Heather Graham (24 page)

“If this comes to a fight, go,” he said softly to Geoffrey. “Go—the very second that I give you a sign!”

“Go!” Geoffrey exclaimed. “I’d never leave you, milord! What manner of man would that make me?”

“One alive and ready to come to my assistance should I call upon you at a later time! When it comes to a fight, you may help me along. But when we reach the point where it is nobler to ride and fight again, then we will part ways, and you will ride home to Castle DeForte, and await me.”

Geoffrey started to protest, but Harrison’s men had come out of the house. “Jesu, he’s killed the woman as well, milord!” one fellow cried. “There she be, all crumpled upon the floor, bathed in blood!”

“My God, DeForte!” Harrison breathed.

“I’m innocent, Harrison!” he cried in return. “I have been set up here, framed for these murders!”

“You threatened the man time and time again! You swore to have his throat!”

“His throat. Never the lady’s. I loved her once.”

“And jealousy drove you to this!”

“I am innocent, Harrison. As God is my witness, I swear that I am innocent.”

“Then come before the king. Prove your innocence.”

“And how will I prove my innocence from Newgate or the Tower?”

Pierce stiffened, and spoke calmly, quietly—and with deadly warning. “I’m afraid I must pass by you. I’ve no wish to hurt any man, but I’ll not die here, not tonight. I intend to prove the truth of this. And I must live, and live free, to do it. So any man who comes against me now must be forewarned. I will kill for my freedom. It will be to my everlasting sorrow, but I swear, I will kill if I must! Lord Constable! Do not send these boys against me!”

Thayer Harrison shook his head unhappily. “I cannot let you go! Don’t be daft, man! ’Tis my job to bring you in, you know that, Your Grace!” He let his sense of propriety fall for a moment. “Pierce, there are six of us, my good friend!”

Pierce lifted his sword high to the night. “Justice will be my guardian. If you would fight me, come. Try to take me.”

The first man surged forward, trying to strike him a single hard blow. His blade met Pierce’s, then flew quickly to the far corner of the yard. Two of Harrison’s soldiers rushed him next. They were brave, but nothing more than inexperienced pups, and he disarmed them easily, both hands on his swords, swinging around to catch their blades before they could reach his flesh. Yet even as he battled the two, he could see from the corner of his eyes that the next two approached while he was thus engaged. Geoffrey joined the fight, lunging at one fellow’s stomach and sending him sprawling, and the last of them fell upon his downed companion.

Pierce rushed quickly to Beowulf, leaping atop him. Harrison swung his own mount around, ready to take on Pierce himself. Pierce was not about to harm the old man. “I’ll definitely not kill you, you old war-horse, for it would break my heart. But I will not be stopped!” he cried to Harrison. Swinging back, he crushed so hard against Harrison’s mount that the animal staggered back and fell, and it was all that Harrison could do to avoid the legs and weight of the animal.

Pierce sheathed his blade and rammed a ball into his pistol while Harrison struggled to rise. He fired a shot into the air, and the men’s mounts went racing into the night.

Buying him time.

He urged Beowulf close to his floundering friend. “I didn’t do it, Harrison. I swear that I didn’t,” he said, calming Beowulf, who continued to prance since the sound of the shot had spooked him. “Believe in me!” he cried.

Then he gave Beowulf a free rein. He lifted a hand to Geoffrey.

They rode together until the darkness had nearly swallowed them.

Then Pierce rode in one direction, and Geoffrey in another, and any man, at that distance, would be hard put to say just which man had ridden which way.

“Good God, Lord Constable!” one of the young soldiers cried, scrambling to his feet. “Jesu! He is incredible with that sword. He must have been a great cavalier indeed! How sad that he has come to these awful murders.”

“Hmmph!” Harrison declared, dusting himself off as he came to his feet. He pushed aside the young officer, Alwin Anderson, and entered the manor house.

In the parlor, he felt his heart surge to his throat as he knelt down beside the Lady Anne. What sweet beauty to die this way! He looked to Jamison next and scratched his cheek, rising.

He walked outside.

“What about Lord DeForte?” Anderson asked. “Do we ride for him now? Which way, milord?”

“Oh, you bloody fools!” Harrison, addressing them all. “Don’t be so bloody anxious for the taste of his steel. You are unhurt now because he chose it so.”

“But, milord!” Anderson said sadly. ’Tis murder!”

“Murder, yes! But I’d stake my life it was not murder committed by Lord DeForte,” Harrison declared.

“But he threatened Lord Bryant, we were told to arrest him and my orders—”

“I’ll warn you, young man, so you’ll be prepared. I fought the Civil War with DeForte. I’ve known him in war and peace. He did not kill Bryant.”

“How do you know?”

“Because in all the years I have known him, he has never stabbed a man, friend or foe, in the back. Nor would any fit of jealousy in all time have caused him to do the Lady Anne so ill. Now, we will find him. And I’ll convince him he must come before the King. All in good time. But for now, for mercy’s sake! Someone go cover the sweet Lady Anne, though God knows, she’ll never find warmth again.”

Rose had spent most of the time that Pierce was gone pacing the room. She could picture so many different things happening! Pierce, finding Anne, sweeping her into his arms, vowing to take her away.

Then, too, she could see Jamison coming upon the two of them. Anne would step back in horror. And the men would fight. And the …

Jamison could not best Pierce! She was certain of it. So he would kill Jamison. But perhaps not. Jamison was never alone. He would have trained men-at-arms with him. Perhaps Pierce would see Anne, and try to reach her, and Jamison would attack him …

She couldn’t keep thinking about it. It would drive her mad.

She sent down for a carafe of wine. She drank deeply from it, praying that it would calm her nerves. She dug into her bag and found a comfortable white sheath to wear as a nightgown, then changed into it and lay down on the bed, trying to rest. But she could not.

She sipped some more wine, and began to pace anew.

Finally exhaustion caused her to stop. She curled into a chair before the fire, watching the flames. He had hurt Anne. Jamison Bryant had hurt Anne so cruelly that Jerome had come to her—and so to Pierce—for help. And Pierce loved Anne.

But he had told Rose that he would return to her …

Her head rested upon her arm; she closed her eyes. And in time, she must have dozed.

For when she awakened, he was there.

She wasn’t sure how she realized it at first, he was so very still and silent. But she turned, and he had come into the room, and watched her now with his back toward the door.

“Pierce!” she cried, startled, as she had just awakened.

“Aye, Rose!” he murmured, his voice deep. Husky. Shaking with some emotion. He watched her. He didn’t make a move toward her.

She leapt up. She rushed to him, anxious to see if he was injured in any way. “You’re here!” she murmured, throwing her arms around him, then moving her hands down his back first, and then his chest. She was so worried about his limbs and body that she never realized just how still and cold he stood against her touch.

“You were not expecting me to be here?” he queried at last.

“I thought that—Anne—did you find Anne?”

“Oh, yes, my love. I found Anne!” he told her.

“But you came back here?” she whispered.

“Oh, yes, I came back here. You didn’t think that I would come back, did you? Admit it!”

She stared at him, still trying to fathom his emotion. She shook her head. “All right. No, I didn’t expect you to come back. But I wanted you to! I swear that I did!” she whispered, wondering at the tempest in his eyes. She backed away from him, suddenly and painfully aware that his mood was very strange, one she had never known before.

“Ah, Rose! Rose … Rose.”

Abruptly he took a step toward her. His hand clenched her shoulders, and pulled her tight against him. Her head fell back, her eyes met his. He was smiling, but it was not a smile to give her much comfort. “Rose!” he murmured. His knuckles stroked down over her face, almost mocking in their very tenderness. He cupped her cheek, lightly kissed her lips. Then his hand fell against the soft bodice of her nightgown, his fingers clenching inward to a fist, and he wrenched downward, tearing her garment in two. Stunned, Rose cried out, staggering back, fumbling to catch the two pieces of the gown in her hands and hold them together. But he was walking toward her with a studied determination …

Still smiling. But oh, the smile was frightening! It seemed so cold. As cold as … death.

“Ah, don’t leave me, my love!” he murmured. “After all, you did not think that I would return, but here I am. Returned to my very beautiful bride. And you are beautiful, my fragile flower! Exquisite, haunting … seductive, bewitching. All that innocence!”

There was no escaping him. He was before her again, catching her wrists, squeezing them so that she dropped the torn ends of her gown. “Sudden modesty does not become you, milady. I’ve a deep yearning to see all the glorious beauty that so bewitched me from my senses!”

“What are you talking about?” she demanded, growing frightened. In truth, she had never seen him like this. His words were soft, very soft. So soft that they held a tremendous menace. “You’re frightening me! You’ve ripped my gown, I’ll not—”

“I’m just so very glad to have returned to my devoted, caring bride!” he told her. “I want to remember you. I want to remember the emerald in your eyes. I want to remember the fire in your hair. The full red beauty of your lips. And more, of course.” His hand fell over her breast, curving over it, the fingers shaking but stroking her seductively. “I want to remember the feel of your breast in my palm, its fullness and beauty, the ivory-colored mound against the rouge of its crest. I want to remember the way that you look, my hands on your hips, and my lips against your throat. I want to remember being with you, dying a little with you, drowning in the innocence of your eyes …”

He had backed her against the bed. She fell upon it, still stunned. She had been too startled to fight him at first, but now she felt a strange fear and fury sweeping over her. What was wrong with him? Dear God, what was he saying, what had he found out?

“Pierce, let me be, let me up! What is it? What are you talking about?”

“Innocent to the very end,” he said flatly. His knee thrust between hers where she had fallen on the bed. She tensed instantly, trying to fight the weight that parted her. It was impossible. His rigid strength was implacable. She had never felt quite so vulnerable. “Stop it!” she cried to him.

“Ah! But you wanted me back, dear wife! I’m your lord husband.” He leaned over her, his eyes meeting hers. The hard, muscled bulk of his body was a massive power that kept her forced there no matter how she tried to struggle against him.

“Pierce, stop—”

“But you want me, my love! Sweet Jesu!” His hands held her head, his fingers dived into her hair. They fell to circle around her neck. “Do I strangle you, or pray that the violence can burn from my body to yours? Ah, lady, you craved me back, remember?”

“Not like this!” she cried, near sobs, pressing against the rock-hard bulwark of his chest. “Not like this!”

“But, lady!” he persisted. “I have never been anything but tender!”

“No, damn you, Pierce, no—”

His lips found hers. Her fingers, clenched into fists, still pressed hard against his chest. She tried to twist from his demanding touch, thrashing her head. He caught it between his palms. His mouth molded over hers. His tongue teased her lips. Pried them apart. Entered deeply into her mouth, stroking, playing, seducing. The kiss was achingly exotic, deceptively tender. It lasted forever. Until its sweet nectar had entered unbidden into her limbs. Until her breath had been taken, her will quelled. She had felt this touch too many times before to deny it …

Her fists went still against his chest, but her heart continued to pound wildly. She felt the strange, leashed passion of his kiss, and wondered desperately what was going on in his heart and mind. His hand left her cheek. Fumbled swiftly at his pants. His tongue moved over the rim of her lips. She was briefly aware of the touch of his fingers between her thighs, then the force of his body joining with hers.

She cried out, but the cry was strangled within her throat. She tried to twist from the sudden, startling invasion, but there was no escaping. He pinned her with his body, with his mouth. With a kiss that continued oddly tender, yet growing ever more passionate with the swift, near savage rhythm of his body. She would not catch the fire! she promised herself. Would not, when he had taken her with so much anger! She would not give in …

But his lips pressed hungrily to her throat. His ragged breathing brought a wildfire burning against the lobe of her ear, the hollow of the throat, her neck, her breast. She did not want to make love to him. A sob escaped her, for she could not deny him. Oh, her heart and mind still strived so valiantly to do so! But hot liquid magic swirled from her body, seared between them, adding a succulent fuel to all the fires that burned. Brightly, swiftly, savagely. He stiffened like steel against her, touching inside her so deeply, she thought that she had died. But stars burst instead. She began to tremble with the fierce spasms of climax that seized her. He fell against her, hard, sweet-slickened, breathing deeply.

His fingers moved just slightly through her hair. Then he pulled them away, as if he had singed them. He righted his clothing.

Then he rose, pushed away from her with a vengeance. Left so bare, so cold, so vulnerable, Rose curled swiftly inward, sitting up to watch him with amazement.

“Ah, yes, lady, I will remember!” he vowed to her. “I will remember your treachery to the very end!”