Fire Dance (20 page)

"That is not your way, Alain."

"So I thought, myself."

"You said you did not hurt her."

"Hurt her, no. But I left her terrified. I tried to calm her, but I only seemed to make matters worse."

"Did you truly think she would welcome you into her arms after being so manhandled most of the day?"

"I only sought to bring her under control."

"And in so doing, lost control of yourself."

"I suppose you know a better way."

"Aye, and so do you. Any man chooses what sort of wife he will have by the way he treats her. You always admired Heloise. But do you think she would have been so amiable to a husband who treated her as if she had no more value than a sack of grain?"

"I made some guesses, mayhap wrong ones. I thought she meant to betray us before she disappeared. I almost had her trust, but that is certainly gone now. I have much to undo."

"But it can be done. A kind act, a word of regret. A promise, some tenderness. It is possible, I think."

"I doubt Rufus has any idea what he has sent me to."

Chrétien smiled the kind of wicked smile Rufus would favor. "On the contrary, I would not be surprised if he knew exactly what you would meet."

"Why do you think that?"

"Rufus picks his men carefully. He knew before he sent you that you were the right man. Cheer yourself, my friend. You will find a way."

He wished he could believe that. Chrétien could afford to be so blithe. His head was not on the block for his stupidity. But Chrétien had the good sense to remain silent while they walked the rest of the allure.

* * *

He had braved the gauntlet of Saxons in the hall below, unnerved more by the men's quiet disregard, as if they had seen and heard nothing, than if they had challenged him directly. And he was distinctly aware that he was alive only by virtue of the promise Melisande had extracted from them. She was a most unusual woman, to have demanded and gotten such a promise. It was almost as if she had set herself up as sacrifice. Why?

And what was it she feared? Even a normally balky bride did not resist what she knew was her husband's right. A woman's purpose in the scheme of things was clear, as was a man's. But while he knew he had not meant to harm her, somehow he had given her an entirely different message.

Surely, it must be violence she feared. Not unreasonable, considering her violent father. He should have known that. He owed her more than just an apology. Tomorrow, they would talk.

The brazier's coals still glowed brightly as he stripped off his clothes. He blew at the wax candle and eased his body on top of the warm down quilt, immersing himself in the dark and quiet.

A faint noise, like a dove's cooing, seeped through the still air. He raised his head off the pillow, but decided he had imagined it and lay back down.

A scream jolted through him. He bolted upright. Puzzled, he leaped from the bed and grabbed his tunic. But he heard nothing more, and so sat down again at the bed's edge.

He decided to lie back down. Another scream pierced his ears. He jerked on the garment, relit the candle from the brazier, and barged through the door.

The bed was empty, the quilt strewn precariously across the bed's far corner. She was gone again. But the cries still came from the far side of the bed. The girl huddled in the corner, her face a mask of terror.

"I won't, I won't!" she cried out.

A night terror. Like those that still occasionally afflicted Chrétien when he recalled his own night of terror. He hoped the cause was not as hideous, but from what Thomas had told him, his hopes could be in vain. He knelt beside her.

"Melisande. Wake up. It is but a dream."

"I won't, no, please! Don't hurt– "

"Melisande, wake up." He stood and reached down her.

"No!" she screeched. "I won't– let me go!"

She looked directly at him as nonsense words flowed out, a rattle of things he couldn't piece together. And as she screamed, she tried to push herself farther back into the corner. But there was no place to go. She turned on her knees and clawed at the wall. Plaster flaked beneath the onslaught of her nails.

"No, don't– I can't– don't leave me!"

It was his fault. He had done this to her. Big as he was, he must still be terrifying to her. But what could he do about that?

Sit. Alain sat on the floor, and slowly edged himself along the wall, drawing as close to her as he dared. The odd words flowed from her in a steady, incoherent and hurried stream. He had seen that before, too. Night terrors were common among men who had fought too hard, too long, too many terrible battles. Most had seen something they desperately wanted to forget.

"Melisande," he said gently, and kept calling her name, until she quieted, and words diminished to an unintelligible whisper, interspersed with gasps like hiccups. Her eyes stared off at nothing.

"Melisande, it is but a dream. No one will hurt you."

"Hurt– "

"No, lady, no one will hurt you. Ah, lady, I am sorry. I had not meant to frighten you. I was wrong."

"Don't– "

He knew she had not yet come around. He kept talking.

"I had no right to treat you that way, Melisande. And I do not want us to be enemies. I should be your protector, not the one that frightens you so. I will not let it happen again. I promise you."

He reached out, stroked his fingers on her cheek, and wove them into her tangled hair. "You are so lovely, my lady. Even in your ragged clothing, you are by far the loveliest woman I have ever known."

He would have expected her to recoil from his touch. Instead, her own small hand took his and held it at her cheek. He slipped his other arm around her and drew her into his arms.

The gulping sobs and screeches faded to thin whimpers, then slowly faded to nothing as his hands stroked over her tangled hair, across her shoulders. "You will be all right, love. The dream is gone now."

For a while he held her, not quite daring to break the spell. But the chamber was chilly and she wore no more than a light linen chemise. Not enough to keep her warm.

Alain stood, awkwardly lifting her in his arms, then carried her to the bed, where he lowered her gently to the feather mattress. But when he straightened to reach for the quilt, her arms latched about his neck with a desperate ferocity.

"Nay," she said, and clung tightly to him.

"Lady, you are cold. I must get the quilt for you."

"Nay," she pleaded, and her arms tightened.

He bent and crawled over the top of her, grabbing at the quilt as he went, and lay down at her side. With his free hand, he pulled the cover over her and tucked it around her.

"Don't leave me."

"Nay, I won't go. I'll stay as long as you need me."

She nestled her head into his shoulder while he stroked gently over her back and through her damp hair.

Sudden need struck him as he drew her against his body, a passion forgotten in the frightening struggle just past. He would ignore it. God's Breath, he didn't know how, for he had long desired her, but he must. She needed his comfort, not his aggression.

His lips kissed tenderly on her hair, then cheek, and she made no objection. Her lips invited him, instead. Just one kiss, to reassure her. If she did not like it, he would stop.

He lifted her chin with his fingers and his lips found hers, touching like feathers. His body screamed at him, demanded its fulfillment.

But he was not the important one at the moment. He would give her what she needed from him, for she was his wife, now.

Wife. An odd word it seemed, now, for a new sort of meaning had become attached to it. A personal one. Something special. Someone special, this woman in his arms.

As you find her. No questions asked.

Ah, Rufus, what is it you know? Why would you not tell me?

And what had been done to this girl? Was it Fyren's doing? Suddenly he wished the man alive, so that he might slay him, himself.

He felt her hand straying across his chest, beneath the open tunic, felt its delicate fingers nestling in among the hairs, stroke across nipples that suddenly hardened with her touch. His body ran riot, demanding what he dared not give it. She surely did not know what her touch did to him.

Yet she was a woman of the modern age; she had to know what all society expected of her. She had known well enough in the earlier evening hours when she had fought him with every ounce of her strength and being. What was so different now, that she would so readily forgive him? He had done little beyond soothe her in her terror.

He did not trust himself. Never in his life had he said that, never before now. He should leave. Yet her body begged him to stay with her. And she needed him.

Caught in the quandary, he again brought his lips to hers. Her mouth opened invitingly. He could not resist. With his tongue, he probed tentatively into the warm, moist, yielding corners of her mouth. The tip of her tongue found his, answered his with its own tender, tentative exploration.

His body tautened, fiercely demanding satisfaction for its urgent need. God's Breath, how was he to manage this? He should have left. It was too late.

"You have only to tell me stop, and I will stop."

His voice sounded to him like a coarse, ragged whisper, and he feared he was lying. But she said nothing.

In the dim glow of the guttering candle, her solemn blue eyes watched him as he pulled away as if she feared he would leave. But he sat and yanked the tunic off over his head and tossed it away, not caring where it lit.

"My lovely lady, I have wanted you in my arms from the moment I saw you."

With a gentleness, and a calmness he did not feel, he caught the hem of the linen chemise, and lifted it as his hands ran smoothly up her thighs and hips, raised it past her breasts, over her head. Aye, she even raised her arms to help him.

He fought against the wildly rampant urge to take her now, hard and swift, before she changed her mind. He did not think she would send him away now, but what if she did? He dared not think of it. Instead, he skimmed the flawless white skin of her belly with his fingertips and ignored his barbarous urge to press her fiercely to him.

"You have only to say the word, my love, and I will stop."

"Do not leave me."

Her arms again encircled his neck, tugged him downward to her. He was undone. Beyond calling back. A heavy moan coursed through him as he slid down so that he could capture the rosy tip of one nipple in his mouth, while both hands cradled her round breasts.

Her eyes closed tightly and she whimpered with his touch. He felt her thighs separate beneath his weight, lodging him between them, where he wanted most on God's earth to be.

He wanted her, but more than that, wanted her to crave him in the same deliciously painful way that he needed her. Lifting his body to let his hand pass between them, he found her source of passion buried in its curly nest. The first touch raised her high off the bed, her blue eyes bright and startled, before they softened to the smoky glow of pleasure.

"Ah, lady, you like that. I will give you anything you want. You will see."

And she did like it. Her whimpers became moans of passion as he stroked, increasing tempo with her rising demand. Ah, aye, he would give her anything, everything.