Heather Graham (29 page)

Danielle hadn’t eaten in so long that the wine seemed to bypass her stomach and soar straight to her head and swim there as Adrien took his place beside her and the meal progressed. His men spoke glowingly of their astonishment that she should be such an accomplished archer. She tried to respond to their compliments, to eat, to forget the feel of Adrien so close beside her, but she could not forget. This had been her hall, and he was making it his. As soon as the meal ended, she escaped upstairs.

Her room had been cleaned. The fire burned brightly; fresh, cool linen sheets lay on the bed. She paced before the fire, watching the door. Adrien didn’t come.

At last, she undressed and dug through her belongings until she could find the least alluring nightdress she had, a linen shift with full, long sleeves and a high throat, fine for cold nights. She stumbled into the gown, afraid that Adrien would come while she dressed. He did not.

At length, exhausted, she crawled into bed. She would never sleep, she thought.

She dozed almost immediately.

She awoke with a start to find gold eyes burning into her own. The breadth of his bare shoulders glistened in the firelight as he straddled her, watching her intently.

“Don’t fight me at every turn!” he warned. “I have no wish to cause you pain, but I will hurt you if you do.”

She felt hot tears burn behind her eyes. She was tired, the world seemed blurry; the entire room shimmered with the gold of the fire, and of his eyes.

“Perhaps, my lord, I will hurt
you
,” she said stubbornly.

“Don’t fight me,” he said again.

“I cannot help being what I am!” she whispered.

“Cease to hate me, then.”

“I don’t hate you,” she admitted on a strangled breath.

She was startled by the tender smile that curled his lip. “Ah! With such sweet words of encouragement, lady, I could fall forever beneath your gentle spell!”

“Adrien—” she began, protesting the mockery.

But his smile faded; he mocked her no more. “No contests, no battles tonight!” he said, and she wasn’t sure if he demanded, or perhaps pleaded, that it might be so.

It didn’t matter. She was in no mood for battle herself. And when his lips touched hers, she felt the warmth of them spread throughout her, and she longed for the feel of him. She might have been wearing armor rather than the linen gown, and it wouldn’t have mattered in the least. Her clothing was too quickly shed…

Without a fight.

In the days that followed, Adrien spent the vast majority of his time in the field.

She often watched from the parapets as the men practiced with various weapons—swords, lances, maces, battle axes, and even crossbows. The crossbows had evolved into very powerful weapons that needed windlasses with pulleys and cords to bend them, and still, a bowman had to have a great deal of strength. The men trained to use them were well aware that the power of their weapons came with a danger—they had a much slower rate of fire than the longbow. Each crossbowman was joined by a second as he practiced his particular art of war, and the second man’s function was merely to carry a large shield to protect them both while reloading. Adrien, she knew from listening to the men talk, was intensely concerned that all men under his command be aware of the importance of the shield-bearers. Military strategists across Europe had determined that the renowned Genoese crossbowmen had failed so miserably at Crécy, falling to the English, because their shields had been left behind.

Men always trained; in feudal society, the men who lived off the land or within the village owed their lord a certain amount of service, just as the lord—or lady—owed her people protection. And seeking to make their fortunes, young men often worked very hard, but seldom with such vigor as they worked now. At first, after the incident at the archery field and the very sore point between them regarding Simon, Danielle determined to keep clear of Adrien. She watched the men from a distance. But her curiosity was growing, as was her unease.

Adrien had chosen to keep his own distance from her—during daylight hours. He was already up and about in the morning when she awoke. He spent the day with his men, with the smiths and sometimes the masons. When it was dark he came into the great hall for supper, and though he was as courteous to her as any code of chivalry might require, he also managed to avoid her questions. He was usually called out of the hall once again on business after the meal, perhaps to see to a lame destrier, the care of weapons, the smith’s work. She tried several times to wait up for him, but once he came to her at night, he had no patience for her questions, and whether she had been awake or asleep, the nights ended the same. If she managed to remain awake, she tried very hard to talk, but his eyes would be like the hungry, yellow-gold eyes of a wolf, and he too quickly silenced her. If she slept when he came, she would never have the chance to voice her questions at all, because he would arouse her as he woke her with the most gentle touches, feather-like strokes with his fingertips, a whisper of sensation against her until she became aware she was in his arms, thoroughly seduced before the conscious desire to protest could slip into her mind. The one time she managed to lie awake and demand to know his real and immediate purpose in Aville, he answered with a sigh and a note of impatience. “Danielle, what purpose? It was time that we should marry, time that I should claim Aville.”

“There was no reason to claim Aville. I made no trouble for Edward.”

“You entertained his enemies.”

“His enemies remain my family.”

“Then it was time to claim you.”

“Aville remains mine, and my family remains welcome here.”

He was instantly over her, eyes glowing with anger in the firelight. “Will you entertain them all as you did Simon?”

Her lashes swept her cheeks. Mention of Simon’s name was enough to ignite his temper, which in turn enraged Danielle, since Adrien had done whatever he damn well pleased during the years of his absence. “Adrien, many a young woman might have forgotten a coerced vow such as I made, and embraced a French lord. If you look at the situation through my eyes, I owed nothing to a man I had not seen in years!”

“But you have seen me now,” he reminded her.

“And if Simon were free, he’d visit us both as well!” she declared fiercely.

“Leave be with the mention of Simon!” he warned.

“You brought up the name, milord.”

He eased away from her, left the bed, and walked across to the arrow slit. Suddenly chilled in the expanse of the bed, she pulled the covers over her and watched the way the light played on his muscles. He seemed to glow in copper and bronze, from the richness of his hair down to the power of his thighs and calves. She hugged her knees to her chest, furious that her heart was thundering. She admitted then, to herself, that he was an extraordinary knight, sculpted to perfection. If he were never to demand her touch again, she would be in anguish. But even as he stood there, thinking thoughts he’d no desire to share with her, she wondered if he wasn’t pondering what his marriage might have been had only Joanna lived—sweet, beautiful, docile in every way, and on his side in every venture. He had loved Joanna. He would not have deserted her with every dawn, and come back only in the darkness of the night. And he would have talked to her, shared his world with her …

He turned suddenly, found her watching him. His features were dark and hard and brooding, and he scowled. “Danielle, it’s late. Go to sleep.”

“Go to sleep!” she repeated. “Do you think you can dictate to me regarding everything? You do, you think you’re king, that you can walk in, seize all that you see! Well, sir, I am not to be claimed! I am not—”

She gasped, rigid as stone, for he moved back across the room as swiftly as a cat in the night. He crawled in beside her, sweeping her into his embrace, his arms warm as he pulled her down on her pillow. “Fine, milady, as you wish it, as you will. Lie awake. Don’t sleep. But if you’re not tired enough to sleep perhaps …”

“I am exhausted!” she cried.

He laughed, and his arms remained tightly around her as he cradled her against him. “Sleep then,” he told her. “I am weary of battle.”

“How amazing, for you seek it constantly.”

“
I
seek it? You, my love, would fight me unto death!”

“I am honest with you! While you—”

“Grow weary. This fight may go on, lady, if it must, but at another time!”

She didn’t reply. She remained still, barely breathing, feeling the warmth of his body against her own.

And she was both amazed and alarmed by the simple pleasure she felt when his arms were so comfortably, so naturally, around her. He held her determinedly against him as she closed her eyes. She breathed in the masculine scent of him, and lay secure.

But once again, he’d told her nothing …

T
HE NEXT DAY SHE
determined to try to listen to the men during the sessions. They practiced with their swords in the courtyard, and she found endless reasons to pass them by—at a safe distance, so she thought. But Adrien was well aware that she was watching him. As she crossed the courtyard with a book of Latin poems to return to the chapel—it being perhaps the sixth time she had managed to pass by the men—she was stopped. She was amazed to find that Adrien had quite suddenly sprung before her, his exceptionally fine sword, fashioned in Toledo, in his hand—the point of it aimed at her throat. For a moment, alarm swept through her, then anger, and she lifted her chin furiously. “What is this new game, milord?”

He didn’t answer her, but spoke to the assembled men. “My good fellows, I’m quite certain my lady has kept quiet out of courtesy to me, lord of the fortress here, her mentor in all things, but since she has watched these proceedings so determinedly, I am certain she finds something amiss in the training.” He smiled, gold eyes gleaming. The point of his sword moved with absolute precision, clipping one tiny hook from her bodice.

She swung around. “Indeed, sirs! The Earl of Glenwood is woefully remiss, for he teaches you to threaten an unarmed lady!”

“Aye, milady!” came a cry.

“He’s a knave!” offered Daylin, teasingly. “Take him, milady!” Daylin tossed her his sword. She swept it up deftly and swung on Adrien, grateful that Daylin’s weapon was a good one—he was, after all, one of her husband’s right-hand men. Yet again, Daylin’s weapon would serve her well, for it had been fashioned for a lighter man, and was not so heavy as Adrien’s Toledo steel.

She saw the light in Adrien’s eyes, and knew he had carefully provoked this battle. She had fallen prey to his challenge just as he had planned. No matter. She was ready for it. She held perfectly still and calm, forcing him to take the offensive. He played without his full strength, she knew well, but again, she had learned her early lessons in the household of a prince, and she was good with a sword. “Don’t be frightened by massive, unwieldy bulk and strength!” she called to the men, ducking and spinning and slipping with an agile bound upon a water trough to avoid one of Adrien’s blows.

“Unwieldy?” He paused, indignant.

“Graceless!” she said, wrinkling her nose.

“Ah!” To her alarm, he was too quickly upon the trough beside her. She leapt down again, parrying blow after blow as he stalked her with single purpose. She managed to spin around behind him, rolling beneath his form and sword, but he was too quickly back around to face her. With a lightning-quick flick of her sword, she caught his cheek, drawing a tiny drop of blood. A cheer went up along with good-natured laughter among the men. Adrien’s gold-glowing eyes touched hers, and he smiled slowly himself. “Well done,” he applauded.

She inclined her head graciously. “Speed can take down the strongest man!” she said.

“Alas, but strength can and will take down the swiftest woman!” he replied. He struck a blow, one that seemed nothing but a silver flash in the air. The strength behind it was such that her weapon was wrenched from her hands.

And she knew. He had played with her all the while.

But she had put up a damned good fight.

“I could have beaten most men,” she told him very softly.

“Most men, not me,” he replied.

“There is a little blood on your cheek.”

“Only because I allowed it.”

“It is only a little blood because I did not choose to draw more,” she informed him.

He arched a brow; she decided to make a speedy exit. She spun around and collected her book from the man who had taken it from her. “Good day, good effort!” she called to the men, and they chorused “Milady!” as she passed them by, head high, as she hurried for the chapel.

The following morning, she woke to the strange sound of explosions. She jumped out of bed, grabbing only her sheet, to race to the archer’s slit and look to the courtyard below. A crowd had gathered, but nothing seemed to be amiss. Danielle could see Adrien’s red-gold head below her. He was casually dressed in shirt, short tunic, and form-hugging breeches, so he had not yet gotten ready for the grueling cavalry training he had planned for the day. For the moment, it seemed the men were at play. Adrien was handling a long stick, which he aimed toward a target set upon the wall. He carried a wick from which a little spark of fire seemed to glow, and he set it against the stick. Once again, the sound of an explosion seemed to shatter all around them. Danielle jumped back, gasping. Adrien looked up and saw her there, and grinned. Devilishly, she thought. “Come down!” he told her. Then, “Never mind—I’ll come up.”

A bit breathlessly, she backed away from the window. She made a dash for a trunk, but had just begun to choose clothing when he came into the room. The still-smoking stick was in his hand, a contraption partially made of wood and partially of metal.

“It’s a gun,” he told her, and his smile remained devilish. “Come closer. Come see.”

She’d heard of such things—they far predated her birth. She’d even seen huge iron balls and cannons made of metal, but she’d never seen anything at all like this very small weapon. Curious she came forward, studying the creation in his hand. “Made by one of your own blacksmiths,” he said.