Medieval Rogues (76 page)

She frowned. “I see you do not care to answer my questions. That tells me a great deal. The Bram I knew—”

“—was a boy, not a man all too aware of his responsibilities.” The rogue’s stare sharpened, and she fought not to quiver at the piercing heat of it. “I hide my identity when confronting strangers to protect those who have risked their lives to swear loyalty to me, because they know I am the rightful lord of Dreyswell. Some of my men came from the keep. Their wives and children still live there. ’Tis safest for all of us, for now, if our faces are concealed.”

He offered a reasonable explanation. Yet the Bram she’d known wouldn’t have resorted to hiding of any kind. He’d been too bold, determined, and sure of his abilities and what he wanted out of life, to give up his dreams.

“Years ago,” she said, unable to keep her voice from catching, “the Bram I knew aspired to become a knight, sworn to honor and obey the king.”

“I was knighted by King Richard at Acre, after helping to win a crucial assault upon the Saracens. In the east, I would have given my life to save King Richard’s. I still feel that way.”

Confusion swept through her. “You honor the king’s laws?”

“Of course.”

“You and your followers are not conspiring against the crown? You are not a supporter of John Lackland?”

“The king’s greedy brother?” He snorted. “Never.”

“But I thought—”

“Is that what you have been told? That all men who live in the forest are traitors and should be eliminated as swiftly as possible? I should have guessed.” Before she could shift away, he leaned down to set his hands on the table either side of her, trapping her within the frame of his broad, muscled arms.

Her heart leapt. A hot shudder raced through her, while a shameless part of her savored the shocking intimacy.

She quickly angled her head to the side, refusing to face him when he was so near. His breath warmed the plane of her cheek, making her skin tingle, leaving her all too aware that if she turned her head toward him, their mouths could meet.

Is that what he intended, for them to kiss again?

Her pulse pounded against her breastbone, spurred by a rush of wicked excitement.

Never would she welcome his kiss. Never! Moving her fingers against her bonds, she tried to concentrate on the ropes, on finding a knot that could be loosened and untied.

“I do not live in these woods by choice, Miranda,” he said, close to her ear. “The forest is the safest place for me and my men, while I prepare to seize Dreyswell from Roden. ’Tis a dangerous undertaking. Roden wants me dead, and has allies among those conspiring to put Lackland upon the throne. But I will never forsake my duty to my king.”

The heat of the rogue’s words upon her skin, his closeness, his tantalizing scent, made her head spin. She
mustn’t
swoon. That would reveal just how much he affected her, and he’d manipulate that weakness.

With effort, she dragged her focus back to her bonds and escaping. “You speak with much conviction,” she said, hating her oddly breathless tone. “If you are telling me the truth, though, if you are Bram and a loyal knight of King Richard, why is Roden using your name? Why is he ruling Dreyswell, when you should be lord?”

***

A hard smile tilted Bram’s mouth. More questions, but ones he’d be asking, if their roles were reversed. Miranda did deserve to know the whole truth, as foul as it was.

He studied the graceful slope of her cheek, close enough to kiss if he dared. How he wanted to kiss every luscious bit of her. He ached to taste the sweet saltiness of her skin, to run his hands over her nakedness, to make her gasp, sigh, and moan with the ecstasy their long-ago kiss had promised would be theirs when they joined. But that would have to wait a little longer.

Fighting to suppress the lust his thoughts had roused, he said, “I, too, have wondered why Roden dared to take my identity. I will only know the truth by demanding an explanation from him. I shall get the answers I want, even if I must hold a sword to his throat and threaten to kill him.”

“You would slay your own brother?”

The horror in her voice scraped his soul like a dull knife. “He tried to kill me. Twice. The first time I believed I’d been set upon by murderous thieves, but the truth was made plain to me.”

“Are you
certain
your brother—?”

“Aye.” He clenched his jaw on boiling hatred. “Several weeks ago, after I arrived in London, I paid a messenger to deliver a missive to Dreyswell, informing the castle that I would soon arrive to take residence. Roden, whom I now know had been living in northern England as a mercenary for hire, had heard of Father’s death long before I did. He’d already taken the keep, claiming to be me. No doubt he believed I had died on crusade and would never be returning to England.”

“When he received the missive, he sent thugs to find and kill me. They attacked one afternoon when my men and I stopped to water our horses. The men were killed. Despite my injuries, I managed to escape.

“The thugs took my horse, armor, saddlebag, and scabbard, leaving me with only the clothes I was wearing and my sword. I realized later the thugs wanted to steal all that might prove who I really was, if I survived my wounds.”
Of all wretchedness, Miranda, they also got what I’d kept for years—what would prove to you, without doubt, I am who I say
.

Her lips parted, as though she meant to challenge his story, but he pressed on. “I found my way to a healer, who treated my injuries for the coins I had left on me. Not realizing Roden’s role in the attack, I continued on to Dreyswell.

“Before scores of castle folk, he said I was Roden, all while wearing my stolen armor and with my scabbard at his hip. When I accused him of paying thugs to steal my possessions and murder me, the rightful heir, he demanded proof I was Bram. All I had was my word.

“He called me a trickster, a liar, and ordered men-at-arms to arrest me. The wound on my face was cut by Roden. He would have slain me, had I not managed to get away. His thugs are still hunting me, which is why, as much as I longed to contact you and see you before now, I could not.”

Still not looking at him, she shuddered. The movement shifted the hair falling over her shoulder, and his unruly gaze slid down the shimmering strands to where her cloak parted, revealing the embroidered neckline of her bodice. Even her garments enticed him, with the promise of womanly curves beneath.

Bram trembled on a renewed flare of lust. He
had
to convince of her he told her the truth, for he’d never felt such intense desire for any other woman.

“What you are saying, then,” she said quietly, “is that the lord ruling Dreyswell is not in truth entitled to such power and authority? He seized possession of the castle out of greed?”

“Correct. While Roden and I had the same father,” Bram added, wanting her to understand, “we never got along as children. More than once, Roden said how he resented that I, as first born son, would inherit all when our father died, even though ’tis decreed by law.”

“I see,” she said softly.

“We fought so much as boys that we were fostered in the households of different lords. When I returned to Dreyswell weeks ago, I had not seen Roden in years. It had been years, too, since I had been back to the keep. That, no doubt, made it easy for him to convince others he was me.”

She’d turned her head slightly, and her gaze touched his. A faint trace of acceptance glinted in her eyes, and his hopes soared, even as her focus shifted to his scar. The torn flesh ached under her stare, matching the pain in his soul.

“I am forever marked by my brother’s treachery,” he said, no longer able to keep the yearning for her from his tone, “but I do not see my wound as a disfigurement. ’Tis my reason to fight for what is mine.”
Especially for you
, he silently added.

“Brave words,” she murmured, looking at him again.

“I mean them.” He refused to break their stare, to give her the slightest reason to doubt his resolve. “I will not rest until I have control of what is mine by right. I will rule Dreyswell with pride and honor, in support of King Richard.”

“If the king still acknowledges you.” Her gaze bored into him. “’Tis not a crime to take a lady hostage and make demands for her release?”

Her boldness reminded him of when she was younger, when he’d found her curiosity more arousing than a wench’s coy wink. “You speak true. However, ’tis also a crime that you are betrothed to my traitorous brother. Once the reasons for my actions are made clear, I trust the king will forgive what I have done.” He lifted his right hand from the table and brushed a wisp of hair behind her ear. “I hope you, too, will forgive me. My greatest crime is not among those you listed.”

“W-what did I miss?”

“Desire.” He drew out the word, let the sound soften to a rumbled purr breathed against her skin.

She sucked in a sharp breath.

“I will not rest, Miranda, until you are mine.”

Exhaling on a shiver, she blinked and looked away again.

“Do you believe what I have told you?” How much he wanted her to believe him. Never before had he experienced such wanting that bordered on agony.

She rubbed her lips together, a gesture that made him burn to kiss her again: a hard, plundering, exquisite ravaging of her mouth. Then she’d desire no man but him.

“My head reels with all you have told me,” she said. “If only you had proof . . . I do not know what to think.”

“Then do not think,” he whispered. “Feel.” His fingers slid slowly, gently to the side of her neck as he traced a path down her soft skin, over the fastening of her cloak, to the curved neckline of her bodice.

With each of her unsteady breaths, her bodice gaped a little. The shadow of her cleavage tempted him, coaxed him to further explore that secret valley. Heat from her body seeped from her gown into his fingertips, and he wanted to spread his fingers wide, to press his whole hand against the fullness of her breast, to indulge the need he could barely control.

“What does your heart tell you, Miranda? What does it say is the truth?”

How keenly Bram could imagine the sweet heaviness of her breast in his palm. She’d sigh as he swept his thumb back and forth over her nipple. He’d make it hard like a berry, before he sucked it into his mouth, circled it with his tongue, and tasted wet silk perfumed by her skin.

Again and again, he’d tease her nipple with his lips, teeth, and tongue. He’d make her moan with pleasure.

His manhood pulsed, demanding he do what he imagined—and much more.

Seducing her virgin body wouldn’t be chivalrous, but would fulfill his most intimate dream: to hear her scream his name as he brought her to an intense, unforgettable climax.

She belonged to him.

His Miranda.

His
.

Bram’s hand shifted, opened. A groan burning his throat, he cupped her breast—

“Nay!” Twisting as far away as her bonds allowed, she said, “D-do not—”

“Do you not still desire me?” Anger and dismay warred inside him as he lowered his hand. “Does not part of you admit that I speak true? That I am Bram? Your Bram?”

No longer able to deny his lust, he kissed her cheek. A ragged gasp broke from her, a sound of desire, and his need flared like a crowd of sparks shot up by a log.

He grazed his teeth against her jaw, nibbling, tasting, as he moved toward her lips.

One more kiss, two, and then he’d claim her mouth again. He’d kiss her until she arched against him, begging for him to caress her breasts, her thighs, and all the sensitive places in between.

Her eyelids fluttered. As though with immense effort, she stared at him. “The Bram I knew would never take a lady hostage. Nor would he bind her to a table.”

Her words hit him like a blow. Fury raced through him, that his words had made no impact, and, worst of all, that she was right.

He drew the knife from his belt. Ignoring her startled cry, he reached behind her, caught her bonds, and sliced the ropes.
 

Chapter Three

When the cottage door slammed behind the rogue, Miranda blew out the breath she’d held tightly within her like a secret. What a blessed relief to have a reprieve from wielding her emotional shield against him.

When he’d admitted his desire for her, his voice trembling and hungry, she’d been overwhelmed by the desire clamoring within herself.

It would have been so easy to surrender to his sensual wiles. To think only of the way her body craved his touch. To
feel
, as he’d challenged her.

Rubbing at her reddened wrists, she rose on unsteady legs, her cloak and gown brushing her ankles. Knowing she’d come so close to yielding left a chill inside her, brushed by a dark feather of anticipation. While his story had been convincing, he’d offered no proof he was indeed the man she’d known years ago, not even one detail of the night they’d kissed so passionately.

Surely, if she meant so much to him, that evening would be as clear in his memory as ’twas in hers.

Voices drifted in from outside. As she began to walk about the cottage to stretch her legs, she fought both anticipation and dread that the door would open and she’d face him—whoever he was—before she’d gathered her composure.