Rexanne Becnel (11 page)

Lilliane was helpless against such an onslaught. Her struggles were futile and indeed, with the intimate press of his hard-muscled body against hers, she found it almost impossible to think. Her mind cried in protest at such an uncivilized handling, but in her belly a languid heat was robbing her muscles of the ability to fight any longer. Like a fever it seemed to overwhelm her, spreading its deceptive heat until she was limp in his arms and pliant beneath his kiss.

His hold seemed to change then. His hands became gentle, stroking up her back as he held her pressed to him. His lips became less demanding and more enticing, teasing her mouth into a freer acceptance of his tongue. She was not conscious of curling her fingers around the smooth kersey of his tunic, nor of the softening of her mouth under his.

But when her tongue crept forward to meet his, she was wholly aware of the exquisite pleasure that seemed to fill her entire being. She felt almost as if she had melted into a hot, glowing version of her cold, former self. It was terrifying to lose such control. It was terrifying but it was fascinating. And she would have more …

“Where are your protests now?” Corbett whispered in her ear as he nibbled seductively at her lobe.

Lilliane fought for her breath and her reason as he continued his assault on her senses. “Let me down,” she managed to gasp.

“You’ll have to loosen your hold of my tunic, then,” he pointed out.

Horrified at her own wantonness, Lilliane released his tunic at once. He obligingly lowered her to the ground, but before he released her he pulled her close against him. Lilliane could clearly feel the thickening beneath his braies pressed hard against her belly, and she tried to squirm away. But his slow grin seemed to mock her as he stared at her appraisingly.

“You say you despise me but …” He shrugged. “Still, it is of no matter. You may dread our marriage above all things, but your father and I have already agreed.” He paused and his eyes became cool and sardonic. “You
will
become my wife on the morrow.”

He released her then and she stumbled back a few paces. He was so unfeeling, Lilliane thought. So completely indifferent to how she felt. She wanted to cry but pride held her back. Then as if she might erase the disturbing feel of him from her, she wiped her lips with the back of her hand. “Perhaps I shall become your wife,” she muttered. “But I shall hate you just the same!”

Her eyes were brilliant with repressed tears as she watched a frown darken his face. When he spoke again his voice was low and calm, but she did not mistake the sarcasm rampant in it.

“We shall see. But mark my words, Lily, you will not rid yourself of my taste or my touch in so easy a fashion.” He turned to go, then paused and swept her with an icy look. “But if you truly find me so offensive, you need only close your eyes and imagine it is your pretty William who stirs you to such heat!”

Then with a look of complete disgust he stalked from the room.

“T
HREE SQUAB, A KNOT
of dried beans, a portion of cheese, a large squash.” Lilliane placed the items one by one into a covered basket, hoping neither Tullia nor Ferga, the serving woman, took note of the tremor in her hand.

She was shaking so badly she feared she might drop something and thereby reveal all. Her desire to escape to Burgram Abbey had multiplied tenfold since her dreadful encounter with Sir Corbett in the rookery. Knowing that her trembling was caused as much by the power he’d exerted over her as by the anticipation of her flight to freedom served only to increase her fury.

No matter how she tried to forget what had happened between them, she simply could not. She’d not been able to leave the dim rookery, she had been so shaken by the terrible feelings he’d aroused in her. Fear and rage fought for dominance as her emotions tumbled about madly. But worse was the awful suspicion of the incredible power he seemed to have. With just his kiss and a gentle hand upon her he was able to control her. Neither his anger nor his threats did nearly so much damage as did his passion. She shivered in remembrance of it even now.

If it had not been for Thomas, she might be hidden away among the doves even still. But he had discovered her and brought word that she was needed in the hall. Since then her sisters and their lady guests had not allowed her to attend her duties as chatelaine. Instead, she’d had to accompany the women on a hawking party, taking an excruciatingly long meal in the meadow. When they’d returned to the castle at midafternoon, the men had all been at the hunt. And it was then Lilliane had vowed to slip away. She considered it an omen of the best sort when Tullia mentioned that Mother Grendella, the wisewoman, was abed with a recurring affliction to her eyes. Lilliane now prepared a basket of delicacies from the wedding feast for the old woman.

“Wrap several of those pastries and a big loaf of white bread in that cloth and add it to this,” Lilliane said to Ferga.

“You need not go yourself, Lilliane,” Tullia remonstrated. “Why, any of the servants could be sent down to the village with this basket.”

“Tullia, if I must stay in this castle and in this company one more minute, I vow I shall scream. ’Tis cruel enough I must marry this vile knight, our enemy. May I not even spend the last hours of my girlhood as I wish?” Her amber-hued eyes were wide, and the tears that started in them were not contrived.

Moved by her sister’s plight, Tullia could not but agree. “As you will, dear sister. But pray, do not linger. And take a groom with you.”

But Lilliane had no intention of having a groom accompany her. Taking full advantage of the confusion brought on by the wedding festivities and the servants’ many extra duties, she led a horse out from the stables. As she settled herself on the steed, Lilliane was filled with both relief and remorse. She’d not been sure she could keep up the pretense of having accepted her fate one minute longer. Yet she could not pretend to feel no guilt at the terrible deed she planned. For, desperate as she was to avoid this marriage, Lilliane well knew that she wronged her father horribly by such defiance.

It was not her way to be a disobedient daughter. Although the talk ran freely about her long absence from Orrick and her willfulness at staying at the abbey, it was nevertheless a fact that she had obeyed her father in not marrying Sir William. Still, the gossips concerned themselves more happily with her stubborn temper than with her ultimate obedience.

But she could not rationalize her behavior on this day as anything but the most blatant disobedience. Her escape would shame not only her bridegroom, as she wished, but also her father. For a moment, as she passed over the heavy drawbridge, she almost reined in her mount. As it was, the delicate creature danced and skittered in a high-spirited circle until Lilliane settled her with a gentle hand on her neck.

“Easy now, Aere. Easy, my girl.” She ran her fingers through the filly’s bronze-colored mane. “I know you’re anxious to be off. Just as I am,” she added more softly.

As she turned past the ancient bridge and onto the smooth-worn road, Lilliane had the strongest urge to look back at the castle. She knew what she would see: pale limestone walls, tall and sturdy, older than anyone’s memory; the nut-laden branches of the chestnut tree peeking over the crenellations; and the ever-present watchmen pacing off their allotted rounds.

But something in her would not let her look. It was her home and she loved it dearly. Still, she had the terrible feeling that it would never again be quite the same place she’d taken for granted for so long. If she ever returned, she feared it would be vastly different. Resolute, she urged the willing mare forward, unmindful of the wind tugging at her as she cantered down the road.

Lilliane sat upon Aere stiffly, her maize gown of caddis cloth in deep folds around her knees. She carried the heavily laden basket before her, for truly she did want Mother Grendella to have the delicacies. But she knew she could not tarry. When she reached the edge of Orrick village, however, a simple solution presented itself. Not far from the community well, a number of women had gathered. Young mothers and unmarried girls made the trek there twice daily. First light saw them there with their soiled linens and garments, scrubbing them in large wooden troughs made for that very purpose. Then they would spread and drape the garments over shrubs and branches to dry.

Now they were making their return trip to gather their laundry before the clouds welling up in the west could loosen any rain upon it.

“Hello, Meg, Bertha.” She nodded to two women she knew. “Hello, Theda.”

“’Lo, milady.” Theda bobbed a swift curtsy. “May I say, ’tis pleased we are t’ have you back t’ Orrick.”

“Why, thank you,” Lilliane answered. She was touched by Theda’s sincerity, although it made her feel even more guilty for planning to leave.

“We’ve all heard about the doings on the morrow. ’Tis to be a fine time for us all.” Theda nodded. “And both sisters t’ wed at once. ’Twill truly be a grand day.”

Lilliane forced a smile, while all the while her heart was thumping with excitement. “Theda,” she began nervously. “I would have a favor of you.”

It was easy to tempt simple Theda to deliver the basket to Mother Grendella by offering her a share of the delightful contents. Although the woman looked at Lilliane with curious eyes, Lilliane knew that neither she nor any of the other villagers and serfs could ever imagine deliberately disobeying Lord Barton’s will. It would never occur to Theda that Lilliane might disobey her father. At worst she might be meeting a suitor who had lost out to the mighty Sir Corbett’s return. That Theda could understand and even condone. But outright opposition to Lord Barton? Never.

Unwilling to linger and torment herself with her own duplicity, Lilliane quickly turned the eager filly. With another grateful thanks to the good-natured Theda, she urged Aere into a gallop.

Lilliane took the low road that led past the sluggish creek and around the apple orchard. It was longer to the turnpike that way, but it kept her safely out of view from the castle. Only when she had quit the orchard and was beyond the harvested wheat and barley fields did she pull the filly in at all. She was as winded as the horse, but she was too afraid of pursuit to stop and rest.

She’d raised many a head as she’d galloped by, her elegant skirts billowing, her rich chestnut hair streaming behind her. She knew her passing had been well marked and that there would be many to report her direction. But she was counting on time as an ally. With any luck her father would not hear of her escape until his return from the hunt at nightfall. If she was sufficiently away by then, any followers would be hard-pressed to trail her in the dark.

And followers there would be, she realized with a shiver of apprehension. Her father’s anger would be terrible. And Sir Corbett’s … his fury she refused to dwell upon at all.

Lilliane was well along the turnpike, heading at a steady pace toward the craggy Middling Stone and the turn-off beyond it that led to the abbey. Heavy clouds over the valley had brought an early dusk to the land so that all was covered in a dim violet shadow.

Lilliane cast a worried eye to the sky. She’d left without mantle or hood, for she’d not wanted to raise a suspicion. Now she feared she’d receive a thorough soaking before the night was out. Still, she decided, that was far better than a lifetime spent as wife to an enemy knight. With determination she urged the tiring animal on.

She was still a good way from the river crossing when the rain began. It was only a sparse splattering of drops, but when Lilliane looked at the sky behind her, her heart nearly stopped. An ugly purple cloud moving relentlessly across the valley hung low over the land. Like a threatening wave it came, heavy and even, backlighted by the erratic flash of lightning.

A thunderous roll sounded, then another sharper crack made her jump. The horse began to shift nervously, and when Lilliane did urge her on they seemed to fly down the turnpike. But the storm was not to be shaken so easily. Before they were even half the remaining distance to the river they were caught by a blast of wind. Lilliane bent low over the horse’s neck, trying to soothe her, but she was almost as frightened as the laboring filly. The storm was whipping her hair and skirts around her and huge splatters of wind-driven rain stung her face and arms. It was all Lilliane could do to crouch low over the terrified horse’s neck, her small fists gripped tightly in its mane.

In a panic the animal tore down the muddy roadway as if pursued by all manner of demons. They were quickly drenched. Soon even Aere seemed to become disoriented, and her wild flight slowed. But Lilliane was unable to gain control of the frightened horse until they suddenly met with the boiling waters of the river Keene. With an abruptness that sent Lilliane careening onto the horse’s neck, the animal came to a stiff-legged halt. Breathing hard, her eyes rolling in terror, she seemed too frightened to run any farther.

It was only with the most stringent self-control that Lilliane resisted succumbing to panic. Trying hard to control her own trembling, she struggled to calm her mount enough to ford the river. But the beleaguered Aere would have none of it. Snorting and balking at Lilliane’s every urging, she danced in a tight circle, turning away from the rushing waters.

Lilliane was beside herself. Everything had gone so well. Even the storm had aided her by preventing the progress of those who must surely trail her. But if Aere would not cross the river …

Determined not to be so easily thwarted, Lilliane slid from the saddle, all the while keeping a tight hold on the reins. Her skirts hung about her in a sodden mass and threatened to trip her at every step. Her hair was a wet, streaming cloak about her face and shoulders. But Lilliane ignored these encumbrances. Fueled as much by fear as anything else, she began to pull the horse, trying to lead her through the roiling river water.

At first the horse refused to budge, only tossing her head wildly. But Lilliane would not give up. “Dear Lord, help me,” she implored through her chattering teeth.

Finally, as if only from pure exhaustion, the horse followed her lead. The water was icy on Lilliane’s legs, and her skirts swirled around her knees. But still she forced herself out into the river. She was making slow progress, but she was close to rejoicing at having made the crossing when it happened.