A Flame Run Wild (5 page)

She had never dreamed of this sweet pleasure, this luring, erotic witchery. In the shifting firelight; her bare flesh against his was silk upon satin, spreading a glow of enchantment. "Ah, Pilar," he whispered, "you are ivory and gold and rose, lovely beyond my dreaming. Close not against me now, sweet." His hand carried hers to touch herself, share his discovery, guide him, follow him as he caressed the hidden place that made her tremble and cry out against his throat. As she arched, she felt the hard eagerness of his own desire, the impatient readiness. "I am your prisoner, sweet Pilar," he whispered. "Free me. Free me to love you, and my body will be a slave to yours."

She tugged at his braies with some hesitancy, and he laughed softly at her awkwardness. He guided her, letting her trace him through the cloth, letting hex feel his length and strength. Then suddenly, his clothing parted easily to bare his manhood. Feeling his hard, heated flesh, she quickly drew her hand away. Startled at seeing a male fully aroused, she was hesitant to touch him again. Then, fascinated at the luxuriant mystery of his virility, she trailed her fingers down the curve of his groin to his firmly swollen hardness. The light pressure of her hand made his body tense. "Pilar, do not ... ah, do not release me, but open . . . oh, love, open . . ."

He eased her thighs apart and his mouth covered hers as his lithe body poised. She knew what must come and, when it came, she welcomed the pain. He pierced her swiftly, surely as a blazing arrow, direct and deep. Tears of pain and joy filled her eyes as he tensed over her, filling her, and the stab of that first invasion gradually gave way to a throbbing ache. Then the throb changed to the pulse of his thrusting inside her, quickening, deepening. He moved with greater urgency, no longer 'bringing pain but unimaginable pleasure. Her body was floating, the sweet, forbidden heat rising and curling in incandescent tendrils that engulfed them in living flame.

Liliane's body gave a startled, trembling shudder. She then lay very stilly trying to hold on to the wild, violent magic that was slowly fading, leaving a mysterious glowing warmth deep within her. Jean felt it, too; an iridescent glow that lingered in his cobalt eyes, lingered where his body was yet joined to hers. His mouth closed over hers, and he kissed her languorously. She sighed as his lips trailed lower. "Ah, Jean, if I had known ..."

"You would not have banished me to the rain!" He laughed,then nipped her belly so that she gave a startled yelp. "Perhaps you would not have come to me a virgin." Sinuous as a serpent, he crept lower until he mischievously peered at her between her breasts. "Sly temptress, maybe you have pretended false innocence and lured me as a forest nymph would some goatish oaf."

Liliane giggled. "Goat you may be, but no oaf. I am untutored in love, yet splendid skill I recognize. Where did you learn such artistry, Monsieur Goat?"

"Stews, mostly," he answered laconically. "Paris and the Holy Land have as many whores as fleas."

The glow left her. "And now perhaps you think you must scratch again ..."

Seeing her transparent shame, Alexandre flushed. "I ought to have my heedless tongue cut out." He touched her face. "Pilar, if you could only know ... to have you here with me tonight, of all nights, is a miracle. Your gift of innocence is far more than I deserve. I have cherished little in this world. For most of my manhood, I have lived like a vagabond." His lips twisted with bitterness. "The future promises little more. If I could offer you luxury and—"

Her fingertips stopped the words. "I require nothing of you, Jean, especially gold. This sweet time we spend together is enough." Even as she said it, she knew she misled them both. She had not counted on the cruelty of sharing great intimacy with this man, then losing him.

Alexandre suddenly remembered that he had told her he was leaving, that she must believe they were to be lovers only until the dawn. Perhaps Pilar had counted upon his departure to guard her reputation. He tried to shove the suspicion back. She had been so entrancing, so open, so . . . what had she really told him? She was to be married to Louis de Signe, a man she did not love. Wait. She had not said that she did not love Louis. Since he found Louis abhorrent, he had assumed her distaste. A sharp, unfamiliar pang of jealousy stabbed him. "Pilar," he said slowly, "what if I did not go north?"

She turned in his arms. "What?"

Deliberately, he repeated, "What if I did not go? What if I stayed and you lived with me?"

Her voice filled with frozen panic. "You must go! I am to be married! I cannot stay with you!"

"And I thought you were beginning to enjoy all this rusticity"—his voice hardened—"or is it merely rustics that you en-joy?"

"Your place and your birds have nothing to do with it. Oh, Jean," she whispered miserably, "I never led you to believe—"

He abruptly pulled away and sat up. "No, in all fairness, you did not. The idiocy was all my own. Goats are not known for cleverness." He caught up his braies and dragged them on. "You have shown admirable patience with my bleating, milady. Pear not, I shall be off within the hour and none shall know of your hedgerow dalliance."

Liliane rose to her knees and clasped his waist. "Jean, do not torment us both. I am promised to another, whether I wish it or not... I must pay a debt of honor. . . fulfill a promise I made, even at the cost of my life." She leaned her head against his back. "Please, please ... do not hate me. Remember that I have given you all that I am free to give. I have loved you."

"No!" Alexandre hissed. Whirling on his knees, he thrust his hips harshly against her. "This is what you love. You need not whisper honeyed words to flatter my vanity. Be honest, Pilar, you wanted pleasure as much as I, with no piper to pay on the morrow. Go now to your wedding, only while at the altar, do not tell lies of honor to your husband."

Liliane's yearning and anguish were supplanted by fury. "I cheat no one! Are you so honest that you can judge me? You, an envious parasite! What do you know of being sold as chattel? Of having your body and spirit pawed by some uncaring purchaser?" Tears of rage and pain streamed down her cheeks. She caught up one of her saddlebags and plunged her hand into its depths, men flung a handful of gold coins at his chest. "Take your pay! Take it and begone from my life! I want you not!"

Alexandre let the money fall, his face dark with hurt and fury as he caught her by the hair. "Nay, milady. I can claim my pay in another manner!" His mouth came down hard on hers, hurting her. Terrified, Liliane bit his lip. With a gasp of pain, Alexandre threw her down upon the blanket, forcing his leg between her thighs. "I can take you, willing or not ... I can leave you without pride."

"As you think I have left you?" Tears of sorrow filled her eyes. "So our time together ends like this, with hatred and violence."

The anger slowly drained from him. He sagged away from her and sprawled upon the blanket. "No, it simply ends. I have never yet forced a woman. As for hate, I no longer know what I feel. Nothing. Empty."

"I do not believe that. I have done something very wrong, but not in making love to you. I have cheated us of any possible tomorrows."

He smiled wryly. "Could there have every been any tomorrows with a poacher?"

"Perhaps not." Her laugh was rueful. "I dislike rabbit!"

His own laugh sounded more like a stifled cough. "You should not joke. This is serious. Are we really never going to see each other again?"

"Never," she answered dully.

Alexandre shook his head in mock admonishment. "You are not being serious again."

"What can we do?" She curled away from him.

"We are going to change your mind.'' He turned her over and kissed her softly. "How do you like, squirrel?"

Tears slid down her cheeks. "Jean, you do not understand. I made a promise, which leaves me no choice."

"Promises mean so much to you?"

"Particularly this one."

He was silent for a long moment, then his eyes seemed to darken. For an instant, they seemed filled with stark loss—a wistfulness and longing that made her heart ache. "You are far too particular . . . and much too much of a lady for a poacher."

"Please," she whispered, "the dawn is hot far away. Make me forget being a lady for a little while longer. ..."

Alexandre stretched out by her side and gently stroked her face, as if memorizing it with his fingertips. His blue eyes were as shadowed as the hidden, faraway lake of Lancelot. She had thought of chivalric romances and pretty tales. Now Lancelot and Guinevere, Tristan and Iseult became real, their unhappiness hanging in the very air, this firelit darkness. Jean's mouth was warm on hers, and when he came warm inside her, he could almost make her forget the promises, the danger that haunted her. Their passion was the only reality. And then they were drowning in a wild, fiery current, a liquid tapestry that surged tempestuously, sweeping them helplessly before it. She lost all sense of time and place. The throb of her lover within her had taken her into a swirling, wondrously colored dream, and she never wanted to return to the world. For this brief, precious time, Jean led mem to a place of mysterious fascination where faery lights, flickering and elusive, bathed them in a glow that grew ever brighter until the shower of light blinded and seared them with molten darts of rapture. Liliane felt she was dying of the dream, longing to die of this unimaginable bliss. Jean's keening cry rose with her own as his life leaped within her and branded her forever as his own.

The ghosts of Lancelot and his queen, of Tristan and his lady, smiled sweetly, sadly, men whispered away.

Liliane slept in Jean's arms. Her sleep was haunted by visions that beguiled and taunted her with longing and fear of loss. A cold wind chilled her as it wailed mournfully through her fitful dreams. Since leaving Spain, she had felt that wind each night; it was filled with terrible faces that pressed against hers, pressed until she could not breathe. Jacques was a monstrous gargoyle, Louis a creeping gnome. She flailed out desperately, reaching for Jean, but the place where he had been was barren as a desert. Her eyes flicked open.

Jean was gone. Heartsick with disbelief, Liliane stared at the blanket where he'd lain beside her. Shivering in the damp dawn, she sat up. The feeble light barely penetrated the gloom, but she saw that Jean's weapons were missing. Her saddlebags were neatly propped nearby; the gold she had flung at him was still scattered across the stone floor. The fire had sunk into gray ashes, and the barren cold of the stone floor had seeped into her bones and entered her heart. Jean had left her without a word of farewell. She was alone with her nightmarish faces.

Chapter 3

~

Ding, Dong, Oh Doleful Day

Castle de Brueil

That same morning

A
lexandre sneezed. Misery circled him like a vulture. He had left his destrier in the lean-to for Pilar and run all the way to Castle de Brueil through the sullen dawn showers. Now the morning was as bright and fresh as a new coin, but he felt dull and exhausted. Wheezing, he had staggered into the castle and up to his room. He had called weakly for his manservant, Yves, to bathe, shave and dress him for the wedding. Inert, he lay in the bath water brought from the skullery. Through slitted lids he watched Yves warily circle him with the shaving blade. Yves was wise to be wary. Alexandre felt like cutting a throat—his own. Miserable, he submerged himself in the cold water. Pilar, as out of reach as the moon, must even now be riding to Louis.

Liliane rose in the saddle as Castle de Brueil came into view. Rising high and gray upon granite, it towered above the rolling fields of Provence. Even from a distance, the castle looked dilapidated. While its towers seemed to have been built fairly recently compared to the ancient keep, the castle must have stood sentinel to the sea for at least two centuries. While not so stolid in architecture as most Romanesque fortresses, Castle de Brueil compensated for its vulnerable high towers with a broad moat and craggy sea-rock base. A long sand spit ran southeast into the Mediterranean Sea, which curved inland at the castle's back. Wind-battered pines dotted the surrounding fields, ringing a peasant village to the west and forming a large copse on the near side of the castle.

Liliane took the pretty copse as a hopeful sign; if the master of the castle had not cut it down for firewood long-ago, he might not be a complete brute. He certainly had taken precautions for the Signe visit. His horsemen were mounted at intervals along the road and spaced through the fields. If any of the wedding party should wander or make a hostile move, the Count de Brueil would immediately be warned. Unfortunately, she could not say much for her own cleverness this morning. Riding in long skirts, she was late for her wedding. She had galloped until the horse was lathered, and she had probably left a trail of jewels from her embroidered mantle back to the hunting lodge.

She felt no guilt over her tryst with Jean, only a sharp relentless pang of loss. To make matters worse, he had left her his horse and tack. The black Moorish stallion was a fine animal and probably the only thing of value Jean had in the world. The tack was worn, but it was of good quality. He must know that she had no way of returning his property. Penniless, he had left her a kingly remembrance ... in more than one way. She would remember his lingering touch and his engaging, mischievous smile until the day of her death.

When she saw that very same smile awaiting her among the gaily dressed assemblage in the courtyard of Castle de Brueil, she almost toppled off her horse.

Upon his first glimpse of Liliane riding steadily toward him, Alexandre's perfunctory smile froze. The left corner of his mouth twitched as his pulse began to pound. He was stunned, delighted and appalled. The wench had lied! She had played him for a fool again, not only lying about her intended, but by having bedded a poacher on her wedding eve.

Alexandre's gathered household was agog at his good luck. Even he had to admit that Liliane del Pinal was the most gorgeous creature he had ever seen, even among the odalisques in the Crescent slave markets and the haughty beauties of Philip's court. She was richly dressed in the stark, Andalusian style with sable-trimmed black velvet cyclas scalloped at the hip, over a yellow, long-skirted chainse and sorquenie with narrow sleeves extended over her slender hands. Her blond hair was caught up in gold filagree net on both sides of her head; the net filet that kept it in place was studded with emeralds, topaz, diamonds and amethysts. The smallest of the rings upon her fingers was larger than the simple gold band Alexandre had chosen for her from his scant store of Moorish booty. Despite her finery, the loosely braided hair beneath her filagree hinted that she had dressed in a hurry, and the hem of her black cloak was thick with dust.

Despite his racing thoughts, Alexandre made up his mind before Ms betrothed came within ten feet of him. Liliane del Pinal was as much a Signe as her odious cousins, and he had yet to meet a Signe who was not devious. Certainly, she had already proven she was an adept and ready liar. Last night, in the midst of all her lies, his bride to be had said she owed a promise even at cost of her life. That promise was probably to Jacques de Signe, and had something to do with this marriage. On top of her lies, she had enjoyed him as a lover, gotten rid of him and acquired his horse, all at no cost to herself. One thing she'd told him rang true: she wanted no marriage with Alexandre de Brueil. And last night, Alexandre de Brueil had behaved like a swain smitten with his first love. Well, until he took her measure, she was not going to get the upper hand with his ring on her finger. And by damn, he would have his horse back!

With shaking hands Liliane reined in the stallion. If Jean had a brother, he was Alexandre de Brueil. Brueil was finely clothed in a crimson tabard embroidered with his leopard and unicorn device over a gold chainse; his long horseman's legs were encased in olive-green hose with tawny ankle-length boots. His neatly trimmed, auburn curls glinted in the sun. He was also clean-shaven. Despite his rich clothes, he was Jean's twin—or was he? Could even brothers have the same vivid blue eyes, that irresistibly reckless smile? And then she saw the difference in the smile: Alexandre de Brueil's was tight-lipped, as if he had swallowed a rusty horseshoe.

The mass of people in the courtyard were staring at her as she gaped at her bridegroom, and she suddenly realized that she must stop peering as if she'd been sold the wrong goods. "Count de Brueil?" she ventured hesitantly.

"I am at your service," answered Brueil, his gaze hard. "'You are the Countess del Pinal, I presume."

Liliane saw no trace of recognition in his expression. He surveyed her coldly, then glanced about as if to look for her missing retainers. She saw that Jacques's eyes narrowed in irritation and Louis looked as if he would like to strangle her. He and Jacques must have searched for her all night before they had given up and come to make excuses to Breuil for her lateness. They must have feared that she would not come at all. Good! She'd had her first tiny ounce of revenge against them. She enjoyed thinking of their unease among so many armed castellans in an enemy camp. Six burly guards had intercepted her a short distance from the castle and escorted her across the narrow drawbridge into the cobbled courtyard. The Messieurs de Signe must have been received by a large complement of guards. Castle de Brueil was a tidy fortress and the castellans on the ramparts were sharp-eyed. The Signe party, shorn of their escort beyond the moat, must have squirmed for many an hour.

"We meet at last,
Monsieur le Comte
," she murmured, watching Brueil. His uncanny resemblance to Jean still made her uneasy.

"I trust your journey was pleasant," Alexandre replied with a bland smoothness that only made her more uneasy. Why should he be annoyed unless he had been prepared to dislike her on sight? Was he piqued because she was late or . . . because he was Jean . . . because she had fooled him? But how could it be? How could he have come so far afoot in time to dress and greet Jacques and Louis?

"The journey was pleasant," she replied with feigned lightness, "so much so, I fear I dawdled. I do apologize for being late." She extended her hand to Jacques. "Uncle. Cousin." She did not bother to look, at Louis.

Jacques, obliged to help her down from the saddle, wheezed slightly as he lowered her to the paving! "Dear Liliane. We were a little concerned at your tardiness. But, then"—he patted her hand—"we were sure that once you realized the time, you would ride as if your life depended on not offending the count."

Easing her hand from Jacques's, Liliane glanced up at Alexandre de Brueil. "I came on the wings of Jove and a very fine horse, Uncle. We Signes are great romantics, Count, particularly Louis. Sometimes I really believe he would kill for love ... if he could just find the right girl."

Louis gave her a venomous look. She flashed him a bright smile.Then as if he were not worth her attention, Liliane turned to scan the de Brueil retainers standing three deep behind the Signe party. Brueil could not afford matched livery for them, but they looked alert and well fed,, not dull-eyed and verminous as were so many of her uncle's servants, even in their celebration finery. She recognized Signe relatives in the crowd; among Brueil's people were only castellans and servants.

"My household," Brueil said, indicating with a sweep of his hand. "My mother trained them well. I believe you will find them courteous and willing." His tone said that he did not much care whether she did or not, only that he did not encourage her to meddle with their management.

Liliane nodded to the retainers who bowed en masse. Alexandre led the party indoors, and then Liliane was greeted by a stark great hall with the customary window slits replaced on one side by hallways; the larger one led to the bailiwick, armory and kitchens; the other small haH probably led to the upper chambers. Fresh reeds were strewn about the floor, and the place was scrupulously clean, but no bright banners and tapestries adorned the walls; no heraldry mounted the three huge, drafty fireplaces. The glassless windows On the eastern side offered superb, if narrow views of the Aleppo pines and Helm oaks dotting the meadows that rolled to the distant shore. At sight of the sea, the knot of anxiety within Liliane eased a trifle. She had lived within sight and sound of the sea for so long that she had dreaded brown inland silence.

A plump berry of a priest was waiting. Hearing the courtyard commotion, he had jumped to his feet. Although he was now composed, the tasseled cord at his waist was still swinging.

With few preliminaries, the service began. When the time came, Alexandre de Brueil's slim, brown hand upon hers felt strange; she tried to imagine it holding a flute. His rigid face did not seem that of a musician; instead she saw him at strategy tables or hidden behind a visor.

The priest droned on at length. Liliane had not heard so much Latin in years. Although it lent majesty to the service, the words grew monotonous as the sun waxed high and the onlookers began to stir in their hot garments. Liliane amused herself by translating the Latin into Arabic. A small smile teased the corner of her lips as she imagined the priest's horror, could he divine her heathen whims.

Alexandre caught her enigmatic smile. Why now, he wondered grimly, does she smile while last night she bewailed this moment* Was her dread of marriage but a sham to be easily rid of her hedgerow lover? His already tight temper was growing frayed. He was definitely coming down with a cold. His head ached and his throat was scratchy and sore. Right now, he would give a good deal to be back baking his brains in the Holy Land and bedding whores who bit his coins and gave him no trouble.

He should have considered the complications when he met this demure-looking Liliane, but when he had seen her bare to the waist in those Moorish pantaloons, her slim, white back curved like an Indian gupta and her tempting breasts scarcely hidden by his chainse, his brain had turned to suet and his loins to flame. Now what in the name of King Philip and Saint George was he going to do about their wedding night? Philip was an unabashed libertine who would take his pleasure with Liliane, then board her up in a tower come morn. And Saint George . . . well, George's dragon-killing lance had a certain naughty charm. Should he prod her with his own lusty lance and make her squeal for more "
amour
"?

After the wedding ceremony had mercifully ended, Alexandre was content to remain silent, leaving Jacques and the priest to keep the conversation flowing during the modest wedding feast. Shirred eggs with cream and leeks, roast pig and lamb with last season's potatoes, and cabbage followed by good broth loaded down the banquet table. Brandy pudding finished the meal. Alexandre had been able to afford only three musicians; they now circled the tables providing a cacophony of harp, flute and horn that heralded the bedding to come. Liliane's smile was gone; she was white against the dramatic colors of her bridal costume. Alexandre knew that he must be pale with tension, as well. His eyes were watering with his coming cold, and the hand that clenched his goblet was like ice. The music and cheers of the assembled gathering resounded like the clamor of hounds about cornered prey.

Alexandre took a deep breath and rising, held out his arm. "My lady?"

Liliane stood, wavered for a moment, then rested her hand on his arm. "My lord."

Amid the din of ritual catcalls and congratulations, they left the hall and mounted the stone steps. The winding staircase was narrow, the profound silence of the upper floors making them seem very alone. Liliane preceded Alexandre, and he watched her gently swaying as if mesmerized. His head suddenly felt as if it were weighed down with bricks. He sneezed violently and the echo resounded through the drafty turret.

"Milord?" Liliane turned. "Are you unwell?"

She sounds almighty hopeful, he thought, his resentment mixed with sympathy. Does she think I relish bedding her? Damned right, I relish it; she has a shape out of paradise! "Madame need not worry. I shall perform my duty," he answered stiffly.

Her eyes lit with some amusement. "Duty, milord? Faith, you are more romantic than my cousin Louis.''

His head lifted in quick challenge. "Come, did you expect romance of this union?"

"Civility, at least."

"Ah, then, rest assured, civility you shall have aplenty." His hand went past her ear to push open his chamber door. Their feces were a breath apart.