Awaken My Fire (16 page)

She did not think to wait for his acknowledgment; she bolted to the door. Not quickly enough. He caught her in three strides, his strong arms snaking around her thin ones as he pulled her against the hard length of his body. Fear seized the whole of her, overcoming her utter exhaustion, and she screamed, twisting and kicking for all she was worth and then some until—

Vincent tensed with the shock and feel of the small body against his, stiffening more as a lightning-like jolt passed through him, so powerful as to make him weak with the sudden rush of plain hot lust. "Good God, girl," he cursed beneath a warm chuckle. "Enough! You can believe, after the torment you put me through, this spirited struggle hardly helps to, ah, temper my response to you."

A shocking physical sensation gave sudden meaning to his words; she went limp in his arms. Only to hear another warm chuckle against her ear. Shivers rushed from the spot, her breath caught and she blushed hotly.

"Christ never had such temptation," he said in an amused whisper, his free hand brushing back a stray wisp of her hair. "And I assure you, I don't have his patience, much less his grace."

This she did not doubt. Her blue eyes shot to the open trapdoor, then to the giant watching from the side. Dear Lord, they were but two men. If she could just get through the door to sound the alarm—

"I need to know your name," he said, holding her slender figure with the gentlest of restraints. "I have waited to hear it long enough."

He did not know? "My . . . name?"

"Your name. What is it?"

"Ah . . . ah-"

"Are we slow-witted or merely preparing a lie?"

Fury brightened her eyes. "We are nothing if not sworn enemies! As for your wits, I can attest to their sorry inadequacies, as only the very slowest wit would ever bother maintaining the elaborate pretenses of knighthood when all the world knows he is a black-hearted, lecherous, loathsome bastard—"

A gentle hand came to her mouth to stop the enumeration of insults. "Not slow-witted, I see. So you would lie. Now the question is, why?"

Vincent's gaze traveled slowly around the room, noticing, among all the various things here, the open and shelved books, the tools and jars of a practicing alchemist or herbalist. His gaze went to her hair. He ran a hand through the long locks, pushing the stray wisps back until he saw it: the white streak that started at her temple and ran down the length of it.

Then he knew who he held in his arms.

"Roshelle of Reales—"

"Roshelle!"

All gazes flew to Cisely in the doorway.

"Run! Run, Cisely—"

With wide, terrified eyes, Cisely took one step back and started to turn. Too late. To the woman's utter surprise, five guards emerged behind her exactly as Roshelle felt a mercilessly sharp dagger at her throat. Cisely's hands went to her own throat in terror.

Vincent kept his eyes on Roshelle but addressed Cisely. "You are the countess's waiting woman?"

Cisely managed to nod.

“
You will tell the French guard of Reales that the Duke of Suffolk now holds their mistress in her chambers by the point of a dagger at her throat. You are to instruct them to open the gates before assembling in the courtyard, weapons laid at their feet," he said as easily as if ordering supper, adding just as easily, "They are to do this within ten minutes or I shall hang her head from that window."

"No, Cisely! No-"

The arm around her shoulders lifted to cover her mouth, the dagger pointing to a place where her pulse pounded wildly. Cisely paled, but for once she fought back the feeling of fainting to scream out instead, "Oh, God, do not hurt her! Please, I beg of you—"

"Enough," he said in a deep, clear voice, adding as his darkly menacing gaze fell upon Roshelle, "Only after the castle has been surrendered will I entertain pleas to spare her life."

*****

Chapter 4

Windows opened out to the courtyard below. Jean Luc of the French guard raced from corner to corner to light the torches. Vincent stood behind Roshelle in the alcove, his strong, large hand circling her upper arm, a small but meaningful act signifying extreme mistrust of his brother's murderess. Over forty of his best knights waited in the hall outside her chamber doors, ready in the event the Reales guards did not lay down their arms to save her life. Still he would not trust the girl.

He had reason aplenty to be suspicious.

He still had trouble believing she was Roshelle of Reales: a young woman who rode a half-wild stallion through the dark of night to warn peasants of his army's approach; who valiantly, though ridiculously, tried to fight that band of cutthroat brigands; a young lady who faced the terror of an enemy knight in her private chambers with incredible but foolish courage and determination, meeting a knight's strength and sword with a saber in the most memorable sword fight of his life; the same young lady who had—somehow!—murdered his brother before going on to fight back a goodly number of the finest knights in the world, capturing at last and holding this castle for some two long months now, single-handedly inspiring an entire war-torn land to rebellion. He had even more trouble believing all this foolhardy courage and bravery was packaged in the most alluring one hundred or so pounds it had ever been his misfortune to encounter.

Feeling the wild race of her pulse beneath his fingertips on her arm, he let his gaze fall to her breasts, hidden now by crossed arms, before it finally settled on the long white streak that started at her temple and disappeared along the length of her still tousled mass of hair cascading down her straight, slender back. He understood only too well now why the peasants, with droll minds colored by every conceivable superstition and irrationality, claimed the girl was bewitched; he half believed this himself.

She felt it! A shiver raced up her spine. The intimate brush of his gaze on her made her painfully aware of her nakedness beneath the thin cotton morning gown. She closed her eyes, trying to steel her thoughts away from it, from him, the entire force of her being battling furiously not to bolt. Every nerve and muscle in her body was afire with a strange awareness and fear of him. Like a tickle all over, she felt as if she stood on the precipice of a great high cliff, staring down in that single split second before the fall, only the second stretched, and with it the sensations—heightened senses, a somersaulting stomach and racing heart and pulse. She half expected her life to pass before her eyes—

Dear Lord, was she so afraid to die?

He would be killing her now, would he not?

Mickael, another of the Reales guards, appeared first, causing her a slight gasp as he dropped his sword and stepped back unarmed. Vincent cursed the bewilderment and mounting agony in her lovely blue eyes as, one by one, the Reales guards appeared in the center of the courtyard, dropping their swords in a pile before the gate until they numbered twenty-four. A loud cheer went up as his knights swarmed around them, Wilhelm himself giving the order to open the gate. Three men turned the great wheel to lower the drawbridge, while another five labored to open the gate.

Her rebellion was over now. He had smashed it as if it were no more than a fly on the wall. She would not cry, not now—

"You little fool." He leaned over, his voice a warm whisper brushing over her ear. "Were you expecting any other ending to this ill-begotten insurrection? Did you ever doubt there could be any other ending?"

His lips hovered a scant half inch from a spot above her ear, where a chill raced. Her cheeks grew hot. Emotions swelled through her and she closed her eyes in abject helplessness, the humiliation of being taunted so.

She had imagined a different outcome, and a thousand times, no less! All these past wondrous months she had lived on the hope of the dream of a free and united France, lived on that precious hope as a beggar lives on little more than the air and water of a harsh, unkind world. Only to have the hope crushed by his hand and her country beaten once again.

"Aye," she said in a passionate whisper as she turned to meet the steely intensity of those dark eyes, "I dared to imagine a different world. For these last months, I dared to imagine my country free of the most virulent pestilence to ever shadow the land, any land, anywhere through all of human history. The English! Your people have taught me well to hate. My whole life long I have witnessed my country reduced time and again to poor, starving and frightened masses, the peasants who know no physical or emotional comfort, their every small possession ripped from their hands by you and your unholy armies as they march through the land raping and pillaging and setting the fields to flames! Yes, I dared to imagine a different world!"

The fury and passion of her temper trembled through her, more as her heartfelt words filled his dark gaze with naught but some small irritation mixed inexplicably with some much larger amusement. As if she were an amusing though bothersome child! How maddening he was! She wanted to slap it from his face—

"Are ye goin' to tolerate her outrageous lies and half-truths like that?"

They turned to see Wilhelm in the doorway, standing with his hand on Cisely's arm much as Vincent still held hers. Frightened like a child, Cisely broke from the giant's grasp before rushing into Roshelle's arms. Watching Roshelle still, Vincent shrugged. "Believe, I would not condescend to answer the lies and delusions of France's greatest, and no doubt last, patriot. Is the castle secured?"

"Aye," Wilhelm said as Cisely, nodding to Roshelle's whispered words of comfort, and always mindful of appearances, rushed to Roshelle's trunk and returned with a walking robe to place over Roshelle's shoulders. Vincent's gaze remained, seeing the same love in the girl's woman as he had seen in her servant. No simple girl here, and while her words irritated him, her passion played a different tune entirely, becoming a crescendo when he briefly imagined harnessing it.

The extent of his lasciviousness for the girl felt increasingly alarming, for she was not just his bane—a hurricane on the open sea would be less trouble!—but here at last he beheld the unlikely form of his brother's murderess. Try as he might, he could not reconcile the two. As if searching for a clue, he cast his gaze to the strange menagerie and collection of oddities in her room.

Wilhelm came to stand in front of Roshelle, hands on hips, finger pointing like a school master, apparently intending to set her straight. “'The lady hath accused you, my lord, of holding the unjust sword, therefore meself, by means of being your servant. The only truth in these words, milady, is that no one in all the world doubts this wretched hellhole called France is the most sorrowful and pitiful place on all earth—"

"Torn asunder by you, the English armies! Like Reales now. Just look," she said as she stared out at the swarm of Englishmen through the gates. "They have no right, no right—"

"No right? Why, all of Brittany, if not all of France, belongs to King Henry!"

"Never! France belongs to God, and the rightful heir to her throne is and always will be Charles of Valois!"

"The reason our armies are here has everything to do with this insane line of so-called 'dauphins' you and the Orleans duchy indulge. A poorer king could not be found—this last one is the worst. He is as weak and frightened as a titmouse in a moonlit field; I hear he needs knighted escorts for a trip to the guardlope, trembling and quaking as he goes! Huh!" he said with clear masculine scorn. "This is the man you would have as king?"

She could hardly believe it. Charles was not just her king, but a much-loved friend, and to hear this man's disparaging remarks challenging his very manhood renewed the bright red color in her cheeks. A finger pointed as she managed through clenched teeth, "How dare you slander the Dauphin with a dishonest tongue! Just because he is not as strong and sound of body as, as you—"

"An understatement, but damning enough. A king must be strong to get the respect and admiration of his men in battle, feared enough to own the absolute fealty of his lords—this so-called Dauphin has neither.''

"He will, he will. He is a good and just and decent soul—"

"Decent?" Wilhelm actually laughed. "Only a woman could think decency could matter when ruling the world of men."

"Only an Englishman would think that it does not!"

"Ah." A wave of his hand dismissed this. "Take my word for it—decency will not rein the voracious appetites of the wolves at his throats, his own power-mad dukes of Burgundy and Berry. Now there's a fine crowd of Frenchmen for you. Which is another point." His brown eyes narrowed dangerously. "All this raping and pillaging you throw in his Grace's face. 'Tis your own wretched countrymen who rape and pillage. The whole world knows Frenchmen as barbarians—"

She stopped him with a pained cry. “French barbarism?''

"Aye! All Frenchmen who are not starving and destitute, too weak to feed their families, let alone protect them, are out doing this raping and pillaging and setting the land aflame that you claim is a bane upon your country. Your own mad Dauphin sanctions such lawlessness and destruction, all the world knows this—"

" 'Tis the English armies that have ruined the land and the people! The Dauphin does not condone it, but he cannot control it, desperate as he is to fight you back—"

"By letting outlaws terrorize the people? 'Tis as bad as if he'd been there with those fine French countrymen of yours, those wretches who held your backside to the ground, bent upon a savage feast of your person, the horror no woman should ever know. These are the countrymen you hold so dear to your heart—"

"Stop! Stop! I will not tolerate your falsehoods and delusions and convenient twists of the truth! The only reason France is torn asunder by these lawless creatures is the infernal war you thrust upon our land. You are mad, just mad. Like your kings, you are filled with deadly delusions and pretenses to the French crown—"

"Pretenses? Pretenses?" Wilhelm questioned. "As you must know, the English king's 'pretense' to the French crown is sanctioned by every holy law, magistrate code as well as the canon code of four popes!"

"Pretenders, they are all mad pretenders! No English king will ever sit on the French throne!"

"Yet another falsehood," Vincent smoothly interjected as he finished examining the curious assortment of oddities and interests in the room, and he came back to where they stood. "As we speak, Henry sits on a goodly portion of this wretched country, including now Reales." He stood directly in front of her, his arms folded comfortably across his chest as he wondered about the Latin books on alchemy and herbs, the curious assortment of herbs and unidentifiable things in carefully marked jars, the cats and caged white mice, this faint rich scent that filled the air in her room, the slightest trace of its sweetness on her skin. Wondered about the defiance and rebellion staring back at him from bright blue eyes.

He wondered why she was not sitting happily by a fire with her children on her lap, basking in matrimonial bliss. Why on earth was this creature unmarried? And, being unmarried, why was she left unprotected?

The light in Vincent's eyes made Cisely instinctively take a step back, though Roshelle would never make such a concession. A protest sprang to her lips, one he immediately silenced by gently putting his finger on her mouth. "No more. I've heard enough of your impertinence for a night, if not a lifetime. For I've no doubt it was these patriotic delusions that brought the simple folks to the brink of rebellion, as well as inspiring the hand that murdered my brother. Unless, of course, that snake Rodez, the Duke of Burgundy, put you up to it?"