wcEND.rtf (9 page)

'Two weeks then," she backtracked. Two weeks should be plenty of time.

He hesitated. Isabel pressed on. "If by the end of that time my memory has not returned I swear I will abide by your wishes."

He came to stand before her. Their gazes locked as he
took her hands into his, as if daring her to reject him this time. She didn't.

"I grant you a week's time," he said as if that'd be the greatest sacrifice on earth for him.

"A week is not much time to recover one's memory," she complained.

"You are my wife. A week is a reasonable amount of time for you to accept that, memory or nay."

Realizing she was backed against a wall, Isabel had to agree. "All right. A week then." She better find that damn chalice way before that time was up. The way Hunter looked at her and the way she reacted to his touch didn't bode welt for either of them.

With a slow motion he brought her hands to his lips and kissed her fingers with such tenderness, Isabel trembled.

This man loved his wife! The realization spread over her like a cold shower and instantly a pang of guilt tightened her heart. She had separated Hunter from his wife and she would do anything to bring them back together again. Surely, at this very moment, Détra was desperately trying to return to her own body, to her own life, to her beloved husband.

Meanwhile, for everyone's benefit, Isabel would keep up with her charade. Soon every
th
ing would return to normal and Hunter would have his wife back, not even knowing he'd kissed and desired a total stranger.

"Meantim
e
—" Hunter's husky voice brought Isabel out of her musings as he lifted his lips from her hands. She sought his dark, impenetrable gaze and a light shone there, a light she hadn't noticed before.
"
—
I
shall endeavor to aid you in recovering your memory."

Had she truly expected him to fade into the background while she ostensibly sought her past when in fact she chased her future?

He kissed her gently, unhurriedly, unthreateningly. All Isabel could do was to accept it, to take it, to savor it
.
He lifted, letting go of her momentarily while he picked up his shirt from the ground and donned it quickly along with his sword belt.

He tucked her hand back into his. "Let us walk back to the castle, my lady wife."

There was no misinterpreting the promise in his words, in his gaze. A promise not intended for her. Isabel shook the sadness overtaking her. She didn't belong to this life, to this body, to this man, no matter her wish. She had no right to fee! anything toward Hunter. No right whatsoever.

******************

WITH DÉ
T
RA'S HAND FIRMLY ENCASED IN HIS. HUNTER ambled toward the castle. He reeled inside, uncertain of what to expect next. In the orchard, when he had glimpsed the desire in the depths of D
é
tra
'
s eyes and tasted her wanton kisses, he had been certain the chalice had granted his heart wish.

Her apparent change of heart soon after, however, had swiftly shattered that illusion.

Was Détra truly forgetful? Or was it just another excuse not to consummate their marriage? She seemed sincere enough regarding her lack of memor
y
—
o
dd as that might be. Who had ever heard of such a malady? And yet, if the chalice had anything to do with it, and Hunter wanted to believe it did, he should accept her claim without a question. After all, what else could have happened to explain Détra
'
s change? For she had changed. It was almost as if she cared for his feelings.

And therein lay a very important distinction between his bride of earlier this morning and this one walking by his side. A distinction Hunter fully intended on exploring.

As they plodded up the slippery grassy mound, Hunter
observed Détra. Struggling to hold her dress up from the wet ground, Détra took a moment to notice his stare-When she did, she followed his gaze to her exposed legs.

"Difficult thing to handle." She shrugged, letting her skirts fall and halting their progress, lest she trip on the length of cloth, no doubt. "I believe I need the use of both my hands." She shot him a beguiling smile.

Still unaccustomed to a smiling Détra
,
Hunter acquiesced, wondering about the odd rhythm of her speec
h
— full of melodious tones nonexistent before this morning's incident, full of words Détra never used before, full with a casualness he would never attribute to his lady wife. Wondering about her garmen
t
—
w
hy was she not wearing a shift and stockings underneath her gown and head covering she always wore before?

As soon as she gathered her skirts in a more demure manner, regretfully hiding her naked flesh to his view, Hunter repossessed her hand and resumed their walk.

Contrary to her usual self, Détra allowed his handling of her, but after only a few steps she halted again, this time warring against the unruly curls that refused to obey her commands. She flung her head back. "Da
m
—" She shot him a guilty look. "Blasted hair."

Détra'
s
annoyance at her glorious hai
r
—
h
er most cherished featur
e
—
i
ntrigued Hunter. He had noticed, since this morning's ordeal, she often rearranged her tresses in an annoyed manner. Could it be because she usually wore it in a tight plait or covered by veils unless in the privacy of her bedchamber? Hunter infinitely preferred her hair loose, falling over her shoulders in vibrant waves and flying about with the breeze. He could still feel the silky texture between his fingers when both he and Détra were lost in their embracing kiss in the orchard.

Hunter's senses, reawakened by the glimpse of flesh, immediately reacted to the memory of those kisses. His
lust stirred impatiently. A lust he now would have to wait a week to assuage thanks to his promise to his lady wife. And yet, what was a week when he had been waiting for what seemed an eternity for her surrender?

Besides, he would not
l
ie id
l
e in the meantime. He would continue to seek the desire he glimpsed in his wife's eyes until he turned that flickering into a full-blown
l
ust for him.

Unbidden, memories of their disappointing wedding nigh
t
—
a
nd all the nights that followe
d
—
c
ame back to him. For years Hunter had dreamed of the day he would have Détra in his arms, in his bed. That fantasy had carried him through many a lonely night. And yet, when the time came for them to be together as husband and wife, Détra
had rejected him.

But in the orchard this morning Hunter had discovered there was passion in his lady wife's heart, after al
l
. Passion that had been buried underneath the dislike she held for him. Passion that he fully intended to awaken by the time this week was over.

However, he must keep in mind Détra
's
true feelings for him buried in the depths of her mind, feelings that would surely resurrect to life along with her memory. His only chance to entomb them completely would be to
f
ill her heart and mind with memories she would long to relive.

And to do so he would have to deceive her into believing a fantasy that never was. A sudden pang of conscience speared his heart. He ignored it. It was for her own good, for the good of them both. He would do whatever was necessary to prove to Détra and everyone who ever doubted his value that though a bastard of unknown sire, he was worthy of being loved and cherished by his lady wife.

As they resumed their trek, Hunter watched the su
n
—which had barely showed its face this mornin
g
—
s
uddenly surge from behind a dark cloud in a cheerful presage of good things to come. At least he hoped so.

"The first time ever I saw you," Hunter began, spinning his tale, "I thought the sun had descended upon the earth, just as it is doing now."

She turned her gaze back on him.

"You were radiant," he said truthfully. "Still are. The most beautiful lady I have ever laid eyes upon." And that was the truth. He never forgot how the sun had framed Détra
's
hair in a
f
iery halo those many years ago, exactly as it was doing now.

"So, it was love at first sight," she said.

"It was for me."

She halted. A shadow of a jesting smile played on her face. "You mean to say that I was not immediately struck by the cupid arrow the moment my eyes laid upon your handsome visage?"

Humor? Another unexpected change.

"There was not much you could see considering I was covered in mud." He carefully chose his words. The closer he stuck to the truth the easier this would be.

She raised an inquiring eyebrow.

"I was involved in a brawl with another squire," he explained as he urged her forward.

"Oh, and what was the fight about?" she asked as they rounded the corner of the keep.

"I remember not," Hunter lied, not wishing to speak of matters that were best left unspoken between them. "It was a long time ago. It hardly matters now."

In the bailey, Windermere's people busied about their affairs, but as Hunter and Détra strolled by them, one by one they halted and gaped openly at them.

Détra seemed to pay them no mind. Hunter cherished every moment.

"It mattered enough for you to fight with this young man. It could not have been about me, considering we had just met, or was it?" she teased, her green gaze seeking his.

In a way it had been about her, though the fight had started for a completely different reason.

Accustomed to being ostracize
d
—
i
n his village he was shunned by the other boys for being considered better than they were, and in his fostering castle he was shunned for exactly the opposite reaso
n
—
H
unter had learned early in life to ignore hurtful taunting. However, when cunning alone failed him he was forced to use physical strength to be left alone. And that day, when he first saw Détra, had been such an occasion.

Edmund, an apprentice squire like Hunter, but unlike Hunter, one of noble birth, was one of his most tenacious persecutors. Resenting Hunter's presenc
e
—
f
or only those of noble birth were allowed or could afford to be trained for knighthoo
d
—
E
dmund missed no opportunity to smear Hunter's honor. His favo
ri
te gibe was to call Hunter a bloody bastard.

Hunter's bastardy was an undeniable fact and most at Hawkhaven, where Hunter fostered, were aware of that. Some even wondered whether Lord Reginald, his fostering
l
ord, could be his father. Hunter wondered as well. After al
l
, the man was Hunter's sponsor. However, such suspicions were never proved, though it gained Hunter the animosity of yet another squir
e
—
R
upert, Lord Reginald's son.

But calling Hunter a bastard had not been the cause of that particular fight. On that day Edmund had decided to add another insult to his tiring taunts. He called Hunter's mother a witch. And that Hunter could not ignore.

When Détra and her entourage had entered the bailey of Hawkhaven Castle, Hunter had already vanquished Ed
mu
nd. Yet lost in the beauty of her sight Hunter had loosened his hold of the squire, who rose to his feet sneering at Hunter.

"You can worm your way into knighthood, Sir Bastard," Edmund had spat, "but no lady will ever take you for husband willingly."

In a way Edmund had been right. Hunter had wedded the woman of his dreams, but Détra had never accepted him as her rightful husband.

Hunter's hands ba
l
led up into fist
s
—
t
he old hurt fighting to surface, the old stoicism fighting to bury it. The tale he concocted to tell Détra forgotten.

"I see that it is not a memory you cherish," Détra said, trying to loose his hold of her. He then realized he had squashed her hand into his.

"As I said, it was a long time ago." He relaxed his hold of her.