Besieged Heart (No Ordinary Lovers Collection) (4 page)

She moistened her lips, said, “If I agree—”

“No conditions,” he said. “They will not be met. Such things never are.”

She looked away from him, struggling to find the words to appease him. At the same time, a great desolation rose inside her, and she felt the acid sting of tears behind her eyes. There had been such promise in the thought that this Rayne might be her wizard.

Now it was gone.

The glaze of hardness faded from his face. He eased away from her, though without giving her room to escape. “Yes,” he said quietly, “bowing to pressure is sometimes the wiser course. Retreating leaves you free to fight another day.”

It was a gesture of unexpected consideration and understanding. She turned her head, searching his strong features.

His lashes came down over his eyes, shuttering them. “The pan first,” he said, and there was no compromise in his voice.

She hardly knew where to begin. But as she carefully called to mind Rayne’s earlier movements about the kitchen, she soon figured out how to raise the lever of the apparatus above the double basin to make the water flow, and also where to find the colored scouring sand.

Rayne, who had seated himself at the table, prompted her from time to time. As she began to cook, he provided detailed instructions on where the food was kept in the white metal box that was somehow cold inside, and how to release the pork and eggs from their indestructible packaging. He also told her what to do to produce heat from the white ceramic rectangle set into the long work area.

A flush of irritation rose to her cheekbones now and then for the faintly superior tone of his voice. She also suspected he was laughing at her behind his bland expression. It seemed unfair—she couldn’t help it if she had no skill at these tasks. People weren’t born knowing such things. Besides, she had always been too busy. So much of her life had been taken up by her duties.

Duty, always duty. It was a word that had been hammered into her from childhood. There had never been time for nonproductive chores, for play or friendship or, later, the pleasures of flirtation; she was lacking in skill in all these things, especially the last. She had formed the usual unsuitable attachments of young girls, but there had been no time to dwell on such minor infatuations. They had passed, all of them. Except for one.

She had long been intrigued by her wizard. His presence near her gave her secret pleasure; the deep vibration of his voice alone sometimes affected her with a low, sweet thrill. She relied on his view of the world, sought his counsel when she was troubled, summoned him for the comfort of speaking her mind and knowing that no one else would ever hear what had passed between them. He was hers and she knew it, depended on it, could not bear for it to be any other way.

Now and then, she was possessed by the insane need to rip away the cowl and robe that concealed him and force him to face her, to allow her to see him as he truly was. She never quite dared. It was not that she feared what he might look like. Rather, she was terrified that if she exposed him, he would leave her. The concealment he wore was for their mutual protection; it placed a physical barrier between them so they might come close in spirit.

If it was not there, then everything would be changed. Still, she had often thought—even dreamed—of what he might be, how he might appear.

Yes, she had wondered. Now she had to be absolutely sure.

Taking up an egg to crack it into a bowl, she looked across at Rayne with a searching and pensive gaze. “Who are you really?” she said. “What is your rank?”

Rayne was silent for the space of a long breath. There was a delicate purpose in her tone that made his stomach muscles contract as though absorbing a blow. His voice turned sardonic as he sought an answer.

“‘Rank?’ All right, I’ll bite. I have none, and no use for it.”

“Everyone has it whether they accept it or not,” she said with a frown. “It’s a matter of birth.”

“A man is what he makes of himself here, no matter how he was born.”

The look she gave him was doubtful, but she didn’t argue. “Where are your people?”

“I have none.”

“You were an orphan,” she said thoughtfully. “A foundling, perhaps?”

He could not refuse to answer. “My parents were a couple of crazy kids who had no business making a baby. I was put up for adoption.”

She gave him a narrow look before she busied herself, removing the bacon from her pan and pouring eggs into the hot fat to scramble them. When she spoke again, it was without looking at him.

“In the land where I live, there was once a fine and powerful knight who loved a beautiful nun. He lay with her one day in the woods, and a child was conceived. The nun was sent in secret to a more strict order where prayer and solitude formed her days. When the knight learned of the nun’s disgrace, he renounced his title and estates to his brother, then went on crusade as penance for his misdeed.”

“A dumb thing to do,” Rayne said in disdain. “Your fine knight should have stayed to protect the lady.”

“It was a moral question,” Mara said with a quick shake of her head. “He felt he had no right to happiness as he had trespassed against his own code as well as the laws of God—but never mind. While in the land of the Saracens, the knight died. The nun, hearing of it, was distraught. She wandered away from the convent into the hills when her time came upon her. She gave birth to her child in a cave, and there she also died.”

Rayne knew he must at least try to deflect her. “Do all your stories have sad endings?”

“This one is not a total tragedy,” she answered in calm perseverance. “The babe, a fine boy, was found by a wise old wizard who took him as his son.  This wizard taught the child all he knew, and then set him free in a library of books from the ancients to learn what else he might.”

“Touching,” Rayne said. Taking his courage in his hands, he added, “So what became of boy?”

“He grew into a fine man, a wizard of great wisdom like his foster father. He offered, once, to kill his uncle, his father’s brother, for me.”

“A bit unnatural of him, surely?” Rayne watched as she transferred her cooked eggs to her plate with wincing care.

“Not at all.” She picked up her plate and brought it to the table. “This uncle, Baron Ewloe, is a man of cruelty and boundless ambition. He gained his title from his brother who died in the crusade—the young wizard’s father, you see—whom some say the baron encouraged to go and fight the Saracens. It wasn’t enough for him. The baron also wanted my brother’s throne. He besieged the castle while Prince Stephen was away, seeking to use me to obtain his prize.”

“And did your wizard fight the evil baron for you?” Rayne asked in tight control.

She poured juice into a glass and carried it toward the table. “I could not allow that, for his counsel is irreplaceable. He should never have expected it.”

The words carried a soft note that touched Rayne’s heart like the stroking of gentle fingertips. Never in this life would his princess have allowed him to hear it if she had guessed his identity. No, not ever.

Mara sat down opposite from him and picked up her fork. Turning it in her hand for a doubtful moment, she reached with it to poke at her egg, and then proceeded to cut off a bite and pick it up to transfer it to her mouth. She was quick, he had to give her that; she caught the knack of the unfamiliar implement at once.

It was good to see her tuck into the food, regardless of the measures he had used to arrange it. It had been his fault, those few minutes of fraught confrontation. He should have chosen a better ploy to demonstrate his so-called power. He wondered if she would ever forgive him.

As casually as he was able, he said, “Too bad you didn’t have a rifle or two there at your castle. They would have made short work of this siege.”

“You are speaking of the weapon I saw you using earlier?”

He tipped his head in assent.

“Tell me, will its projectile pierce armor?”

“Like paper, at least the kind of armor you’re talking about.”

“Formidable. It also seemed effective at a great distance.”

“A trained soldier could stand on the highest tower of your castle and pick off the attackers, even this baron himself. He would never know what hit him.”

Her eyes were dark as she gazed somewhere beyond his shoulder. Abruptly she focused on his face. “Have you ever met a man in a contest of honor with such a weapon?”

Rayne’s heart thudded in his chest as he began to suspect the direction of her thoughts. Trying for a careless air, he said, “The method of settling fights you’re talking about died out long ago—at least in theory. The problem is that rifles and most other modern weapons are too lethal. Honor becomes a moot point when both combatants are all too likely to be killed.”

“I see,” she said on a sigh. “As you say, it is too bad.”

As she turned her attention to her meal again, she appeared to notice she had failed to supply herself with bread. Rising, she moved to retrieve the loaf that lay on the cabinet in its wrapper.

As he watched her, Rayne realized that though she did not recognize him, she had gained an appreciation for his strength. It was possible she thought he might have a chance on the field of honor. Then again, it could well be that she simply did not care whether a chance-met woodsman lived or died.

She had valued her wizard, at least enough to keep him from danger by denying him the right to face the baron. He had that consolation.

Or was that it? Could it be possible she knew who he was, but he had forfeited the right to her regard? Perhaps she was no longer concerned for her wizard’s wellbeing since she had met him face to face. Possibly she was even anxious to send him out onto the field. If he defeated the baron, she would be reinstated in her proper place. If he lost, he would receive what he deserved for daring to abduct her and show such blatant disregard for her person.

He had to know which theory was right. He must test her somehow.

As she returned with her bread, he swung around in his chair and stretched out his long legs so they blocked her path. “I believe I’ll have a cup of coffee to keep you company while you eat.”

“As you please,” she said, and lifted her skirts in one hand as though she intended to step over him.

“I meant for you to bring it,” he said in lazy suggestion as he shifted to prevent her passage.

“Did you?” she said pleasantly. “I can’t imagine why.”

“I thought we had settled this issue.”

“You were wrong. We settled that I would fend for myself in the matter of my own food preparation. Nothing was said about acting the servant for you.”

“We settled that I am able to command you,” he corrected her before allowing his voice to soften. “Still, you might, if you wished, do it to please me.”

Her gaze was defiant. “And why should I feel any desire to do that?”

He smiled and deliberately tilted his head. “You know why.”

He saw her eyes narrow slightly, and felt a tingle of alarm along his spine. Then her lips curved in a slow smile. Reaching over him to put her bread on her plate, she swung away and moved to where the coffee pot sat on its warmer.

Rayne watched her find a coffee mug and fill it, leaving the brew black and unsweetened, as he had taken it earlier. Gaze lowered, she turned and walked toward him with it, moving with slow care so as not to spill a drop.

He should have known. He might have, had he not been so gratified by her ready compliance with his wishes, so puffed up with conceit that she had noted and remembered his preference for black coffee. He didn’t notice the grim set of her mouth, didn’t see the tremor in her fingers—not until she reached across him at the table, until the cup was poised over his lap.

The cup tilted. Hot brown liquid poured out, streaming, steaming as it cascaded downward.

Rayne cursed as he flung away from it, overturning his chair behind him. Mara danced away from him and the falling chair, but slipped in the coffee splashing across the floor. The cup flew out of her hand as she fell. He grabbed for her, but became entangled in her skirts. Taking her with him, he twisted with her as he landed on his side, absorbing the brunt of the crashing fall.

He lay for a winded instant before heaving over, dragging her under him, placing her on her back with her wrists captured in his hard fingers. Drenched in coffee, breathing hard, he settled a portion of his weight upon her.

His right thigh burned from hip to ankle, though his body against her soft, warm wetness grew hotter still. Mara, protected by her layers of skirts, appeared to have taken no injury.

She recovered first. She braced, and then arched her back in a frantic effort to throw him off. Shifting, he used his weight to hold her immobile. She heaved this way and that, struggling while he pressed her down until his body felt welded to her every curve and hollow, until he could feel her panting breaths in the very center of his being. He shifted a fraction, and the heated hardness of his arousal nudged against the softness between her thighs. Her writhing under him pressed her more firmly against it.

Abruptly, she ceased struggling to lie perfectly still.

“Let me go!” she demanded in tight rage. “Did you think that I would obey you, all meek and mild, for the sake of a single kiss?”

“I never said it was for a kiss.” His voice was less than even as he sought to control the urges that boiled in his blood and mounted, distilled to their essence, to his brain.

“What, then? There is nothing else between us that comes anywhere near affection.”

That wasn’t true. Still, if she did not know it then holding her helpless was only exacting revenge for her defiance. That made him no better than the baron.

Rayne breathed hard and deep, trying to think, to decide how to bring some good from this situation he had created. It was impossible while his every instinct screamed for him to take the woman in his arms. He wanted her now—this moment—before it was too late.

Soon, soon, he must reverse this precarious spell and take them both back to Carreg Cennen. If he did not, they would be trapped here in this future time where everything was strange and new, and there was nothing between Princess Mara and himself except anger and fear and the kind of rampant lust that, if satisfied, must inevitably turn to hate.