Rexanne Becnel (13 page)

She averted her eyes from his slate-gray gaze and a violent shudder coursed through her. Suddenly she felt colder than she had the entire evening; even her teeth began to chatter. But when he relaxed his tight grip on her she became aware that his hands were amazingly warm. Where he touched her skin she was heated though an awful chill enveloped the rest of her body.

When Lilliane pulled away from him, he did not stop her. It was as if he knew he had won. Again.

Unable to bear his scrutiny as she removed her ruined gown, she turned away from him. But the laces along both the sides of her gown had become tighter from the soaking they’d received. Although she struggled with the knots, they would not give, and Lilliane felt a perverse satisfaction. When she glanced over at him, her face had regained a measure of its mutinous expression. But it was completely erased when he pulled a long double-edged dagger from his girdle. It took all her willpower not to cringe from him as he approached her.

Lilliane stood rigidly as he fingered the knot at her side. He knelt on one knee, his head bent right before her breasts. She caught her breath when he placed one finger in the laces then pulled them away from her side to catch with the blade. Again that astounding warmth.

Then he turned her, his hand riding upon her waist. “You can always replace the laces,” he said in a quiet voice.

“The gown is probably ruined,” Lilliane replied numbly. But still, she did not dare breathe. With another expert flick of his wrist he sliced through the last resisting knot. Then he raised his head to look at her.

In the close atmosphere of the cottage, lighted only by the fire dancing in the hearth, he seemed a different man from before. Perhaps it was the absence of his dark tunic. In his pure-white chainse he was no less large, but somehow less menacing. Or maybe it was his hair, black as a raven’s wing yet glinting now with golden lights from the fire. Or perhaps it was only that he looked up at her from his half-kneeling position, not down on her from his normal lofty height.

Whatever the reason, Lilliane sensed the difference in him. Yet that too frightened her. She did not want to feel any softening for this man. He was her enemy and his rights to her through marriage did not change that.

She started to step back, but he had other plans. In one smooth motion he gathered a handful of her skirt in one hand, pulling it taut so that she could not take even one step. Then his other hand found the small gaping space at her waist where the laces were now coming undone. Lilliane’s breath caught in her throat, and she could not stifle a gasp of alarm. She looked down at him with wide eyes that could not help but note his scarred brow, the gleaming black of his hair, and the aura of controlled power that seemed so natural to him.

He tugged at the wet skirt, pulling her nearer, and all the while he kept his watchful gaze upon her. Then he slipped his fingers beneath the opening of her gown and Lilliane trembled from his light, possessive touch.

His hand was so warm; it burned her with its bold caress, and it seemed to sap her of the ability to move. Yet she knew it was madness not to tear away. She moved her hand to his wrist, determined to put him from her. But she knew as soon as she had her slender fingers wrapped around his broad wrist that she would not succeed. He would remove his hands from her only when he wanted to. Not before.

Lilliane’s heart was pounding a painful rhythm in her chest as her dark, golden gaze locked with his. Then he loosened his grip on her skirts and stood up. But it was clearly not his intention to let her go; he moved his other hand to her waist as well and pulled her closer to him.

“No!” Lilliane gasped as she pushed hard against his chest. But she might as well have thought to push down the solid little cottage for all the impact she had on him. He continued to stare down at her with those dark, penetrating eyes while she grew more and more aware of the heavy thud of his heart beneath her fingers. He was warm all over, she noted distractedly, and she shivered again.

A slight frown shadowed his brow then, and it was he who finally took a step away. “That gown must come off now,” he said as his deft fingers plucked the laces free at each side of her waist. Then before she could gather her shaky wits, he was lifting her heavy skirt.

“Wait!” Lilliane cried in alarm as she tried to still his busy hands. “I’ll do it.” She tugged the waterlogged fabric from his grasp and backed into the darkest corner of the room. There, horribly aware of his watchful gaze, she struggled out of the freezing garment.

When it was only a sodden heap on the floor she wrapped her arms protectively about her. In spite of the chill that seemed to go to her core, a heated flush of embarrassment swept over her. She had never stood before a man—even her father—in only her thin kirtle. But this man, this unfeeling brute! Her anger flared again as she saw his eyes slowly sweep her. Then he took a lazy step toward her, and she could not contain her wrath.

“Do not think to come any closer,” she hissed. “You think you may do as you please—take what you want. Well, I shall thwart you. You will not have me to wife. And you shall never have Orrick!”

It was madness to speak to him so. She knew it even as she said the words. But she had gone through too much to repress even one angry word. Indeed, she would have continued on even more recklessly had he not begun to laugh.

It was the final insult. With a cry of complete rage she picked up a wooden bowl and flung it at him.

It would have struck his head had he not raised his arm just in time. As it was, it brought his laughter to an end. But the scowl on his face did nothing to appease her either.

“You do not seem to understand, woman. No matter your will, I will possess Orrick. And you.”

He advanced on her with the slow, measured steps of a hunter, and she backed around the table. “You will become my wife this very afternoon in the church at Orrick.” His eyes swept over her slender form, revealed so clearly by the wet and clinging linen. Then he grinned. “But I think perhaps I shall make you my wife now. It will forgo any further attempts of escape on your part.”

Lilliane’s amber eyes widened in terrible realization as he continued to stalk her. “You … you would …” She faltered over the words. “If you force me my father will seek revenge—”

“No, he won’t,” he replied confidently. He started forward but then he paused as if reconsidering his actions. When he finally did address her, his grin had been suppressed and his tone was deceptively calm and reassuring.

“Ah, but you misunderstand. I only thought to teach you what I shall expect of my wife.” He gestured toward the fire. “Make us a broth to chase away the cold.”

Lilliane stared at him warily. His expression was bland; his posture was relaxed, not threatening at all. Yet somehow she knew better than to trust him. She glared skeptically at him, trying to read the truth in his eyes. But whatever he thought he kept well hidden.

Lilliane hesitated, unsure of what to do. Then another shiver coursed through her and her stomach growled. “I’ve need of a supper myself,” she muttered as she cautiously stepped nearer to the toasty hearth. “You may have what I do not finish.” Then she turned away from him, furious with herself for making even this concession.

There was little in the simple cottage to work with, but Lilliane found a sack of dried beans, a basket of carrots, and one of onions. She put these into the one pot the shepherd owned, then added a half measure of the man’s meager supply of salt. She made a mental note to send another portion to the poor fellow when she returned to Orrick.

But thoughts of Orrick only made her frown, and she shot a sidelong glance toward her nemesis. To her dismay, he was watching her quite openly, and when he caught her eye he grinned once more. There was something in that one-sided grin that disturbed Lilliane and made her heart pound in her chest.

Daunted, she bent studiously back to her task. But even as she heated water in a crude kettle and added a measure of the shepherd’s dried linden flowers, she was conscious of his eyes constantly upon her. She was close to panicking when she finally removed the tea from the flames.

He did not move to help her as she found two wooden cups. After pouring them each a measure of the steaming tea, she placed his cup on the small square table and backed across the room.

Lilliane did not want to look at her powerful captor. Most certainly she did not want to watch him looking at her. Yet in the small cottage there were few other options. Determinedly she moved her eyes to the softly crackling fire, but despite her resolve she again slanted her eyes back toward him.

Although Corbett remained silent as he drank his tea, she knew his mind was not idle. His scarred brow gave him a fierce appearance and his carefully bland countenance did not relieve that impression. But she suspected that was a ploy he used to intimidate those who confronted him. She was determined it would not sway her.

When she finished her tea she moved self-consciously back to the fire to stir the boiling vegetables. Her hair had begun to dry, and she pushed a curling lock behind her shoulder before she bent to check the broth.

“You have beautiful hair.”

His words brought her up short, and she turned abruptly to face him. She didn’t know what she expected of him, but this compliment and his thoughtful mien were surely not it. For a long awkward moment they only stared at one another.

Conscious of the quickening pace of her heart but determined to appear calm and composed, she turned back to her task. “You may save your pretty compliments for a more foolish woman than me,” she retorted boldly. “I am not interested.”

She heard what sounded like a soft chuckle, but she angrily refused to acknowledge it even with a glance.

Once more there was silence. When the vegetables and broth were finished, she served them each a generous portion and again placed his bowl on the table. But as she drew away he caught her wrist in his hand.

In sudden fear she tried to shrink away from him, but he held her securely. Then he reached out and ran his hand lightly down the length of her tangled hair.

It was a curious gesture, not at all threatening. Yet Lilliane’s heart thundered in her chest. If he was gentle it was only a part of his craftiness, she told herself. Be careful and don’t trust him at all.

Then he released her wrist and let her move beyond his reach. She was shaking as she took up her bowl. She did not dare to even glance at him as she tried to eat, for she was too flustered. It didn’t make her feel any better to examine her own strange reactions to him, for she felt as if he had touched more than her hair and wrist. She frowned and stared down into her bowl until he spoke.

“Tell me why you are so determined to disobey your father.”

Lilliane looked up at him in surprise that quickly darkened to anger. “Are you a fool then not to already know the answer? You are of Colchester. I am of Orrick. Your family has made war on ours for five long years. And you murdered Jarvis. ’Tis simple enough for even you to understand.”

“That is your view of the situation. Your father does not see that as sufficient reason. Nor do I.”

“Then you’re both fools!” she snapped.

“Ah,” Corbett replied, standing as he did so. “Now I see why you remained so long unwed. Despite your fairness and your considerable inheritance, you are quite the shrew.”

Lilliane backed away from him, keeping the table squarely between them. “Then perhaps you should follow the example of your betters and seek a wife elsewhere.”

“My betters?” He laughed. “More than likely they were merely boys. You are dealing with a man now, Lily. And it is you I want.”

His words were low and husky. His eyes had darkened to a smoky shade that made her shiver despite the warmth in the cottage.

“It is not me you want but Orrick,” she retorted in a voice less firm than before. “Surely there are other, richer demesnes that would suit you better.”

Corbett’s steady stalking of her slowed and his brow lowered in a slight frown. “There is no demesne that suits me so well as Orrick,” he countered darkly. “Neither you nor … anyone else shall hinder me in my task.”

“Your task? You make a mockery of the holy sacrament of marriage and call it your task?” Lilliane accused. “If it is so unpleasant a prospect, by all means seek another more pleasant one.”

“You misunderstand me, fair Lily. Taking you to the marriage bed is no task at all, but a pleasure I sincerely anticipate.”

At her look of shock he grinned and leaned forward over the table. “Shall I show you now how much you will enjoy marriage to me?”

“You are mad!” Lilliane cried as she backed away from the clear intent in his warm gaze.

“Perhaps I am, but not in quite the manner that you mean. No.” He straightened up. “It is not madness at all but is, in fact, the only way to keep you from running away again.” Then he picked up the table she’d kept between them and easily shoved it against the wall.

Left with no protection between them, Lilliane panicked. “What you contemplate is rape! If you do this my father will never allow our marriage—”

“I have never found rape to be necessary, my pretty little maid. As for your father, he would not have his grandson born without benefit of a father’s name. In any event, it would be unwise of you to cause discord between your father and me. Do you doubt who would be the victor if he and I should do battle?”

Lilliane could not bear to hear one more word. In anguish she ran for the door, desperate to be away from him. Every word he spoke was true. She hated his horrid logic. But she knew he spoke the truth.

She had her hands on the trunk and was pulling at it fruitlessly when his arms came around her. Though she twisted to be free and kicked wildly at his legs, he held her snug against his chest. His arms were wrapped around her waist, holding her arms down. His hands were under her breasts, and he kept her back pressed tightly against him until she was utterly exhausted by her fury.

“Ah, do not fight me so,” he whispered. “’Tis not so unpleasant as you think.”