My Rebellious Heart Page 9

  "You underestimate the Welsh, milord. We do not fight for glory or honor or riches. We fight for independence, because we despise English rule—we always have and we always will. Nor is it likely my uncle Llywelyn will come to my aid," she pointed out coldly. "He is seldom on good terms with any of his brothers. Why, he put his elder brother Owain under lock and key. And he drove his brother Dafydd straight into the arms of the English those many months and called himself ruler of all Wales."

  "Ah, a typical Welshman! Only Llywelyn did not choose to fight with his neighbors, but his brothers!"

  Shana was not so inclined to laughter, as he was. "My father harbored no desire for land or power like Uncle," she said stiffly. " 'Twas for that very reason that he removed himself to Merwen these many years past. He saw his brother only when Llywelyn craved money or arms. I fail to see why I, a mere niece, should fare better than his brothers." Even as the words passed her lips, a chilling revelation came to her—too late she realized that very fact might well make her life forfeit.

  "Why, indeed?" The earl murmured. A shiver ran down her spine when she saw that he recognized her discomfiture. "I see you've realized you are expendable, princess. But you may take comfort, milady, for I do not make war on women and children."

  "Nay, you prefer to slay those who are unarmed and lack the means to fight back. You prey upon the defenseless! You say I am expendable. So just ... just kill me and be done with it!" Fists clenched at her sides, she challenged him out of angry frustration. But if he intended to kill her, then let it be quick and let it be now, she prayed, for her courage was fast deserting her!

  Thorne shook his head, staring into flashing silver eyes. She defied him. She threatened him. And now she dared challenge him to strike her down then and there. Was she truly so valiant—or merely foolish?

  His lip curled. "Brave words, those." He spoke with deliberate harshness. "Something tells me you've known little of pain and heartache, princess, little of life and death. Else you would hardly be so eager for your own."

  "You think I've known no heartache? No pain?" She cried out in fervent denial. "Curse you, de Wilde! My father died in my arms, his blood upon my hands. I saw body heaped upon body in fields that ran red with blood. And now there is you— you who would make my life a living hell!

  Thorne's lips tightened; he said nothing. Oh, she was convincing—he'd allow her that. But Thorne suspected this was just a ruse to employ his sympathy. Nay, she would not cry, or beg, or plead for mercy. He realized he'd expected—hoped for!— tears at the very least. It would have soothed his wounded ego considerably to hear her plea for her life.

  "Well, milord? You do not deny it, so I assume you've already chosen my fate. Will you ransom me to Barris—or hold me hostage for my uncle's loyalties? Or would you turn the tables and make me beg for a priest that I might give my last confession?" Shana disguised neither her scorn nor her hatred. It galled her that he held within his hands the power of life or death. And mayhap it was not wise, but it was at least easier to be angry than afraid.

  "You may rest easy, milady. There'll be no need for a priest. As for the other, I've not yet made up my mind."

  "Then please, be so good as to secure me a chamber. I wish to retire for the night."

  Her tone was coolly dismissive. Thorne began to laugh. The chit's audacity knew no bounds! She offered no gratitude, no words of thanks that he chose to spare her.

  Her eyes narrowed. "I foil to see what you find so amusing, milord."

  "I know. That's the beauty of it. However, I think if s time we cleared up a little misunderstanding, princess." The smile continued to dally about his lips. His tone was oh-so-pleasant as he continued, "You are hardly in a position to give orders. Nay, not to me—nor to the lowliest servant here at Langley You do not command here. You do not rule. You may ask—you may beseech and plead until you have no voice left with which to speak. If it pleases me—aye, and only if it pleases me, mayhap I'll grant your wish. Do we understand each other, milady?"

  If she heard she gave no sign of it; she continued to regard him as if he were the most loathsome of creatures, her elegant little nose tipped high in the air, as haughty as ever.

  Thorne's laughter vanished as if it had never been. "Please be so good as to remove your clothes." He borrowed her phrase of the moment before, "I wish to retire for the night."

  In shock, Shana felt her jaw drop. She stared at him mutely, convinced her hearing had failed her ... One look at his jeering countenance revealed her folly.

  Her recovery was mercifully quick. She raised her chin and spoke with distinct enunciation. "Go to hell, my lord earl."

  She had progressed from angry to livid; Thorne didn't care. He was beyond that point as well. "Milady," he said in a tone of near frigid politeness. "I've already been there. And I warn you— 'tis unwise to disobey me. I may yet decide you are not worth the trouble you put me to."

  "And I say again, my lord, go ... to ... hell!"

  His features might have been carved of stone. "So be it, then. If you will not do as I ask, then I will. That's the way of it, I'm afraid."

  Too late she gleaned his meaning. Too late she discovered his deadly calm masked a will of iron. She tried to bolt, to elude him, but he was agile and quick. A hard arm snaked around her waist; Shana found herself dragged back against the massive breadth of his chest.

  She gave a choked scream of rage and struck out blindly, tearing at his hands, trying to free herself. A raspy chuckle rushed past her ear. With scarce any effort at all, he pinned her arms beneath his forearm. And then she was whirling through the air, her feet free of the ground. Her breath was wrenched from her lungs as she was tossed on the bed as if she were a sack of grain, his weight a stunning force atop her. She still lay gasping as he began to strip her gown from her with ruthless efficiency.

  She began to struggle as soon as she was able, but his body was like a rock above her, her wrists wrenched high and imprisoned in one strong hand. She screamed her outrage. "You will regret this, de Wilde. And may God help you—"

  He interrupted her coolly. "Oh, I doubt He will, milady." Her chemise landed beside her head; her stockings were peeled from her legs. Cool air rushed over her as he rose. He snatched her clothing in one hand, strode to the door and jerked it open. Shana heaved upward, gaping when he tossed her gown and shift out into the passageway.

  "Dear God," she gasped. "You are mad!" A cold smile touched the hardness of his lips. "Am I? I think not, princess." He retraced his steps and stood at the bedside, pulled off his tunic and tossed it onto the chair. Stunned into immobility, Shana's gaze settled upon his bare torso. Despite her hatred of him, she could scarcely deny he possessed an awesome masculinity. Wide and starkly masculine, both his chest and abdomen were covered with a dense pelt of dark, curly hair.

  "I suggest you move to the side of the bed, milady. I've no intention of sleeping on the floor."

  Shana's eyes flew wide—his expression was as grimly determined as his voice. Only then did her tardy mind form the inevitable conclusion ... he meant to sleep with her! She drew in a sharp breath when his fingers dropped to his breeches. God in heaven! He not only meant to sleep with her, he meant to sleep naked! Oh, she knew why he did this. He meant to humble and humiliate her. And though she knew little of the ways of men, she suspected he would not stop there ...

  She sprang from the bed, giving nary a thought to her nudity. But alas, he was there before her again, snaring her by the arm and spinning her around to face him.

  He swore hotly. "What ails you, woman! I begin to think I've delivered myself of a madwoman."

  Her sob of anguish ended in a strangled gasp when her breasts encountered the furry darkness of his chest. It did not end here, she thought sickly. She'd been secretly grateful he had spared her. But mayhap death would have been merciful indeed, for the prospect of laying with this hard-featured man held no less dread.

  She threw back her head and denied him fiercely. "Nay!" she cried.
"You'll not lay a hand on me, do you hear? I'd sooner die than let you touch me."

  "You seem to harbor a premature wish for death, milady."

  His hand splayed wide against the shallow groove of her spine. Despite his studied indifference, he could not help but be acutely aware of the feel of her. Beneath his fingers, her flesh possessed the same silky texture as the petal of a rose. It came to him then, as it had that very first night in this chamber, the quickening heat of passion, so intense, so unexpected, but most of all ... so unwanted. Yet all he could think was how like a sapling she was in his arms, slender and sweetly curved, soft where he was hard . . . and, aye, growing harder still.

  Shana turned her head aside, utterly mortified. Scarlet flamed in her cheeks as hot shame poured through her. "Release me!" she choked out.

  His lips twisted. "When it pleases me, milady. When it pleases me."

  For the second time in as many minutes, she was lifted and borne to the bed. He came down on top of her, anchoring her with the weight of his body. His face hovered above her, tight-lipped and stony, and all at once she feared the purpose she sensed in him.

  Panic engulfed her. She fought him now, no longer with defiance but with real fear. Her palms flattened and came up between their bodies; she thought to push herself away, but he would have none of it. Like a shackle of iron, he encircled her wrists and bore them down alongside her head. She thrashed and twisted her hips against his, seeking to dislodge him. Heat streaked through his veins, settling heavy and tight in his loins. He gritted his teeth and fought an unwanted swell of arousal. Sweet Jesus, if she but wiggled one more time, he'd not be responsible ... "Be still!" he hissed.

  She froze. She struggled no longer, but her breath came raspy and thin. Her chest was heaving, her heart throbbed frantically against his own. For the first time he noted the wildness in her eyes. What was this? he thought, vaguely unsettled and disturbed, amazed and curious all at once. He scoffed at the obvious conclusion—never in his life had he known such a proud, haughty wench as she. Surely she was not afraid of him!

  His lips thinned ominously. He was a suspicious man by nature and by necessity. Mayhap, he decided warily, this was naught but more trickery—a means to gain his sympathy, whereupon she would seize the earliest opportunity to stab him in the back when he least suspected it!

  "What?" he mocked. "What are you afraid of, princess? This?"

  Blazing black eyes and harsh-looking features filled her vision. The world caved in around her as his mouth came down on hers.

  Shana was too shocked to protest, too shocked to do aught but endure, and indeed, he left no room for anything else—his lips were like a searing brand against hers. She had but one thought— that this kiss was unlike any Barris had ever given her. Stark and hungry and raw, it was far beyond her experience.

  His tongue plunged into her mouth again and again, a primitive, ravenous rhythm that set her heart to clamoring in her breast. In desperation she sought to twist away but the effort was futile. Lean fingers slid through the tumbled darkness of her hair, molding her head and holding her captive to the unyielding fusion of his lips against hers. His body lay hard and heavy over hers. A low whimper broke from her throat, and then, in the instant between one breath and the next, something changed.

  His kiss no longer ravaged with blatant intent. Nay, it was as if he sought to taste her sweetness instead, exploring with breath-stealing thoroughness. Deep within her, a pervasive, lulling warmth began to unfurl.

  It was over as suddenly as it had begun. Glittering black eyes rained down on her as he raised his head. Her lips were damp and swollen and tremulous, her eyes wide and stricken. Thorne pushed aside the sliver of remorse that pricked him. He spoke, deliberately aloof.

  "There, milady. I've done my worst, so disabuse yourself of the notion I am about to fall upon you in lust."

  Shana stared at him, shaking and afraid to breathe. "You mean you will not ..." A furious blush crept into her cheeks. The words failed her—she could not bring herself to say them.

  He gave a harsh laugh. "You flatter yourself if you think I want you, princess. No matter how sweet your form, or how enticing your lips, I would see myself in hell before I would ever bed with a treacherous, murderous bitch such as you."

  She bit her lip, her gaze flitting toward the door. "Then why did you—"

  He grasped her meaning immediately. "I think you'll reconsider before you try to escape without your clothes, milady. And should you still be tempted, I would warn you I am a very light sleeper—and I sleep with my sword within reach."

  He rolled off her. A sardonic brow arched high when she dove beneath the covers and burrowed toward the far side of the bed. Thorne wasn't sure if he was insulted or amused.

  He stripped and slid in beside her, careful to preserve the distance between them. Maybe, he decided cautiously, her fright had been real, not feigned. Her kiss, unlike those lovely, rose-tinted lips, had not lied—he had tasted the sharpness of uncertainty. The realization pleased him ... It pleased him mightily.

  Chapter 7

  The dawning of a new day came far too soon. It seemed to Shana that she had barely closed her eyes than morning was upon her. From a distance came the sound of a smithy pounding at the forge, pierced by a raucous male shout.

  She knew intuitively that she was alone, though she had not heard the earl leave the bed. Huddled beneath the covers, she stared dully at the tepid sunshine creeping through the shutters. She felt sluggish and not at all rested. She had lain awake most of the night, alternating between anger and the paralyzing fear that the earl's vow meant nothing—that at any instant he meant to pounce upon her and have his way with her.

  Only now did she realize how foolish she had been. You flatter yourself if you think I want you, princess ... I would see myself in hell before I would ever bed with a treacherous, murderous bitch such as you. That was perfectly fine with her, she thought with a disdainful sniff. But it chafed just a bit to recall how deliberately spiteful and callous he had been.

  Unbidden, her fingertips stole to her lips. The memory of the earl's kiss blazed through her all over again though she willed it not. His kiss was nothing at all like Barris's, she thought with a shiver. Sometimes worshipful and gentle, sometimes bold and stirring, Barris had delighted in her introduction to the world of passion. But the earl had not sought to please ...

  He had sought to punish.

  And yet at the end, when the bruising pressure of his lips had eased, she had felt something very alien, something tentative and elusive. Her eyes flew wide. She snatched her hand from her lips, appalled at herself. She had experienced no pleasure at his hands, she told herself staunchly. Nay, not a whit!

  She pushed herself up, clutching the blankets to her breast though she knew herself to be alone. Her gaze fell upon a mound of clothing heaped at the end of the bed—the gown she had worn yesterday, along with the rest of her clothing the earl had gathered. She did not linger but dressed quickly, lest he return. Though she longed for a hot bath, she settled for a hurried wash from a basin of cool water. A comb lay alongside the washbasin. Shana started to reach for it, then hesitated. It strained her pride considerably that she was forced to use his belongings, but her hair was a hopeless tangle. She reached for the comb with a defeated sigh.

  It was while she was thus engaged in the task of plaiting her hair that she spied a small tray on the table near the hearth. She laid down the comb and crossed the room. Several thick slabs of bread heaped with jam and a generous hunk of cheese were neatly arranged on a wooden trencher, flanked by a tumbler of ale and neatly folded linen cloth. The sight triggered a gnawing stab in the pit of her stomach—she'd shunned her supper last night, but this was one meal she'd not shun. She sat down eagerly, delighted to discover the bread still warm and fragrant and doughy, the cheese sharp and tangy. Minutes later, she blotted the last crumb with a fingertip and lifted it to her mouth. Behind her, the door creaked open, then closed. With her finger pressed
against the fullness of her lower lip, she froze, feeling as if she'd just been caught in the act of thievery. She need not look around to know the earl had returned—she suspected no one else would dare to enter without knocking. But try as she might, she couldn't banish a twinge of guilt, and so she cursed both the earl for bringing it about and herself for being so foolish.

  At last she lowered her hand to the table and half turned that she might see him. Aye, and sure enough, his gaze had veered to the empty tray.

  "I see your appetite has improved, princess!" He hailed her with false heartiness. "I sincerely hope you found our humble, English fare to your liking."

  He stood just inside the doorway; though his garments were plain, the velvet of his tunic was richly textured. But it was not on his attire that Shana's mind dwelled—she despaired the vivid remembrance which rushed through her. A vision blossomed in her mind, a vision of sleek, wide shoulders and bronzed, gleaming flesh netted with dark curly hair. The heat of a blush flooded her cheeks and there was naught she could do to stop it. For the space of a heartbeat all she could think was that she had slept naked beside this man, and he beside her!

  Though a scathing retort trembled on her tongue, she chose to ignore his jibe. She rose to face him, lifting her chin and squaring her shoulders. "You are just in time, my lord. I was about to ask your man outside if he might be able to find you."

  Thorne's gaze flickered over her. He'd thought to find her still abed, off-guard and flustered by his presence. But here she was, ever cool, ever in control.

  "You thought to send him away that you might seize the opportunity to flee, milady? I promise you, you'd not get beyond the inner ward. The castle teems with knights, milady—but rest assured, princess. This time they are aware of your true identity."

  "That was hardly my intention," she informed him stiffly. "Though it seems a fitting time to inquire if I am to be confined solely here in this tower."

  "In all truth, I had not thought on it. But I suppose you may take your meals in the hall, if you wish—as long as either Cedric or I am with you."