Besieged Heart (No Ordinary Lovers Collection) (2 page)

“I could have you taken up by the guard and thrown into a cell.”

“Fine. Do it.” He waited a second before adding with a wry grin, “Or have you mislaid your varlets and other men-at-arms? Not to mention your dungeon.”

It had been a mistake to issue a threat she was not positive she could carry out. Knowing it did nothing to soothe her temper. “Are you peasant or freedman, archer or foot soldier?” she demanded. “Are you even attached to my brother?”

“I don’t know your brother from Adam.” The man’s face tightened as he spoke. He had, perhaps, taken note of the low standing which she considered he might occupy.

“Then where does your fealty lie?”

“Here,” he answered in unyielding tones, “with my own self alone.”

She blinked, momentarily disconcerted. “I see. Then perhaps you will serve as my escort if I tell you there will be a suitable reward for the task.”

Fury flared in the dark depths of his eyes, followed by a look of utter contempt. “No.”

She bit back a sharp retort. It would, just possibly, be wiser to reason with this mysterious man. “Then what will it take to persuade you?”

“Ask me,” he said. “Politely.”

She took his point and was even able to respect it. It was her habit to express her wishes in the form of a request; she was not usually autocratic, nor was she uncaring of the feelings of those who served her.

Pandering to this ruffian was something else again. If she was less off-balance, less out of her element, it might be easier. Or perhaps not. He disturbed her in some elemental manner she did not entirely comprehend.

“I believe I can find my own way, after all.” She stood as tall and straight as possible.

“Great.” He turned from her. With long and easy strides, he began to walk away.

She could not believe he would leave her so readily. It was puzzling. If he had any pretension to gentility, he should have felt honored to be of assistance to her. If he was of some middle rank, he should have come to her aid as an obligation, or to curry favor with her brother. If he was only a peasant, then fear of reprisal should have moved him to instant obedience.

He could be none of those things, but only a rude forest outlaw. But if that were so, he should, at the very least, have taken her in his charge for the wealth to be gained from her ransom. He might also have kidnapped her for more personal use—tales of the ravishment of women unwise enough to wander alone into the forest were not unknown.

It was possible, of course, that she did not stir him to such a deed. The thought was unsettling. She directed a frown at the man’s broad, retreating back

It was then that Mara heard the deep, drumming sound high above her. It grew louder, a muffled rumble that increased rapidly to a booming roar. It was approaching, becoming a mind-shattering thunder that reverberated against the sky until it shook the very heavens. Something dark and dangerous streaked above the treetops with a deafening, deep-throated roar.

Her cry of terror was almost lost in the noise. Her every limb shaking, she squeezed her eyes closed and dropped to her knees with her hands over her ears.

In an instant, the man called Rayne was beside her. He closed his hands on her arms to lift her to her fee and draw her close. “Hey, it’s all right,” he murmured. “You don’t have to be scared. It’s a plane, that’s all, just a plane.”

It was difficult to say which was more shocking, his words or the familiar way he had put his hands upon her. She should withdraw from the solid warmth of his body against hers, and would as soon as she was steady upon her feet. In the meantime, there was comfort in his hold, and a deep security of a kind she had not known since she was a child.

Dearest heaven, what was she thinking? What was she doing?

She pushed away from him, though she had to hold onto his hard forearms an instant for balance. Removing her hands, she clenched them into fists in front of her. “What was it you called that…that thing?”

“An airplane. You know, the machine men use to fly?”

“To fly.” Her voice was blank as her mind refused to absorb so fantastic a thought.

“Like a bird. After all, Princess, honey, this is twenty-first century.”

The twenty-first century…

The idea was too incredible, too far beyond what was remotely conceivable. She shook her head. “No. Impossible.”

“Cross my heart. Look, maybe I had better get you to some place where you can lie down. You don’t look so good.”

She could imagine. She felt chilled to the center of her being. Her lips were so stiff she could barely speak. Her hands trembled if she did not keep them balled into fists.

Twenty-first century.

Eight hundred years. Eight hundred years into the future.

You could vanish…

No. It could not be.

Could it?

What had the wizard done? What had he dared do to her?

The man from the future, this Rayne, was taking her elbow, urging her to come with him. She snatched free of his grasp. “Don’t touch me!”

The man lifted his hands, backing away. “Fine. If that’s what you want, honey, you’ve got it. But I’m leaving. You can come along or stay here. It’s all one to me.”

He did not linger to hear her answer. Swinging around once more, he strode into the woods.

In a few seconds he would disappear into the forest, leaving her alone in this strangely beautiful place that had suddenly become so alien. She let him take half a dozen steps before she called out to him. “Wait!”

He paused but did not look back.

“I’m coming.” She picked up her skirts and began to walk after him.

She thought he would return to guide her, or at least remain where he was until she reached him. He did neither. Moving off again, he glided swiftly through the woodland as if it was his home and he knew no other.

She could not catch up with him. Rotted tree trunks and snaking vines tripped her. Briers caught at her mantle and snagged in her linen coif, tearing it free of her hair. She abandoned it, hurrying after him.

But her footsteps could not match the length or speed of those of the man ahead. She had to break into a run just to keep him in sight. A stitch formed under her ribs, and she longed to halt long enough to ease it. To do so would mean losing her rescuer or calling out to him to stop. Preservation prevented one and self-respect would not permit the other.

The sight of a low building through the trees was a godsend. She thought they must be approaching the cottages of a village. Perhaps there would be a manor, or even some nobleman’s castle where she might take shelter until she could decide what she must do.

She had been too optimistic. The building was no more than a woodsman’s cottage made of logs. It stood alone in a small clearing in the deep forest, with no other habitation of any kind was in sight, no pretense whatever of protective walls or fencing.

Disappointment flooded through Mara, bringing trepidation in its wake. She halted for a moment. However, the strange man called Rayne was outdistancing her. She followed again with dragging footsteps.

It was only as she came closer to the cottage that she noticed how oddly it was constructed. Quite commodious for its kind, it had a roof of colored metal almost like armor, and a chimney of handsome red brick from which rose a trail of smoke. The logs were cut and fitted with such perfection it seemed impossible human hands could be responsible. Real glass shone in every window. A finely fitted and molded door swung open at a touch to admit them.

The interior was like any cottage in that a main open space served several functions. There all resemblance ended. Surfaces had the polish of marble or the sheen of fine silver. Walls were covered with an amazingly smooth paper on which were painted intricate and brilliantly colored designs. Underfoot was a rug which had the feel of wool sheared from the softest of lambs. Light appeared at the flick of a finger. There were no drafts, no dirt, no odors, nothing but cleanliness and bright space.

Mara stood in a daze while she watched Rayne move about, preparing a hot drink. She marveled at the utensils he used and apparatuses he manipulated, particularly the arc of shiny metal from which water miraculously flowed.

His task completed, he placed the drink on a table, and then indicated that she must be seated. As she moved forward, he glanced at her face.

His gaze narrowed. “You’ve hurt yourself. Let me see the damage.”

Her face was stinging where a dangling brier vine had raked it. As she reached up to touch it, she felt a raised welt and a trace of what might be blood. Then the stranger was in front of her, taking her face in his large, firm hands and turning it toward the light.

His gaze met hers, black as a storm-tossed night and just as turbulent. She felt it like an invasion, felt also the heat of his hands on her skin. Her heart jolted, then began a heavy beat, while her breath made a soft sound as she drew it between parted lips.

His lashes flickered before lowering like protective shields. He fastened his gaze on her scratch. “A minor wound,” he said in low tones. “Come closer to the sink and I will tend it.”

He released her, turning away toward a double basin of silver metal set into a long trestle-like board and enclosed across the front with small doors. She followed him, but a frown pleated her smooth brow. There had been something in his voice just then, some inflection or change in the tone or choice of his words, which was disturbingly familiar.

Impossible.

This man was too brusque, too presumptuous, too lacking in veneration to be anyone she had ever known. That he had so casually placed his hands on her person was clear proof he was unaware of her identity. It was only her need for reassurance in this peculiar situation that had given rise to such a wild surmise.

Yet, this Rayne’s touch was not unwelcome as he used a warm cloth to clean her face before applying a soothing salve from a tube. She knew she should object, should turn away, but did not. Instead, she stood quite still while her stomach muscles contracted, and she fought the surprising turmoil that rose inside her.

She felt the brush of regret that he was not a forest outlaw. If he had been, he might have presumed to caress her with his hard, warm hands…

Madness.

Whatever the wizard had done to her had affected her mind. She must take care, for she had never in her life been so without protection, had never been so alone with a man.

As the woodsman finished his task, she used the only defense she had at present, one that had always served her well. “Thank you,” she said in regal dismissal.

Turning from him, she moved with dignity to seat herself and pick up the hot drink that had been served for her.

She took a sip then grimaced, looking up at him with an expression of inquiry.

“Coffee,” Rayne said in answer as he brought his own cup and took a seat across from her. “Don’t tell me you’ve never tasted it before.”

She swallowed and shook her head. At least the brew was warming, and would, perhaps, help banish the unsettled feeling inside her.

“I don’t think I caught just what part of the world you came from,” he went on. “Or how you came to be flaked out back there in the woods. And that title of yours—would you like to run it by me one more time?”

She hesitated over his unfamiliar phrases, but their meaning seemed clear enough. It wasn’t necessary, of course, to give him the information he sought. “It hardly matters.”

“Because you don’t intend to stick around? Fair enough. You can use the phone over there if you need to arrange transport.”

She glanced at the instrument he indicated, but could not begin to guess its purpose. To disguise the fact, she asked, “Transport?”

“Car, plane, train, bike. What cloud did you fall off of, Princess?”

He was having fun at her expense; she could see the flash of it in his eyes. “I believe,” she said evenly, “that I can find my way without…transport.”

“Walk, you mean? You’ve got to be kidding. It’s all of twenty miles to the nearest the town.”

“A town?” she said with sudden hope. “Is it near Carreg Cennen?”

“Actually, it isn’t near much of anything. It’s in Louisiana.” As she merely stared at him, he added, “Louisiana? America? The New World? You know—explorers, Columbus, independence and all that?”

She closed her eyes as weariness overcame her. She had never heard of any of the places and things he mentioned with such blithe assurance.

“Come on, somebody must have brought you out here and left you,” he said. “Somebody, somewhere, must be wondering where you are.”

“I don’t—that is, there is no one, not at the moment.”

“Or not at all? What are you hiding, honey?”

“Nothing!”

His gaze was narrow and far too knowing. He smiled, his dark eyes flashing with what might have been humor—or was it a threat?

“Nobody is looking for you, and you don’t have a clue about where you want to go. I guess that means it’s just you and me, Princess.”

Chapter Two

The princess, Rayne saw, did not trust him. It offended him, hurt him more than he’d imagined. He knew it was unreasonable to feel that way. She didn’t know him, after all. But the fact that she did not—that she could not recognize him in this guise he had assumed—was even more painful.

He had always known she seldom saw beyond his wizard’s robes, of course. He was her counselor, her confidant, someone always there when needed. She depended on him, consulted him in all things, and discussed her thoughts, feelings, and instincts with him.

Yet she never saw him for who and what he was beyond that, or for how he felt. She never saw him as a person, much less a man. It was supposed to be that way; still, it troubled him from the first and had grown increasingly intolerable with each passing year. The constant contact with the princess forced upon him by the siege had made the circumstances almost more than he could bear.

All the same, he felt naked before her without his robe. He had been only fifteen when he donned it and walked at his father’s heels into her presence. At no point in all that time had he appeared before her without its concealment. So many years of bending his mind to her problems, of ignoring his own needs, of hiding his silent, useless adoration.

She had been little more than an imperious child when he first saw her, yet even then it had made his heart ache to look at her. He had wanted to fall on his knees in homage, offering her every last ounce of his strength, every benefit of his hard-won skills—even his very life.

His father had known it well enough. That was why the old wizard, on his deathbed, charged his apprentice with keeping the princess from harm at all costs. Rayne thought he had kept faith with his father, if not with Princess Mara. He had prevented her from falling into the hands of the baron.

She was, instead, in his hands.

To reveal his identity now, to show her precisely how much she was dependent upon him, was tempting beyond belief. He longed to know what she would say, how she would look at him, what she would think.

It was a risk he could not take.

He was so very much her wizard—her most loyal subject—that he was afraid she would never be able to see beyond the title. If she could not, then the relationship between them might be irreparably damaged. He could not risk losing the unique position of trust that he held.

No, she must discover his dedication and his strength for herself. She must acknowledge him as a man who could aid and protect her with his body as well as guileful mind. He wanted, needed desperately, the grace of being accepted as her champion.

He had tried to tell her, to make her see that it was the only way to save her kingdom or her freedom to live unfettered, her freedom to rule until her brother’s return, if he ever returned. She would not listen. Now she must. He would force her to it. He had to, before it was too late.

Nevertheless, there was more to this interval out of time. The princess required a respite from the siege and its terrors and responsibilities. Her features were drawn with fatigue and there were dark circles under her eyes. She had lost more weight than she could spare, giving her a look of fine-boned fragility. And yet, to his eyes, she had grown only more beautiful.

Afraid his feelings would show on his face, he resumed his pretense of being a man of the future. Parting dry lips, he said, “Are you hungry? I can rustle up a bite to eat.”

She glanced at him and away again even as she swallowed. “Indeed, food would welcome. But what I should like above all things is a bath. This place—everything is so very clean. Even you…” She trailed to a stop, and then asked in an almost humble tone, “Would such a thing be possible?”

He should have known, Rayne thought with mental blame for the oversight. She was so fastidious in normal times, but water had been precious during the siege, too precious for frivolous things such as bathing.

He leaped to his feet. “By all means. Come along, and I’ll show you.”

He would have liked to stay to see her amazement over the hot water that gushed from the spout at a touch, the scented soaps and thick toweling. Instead, he gave her instructions and a robe of soft cotton, then left to busy himself in the kitchen. Heating canned vegetable soup and slicing ham, he tried not to think of Princess Mara removing her clothing in the bathroom beyond the thin walls, and then stepping gloriously naked into the bath.

Rayne had no particular difficulty with the fiendishly efficient appliances; he was able to project himself into this future world in such a way that he had a working knowledge of its inventions. Simple food was not beyond him, then, but it had been a long time since he had prepared a meal for himself. A wizard, like a princess, was used to being served.

Trimming fat from a ham slice, he almost took the end off his finger, might have had he not snatched it out of harm’s way. He cursed softly as he checked the damage. Regardless, it gave him the germ of an idea. It might be beneficial for Mara to have a reminder that menial skills and labors had their value—as did menial rank.

When she returned from her bath, he marveled at her beauty. Never had he seen Mara fresh from her ablutions, with her hair lying damp and curling across her shoulders and down her back. It made him long to sink his fingers into the shining mass, to lift it and feel the heavy tresses drape over his hands.

The warm bath had relaxed her, he thought, for some of the strain had left her features and her eyes appeared calmer. Her skin was flushed a delicate rose. Moisture lay like soft spring dew in the hollow at the base of her throat, an invitation to a kiss. He stood for a long moment, held in thrall by half-formed impulses, before he swept a hand toward the table where her meal waited.

He watched her as she ate: the way the light from the window touched a honey-gold strand of hair lying on her breast, the fan shape of the shadows cast by her lashes, the tender curves of her mouth. As her wizard, he had never been able to stare at her. The lowered eyes, the bowed head, were too ingrained, both as a sign of veneration and as protection for feelings he could not acknowledge, much less display. To be able to look at her as he pleased was exhilarating.

So absorbed was he in his own entertainment that he missed the moment when she lowered her fork and propped her head on her hand. The first thing he noticed was that the shadows of her lashes had become thicker, darker, as her eyelids fluttered closed. An instant later, she swayed, asleep where she sat.

He sprang to his feet, catching her in his arms as she slid from her chair. She had been more exhausted then he knew. Or perhaps it was only the too-abrupt release of the long, intolerable tension and soul-destroying responsibility of the siege.

Swinging her high against his chest, he took a step. He stopped.

He had touched her before—in the woods, and again as he cleaned the scratch on her face. Back there on the castle battlement, before he’d sent her to the future, he’d clasped her in his arms so as to encompass her in his mind. Each of those small encroachments had been gratifying.

This was different. He was holding her, semi-conscious, close against the heat of his body. She was literally in his possession.

She was so delicate, so slight a weight. She rested perfectly in the cradle of his arms, her cheek against his heart. His chest lifted with his deep breath of wonder. At the same time, the warmth of her body flowing into his own ignited desires so long and sternly suppressed that he shuddered now with the effort to contain them.

He stared ahead down the hallway leading to the bedroom. A ferocious frown drew his brows together as he wavered between honor and instinct.

The urge was too strong, while life, the future, and the exact extent of his powers were too uncertain. Or perhaps his resolve was weaker than he knew.

Moving abruptly, he strode down the hall and shouldered into the largest bedroom, the one with the great bed of a size fit for a king. Placing the princess gently upon the surface, he took off his boots and lay down beside her. He turned to his side, reaching to draw her into the curve of his body, fitting her slender hips against his pelvis, her legs along his own, her back against his chest. His arm fell naturally across her waist. His hand brushed her breast, and slowly, carefully, he cupped it.

He could feel her heartbeat against his wrist, could register the even rise and fall of her breathing against his rib cage. The scent of her hair was in his nostrils, and her slender curves burned their shape into his very being.

Such sweet torture. He wondered how long he could endure it. But even as the thought crossed his mind, he knew the greater pain would be when he was forced to end it.

He could allow her only a single, short night of rest, no longer. There were limits to his abilities. He could stop time and hold events suspended only for a short while. One complete revolution of the earth, twenty-four hours: that was the total span during which he could keep the baron endlessly marching toward the castle of Carreg Cennen.

There were other restrictions, most of them concerned with life and human emotion.

He could not conjure up something from what wasn’t there, so could not supply food for the hungry mouths at the besieged castle.

He could delay birth or death for a few hours but not forever.

He was powerless to create life or end it by magic alone, so could not cause the death of the baron solely by his will, no matter how much he might crave that ability.

He could not prevent hate, greed, rapacious desire or other base faults, therefore could not stop war.

He could not make anyone fall in love. No, nor out of love, either.

Including himself.

Once, in a moment of despair, he had asked his father for some spell or potion to make himself irresistible to the princess.

“Think carefully on this wish,” the old man had answered in gentle chiding. “Would you be happy with a heart won by such a trick? No, you could not be, for what can be gained by such means may be lost in the same way. Love would become a commodity to be bought and sold, rather than life’s rarest gift. Seek not, then, to compel it. Love must be freely given or it has no value.”

His father had been a wise man, but he had never been compelled to stand by while the woman he loved contemplated giving herself to a bloodthirsty madman. If love could not be commanded, Rayne thought, perhaps respect—laced with a little awe—would be enough. He had to try. There was no other way.

Shifting his weight, he leaned over Mara, supporting himself on one elbow. His gaze roved over her face, skimming the high cheekbones, the gracefully arched brows, the straight nose and tapered chin. The curves of her lips had the tender texture and soft color of rose petals.

Temptation stirred, stretched, broke its time-worn bonds. He dipped his head and brushed his lips across the shell-like arc of her ear, tasted the smooth flesh of her cheek, settled gently on her mouth.

She stirred, sighing as she eased closer against him.

Panic surged through his veins. He drew back and remained stone still while his heart hammered against the wall of his chest.

She did not wake. Rayne closed his eyes and softly released his breath. With exquisite care, he lowered his body to the coverlet and rested his head on the pillow, the same one on which she lay.

A lock of golden-brown hair drifted across his lips, stirred by a breeze from the open window. Not for the whole world and everything in it would he have brushed it away.

~ ~ ~

A cracking explosion brought Mara upright out of bed. She stood in the middle of the strange room, disoriented and trying desperately to shake off the remnants of sleep as deep as death.

The echoes of the mysterious sound died away. She glanced around her. It was early morning, for a glimmer of light shone around the edges of the window curtains. She was alone.

That was just as well, for the robe she had been given, with its odd front closure, had fallen open to the waist. She folded it closed over her chest, snugging it tight at the waist with its cloth belt. With the ends in her hands, she paused.

Somewhere in her slumber had been a fleeting dream with a promise of joy. She could not quite recall it, but she felt its loss just the same.

The chemise, tunic, and mantle she had worn on her arrival in this strange place had been cleaned and left lying across the foot of the low bed. She would like to dress; she would feel much less vulnerable when she had donned proper attire. However, she had noticed no maidservants, in fact, no servants of any kind.

Her head came up as another explosion sounded, followed by yet another. This was not a plane, or whatever it was Rayne had called the roaring thing in the sky. The noise sounded sharper, more immediate.

She thought it came from beyond the walls of the house. Her curiosity stirred as the prospect of immediate danger passed. She would like to investigate. Surely she could manage to dress herself without assistance.

A short time later, she emerged from the sleeping chamber neatly clothed, with her hair captured by a gold fillet she found wrapped in her mantle. The rooms of the house were empty and still. There was no sign of Rayne. Was it possible his absence had some connection with the violent discharges that still shattered the early quiet at close intervals?