Juliana Garnett (15 page)

“Nay, but I’ve seen the damage done to those who have,” he said harshly “What I’ve seen was enough to warn me not to lose my head long enough to barter my heart for my soul. And that is what it would be to be fool enough to love a woman.”

Tossing her head so that one of her bound ropes of hair shifted to her back, Annice said with a lifted brow, “I am certain your son will be glad to hear that you never loved his mother.”

For an instant Rolf could not speak. The arrow was so swift and accurate, it left him floundering. Of course he could never tell Justin such a thing. There would be no point in it, nor would it do more than hurt him.

Drawing in a deep breath, he said, “I would never tell him that. Surely,” he added to quench the flash of triumph
in her eyes, “he will draw his own conclusions on the merits of a woman’s love once I tell him all I know.”

“That should be a short discussion indeed, milord!”

“Are you saying I know little about a woman’s love,
chérie
?” he asked incredulously. “One does not have to subscribe to a certain theory to know about it. I have knowledge of history, but I was not there. Shall I tell you of the ancient Greeks, or would you believe nothing I have to say because I was not there when Alexander the Great fought his battles?”

“One can hardly compare the two, milord,” she said stiffly. “Men who were there have written of the battles fought by Alexander, and ’tis those accounts we read. You are here now. Can you correctly tell your son about a matter of which you know little?”

“Since you seem to know so much, p’raps I should send him to you should the occasion ever arise. What will you tell him? Tales of knightly chivalry and poetic love? I do not think even a child will be much impressed with those.”

“I suppose you mean like Tristan and Iseult?” Annice pulled free of his grip, and he did not try to keep her. She stepped back warily, as if afraid he would grab her again. “ ’Tis a romantic tale that has little to do with the truth, I’m afraid.”

“My point exactly, milady.”

Lifting her chin, she said indignantly, “But that does not mean love is only a mythical tale. True love between a man and a woman is special and pure and should be viewed as sacred. I know this.”

Rolf fought a wave of unnatural jealousy and couldn’t keep from asking sharply, “As you truly loved your husband, I suppose?”

“Luc?” Her eyes widened. “If you had but known him, you would not doubt for a moment how I felt—” She stopped, voice trembling, then said softly, “P’raps this is my penance for feeling as I did when he died—for not being able to stop it.”

Penance?
Rolf’s throat tightened with fury and frustration. So she viewed him as penance for losing her beloved husband? By all the saints, he would not stand for that. Nay,
he was no substitute for any man, much less a cowardly traitor who had forsworn his oath to his king and courted treason and death for his treachery.

Before he even thought about it—before her quick gasp and recoil were more than an instant’s reaction—Rolf had snatched Annice to him and covered her mouth with his. The driving urge to wipe any thoughts of another man from her mind prodded him into harsh retaliation. His lips seared across hers in a burning kiss, hot need welling up inside him the moment he touched her. Drawing one hand down through the twined rope of her hair, he paused in the luscious curve of her back, spreading his fingers. He held her to him while he kissed her, felt her short gasps for breath push her breasts against his chest.

With warmer weather had come looser garments, and the thin blue silk she wore did not buffer the lush feel of her breasts, their shapes cushioning his hold. It made no difference to him in that moment who she was, or why she was with him—all reasoning was cast away in the sense of urgency that flooded him. He could feel the silky strands of her hair beneath his fingers, the strain of her breasts a bruising pressure against his chest, and her softly trembling lips a sweet agony beneath his questing mouth.

Almost feverishly, his hands moved to explore her, softness beneath his fingers wherever he touched—silk-shaped breasts and velvety skin shaping to his finger pads in luxurious torment. Lush curves and tempting hollows beckoned invitingly. She drew back from him, inhaling deeply, eyes wide and dark with shadows. Slowly, he drew her toward him again, hands moving down the narrow line of her body to mold against her hips, bringing her even closer.

Her hands lay lightly on his forearms, not quite pushing him away, but offering silent resistance. She breathed heavily, and each indrawn breath made the silk stretched tautly over her breasts shiver with the movement. His gaze riveted on the play of light and shadow, the enticing glimpse of creamy skin beneath the vee-shaped neck of her bodice a teasing temptation. The sweet promise of her body’s secrets drove him past the last scrap of restraint that he possessed, catapulting him into determination. It was madness and stupidity,
but at the moment he didn’t care. Nothing mattered but the woman in his arms and his possession of her.

Crushing her to him, he bent to kiss the base of her throat, forcing her head back. The heavy rope of her hair swung free, and he caught it in one hand and spread his fingers through it, loosening the ribbon that bound it. His hand combed through the silky tresses as he’d thought of doing so many times, freeing it to tumble down her back in a dark, fiery mass. He cradled a twist of it in his palm.

“Your hair is beautiful,” he muttered thickly. She braced against the slow pull of his hand through her hair, but he would not let her free. Exerting a steady force, he tilted back her head until her lips were once more lifted to his. He kissed her lightly, barely grazing each side of her mouth before taking her lips fully. Softly, more gently than he’d thought himself capable of, considering the force of his desire, he coaxed her lips apart with his tongue until she yielded.

It was honeyed warmth and softness when he touched his tongue to hers, and he shuddered at the immediate need that almost consumed him. His arms trembled with strain as he held her, and when he lifted his head, his lungs ached for air. He drew in a deep, unsteady breath that did nothing to still the rapidly beating drum of blood through his veins. More shaken by his response than he’d considered possible, he looked down at Annice’s flushed face. Her eyes were closed, lashes making spiky shadows on her cheeks. A rapid pulse beat in the hollow of her throat, mimicking his own rapid heartbeat. Then she seemed to melt into his arms, boneless and yielding.

Any control he might have had over his body’s pressing urges evaporated in the heat of desire that enveloped him. Without pausing to consider the consequences, he lifted Annice in his arms and strode to her wide bed, deftly avoiding the hanging bed curtains as he placed her on the mattress. She made a murmur of protest, but whether it was against him or against the disregard of her clothing as his hands worked at stubborn laces, he did not know. Nor care.

Nothing mattered but that he sate himself in her body, in the sweet, perfumed flesh that had haunted him since her
first night in Dragonwyck. Yea, he wanted her. And she made no protest after that first whimper when he’d rent her gown. Instead she lay pliantly beneath him, one leg bent at the knee, her hands palms up beside her head in the tangle of russet hair spread on the pillows beneath her.

The press of desire was hot and heavy, made more urgent by her silent acquiescence. By all that was holy, he would have her.…

Silk and velvet garments were cast aside, baring her to his eyes, making him groan aloud. He bent forward and kissed her mouth, her closed eyelids, the slope of her cheek where silent tears made wet paths. She made not a sound. Sitting back, he stared down at his prize, his palms upon the flat mound of her belly. Yea, she was as lovely as he’d remembered. Creamy pale skin, flawless and firm, deep rose nipples tightening into buds on breasts that were high and proud—he swallowed heavily and moved his hands to cup them.

She shuddered, a ripple through her body as his thumbs raked across the taut nipples, and slowly he bent to capture a tight peak with his mouth. His tongue teased and tasted, explored the luscious shape beneath his lips, moved to the scented valley between. Annice was making soft sounds in her throat. He moved lower, trailing a damp path with his tongue down the center of her body, dipping into the small indention of her navel. She cried out softly and gripped the arms he’d bent on each side of her, her fingers curling into the material of his tunic.

“Nay, lord,” she said in a panting breath, “I cannot! Do not dishonor me before our wedding, I beg of you.”

He looked up at her imploring face, then down at the slender body beneath him, the red-gold curls crowning her mount, the quivering thighs that still hid her femininity. His body urged him to action, to ignore common sense and decency and take what would soon be his anyway. Already he’d loosened the laces that held up his breeches, and his shaft strained against the linen in raging need.

Shifting, he pressed his body between her thighs and shuddered with pleasure. Even through the cloth of his breeches he could feel her warmth; muttering hoarsely, he
shoved forward, restrained from his goal only by the thin barrier of cloth. His hand moved between them to remove that obstacle, and Annice caught him by the wrist.

“Please, milord,” she begged softly, and Rolf took a deep breath.
Jésu
. Where was his resolve not to allow this woman to affect him?

Gone, obviously, in the heat of the moment.

With a great effort Rolf sat back on his heels, common sense battling with raging passion, and barely winning. There would be the right time for this, but if he yielded to his need and took her now, it could cause more complications than he wished to combat.

Glancing down, he yanked viciously at the laces of his breeches, tying them back up over the obvious bulge in front. Annice shuddered, and he moved from the bed to retrieve her discarded garments. He gave them to her silently. Her gaze lifted to his, and he saw her lips trembling. A faint wave of bitter satisfaction washed over him.

“P’raps, milady,” he said in an admirably steady voice, “you will not miss your late husband’s attentions so much once we are wed.”

Annice laughed softly. It did not sound like disdain—as he might have expected—but more like surprise. Her eyes widened.

“Nay, lord,” she said, “p’raps I shall not miss him then.”

It was not the most satisfying response, nor one that left him feeling a sense of victory. In fact, it left him with even more questions than before.

The slamming of the door echoed in the room. Shivering, Annice folded her arms across her chest and sat slowly down in the chair she’d vacated when Rolf had entered. God’s mercy, he was gone. As usual, he’d left her shaken and in turmoil. How did he accomplish it so easily? It didn’t seem fair, that he should be able to possess such a command of her thoughts and emotions.

But he did.

Just his presence was usually enough to cast her into a turmoil, and his touch made her lose all her wits. He must
know it. Why else did he deliberately force her to accept the touch of his hand and mouth? He sought to discompose her, to addle her wits so that she could not think properly.

Pressing her fingertips to her temples, she bent to rest her elbows on her thighs, still trembling with reaction. For a moment she had thought he would pursue his assault of her senses without regard for her protests. That he had halted when his body was so obviously ready gave her much thought. P’raps he possessed a decency she had first seen in him, after all. Not many a man would listen at such a moment, especially when she had not protested more vigorously. But Rolf had, though his muttered curses had burned her ears while she’d dressed.

Had she revealed anything to him that she had not intended? She wished she could recall all that had been said and done, but the memory most vivid in her mind was of his hands moving over her body and the sensations he’d provoked. Holy Mary—that was enough.

Her throat tightened. Why did he have the power to affect her so drastically? He didn’t even have to touch her—the sound of his deep voice sent shivers up her spine and sharpened her senses to the slightest nuance of his words. Just knowing he was near was enough to set her nerves to tingling.

With such physical confusion, it was a wonder she could even recall anything that was said. Things became a jumble of fragmented thoughts and impressions when she reflected on them.

One thing did stand out in her mind—his statement that though he did not agree with John, he would stand by his sworn oath. In these perilous times, when barons betrayed their own kin as well as their king, that stance could cost Dragonwyck all if he was not cautious.

It also made her reconsider her suspicion that he was as false as Seabrook. If Rolf le Draca refused to betray King John even when that monarch deserved betrayal, he had more honor than she had first thought. Few men would stand by their principles in the face of the seething rebellion that now infested the king’s court. She may not have been privy to state secrets, but Alais’s penchant for ready gossip
had kept her well abreast of the latest news. Yea, many loyalists were already retreating from John’s ranks as slyly and stealthily as possible, ready at a moment’s notice to cast their lots with the side most likely to be victorious. It was a risky business, choosing between monarch and survival, when the wrong choice could mean death.

Another shiver shook her, and she lifted her head to gaze at the closed door. Dragons were carved into the heavy oak, a constant reminder of the Lord of Dragonwyck—as if she needed a reminder. Not even the presence of her own things about her—a silver hairbrush and mirror, familiar perfumes and powders and trinkets from her trunks—could ease the knowledge that she was still hostage in a strange castle, still held powerless by the Dragon.

Her gaze fell upon the length of amber silk lying in a puddle on the floor. Bending, Annice picked up the shimmering silk. Her nuptial gown. She rubbed the tunic against her cheek. A cloth-of-gold cotte was to be worn over it, side lacings and low neckline providing ample glimpses of the amber silk beneath. Though Belle did most of the sewing, ’twas her own hands that did the delicate working of jewels in intricate patterns on bodice and skirt. This gown was finer than any of those brought from Seabrook in her trunks. With Belle’s cheerful assistance the cotte hardie was almost done. Only the gilt trimming needed to be added once the sleeves were set in and the hem sewn. It would be a beautiful gown to be wed in, though this wedding would be much different from her first. As would the husband. Her throat tightened.