Stuart, Elizabeth (18 page)

Richard
smiled darkly. Just let the young pup try to cross him! He'd show him how men
fought. He'd send the boy running for cover behind his mother's skirts—and he'd
enjoy doing it.

The
sight of a serving woman descending the stairs at the back of the hall suddenly
distracted him. The woman carried a tray with the remains of a meal.
Elen...

Richard
stood up abruptly, embracing the thought of the girl with eagerness, a welcome
distraction from the pain of his recent musing. When he had drained the last of
his wine, he placed the heavy goblet on the table. He might as well find out
what the girl had intended yesterday.

"If
you'll excuse me, gentlemen," he remarked, gazing fixedly at the stairs.
"I've some unfinished business to see to."

***

Elen
flung herself onto the bed in despair, frantically wondering what was happening
beyond the walls of her chamber. Had she misunderstood Richard's plan
yesterday? Had she stupidly mistaken his guttural English words?

Richard
hadn't come in to her last night and as the hours passed, she nervously
recalled the confused sounds of men and horses gathering in the courtyard
yesterday afternoon. At the time she had paid little attention to the noise,
putting it down to a routine patrol making ready for a foray. And since the
north window overlooking the castle bailey was still tightly boarded with heavy
shutters to hold out the winter wind, she hadn't been able to satisfy her
curiosity. But what if Richard had ridden out after Owain yesterday? What if
the trap had been sprung this morning and Owain was already dead?

She
tried to tell herself the idea was ridiculous. No one could have put such an
elaborate plot into effect in just one day. But as the long hours of night
dragged by, her panic had multiplied with the darkness until all reason eluded
her. And she didn't dare ask the stolid-faced guard who brought her breakfast
where his master had gone. The English men-at-arms spoke neither French nor
Welsh, and Elen dared not reveal she spoke their own crude tongue.

The
sound of returning men and horses a half hour earlier had flooded her with
fresh fear, sending her tearing frantically at the sturdy wooden shutters until
the fingers of her right hand were bloody and sore. But she couldn't remove the
bolt and had succeeded in breaking off only one tiny corner of the barrier.

Suddenly
the sound of approaching footsteps caught her attention. It was a man's tread.
She sat up, straining her ears. If Owain were dead, she couldn't bear it!

A
sharp, impatient knock sounded, then Richard swung open the door. Elen rose
anxiously to her feet, regarding the tall knight with a fierce scrutiny. At
least he didn't appear to have fought recently. Clutching her hands together,
she took a deep breath. "You have been gone," she stated flatly.

Richard
studied the girl before him in surprise. Her voice was curiously breathless,
her face taut and anxious. If he didn't know better, he would think she was
afraid. "Yes. I had business to see to."

A
flicker of pain crossed her face and he felt more bewildered than ever.
"Has something frightened you, Elen?" He crossed the floor toward
her. "Has anyone harmed you?"

She
shook her head, searching for some excuse for her obvious unease. Richard must
not guess the real reason for her fear. "You left and I didn't know if you
meant to return. I... I didn't know what would become of me here."

Her
halting words touched him as did the frightened look in her wide blue eyes.
What an unfeeling bastard he'd been to have left her helpless and shut away
like this, with no key to her future save the memory of old brutalities
practiced between his race and hers. No wonder she was afraid.

Taking
her arm, Richard drew her down beside him onto the fur-covered bed. "Let
me tell you what will happen then, Elen, so you will have no need for
fear," he said quietly. "No one here will harm you. My word is law
and I've given certain orders concerning you. And if anything should happen to
me, Giles would take command. He would see you came to no harm."

The
girl was staring down at her clasped hands and Richard followed her gaze. He
noticed her bloody fingers with surprise. "What's this?" he inquired,
taking her right hand in his.

She
tried to pull away but he held her wrist firmly. "It's nothing," she
said nervously. "Pray, don't regard it."

"How
came you by this?"

Elen
lifted her eyes to his, knowing the truth would answer better in this case than
a lie. "I tore my hand trying to force the shutters from the window. I...
I can't stand to be closed in."

Richard's
eyes narrowed and he curled her fingers protectively in his large hand. "I
will have them opened for you, then, if you're certain you won't be cold."

She
glanced away uncomfortably. His kindness was the last thing she wanted now.

Taking
her injured hand, Richard blotted her fingertips gently against the
forest-green cloth of his tunic. He lifted them to his lips, slowly kissing the
back of her hand and then each individual finger. Something about this girl
moved him to an unexpected tenderness, and despite the many impatient hours of
wanting her, he now felt no haste.

At
the warm touch of Richard's mouth against her skin, Elen's eyes flew to his
face in surprise. His head was bent near hers, his eyes regarding her
impassively. Her hand warmed to his touch and she sought to draw it away, but
his fingers held hers securely.

They
studied each other wordlessly, then Richard's hand moved to her chin, lifting
her face toward him. His fingers strayed to her unbound hair, stroking it in a
way that sent a warm shiver of pleasure down her backbone. "In answer to
your words yesterday, Elen, I have no other woman to see to my needs," he
said quietly.

The
hand slid to her neck, gently cupping the back of her head, holding her face
toward him. His mouth lowered slowly to hers, so close she could feel the soft
brush of his breath against her cheek.

Instinctively,
she closed her eyes. His lips caressed her temple, then brushed against her
mouth, feather soft, gently urging instead of rough and demanding as she had
expected. "But I desire something more from you than a woman to mend my
garments," he whispered against her closed lips.

Elen
took a deep breath. Not now, she thought wildly. It couldn't be happening now!
She'd been so afraid for Owain she hadn't even thought of her plan to kill
Richard in hours. She needed time to ready herself, time to steel herself for a
task that was growing increasingly distasteful. No, she thought frantically.
Not now!

Richard's
lips grazed her closed eyelids then returned to take her mouth. The pressure
was light and strangely pleasing... and somehow compelling. She put one hand
against his chest in mute protest, and he ceased his tender aggression at once.

Elen's
eyes snapped open and she stared up at him in bewilderment. She hadn't expected
this pleasant feeling his touch evoked. He slid his fingers through her hair,
moving his hands until he cupped her face gently between both palms. "I
make no secret of the fact that I desire you, Elen. But I'll not force you to
come to me against your will." He stared down at her so intently she lost
all ability to look away. "You will continue to be treated well—even if
you refuse me."

Elen
felt the warmth of each separate finger against her face. She had not counted
on this kindness from the Wolf of Kent, and it left her strangely shaken.
Suddenly she wished he would beat her. It would make her task easier to bear.

Richard's
overwhelming nearness sent her heart thudding painfully, his gaze capturing her
own so that even her thinking was disjointed. Never had she felt so helpless to
plan, to decide. Richard desired her. This was exactly what she had wanted,
what she had planned for yesterday afternoon. Yet now she felt a frantic urge
to flee. "But... but we are enemies!" she blurted out in protest,
more to herself than to him.

Richard
smiled. So he had been wrong about Elen yesterday. There had been no calculated
invitation in her eyes, no plan to use him for gain. The girl seemed genuinely
surprised by his proposal—surprised and afraid. He could feel her pulse leaping
wildly beneath his fingers, see the panic in her eyes. His hands slid to her
shoulders, gently drawing her closer. He wanted her, but he wanted her willing.
And something told him he could make her so.

"We
do not have to be enemies," he breathed against her mouth. His lips moved
over hers once more, his tongue sliding temptingly along her full lower lip,
urging her to open to him. "We could share a truce. At least in this
room," he whispered, finally lifting his head.

Elen
struggled to catch her breath. The fire in Richard's eyes kindled something
deep inside her. Fear, she told herself, hastily struggling to conquer it. She
was afraid she couldn't do this thing—perhaps she really wasn't equal to the
task.

But
her father
had always told her she could do anything.

Her
father... Enion, the host of other friends this man had slain. The thought
steadied her, reminding her of her purpose. Despite his gentleness with her,
Richard was responsible for the deaths of all her family. She could kill him,
and she would. Her dead cried out for vengeance. But first she had to find out
where he had gone. If Owain were already dead...

Her
hands moved to clutch Richard's shoulders and she held him slightly away.
"Do you come to me with fresh blood on your hands? Did your business take you
to war on my people?"

Richard
met her accusing gaze with an innocent smile, refusing to think of his damning
plot to capture her lover. Thank God he had nothing to hide this time, at
least. "Even you could find no fault with my business, Elen. I rode to
take food to a small Welsh village northeast of here. The people are starving
and there are only women and children and a few old men. I doubted feeding them
would endanger the English cause."

Some
strange emotion shone fleetingly in her eyes. Pain or regret, he thought. But
that was impossible. Her grip on his shoulders relaxed and he drew her full
against his chest, thrilling to the feel of her slender body in his arms. She
didn't struggle when his mouth moved over hers. Her lips relaxed against the pressure
of his, opening to let him explore the velvet softness of her mouth.

Richard
felt a white-hot excitement building within him. Elen would come to him
willingly now. There would be no more nights of wanting. He bent her back onto
the bed, the upper part of his body pressing eagerly against the soft curves of
hers. Stroking her hair, tangling his fingers in the rich cool silk of her dark
chestnut tresses, he wondered how he had ever thought he favored fair women.
All his past mistresses seemed but pale, faded images when compared to Elen's
fiery loveliness.

He
shifted closer to mold his hips against hers, already imagining the exquisite
pleasure he would seek in her body. But the awkward bulk of his sheathed
broadsword came between them.

Impatient
annoyance gave way to a smothered chuckle and he rolled away from the girl. She
had him so eager, he hadn't even thought to remove his weapons. He was acting
like an awkward boy with his first woman, for pity's sake.

Rising
on one elbow, he smiled down at her. "My wits have clearly gone begging,
Elen." He brushed the hair back from her flushed face, her slightly parted
lips silently pleading for one more kiss. Bending, he took her mouth once more,
slowly, thoroughly, scarcely able to bear the thought of stopping, even for a
moment. "I doubt we can get on satisfactorily with this damned thing
between us," he whispered, touching his sword.

Elen
lay on the bed staring up at the man above her in surprise. Her thoughts spun
crazily and she was vaguely aware of her own breathless excitement, of a
strange disappointment that his heady, drugging kisses had ended. She had been
kissed scores of times, but never like that, she thought dazedly. Englishmen
were certainly different from the men of her race.

Richard
slid to his feet, his hands moving quickly to unbuckle his sword belt. He
removed it hastily, and it dropped to the floor beside the bed with a noise
that shook her out of her bewilderment.

Her
enemy was removing his weapons! Blessed Saint Dafydd, when should she take his
life? All at once, the thought was incredibly repugnant, but she thrust the
cowardly feeling aside. When... when was the best time? Not now—Richard was
still too aware of what was happening.

Richard
removed his dagger, tossing it onto the bedside table. His eyes held hers, and
a slow smile spread over his face, a smile that sent a strange, aching
emptiness uncoiling in the pit of her stomach. "Perhaps we should both get
a bit more comfortable," he suggested. With the words, he slipped his tunic
over his head, quickly stripping off the homespun shirt beneath it. He emerged
bare-chested, his powerful golden body bared to her gaze.

Easing
one knee onto the bed, he caught her shoulders and raised her to a sitting
position. "Your turn, sweetheart." His hands were firm but gentle
against her flesh. There was no painful haste. Not even Enion had been so
tender in his treatment, Elen caught herself thinking.