Captured by the Warrior Page 19

With supreme effort, he wrenched his lips away, green eyes glittering, slicing over her. ‘Stop me.’ Blunt desire jagged at his voice. His hands cupped her shoulders, steadying her, steadying himself. A ruddy flush grazed his high cheekbones.

  Alice tasted the sweetness of his breath. ‘I don’t want to.’

  ‘You know what will happen.’

  She nodded.

  With a groan he claimed her mouth once more, bearing her down to the rumpled blanket in one easy movement. He ached to possess her, but schooled himself to go slowly, to take his time and savour this beautiful maid. There might not be another time, or place. Dragging his lips away, his hands snagged urgently in her hair, pulling out the securing pins, scattering them as the long cascades of rippling gold rope spilled around her face, down her back.

  Sweet Jesu! He buried his face in that sweet-smelling mass, imbued with the fresh, clean scent of lavender. Alice laughed, sheer joy bubbling up in her heart, her tentative fingers reaching up to trace the jutting contour of his jaw, curling around to smooth the silken fronds of hair at the back of his neck, urging his head down.

  ‘Don’t stop,’ she whispered.

  He heard the shaky need in her hesitant plea and his heart flowered with pleasure. Such passion tucked into that slender frame, a brimming energy that matched his own vigorous desire. He had never known a woman so warm, so eager. Katherine…nay, not now. His hand slid beneath the hem of her chemise, travelling slowly, sensuously up the satiny length of her calf, her thigh.

  ‘Bastien…?’ Her stomach muscles flexed, then squeezed forcibly with gathering awareness, excitement melting within her.

  ‘Hush now…trust me,’ he whispered, his breath rasping hot against her ear. Against the velvet green of the mossy ground, her skin appeared as if covered in a sparkling net of dew. He stretched his sinewy length beside her; ripples of surprise jolted through her as she realised he was naked.

  So soft, she was so soft.

  He moved over her, enfolding her within the burly embrace of his body, clasping her tight, shielding her from the bright, knowing light of the moon. She gasped out loud as the scorching need of him nudged her thigh, before sliding into her tender folds, the very nub of her womanhood. Her limbs liquefied, lucid thought chased from her mind, intoxicated by the very feel of him. Her hands clung to his neck as she succumbed to the wild, tumultuous frenzy that drove through her heart, her blood.

  Unable to rein himself back, he sank into her in a blaze of unstoppable passion. His blood ran fast, unchecked and wild, his heart thumping out of control as he drove into her, barely checked by the momentary resistance of her virginity, filling her completely, utterly.

  Her arms fluttered outwards, the slightest whimper on her breath as he surged into her, her eyes closing under the all-consuming, forceful impact of him. Yet within a moment, the stinging ache was replaced by a mounting, churning fullness as Bastien began to move within her, sure and steady at first before gaining pace, faster and faster. Her body responded, matching his rhythm, rising in his arms to meet each increasingly powerful thrust, clinging to his shoulders as they rocked together. Moving with him, animal instinct guiding her, she let him lead her, take her. Her breath emerged in short, brisk pants, her mind dissolving into a gamut of strange flickering sensations building within the very core of her, rounding and swelling.

  A tingling spasm shot down her legs, weakening them, curling her toes, and as his lips sealed to hers once more, the boiling, swelling knot within her pushed beyond its fragile limits, bursting into a thousand scattering stars. She clung to him, desperately, shimmering lights streaking through her mind, as wave upon wave of shattering desire convulsed through her.

  ‘Mother of God!’ Reaching his own climax, Bastien collapsed over her, his breathing snatched and tattered against her ear, his heavy frame quenched, replete.

  The creak of branches and the rising, sifting breeze woke him; the swift reverberations of birds’ wings against the cacophony of twitterings and chatterings signalling the imminent sunrise. Above him, through the tumbled stone opening of a former arched window, the three-quarter moon shone, alongside a star, sparkling like newly minted silver. And in his arms, Alice, sleeping soundly.

  In the aftermath of their love-making, his body still hummed, satiated and replete. He was astonished at how he felt, astounded at the place they had reached, together, two souls locked in singing harmony. After Katherine’s death, he had thought himself incapable of ever making love to a woman again; yes, he’d entertained the rough couplings with the battleground whores, suitable purely for physical release, but this? This had been something entirely different. For the first time in as long as he could remember, the lump of metal that caged his heart seemed smaller, lighter somehow, the memories of Katherine, of his brother, receding into the shadows. He touched the ring at his neck, waiting for the familiar knock of painful memory. Nothing. Only the briefest hint of something that had been lost.

  Alice had done this, made him feel whole again, this small, courageous maid at his side: brave enough to stand up against convention for what she believed in, yet gentle and kind, always putting others before herself. It was her naïveté, her belief that people were essentially good, that had landed her in trouble, yet he admired her for it.

  Alice shifted against him, nuzzling her face into his shoulder, but she did not wake. In the luminous morning light, her skin was like the inside of an oyster shell, pellucid and pure, imbued with a delicate rosy blush. Her dark gold hair, mussed and tumbled, fell around her face, over his bare arm at her back. She had barrelled into his life, unexpected, chaotic, and had set him at odds with who he thought he was. He told himself he had gone after her because that’s what anyone would have done for a woman known to be in danger, but he knew it was a lie. He had gone after her because he wanted to be with her. Because he craved everything about her, her odd little mannerisms, her generous, spirited, courageous company, her quiet, powerful beauty. But he’d gone too far.

  ‘Bastien?’ Alice uttered tentatively.

  Guilt caved his chest—how could he have done such a thing? He’d taken advantage of her when she was at her most vulnerable, his base, physical instincts surging through him, consuming him, consuming her. He was no better than Edmund, the way he had behaved. Shame washed over him, corroding his soul.

  Unable to look at her, Bastien extricated his arm, rose to his feet. ‘You’d better get dressed,’ he ordered her tonelessly. ‘And then we’ll leave.’ He strode over to his horse, bending over to pick up the saddle and fling it into place.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Alice propped herself up, the morning air chilling her body, the flimsy chemise billowing about her. She hugged her arms about her chest.

  His eyes bore into her questioning features. It was better this way, he told himself. He would poison her sweetness, sully that bright smile, her gentle, kind ways. She was better off without him.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said abruptly. ‘We need to move on, that’s all. Felpersham and his men might still be out searching. I’d feel happier if we were behind stone walls.’

  A huge lump balled in her chest, a horrible sense of wrongdoing, of wilting disappointment. What had felt so right the night before now felt terribly, terribly wrong. Scrabbling to her feet, she reached for her kirtle, her gown. The severed laces on the back bodice of her dress mocked her, filling her with shame. Her movements were jerky, tense as she stepped into the kirtle, then pulled the gown up around her shoulders.

  Reaching down to scoop up his cote-hardie from the ground, she turned towards him, bundling his garment haphazardly in her arms. ‘Aren’t you going to say anything?’ Her tongue moved woodenly in her dry mouth.

  ‘About what?’ His harsh tone scoured her.

  ‘About…us?’ she replied timidly, a hectic flush rising on her throat. She clutched desperately on to Bastien’s cote-hardie, a woollen boat in a storm-tossed sea.

  ‘What’s there to say?’ His face was devoid of expression, clo
sed. ‘What I did…it was unforgivable.’

  She smiled crookedly. ‘I forgive you.’

  He jerked roughly on a thick leather strap, securing the saddle. ‘You need to forget it. I took advantage of you. For that I am sorry.’

  Her wide, candid blue eyes followed his succinct, practised movements, his strong fingers fastening the buckle beneath the horse’s belly. ‘I was fully aware of what was about to happen. You gave me a chance to stop it.’

  His fingers stilled, his bleak, glittering scrutiny shredding her flimsy confidence. ‘Then why didn’t you?’ he ground out. ‘Christ, woman, why didn’t you stop me?’

  Beneath the heavy folds of the tunic bunched before her, her fingers curled against his anger. Everything was wrong; she had done something wrong. How could she tell him how she felt towards him, that every time she looked his way, or heard his voice, or felt the brush of his hand, her heart filled with such a sense of joy, of belonging, that she felt it would burst with happiness? Edmund’s utter betrayal only intensified her feelings. How could she tell him, when his rejection of her was all too obvious in his behaviour?

  ‘I’m not sure.’ She threw him a feeble smile, picking furiously at an errant thread, trying to hide her shame.

  ‘Well, let’s hope you don’t regret it,’ he threw back roughly.

  Alice paled. ‘Don’t be like this,’ she whispered. Her plea wavered, fragile in the shimmering air.

  ‘I suppose you’ve already conjured up some rosy image of us growing old together, with four or five snotty-nosed children running around us, a comfortable castle, table groaning with food—’

  ‘Stop it!’ Alice paced over to him, fury lacing her voice. ‘How can you be like this? How dare you defile something that was so…?’ Her voice trailed to nothing. Something so beautiful, she had been about to say.

  ‘Because this is what I’m really like, Alice. A black-hearted soul who will never change.’

  ‘Nay!’ She thumped the cote-hardie into his chest. ‘Nay, you’re not like that! You would never have come back for me if you were! People can change. You can change.’

  ‘Alice, you see the best in everybody,’ Bastien said wearily, his voice softening a little. ‘You probably thought Felpersham was a kind-hearted elderly man, until he revealed his true character.’

  ‘Nay, I…’ But Bastien held his hand up, stopping her speech, setting his leonine head at an angle. In the distance, a faint sound: the baying of dogs. His eyes narrowed, dragon-green gimlets.

  ‘They’re on to us.’ Bastien scowled. ‘Come on, we need to move.’

  She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Maybe you should just leave me here. It would certainly save you from all the effort of being nasty to me.’

  He grimaced at her. ‘Don’t be silly. I went through all that trouble of rescuing you, I’m not about to give you up now.’ Her heart surged with hope at his words, although she was fully aware of his intended meaning.

  Bastien sprung into the saddle, kicked his foot free of the stirrup. ‘Mount up before me,’ he ordered her briskly. The horse, sensing his master’s tension, pawed the ground, eager to move.

  Alice stuck her toe into the high metal stirrup, as Bastien leaned down to bring her up before him. The two sides of the back of her gown gaped open, the tattered laces dangling forlornly.

  ‘Oh!’ she muttered in surprise, clutching at the sagging front of her bodice, as she swung neatly in front of Bastien. ‘My dress…!’

  Bastien glowered. The ruined garment tormented him; he remembered the softness of her skin against his fingers, the swift rasp of his knife as he had impatiently sliced through the laces. He dug his heels into his horse’s flank, spurring the animal into a fast trot.

  ‘We’ll sort it out later,’ he ground out.

  Through the open, dipping sides of her gown, Bastien’s iron-hard chest bounced against her rigid spine, tantalising, warm. Alice jerked forwards abruptly with each jolting contact. Even as her body still thrummed with the after-effects of their love-making, still yearned for his touch, she endeavoured to hold her slim frame away from him. Her muscles, her nerves, strained with the effort, making them sore, frayed. They had galloped steadily over several miles, splashing through fast-flowing streams to confuse the dogs, but now, as the track narrowed through the trees, Bastien adjusted his grip on the reins, slowing the horse to a walk.

  Alice studied his tanned, sinewy fingers looped around the worn leather of the reins, fingers that had played over her body, thrilling her, igniting her with their touch. Her mind was in turmoil. Last night, she had wanted to be with him so much, all reason, all conscious thought deserting her. Had she turned to him merely out of comfort, her mind and body shattered and hurt by Edmund’s betrayal? Nay, she doubted that. This feeling, this desire had been building between them for a long time, but she had refused to acknowledge it. What had happened between them was inevitable; Edmund’s treachery had merely been the catalyst.

  Even if this was it, she was still glad she had taken the chance to be with him, glad of those few precious, exquisite hours she had spent with this amazing man. Even if her life was nothing from this moment onwards, at least she could hold that memory tight against her heart.

  ‘I suppose you’d better take me back to Abberley,’ she pronounced finally, her voice sad, closed. Without him, she could try and rebuild her life, gather together what little scraps of dignity she could find, and start again.

  The saddle creaked under Bastien’s weight as he dipped forwards to avoid a tree. His face brushed against the bundle of Alice’s hair, loose and tumbling around her. Guilt clawed in his gut; he heard the tint of wretchedness in her voice and knew he was responsible.

  ‘Will you take me there?’ Alice repeated.

  Huge oaks towered around them, rooks’ nests studding the bare upper branches, spiky balls of twig in a wooden mesh. As they passed beneath, the rooks rose up in one mass of black, flashing blades, protesting at the human presence, cawing and cackling.

  ‘Nay, it’s not safe.’

  The warm slenderness of her back nudged constantly against him with the gentle rocking of the horse, despite her best efforts. Holding her thus was sheer, utter torture, constantly reminding him of her naked body in his arms.

  ‘Not safe?’ Alice turned around awkwardly, trying to see his face, but only succeeded in nearly tipping off. She clutched at the mane as Bastien’s arms tightened around her. ‘But Edmund wouldn’t show his face there again. Not after what he’s done.’

  ‘It’s not Edmund I’m worried about,’ Bastien replied tersely. ‘I told you before, I’m sure your mother is involved with Edmund. What’s to stop her doing the same thing again?’

  Her spine tensed against his chest. The light dappling through the trees brushed the top of her hair, sending flame-coloured sparks through her golden tresses. ‘I can’t believe my mother was involved. Are you sure it was her voice that you heard?’ When she finally spoke, the faintest trace of hope threaded her voice.

  ‘Nay,’ Bastien found himself replying. ‘Nay, I’m not certain.’ He could protect her from the truth, at least for the moment.

  ‘Abberley is safe, I’m sure. Remember, my father is there.’

  ‘There’s nothing to stop Edmund coming back for you.’

  ‘He wouldn’t dare! Do you think I’d go with him, after what he’s done?’

  Bastien laughed, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. This was more like the Alice he had come to know, spirited and courageous.

  ‘My manor is not far from here. You’ll be safe there.’ But even as the words flew from his lips, he wondered at the truth in them, wondered at his own self-control. She had probably believed herself to be safe in the forest, yet he had abused that trust. But even now, even after all that had happened between them, he couldn’t let her go. ‘That is, of course, if you wish to go with me,’ he added, hesitation hitching his voice.

  Alice nodded shakily, a tiny smile lifting her lips. Hope flowered in her veins
: he had asked her to go with him! She had believed he would take her back to Abberley, leave her, but no! He had asked if she wished to go back with him to his home; little did he know that she would go with him to the ends of the earth. She simply needed time to convince him.

  Lady Cecile de la Roche sighed, hunching forwards to plant her gnarled, arthritic hands on the stone windowsill, her bright green eyes scanning the ground below. Always the same view, the same unending pattern of rippling, gently sloped hills, the forests beyond, vanishing into the blue distance. Lands that her husband, Guy de la Roche, God rest his soul, had set out all those years ago, lands that should have belonged to her beloved son, Guillaume. Her knuckles tightened, nails rasping against the cool stone.

  ‘My lady?’ Lady Cecile’s maidservant shouldered her way through the door, arms piled high with folded clothes. ‘Are you ready to dress?’

  Lady Cecile turned slowly from the window, her ash-blonde hair swinging in two long braids either side of her head. Countless years of scraping it back into the fashionable styles had made it dry, straggly; thank the Lord she could cover it up every day, hide the evidence of her ageing. She raised one non-existent eyebrow. ‘I suppose I should,’ she responded listlessly to the maid’s enquiry, holding her arms up so the girl could remove her nightgown. She let Mary choose what she wore now; clothes held little interest for her, as long as she looked presentable.

  ‘There’s some news, my lady,’ Mary blurted out excitedly, tugging at the nightgown’s sleeves.

  ‘Oh?’ Lady Cecile replied in a bored tone. Nothing ever happened at Foxhayne, only the same dull, repetitious daily routine: the meals, the occasional travelling noble in search of board and lodging, the interminable cycle of the seasons.

  ‘Lord Bastien is coming.’

  Lady Cecile’s half-shuttered eyes snapped open. Her mouth pursed, fine lines radiating out from her thin lips. ‘Who?’ she enquired tonelessly.

  ‘Lord Bastien,’ Mary repeated, suddenly feeling as if she had stepped onto treacherous quicksand. ‘Your son, Lord Bastien. One of our guards met him on the road; it will not be long before he arrives.’ Maybe her lady was going mad after all; there was talk of it in the kitchens, but Mary had always vehemently denied it, staunchly supporting her mistress.