My Gallant Enemy Part 6

She turned her face stiffly away from his touch. "He is married."

"Precisely," he answered in a dark tone.

She was silenced by his implication, appalled that he could think such a thing of her. Then her frozen wits were restored and with a swift yank she freed herself of his grip. "You have the mind of a low-born ... a low-born ..." She struggled for an insult bad enough for him.

"A low-born b.a.s.t.a.r.d?" he supplied with a cold chuckle. "I a.s.sure you, I am neither low born nor a b.a.s.t.a.r.d. You will have to accept my word, however, for my parents cannot verify it. They are both dead, a crime I lay at the doorstep of Orrick."

"My father did not kill your father!" Lilliane cried with much vehemence. "And he most certainly had nothing to do with your moth-"

"My mother died of a broken heart," Sir Corbett said with a growl. "She pined for her husband, preferring death to his absence from her."

His angry interruption gave her pause, and when she retorted it was in a more subdued voice. "You will not listen to the truth. You seek only revenge, and now you would even marry to get that revenge."

Sir Corbett did not reply at once, only shrugging as if in mute acceptance of her words. But his eyes were sharp upon her, their gray as hard and opaque as slate. "My reasons for this marriage are many. But they are of no matter to you."

"Of no matter to me!" Lilliane cried. "Is my life of no matter to me then? Is my entire future of no matter? How casually you disrupt my life as if I were of no account! As if I were no more than some poor beast of burden!" Her anger was in full flight as she stood in the dim rookery. Her eyes flashed golden fire as she faced him with her chin arrogantly raised and her clenched fists on her hips.

"'Tis your father's will." He shrugged again then let his eyes slide slowly over her. Lilliane felt an ominous s.h.i.+ver as if he had truly touched her with his close scrutiny, but she determinedly ignored it. When he met her eyes once more he smiled, but with no real warmth. "As for being treated as a beast of burden, I remind you that your primary duty as my wife shall be to bear my heir. Small enough burden that shall be, and as I see it, one you are well suited to."

"And what of the burden of your l.u.s.tful attention?" she cried recklessly. "I despise you and do not want you for my husband!"

In a moment he had her in his iron grasp and forced her to meet his icy glare. "It does not matter to me that you abhor my touch or my attention. You will be my wife. You will share my bed. You will bear my children. If you cannot stomach my scarred face or my battle-marked body, close your eyes. But do not think to s.h.i.+rk your wifely duty!"

She could feel the heat of his anger down the whole length of her. Only inches separated them, and yet he might have held her close against him so vivid was the feeling. Then without warning he captured her lips in a hard and demanding kiss.

It was of no use for her to struggle: he held her immobile, as if her strength were no more than a kitten's. In rising panic she fought to avoid his lips, but he quickly stilled her with a hand at her head. He slid his tongue along the full curve of her lower lip with an expertise that made her gasp. Then he forced entry between her startled lips.

Lilliane could not breathe. She could not think or even marshal her frozen body to react. His tongue was heated velvet, plundering her mouth with an intensity that left her confused and weak. She felt his hand move to the small of her back and press her close against his hard frame. As he molded her body against his, so did he seem almost to mold her will to his own.

But Lilliane would not submit to him so easily. In impotent rage she pounded on his shoulders, pus.h.i.+ng against his superior strength. She kicked at his s.h.i.+ns, but he only moved his hand to her b.u.t.tocks and lifted her clear of the floor. And all the while he deepened the kiss until his tongue was searching out her own.

Lilliane was helpless against such an onslaught. Her struggles were futile and indeed, with the intimate press of his hard-muscled body against hers, she found it almost impossible to think. Her mind cried in protest at such an uncivilized handling, but in her belly a languid heat was robbing her muscles of the ability to fight any longer. Like a fever it seemed to overwhelm her, spreading its deceptive heat until she was limp in his arms and pliant beneath his kiss.

His hold seemed to change then. His hands became gentle, stroking up her back as he held her pressed to him. His lips became less demanding and more enticing, teasing her mouth into a freer acceptance of his tongue. She was not conscious of curling her fingers around the smooth kersey of his tunic, nor of the softening of her mouth under his.

But when her tongue crept forward to meet his, she was wholly aware of the exquisite pleasure that seemed to fill her entire being. She felt almost as if she had melted into a hot, glowing version of her cold, former self. It was terrifying to lose such control. It was terrifying but it was fascinating. And she would have more ...

"Where are your protests now?" Corbett whispered in her ear as he nibbled seductively at her lobe.

Lilliane fought for her breath and her reason as he continued his a.s.sault on her senses. "Let me down," she managed to gasp.

"You'll have to loosen your hold of my tunic, then," he pointed out.

Horrified at her own wantonness, Lilliane released his tunic at once. He obligingly lowered her to the ground, but before he released her he pulled her close against him. Lilliane could clearly feel the thickening beneath his braies pressed hard against her belly, and she tried to squirm away. But his slow grin seemed to mock her as he stared at her appraisingly.

"You say you despise me but ..." He shrugged. "Still, it is of no matter. You may dread our marriage above all things, but your father and I have already agreed." He paused and his eyes became cool and sardonic. "You will become my wife on the morrow."

He released her then and she stumbled back a few paces. He was so unfeeling, Lilliane thought. So completely indifferent to how she felt. She wanted to cry but pride held her back. Then as if she might erase the disturbing feel of him from her, she wiped her lips with the back of her hand. "Perhaps I shall become your wife," she muttered. "But I shall hate you just the same!"

Her eyes were brilliant with repressed tears as she watched a frown darken his face. When he spoke again his voice was low and calm, but she did not mistake the sarcasm rampant in it.

"We shall see. But mark my words, Lily, you will not rid yourself of my taste or my touch in so easy a fas.h.i.+on." He turned to go, then paused and swept her with an icy look. "But if you truly find me so offensive, you need only close your eyes and imagine it is your pretty William who stirs you to such heat!"

Then with a look of complete disgust he stalked from the room.

6.

"THREE SQUAB, A KNOT of dried beans, a portion of cheese, a large squash." Lilliane placed the items one by one into a covered basket, hoping neither Tullia nor Ferga, the serving woman, took note of the tremor in her hand.

She was shaking so badly she feared she might drop something and thereby reveal all. Her desire to escape to Burgram Abbey had multiplied tenfold since her dreadful encounter with Sir Corbett in the rookery. Knowing that her trembling was caused as much by the power he'd exerted over her as by the antic.i.p.ation of her flight to freedom served only to increase her fury.

No matter how she tried to forget what had happened between them, she simply could not. She'd not been able to leave the dim rookery, she had been so shaken by the terrible feelings he'd aroused in her. Fear and rage fought for dominance as her emotions tumbled about madly. But worse was the awful suspicion of the incredible power he seemed to have. With just his kiss and a gentle hand upon her he was able to control her. Neither his anger nor his threats did nearly so much damage as did his pa.s.sion. She s.h.i.+vered in remembrance of it even now.

If it had not been for Thomas, she might be hidden away among the doves even still. But he had discovered her and brought word that she was needed in the hall. Since then her sisters and their lady guests had not allowed her to attend her duties as chatelaine. Instead, she'd had to accompany the women on a hawking party, taking an excruciatingly long meal in the meadow. When they'd returned to the castle at midafternoon, the men had all been at the hunt. And it was then Lilliane had vowed to slip away. She considered it an omen of the best sort when Tullia mentioned that Mother Grendella, the wisewoman, was abed with a recurring affliction to her eyes. Lilliane now prepared a basket of delicacies from the wedding feast for the old woman.

"Wrap several of those pastries and a big loaf of white bread in that cloth and add it to this," Lilliane said to Ferga.

"You need not go yourself, Lilliane," Tullia remonstrated. "Why, any of the servants could be sent down to the village with this basket."

"Tullia, if I must stay in this castle and in this company one more minute, I vow I shall scream. 'Tis cruel enough I must marry this vile knight, our enemy. May I not even spend the last hours of my girlhood as I wish?" Her amber-hued eyes were wide, and the tears that started in them were not contrived.

Moved by her sister's plight, Tullia could not but agree. "As you will, dear sister. But pray, do not linger. And take a groom with you."

But Lilliane had no intention of having a groom accompany her. Taking full advantage of the confusion brought on by the wedding festivities and the servants' many extra duties, she led a horse out from the stables. As she settled herself on the steed, Lilliane was filled with both relief and remorse. She'd not been sure she could keep up the pretense of having accepted her fate one minute longer. Yet she could not pretend to feel no guilt at the terrible deed she planned. For, desperate as she was to avoid this marriage, Lilliane well knew that she wronged her father horribly by such defiance.

It was not her way to be a disobedient daughter. Although the talk ran freely about her long absence from Orrick and her willfulness at staying at the abbey, it was nevertheless a fact that she had obeyed her father in not marrying Sir William. Still, the gossips concerned themselves more happily with her stubborn temper than with her ultimate obedience.

But she could not rationalize her behavior on this day as anything but the most blatant disobedience. Her escape would shame not only her bridegroom, as she wished, but also her father. For a moment, as she pa.s.sed over the heavy drawbridge, she almost reined in her mount. As it was, the delicate creature danced and skittered in a high-spirited circle until Lilliane settled her with a gentle hand on her neck.

"Easy now, Aere. Easy, my girl." She ran her fingers through the filly's bronze-colored mane. "I know you're anxious to be off. Just as I am," she added more softly.

As she turned past the ancient bridge and onto the smooth-worn road, Lilliane had the strongest urge to look back at the castle. She knew what she would see: pale limestone walls, tall and st.u.r.dy, older than anyone's memory; the nut-laden branches of the chestnut tree peeking over the crenellations; and the ever-present watchmen pacing off their allotted rounds.

But something in her would not let her look. It was her home and she loved it dearly. Still, she had the terrible feeling that it would never again be quite the same place she'd taken for granted for so long. If she ever returned, she feared it would be vastly different. Resolute, she urged the willing mare forward, unmindful of the wind tugging at her as she cantered down the road.

Lilliane sat upon Aere stiffly, her maize gown of caddis cloth in deep folds around her knees. She carried the heavily laden basket before her, for truly she did want Mother Grendella to have the delicacies. But she knew she could not tarry. When she reached the edge of Orrick village, however, a simple solution presented itself. Not far from the community well, a number of women had gathered. Young mothers and unmarried girls made the trek there twice daily. First light saw them there with their soiled linens and garments, scrubbing them in large wooden troughs made for that very purpose. Then they would spread and drape the garments over shrubs and branches to dry.

Now they were making their return trip to gather their laundry before the clouds welling up in the west could loosen any rain upon it.

"h.e.l.lo, Meg, Bertha." She nodded to two women she knew. "h.e.l.lo, Theda."

"'Lo, milady." Theda bobbed a swift curtsy. "May I say, 'tis pleased we are t' have you back t' Orrick."

"Why, thank you," Lilliane answered. She was touched by Theda's sincerity, although it made her feel even more guilty for planning to leave.

"We've all heard about the doings on the morrow. 'Tis to be a fine time for us all." Theda nodded. "And both sisters t' wed at once. 'Twill truly be a grand day."

Lilliane forced a smile, while all the while her heart was thumping with excitement. "Theda," she began nervously. "I would have a favor of you."

It was easy to tempt simple Theda to deliver the basket to Mother Grendella by offering her a share of the delightful contents. Although the woman looked at Lilliane with curious eyes, Lilliane knew that neither she nor any of the other villagers and serfs could ever imagine deliberately disobeying Lord Barton's will. It would never occur to Theda that Lilliane might disobey her father. At worst she might be meeting a suitor who had lost out to the mighty Sir Corbett's return. That Theda could understand and even condone. But outright opposition to Lord Barton? Never.

Unwilling to linger and torment herself with her own duplicity, Lilliane quickly turned the eager filly. With another grateful thanks to the good-natured Theda, she urged Aere into a gallop.

Lilliane took the low road that led past the sluggish creek and around the apple orchard. It was longer to the turnpike that way, but it kept her safely out of view from the castle. Only when she had quit the orchard and was beyond the harvested wheat and barley fields did she pull the filly in at all. She was as winded as the horse, but she was too afraid of pursuit to stop and rest.

She'd raised many a head as she'd galloped by, her elegant skirts billowing, her rich chestnut hair streaming behind her. She knew her pa.s.sing had been well marked and that there would be many to report her direction. But she was counting on time as an ally. With any luck her father would not hear of her escape until his return from the hunt at nightfall. If she was sufficiently away by then, any followers would be hard-pressed to trail her in the dark.

And followers there would be, she realized with a s.h.i.+ver of apprehension. Her father's anger would be terrible. And Sir Corbett's ... his fury she refused to dwell upon at all.

Lilliane was well along the turnpike, heading at a steady pace toward the craggy Middling Stone and the turn-off beyond it that led to the abbey. Heavy clouds over the valley had brought an early dusk to the land so that all was covered in a dim violet shadow.

Lilliane cast a worried eye to the sky. She'd left without mantle or hood, for she'd not wanted to raise a suspicion. Now she feared she'd receive a thorough soaking before the night was out. Still, she decided, that was far better than a lifetime spent as wife to an enemy knight. With determination she urged the tiring animal on.

She was still a good way from the river crossing when the rain began. It was only a spa.r.s.e splattering of drops, but when Lilliane looked at the sky behind her, her heart nearly stopped. An ugly purple cloud moving relentlessly across the valley hung low over the land. Like a threatening wave it came, heavy and even, backlighted by the erratic flash of lightning.

A thunderous roll sounded, then another sharper crack made her jump. The horse began to s.h.i.+ft nervously, and when Lilliane did urge her on they seemed to fly down the turnpike. But the storm was not to be shaken so easily. Before they were even half the remaining distance to the river they were caught by a blast of wind. Lilliane bent low over the horse's neck, trying to soothe her, but she was almost as frightened as the laboring filly. The storm was whipping her hair and skirts around her and huge splatters of wind-driven rain stung her face and arms. It was all Lilliane could do to crouch low over the terrified horse's neck, her small fists gripped tightly in its mane.

In a panic the animal tore down the muddy roadway as if pursued by all manner of demons. They were quickly drenched. Soon even Aere seemed to become disoriented, and her wild flight slowed. But Lilliane was unable to gain control of the frightened horse until they suddenly met with the boiling waters of the river Keene. With an abruptness that sent Lilliane careening onto the horse's neck, the animal came to a stiff-legged halt. Breathing hard, her eyes rolling in terror, she seemed too frightened to run any farther.

It was only with the most stringent self-control that Lilliane resisted succ.u.mbing to panic. Trying hard to control her own trembling, she struggled to calm her mount enough to ford the river. But the beleaguered Aere would have none of it. Snorting and balking at Lilliane's every urging, she danced in a tight circle, turning away from the rus.h.i.+ng waters.

Lilliane was beside herself. Everything had gone so well. Even the storm had aided her by preventing the progress of those who must surely trail her. But if Aere would not cross the river ...

Determined not to be so easily thwarted, Lilliane slid from the saddle, all the while keeping a tight hold on the reins. Her skirts hung about her in a sodden ma.s.s and threatened to trip her at every step. Her hair was a wet, streaming cloak about her face and shoulders. But Lilliane ignored these enc.u.mbrances. Fueled as much by fear as anything else, she began to pull the horse, trying to lead her through the roiling river water.

At first the horse refused to budge, only tossing her head wildly. But Lilliane would not give up. "Dear Lord, help me," she implored through her chattering teeth.

Finally, as if only from pure exhaustion, the horse followed her lead. The water was icy on Lilliane's legs, and her skirts swirled around her knees. But still she forced herself out into the river. She was making slow progress, but she was close to rejoicing at having made the crossing when it happened.

A small log, scratchy with branches, came careening along in the quick current. Lilliane did not heed its sudden appearance, but for Aere it was the last straw. The branches whipped her forelegs, then jostled around to strike her hind legs. In violent protest, the filly jerked back, rearing and scrabbling around for firmer footing.

Lilliane was completely unbalanced when the reins tore through her hands. She fell forward into the freezing water, then was carried swiftly away from the horse. By the time she could catch herself and struggle to her feet, the filly had bounded from the river, and with a wild neigh of fear, dashed madly away into the storm.

Suffering equal portions of despair and anger, Lilliane staggered toward the riverbank. Both her kirtle and gown were sodden and dragged heavily at her. She was chilled to her bones, and her teeth chattered violently. With no thought now but to find relief from the horrible cold, she pulled herself toward a slick, muddy bank. The rain beat furiously upon her and the wind seemed bent on defeating her. Even the river seemed determined to hold her down as it swirled her heavy skirts around her ankles. But doggedly she fought her way out of the water.

By the time Lilliane was out of the river, she was trembling. Tears mingled with the rain, and she had to cling to the gnarled trunk of a yew tree for support. There was no sign of Aere, and Lilliane abandoned all hope of finding her. She could only hope the flighty animal would find her way safely home.

As she leaned heavily against the tree, the sobs she had suppressed finally surfaced, and she succ.u.mbed to a terrible wave of self-pity. It wasn't fair that this storm should have ruined her escape. It wasn't fair that she should have to flee her own home in this way. And it wasn't at all fair that her father had so adamantly decided that she must wed that beastly Sir Corbett! Neither Odelia nor Tullia had been so dreadfully treated, she recalled as she wiped ineffectually at her eyes. They'd been allowed to choose where their hearts had led. Why not her?

It was a question with no answer, at least none she cared to accept. Miserable as she'd never been before, Lilliane huddled in the meager shelter of the yew.

It seemed hours before the rain abated. By then it was dark. Only the faintest hint of moonlight darted from behind the high clouds that trailed the storm. But Lilliane now was presented still another problem, for the intense rain had filled the river to near overflowing. The crossing would have been dangerous on horseback; certainly it could not be made on foot.

The sound of the surging waters filled the night, drowning out everything else as she stared hopelessly toward the far bank. She could not cross, she admitted dejectedly as she turned slowly away.

It was then she saw the giant apparition.

Mounted on a huge steed, a man watched her in silence. The dark night did not reveal his ident.i.ty, and yet Lilliane did not need to see his face to know who it was. For a moment her heart seemed to stop beating, and she could not move at all. Sir Corbett had found her. In the darkness of the night, in the fury of the storm, he had still tracked her down. It was impossible, and yet here he was. What manner of man was he? she wondered in frightened awe.

The moment seemed to stretch out interminably, for he did not speak or move. He and his war-horse might have been carved from the blackest granite, they were so still. Yet Lilliane could not mistake the anger and hostility that emanated from him.

She did not stop to weigh her alternatives. She did not consciously decide that the river and its surging floodwaters offered her more mercy than would this vengeful, cold-hearted knight. She only reacted instinctively in stepping back from his furious silence.

Her feet were so cold already that the icy water was barely noticeable to her. The water caught at her skirts and pulled at her legs, yet still she backed into it. Then the horse began to move toward her in slow steady steps and panic set in.

Like a woman possessed she whirled and ran into the frigid black waters. In two steps she was tripped up by her skirts. She floundered, yet still she struggled away from him. Then his horse was upon her and she felt a hard hand grab the back of her gown. Before she could stop him, he lifted her free of the river.

"Let me down, you vile bully!" she screamed as he plopped her unceremoniously before him. "Unhand me or I shall see my father flog you within an inch-"

"It is you who shall be flogged," he said as he forced her arms to her side then clasped her hard against his broad chest. "Whether that honor shall fall to your father or me is still an unanswered question, however."

The threat in his voice gave her pause, and a s.h.i.+ver coursed through her. "You'd best not lay a hand on me," she warned in a voice that trembled despite her every effort to sound brave. "No matter our differences, my father will not countenance-"

"Your father," he muttered in her ear, "wished me G.o.dspeed in finding his wayward daughter-my wayward bride. Do not forget that our wedding day is at hand. Once the vows are spoken, neither your father nor anyone else shall have a say in the discipline of my wife!"

If she had been frightened before, it was nothing as compared to the pure terror his menacing words struck in her now. With a cry of complete despair she wriggled to be free of his steely hold and to slide off the horse, but that only unbalanced them both. Then the huge horse stumbled in the uneven footing of the river, and with an icy splash, they both were dumped into the water.

Lilliane came up first, mired within her skirts and blinded by her hair. But before she could find a foothold or even try to swim, his hand found her and with one swift tug he had her once more. As if she were only a pitiful bit of river debris, he hauled her ash.o.r.e and dragged her up an embankment.

She was gasping for breath when he finally deposited her on an overgrown gra.s.sy clearing. He stood above her, silhouetted in the faint moonlight, breathing as heavily as she. He was every one of her childhood nightmares come vividly to life, she thought fearfully. A silent, faceless demon, blacker than night, more menacing than any daytime imaginings. And he was determined that she become his wife!

With a sob of defeat Lilliane buried her head in her arms. She did not want to cry before him, and yet there seemed no help for it. She had done all she could, but it had not been enough. With cold efficiency he had tracked her down and now she was truly at his mercy.

She wasn't sure what she expected. Vile accusations and threats at the least. A beating at the worst. She was vaguely rea.s.sured that he would not kill her after fis.h.i.+ng her from the river, although he most certainly must have been tempted to. When he neither spoke nor made a move toward her, she raised a muddy, tear-streaked face to him.

Sir Corbett, however, was not looking at her at all. Instead, his eyes were directed to his huge destrier. Barely discernible in the dark, the horse had made its slow, painful way onto the riverbank. But with every step it heavily favored one of its forelegs.

Sir Corbett started at once for his horse, but then he stopped and turned back to face her. He bent down on one knee next to her and lifted a heavy tangled lock of her hair, pulling it slightly.

"You have done your best to mock me. To bring shame upon me." He pulled a little harder on her hair. "To drown me." Then he bent low until his face was only inches from hers. Even in the dark she was terribly aware of the menace that glittered in his cold gray eyes. "But if you have caused permanent harm to Qismah I shall make your life miserable beyond your imagination!"

He did not give her a chance to respond, and indeed, Lilliane had no wish to. Cringing, she could only remain as she was, watching with frightened eyes as he gently led the horse up an easier incline. Then he tenderly checked the leg, running his hands expertly over the animal and all the time speaking in soft, indecipherable words.

In spite of her fear, Lilliane could not mistake the bond that existed between the horse and its master. It was a rare thing, she knew. Something she would normally admire. Yet it only increased her sense of dread, for she was sure that this hard-bitten knight had all his meager affection tied up in his war-horse.

Lilliane was sitting up, huddled miserably with her arms around her knees, when Corbett led his horse past her.

"Get up and walk," he commanded curtly, not even bothering to look to see whether she obeyed. But Lilliane knew better than to thwart him further. No other words pa.s.sed between them as they began to make their way back up the road: the silent knight, the limping horse, and the miserable, drooping girl.