Samantha James (24 page)

His eyes darkened. "Aye." He bent and kissed the wildly thrumming pulse at the base of her throat. "Say it, Kathryn," he muttered hoarsely. "Say my name."

Guy . .. His name trembled on her lips. Her teeth dug into her lower hp to keep it from spilling out. His eyes looked down on her, fiery and glittering—she saw in them all that she feared. He had ruthlessly set about the task of setting her blood afire, not because he harbored any tender emotion toward her, nay, but because he sought only to tame her to his hand! Pain sliced her chest, as if a knife had passed through it. She could not— would not!—allow her to lead him along the path to triumph so easily.

His head lowered. A flurry of panic traced through her—he meant to kiss her into weak, willing submission! "Nay," she heard herself say. For all that it was but a whisper, she denied him fiercely . .. and then again. "Nay!" And she wrenched her head away, spurning him outright.

A veil of red-hot mist swam before Guy. A bitter fury erupted inside him. If she would not allow him to give her pleasure, then so be it, he decided harshly. He shifted his weight atop her. With his knee he splayed her wide open... he shifted again, the searing tip of his shaft poised at the very heart of her. . .

A mighty thrust buried him deep inside her.

Blinded as he was by rage and passion, his tardy mind was slow to register her body's fragile resistance to his invasion.

Kathryn never heard the bitter oath that stung her ear. She strained away instinctively, but he was like a rock above her, a white-hot lance inside her. With a strangled cry she jammed her palms frantically against his shoulders and chest, desperate to dislodge the throbbing shaft that burned and stung like fire, clear to her womb.

Above her, Guy had gone rigid, his features dark and hard, twisted into a grimace that closely resembled pain. His breath was harsh and scraping, the cords in his neck starkly visible. The roped sinews of his arms stood out as he braced himself above her.

"Kathryn—" He reached up and clamped his fingers around her wrists, pinning them to the mattress. A convulsive shudder racked his form. He gritted his teeth and tried not to think how small she was, how tightly embedded was his swollen length in the hot silken prison of her flesh.

It was no use. The thundering pulse within him governed all else. "I cannot stop," he muttered thickly. "God help me, I cannot!" With a frenzy he could not leash, he drove mindlessly into her. Once. Twice. Again. For once he had no control over the dictates of his body. He came to his climax quickly, like a stripling youth, drenching her with the wet heat of his seed even as he collapsed against her.

His grip on her wrists relaxed by subtle degrees. Sanity returned much more quickly—and with a vengeance. The magnitude of what he had done washed over him like a thundercloud. He withdrew from her abruptly and rolled away, rising to his feet. He had to force himself to look at her. She lay stiff and passive, her eyes squeezed shut, her lashes fanned out like thick black fans against skin that was almost colorless. Revulsion twisted his insides as he spied the blood smeared on her pale thighs.

Self-loathing poured through him like boiling oil. He relived the agonizing remorse of that split second when she shed her maidenhead—Christ, he had taken her with all the finesse of a battering ram slamming through the gates! Bitterly he wondered if she knew the act had brought him little satisfaction.

He moved away, only to return a moment later, a wet cloth in his hand. Her entire body jerked as he pressed the cloth between her thighs and began to wipe away the traces of his possession. From the corner of his eye he saw her fingers wind into the sheet. With a convulsive swallow she turned her face aside.

Something twisted inside him. Where was that haughty spirit that so drove him to insanity? Right now she looked like a frail spring blossom he'd crushed with his heel!

Never had she been more exposed and powerless than she was at this moment, and he almost hated her for it, and for the foolish uncertainty which suddenly plagued him. She had led him to believe that she and Roderick were lovers... or had she? Had he believed it simply because he was convinced it was so? Yet she'd made no effort to set him aright!

"A virgin," he muttered furiously. "Damn it, a virgin!" The words tumbled forth in a rush of frustrated, bewildered anger.

Kathryn's eyes opened, huge and wounded. She was shattered to find his expression taut and inscrutable. It conveyed no tenderness, no remorse. As always, he condemned and accused... A stab of anger pierced through the hurt and humiliation. She lurched to a sitting position, snatching a fur to her breast to shield her nakedness.

His jaw clenched. "You should have told me," he began.

He got no further. "Why? Would that have stopped you?" She was suddenly shaking in her anger. "You meant to punish me—to hurt me. You wanted to hurt me... and you did!"

Guy went numb with shock. Mother of Christ, did she truly think him so vile? If he had but known... "I wanted you, aye! But I never meant to cause you pain." He stretched a hand toward her but she scrambled back, as far away as she could.

"Who lies now, milord?" she flung at him scathingly. "Get out. . . get out!"

His expression went rigid. The air seethed as their eyes locked in furious combat. With a violent curse, Guy flung the bloodied cloth to the floor, grabbed his clothing, and stormed from the chamber.

The cloth landed atop the rumpled heap of midnight velvet. Kathryn saw it there an instant later. She kicked it aside with a muffled cry, snatched up the velvet, and held it fast to her breast. She slumped to the floor amidst its folds, the taste of bitter tears upon her tongue.

And when she spoke his name, it was not a whispered lover's plea, but a blistering curse. "Damn you, Guy," she choked. "Damn you to hell!"

Chapter 11

Kathryn struggled to wakefulness the next morning, her mind befuddled with sleep. Dust motes fluttered within the pale shaft of sunlight that found its way between the wooden shutters. Some elusive memory tugged at her but she fought to keep it at bay, sensing that if she did not, something awful would happen.

Dear God. It already had. Last night's humiliation came back in scorching remembrance. Guy had taken everything from her—her home, her family— and now her body. She willed away the scalding rush of tears—she had cried throughout the night. In the wee hours before dawn streaked the eastern sky, she vowed that never again would Guy de Marche bring her to tears. In some strange indefinable way, it was but one more way she bowed to his will, and she would not let him force her to such weakness. And yet, she felt changed somehow. As if by that single invasion of her body, he had laid claim to some secret part of her. She had the strangest sensation she would never again be herself.

There was a tap on the door. Kathryn froze, the covers clutched beneath her chin, half-afraid it was Guy. But it was only Gerda.

" 'Tis late," Kathryn murmured with a faint smile, pushing her heavy hair from her face. "You should have woke me earlier."

"My lord said to let you sleep," Gerda told her.

Kathryn's smile faded. She made as if to leave the bed, then realized her chemise was in a heap across the room where Guy had made her disrobe. Gerda went to fetch it, her smooth brow creased in a slight frown. Kathryn bit her Up. Such untidiness was so unlike her that she could almost see the thought running through Gerda's mind. But if Gerda thought it unusual, she said nothing. Kathryn accepted it, thanking her, and pulled it over her head. Pushing aside the covers, she rose, wincing a little at the slight twinge between her thighs.

Behind her, there was a quick indrawn breath. Kathryn turned abruptly... They both stared in horror at the pale-red stain upon the sheets. A crimson tide of embarrassment stung her cheeks. It shouldn't have mattered what Gerda thought, but it did. Since the day she had saved Peter from being trampled, there had been a change in the servant
⁷
s manner toward her. Gerda's softening had been more subtle. But Kathryn did not delude herself that, in a test of Gerda's loyalties, she would ever win out over the earl.

She sensed Gerda's gaze returning to her, but she could not face the girl, for suddenly she knew not what to expect from Gerda. Pity? Or condemnation? She could stand to see neither right now.

She started when a gentle hand touched her arm. "Milady," Gerda said softly, "mayhap you'd like a warm bath this morning." Kathryn dredged up the courage to glance at her. Gerda was gazing at her with something akin to concern. More than ever, Kathryn longed to cry.

"Thank you," she murmured. "I'd like that very much."

The steaming waters of the bath soothed the ache in the tender petals of her womanhood. The feel of the earl was still about her body and the scent of him still clung to her. She scrubbed herself furiously, anxious to rid herself of every trace of him. But to her horror, she found she could not blot out the memory of the night so easily. She shut her eyes but it was no use. She could still recall the shape of him—so tall, his body pared of all fat, all sleek, hard muscle densely covered in hair. . .

Her hand stilled, unknowingly coming to rest directly over her heart. Deep inside her, a squall of emotion blustered and raged. She felt. . . oh, so many things! She had expected to feel only revulsion and disgust for what he had done. Her throat tightened oddly. Now, she only felt. . . cheated somehow. As if there were something more... She cried out silently. What magic did he possess that he so addled her brain? She had sworn she would partake of no pleasure at his hand—and yet she had, a pleasure so pure and sweet it made a quickening heat storm through her all over again. With stark, vivid clarity, she remembered the daring foray of lean dark hands that roamed her flesh—how they first explored with flaming caresses and breath- stealing discovery—then later, how he bound his hips to hers while he thrust inside her. . .

The heat inside her grew cold. His touch had promised so much... but in the end, it delivered only pain.

When Gerda returned, Kathryn was standing at the window gazing out upon the bailey. "I've not seen the earl this morning," she remarked. She strived for an even tone and somehow managed to achieve it. "Do you know where he is, Gerda?"

"He is gone, milady."

"Gone! Where, Gerda?"

'To visit several of his manors to the north, milady. He expects to be gone a fortnight, maybe a little less."

"A fortnight," Kathryn repeated numbly. "But he said nothing—" She broke off abruptly. Fool! A voice inside her fiercely berated her foolishness. Why should he apprise her of his plans? She meant nothing to him—nothing! Hadn't his abrupt withdrawal last night proved that? Once again his face loomed above her, his expression frigidly angry as he pulled away from her body. The remembrance slipped beneath her skin like a needle. If only he had displayed some small scrap of tenderness, she might have forgiven him... She hardened her heart against him. Aye, she was glad he was gone and heartily so. He could leave for a twelvemonth and she cared not a whit!

She was stunned to learn that Guy had relaxed his restrictions before he left. Sir Michael no longer followed when she left the castle walls. It bruised her pride to admit that perhaps he knew her better than she thought. Had he tightened the noose around her neck, her first reaction would have been to bolt at the first opportunity that presented itself.

She had to force herself to begin fashioning the cloth he'd given her into gowns for herself. She and Gerda spent most mornings sewing, while Peter played at their feet. But she went for a ride nearly every afternoon, sometimes alone, sometimes with Gerda and Peter.

One warm, sunny afternoon after she and Peter had finished playing at the stream, she impulsively decided to do a little exploring. When Sir Michael had been in attendance, she had always refrained. Oh, he was always impeccably polite and obliging, but she'd been unable to quell her resentment at being shadowed.

Now, standing beside Esmerelda with Peter, she paused and sent a sweeping gaze around the tree- studded landscape. Beyond the treetops, lush green hills stretched as far as the eye could see, fold upon fold.

"What do you think, Peter? Shall we stay out a while longer? We could ride there to the top of that hill—" Her arm stretched out. "—while you pretend that you're lord of the manor out surveying his demesne." She crouched down before him and tickled him beneath the chin. "Because when you're a man full grown, you will be, you know."

The boy gazed up at her eagerly. "Will I be a brave knight like my papa?"

Kathryn didn't understand the pang that shot through her. "Aye," she murmured, ruffling his black curls. "Just like your papa."

"Will you be here when I am lord?"

His question startled her. But it disturbed her far more, for until that moment she had staunchly refused to consider her future.

She did so now.

Despite the warmth of the sun beating down on her head, she felt as if a cold wind swept across her heart. She did not belong here at Sedgewick, she thought despairingly. And the earl had seen to it that she no longer belonged at Ashbury. Her future loomed before her, empty and barren. Never had she felt so lost and alone!

But Peter still awaited her answer. "Peter—" She strived for a jesting tone, and miraculously achieved it. "—when you are a lord, I shall be old and ugly and wrinkled—"