Stuart, Elizabeth (19 page)

Lifting
her arms, Richard tugged the worn brown tunic over her head. Then his mouth
sought hers unerringly, his tongue slipping between her lips, touching,
teasing, filling her with a mass of dizzying sensations that sent her world
reeling. His hands caressed the length of her back, slipping beneath the
tattered hem of her linen shift to rest against the curve of her hip.

At
the warm feel of his hands against her bare skin, Elen flinched. The situation
was almost beyond her control and she still wasn't certain she knew what to do.
Yesterday she had planned how this would be, how
she
would be the
aggressor, seducing
him
to carelessness. But her enemy had unexpectedly
turned the tables.

Richard
eased her shift over her head. She made one frightened grab for the protective
covering but he held her gently, rubbing his cheek against her hair. "I
want to see you, Elen," he whispered against her ear. "Don't hide
yourself. We need have no secrets between us."

She
forced herself to focus on Richard's bare chest, willing herself not to think
of what he was doing, reminding herself she must decide exactly where to put
his blade. She would get only one chance with this man, and she would have to
move quickly. His dagger was well within reach. With a half roll, she could
have it in her hand. An uncontrollable shudder ran through her and she closed
her eyes against the vision of Richard's golden body running red with blood.
Dear
God, could she do
it?

Richard
heard her deep sigh, felt her tremble in his arms. She was afraid of him and he
was probably going too fast for her. Despite the fact she was no virgin, he had
the overwhelming feeling she wasn't all that experienced either. Perhaps the
Welsh Fox was a poor lover, he thought with a satisfied grin.

Easing
Elen down on the scattered furs on the bed, he let his eyes range over her bare
body. She was tall and leggy like a prize colt, but incredibly well put
together in spite of her thinness. Her pale flesh gleamed with a translucent
whiteness against the background of dark fur, and it was all he could do to
keep from ending his torment at once. He rested one hand on her belly, slowly
moving it along her ribs until he cupped one small, perfect breast, teasing its
pouting nipple with the pad of his thumb.

With
a tiny, smothered gasp, Elen half rose against him, her blue eyes wide with
outrage and bewilderment. He bent his head and took her mouth, teasing her lips
open with more insistence than he had done before. His hands began to move, his
fingers encircling the tight, hard bud of her nipples while his tongue explored
her mouth with a rhythm that wrung a low groan from her throat.

Shifting
forward, he moved over her, parting her thighs easily with his knee and fitting
his body between them. There was nothing stopping him now save the thin fabric
of his chausses. He was thankful he still wore the garment else he'd not have
been able to control his desire. And he wanted to take his time making love to
this woman. She had been through hell, and as a soldier bound to further war on
her people, he had little to offer in exchange for the use of her body save her
own pleasure. Sliding his hands along the graceful curve of her back, he lifted
her slender hips against his aching loins, swearing before he took her she
would know this same fierce need that burned through his veins.

Elen
felt the weight of Richard's eager body pressing her down onto the bed. He
showered kisses across her bare shoulder to the warm hollow of her throat. She
stifled another groan as his lips explored lower, gently nuzzling the suddenly
sensitive crest of her breasts. Why didn't he get it over with? This wasn't the
hurried act of coupling she had heard crudely described. It wasn't the
primitive rutting of animals she had seen. She gritted her teeth against the
strange warmth spiraling through her. Why didn't he just take his pleasure and
be done so she could do what she must?

Richard's
mouth took possession of hers once more, his curiously knowing hands moving
over her in a way that nearly robbed her of thought. She hated Richard, hated
him, she repeated in a frantic litany that was the only steadying anchor in a
sea of confusing feelings flooding over her. He had killed Enion and he would
kill Owain too. And he was using her in a way no man should dare!

She
swallowed hard and tried to shift away from the exquisite torment of his hands,
but Richard pulled her on top of him, molding her tightly against his body in a
way that left her aching for something she didn't dare think about. She
couldn't let him continue this, she told herself wildly. She had to end it now
while some measure of will remained to her.

Wrapping
her arms around Richard's broad shoulders, she let one hand stray over his
head, feeling desperately for the table. There! Her groping fingers found the
dagger and she shifted her hand upward until the handle fit her palm.

She
must do it now. There was just no other way.

Opening
her eyes wide, she stared down at Richard's golden body, feeling a sudden
overwhelming remorse. He didn't deserve to die like this—not like this!

Owain...
think of Owain.
For
a second more she hesitated. Owain or Richard—her choice which would live.

But
there was no choice. Closing her eyes, she brought the blade down with all the
force of her arm.

Richard
caught the flash of descending steel out of the corner of his eye. Through a
haze of building passion he had felt the sudden change in the woman in his
arms, his battle-trained senses responding to the tensing muscles of an
opponent preparing for a blow. As his instincts took control, he thrust himself
sideways before his mind even registered the thought.

Elen
was trying
to kill him!

The
knife buried itself harmlessly in the straw mattress beside his shoulder.
Richard swung from the bed with a low snarl of rage, but the girl was up, too,
the dagger a flash of deadly silver between them.

"Bitch!
You lying, treacherous bitch!" he bit out furiously.

Elen
held the knife low and close in, like one trained to use it. Her eyes were wide
and desperate, her face devoid of all color. Richard fought the impulse to rush
forward and simply jerk the weapon from her hand. Elen wasn't just any foolish
woman with a knife. She would cut him to pieces if he took that mad course.

Snatching
up a fur from the bed, he caught it between both hands, holding it before him
as a shield in case she rushed him. He could call the guard outside the door,
but that would be too easy. She had made a fool of him and he'd be damned if
he'd get help to subdue her. No, he wanted to break the lying jade himself. She
would be begging for mercy before he was done!

He
feinted once, twice, three times with the fur, the fourth time swinging it over
her head to entangle her right arm. Elen ducked back, but he dove for her
midsection, hurling her backward into a wooden table that careened across the
floor to shatter noisily against the wall.

They
went down in a tangle of wildly thrashing limbs, every muscle straining with
furious, deadly purpose. Richard caught her right wrist, squeezing down with a
bone-crushing grip to make her release the weapon. He could feel the pounding
of her heart, hear the sound of her harsh breathing as they struggled
desperately for the weapon. He knew her strength was no match for his, but she
stubbornly held on.

With
a vicious oath, he struck her arm against the floor seeking to knock the knife
from her grip. She rolled sideways, shielding the weapon from him with the bulk
of her own body.

Richard
dragged her arm back, not caring now if the delicate bone snapped beneath his
weight. Christ, he'd kill her if she kept this up!

Elen
flung herself away from the relentless pain in her wrist just as Richard forced
back on her arm with all his strength. Her arm gave way, the power of his
thrust jerking the blade down along her thigh. It slid sickeningly through her
bare flesh, a searing pain that blotted out all thoughts, all sensations save
the fiery ache burning through her.

With
a gasp, she released the weapon. Through a red haze of pain, she heard Richard
curse as he rolled her over to inspect the wound.

Instinctively
she knew it was bad. Without opening her eyes she recognized the warm feel of
blood gushing down her leg to puddle wetly beneath her body on the cold floor.
Richard's hands were rough and impatient, a far cry from the gentleness he had
shown such a short time ago. Yet they felt strangely competent, too, as they
pressed strips torn from the bed linens against her flesh to stem the flow of
blood.

Elen
kept her eyes tightly closed, unable to face the implacable hatred she knew she
would read in Richard's gaze, unable to watch her own life's blood spending
itself on the floor. She had tried to do what was necessary, but it wasn't
enough. She had failed.

Her
determination began to ebb as the pain intensified, filling every inch of her
world with a bright, throbbing hurt. She would die now, but she didn't care. At
least the pain would be no more.

Richard
swung to his feet and padded across the floor. She heard him open the door and
bellow for Giles. With a concentrated effort, she opened her eyes and sat up.
The room spun before her, and her stomach churned weakly with nausea. An
uncontrollable chill shook her and she felt burning hot and freezing cold at
the same time. The blood welled from her leg in a crimson stream, but strangely
enough, it didn't seem to belong to her.

"Sorry,
sweetheart, but you weren't quite quick enough. Too bad you missed... and for
the second time now too."

Richard
had returned. She lifted her head to speak, to try to explain, but her mind
refused to translate her Welsh thoughts into French. And it was just as well.
What could she say to him anyway?

Richard
studied the beautiful girl before him. Any other woman and not a few of the men
he knew would be groveling on the floor after such treachery, begging for their
lives. Elen just gazed up at him without a whimper, the glazed look in her wide
blue eyes the only hint of her pain.

The
look sent his insides tightening with dread. He had seen that look in the eyes
of countless wounded in the aftermath of battle. It boded no good. For God's
sake, where was Giles? He would know what to do to staunch this flood of
bleeding.

Another
chill shook the girl. Richard grabbed up one of the furs and wrapped it around
her shivering body. She looked so pathetic huddled on the floor. He shifted
forward impulsively to take her in his arms, then drew back with an oath.
Christ, she'd almost killed him. He was more of a fool than he'd realized.
"Don't think I'm going to let you die now, sweetheart," he said
coldly. "I need you alive— at least for another week."

"Richard!
For the love of God, what's happened?"

Richard
glanced up. "We had a small scuffle over a knife," he said bitterly.
"She lost."

Giles
took in the situation at a glance: the rumpled bedcovers, the naked girl and
his near-naked lord. Going down on one knee beside Elen, he spoke soothingly to
her in the Welsh tongue.

"I
saw at once I couldn't stop the bleeding," Richard explained as Giles
lifted the blood-soaked linens he'd wrapped about Elen's thigh. "The
wound's too deep and more than the span of my hand."

Giles
nodded and looked up. "You know, then, what we must do. She's like to
bleed to death else."

For
a moment the two men looked at each other, then Richard turned on his heel and
retrieved his knife. Moving to the fire, he bent and forced the blade deep into
the glowing bed of embers, his own flesh cringing at the thought of holding it
against Elen's shapely thigh. "You do it," he snapped, his back still
turned toward his friend. "I might enjoy it too much."

In
a few terse Welsh sentences, Giles explained what they would do. But his words
were unnecessary for Elen. She had seen Owain seal a wound on more than one
occasion. She met his worried gaze. "I understand," she said softly.
"I will not struggle."

Minutes
ticked by. Elen watched as Richard rose from the fire and moved toward her, the
glowing blade held gingerly in one hand. This wasn't real. It couldn't be
happening. Holy Mary, help her to be brave.

Giles
frowned and took the knife, biting his lip in concentration. "I don't want
to frighten you, but I must hold your leg flat with my weight, Elen." He
gazed at her steadily. "If you jerk away, the knife might slip and we'd
just have to do this again. Do you understand?"

She
drew a shaky breath. At least it would be over quickly. "Do what you must.
I'll not move."

Richard
sat down beside her. "She won't move, Giles. I'll make sure of that,"
he said harshly. "Just get this over with."

Elen's
tongue flickered out over suddenly dry lips. She watched in grim fascination as
Giles moved into position. Richard caught her shoulders, his painful grip
holding her so tightly against his side she could scarcely breathe. Her eyes
flashed up to his expecting hate, triumph.

His
gaze narrowed with a strange, unreadable expression. "Don't look," he
whispered, drawing her face against him. "It'll be over in a—"