Samantha James (19 page)

There was a glint of steel as he pulled his dagger from the sheath at his waist. Kathryn paled and instinctively flattened her back against the pillows propped behind her back. "Milord," she cried, "what do you—"

Guy's jaw clamped shut. For just an instant, his expression darkened. "Good God," he exploded. "My only intent is to see to your shoulder and this is the quickest way to do it. Had I sought to put an end to your existence, I'd have done so long before now!"

It was on the tip of her tongue to plead with him not to ruin her gown, but he looked so grim she decided against it. "Milord," she said faintly, "I am fine. Truly, I am. There is no need—"

He paid her no heed. The blade slipped beneath the neckline of her kirtle. A quick slicing sound drowned out her protest, then another as the same motion slashed through the strap of her thin linen chemise. Impatiently he flicked aside the material, baring her shoulder and the top half of her breast. Kathryn stared in mute horror at the gleaming mound of one breast. The sight of her own flesh, so pale and smooth, seemed to mock her. The heat of embarrassment rose within her like a flooding tide, but she held her breath, afraid to move, afraid even to breathe for fear of exposing herself further.

Guy scarcely noticed. His entire frame tense, he drew in a harsh breath, his gaze locked on the place where his destrier's hooves had landed. Already a series of angry bruises darkened and discolored the ivory skin of her shoulder. Blood oozed bright and crimson from half a dozen long ugly scratches that trailed across her collarbone. The sight of such pale, perfect flesh mottled with purple shadows made his stomach clench.

His insides twisting with sick dread, he laid a hand to her shoulder, anxious to assess the damage he could not see. Fingertips skimming lightly, he began to gently press and probe, feeling the delicate bone structure beneath her broken skin, watching her every reaction.

He cursed beneath his breath, for he could see how swollen and tender she was. This hurt him almost as much as it was bound to hurt her. Yet even as the realization tolled through his mind, he wondered why it was so. Gritting his teeth, he began anew. His fingers had scarcely moved before he felt her flinch, though she did not cry out.

"Damn! I'm sorry, lass, I know it must hurt like the very devil, but I do not mean to hurt you, I swear... I'm sorry... Just hold tight and it will soon be over."

Regret lay thick and heavy in his voice, but mingled within was an unexpected tenderness that caught her totally off guard. It was this which made Kathryn look helplessly to his face. She willed away the ache in her shoulder, unable to tear her gaze from his rugged features.

His brow was furrowed in concentration, his winged black brows drawn together over the jutting blade of his nose. His jaw was set as firmly as ever, yet for once, she could detect no coldness in his manner. The mouth she had always considered so cruel was set a bit sternly mayhap, but it was beautifully shaped nonetheless. And his eyes were as crystalline-clear and pure as the rushing waters of the nearby stream, his lashes as long as Peter's.

An odd little tremor shot through her. Why? she screamed inwardly. Why did she notice all these details about him? It was as if something inside her had hoarded all these subtle little nuances, only to spring them upon her now when she least expected it. What was it about him that affected her this way—and he a man she despised with all her heart! She had lived her life surrounded by men . .. and the earl was but one more man, much as any other man.

Nay
, whispered a niggling little voice in her brain.
He is not as any other man, for he has trapped your lips beneath his
...

But Roderick has kissed me, too!
she countered silently.

Aye. But you did not feel the same—as if a storm had seized you and swept you from the earth in a mighty tempest of sweet sensation
—
And the earl has touched you as no other has...

Guy felt her tremble beneath his hand. "There," he said softly. " 'Tis done. It appears nothing is broken but you'll bear those bruises for several days." He leaned back, worriedly scanning her face. Her lovely mouth, he noted, was pinched tight. With a frown he saw that her face was blanched of all color.

Kathryn felt the weight of his gaze as surely as she'd felt the weight of his hand on her body. She felt curiously awkward and exposed, only this time it had little to do with the torn remnants of her kirtle. Still, her hand fluttered protectively over her bare flesh. She knew he saw the reflexive movement but he said nothing. She tried to summon a smile, but discovered found her lips reluctant to do her bidding.

" 'Twasn't so bad," she murmured. "And 'tis just as I told you—I am fine, milord."

"Fine, is it?" He snorted. "Girl, you are luckier than you know. My destrier might have crushed those fragile bones of yours as easily as mush." The very thought made him want to break out in a cold sweat.

There was a knock at the door and he rose to answer it. It was Gerda. Kathryn couldn't hear their low-voiced conversation, but when he returned to her side, he carried a small basin of water. He pulled up a small bench and placed the basin atop it, then resumed his place beside her.

Kathryn bit her hp, her expression anxious. "How is Peter? He was not hurt, was he?"

"Peter is fine," he said briefly. He continued to regard her, his dark head tipped slightly to the side. "I must thank you for saving his life—" She was startled to see a slow smile creeping across his lips. "—indeed, I've noticed you do not seem averse after all to occasionally playing nursemaid to my brat."

Kathryn could take no offense, for the faint light in his eyes robbed the words of any sting. Aware of her pulse picking up speed, she could not help but retort in kind. 'Tour son," she replied, "is possessed of a sweet, gentle nature, milord."

"Ah. Unlike his father?"

Her tiny smile matched his. "Your words, my lord, not mine."

He stunned her further by throwing back his head and laughing. Kathryn watched as he dipped a cloth in the basin, then wrung the water from it. Her shoulder was throbbing, but she gasped when he laid the cloth on her. The cold stung her torn flesh so much that her eyes watered. She squeezed them shut, afraid the earl would see and mistake the moisture for tears.

It was impossible for Guy to ignore the tension constricting her muscles. "The cold will dull the hurt," he murmured. He lifted the cloth, dabbing gently to remove the blood from her flesh. He rinsed it, then wrung it out and replaced it on her shoulder, this time leaving it in place.

Eventually she leaned back against the pillow, let out a sigh, and opened her eyes. Her gaze, wide and unwavering, melded with his. Guy felt as if a fist had plowed into his stomach. He couldn't think when he'd seen anyone with eyes so pure and green, the color of lush spring grass. He could not stop himself from wondering what truly went on beneath the lure of those beautiful green eyes... what secrets she concealed from him. And yet, it appeared they held no secrets now, at this moment. . . Her expression was half-troubled, half-watchful, as if she trod an unfamiliar path with no clear destination.

He almost welcomed the mild irritation that flared as he rinsed and replaced the cloth again, for she kept her slender fingers doggedly clamped to her breast. Why she attempted to preserve her modesty, he had no idea—he'd already glimpsed every delectable inch of her the night she sought to flee to Ashbury. And well they both knew she was far from chaste and virtuous.

At last he laid the cloth aside. With his fingers he began smoothing a healing unguent into the curve of her shoulder, down to where the arcing top of her breast began its thrusting ascent. There was nothing sexual in his touch—his features bespoke a shuttered detachment—but Kathryn flushed from the intimacy of his ministrations.

He had scarcely finished when another knock sounded. Gerda passed a small tray into the earl's hands. A moment later he extended a small goblet toward her. Plumes of steam curled toward the ceiling. "Here," was all he said.

The delicate sweep of her brows rose a fraction as Kathryn eyed it askance. She sniffed, but she could detect no noxious odor. "Ha!" she muttered. "Methinks I want you to taste it first, lest it be riddled with poison."

"Poison, eh? Your opinion of me sinks ever lower, Kathryn. I must admit, the idea has never crossed my mind." Guy laughed, unwillingly amused. He could think of a great many things he would like to do to this bewitching little wench... poison was not among them.

The pitch of his laughter was low and deep. Her heart gave an odd little flutter as her eyes met his. Time spun out slowly while they stared at each other, as if neither were able to break the strange spell that had cropped up. Something passed between them, something that seemed to pain both of them. . . something neither could deny.

It was Guy who spoke first. "Drink," he ordered quietly. "Gerda has a way with herbs. It will do you good." His arm slid around her back, easing her forward. He pressed the goblet to her lips and held her so she could drink. The brew was warm and tasted faintly of mint. But she found his touch and their closeness both comforting and disturbing. She drank it quickly, willing her mind from the way she leaned against him, trying desperately not to think about how the tips of her breasts grazed his chest, kindling a tingly sensation that was not entirely unpleasant. Rather, it was highly pleasant indeed.

The throbbing in her shoulder diminished to a dull ache. Her lids began to droop. She was aware of the waning rays of sunlight seeping through the window. It was not yet dark, so why was she so tired? Her limbs felt as though they'd been weighted with lead. The edges of her vision were tinged with gray. The earl's dark visage shifted and swirled. Nor could she seem to think straight. She shook her head to clear it.

Her eyes flew wide. Her gaze sought the earl's, though all she saw was a looming shadow. "The drink," she muttered. "There was something in it. . . I knew it! You truly seek to poison me!."

Soft, mocking laughter reverberated in her brain.

"Milord?" Even her tongue felt thick and clumsy.

"Here, Kathryn."

There was a touch against her cheek, like the wispy trailing of a feather. . . or did she only imagine it? She flung out a hand, groping as if she were blind. The next instant warm fingers closed about her own. "Do not. . . leave me," she heard herself say. In some far distant corner of her mind, she knew it was totally illogical that she should so cling to this man whom she hated, yet she could not stop herself. That was the last thing she remembered as she drifted into oblivion.

Guy studied the small hand curled so trustingly within his own, listening as her breathing grew deep and even. He felt compelled to linger, though he didn't know quite why. Perhaps it had something— everything?—to do with Kathryn casting aside her own safety for the sake of his son.

With his free hand he trailed a fingertip along the downy curve of her cheek, the slender grace of her throat. He was reminded of what she had said that night in the forest. 'Tis
not the first time I've felt the cuff of a man's hand...
The remembrance made a muscle tighten in his jaw. The thought of that tender white skin marred and bruised filled him with rage. Who, he fumed angrily, had dared to strike her? Richard?

It was inevitable that his thoughts would turn to Elaine. . . Elaine. Even as a wrenching pain squeezed his heart, he could scarcely summon the vision of her face, her flaxen hair swirling about her like an angel. Instead, his mind was besieged by this witch—Kathryn—whose hair shone dark as the wings of a raven... and he bitterly resented her for it.

And yet she possessed an allure he could neither deny nor submit to. His gaze lingered on lips stained a deep, vibrant pink, so dewy and moist she looked as if she'd been well and thoroughly kissed. Her cheeks were pink and flushed from sleep, her hair streaming wildly over the pillow. Seized by a sudden greed for the feel of it, he reached out and lifted a silky black strand. It curled around his fingers, sleek and vibrant, as if it possessed a will of its own.

As always, he could not look upon her without remembering that her flesh was the fairest of ivory; that her legs were supple and long and made to entwine with a man's. He longed to test for himself the cushioned softness of breasts ripe and firm, like the sweetest of fruit; he ached to sample the honeyed sweetness of rose-hued nipples against the twine of lips and tongue. He wanted to slide his fingers through the springy thatch that guarded her womanhood; settle himself between her slender thighs and seat the burning shaft of himself deep inside her. . . deeper still. . . while passion slaked its relentless thirst.

Too late he realized his mistake. His temples began to pound. A ravenous hunger surged inside him, so heady and strong he felt engulfed in a raging heat. Disgusted with himself, he crushed the lock of hair in his fist and dropped her hand, then prowled restlessly around the room.

What was he to do with her? In all truth, he didn't know. She was too much a lady to turn into a servant. At Ashbury, it had been in the back of his mind to make her his mistress—the obvious solution, for that would satisfy this accursed craving he had for her! But that was before he had discovered she was with child—and he couldn't make a woman who was with child his mistress... or could he?

The rational part of him rebelled at taking another man's leavings—for wasn't that what she was? But the physical part of him, the part that ruled his senses, was something else entirely. And it was this part of him that argued it would be some months before the child hindered his use of her. Surely by then—why, long before then!—this ludicrous longing for her would be extinguished.