Defiant (20 page)

He moved slightly back, and she flinched. His hand lifted.

Unable to watch, she closed her eyes. Shivers ran through her and she cringed, awaiting the blow.

Her life had become hell.

Worse than hell.

The life of a married woman.

His palm landed on her cheek, but not harshly as she had imagined. She flinched, but there was no crack in the air, no feel of pain, nothing as she expected. The fingers were as soft as a butterfly’s wing brushing her skin.

“I do not beat women.”

Her eyes flew open.

“Not that you don’t deserve it,” he added gruffly with a long-suffering exhalation. “And you might not want to test that resolve. You vex my patience sorely, so I suggest that you answer my questions.”

Absently, her fingers fiddled with the bridle’s collar, and she flicked a nail across the knob on the top of it.

“Right.” She cleared her throat, her mind racing for a way to tell him part of the story while leaving out other parts.

Jared moved away from her as if to get himself back under control.

Realizing that she was gripping the iron bars of the brank so tightly that her fingers were going numb, she released them and composed herself. She had faced down men before; this would be no different. She tried to remember all that Irma had taught her about men—how to get just the right mixture of boldness and shyness.

“When I was a girl, I left a certain feast—” She squared her shoulders. The memory of him giving her the book tickled her mind and she did not want him to know how she’d carried it with her all these years. Even without checking, she knew it was gone from her bodice—had likely fallen out in the scuffle.

He tilted her chin up. “So you recognized me after all?”

If only she could cover her face, not let him see the emotions that bubbled to the surface. “Why did you not enter the monastery?”

A deep frown line formed between his brows. “'Tis a story for another day. Tell me about meeting Irma.”

“I met Irma while I was out walking.” That was close enough to the truth. “We have been friends ever since.” She ended with a note of finality in her voice so that he would ask no more.

He leaned forward and ran his thumb down the side of her neck.

Her toes turned cold as if all her blood was needed to keep her neck from turning aside, from turning her eyes toward the trees, away from Jared and his piercing eyes.

A leaf swirled downward. Heavens, if only she could get up and run.

She shook herself. Nay. She would fear him no longer. She had seen his reaction to her when she licked her lips earlier, and she would use it to her advantage.

No common falconer would be her master.

She was lying. Stalling. There was some secret that she absolutely did not want him to know. Her eyes shifted and her lily-white hands fidgeted in her skirt.

Curiosity piqued, Jared determined to find out what made her so nervous.

But time was short. His attempt to keep her quiet had rebounded on him. He had not expected such a crowd to gather when he put the brank on her.

If he was recognized, it would only be a matter of time before he would be put back in prison unless he found the real murderer. He gripped his staff as the familiar feeling of outrage at the injustice done to him floated to the surface. The scars on his legs demanded revenge.

They should get to his cave and gather his belongings as soon as possible—get away from the townfolk and head to the protection of her castle.

Gwyneth scooted forward, the bark scraping the blue silk of her dress.

Suspecting that she intended to leap from the log, he neared her, touched her cheek.

She shivered, and he feared that she would panic like an untrained hawk if he did not allow her room to move about.

“Come, Gwyneth.” He held out his hand, palm up. “We will see to Aeliana and you can tell me your story on the way. ”

Moments later, he settled her before him on the horse and headed for the cave. Her body was warm—soft and altogether too feminine for comfort. Despite the events of the past two days, her hair smelled of lavender and she seemed to have no qualms about being near him. She relaxed against him the same as she had yesterday, adding to his discomfiture.

“Why did the two of you become friends?” he prompted when they had gone a short distance and Gwyneth was not forthcoming with any answers.

He felt her cringe as if she did not wish to discuss this topic. “We are close to the same age,” she said.

Jared tightened his arms around her, wishing he could squeeze answers out of her, but he tamped down his impatience. He had frightened her enough and now needed to work on building trust between them so they could forge a life together.

“Why did you leave the feast? I gave you the book and you ran out.”

A deep flush began to creep up her neck. Interesting. He touched her neck. She shivered.

The horse picked its way through the trees. Jared found the thin trail that led by the river in the direction they needed to go. Water bubbled over rocks nearby.

“I left the feast because—” She paused, toying with the ends of her hair.

“Go on.”

“'Twas a long time ago,” she hedged.

Their bodies swayed with the rhythm of the horse’s hooves and he could feel the gooseflesh on her arms. Instinctively, he pressed her close to him.

Gwyneth took a deep breath.

In her mind, she was back at the feast. Somehow that day, long forgotten, had been layered over this one.

She remembered the stares of the women, remembered the boasting of her father, of how Brenna had made breastlike statues of the pink salmon.

The hurt swelled in her chest and she felt her pride slip away. Any moment she might break apart and begin to cry. If Jared laughed, it would crush her. She twirled a lock of her hair round and round her hand.

While the reasons for leaving the feast were not nearly so dangerous as confessing her crimes, emotionally it put her even more on edge. She did not wish to tell this man of her issues with her family, or how she had been despised, hated by the women, and how the men leered at her. Of the memories that the brank had stormed into her mind.

She lifted her chin, wishing she could blink her eyes and make Jared disappear. He did not. But he did not press her to answer either.

She turned her face aside to count the branches on the passing trees. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Surely they would reach the cave soon. Then she would come up with a plan to be rid of him.

Jared said naught. His patience was even more disconcerting than his anger.

Seven. Eight.

The silence was punctuated by the horse’s hooves crunching across leaves and it grew heavier with each step as if one of them should say something. Anything.

Nine.

“I remember the look in your eyes that day. You were hurt,” he said at last, so softly it startled her.

“The"—she twisted so that she could give him a sideways frown—"minstrels. The bloody minstrels would not be quiet.”

“You left the feast because the music was bad?”

“Not exactly.”

He held the reins with one hand and traced the back of his fingers down her arm with the other. A disconcerting trail of heat followed in their wake.

She stiffened, facing forward again in a tight line. “I mean, yes, exactly, that was the reason.”

“No, it is not, Gwyneth. The truth.” His arm wrapped around her upper arm. Possessive. As if to say that all of her, even her private thoughts, belonged to him.

She drew in a breath to quell her racing emotions. Birds twittered and frogs chirped beside the river.

“Tell me.” His voice was strong, smooth, seductive. Compelling.

“The women were mean to me,” she blurted before she could stop herself. Her face felt hot. What a nitwitted reason.

“I see.”

She blinked, disconcerted by his calm acceptance of her explanation.

Though he still held her firmly, his arms seemed to relax.

Even her ears felt hot now. She should be accustomed to gossip, not be some awkward child who cared about the petty remarks made by silly girls. And, yet, inside her, punctuated by today’s parade while wearing a brank, she once again felt like a gangly adolescent.

Shaking off her unease, she squared her shoulders boldly. She was that girl no longer. She was Gwyneth of Windrose and she would act thus. Men lusted after her. Women were jealous. She had practiced and studied and learned the art of seduction so that she could twist things to her advantage. Right the wrongs and injustice in a world controlled by men. She had a duty to the imprisoned women.

No feeling sorry for yourself.

No feeling sorry for yourself.

Her heart was untouchable. It had to be. She would bend Jared to her will as she did other men.

The cave was just ahead. Two large oaks partially concealed the entrance of it.

Jared drew the horse to a halt and swung down. His hands spanned her waist, warm and large, and he helped her down.

Their eyes clashed as she slid down his body. She licked her lips. His gaze moved to her tongue and she saw tension from across his shoulders.

Ah. Something she was familiar with. A reaction she could use to steer the conversation back to a safe subject.

Carefully, she drew her finger down her neck in a practiced gesture.
Men find female necks erotic,
or so Irma’s lessons had gone.

A flash of heat lit his green eyes. Their bodies were close enough that she felt the slight swell betwixt his legs, but he looked at her as if she’d just grown a horn out the top of her head. “Why are you trying to seduce me?”

“To distract you from your questions,” she said boldly, seeing no reason to hide her thoughts.

His body stiffened so quickly that he pushed back. His fingers touched her chin, lifted it. “Gwyneth of Windrose, how did you become so efficient at seduction that men do your bidding for only a glance?”

“I have seduced no man.”

“But you have—”

“I was a virgin when we married,” she protested.

“Because it suits your purpose to pit one man against another.”

Indignation flashed inside her. “You have no concept of the lot of women—of the unfairne—”

“You were going to tell me the story of yourself and Irma,” he interjected, cutting her off.

So, back to that! She licked her lips, determined to distract him from his inquiry, but inside she felt more like a petulant girl than a temptress.

He was stoic. Unaffected.

She stretched languidly, awaiting the familiar male reaction, for the signs that he was distracted from his questions.

Naught. No reaction at all. As if he did not even notice. She could have been a tree stump.

Annoyed, she lifted her chin. “I disliked the music, the women were mean, the men leered at me, and I wanted to walk alone,” she said sharply.

“Men still leer at you. You twist it now to your advantage and welcome their stares so that you can control the situation. Just as you promoted Ivan to fight for you and you tried to control this conversation by licking your lips to distract me.”

For a split second, the judgment in his voice felt as if he’d ripped away every shred of pride she had and stuck a knife in her gut.

She coughed to hide her reaction and flicked her hand in what she hoped looked frivolous and carefree. And innocent. As if she had no idea what he was talking about. Her hair bounced.

“Then you stretched your body and moved it pleasantly against me.”

Heat climbed up her neck.

Untouchable.

She needed to be untouchable.

Like ice.

She hardened her jaw. Irma had spent many hours teaching her to walk, to flip her hair just so, to place her hand just there—practicing so she could get what she wanted.

Nay, what she needed!

What he said was true, but how else was a woman to survive in a world where men held all the power? He had no right to judge her.

“I was young, unused to the stares of others. It was intended that I was to be married, so I thought to run from the relationship.”

“Run?” He slid his finger down her sleeve and toyed with the delicate little roses on the embroidered trim around her wrist. No doubt he could see and feel her pulse pounding. She took a step back, but he followed her, stalking her every move.

“You gave me that book and I thought I might learn how to read—be more than just a pawn in men’s games. ”

His finger pads against her skin disconcerted her. The sensation was soft and rough at the same time. She was used to touching men—sometimes on the arm, sometimes on the shoulder—but never did they dare to touch her.

“So is it normal for you to run from suitors?”

She took another step away from him. “Apparently so.” “Ah.”

His body was too large, too close, and it seemed as though he could see into her brain.

She shifted slightly away from him, from the fingers that grazed her skin and made her feel even more undressed than his eyes did.

“How many times have you been scheduled to be married?”

She clamped her lips. Her private matters were none of his concern.

A throbbing pain began on her left temple; she pressed it with her palm, thinking desperately of how to change the subject, to gain control of the conversation.

She squirmed to get free, but that brought her into even more intimate contact with his body. Unbidden, her nipples tightened, betrayed her.

He grinned. Grinned! The blackheart!

“What are you laughing at?”

“I only wish to keep your overwhelming desire for me in mind for the future.”

“My overwhelm—” Outraged, she lifted her chin.

He looked pointedly at her swollen nipples with a wolfish grin. “'Tis obvious you want me.”

“I do not. ”

His gaze flicked back to her face. “So, how many offers of marriage have you had?”

Her temple throbbed harder as he switched from one subject to the next with lightning speed. What an irksome man.

“Several.” She rubbed her forehead. “I do not wish to speak of this.”

“But I do.” There was a long pause. “So, how many offers?”