Fairest Of Them All (11 page)

“Good eve, sir.” The pious intent of the man’s clasped hands was belied by the shrewd glint in his eyes. “I’ve come to hear my mistress’s eventide prayers. Tis a nightly ritual that gives her much comfort.”

Never one to be intimidated by the posturing of priests, Austyn nodded down at the cozy bundle in his arms. “As you can see, your mistress is quite comfortable as she is.” He continued forward, forcing the priest to scramble out of his way. Just before reaching the tent, he turned and said mildly, “Don’t trouble yourself after tonight, Brother. I’m her husband now. I’ll give her all the comfort she requires at eventide.”

Austyn ducked into the tent only to find himself the victim of another ambush. Damn Carey and his poefs soul anyway! His man-at-arms had used the scant time allotted him to transform the modest tent into a sensual bower fit for a sultan bent on deflowering a harem of twittering brides.

A single torch spilled forth a buttery puddle of light that stopped just short of illuminating the makeshift bed. Austyn wryly suspected Carey had created the effect less to achieve an air of mystery than to spare him the sight of his naked bride.

As he knelt to deposit her on the crimson drape cushioned by a generous layer of pine needles, he nearly groaned to discover his friend had gone to the trouble of scattering petals of wild heartsease across the cool samite. Their heady aroma mocked him. His heart had known little ease since pledging itself against his will to the beauty in the garden.

Had she been the woman in his arms this night, the tent would indeed have been an enchanted bower of delight until the dawn. He would have called a halt to their journey hours ago and loved her for the first time while the setting rays of the sun played pink and gold against the tent walls. He would have plucked the fragile petals of heartsease from her sweat-dampened skin with his teeth, tasting and caressing every succulent inch of the flesh beneath.

He would have captured her breathless cries of pleasure with his mouth, muffled them with his tongue. He would have wedged himself within her virgin’s body, thrusting deep and hard until he coaxed from her beautiful lips a vow that no other man would ever—

Austyn bit off a savage oath. What more potent reminder did he need that the sensual spell that enslaved him would have inevitably led to his destruction? Not even in his fantasies could he be free of the jealousy that gnawed his soul. As if sensing the sudden violence of his grip, his bride stirred in his arms, a fretful spasm passing over her puckish face.

Ruthlessly ignoring the demanding throb of his arousal, he laid her on the silken nest Her lips parted in a drowsy sigh of contentment Puzzled, Austyn leaned forward, sniffing the air. How was it that her breath could be so sweet when her teeth were so foul? He ran his tongue over the straight, blunt edge of his own teeth, wondering if she would be offended by a gift of a carved twig with which to clean them.

She looked terribly defenseless with her sparse lashes shadowing her blotched cheeks, her small fists curled as if to ward off some unseen attack. Their bit-ten-to-the-quick nails stirred his conscience, yet he could not resist the peculiar temptation of her hair. He stretched out his hand, then drew it back, surprised to find it unsteady.

“She’s your wife, you fool,” he muttered. “You have every right to touch her.”

Touch her he did, running his palm over the close-cropped contours of her skull only to learn that her hair felt less like the shorn fleece of a lamb than the downy fluff of a baby duck. Oddly charmed by the discovery, he chuckled, rubbing a feathery lock between thumb and forefinger.

A faint whimper of distress warned him. He slowly lowered his gaze to find his bride gaping up at him, trembling like a fawn beneath his guilty hand.

Holly had already surmised that her new husband was a dangerous man, but until she saw his unguarded smile, she had no idea how dangerous. The shallow furrows carved into his brow crinkled in boyish delight. Even the coarse bristles of his mustache seemed to soften with the motion. She fought an imprudent urge to reach up and touch them. To run her fingertips over their foreign texture until she could summon the courage to seek the smooth warmth of the lips beneath.

His smile faded as he gazed down into her eyes, his expression shifting to mirror her own bewildered yearning. Then his face hardened just as it had in the garden, and he snatched her up by the shoulders, giving her a slight shake.

Believing her treachery discovered, Holly slammed her eyes shut, trying not to imagine the worst he could do to her.

“Have you a sister?”

Her eyes flew open. Caught off guard by the peculiar question, she blurted out, “No.”

“A cousin then? Or an aunt? Any womanfolk who might share the uncommon hue of your eyes?”

“An aunt? A cousin?”

Still dazed by sleep and the delicious sensation of being tucked against a strong masculine chest and borne like a babe from horse to bed, it took Holly a muddled moment to fathom what he was asking. When it occurred to her that he must be seeking the identity of the irksome woman who had disturbed his tryst, a rush of mingled relief and alarm made her stiffen in his grasp.

“Oh, aye! I’ve hordes of cousins and dozens of aunts! Nieces, too, every one of them with purple eyes. Tis a trait as common as dirt among the de Chastels.”

He arched one shaggy eyebrow, restoring his rugged face to its forbidding aspect “I saw no such woman at the tourney.”

Irritated that she had given him the answer he sought, yet still he dared to contradict her, she retorted, “Perhaps the brilliance of my father’s gold blinded you.”

He released her to rub his bewhiskered jaw. “Perhaps. Or perhaps I was fool enough to stare too long into the face of the sun.”

He settled back on his heels, his imposing bulk making the confined space seem even more cramped. Holly drew her knees to her chest, reaching up out of nervous habit to twirl a sleek curl only to be rudely reminded that she’d left it and all of its mates on her bedchamber floor at Tewksbury. As her fingertips brushed her shorn head, she frowned in confusion. Had she been dreaming or had Gavenmore been fondling the repulsive mess when she awoke?

She lowered her eyes, fearing it might not be their lavender hue that betrayed her, but the flicker of uncertainty in their depths.

Austyn was disturbed by his bride’s shy withdrawal. She looked no less defenseless awake than she had asleep. Her whitened knuckles gripped her curled knees as if to erect an impenetrable bastion. Not for the first time, he wondered what manner of father would give his daughter into the hands of a stranger. A stranger who might not hesitate to lay siege to her fragile defenses, “throw up her skirts and have done with it” as Carey had so bluntly suggested.

A thread of dark temptation snared his conscience, holding it briefly at bay. He had taken this woman to wife, had he not? Why should he not sate his whetted appetite between her willing thighs? If nothing else, she could grant him a brief surge of relief from the lust that tortured him. Perhaps if he kept his eyes closed when he reached for her, he could dare to dream . . .

Austyn had believed himself exorcised of all his ghosts, yet the woman from the garden still haunted him. He could almost feel the taunting softness of her hair as it wrapped around his knuckles, scent the exotic spice of myrrh on her fair skin, taste the yielding softness of her lips as they shyly bloomed beneath his coaxing. An anguished groan escaped him.

Holly jerked her head up at the sound. Her husband’s eyes were pressed shut as if he suffered some mortal pain.

Ignoring a spasm of envy for his dark thicket of lashes, she tugged his sleeve, daring to use his Christian name for the first time. “Sir Austyn? Are you ill? Does your wound pain you?”

The instant he opened his eyes, Holly knew that it was not he who was at risk, but herself. The joust with Eugene had been only a pallid shadow of the battle being fought behind the deceptive winter of those eyes. Eyes lit not by frost, but by a flame so hot it burned blue, scorching her with the realization that if the conflict was not decided in her favor, she might lose more than just her disguise.

He rose to his feet above her, blocking the torchlight. Holly found it ironic that the shadows should be both her ally and her enemy. When he reached to pry apart her rigid knees, he wouldn’t see the padding sewn into her skirts. Nor would he see the tears sliding soundlessly down her cheeks.

She dared not beg tenderness or patience from him. If he granted her such a boon as to temper his lust with kisses and caresses, it would only be a matter of moments before his seeking hands exposed her deceit and turned brutal and punishing. All she could do was quiver in his shadow, waiting for him to fall on her like a bear on a fresh haunch of venison.

The passionless timbre of his voice startled her so badly she nearly sobbed with relief. “I have wed you under false pretenses, my lady.”

As his words sank in, her relief shifted to panic. She realized dismally that she had stripped herself of all weapons that might have leavened his fury with mercy. She had no silky eyelashes to flutter, no sable curls to toss, no creamy cheeks to frame her tears of remorse.

She snatched at his leg, hugging it in supplication. The calf muscles sheathed beneath his hose felt as steely and resolute as the rest of him.

The frantic torrent of words gushed from her. “ Twas never my intention to deceive you, sir, truly it was not. Twas only that one harmless little falsehood led to another and before I knew it, even I had lost sight of the truth.” She turned her pleading face to his, hoping the shadows would not obscure the luminous sheen of tears in her eyes. “Punish me if you must, sir, but I beg you to spare Nathanael and Elspeth your wrath. Tis true that Nathanael’s prideful spirit might benefit from a sound thrashing, but Elspeth is an old woman, too frail to endure the hardship of a beating.”

Austyn tried to disengage his bride’s clawlike grip, but met with such resistance he was forced to stop for fear of injuring her fingers. He gave his leg a shake, but still she clung.

“What on earth are you babbling about, woman?” he demanded, adding the tenacity of a rabid hedgehog to her list of intriguing attributes. He lurched away from her, forcing her to release him or be dragged across the tent floor.

She popped to a kneeling position. “Babbling? Was I babbling?”

“Profusely. Do you honestly believe I count thrashing priests and old women among my sins?”

“Sins? My sins?” she parroted. A winsome grin lit her face. “Oh! We were discussing your sins!”

Austyn scowled. When she grinned like that, she was so ugly she was almost comely.

“And which sin might you be atoning for this night, sir? Shall I hazard a guess? You do not truly fancy me. You sought only to win me for my dowry.” Her ripple of merry laughter surprised him. “You and every other challenger at the tourney.”

Austyn moved to shove back the tent flap, gazing into the inky darkness. “Would that my transgression were so easily shriven.”

Holly’s relieved mirth faded. “What is this terrible crime even God cannot forgive?” she asked softly.

A web of moon shadow laced her husband’s profile. “I made my vows to you when my heart was already pledged to another.”

Holly struggled to recapture her relief, but her breathless laugh sounded strangely dissonant. “Perhaps you are unfamiliar with the customs of courtly love, sir. Tis not seemly for a man to swear devotion to his own wife.” She could hardly afford to regale him with the numerous tributes and pledges of devotion she had received and discarded from married men. “If you were wed to your beloved, then what would be the covert thrill of flaunting her ribbons on your lance in a tournament? Or penning a pretty verse to honor your chaste affections for her?”

His bearded jaw clenched, informing Holly that his affections for this mysterious woman were less than chaste. He drew a small object from his surcoat, his pained expression rousing Holly’s curiosity. Was it a tribute from his lady fair? Some treasured memento of their love? Surely the uncouth brute wasn’t so sentimental as to carry such a token next to his heart.

“Forgive me, my lady,” he said hoarsely, “but I cannot be a husband to you this night. Whatever the customs of the English, I’m not the sort of man to lay with one woman while thinking of another.”

The words slipped out before Holly could stop them. “Not even if she’s your wife?” Sweet Christ, what was she doing? Encouraging him to bed her?

Slipping the object back into his surcoat, he looked straight at her, his gaze both steadfast and wary. “Especially not if she’s my wife.” With that cryptic promise, he ducked into the night, leaving her alone.

Holly fell back on the pallet, her body going boneless with a conflicting rush of emotions. Austyn’s desertion should have alleviated her fears, yet tangled through her relief was a disturbing thread of discontent. She had believed her deception exposed only to discover her husband was also hiding secrets. His blunt confession mocked her own petty deceit, making her feel more wretched than ever.

She threw herself to her stomach. The cool samite failed to ease the fever in her nettle-stung cheeks. Fearing her husband might yet make peace with his conscience and return, she dared not draw off her gown to sleep naked as she longed to do. A feathery petal of heartsease tickled her nose. She plucked it irritably away, holding it up to the torchlight.

It seemed her husband’s heart was pledged to another just as his impassioned kiss in the garden had been intended for another. A foreign spasm tore through her stomach. Holly was at a loss to identify it.

Since she’d been old enough to stretch out her chubby \ little hands in supplication, every heart had been hers? for the asking.

She rolled restlessly to her back, finding no re-? course but to attribute the incessant gnawing in her belly to hunger. She gazed blindly up at the tent ceiling, barely realizing that her tense fingers were ripping the tender bloom of heartsease to shreds.