FLAME OF DESIRE (2 page)

Thinking that the wind had blown open one of the shutters in the storeroom, Heather ran down the stairs in her bare feet to investigate. In the dark she stubbed her toe more than once, uttering a curse beneath her breath that would have caused her father to severely rebuke her.

At last reaching the first floor, which housed her merchant father’s storehouse and counting room, she found and closed the open window, latching it securely. Walking about the room filled with bolts and bolts of her father’s finest cloth, she let her hands caress the smooth brocades and silks to ensure that the blowing rain had done no serious damage. Her father was one of London’s wealthiest merchants and a man respected in the city. He would be greatly distressed if his merchandise were ruined.

A sudden noise behind her caused Heather to start, and for just a moment she felt frightened. “Who is there?” she demanded, only to be met with silence. The soft brush of fur against her leg caused her to laugh at her fear. It was only the cat! “Saffron, what are you up to now, you silly puss?”

Another noise, the sound of someone bumping into a chair, told her that she was not alone. A chill of fear swept over her, but before she could react, Heather found herself held captive by large arms which encircled her waist. She opened her mouth to scream, but before she could make a sound, a large hand clamped over her mouth, nearly smothering her.

Chapter Two

Heather struggled in the grasp of her captor. This was no dream, but a nightmare. She was in danger and there was no one to help her. The silence of the room was shattered by her throaty moans, which issued forth despite the hand over her mouth.

“M-m-m-m-m-m-m!”

“Be quiet! I mean you no harm,” said a husky male voice. The musky masculine scent of him teased her nostrils as he held her tight.

In answer to his words Heather fought to free her arms, outraged to be held captive. She wanted to lash out at her tormentor as Saffron might do, but she was no match for the strength of the arms which held her.

“You’re a lively one,” the voice said softly, holding her all the more firmly. “Hold still. I won’t hurt you. I just want to take care that you don’t give me away.”

Heather ignored his words, struggling until she was exhausted. Whoever this man was, he certainly seemed to be a strong brute. She could feel the muscles of his body through the thin linen of her gown as he held her close against him. Her full, firm breasts were crushed against his hard chest. It was shocking to feel a man’s body like this, every inch of their bodies caressing so intimately. Struggling against the overwhelming masculinity of him, she at last grew quiet and he relaxed his hold.

“I’m going to take my hand from your mouth, but I warn you: if you scream…” he pulled his hand away and although she yearned to call for help, she remained quiet. There was no reason to cause herself injury. His speech was that of a well-bred man without any trace of an accent. Certainly then he was no thief or ruffian from the street. Perhaps if she did as this man told her, he would leave her alone.

“Ah, that’s a good girl.”

Heather had the urge to utter a curse at this man who dared to take such liberties with her person, but she wisely held back from the temptation. Instead she asked, “Who are you?”

Laughter was her answer, a low rumbling sound like the thunder that brought forth the rain. How she wished that there was some sort of light so that she could get a look at this lout.

Again she asked. “Who are you?”

“You’re a bold one, lass.”

“Why are you in my father’s storeroom?” She judged this man to be very tall from the way he held her, and thus she directed her voice upward. “Are you here to
steal
from us?”

She regretted her words as she felt the arms which held her tighten in anger. “No, I have never stolen anything in my life!” the words were said with a gruff tone which was almost a growl.

“Then why….?” Immediately she knew the answer. This man was running away from someone, hiding here in the darkened storeroom. He must have slipped through the open window to seek refuge among the wool and silks. From whom was he running, and why?

“Id’ like to answer your question. However, at this moment I have other things more pressing to consider.” The husky voice of the man sounded tired, depressed as if somehow he wanted to forget something which saddened him. She could feel the rise and fall of his chest, the warmth of his breath as he sighed, and she tried again to separate her body from this heated pressure which made it nearly impossible to think clearly.

“Let me go,” she implored. “I won’t run away.”

He seemed to hesitate as if weighing whether or not she could be trusted. “Do you swear by all that’s holy that you will not scream or try to leave this room or do anything to put me in danger?”

“I so swear,” she answered, anxious to be away from his hard male body whose nearness was causing her senses to act so traitorously. Was it fear which was making her heart pound so violently? Or was it something else?

He let her go, his hand gently brushing the tips of her breasts as he did so. Was it by accident that he touched her with such familiarity? She decided that it was.

“Is there an oil lamp down here?” the husky voice asked. “I’m tired of this darkness.”

“Yes, it’s suspended from the west wall by a chain.” Somehow she would feel much safer in the light, and in truth her curiosity was piqued to see this man.

Heather could hear the sound of his footsteps as he walked in that direction, and wondered if she should flee, run for the door and shout for help. She decided against such a move for she had given her word and somehow she sensed that this man would not harm her. He had said as much and would surely have done so by now were that his intent.

“Why, I nearly feel sorry for him,” she whispered, “He, a fugitive.”

The scratching of flint against iron told her that the man was starting a fire. Soon the room was aglow with light from the oil lamp and Heather’s eyes squinted at the glare.

“You’re beautiful. I had no idea,” came the voice she was becoming accustomed to. Heather looked up through her long dark lashes at the imposing figure who spoke.

The man was tall and lean, but well-muscled with a strength about him that was almost overpowering. This man was no thief. He walked toward her with a swagger which told her that he was used to being in a position of leadership. His hair was a midnight black, his face half-hidden by a mustache and short clipped beard, yet she could see that it was a handsome face with a strong jaw and chiseled nose.

“What is your name?” he asked of her, looking at her with piercing blue eyes, eyes fringed by dark lashes which surprisingly did not make him look the least bit feminine despite their length.

She met his gaze for a long moment, unable to look away. “Heather. My name is Heather,” she murmured as if in a trance.

He startled her with a smile. “Heather, it suits you. Like the heather which grows on the hill, you are lovely.” And indeed he thought her to be so as his eyes appraised her. She had felt so soft in his arms. He should have left this place before now, as soon as he deemed it safe beyond the door, and yet he had not. Why? Because somehow he had wanted to get a look at the woman with the soft curves and the pleasing voice. He was not disappointed; indeed his vision of what she would look like paled beside her beauty.

His eyes looked into hers. What color were her eyes? Gray, blue, green? They seemed to take on a different hue each time he looked into their depths. And her hair. The red tresses tumbled to her waist. Never had he seen such a shade, the color of the finest wine.

Heather fought to regain her composure and regarded him coolly, choosing to ignore his compliments. “I have told you my name, sir. What is your name?”

He shook his head. “It would not do to tell you. I’m sorry. I wish that things were different.”

Her eyes swept over him, taking in his manner of dress. Surely no pauper or vagabond, this one. Dressed in plum-colored velvet doublet, parchment-yellow jerkin, gold-colored trunk hose, plum hose, brown leather belt and shoes, his fingers bedecked with rings, he was hardly dressed like a man on the run.

“If you cannot tell me who you are, at least tell me what it is you are running from,” she insisted.

“Enemies of England,” he answered, clenching his jaw in anger. “From him who would cast aside our rightful queen.”

“Queen?” Heather was confused. There was no queen. Edward was not married, and his mother had died at his birth. Whom then, did this man speak of?

“Mary Tudor.” Gently he touched her arm. “The king is dead. He died an hour ago. The Duke of Northumberland seeks to place the Lady Jane Grey, his daughter-in-law, upon the throne to feed his own ambitions.” Somehow he wanted to confide all to this lovely young woman who stood before him, but instead he stopped his prattle.

Heather shook her head in dismay. The king dead? It was hard to believe, yet it had been rumored that he was gravely ill, perhaps dying, several months ago. Edward had been held up at a window of the palace so that the crowds outside could see him, to know that he lived. The pale, skinny boy had hardly inspired the Londoners with confidence. But now he
was
dead, or so this man said.

“I don’t believe you.” Why had she not heard the bells, the mourning bells tolling the news? No, it wasn’t true. “How dare you break into my father’s home, hold me captive, and then expect me to believe such an outlandish story. Lady Jane Grey as queen. Absurd!”

“And yet I fear that it is true!”

Her eyes flashed with her ire. “Do you think me a fool? How would you know these secrets that no one else seems to know?”

“I was at the palace tonight when the king died. Believe me when I tell you what Northumberland plans. He is as sly as a weasel, as treacherous as a snake, and as ruthless as a vulture.”

She looked at him with scrutiny. He had managed to put up a persuasive argument, yet the magnitude of the treachery Northumberland planned stunned her. What if he spoke the truth?

A loud banging at the door caused both Heather and the man to cease their musing. Heather looked toward the portal with apprehension, sensing that it could mean this man’s death were she to betray him. Imaging the executioner’s axe poised over his head made her determined not to act rashly. She had the sudden urge to help him. Why? Why would she want to help someone she didn’t even know? She could not understand her feelings as she called out, “Coming.”

What if he were a traitor, a rebel? What if he were lying to her? She should not shield him, screamed her brain; she could not betray him, whispered her heart.

Richard Morgan watched her walk to the door, knowing full well that he was at her mercy. In her white gown she looked like an angel, gliding gracefully toward his enemies. He ducked back into the shadows, wondering what his fate would be this night.

“Yes?” Heather whispered as she answered the door. She feared that her legs would give way beneath her, that her eyes would tell of her nervousness, her voice sounded choked with her emotions.

“Sorry to bother you, miss,” an old man said curtly, looking past the door as if to examine each nook and cranny. “We’re looking for a rebel, an enemy of the king. Nearly had him in our clutches, but the clever bastard escaped. Have you seen any men pass this way tonight?”

“No!” She did not falter for one moment in her answer. She fought to maintain every bit of her self-control so as not to give herself away and betray the tumult within her breast.

“Are you certain? We saw him headed this way.” The man at the door looked back at his companions as if wondering if they should search this place.

“My dear sir, believe me when I tell you that I have not seen anyone! My father, Thomas Bowen, gave me the strictest orders to keep this door locked and bolted during his absence and I am ever the dutiful daughter. With the exception of yourselves, I have seen no men here tonight. I fear you will have to look for your rebel elsewhere.” She had lied for a stranger.

The old man took a step forward and for a moment, Heather feared that he would search her father’s house. In answer to the man’s movement she closed the door, leaving it open only the span of a man’s hand. “Please, sir. I am alone here. It would not be right….”

With a shrug the old man turned to walk away, satisfied that she spoke the truth. Why would she lie? Closing and bolting the door, Heather fought to calm her trembling. What would have been her punishment to be caught harboring an enemy of the Duke of Northumberland? She reached up to touch her neck, remembering those who had lost their heads in the past. She breathed a sigh and turned toward the dark-haired stranger, whose eyes were raking over her.

Richard Morgan feasted his eyes upon her for several moments. “Heather, how can I ever thank you? You have saved me from imprisonment or worse.” He drew her to him, looking again at the lovely face before him. Her skin, he noticed, was unmarked by the freckles that usually accompanied hair of a dark red color. Were any eyes so large, any mouth so tempting?

Before heather could make a sound, could answer his words of gratitude, his mouth claimed hers in a gentle kiss, yet a kiss that devastated her senses, engulfed her in a whirlpool of fiery sensations. Hadn’t she wanted this to happen when first she had looked upon him? Yes, she thought, aware of her body now as she had never been before. Though her logic told her that she should pull away, she somehow found herself reaching up slim arms to draw him closer, wanting to savor this tender assault. A groan was her answer as his mouth plundered hers with lips which seemed to brand her very soul. In all her dreams she had never thought a kiss could be so overpowering, yet so gentle, igniting a fire in her blood.

His lips parted hers, searching out the honey of her mouth. The passion of their kiss, the fierce hunger he felt at her nearness, shook Richard. He had kissed fair maidens before, but never had a kiss excited him so. His arms tightened around her, his mouth sensuously explored the inner warmth of her lips, his fingers stroked the softness of her neck and shoulders. How he wished that he could stay with her this night. It was as if she made him forget who he was, the danger he faced, all that he must do. How could he leave her now?