Juliana Garnett (21 page)

“Put out one of the Saxon barons. The lady will be comfortable in Lord Creighton’s chamber. Remove him with all due diplomacy.”

As the steward departed, Jane turned angrily. “It is hardly necessary to keep me here, my lord sheriff. Or am I your prisoner?”

“Should you be? Have you committed yet another crime for which you should be arrested, Lady Neville?” He caught her arm when she pivoted on her heel to walk away, turned her back to face him. “Five men elude me still. Do not make the mistake of thinking I have forgotten them or abandoned my determination to see them hang. They are outlaws. Any who consort with them are tainted with the same foul brush—if you have influence, it would save your pretty neck to use it.”

“Do I look to be a traitor?” She jerked free, her words an angry hiss. “Consider your own deeds, my lord sheriff—a baron accused of treason—but do not judge me by your lowly standards!”

Stave walls rose behind her; shadows cast by morning sun and high wall shrouded her face. Yet, contempt was plain in her eyes and tone, conviction built on a lie. To refute the lie would resemble a plea for compassion—inconceivable.

“Do not confuse the issue, my lady.” Seeming indifference masked the inexplicable sting of her accusation. “We speak of
your
actions, not of mine.”

“Do we? I think not. You would have me betray men who have earned pursuit by a sheriff bent on vengeance rather than justice. Far more honorable to wait in Sherwood with drawn bow than to sell souls to the devil for the sake of land and coin. More outlaws reside within Nottingham Castle than without, it seems.”

Harsh words that cut to the quick.
I pity you for your empty soul
, she had once said to him. Reluctant truth, hated certainty. A man with a soul could not exist in the world he inhabited. It would destroy him.

Yet he was set on his course and there was no turning back from it. Brayeton was all he had left now, the only purpose in
his life. Survival meant more than breath in his body and a beating heart. But he had forgotten the reason for it.…

Hooves clattered on stone, dogs barked, soldiers gave harsh orders. A tide of people surged around them, unnoticed by either until now. Tré glanced up, aware at last of their public position, where any straining ears might overhear.

“A crowded bailey is no fit place for such a grave discussion, my lady. Let us retire to a more private site for the continued purging of your spleen.”

“I am done.”

“I,” he said softly, “am not.”

His chambers lay in the wing behind them; he steered her forward, skirting the occasional pile of horse droppings. He reached around her to open the door; it swung inward allowing a gleam of light to illuminate the interior.

Prosaic chamber, stark, empty of personal signs of his inhabitance of it. Silence greeted them, dense and familiar; with the closing of the door, gloom descended like velvet, unbroken by an open window in the rear stone wall. A faint draft penetrated, miraculously free of moat taint or smoke.

“You still consort with outlaws despite my warning.” It sounded loud in the soft gloom, drawing the lady’s immediate attention. Deliberate provocation, an indirect probing for confession or denial—he wanted to be wrong. Yet she said nothing, no admission or disavowal. “They will all be caught, your John Lyttle with them. An inevitable fate for wolf’s heads.”

Lips parted slightly, then curved in a derisive smile. “If Little John is caught by your men, my lord, it will be a miracle.”

“Because he yet eludes us?” He moved to the side table, took up a flagon of wine, poured two cups. “It is a mistake to underestimate my captains or me, my lady. If I do not personally chase deer through Sherwood, that does not mean I am unlikely to have roast venison. There are many ways to dispose of vermin. Wine?”

He held out the cup, but she stared at him and did not move to take it. He set it on the table.

“It occurs to me that you came to Nottingham not to see the tournament or answer a summons, but for more devious reasons.”

When she stood still and silent, he frowned, put the lip of the cup to his mouth; it tasted slightly of wine and spices. The air was heavy with anticipation, with suppressed emotion. He felt it, tasted it as tangibly as the cinnamon and ginger in the wine.

Strangely disillusioned when he had thought he had no illusions left, he set his own cup on the table, moved toward her, and saw her eyes widen. He cupped her chin in his palm, fingers curved along her jawline. So fragile, delicate; it would be so easy to tighten his grip until she cried out for mercy.

He smiled, saw from her eyes that she knew the direction of his thoughts.

In a silken purr to hide the menace, he murmured, “Are you sent to persuade me to thoughts other than outlaws, sweet lady? You tremble. That is not an auspicious beginning if you are to play the part of Salome. Do you know that tale?”

Stiff, almost a whisper: “I know the tale.”

Her skin was soft, warm, a bloom of velvet flowering in his palm. His thumb slid along the curve of her cheek, deliberate and dispassionate, touched her mouth, caressed the smooth tumble of lower lip.

Softly: “Then distract me. Dance with veils. If you are to be granted my head on a platter, you must first entertain me.”

“That … is not the way the tale goes, my lord.”

“Close enough, Jane of Ravenshed. Close enough.” His hand closed on her jaw, skin dark and profane against such white purity; beauty marred by hostility.

Betrayal cut deep. It wounded, reached down into that part of himself that he kept inviolate—yet she had breached it.

Faint white marks reddened beneath the pressure of his hand and he loosened his hold. She drew a deep breath.

“Are you afraid, Jane?” Softly, animosity cloaked in the warmth of concern—his tone as conversational as if the reply did not matter.

“No—yea, I am afraid.”

“Ah, the truth at last. I begin to think you capable of it after all.”

“I have told you the truth.” Soft dignity imbued the simple statement with sincerity. He wanted to believe her. Yet it was
more likely she had come for her own purpose than for Gaudet to have summoned her to Nottingham.

“Why do you persist in thinking me a fool, Lady Neville? Do I seem so monumental a simpleton to you?”

“You have … never seemed simple.” A slight quiver in her voice belied her outward composure.

“Yet you flaunt deeds and accusations with impunity. It would behoove you to guard your tongue if not your actions.”

“Do you threaten me, my lord?”

His voice was a soft purr that widened her eyes in the candlelight. “Yea, my lady of Ravenshed, I most certainly do. Take it as a warning or a threat as you like—but heed my words well, ere your missteps see you undone.”

“It is not so easy, my lord. It does not matter what I say. You pick it apart, flay my words and intent until I do not recognize them.… Pray, leave me be.”

He released her; faint marks remained where he had held her face in his palm. Desecration.

“If it is your desire to be left alone, you should have remained at Ravenshed.”

“ ’Twas an ill wind that blew you to Nottingham, my lord sheriff. Far better to endure blatant atrocity than subtle extortion—much easier to recognize the devil by horns and cloven hooves than by false protests of obligation.”

“And you would have intimate knowledge of demons, my lady?”

“Not until I met you, sirrah! You ignored cutthroats to pursue men who only sought to retrieve what the sweat of their labor had earned—then condemned them for doing what you now do. Theft is theft, by any name.”

“Ah, now we have the heart of it.” Dangerous now, the predatory urge returned. He wanted to crush her; he wanted to force the truth from her, force her to admit that she schemed against him. Most of all, he wanted her to see him for what he was—not a sheriff, a baron, a Norman and an enemy, but a man who did not deserve another betrayal.

He caught her arm, held it when she would have twisted free. She put her other hand against his chest, and he put his own over it to trap her fingers against him.

“Do you feel that?” He pressed harder when she just stared up at him. “It beats, just as does yours. No, you will hear me out—” Her trapped fingers stilled under the pressure of his palm. “I am a man, Jane of Ravenshed. My heart beats, my blood flows. I am capable of reason. I am—a man.”

The last two words were soft, almost a whisper. Desire gathered power, beat through veins and body in a thundering rush.

Sudden awareness lit her eyes; her lips trembled, parted on a husky, “What do you
want
from me?”

He knew what he wanted. Awkward lust, importune desire—he wanted her. He wanted to feel her under him, feel her body close around his—

The words would not form. His hand moved, grasped her chin, held it as he kissed her. Sweet lips, parting under the pressure of his mouth, offering refuge and release. He tasted mint. He tasted the beginning of surrender.

Ruthless, determined, driven by need and a desire for something beyond even the yielding, he deepened the kiss. He was done with waiting; he discarded denial.

He kissed her until he felt her legs crumble. He caught her weight on one arm, held her against him, hand splayed on her back to pull her into the full force of his erection. Frustrated violence throbbed; he shuddered with the ache.

Restraint vanished. He heaved her into his arms, heard her gasp against his mouth. Three strides took him across the chamber to the door leading to his private quarters. A swift kick, the door swung wide, and he slammed it with a boot heel against oak. It was loud, reverberating like a clap of thunder.

This chamber was small; a massive bed stood against one wall. Wine-colored draperies framed it, rich and flowing from ceiling to floor, tied back on one side to reveal a high mattress.

He felt her shift in his arms, a moan, a shove of one hand against him in a halfhearted protest as he crossed to the bed, dumped her onto it, and followed with his body over hers. His weight rested on bent arms. Bed ropes creaked; his sword belt clanked softly. He unfastened the buckle and shoved aside belt and weapon without releasing his hold on Jane.

She was soft beneath him. He snared her hand when she caught at his arm.

“Oh no, milady. Oh … no.”

Lacing his fingers through hers, he pushed her arm back into the mattress and rich bedding. With his free hand, he traced a path from her cheek to her mouth. She suddenly lay still, staring up at him. The light there was filtered by the heavy velvet draperies. It was close, warm, intimate; nothing intruded. Just the two of them existed in this world.

He bent to kiss her. Her mouth opened under his, heated and tasting of mint. He drank deeply of her; relished the soft yielding of lips, need transferred from him to her and given back.… She was his, and this time he meant to have her.

“Milord.…” Soft, confused, a bit breathless, her head turned, her voice wafted past his right ear. He turned her face back with a finger, found her mouth again.

“Tré.” His lips traveled across her cheek to her ear; he blew softly, felt her shiver, said, “Lord Devaux, third Baron of Brayeton.”

“You are lord high sheriff—”

“A travesty.” He took her mouth again, lingered, felt her breath fray into ragged rhythm; he lifted his head. Huge eyes, dark blue and shadowed, gazed up at him. He traced a winged brow with one finger, fought for control to slow what should not be hurried. There was a strange hitch in his voice, the words husky and meaningless, an exercise in self-control: “I am a baron, milady.”

Her tongue came out to wet her lips; his attention shifted. He slid his thumb over the path her tongue had just taken, spread moisture over both lips, bent to kiss her again.

Heat engulfed him. He lowered his weight, pushing into her so that her thighs parted. Soft female … sweet cushion beneath the hard throb of his body; his erection rubbed against his linen braies. He wedged himself more closely against her, felt her thighs spread wider under his weight. The hem of her kirtle slid up as his hand raked along her leg. She trembled.

His fingers found the silk ribbon garter tied above her knee; he tugged. Silk slithered over his hand to puddle on the bed. He looked down; white thigh curved beneath his palm in luxurious texture. He curled his fingers into the edge of her hose, slid them down, felt her reflexive withdrawal.

Before she could speak, he bent, covered her lips again with his own, kissed her with fierce demand. Blood beat a rapid thunder in his ears; he ached, taut and ready, urgency coalescing with desire. Slowly, her hand lifted; fingers touched him tentatively, plying along his jaw, a mere whisper as of butterfly wings. He turned his head, kissed her fingertips.

“I yield …” softly, on a breath, her words slid between them, “only what I wish to yield.…”

17
 

Lost in a private world inside the velvet draperies, nothing mattered but soft murmurs and sighs. Bereft of speech, of coherent thought, Jane was acutely aware of him over her, dark face shadowed by bed canopy, eyes a pale gleam.

Madness to yield, impossible to refuse
.…