Читать книгу Bride Of The Tower - Sharon Schulze - Страница 10

Will sank down against the lissome woman who had, unfortunately, ceased her provocative movements beneath him, and buried his face in her hair while he gathered his strength. By the rood! The way his head throbbed and his stomach roiled, he must have fair climbed inside an ale barrel last night.

’Twas a shame he couldn’t remember anything, for his body was most pleased indeed by the woman beneath him. He drew in a deep breath and sought to settle himself. ’Twould not do to lose the battle and swoon—or worse—over his bedmate.

She didn’t have the feel of his usual choice—short, buxom and well-padded. She fit perfectly against him, though, nigh tall enough to reach his shoulder when they stood, he’d guess, and her body’s gentle curves all the more stimulating against him for the lack of excessive flesh. He nestled atop her with a sigh and rested his aching head on the soft mass of dark, wavy hair cascading over her shoulder. Ah, this was satisfaction indeed! Why had he never before realized the allure of a strong, slim woman?

He drew in another deep breath to clear his muddled brain and smiled his pleasure as his lungs filled with the beguiling scent of woman, of flowers and spice, firing his blood hotter still. She must be far cleaner than the usual tavern wench as well; he’d not smelled such a wonderful fragrance since he’d last visited Gillian’s solar at l’Eau Clair.

The realization shot through him as sharply as an arrow—he could not mistake the sweet perfume of a noble lady.

A noble lady…

Christ on the Cross, what had he done?

Arms stiffening, Will levered himself up and tried to climb off her, sending a lightning bolt of agony through his head and arm, while the pulsing pain in his neck killed the throb of pleasure in his loins as effectively as a cold shower of water.

She moved at the same time, giving him a shove that pushed him over and off her. He slammed to the floor on his back and stayed where he’d landed, his vision fading in and out and a wave of dizziness making his stomach threaten to rebel. Will sprawled before the woman like a drunkard, unable to so much as sit up. The impact sent shards of pain through his neck and arm, as well, reminding him exactly how he’d come to this pass.

’Twas not too much ale that had brought him here, wherever “here” was.

Cursing beneath her breath, Julianna scrambled to her knees beside the man. His quiet moans of pain, as well as the solid thump of his body as it hit the hard oak planks, sent a wave of guilt through her. He lay so still, she wondered if she’d knocked him senseless.

She ran a soothing hand over his face, smoothing the hair back from his brow, and reached for the wet cloth draped over the bowl of water. Guilt tinged with regret, she admitted to herself as she eased the cloth across his bandaged forehead. Those few, brief moments of his weight atop her, his hard lean body obviously responding to the feel of a woman beneath him, had sent a shard of pleasure shooting through her before her years of training had jolted to life and she’d thrown him off.

She’d grown so used to fighting back at any physical contact—not that she’d ever before experienced anything like that—that her body responded as a warrior, not a woman.

Though why she should react with such intense lust to the inadvertent touch of a complete stranger shocked her nigh as much as the realization that she wished it would happen again….

With her patient awake and aware of her, of Julianna—not simply responding to a warm female body beneath his.

What else could account for his reaction? He knew no more of her than she did of him.

He pushed aside the damp rag, caught her hand in a surprisingly solid grip and squinted up at her. “Who are you?” he asked, demand lacing his voice despite its quiet tone.

“Hush.” She slipped her fingers free of his and reached to pick up the cloth from where it had fallen on the floor. “You must rest, sir. Who I am matters not a whit.”

His arms shook as he levered himself into a half-sitting position, then, his face nigh as pale as the linen swathed about his brow, settled his back against the wall. “I fear it does, mistress—” He caught hold of her hair and let it sift through his fingers, then tightened his grasp and raised the disheveled locks to his face and inhaled deeply. He glanced up at her. “Or should I call you ‘milady’?” His tone matched his gaze—sharp, measuring.

Challenging.

And she’d always loved a challenge.

A silent voice inside her brain warred with the soft, yearning part of her that wanted to inch closer to him, to tempt fate.

To tempt him.

Yet her good sense warned her to beware this intriguing man despite the way her senses fought to cease all thought—to feel, to react, to follow the instinctual draw of his body to her own.

Sound reasoning won out, and she gathered her hair in her hand to free it. “You need not call me anything at all,” she snarled.

Rather than release her, however, he wound her hair about his hand until his knuckles pressed against hers and she was forced to shift nearer to him else she’d fall. His breath whispered against her cheek, warm, distracting. “But I must,” he insisted, his voice low, rough, intimate. He gazed at her with undisguised heat. “Considering how close we’ve been.” He leaned closer still and brushed his lips over hers. “And are like to become.”

The insinuation coloring his voice—or was it the feel of his mouth upon hers?—sent a wave of heat through her body and a fiery flush to her cheeks. She mentally shook herself free of his spell and drew a deep breath. “That is most unlikely, sir, I assure you.” Heedless of whether or not she lost a hank of hair, Julianna wrapped her free hand about his to pry loose his fingers and jerked away from him, just as he released his hold. She fell sideways to the floor, barely avoiding the candle stand as she rolled clear, becoming tangled in her tousled cloud of hair in the process.

He slipped back against the wall with a thump.

“By the Virgin, you’re an insolent knave.” She thrust her hands through her hair, pushed it away from her face and scrambled to her feet, moving to stand over him. “I’ve a mind to send you down to the cellars to recover,” she added as she flung her hair back over her shoulder and bent to peer at him.

He didn’t groan this time, nor make any response at all to her threat. He lay slumped against the wall, his head lolled to the side and his face contorted with pain. The fury drained from her and she dropped to her knees beside him. A nudge at his shoulder produced no reaction from him, instead sending him sliding bonelessly toward the floor.

Catching hold of him, she bit back a curse and lowered him onto his pallet. He remained quiet, and he made no move to help or to resist her as she moved him into a more comfortable position.

Julianna shifted to sit beside him. “Dear God, have I killed him?” She touched the side of his neck and felt his lifeblood pulsing strong against her fingers. At least he still lived, though considering his treatment at her hands, ’twas a miracle. Perhaps he’d have fared better with the men who attacked him than he had with her, she thought with disgust.

What had possessed her? She was generally even-tempered and patient, able to weigh all sides of a situation, to listen and hold her temper in rein no matter the provocation. Yet her behavior toward this fascinating stranger was as foreign to her as he was, as though a different person altogether had suddenly inhabited her traitorous body. Her thoughts and actions felt so new, so odd, that she scarce recognized herself.

Enough of this maundering self-pity, she cautioned herself as she sat back on her heels and considered his still features in the flickering light. Easing her hand beneath his head, she sank her fingers into his thick, soft hair, satisfied when she felt no new bumps on his poor battered skull.

She checked his wounds to make certain they’d not begun to bleed again, eased him down onto his pallet, and adjusted his bandages before settling the damp compress on his brow. She drew a soft wool blanket over him and smoothed it into place with a sigh. There was naught more she could do for him now, save watch over him as he slept.

Julianna slid around and leaned her shoulder against the wall, keeping her gaze fixed on the bruise-marred symmetry of his face. Memories of the feel of his whiskers beneath her fingers, of his surprisingly soft lips brushing her own, would guarantee she’d get no rest herself this night.

’Twas just as well, for considering the blows to his head—several of which she’d caused by her own carelessness—she’d best keep watch over him to ensure he’d suffered no additional harm. She might as well enjoy the wakeful hours by reliving the brief contact they’d shared, for she doubted ’twould be an experience she’d ever know again.

Will woke alone the next time. Given what he thought he remembered from before—if it wasn’t a dream—he wasn’t sure whether that fact pleased him or not. He’d be happy to welcome the sweet-smelling siren he’d cradled upon his aching body once again, though he could certainly live without another battering by the anger-filled harpy she’d become.

He opened one eyelid with care, grateful he’d been cautious when the faint light seeping through the open shutters filled his head with a searing pain. Squeezing his eyes closed, he let his other senses explore the chamber, seeking a sound, a scent, the feel of another person nearby.

Seeking her.

He quieted his breathing and waited. He could sense no one else. Best to use the time to inventory his aches and injuries while he had the chance.

He felt battered enough to hurt even while at rest, of a certainty, but not so incapacitated as to keep him from fighting should he need to. His head felt nigh ready to fall off, but he’d suffered that same sensation once or twice after a night of hard drinking in Ireland and survived it. He couldn’t blame a cask of usquebaugh this time, however.

Blame his own idiocy, more like, or his lack of attention. To be attacked from above like the veriest untried lad…He’d been taught better—aye, and his instincts alone should have warned him even though his attention had wandered.

Had he grown so complaisant since he’d been knighted that he’d become mindless and soft? If so, he deserved whatever he got. At least he’d survived—and no one at l’Eau Clair would know of his stupidity.

Assuming he ever returned home. For all he knew, he was a prisoner here, held by the same knaves who set upon him. Perhaps the woman had been but another of their weapons, more subtle, meant to torture him into madness with her body.

Or with her temper.

He shook his head in disgust at his mawkish thoughts, an act he regretted at once. By God, but his skull throbbed! He’d fought near as wounded as this before, though he’d rather not do so again if he could avoid it. But until he knew where he was and who held him, he’d be wise to remain alert and ready to take advantage of any opportunity.

He dared not allow his vigilance to lapse again.

Nor would he let himself fall victim to the woman once more, should she return. Neither female wiles nor warrior ways would tempt him, he vowed, no matter how appealing she appeared in either guise.

The door hinges squeaked and the door swung wide, sending a draught of cool air into the room. The scent of spice and flowers flowed over him, as noticeable this time as before. His sweet-smelling temptress had returned.

Will fought back a smile and composed himself to remain still and silent while she entered the room and shut the door.

She crossed the chamber, her boot heels tapping lightly on the plank floor, and dropped to her knees beside his pallet. Her hand rested cool and light upon his brow for but a moment before she rose and moved several paces away.

Will waited as long as his patience could bear to ease his eyes open. Better prepared for the sensation of light on his aching eyes, he forced himself to turn his head to his left, where he’d heard her go.

Pain forgotten, he surged to his knees at the sight that met his gaze.

The woman stood nearby, the message pack he’d worn slung over his shoulder open in one hand, the bundle of Lord Rannulf’s messages from within the leather bag clutched under her arm. Even as he struggled to his feet, she muttered a curse and carelessly stuffed the letters back into the pack.

Except for one. Before he could stop her, she’d cracked the wax seal on the parchment square and shook it open. The color fled her face and her words grew louder and more foul.

By the rood, what if she’d opened the message from Rannulf to Pembroke and the king? Though he was unaware of the contents, of a surety ’twas nothing for her eyes.

Will gathered himself and lunged toward her. They fell back against the wall, the bag at their feet. “What do you think you’re doing? Put that down, you meddlesome wench—now!” he cried as he reached for the parchment she still held clutched tight in her hand. “Have you no respect for another’s privacy?” She jerked away and he caught her by the arm.

She fought against his hold, a fury cloaked in long brown hair and an anger he could feel in her shaking body. “Meddlesome, am I?” she snarled back he pressed her against the wall. “Traitor!”

The letter caught between them, they stared at each other.

Breath held tight in his chest, Will waited.