So Great A Love (10 page)

Who was it, then? What man would dare to
climb into bed with a woman he did not know? A man who thought he
could pay for his pleasure, of course, but men desiring that sort
of entertainment looked to the kitchen wenches or the prostitutes
who lingered about many noble households. Though Margaret had not
noticed any obvious prostitutes during her single day at Bowen,
still, it was a simple fact of life that wherever there were
men-at-arms, there were women willing to sell their favors. But not
in the lord's bed, in the lord’s absence. Not in a quiet,
well-managed establishment such as Bowen Manor. Only the lord of
the manor, or a favored guest, would dare to sleep in the bed
Margaret was presently occupying.

The lord.
Had Royce, the baron of
Wortham, decided to ignore the winter weather in order to make one
of his regular inspections of his son's manor house? If the man was
Royce, would he understand why Margaret had defied her father's
wishes and fled Sutton Castle for Bowen Manor? Would he forgive
Catherine and Aldis for helping her? Would the baron of Wortham
then agree to conduct Margaret to a safe convent, or would he
return her to the father who held her in low regard and who would
surely wreck severe punishment upon her for spoiling his latest
scheme to gain more land and power? Most important of all, would he
believe what Margaret was obligated to tell him about her father's
disloyal plotting?

Whatever the reactions of Royce of Wortham
might be, no matter what he decided to do about her presence at
Bowen or about the secret she must reveal to him, Margaret knew she
could not remain in the same bed with him. Not for another
instant.

All of these thoughts ran through her mind in
the space of a mere moment or two. She decided she must speak at
once. Her practical nature told her all that was necessary for her
to do was explain the situation to Lord Royce. Then she would ask
him to avert his eyes while she got out of bed and dressed, after
which she would find another room in which to sleep, for she had no
intention of ousting the baron from his rightful place. Catherine
had told her that he possessed a finely honed sense of humor.
Margaret could only hope he would find some amusement in his
present position.

She took a deep breath, preparing to begin
her explanation. Unfortunately, taking a deep breath brought her
breasts hard against his manly chest, which did nothing to ease the
continuing warmth that flared within her body. Nevertheless, she
understood what her duty was and she forged onward with what duty
required.

“My lord,” Margaret said, “a mistake has been
made. I should not be here.”

“No?” came a deep, yet hushed male voice from
a place entirely too close to her ear. “However, mistakes do
occasionally happen, especially when people arrive unexpectedly.”
He did not sound at all distressed by the embarrassing situation.
Margaret would have been relieved by this fact, if only he had not
chosen that particular moment to tighten the arm that held her
close to him.

“You are most gracious, my lord,” Margaret
said, trying her best to overcome the nervous quaver in her voice.
“Had I known you were coming to Bowen Manor, I would have chosen
another bedchamber. Catherine insisted I sleep here, you see. She
said it was only proper for an honored guest. We did not expect
anyone else, not with the snowstorm.” She stopped talking when a
sudden change occurred in the man lying next to her in the darkness
and the change impressed itself upon her awareness. She could feel
a new kind of tension emanating from the unseen figure.

“Catherine?” the man exclaimed. “What the
devil is my sister doing at Bowen Manor? Why didn't the sentry who
let me in tell me she is here? Or is that what he was shouting
after me as I rode to the stable?”

“Catherine made all the household promise
they would keep my presence a secret,” Margaret said. “I can
explain why we are here, my lord. Only close your eyes while I
dress and then we will talk. I have much to tell you.”

“Why should I close my eyes when the room is
dark as Hades?” he asked.

“Did you just say Catherine is your sister?”
Margaret exclaimed at the exact same moment when he spoke. The full
import of his previous remarks was finally sinking into her mind,
past layers of embarrassment and concern over what the baron of
Wortham would think of her for remaining so long in the same bed
with him. And both of them unclothed, too.

Margaret's face began to burn. So did her
shoulders and breasts. Dear saints in heaven, she was blushing
right down to her toes! For, judging by what the scandalous
creature who was still rubbing his long, muscular leg against hers
had just revealed, it was obvious she had made a terrible
error.

“If Catherine is your sister,” Margaret
cried, fighting her own muddled wits, “then you cannot be the baron
of Wortham, for Catherine is his daughter.”

“Good thinking,” said the naked man in a dry
voice that completely lacked any indication of humor. “A bit slow,
perhaps, but under the circumstances, it's not surprising. I did
startle you, I know, and you were deep in sleep.”

“Then, who -?” Margaret broke off her
question, gasping in recognition. Only one other man belonged in
the lord's bed at Bowen Manor. “You are Catherine's brother!”

“The same,” he said. “And you are?” he asked
politely.

“Arden!” Margaret screamed, frightened at
last. No, not just frightened. Horrified. Decimated. Destroyed.
Embarrassed, heart and soul. Ready to sink through the floor and
into the storage cellars far below. She opened her mouth to scream
again.

The cry never left her lips. It was smothered
by a large hand that clapped itself over her mouth. Margaret fought
but, even in the darkness, it was evident that Arden was much
larger than she. And stronger. She didn't have a chance of getting
away from him. When she tried, he simply pushed her down onto the
linen sheet and rolled over on top of her.

Margaret went absolutely still with shock.
The difference between what she had known in the past and the heat
of a young, naked man resting along the length of her own body was
impressed upon her mind with a force she would never forget. Arden
was hard and firm everywhere.
Everywhere.
He was lying
between her legs and her hands were on his shoulders as she tried
to push him away. Each breath she took, every effort she made to
get free of him, only brought her trembling femininity into closer
contact with his masculine strength. To her horror, she discovered
that what she really wanted to do was slide her arms around his
shoulders and pull him closer.

“I will take my hand away, if you promise not
to scream again,” Arden said.

Margaret nodded and he removed his hand. But
his cheek was pressed against hers so he could speak softly and
when he moved his head, the stubble of his beard scratched her
skin.

“Who are you and what are you doing here?” he
demanded.

“Please,” Margaret said, “I cannot breathe
when you hold me so tightly. And this is most unseemly, for us to
lie here like this.”

“Unseemly, perhaps,” he said, moving against
her, “but remarkably invigorating. How surprising.”

“No! Don't do this,” Margaret cried in sudden
panic, aware even as she spoke that what she feared most was not
Arden, but her own wayward emotions.

“I have done many wicked deeds in my life,”
Arden said, “and some of them unforgivable, but I have never yet
forced an unwilling woman.”

Abruptly, his weight was removed from her and
she could hear him rising from the bed. She sat up when she heard
him fumbling around at some distance from her. Then a flame
flickered and caught and she saw that he had pulled on his
thigh-length linen undershirt and had found and lit the bedside
candle. He held it high so he could see her better. Somewhat
belatedly, Margaret drew the sheet up to her shoulders.

“Have we met before?” Arden asked, staring at
her with a slight frown. “If so, I do not recall your name, though
you seem to know me.”

“I am Margaret of Sutton,” she said, telling
herself not to be hurt that he did not remember her. Why should he?
She had been a skinny, pale-faced girl of thirteen and he a
handsome squire over whom all the women swooned, ladies and
servants alike, when they were not fluttering about him like eager
butterflies. She could see by his deepening frown that her name
meant nothing to him and so she said, “I, too, was fostered at
Cliffmore Castle. Catherine and I have been friends since that
time.”

“Which explains why you and she are here
together,” Arden said. “Tell me, Lady Margaret, are there no women
to attend you? Have you no maidservants, that you sleep all
alone?”

“Your cousin, Aldis, came with us,” Margaret
said.

“Aldis? Here?” Arden's voice held a sudden,
sharp edge that Margaret did not understand. She heard him swallow
hard before he spoke again in a slightly calmer tone. “Dear God!
Three young women alone among several dozen men-at-arms?”

“I am serving as chaperone. I am a
respectable widow,” Margaret told him. Realizing that, after the
last half hour, her statement was open to debate and believing it
was a good idea to change the subject, she added, “My lord, if you
will turn your back, I will dress and leave. Then you may have the
room to yourself. It is so late that you must be tired.”

“Tired,” he repeated, and stared at her so
long and so hard that Margaret began to wonder what he was
thinking.

She stared back at him. She could not help
herself, for he was greatly changed from the Arden she had once
known. He was taller than she remembered, and leaner than most
knights, though there was nothing lacking in the breadth of his
shoulders and upper arms, or in the muscles of his long legs. She
knew first hand how strong he was. Yet he looked as if he did not
eat enough, and the skin of his face was drawn tight over sharp
bones. There were hard lines at either side of his mouth, as if he
held his lips firmly closed in a grim expression most of the time.
Margaret noted Arden's high cheekbones, his long, straight nose,
and the stubborn set of his jaw. Those attributes had not changed
over the years, though there were streaks of silver in his dark
hair and in the several days' growth of unshaven beard.

She noticed other changes, too. A long,
narrow scar sliced down the left side of his face. Another scar ran
across his left thigh and she winced, seeing it below the hem of
his shirt, for she knew such a wound could have killed him or
crippled him forever. He was fortunate to be alive, and even more
fortunate that he could still stand up straight and walk. She was
sure he bore other scars unseen beneath his shirt, but the most
frightening change in Arden was in his eyes. When she had known him
at Cliffmore Castle, Arden's light blue eyes were always laughing,
always teasing. The icy orbs that regarded her above the candle
flame held no warmth or laughter. A cold, emotionally remote man
looked out at her. Margaret, meeting his intense gaze, could not
guess what he might be thinking or feeling.

“My lord. Arden,” she prodded, seeking to end
the hard and steady way in which he was regarding her and make him
pay attention to what she was saying, “please, turn your back or
leave the room while I dress.”

Without a word he set the candle down on the
bedside table and turned his back. Margaret scrambled out of bed on
the far side from him and grabbed her woolen gown from atop the
chest at the foot of the bed. She pulled it over her head in haste,
then gathered up the rest of her few belongings and her shoes,
bundling them into her arms.

“I apologize for the inconvenience I have
caused you,” she said, rather breathlessly. She began to ease past
him as she continued speaking, not turning her back to him as if
she feared he would attack, though he made no move to stop her
progress toward the door. “Is there anything you need? Would you
like some wine or a pitcher of water for washing? Perhaps more
charcoal for the brazier?”

“Nothing,” Arden said, “nothing save to be
left alone to sleep.”

“As you wish.” She was almost at the door,
had almost made her escape.

“Lady Margaret,” he said.

“Yes, my lord.” She looked into his ice-blue
eyes.

“Two men who came with me are sleeping in the
hall. Tell the servants not to be alarmed by their presence, and to
provide whatever they may need for their comfort.”

“Yes, my lord.” Unable to tear her gaze from
him, she stared into his eyes for a moment or two longer, wondering
where the Arden she had once known had gone. Then, with a murmured,
“Good night,” she slipped through the door and closed it behind
her.

The wooden floor of the solar was cold under
her bare feet. Still holding her belongings in her arms, Margaret
went to the steps, to look down into the hall. Arden's men appeared
to be sleeping soundly before the fire. Obviously, they would not
require food or wine or water before morning.

She crossed the solar to the short corridor
that led to the guest rooms. There she chose for herself the
chamber opposite Catherine's room. She knew the bed linens she
would need were in the chest that was pushed against the wall
beneath the single, narrow window. Not bothering to light a candle,
for she could recall where everything was after helping Catherine
to clean the chamber, Margaret pulled sheets from the linen chest
and quickly made up the bed, topping it with a quilt from the chest
and adding the heavy coverlet she had found on the bed.

For the second time that night she undressed
and got into bed. By now she was thoroughly chilled and the
guestroom was not heated. She curled into a ball for warmth and,
reaching down, she rubbed her icy feet to bring the blood back into
them. She feared she was not going to fall asleep as easily this
time as she had done earlier. The sensation of Arden's body
weighing down her own, of his naked flesh against hers, tormented
her. She could still feel his caresses, still smell him and hear
his low voice in her ear, and she alternately burned with shame and
shook with cold.