Rexanne Becnel (13 page)

Maybe those same persons would return when the storm subsided.

Her momentary hopefulness was dashed when she heard a protesting screech. Turning, she saw Rylan with his shoulder against a tall oak cupboard, pushing it before the door.

“God send a pox upon you,” Joanna muttered as her green eyes glittered furiously.

Rylan only smirked. “Do you beseech God—or the devil?” He straightened up and eyed his handiwork then sent her a faint yet clearly gloating smile. “With our every confrontation I cannot help but be reassured that my original assessment of you was correct. You do not belong in any holy order.”

“I do!” Joanna broke off and turned away from him. She would not be baited by the likes of him. And she would certainly not lower herself to argue with him.

A shiver went through her. Goose
bumps rose on her skin and she wrapped her hands around her cold arms. At once Rylan reacted.

“Strip off your wet garments while I build a fire. You’ll be warm very shortly.”

Joanna, however, did not respond, at least not out loud. Let him build his fire, she thought disagreeably. And let
him
strip off his own wet clothes. She was not about to bare herself before one such as him. Then her eyes sharpened on him as he knelt in front of the hearth, laying the wood for a fire. His shoulders were wide, straining the fabric of his shirt and leather tunic. His braies and hose clung indecently to his legs and thighs, and even showed the hard shape of his buttocks. Joanna took a sharp breath and had to force her eyes away from him. No, she gulped, changing her mind at once. Don’t let him get it in his head to strip off his clothes, for that would be disastrous.

As if he heard her very thoughts, he shifted to the left so he could better see her. “I said remove your wet gown, Joanna. You can drape it over the mantel once the fire is going.”

“I … I’d rather keep it on,” she muttered, then was immediately disgusted at the meekness in her own voice.

He rocked back on one heel, staring at her as he squatted before the hearth. “No doubt you hope to make yourself ill and thereby avoid your duty to marry. But it won’t work, Joanna. It won’t work. Sick or well, you
will
become a bride, and mistress of Oxwich as well.”

“I’ll never do as you ask!” she cried, absolutely furious with his matter-of-fact tone.

“Then I shall do it for you.” He stood up and in two quick strides towered above her. Before she could even react he spun her around, pushed her long length of hair over her shoulder, and began to unlace the neckline of her gown, all the while holding her in place with one unyielding hand on her arm.

“Don’t you dare—Oh! Remove your vile hands from me! No!”

As if her struggles were no more than the irritating buzzing of an inconsequential fly, Rylan ignored both her words and her flailing arms. His fingers swiftly worked the wet laces free. Only when she twisted suddenly—and the gown ripped sharply—did he pause.

“Continue to fight me,” his voice came, close to her ear, “and your gown will be ripped completely to rags. Is that what you want?”

“I don’t care about this gown! And I hate you!”

“I’m sure you do. However, that changes nothing. This gown
shall
come off.”

At such a self-assured statement, despair once again overwhelmed Joanna. “You are a vile and … and lecherous oaf!”

“Lecherous?” He turned her to face him, holding her at arm’s length with a hand on each of her shoulders. His midnight gaze ran swiftly over her—critically, she assumed, for he seemed not to miss even one aspect of her totally bedraggled appearance. Then he stepped back from her and turned abruptly toward the cold hearth.

“God preserve me from virgins,” he muttered, as if to himself. Then he fixed his glittering gaze on her once more. “Remove your wet clothes, woman. There are blankets on the bed to cover yourself. And Joanna,” he added caustically. “Lest you work yourself into a lather over my ‘lecherous ways,’ keep in mind that your value as a bride lies as much in your innocence as it does with your properties. Your virginity is more than safe with me.”

He stared at her another long moment, then, with a dismissive gesture, turned his attention back to building the fire.

Joanna stood where she was, trembling as much from her turbulent emotions as she did from the cold. Safe? She was safe with
him?
Oh, she fumed impotently, he was truly the most despicable man on God’s green earth. To treat her this way! To speak so snidely, and of such personal things!

Despite her outrage, however, she felt a small reluctant reassurance at his avowed disinterest in her feminine charms. Purity of a bride was indeed important to a bridegroom. As long as he believed he would succeed in his reprehensible plan to marry her off, he would surely not defile her. That, of course, did not mean she wished to undress before him. Hardly! But she did not feel so immediately threatened.

“Could you at least wait outside?” she ventured, her voice still belligerent.

He sent her a scathing look. “No, I could not. However, I assure you, milady, that I will
somehow
manage to curb my base nature. Your state of dress—or undress—is of no interest to me beyond your safety and good health.”

Joanna could barely squelch her fury when she finally acquiesced. She stomped over to the bed and yanked the coarse wool blanket up, then with swift jerky movements used it to form a crude screen between the tall cupboard and the wooden window latch. In the narrow corner she hurriedly shrugged out of her pitiful gown, keeping only her thin linen kirtle on. With a wary eye on Rylan’s back, she then wrapped the blanket around her shoulders and knotted it as best she could under her chin. Using one hand to hold the front of her makeshift cloak closed, she then picked up her gown with the other and draped it over the tall cupboard, all the while keeping a watchful notice of Rylan’s every move.

To her relief—and undeniable confusion—he suddenly seemed completely unconcerned about her, for he never once stole a glance toward her. No doubt it was because of the heavy cupboard that blocked the door. He knew she could not escape; therefore he was no longer concerned about what she did.

She couldn’t have been more wrong. As Rylan crouched before the hearth, doggedly striking flint to steel, it occurred to him that this storm had better pass quickly or else he would indeed have to step outside the cottage. Yon Lady Joanna was a shrew and a virago—a termagant by anyone’s standards. Yet she was fair and soft and possessed of the most remarkable green eyes he’d ever looked into. And in that wet clinging gown …

He missed the steel and struck his thumb with the sharp flint chip. “Christ and bedamned,” he swore ferociously.

It was not the pain in his hand that troubled him, however, but another more invasive ache. One that he knew he’d be a long time recovering from.

H
UNCHED BEFORE THE FIRE
, Joanna deliberately kept her complete attention on the soup just beginning to thicken in the iron pot. She was finally warm. Indeed, the heavy wool blanket was uncomfortably hot and itchy, and awkward to maneuver in as well. Still, she was not about to shed it in favor of only her sheer linen kirtle. Not with that vile man so nearby.

Rylan sat across the room from her, sprawled on a simple wooden stool. After building the fire, he’d arranged a length of hemp rope across one corner of the cottage, then draped her gown as well as his shirt, tunic, braies, and hose upon it. Now he sat, bare-chested and bare-legged, with a linen sheet wrapped loosely about his hips. Ill-mannered brute that he was, he’d not sought any privacy at all when he’d disrobed. He’d only peeled his drenched garments from his body, then had the gall to snort derisively at her gasp of dismay.

She had spun away from the sight, of course, but not quick enough to avoid seeing his unclothed chest. With one shrug he had lifted both shirt and tunic and tugged them over his head. Now as she stared fixedly at the bubbling soup, she could still envision that chest. Wide and tan it had been, with a growth of dark hair between his flat male nipples and a long, curving scar along his ribs. Up till now she’d thought of him as her rock-hard captor with muscles of iron and a will of steel—not quite human, perhaps. For some perverse reason, however, the sight of that scar had altered that conception. It had reminded her that he was only a man.

Very much a man—the wayward thought struck her—with short curling hairs on his chest and nipples that were a small taut version of her own. The very thought of his chest stirred the most unwelcome heat low in her stomach.

Oh, she was truly sister to Winna now, Joanna bemoaned. For she was consumed with wicked thoughts and unable to chase them away. In agitation she licked her dry lips, but that too brought wanton memories of the fierce kiss he’d forced upon her. Had it been only last night?

Joanna tucked a long curling strand of hair behind her ear then reached forward to stir the soup. But her thoughts remained stubbornly focused on the man across the room, despite her every wish to wipe him from her mind. Three days ago she’d not even heard of Rylan Kempe. Certainly she did not recall any mention of him or Blaecston when she was a child. But now—in two days’ time—he’d turned her world upside down. First with his disturbing news from Oxwich. Then with his cruel kidnapping. And finally with his kiss.

A shiver raced through her and she sighed in resignation. What was to become of her now? Though she tried to recall her happy life at St. Theresa’s, her mind constantly rebelled and inevitably returned once more to Rylan Kempe. The days—and years—before he’d arrived at St. Theresa’s now seemed only a blur in her head, neither good nor bad, just quiet and uneventful. In the past two days, however, her emotions had veered from fury to terror, from frustration to elation. From sorrow to … to …

To the urge to commit murder, she added as she caught his movement from the corner of her eye.

Aye, she could easily be moved to murder, she decided as she kept her wary gaze slanted upon him. Given the chance she would gladly crown him with a heavy log from the woodpile, or season his soup with daffodil root. It was simply her misfortune that neither of those alternatives was viable.

A stab of guilt struck her at such a truly wicked thought, but Joanna struggled to ignore it and scowled at the concoction of cabbage, carrots, and onion that steamed in the pot. She was vitally aware, despite her studied nonchalance, of his every move. Since he’d discovered a small cellar and brought up the makings for a meal, she’d occupied herself with preparing the food while he’d sat idly by, watching her quite rudely.

“Is it ready?” he asked as he brought three more logs nearer the hearth from the stack behind the plank door.

“No,” Joanna replied curtly, refusing even to glance at him. Then her jaw tightened and she could not restrain her temper. “Not everything in the kingdom jumps when you speak.”

She was just congratulating herself for having silenced him for once when his finger ran down her back. She jumped forward in alarm, even as his taunting voice whispered near her ear. “Not everything, no. But you certainly do.”

Joanna scooted sideways, trying to put some safe distance between them while her heart pounded in confusion. Rylan, however, only grinned at her discomfiture, then picked up the wooden ladle and stirred the soup.

“Needs salt,” he informed her after testing the broth. “And any other spices you might find.”

“Witch seed,” Joanna muttered, glaring at his broad gleaming back. Yes, witch seed or deadman’s bells would be just the thing for such a wretch as he.

“Witch seed?” He laughed out loud at her barely discernible threat. “What a wicked idea from such a near saint as you would have the world believe you are. Tell me, my bloodthirsty little dove. What shall it take for you to admit that the nunnery was not for you?”

“Even Saint Theresa herself would have been tempted to poison such a lowly vermin as you!” she cried in utter frustration. “My fury—my ‘bloodthirsty’ thoughts—are only natural, for I am no saint. I am only a woman—”

“Yes, my very point,” he interrupted her disjointed tirade. “You are only a woman and you do not understand what is best for you.”

“What is best for
you,
you mean! I know precisely what is best for me. And Oxwich and some dull fellow you would choose for my husband are not it!”

For a long angry moment she stared at him, forgetting for an instant his lack of clothing and her own humiliating dishabille. Then his mocking smile faded and his gaze became more earnest.

“Would you be more amenable if I let you select your husband? From several I would suggest,” he added hastily.

“No!” she cried, maddened by his insulting suggestion. She spun on her heel, unable to deal even a moment longer with this man who toyed with her life without the least concern for her feelings. Yet though she stalked the length of the little cottage, the limitations of her prison only caused her anger to burn hotter. She was trapped with him and she saw no way out. Like the wind that howled and moaned without, her anger was all sound and fury now, but in the long run it would prove to be completely ineffectual. This island would withstand the storm’s fury and Rylan Kempe would persevere against her.

It was that which brought tears stinging to her eyes. She was so intent on hiding them from his gaze, however, that she did not hear what he said.

“Tell me, Joanna,” he repeated in an infuriatingly calm voice. “I want to know why you so dread being taken to wife.”

She turned her face away as he approached her side. “’Tis … ’tis not your concern,” she muttered, stifling a little sob.

“I’d say that, given the circumstances, it is very much my concern.”

She turned her head sharply to peer up at him. “Why is that? Do you mean you would reconsider?”

He stared down into her cautiously hopeful face. “I mean that I could help allay your fears did I but know precisely what they were.”

Joanna’s expression fell, then closed against him in anger. “Your unfailing conceit never ceases to amaze me,” she spat. But before she could slip beyond his grasp, he caught her in his adamant grip.