Prisoner of My Desire (18 page)

Rowena was never going to live it down. She was certain the whispers about that awful scene in the hall would follow her until the end of her days, across shires, across countries, wherever she went—if she ever left Fulkhurst. But what did Lord Vengeance care? No one would be whispering about him. ’Twas naught for a nobleman to make sport with one of his serfs in his own hall. Who would gainsay him, after all?

She abhorred the thought of returning to face her most recent shame. ’Twas deplorable that there was no way to reach Warrick’s solar from the kitchen, without passing through the full length of the hall. But when Rowena returned after her long-drawn-out meal, there were no whispers about her that she could tell. In truth, the men did not look her way at all, and those
women who did happen to notice her glanced quickly away.

Had she been wallowing in mortification for naught, then? she wondered in confusion. Or had no one noticed her sitting on Warrick’s lap except those at his table? But she was ignored from that direction also, except by Warrick. He watched her now, but in a distracted manner, since he was deep in discussion with his friend, Sheldon.

She was perplexed, and liked it not.
He
was the one who was supposed to be confounded, not she. But there was an easy enough way to find out if something unusual had happened in the short time she had been belowstairs, something that made the women, even those lazy weavers who had disdained her instruction that afternoon, seem almost fearful now when they saw her.

She saw the young girl, Emma, who had come to fetch her when Sir Sheldon had arrived, and stopped by her table. Only vaguely did she note that the girl sat alone.

“Emma, may I presume upon your good nature to ask what has occurred here that I missed when I went below?”

“Naught has happened since the fine entertainment you gave us.”

“I see,” Rowena replied stiffly and turned to leave, disappointed, since the girl had seemed friendly earlier.

But Emma caught her hand to quickly assure her, “Nay, lady, I meant no insult. ’Tis just
strange to see the dreadful dragon behave like a normal man.”

Dreadful dragon? How aptly put, but Rowena was more concerned with what she had just been called herself, as she realized how much worse it would be to be treated like a serf by Warrick if others knew she was not.

“Why do you call me lady?”

Emma shrugged. “You cannot hide what you are in serf’s wool. Your manner speaks more clearly than words, lady, though your words speak just as clearly of noble breeding.”

“You speak just as clearly,” Rowena pointed out, relieved that Emma was only guessing.

Emma grinned. “I do but mimic—though better than Celia, I warrant.”

Rowena could not help laughing. “Aye, much better than she. But tell me, if naught occurred, why do the women seem, well, almost fearful?”

“When they look at you?” At Rowena’s nod, Emma’s grin got wider. “They have heard what happened to Celia and think it was at your behest.”

“But I never—”

“
I
did not think so, but they do. They are also in awe of you that you do not fear the dragon even in his darkest moods.”

“Certainly I fear him. He holds my life in his hands.”

“Nay, he is no killer of women. But even Celia hid from him when he was angry, and everyone here could see how angry he was—and then you made him laugh. ’Tis a rare thing, to hear him laugh.”

For some unaccountable reason, Rowena felt a sadness upon hearing that, but she quickly shook it off. ’Twas naught to her if the man had little enjoyment out of life. She had had little enough herself these past years.

Though she would rather have stayed and talked, feeling she might have a friend in Emma, she left the girl, too conscious of Warrick’s order to appear in his chamber—nay, in his bed. And now that her embarrassment had worn off, she had that order to deal with and the nervousness it was already generating in her.

Verily, she had him set up ripely for her seduction, or rather, he had set himself up for it with his ribald teasing earlier at the table. She need not even be subtle about it now. The only thing that could thwart her plan was if he thought she was motivated by fear, rather than by actual desire for him. She would have to appear in no way fearful. But the thought of seducing him and the actual act of seducing him were in no wise the same, and her nervousness was so close to fear, it was indistinguishable to her.

And what if ’twas all for naught, if her overtures made no difference in his treatment of her? Mildred was certain it would be otherwise, but Rowena was less so. And yet…he had been stirred to lust by a mere few words, and it had drastically changed his mood—not his treatment of her, but definitely his humor. She would just have to wait and see what further advances on her part would do.

Rowena entered the inner solar and had no
more than glanced at the bed, which she had no intention of waiting in for Warrick, when he closed the door behind her. She swung around with a start. He had to have followed her as soon as she passed his table, yet he had still seemed deep in conversation. And then she noted the heat still in his eyes and she understood.

The man wanted her right now, wanted her badly. He had not been willing to wait any longer. The thought gave her a heady sense of power. ’Twould make what she would do and say so much easier. But it also, to her chagrin, stirred her own senses to arousal.

He stood there in front of the door, staring at her while he slowly unclasped his mantle. He was wearing a rich brown tunic embroidered at hem and neck in gold. The color suited his dark gold hair, grown long since his confinement at Kirkburough, to where it now reached his wide shoulders. He was not frowning, so the handsomeness of his features was there to see and disturb her senses.

Rowena found it difficult to look at him when he was like this, normal, not the cruel monster she knew he could be. Since shyness was appropriate on her part after what she had said to him in the hall, she took refuge in it and lowered her eyes.

“Come here, Rowena.”

She did not hesitate to approach him, but she would not meet his eyes again. Those expressive eyes did things to her that she could not control.

“So you want to share my bed?”

“Aye.”

“Why?”

God’s mercy, could he not take her at her word? Why? She had not thought there would be an interrogation, and could not think now with him so close.

“Why does any woman want to share a man’s bed?” she countered lamely.

“Because mine is softer than yours.”

Her eyes shot up to clash with his. The bastard. He doubted her, was going to make her work to convince him. She had not wanted to seduce him in the first place. She would be damned if she would grovel to do it.

“That is true,” she said stiffly. “Yet I do not get much sleep in yours. Mayhap mine is preferable after all.”

She turned away angrily, but he caught her arm and yanked her hard against his chest. And then his mouth was showing her what she had made him feel, passion blistering hot, consuming. She clung to him as her limbs got weaker, clung to him because she could do naught else. And he was relentless in his assault, determined to make her feel what he felt, and God’s mercy, she did.

She nearly crumbled to the floor when he released her. He did not notice. He had moved away from her, his body taut with agitation. He sat down on his bed, running both hands so hard through his hair that Rowena winced in empathy for his scalp. But when his eyes lit on her again, she groaned inwardly. He wore his cruelest look now, the one she dreaded.

“Do you still maintain you want me, wench?”

If she said aye, he was going to make her suffer for it, she knew it, read it in his eyes. But if she said nay, he was likely to try and prove her a liar, and just now, with the taste of him still on her lips, she was not sure if a nay would be the truth. Either way she was going to lose—or win. But winning was going to cost her more of her pride, for ’twas a two-edged sword, her plan. She knew now that she was going to bleed a little from her part in it.

He waited patiently, giving her ample time to take the coward’s path. She stiffened her resolve. She would see it through, whatever the cost.

“I still want you, my lord.”

He did not answer for a moment. ’Twas almost as if he could not. And then his voice came out in a husky rasp. “I require proof. Show me.”

She had expected no less. She walked toward him slowly, unlacing her bliaut on the way. This she pulled over her head as she stopped within reach of him. The chemise she unlaced more slowly. In truth, she was mesmerized watching him watch her undress, for everything he felt was there for her to see, and that sense of power was back, giving her a boldness she would not have otherwise dared.

She let the chemise drop to the floor, leaving only her shift, stockings, and shoes. To untie a shoe, she did not bend over, but put her foot up on the bed next to Warrick’s thigh. ’Twas wantonly brazen, deliberately so, and it was his undoing. He groaned. His arm reached out to wrap around her bottom and pull her forward. She landed hard against him, her knees sliding on
either side of his hips, her back bent awkwardly as he pressed his face into the soft mounds of her breasts.

’Twas an arousing embrace. It also struck a tender cord in her, for he did naught else, just held her like that for a time. She wrapped her own arms around his head, not sure anymore if she was playing a part or acting of her own accord, for it felt right to hold him like that.

And then he tilted his head back and told her “Kiss me.”

She did, placing her hands on his cheeks, a kiss void of passion, sweetly innocent—for all of the three seconds it took him to participate. His lips nudged hers open, his tongue licking the insides before thrusting deep into her mouth. For the first time she thrust back tentatively with her tongue and felt the thrill of aggression, then was overwhelmed by the passion her small response unleashed in him.

He dropped back on the bed, taking her with him, his mouth devouring hers now. But he quickly rolled over, pressing the hard bulge of his manroot between her legs, and her pulses leaped, her insides rolled, her heart slammed out of beat. Her fingers had worked their way into his hair and were gripping great handfuls. She needed that anchor, for her rioting senses were leaving her control.

She groaned when he left her, but it was only to straddle her thighs, and that to whisk the shift from her body, naked now before him. His eyes burned her, then his hands, bringing gasp after gasp as they slid slowly up her belly to cup her
breasts. One he held captured for his mouth as he bent over to roll the tender bud on his tongue before he tried to draw the whole plump mound into his mouth.

She lost her breath with the next gasp, was unaware that she arched toward him, that she held his head in a viselike grip, unconsciously demanding more.

She actually cried out in protest when he stopped to lean back again. But he displayed no triumphant smile upon hearing it. His need was too great, leaving no room for petty revenge just now.

His breath came hard. His eyes would not leave her as he attempted to shed his clothing. The rich tunic was ripped in its removal. Rowena sat up to help, but her fingers trembled so, she only succeeded in knotting the laces on his chausses, and those were ripped, too, when he took over the task. And then his manroot was there between them, inflamed, velvet steel, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world for her to wrap her hand around it.

He sucked in his breath before he groaned, “Nay,” and took her hand in his and held it to the bed. She whimpered at the restraint, but his mouth came down to take the sound, then his body came down to spread her thighs, and she cared about naught except the heat about to enter her. Her free hand she brought to his lower back, as far as she could reach, to urge him on. But he was holding himself back, and that hand found itself imprisoned also as he fought for control—only she could not wait any longer.

“Now—please, Warrick, now!” she begged, this time without his command, and this time with immediate compliance.

He plunged. She melted around him. He thrust hard and fast. She screamed in her climax, reached before him, continuing after him, so intense she nearly fainted.

She was floating in languid contentment when she heard him say a while later, “I wonder if I will ever have you at my leisure, wench, or will you always provoke me to such madness?”

Rowena merely smiled.

Warrick was still there when Rowena awoke the next morn, still lying beside her in his big bed, but not still asleep. She had the feeling he had been watching her for some time without her knowing it, and the thought disturbed her, for he looked too serious by half this morn.

“You should have awakened me, my lord, and sent me about my duties.”

“Should I? Why, when one of your duties now, by your own behest, is right where you are?”

The blush spread across her cheeks with exceptional speed. “Does that mean I am to ignore my other duties?”

“Ah,” he said, as if in sudden understanding. “Now do we have a motive for why you sought my bed.”

“I did not—the labors that presently fill my day do not overtax me—as yet.”

“As yet?” He frowned, until his gaze dropped to her belly, and then those silver eyes were like shards of ice. And yet his voice continued mild, deceptively so. “I see. Once again you prove yourself incredibly stupid to remind me of the child you stole from me. But then, this is just another motive that can be attributed to your sudden passion for me, is it not? Or do you tell me now that you had no thought to bargain with me for the babe?”

“I want it. I cannot deny that.”

“Enough to spread your legs for me whenever I say?”

How could she have forgotten his cruelty, or how much she hated it, when that was what she was trying to end? Obviously, what passed between them during the night had changed him not a whit, which was a crushing realization—but she was forgetting that he did not believe she really wanted him, and that was why he was taunting her now. And she could think of no further way to convince him, be it lie or not.

It made her angry, suddenly, to have failed so completely. Why could the man not simply accept what she offered? Why did he have to search for hidden motives?

And his damn question—well, she was just angry enough to spread her legs wide beneath the cover, just wide enough for him to notice, and taunt him back. “Come, then, Sir Dragon, and breathe your fire on me.”

His frown turned black as sin. “I want a reason, wench, and I want it now.”

She began heatedly, glaring right back at him. “You are cruel in all your demands, vengeful in all your motives, yet when you touch me, you are naught but gentle.” She was amazed that the words were coming to her after all, and so she quickly amended her tone, adding uncertainty to it, and a blush for good measure. “I did not want to admit it to myself, certainly not to you, but I find I—I crave your touch.”

God’s mercy, but she was getting good at lying. And his expression changed. She could tell that he
wanted
to believe her, and that—that put a tightness in her throat that was distinctly unpleasant.

“Were you so hot for my body, you would not wait this long to tempt it into pleasuring you again. Must I needs teach you the ploys of a whore?”

The insult did not touch her this time, for she recognized it for what it was, an attempt to fight the temptation to believe her. Did he think no woman could want him without an ulterior motive? She recalled Emma’s words that the women were awed that she did not fear him. And Mildred had said that for half his life he had been the hard, vengeful man he was today. Was that all he expected then, fear? And what woman could truly want him if she feared him?

She spared a moment to wonder why she did not fear him anymore, before she put her hand to the center of his chest to push him down from his half-leaning position. “Mayhap you will have
to teach me, my Lord Warrick,” she said softly, now leaning over him. “I have some little advice to go by, yet I am sure I could benefit from more.”

Her hand slipped under the cover and she found to her amazement that he had not been immune to their close proximity. Neither had she. Nor was she immune to touching him. It should have been difficult. She should have had to force herself. But it was easy, too easy—she liked doing it. So did he. His eyes closed. His breathing quickened. And ’twas not long before she was flat on her back again, with his mouth fastened on hers, and his hands paying her back in kind for the sweet torment she had just brought him.

But before he got around to giving Rowena what she now desperately wanted, Bernard walked into the chamber unannounced, as was his habit. The poor boy went up in flames of embarrassment when he saw that Warrick would not appreciate being disturbed, and to give him credit, he did try to leave without disturbing the occupied occupants of the bed. But Warrick was too much a man of war and quick responses not to have heard the intrusion.

He lifted his head to snarl, “What?”

And Bernard could only stammer, “Father…here…with bride.”

Rowena heard the message in confusion. Since Warrick’s father was supposedly dead, the squire might mean his own father, or one of Warrick’s two fathers-in-law. But that word “bride” half succeeded in blunting her aroused senses.

Warrick, however, suffered no bewilderment over the cryptic message. “Are they only approaching Fulkhurst, or have they already arrived?”

The calmness of that question gave the boy back his own composure. “They are within the hall, my lord, and are desirous of your presence. Do I tell them—?”

“Tell them naught. I will be there in a moment to make them welcome.”

Rowena gathered from that answer that Warrick was not going to finish what they had started, and her body was screaming in protest. Her face, however, was utterly void of expression when he turned his attention back to her. His was not. He looked frustrated, chagrined, and after he studied her for a moment, resigned.

“Lord Reinard’s timing leaves much to be desired.” He sighed and rolled away from her.

She found she wanted to grab him back to her. That word “bride” was now giving her a distinct chill. But she did naught to let him know how disturbed she suddenly was.

’Twas safe, however, for her to ask, “Is Lord Reinard one of your fathers-by-marriage?”

“Soon-to-be.”

There it was, her worst fear confirmed. Gone now was her opportunity to gentle this man. With his betrothed arrived, he would no longer dally with Rowena. And soon a wife would share this bed with him. What, then, would he do with his prisoner? Put her back in his dungeon? Make her serve both him and his new bride?

“So your betrothed is found,” she said tone
lessly as she watched him rummage through a chest for clothes, something splendid, no doubt, for his precious Lady Isabella. “At least that is one crime no longer set at my door.”

He gave her a sharp look. “Do not count yourself free of blame yet, wench, until I learn what, exactly, has kept her missing these many weeks.”

She said naught to that. She did not care what the lady’s excuse was; she only knew that she wished Isabella had not been found. And that was a disturbing realization, for she should not care either way.

Warrick was ignoring her again, his mind on his waiting guests. Rowena could not ignore him as easily, though her mind was likewise on his guests. But even as her worry increased about how this new situation would affect her, her eyes were fastened to Warrick’s splendid nakedness, the long bare flanks so thickly muscled, the tight curve of his buttocks, the muscles bunching and rippling on his broad back with his movements. Strength and power in every hard line, and…beauty, aye, there was beauty in such stark masculinity. In no wise could she deny it, nor the need still coursing through her to feel that splendid body pressed tightly to hers.

He turned slightly before he bent to put on his braies, and she saw that the same need was still prevalent in him also, though he was ignoring it just as he was ignoring her—at least that was what she thought until her eyes drifted up again to find that he had caught her in her blatant scrutiny of him.

He came back to the bed then and, without a word, caught her behind the neck and drew her toward him until his mouth was grinding hard against hers. Her heart thudded with relief, but before she could get her arms even halfway around him to urge him back into the bed, he released her. His visage was a terrible mixture of desire and anger just then, anger, no doubt, because she was tempting him to ignore his precious Isabella. Obviously the temptation was not quite enough.

In that she was not entirely correct.

“Stay exactly as you are, wench,” he ordered harshly. “I will return ere the fire dies from those sapphire eyes, and we will see if you can fulfill the promise in them.”

He did not see the blush creep up her cheeks as he turned away to finish dressing with haste. She was
not
supposed to be as easy to read as he was, but obviously this once she had hidden naught from him. It made her feel more vulnerable than she had at any other time with this man. It was one thing for her to admit to herself that she could want him,
did
want him, at least right then. It was something else again to let him see it for himself without her lies to convince him of it. Lies? Mayhap earlier when she had been in control of herself, some of her actions and words had been lies, but they were not lies now.

He left the room without looking toward her again. Vaguely she noted that he had yanked on a bare minimum of clothing, none designed to impress a long-awaited bride. In fact, she
thought smugly, he looked quite sloppy and harried, and with his emotions still on the angry side, the cruel lines of his face were well in place. He would be lucky if his lady bride did not take one look at him and burst into tears.

The thought made Rowena smile, but only for a moment. Then her anxieties returned with a vengeance. No matter how Isabella reacted to Warrick, she was still here to wed him. A bride’s fear was the last thing that could stop a wedding from taking place, so it
would
happen, and that meant Rowena’s situation
would
change, and no matter how she looked at it, she did not see her own lot improving with the change.

She might still inflame Warrick’s lust, but he would now have a wife to slake it on, leaving only his subtle cruelties and little revenges for Rowena. Without the intimate contact that his lust had brought so far, she would have no hope of altering his treatment of her. Verily, it would only get worse.

She had been ordered to stay in his bed, but she could not. She got up, dressed quickly, then paced the floor in her agitation, awaiting his return. But he did not come back as soon as his parting words had predicted. And whatever desires he had stirred to life in her were long since cooled.

She finally curled up on the hard bench of the window embrasure to do her fretting. ’Twas not long before she drew the definite conclusion that it would behoove her to reevaluate the possibility of escape—mayhap during the excitement of the wedding.

Warrick returned suddenly without warning, only he was not alone. The woman who followed on his heels was tall and richly gowned—and pale as new parchment. She was hauntingly lovely in her paleness, with her raven hair and dark green eyes. She was also terribly nervous about something, though there was a resigned, determined look to her.

Rowena noted this with wide eyes. She could not understand why Warrick had brought the lady here, when if Rowena had followed his orders she would still be lying naked in his bed. He could not have forgotten that, could he? Nay, he looked toward the bed first, and when he found it empty, his eyes searched until he located Rowena tucked deep in the embrasure.

She saw immediately that he wanted something of her. She sensed it the same way as before, when he had been chained in front of her and she had felt she could read his thoughts. But she could not grasp what it was that he wanted this time, until she heard what Isabella began saying.

The woman was afraid, aye, and with reason. What she was confessing to Warrick’s hard back was why she did not love him. And now Rowena knew exactly what he wanted of her. He wanted to show Isabella that what she was telling him mattered not at all to him, but just to say so would not suffice. Rowena was not sure if ’twas only his pride he wanted to protect, or if he also wanted to relieve the lady’s anxieties. Either way, he obviously had hoped he would find Rowena where he had left her, a position that
would have spoken more clearly than words.

She was not sure why she wanted to aid him or even how she could, but she stood up to reveal herself to the other woman. That, unfortunately, was not enough. Isabella was too deeply into her explanation to care that a servant was present. She was trying earnestly to make Warrick listen to her, while he would not even turn around to face her, but continued to watch Rowena instead.

Rowena approached them both, but she stopped before Warrick, telling him without words that he could make use of her presence however he chose. What he chose to do was face Isabella now with Rowena behind his back, but he put his hand behind him until she took it, then drew her closer until she actually leaned against his back. What this tableau would appear like to Isabella, if she deigned to notice, was Rowena shyly hiding behind Warrick, with him trying to reassure her without actually drawing attention to her.

Mayhap it was a bit too subtle for Isabella, for she had not even paused in her lengthy explanation of how she and someone named Miles Fergant had loved each other since childhood. Rowena could have been invisible for all the notice she was getting. Better to have just brazenly returned to Warrick’s bed, mayhap even stripped off her clothes again. She smiled to herself at the absurd thought, then almost laughed aloud when it occurred to her that Isabella still might not have noticed that—but Warrick certainly would have.

The moment of whimsy put her in a mischievous state of mind that she had not experienced in a goodly number of years. She considered wrapping her arms around Warrick’s waist from behind. Nay, too bold. She slipped her hand out of his instead, saw his back tense, but he relaxed when he felt her hands settle on his sides, just above his hips. Her fingers were not actually noticeable, but she was no longer even thinking about giving Isabella something to see. ’Twas Warrick she felt like teasing now, and tease him she did, running her hands slowly up his sides, feeling him stiffen, then try to stop her movement by pressing his arms tight to his sides. She merely worked her fingers loose and moved them down to his hips.