liked. Already she had tested his self-control severely. She was so smug, so damnably sure of herself. But a single word from her managed to touch off the fighting spirit in him, like a flame to tinder; he had no choice but to challenge her further. If he were wise, whispered a voice inside him, he'd wash his hands of her now, while he was still able. He-could entrust her to Geoffrey, or perhaps even turn her over to King Edward.

  But Thorne knew he wasn't going to be prudent about this ... nay, not prudent at all.

  A young maid brought food for him and Geoffrey. He ate sparingly, though he imbibed freely from a tankard of ale. He was relieved that Sir Quentin and Lord Newbury had left them alone. Sir Quentin was agreeable enough, but there was little liking between him and Newbury. He'd learned from Geoffrey that Newbury had been less than pleased that King Edward hadn't chosen him to command the forces here at Langley. Oh, no harsh words had passed between them as of yet. But Thorne suspected it was only a matter of time.

  Geoffrey eyed his friend over his tankard. "I still am not clear on precisely what transpired, Thorne. How on earth did the lady manage to lure you to Wales?"

  Thorne snorted. "Lure me? She told me she knew a man who might lead us to the Dragon. I admit—she piqued my interest. I played along and agreed to meet with this man in the forest. And then she proceeded to see me ambushed—her guards very nearly took my head off!"

  In spite of himself, Geoffrey smiled.

  Thorne leveled a glare on him. "So you would laugh, would you! I tell you this, Geoffrey, I was outnumbered six to one. You'd have fared no better than I."

  That was something Geoffrey did not doubt. Thorne was a formidable opponent, both on the battlefield and off. And the lady had the added benefit of surprise.

  He frowned. "She was after none other than you, my friend. Are you sure you've never met before—mayhap at court? Or mayhap you slighted her for another?"

  "I never laid eyes on her until the day she passed through these gates. Nay, this is no lover's quarrel." Thorne gave a short, biting laugh. "The lady was out for blood. She believes I laid siege to her home in Wales. Her father was among those killed in the fray, and she's convinced I'm behind it."

  "You! Why on earth would she think that?"

  "Her father described the pennon the raiders carried—it was remarkably like mine. But either her father was mistaken, or else he wished to lay the blame on me for some unknown reason."

  Geoffrey sent him a long, slow look. "Who was her father?"

  "Kendal, younger brother of Llywelyn." Thorne shoved himself up from the table. "Christ, I'd almost forgotten the man existed! And now it seems his daughter would dearly like to see an end to me!" He began to prowl restlessly around the hall. "God, but her audacity astounds me! To think that a princess of Wales came here to seek me out, all the while concealing her identity!"

  "You are not the only one who was duped," Geoffrey reminded him. "I was as much in the dark as you, Thorne."

  "I had the feeling something was not right." Thorne spoke as if to himself. "But I told myself she was but a woman, and thus could do me no harm." His hand clenched into a fist. "But it seems she is as treacherous as her uncles!" Indeed, her uncle Dafydd had allied himself with King Edward against his brother Llywelyn, only to turn tail eventually and rush back to Wales.

  Geoffrey eyed him thoughtfully. "Do you think it true—that she knows the whereabouts of the Dragon? It would make our cause considerably easier if he were out of the way."

  "I cannot say." His expression hardened. "But if she does, then by God, I shall know it!"

  The lines on Geoffrey's brow deepened. He sat back slowly. "So what will you do with her, Thorne? Keep her sequestered here at Langley?"

  He nodded. "Beyond that," he added slowly, "the fate of the lady may well depend on the lady herself." Unbidden, a vision of her rose high in Thorne's mind. He saw them as they had been in the forest, so close the sweet scent of her filled his nostrils; her lips hovering temptingly ... ah, so temptingly beneath his, her body slim and curved and lush.

  He had felt the first stirrings of desire that very first hour, for only a saint could gaze on such beauty and feel nothing. He recalled what he had said. There must be many, many ways in which a woman like you could please a man. A part of him dared him to see if it were true, while another part was appalled that he could even think of her in such a way, now that he'd le
arned what a perfidious little bitch she really was! So it was that his heart demanded he mete out a punishment that was swift and severe and deserving.

  Something of his thoughts must have shown. Geoffrey's gaze sharpened. Thorne caught the look and smiled tightly. "She's a beauteous woman," he murmured. "You remarked on it yourself."

  "Aye," Geoffrey agreed vehemently. "But I've never known you to take a wench against her will! God forbid that you should start with Lady Shana!"

  Thorne's smile withered. "And why not?" He posed the question in a clipped, abrupt tone.

  Geoffrey made an impatient gesture. Thorne was ever quick to anger when he thought someone cast aspersions on his parentage—or lack of it. "Don't be so damned touchy, man! I mean only that I doubt you would find her willing."

  Thorne's gaze narrowed. "You think you would fare better with the lady?"

  Geoffrey did not hesitate to return his glare in full measure. "I mean only to remind you that she is a lady, Thorne, no doubt gently born and bred. I doubt she'll take kindly to force!"

  A dangerous glint had appeared in Thorne's eyes. "And may I remind you," he countered, his tone deadly soft, "that the lady sought to see an end to me—and very nearly succeeded. You must forgive me if I'm hardly inclined to absolve her so quickly."

  "Thorne!" Geoffrey struggled to his feet. "For pity's sake, man—"

  "You are quick to rally to her defense, Geoffrey. The lady may be fair—aye, the fairest in the land! But many a man has lost all reason and sense for the sake of a woman's favors." Thorne regarded him with cool aplomb. "I do not question Lady Shana's loyalties," he added quietly. "I pray you'll do nothing to make me question yours."

  Geoffrey watched him spin around and stride toward the stairs. He sank down onto the bench and stared into the half-empty tankard of ale. He was not worried that Thorne would bear a grudge against him for speaking his mind. Over the years, they'd had any number of disagreements, all of which were usually forgotten by morn.

  But he did not envy the Lady Shana ... especially given Thorne's present mood.

  Indeed, Thorne's frame of mind was anything but tame as he climbed the tower stairs. He was angry with Geoffrey, for he suspected his friend had fallen prey to a man's worst enemy—the wiles of a woman! He had been a careful observer over the years. He'd seen more than one man succumb to female ambition, particularly at court. Even the stoutest heart had fallen before a husky promise whispered in the ear, a dainty hand placed just so. Men relied on brawn and strength to fight their battles; women plied the sweetly feminine arts of cajolery and flattery. They would tease and torment a man until he was half crazed with passion; they surrendered or withheld their bodies to suit their own whims, until their chosen victim possessed no will of his own.

  That did not mean Thorne shunned the female of the species. He enjoyed a lusty tumble as much as the next man. Nor was he an inconsiderate lover; seeing to his partner's pleasure merely heightened his own. But he prided himself on his control—he would let no one manipulate him, least of all a woman. He was careful to keep both mind and heart detached, separate and apart from the physical demands of his body.

  But Geoffrey's words of warning where Lady Shana was concerned stabbed at his conscience— he did not like it, but there was naught he could do to stop it. Deep within him, there was a burning need for justice, no matter how cruel or harsh either of them might find it. But Shana was a woman—a princess, at that. And so Thorne could not deal with her entirely as he'd have liked.

  He approached the tower door and nodded to the guard. "Good eventide, Cedric. You've had no trouble with the lady?"

  "None at all, milord."

  He dismissed the guard, then paused to listen at the door for a moment. There was no sound from within, none whatsoever. Thorne could not help it; a frown laden with suspicion creased his brow. His senses ready and alert, he pushed open the door and stepped in, thrusting it shut behind him. The chamber was steeped in darkness; a few fading embers in the hearth cast out feelers of weak, wavering light. Thorne scanned the room sharply, convinced his reluctant guest awaited the chance to pounce on him from the shadows. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dimness. A glance to his left revealed her huddled in the far corner, her legs drawn tight to her chest, her head resting on upraised knees.

  She was asleep, he realized. His first impulse was to leave her as she was, crawling into bed and seeking his rest. But some demon inside refused to let her be.

  He lit a candle and crossed to stand before her, staring down at her. Her lashes curled heavy and black against her skin. The curve of her cheek gleamed in the pale light, pink and sleep-flushed. Some strange emotion caught at his chest. Thorne knew if he were to stretch out a hand, he would find it warm and smooth beneath his fingertips.

  She stirred, slowly raising her head to behold his features. Hers were curiously unguarded, her expression one of befuddled confusion. Thorne stood as if spellbound. Her eyes were pure and clear as crystal, her lips parted and soft and damp. The smudge of dirt on her temple only added to her air of vulnerability. An odd sensation gripped him, like the tightening of a fist low in his belly.

  He knew the exact instant full awareness returned to her. She scrambled to her feet so quickly he had to step back lest the candleflame catch fire in her clothing.

  He moved to light the tapers in the wall sconce, then tossed a chunk of wood on the fire in the hearth. Hands on his hips, he turned to regard her. 'If you wished to rest, you should have availed yourself of the bed, for I fear this cold floor offers meager comfort. Or is it that you've realized the rashness of your actions—mayhap you regret your attempt to kill me and wish to begin a self-imposed penance?" A slow smile crept along his lips; he beheld eyes grown dark and stormy.

  "There is much I regret, milord," she retorted sweetly. "Heartiest of all is that I did not choose to see you slain earlier."

  That maddening smile widened further. "Newbury was right. You are a bloodthirsty little piece, aren't you?"

  She did not reply. Thorne was both admiring and irate as he watched her glide across the room, totally ignoring him. She seated herself in a straight-backed chair near the hearth. Even now, with her face smudged, knowing her fate lay solely within his hands, she'd lost not a whit of grace and poise.

  He presented himself before her and gestured at the tray of food she'd left untouched. "I do not care to be further accused of starving you, Lady Shana." His mildness was deceptive.

  She spared him neither glance nor reply. Instead she stared into the fire where flames licked up the chimney, the tilt of her head coolly regal.

  This time he did not bother to mask the edge of steel. "I will ask you once more, milady. Why didn't you eat?"

  "I'll not eat English food in an English hovel." she stated flatly.

  "Castle Langley is hardly a hovel, milady. And T would remind you, you had no such qualms when you shared a meal with me in this very chamber." He began to circle her. "Ah, but I forget. That was but a. sacrifice in order that you might enact your plan to see me slain."

  Shana spoke not a word. She knew what he was about. He meant to goad her, but she'd not give him the satisfaction!

  "A pity Castle Langley is a trifle humble for your tastes—and our food not up to your usual standards. My deepest regrets, milady." His countenance was not in the least regretful. "However," he went on, "methinks you would find fault with

  just about anything right now. So tell me, what would please you?"

  The question finally brought her head whipping around. 'It would please me to be returned to my home—to Merwen!"

  "Impossible, I'm afraid, I do offer a suggestion, though. It might ease your state of mind considerably if you were to think of Langley as your temporary home, milady."

  He was cruel to needle her so. "Curse you to hell!" she burst out. "Why did you bring me here?"

  "Why, Princess. I think ours an acquaintance we must devote more time to." He bowed low, openly mocking her, his
smile leering.

  She fixed him with a poisonous stare. "You will be sorry," she predicted flatly. "Someone will come for me—"

  He laughed outright. One booted foot resting easily on the raised hearth, his pose was casually negligent. "Milady, you forget! They think you dead—fallen victim to my own hand."

  "All the more reason for them to seek you out. My people will demand justice for my death—and then they will discover you hold me against my will!"

  He remained duly unimpressed. "Even if your people rallied to your aid, mere is precious little to fear. I saw only a handful of knights and men-at-arms at Merwen."

  Anger brought her surging to her feet. 'Thanks to you," she cried bitterly. "But Barris will find you and then, milord, you'll see you've met your match!"

  "Barris?" A dark brow climbed high.

  "My betrothed! And he will see justice done, I promise you that!"

  He shrugged, not in the least swayed by her warning. "Should he choose to come, I will be ready." He left her in no doubt he found the prospect highly unlikely.

  Shana glared at him, her lips clamped tight. It seemed he had an answer for everything, blast his English hide! Her fury escalated when he merely laughed at her mutinous expression.

  "Come, milady. Do not sulk so."

  "I do not sulk!" she flared.

  "Methinks you do. You are disappointed," he drawled, "that all did not proceed as planned. Oh, you must have been so very smug when I tumbled into your trap. I admit, I played the fool."

  "Aye, milord, a role you play well!"

  He continued as if she spoke nary a word. "You are right, however. 'Tis time I decided what we are to do with you." His eyes turned as cutting as his voice. He stroked his jaw, his gaze never releasing her as he pretended to ponder.

  "I have it," he proclaimed suddenly. "We could ransom you to your betrothed for a goodly sum." When she said nothing, he went on, "Or we could use you as a hostage. Aye, a hostage! In exchange for your uncle Llywelyn's promise to renew his homage to King Edward. The Welsh people will follow his lead and all will be as it was."