Dragon Tree (29 page)

He had
deliberately kept his distance since leaving Taniere. Desires that
had lain dormant for so many years had taken every scrap of his
considerable willpower to crush back down into submission and now
here she was, all but naked, wet, trembling, and the blood was
surging through his veins like wildfire.

“Why are you
doing this?”

His gaze
jerked up to her face. “Doing what?”

“This,” she
said, glancing around the tiny cell. “Why are you doing this? You
could have sent me to the convent in the care of your squire or Sir
Boethius or Sir Geoffrey. You did not have to escort me yourself.
Indeed,” she added, bowing her head, “I thought, because of my
boldness, you wanted rid of me as soon as possible.”

She was right,
of course. He should have wanted to be rid of her, rid of the
temptation, rid of those eyes that seemed to haunt his every waking
thought. Rid of the smile that teased him so, rid of the sound of
her voice and the way it travelled down his spine like a soft
caress. He should have wanted her gone and his solitude restored,
and yet...

Tamberlane
reached out and tucked a forefinger under her chin, forcing her to
look up at him again. His thumb stroked tenderly across her cheek
and he shook his head at his own inability to fight this, a bigger
battle than any he had faced against an armed opponent. Swords and
lances he knew how to defeat; quivering chins and watery eyes were
his ruin.

"I did not
want rid of you at all," he admitted softly.

She expelled a
small puff of air and grew so still the air seemed to tremble
between them. It trembled more as he drew slowly closer, rising on
his knees again and closing the gap between them.

He had kissed
before—kisses of a youth eager to prove his manliness. But that was
long before God had placed a sword in his hand and he had vowed to
wield it in His name. The memory of those stolen kisses were dim
but he recalled their sweetness, the taste of a rushed breath, the
warmth of a sigh against his cheek. His hands inched upward to
cradle Amie's face between them. He bent his head and covered her
mouth with his own.

He knew her
head was still spinning and her senses scattered, and he should
have felt shame taking such advantage. But she tasted like some
exotic, rare delicacy and he wanted nothing more than to invade and
explore, to shed the burden of conscience and give himself wholly
to the unexpected pleasure.

His tongue
traced across her lips then slipped inside, winning the softest of
whimpers from Amie's throat. Her mouth was silky and warm, her
tongue a shy little thing that darted this way and that. He felt a
response shudder through his belly and was shocked by the strength
of his growing desire. So shocked, in fact, by the sudden hard
changes in his body that he sat back with a gusted oath.

She was
blinking, staring at him, her mouth round and shaped in a soft O of
surprise.

“Forgive me,”
he said hoarsely, pulling his hands quickly away. “Forgive me,
Amaranth, that was... It was...”

"Again," she
whispered.

His heart was
pounding so loudly he was not certain he had heard her. "What?"

"Again.
Please."

Before he
could even begin to find the right words to tell her how wrong it
would be, how dangerous, she slid off the edge of the bed and was
kneeling on the floor in front of him. Her hands reached around his
neck and she tipped her face up to his, her lips lush and parted
with yet another shivered plea.

Ciaran's arms
went around her and he pulled her into a crush against his
chest.

This time
there was no hesitation, no subtle testing of the way. He sent his
tongue lashing between her lips, sliding deep into her mouth like a
starved man who had craved the sustenance of human contact too
long.

Where the
heat, the magnificent desire came from, he knew not and cared not.
Images came and went, broken and unrelated, of the hours spent
droning the prayers meant to rid his mind and body of unchaste
thoughts. And with each new thought, each new echo of a sonorous
voice charging him to rid his soul of the devil's lusts... he
kissed Amie harder, deeper, wanting only to lose himself in the
silky pleasure of her mouth.

For Amie's
part, she had suffered mightily from a man's lusts before, been
punished, and lashed, forced to endure so much, she had thought she
would never be able to bear a man’s touch again. Yet this was
different. There was something in the way this Dragonslayer's hands
trembled; something in the impenetrable green eyes that was
suddenly naked and exposed. He had made no effort to conceal the
depth of his loneliness and despair, two things Amie knew all too
well herself.

She cried out
softly and he misread the sound. He tore his mouth away and for the
longest ten seconds of his life, waited, fully expecting to hear
the disgust and rejection in her voice.

Amie was
sitting very still. Clear thought was still hampered by Marak’s
little blue drops, but the fog was lifting and her mind was
suddenly spinning at a frenzied pace. Her lips were throbbing, her
body was singing. Aches and chills from a hard day of riding had
been replaced by a very different kind of aching and the only chill
she felt now was the chill of abandonment as he released her from
his arms and pushed to his feet.

In a welter of
confused emotions, she watched him rake his hands through his hair
and pace the length of the tiny cell.

"Ciaran?"

He shook his
head and began to gather up the wet clothing. When he had all of
her things bundled into the cloak, he headed for the door.

“You are
leaving me?” she gasped softly.

“You will not
be alone," he muttered, "Maude and Hugo will stay with you here and
I will send Sir Boethius to stand guard outside the door. No one
will get past him.”

She raised her
hand as if she could draw him back, but he was not looking.

“I will find a
way to dry these things. Take yourself under the blankets before
you shiver all your teeth loose from your head. Where is that
blasted monk with the brazier? And where the devil is Roland? I'll
have him bring some hot broth to warm you.”

Amaranth
watched and said nothing. She rose off her knees and crawled onto
the cot again, pulling the blanket up high to her chin. The heat of
his kiss still tingled on her lips, the feel of his body pressed to
hers was still imprinted on her flesh, but there was nothing she
could say or do to ease his guilt or her own.

With a harshly
whispered command to the two wolfhounds, the former priest and
Knight Templar strode out of the tiny cell and closed the door
firmly behind him.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Amaranth woke
up several hours later, totally disorientated. Panic and confusion
reigned for nearly a full minute before the pounding in her chest
slowed and she recognized the wooden crucifix hanging on the wall.
She remembered. She was in a monk's cell. She was safe at
St.Alban’s monastery. A glance around confirmed that she was not
dreaming it. She was lying on a narrow cot beneath a mountain of
warm blankets and the soft hiss she heard was coming from a small
iron brazier that sat in the corner of the chamber.

The two
wolfhounds were asleep on the floor, sprawled out at right angles
to one another, Maude’s blonde head propped on Hugo’s belly.

She stretched
and shook off the remnants of sleep, pleased to discover no new
aches. The old ones were all still there, but at least she could
move her arms and legs and her hips were not seized like rusted
links of armor.

She pushed
aside the blankets and cautiously sat upright. Her head felt a bit
fuzzy and her throat was as dry as parchment. Her feet, touching on
the earthen floor, were instantly chilled and she curled her toes
in response. The heat coming off the brazier was minimal. Most of
it was sucked upward with the thin threads of smoke and lured out
the window through gaps in the wooden shutter.

She looked at
the dogs again, surprised they had not jumped to attention at the
first sign of movement from the bed. Looking at their sleek bodies
reminded her of their master. Riding behind him she’d had little
else to look at for two days but the breadth of his shoulders, the
straightness of his back. The doeskin leggings he wore did little
to conceal the shape of his thighs and were so close-fitting, she
could see the flex and ripple of the muscles beneath. She knew he
was hard and muscular elsewhere, his arms like oak, his waist trim
and lean, his lips like warm velvet...

She stiffened
and her eyes grew round.

Surely that
had been a dream!

She pressed
her lips together and stared at the wooden crucifix. The memory of
his kiss was strong and real and brought a surge of heat flaring
into her cheeks. The feel of his hands raking up into her hair, the
sensation of his fingers spreading to hold her while his lips
ravished her was as vivid now as it had been at the time. Her scalp
tingled and her skin prickled under a spray of gooseflesh.

Not only had
he kissed her, but she had kissed him back!

Her hand flew
to her own crucifix and she clutched it tight, debating whether she
should pray or swoon.

Her nipples
hardened of their own accord, making her look down at the flimsy
bluet she wore. The memories flooded back, unstoppable now.

He had
undressed her, right down to her hose and bluet and she had offered
no modest objections, had not tried to stay his hand, had...
good sweet Jesu!
... had even begged for a second kiss like a
common slut.

"What must he
think of me?" she whispered to the hounds.

What must she
think of herself?

She had
thought any feelings of desire or lust—and it had been lust, she
could not deceive herself into believing it was anything else—had
long ago been destroyed by Odo de Langois.

Without
knowingly doing so, she ran her fingers across her lower lip.

It had been a
new and unique experience to feel herself wanting more. More of the
taste of his lips, more of the feel of his hands holding her, more
of the heat of his body pressing against her. He had wanted her
too, there had been no mistaking the bold thrust of arousal. To
that end, it had been almost as shocking and unique an experience
to have a man like Ciaran Tamberlane stop and push himself
away.

Amie found
herself staring at the dogs again. She felt a creeping sense of
alarm rise up the back of her neck and did not understand the cause
of it until she realized that in all the time she had been watching
them, neither Maude nor Hugo had moved. Their bodies were perfectly
still. Their chests did not even rise or fall to draw a breath.

The feeling of
dread increased as she stretched a toe out and gently prodded
Hugo’s flank.

Nothing.

The
wolfhound’s limbs were limp and unmoving.

Something
glinted on the floor beside them and Amie identified the vial that
had once held the potent drops Marak had given her. It was empty
now. The floor was stained blue where the contents had spilled and
been licked up by the two wolfhounds.

“Jesu,” she
whispered. “Mother Mary, and Joseph. Now I have killed his
dogs.”

Her clothes
were nowhere to be seen. Gathering the blanket around her
shoulders, she rose gingerly off the bed and, stepping quickly to
one side, kept her back pressed flat against the wall as she
scraped her way sideways to the door. She had seen enough of
Tamberlane and the hounds together to know there was great
affection shared between the three. The notion that she might,
inadvertently, have caused their deaths made her stomach rise up
and burn sourly at the back of her throat.

At the door,
she fumbled with the latch for several seconds before she was
finally able to pull it open. It was dark in the corridor. The
clouds were low and there was no moon to flood the courtyard. The
only light came from the very far end of the long walk, where the
statue of St. Alban stood guard over the breezeway that led to the
pilgrim's hall.

Amie took a
step and bumped into something lying at her feet. It threw her off
balance and she tottered forward, only saving herself from a bad
fall by sticking her hands out in front of her. The fingers of her
left hand sank into something horribly wet and spongy while those
on her right brushed against the large jewelled salamander brooch
she had last seen pinning together the top of Sir Boethius’ woolen
cloak.

With a hoarse,
horrible gasp she saw that the mush beneath her left hand was where
his face should have been.

He was dead!
The dogs were dead! They had been left to guard and protect her and
now they were all dead!

Amie shot to
her feet and scrambled several terrified steps along the darkened
corridor, using her hands to scrape her way along the rough stone
wall.

“Lord
Tamberlane!” Her cry echoed hollowly through the empty silence.
“Sweet Jesu, is anyone there?”

She paused
beside the cold marble statue of the saint, then started running
along the breezeway toward the glowing light. The hem of the
blanket tangled around her legs and she fell heavily to her knees,
skinning both through the rough wool. She heard a sound just ahead
and gave a hopeful shout.

“Lord
Tamberlane!”

A door swung
open and the brilliant flare of a torch cast its light in her eyes,
blinding her. Odo de Langois stepped out behind it and stood
glaring down at her, his eyes gleaming red, his hair a fiery frame
around his face.

“Elizabeth.”
Her name was snarled with more venom than Satan himself could have
mustered. “Elizabeth, my lovely bride. Did you think you could run
away from me? Did you not think I would find you regardless of
where you ran or who you spread your thighs for in exchange for his
protection?”