Wings of the Storm (30 page)

Where had he learned to do it? He was David Wolfe. David Wolfe was a physicist. A researcher. A soft-handed man of the twenty-first century. When had he become a savage?

She remembered him smiling as Pwyll died. How many more men had he killed? What else had he done?

She didn't want him near her.

"You're not hurt, are you?" he asked. He cupped her face in his hands. "Please say you're all right."

"I'm not hurt," she answered. She wanted him to go away. She didn't know him and she didn't like him and she didn't want to deal with him.

His smile was as bright as a nova. "Good. Don't worry," he soothed. "I swear nothing like that will happen to you again. I'll take care of you," he swore. "Forever and ever. I'll protect you, Jehane. Hugh was a mean, spiteful fool. He knew he was dead. He wanted to take someone he hated with him. It's over now."

She stood abruptly and backed up two steps. They now stood eye to eye. "Over. It won't happen again.

No more violence," she concurred. She'd made up her mind. It had been the plan all along, hadn't it? "I'm not staying here," she told him. "I'm not going to be part of this world."

"It's all right. You don't have to stay here. I'll take you—"

"I'm leaving with Jonathan," she said. The words were adamant, etched in stone. "I'm going to Fontrevault and taking my vows."

"The devil you are!" he shouted.

He opened his mouth to yell again, but the king's voice cut through the air. "Wolf! To me!"

"Damn!" David grabbed her wrist and pulled her after him to the king. "Sire!" he acknowledged tightly.

The king was grinning happily. Jane noticed he was missing at least three bottom teeth. The room was full of people, but none was DeBourne. Hugh's body was nowhere in sight.

King John clapped David on the shoulder. "That was the best sport I've had since we came here.

Mag-nificent throw."

David bent his head in a humble nod. "Thank you, my lord."

How could the man be such a good actor? Jane wondered. How could he live the role so easily?

"Lilydrake's yours," the king told David. David looked up, face clouded with puzzlement. "Hugh's lands go to you," John clarified. "Been meaning to give you something for your service. An estate . . ."

John peered at Jane. "And a rich widow. Not bad pickings for a landless Welsh mercenary."

A look of sly triumph lit David's face. It was the look of a man with a cunning plan. "No, my lord, not bad at all. You have all my thanks." Still holding Jane's wrist hard, David dropped to one knee. She was dragged down with him. "One more boon, my lord?" he requested, kneeling before the king.

The king's eyes narrowed with suspicious caution. "Yes?"

"Stand witness to my marriage. Right now. At dawn's first light."

Laughter broke out around them. Laughter and shouts of ribald humor. The king looked confused for a moment, his fat chin resting thoughtfully on his upraised hand. "If that's all you wish," he said as the noise once more turned into a riotous din. "All right." He raised his voice above the
routiers'
noise.

"Some-body fetch that priest!"

Jane turned a poisoned look on David. She planned to open her mouth in protest, but David just shook his head. Light danced in his greenish eyes. His smirk was one of pure triumph.

Jane could find no words. There was nothing she could do. Once again David Wolfe was in control of her life. Once again he was giving her no choice.

29

Jane was so tired she could barely stand.Her eyes were burning from exhaustion. She thought she'd lost what was left of her wits some time ago, probably around the time Sibelle appeared, pushing her way through the crowd of
routiers,
Stephan a tall shadow in her wake. She was staring her hatred into David Wolfe's eyes when Sibelle arrived. It seemed a perfectly logical thing to be doing: kneeling in front of a fat, smelly man and trying to burn holes in the back of David's head with the strength of her will.

She didn't have any will at all when Sibelle hustled her off. A great deal of talking went on around her, to her, at and about her. Things happened. She was bathed by hands not her own, dressed and veiled in royal-blue silk and white linen, and led back down stairs she didn't remember climbing.

Stephan took charge of her hand and led her out here, to the castle steps. The world was lit by the first pale rays of dawn. The sky was pinky blue with

clouds like puffs of artillery smoke high overhead. She looked around. Where'd all those people in the courtyard come from? Where was Daffyd?

"Where's Daffyd?" she heard her own voice ask petulantly.

"Here," the chocolate voice said. She looked to her left. He was standing right beside her.

"Not you," she said, awake enough to know she was too tired to make any sense. "I want Daffyd."

"t know," he soothed. "I'm here."

It wasn't worth arguing about. She yawned. When had she last slept? After she'd made love to Daffyd.

But Daffyd wasn't here anymore. She wanted a cup of coffee.

Stephan was on her other side. Sibelle stood next to him. The king was next to David. David was back in Daffyd's red-and-black finery, his hair brushed to burnished gold. He was gorgeous. Why wasn't he Daffyd? Jonathan came out the castle door and approached them, smiling triumphantly.

You had better wake up, girl,a shrill voice in her head warned.
Something very bad is about to
hap-pen.

Let it,she answered.
There's nothing I can do.

Still, she'd shaken off some of the exhausted lethargy by the time Jonathan arrived before them. He unfolded a piece of parchment.

"What's that?" she asked.

"Your marriage contract," he answered. "Stephan, Daffyd, and I worked it out while you prepared for the ceremony."

An annoyance-fed shot of adrenaline brought her fully alert. "What?"

The crowd around them were staring. The king looked impatient. She kept quiet as Jonathan read, his Latin flowing and beautifully accented. The gist of the agreement was that Daffyd got all she had; she was offered an allowance; Stephan threw in the dogs as her liege's portion.

"I knew you'd hate giving them up," he answered her curious look. As he spoke Nikki was patiently licking her toes and Vince had wandered off some-where.

"I will hear your vows," Jonathan said after he'd finished with the contract. "Before God, the king, and

those assembled."

Stephan placed her hand in David's. David was smiling tenderly at her. "Be careful," he warned in English. "Will you marry me?"

"I don't want to."

"I know."

"Do I have a choice?"

"No. Do you want to?"

"No."

"Fine, Neither do I."

"Good."

"I do!"

"So do I!"

David looked at Jonathan and lied easily, once more speaking French: "It's the Welsh rite."

"I see. The ring?"

David brought a wide gold band out of a belt pouch. She recognized it as the gold hoop earring he always wore. "The blacksmith did some work for me while we waited," he told her as he started to place the newly made ring on her left hand, following the custom of their own time.

"Right," she corrected. He switched direction

smoothly. It fit perfectly. She thought she could feel the warmth from where the ends had been closed to form a solid ring.

David took a step back. Everyone was looking at her expectantly. She didn't understand what they were waiting for.

Sibelle finally came to her rescue, stage-whisper-ing, "You have to kneel now."

Jane's spine straightened with stubborn anger. Oh, no. No way did she show one bit of submission to any man. Especially not David Wolfe. She gave him the most pleasant, loving smile she could fake for the crowd. To David she said in their own language, "When hell freezes over."

She heard Sibelle whispering confusedly to her husband, "It must be a dialect of Welsh Granny Rosamunde didn't know."

David took her hands, drawing her close to his side. "It's not necessary," he told the priest.

"Not part of the Welsh rite?" Jonathan suggested helpfully. David shook his head. "I approve.

Prostra-tions should be saved for God." At King John's thun-derous frown, he amended diplomatically,

"And kings. I pronounce you man and wife," he ended quickly.

David grabbed her in a tight embrace and kissed her, lips slanting sensuously across hers, parting them with his tongue, their breath mingling. Much to her surprise, heat raced from her lips down to her toes and back up again. It felt wonderful. She supposed the roaring in her ears was from the crowd, but she wasn't completely positive.

When David drew his lips away from hers, he smiled knowingly into her eyes. "Smug bastard" were the first words she spoke to her husband. He winked.

He released his hold on her and turned to kneel to the king. "My thanks, my lord."

John was pulling on a pair of gloves. A groom was bringing up his horse. The soldiers were forming into ragged ranks. From the pasture beyond the castle walls came the sounds of camp being broken and sumptuary wagons being loaded.

"I wish you joy of the wench. She looks like a hot bitch" was the royal blessing for their union. "I'm off to Calais." He gave Jonathan a hard look. "Come, priest. We'll talk about your order's contribution to my treasury as we ride."

Jane looked at Jonathan unhappily. "I must go," he said, taking her hand for a moment. "May God bless you." He turned and made equally quick farewells to Sibelle and Stephan. He had to run for the horse his servant held by the reins for him. The priest and his retainer hurried after the departing king.

The people on the steps were left standing, stunned by this quick exit of so many people.

"People come and go so quickly here?" Jane sug-gested after a time. David gave her a sour look. She shrugged. "I always wanted to say it."

"I think," Sibelle said, waving everyone to the door, "we should break our fast and celebrate." "A wedding and our lord John's departure," Stephan agreed.

"I'm not sure there's enough left to break our fast with," Jane contributed, thinking as the chatelaine of Passfair once more.

"Oh, we'll contrive something," Sibelle said with firm assurance. She waved them all on into the hall.

Jane's steps were dragging by the time she reached

the hearth, every bit of energy she'd mustered for the ceremony dissipated. She found herself leaning on David's strong arm. She felt like a wimp. "I think I'm going to faint."

"Nonsense," he said cheerfully. "Sir Stephan," he said over her head. "My lady doesn't need food, but rest. I think we will retire."

"Now?" Stephan asked. "I wanted to hear about Lilydrake and the king. Couldn't you wa—"

"Stephan!" Sibelle hissed. "Not now!" She tugged him toward the table. "They just got married. Let them go to bed."

"Oh. Of course. Sorry," he called over his shoulder.

David urged Jane forward. She remembered set-ting her foot on the stair, then his lifting her onto the straw mattress in her alcove. The points in between were all covered in fuzz. The pillow felt wonderful against her cheek. She didn't have the energy to protest when he climbed in beside her.

She woke once in the middle of the day and found herself wrapped in a warm embrace. The man hold-ing her was sleeping deeply, lids fluttering a little as he dreamed. She lay stiffly beside him for a moment, sleep trying to drag her back down.

She didn't know what was going to happen next. She knew it was better than sharing the bed with the dogs. She let sleep have its way.

30

Jane woke next when David got back into bed.She'd been vaguely aware of his moving around the alcove—heard him using the pot in the corner, the splash of water in the basin—but the sounds seemed so much a part of the routine of life that they didn't disturb her. It was the knowledge this was most cer-tainly
not
part of the routine of her life that brought her fully awake.

She lay still, back against the wall. How long had they been asleep? The covering, if there'd been one, must have been kicked off while they slept. Yet she was anything but cool. She felt him lying close beside her, warm, unclothed flesh pressed intimately against hers. It was a small bed, and he was a big man.

There was no way to scrunch over closer to the wall. She was practically inside the wall now. Any farther and the rats would be complaining of invasion of privacy.

There was no putting it off. She opened her eyes and looked at her husband in the dimness of what she thought was dusk. He was propped up on one elbow,

head resting on his palm, one leg thrown over her hip. He'd shaved before the wedding, so there was no beard stubble yet to shadow his cheeks. In this light the man seemed to be all cheekbones and nose.

There were still dark marks under his eyes. He looked tired despite the hours of rest. Tired and worried.

She found she wanted to stroke his shoulder reas-suringly. And might have if she didn't remember just in time how much she hated him. This was Wolfe. He was her kidnapper. Was what he'd done technically kidnapping? Was there a formal charge for what he'd done? Illegal use of a time machine probably wasn't part of any legal code this side of "Star Trek."

Still, he was gazing at her with such an air of melancholy that it bothered her. Instead of feeling like a victim, she felt almost sorry for the man. Which was the wrong attitude. Everything was his fault. She tried to harden her heart against him. Unfortunately it refused to turn to stone. She had the feeling it was actually more the consistency of hard butter, just waiting to melt. Oh, no, not for him, she vowed. Still, there was no reason to act uncivilized. Uncivilized could wait for later, after the swords and daggers were put back on.

"You look terrible," she stated by way of a greet-ing. He reached out a finger and played with one of her sadly sagging curls.

She wished she could tell him she hated him and wanted him to go away. But after all they'd been through, such a childish action was impossible. Too easy.

"You owe me ninety-five dollars for this perm," she said inanely, glad to have someone who would at least understand what she was talking about. Even though the someone was Wolfe. "The thing's totally ruined. My hair's going to take months to grow long enough to trim off the curls. Makes me glad veils are in fashion."