In the heat of the noontime hour, in the silence of the stone ring, Arnou’s kiss seemed as natural as Sorcha’s dance with the frisking breeze. She held herself still, absorbing the sensation of his lips on hers, wondering in an abstracted way what caused the humble, bumbling Arnou to take such an action. Then the warmth of the moment dissolved thought. Her lips opened under the delicate pressure of his and the flavor of him was like honey on her tongue.
He must have thought the same about her, for he murmured, “Sweet,” and the movement of his lips plucked at nerves she hadn’t known existed.
He smelled like this valley: fresh, wild, unfettered. Even with her eyes closed, she would always recognize his odor…and her eyes were closed now.
When had that happened? It seemed so natural to share this moment with him, to be intimate as she had never been intimate with any man.
His hand cradled her chin, and the calluses on his palm and his fingers paid tribute to the work he’d done as a sailor. As a man.
His lips left hers and coasted up to press on her cheeks, her eyelids…then down to caress the tender spot at the base of her ear.
As his breath caressed her neck, she shivered with delight. She knew that men kissed women; after being sent into exile in England, she’d lived with a kind couple who expressed their affections with an occasional peck on the mouth.
But this was different. Arnou’s kisses were rich, laden with the cream of experience and the honey of desire. She wanted to revel in each moment that he pressed his lips to her skin. When he kissed her throat, she heard herself give a faint moan, as if her body couldn’t resist giving the most primitive kind of applause for his skill.
And when she moaned, he lifted his head and stared down at her face.
She felt the heat of his gaze, but the warmth of his passion had permeated her bones and she could scarcely lift her lids. When she did, she saw that his pupil was dilated so large the deep brown of his iris was almost invisible. She fancied she could see right into the depths of his soul, and she smiled, a slow, languid curve of the lips, wanting him to know how very much his worship had meant to her.
“You silly girl.” His voice rasped as if his throat were swollen. “Do you think that this is safe?”
“Safe? Of course. I trust you.” The chill of doubt touched her. “Shouldn’t I?”
“Not at all.” Moving to his side of the blanket, he lay down, closed his eye, and was absolutely still and so rigid he seemed to be fighting against some great pain.
She didn’t know what that pain could be, but it left her the only one on alert.
She glanced around her. The air was so clear, this place was so high, she could see for miles in every direction. Nothing moved on the road, nothing moved in the valley, nothing moved on the hills. Even the horses, grazing not far away, looked thin and small. It was almost as if the fairies really had created this place and wove spells to protect it. If someone out there hunted her, he was nowhere in sight.
With a sigh of relief, she cleaned up the dinner, wrapping the remains of their meal in brown paper. If they were careful, they had enough provisions for the next two days. The rain had slowed their journey into Edinburgh, but if it stayed as dry as it was today, that would be enough. She brushed the crumbs off the middle of the blanket, placed the saddlebag beside them, and at last gave in to her most pressing need…and stared at Arnou.
Tension no longer gripped him. He had slipped into sleep, making up for the wakeful night spent scouting their next move. The rag over his eye cut her view of his face, but relaxed in slumber and untouched by foolishness, he had the appearance of youth, of nobility.
And Mother Brigette would point out that that was a lesson for Sorcha. She had listened to his inanities, been annoyed by his constant broad grin, and been unable to see the virtue of his features.
For some reason, she wanted to gaze at him, to linger over his face, his form…touch him, kiss him as he’d kissed her.
As she subsided beside him on the blanket, she wondered—why had he kissed her? It had seemed the act of a man driven by impulse. Knowing Arnou, that was what it was.
But why? Did he find her attractive? Did a man find her, with her carrot hair and pale, freckled skin…desirable? She could scarcely imagine such a thing.
Of course, it was just Arnou, and if Rainger were alive and here, he would point out that Arnou was an idiot.
Very well. It was true. But Arnou was a kind idiot. A brave idiot. He might cringe away from actual fighting, but even knowing full well someone stalked her, he still traveled with her.
And lately he hadn’t seemed so ridiculous. He’d shown moments of intelligence, of shrewdness.
She flattered herself that the hours with her had improved his mind and his manner, and perhaps in the future he would be able to improve himself and his situation….
But none of that answered the question of why he’d kissed her—and when he would kiss her again.
Taking her hat, she placed it over her face, easing the sunshine that was bright even over her closed eyelids…and as she reminisced about that kiss, she slid into slumber.
Rainger knew where he was—asleep on a blanket in the middle of a stone circle in the middle of the Scottish Highlands.
He knew his mission—to retrieve Princess Sorcha, return her to Beaumontagne, marry her, and use her army to rescue Richarte.
He knew the danger—robbers, starvation, winter, assassins. Sorcha might rebel and decline, as her sisters had, to follow her destiny.
But he could meet every challenge.
Only his own weakness brought on the nightmare.
Only his own weakness….
“Rainger, you can’t go see the countess.” Marlon was the only one who dared speak as they all wished. “It’s too dangerous.”
“I have to.” Seventeen-year-old Rainger stared down his nose at the small coterie of his friends: Cezar, Hector, Emilio, Hardouin, and Marlon. Men who had been raised with him and trained to serve and guard him at all costs. “I love her. She sent me a note. She’s worried about me. I must have one more night in fair Julienne’s arms.” He was very aware of how romantic he looked: hanging from the trellis below Julienne’s balcony, sword at his side, shoulders squared, dark eyes flashing with passion. He imagined himself to be the epitome of the quixotic cavalier, and his chest swelled with pride.
He was the crown prince of Richarte, marching off to war to save his country from the evil usurper, but first he would have one last night of bliss. His danger was great, yes, but her peril was even greater, for the evil usurper was her own husband, Count duBelle.
“Stand guard,” he told his friends, and continued his climb up Count duBelle’s trellis into Count duBelle’s bedchamber, where he would pork Count duBelle’s wife. He grasped the heavy branches of the vine and lighter wood of the trellis with his gloved hands, boosting himself higher up the wall and closer to his love.
Cezar, Hector, Emilio, Hardouin, and Marlon. Three were older. Two were his age. All were dashing cavaliers of the realm.
None approved of this adventure.
“Where is she? If she wrote you a note, why isn’t she hanging over the balcony waiting for you? I tell you, I don’t like this.” Cezar’s dark hair and eyes most closely matched Rainger’s; he was his third cousin, two years older, and the handsomest of the group.
But Rainger had been the man Julienne had chosen. “You’re jealous,” he said.
“For God’s sake, Rainger, this isn’t a game. They’re hunting us.” Cezar’s voice lashed at Rainger like a whip.
For a moment, cold reason plucked at Rainger’s mind. Since the death of his father the king, the insurgents had grown strong. They said he was young, spoiled, and unfit for rule. The royal Richarte army waited on the precipice of battle for him, their young prince, to lead them and prove his worthiness.
Instead he was hanging on a trellis following the demands of his cock rather than the thoughts of his brain. Staring down at his friends, he wondered if Cezar was right, if he should run while he could and take his pleasure later.
Then the branch he clung to broke. He lost his toehold, hung by the other arm, flailed about for a handhold…felt foolish.
Typically, his friends would be pointing at him, braying with laughter like the jackasses they were.
Instead they were deathly silent, as if they were too somber, too important, too weighed down with serious matters to behave normally.
And that infuriated him.
Did they really think they were so much smarter, so much more mature? Did they really think he was cosseted and indulged? He’d show them.
Gaining his balance, he continued his climb, more carefully now, with less concern for the way he appeared and more concern for reaching his destination.
He was grateful Julienne hadn’t seen him make a fool of himself. But Cezar was right. Where was she? Why wasn’t she waiting on the balcony?
He inched and scrabbled his way up and over the marble balusters. Lightly he landed on the balcony. He eyed the open door and the closed drapes. Warning jangled along his nerves.
Where was Julienne?
He glanced down at his friends below. They stood together in a little group, muttering disgustedly.
Rainger couldn’t climb down. He couldn’t admit he might be wrong.
He loosened his sword in its scabbard and crept forward. He parted the drapes.
And there she was, posed against the headboard, exquisitely nude and bathed in the glow of a single bedside candle—Julienne, Countess duBelle, his first and best lover.
“Darling.” In that single word, her warm, rich voice promised every sort of pleasure. She held out her arms. “Come to me.”
Prudence, deliberation, logic flew from his brain. He entered the room in a rush, intent on one thing—sinking into her body, riding her hard, then doing it again.
He put all his ardent admiration and desire into his embrace.
She chuckled and wiggled away. “Darling, so many medals and buttons. Quickly. Quickly! Disrobe for me. Show me your marvelous young body and your massive manhood.”
For a single second, discretion returned. She had never wanted him to be quick before. If anything, she had complained about the speed at which his needs drove him.
Then she smiled…and leisurely licked her full, ruby-colored lips.
He didn’t need a second urging. He ripped off his clothes, flinging garments willy-nilly across the room. His coat, his belt…his sword, his pistol…his boots, his breeches. In record time, he stood naked before her, strong, young, virile, flaunting an erection she claimed surpassed any she could imagine, and certainly Count duBelle’s.
“Very good, darling. Now wait just a minute….” She stretched her arms above her head, lifting the heavy globes of her breasts in a glorious display.
Lust surged through him. He trembled, he needed, he could barely see, scarcely hear—
Until from behind him, he heard the snick of many blades being drawn.
Whirling, he faced seven swords pointed at him. Seven cavaliers dressed in Count duBelle’s livery held those swords.
They looked him over, and they were grinning.
One thought flashed through Rainger’s mind: He had to protect Julienne. “Get behind me, darling!” he shouted.
She slid off the bed behind him.
He placed himself between her and the sharp points.
She moved to one side, then to the other.
He moved with her, keeping his gaze on the swords. His own sword…he’d carelessly tossed it toward the windows. His pistol…he’d placed it on the bedstand, but every time he moved that way, the cavaliers drove him away.
They were laughing, the bastards. Laughing out loud. They were amused by the prince they’d trapped, naked and without resources.
But he wasn’t without resources. “To me!” he shouted toward the windows. “To Rainger!”
It was the call of a desperate man.
Rainger’s men would be here soon, climbing the trellis, evening the odds—
Just as that defiance crossed his mind, he heard the scream from below.
A death scream. He froze in horror.
Who? Who had died? His cousin Cezar? Hector, so happy, so generous? Emilio, Rainger’s age and his best friend? Hardouin, sensitive and poetic? Or Marlon, intense, practical, and hard-headed?
Swords clashed. Men shouted. The ambush that had waited for Rainger included his men.
“Welcome, young prince.”
At the sound of that urbane voice, Rainger’s head jerked around. From behind the drapes, Count duBelle strolled forth. Women called the usurper handsome: blond hair, blue eyes, athletic body he kept well trained, and a sense of fashion that displayed all of his perfections. At the age of thirty-three, he was a man in the height of his power. Now he stood, slapping his palm with his leather whip, gloating over his new acquisition.
“I do believe we’ve snared the most important pawn in our game of chess.” Count duBelle was smiling. He was smiling as if he’d won the war.
But he didn’t know the facts. Rainger wouldn’t allow him to take Julienne, to run her through with the rapier he held in his hand.
Oh, God. Oh, God. His foolishness had killed a friend. Maybe…all of his friends.
He faced death, and he wasn’t romantic. He wasn’t righteous. He wasn’t heroic. His heart raced and his hands trembled.
Yet he could be gallant. He could protect Julienne.
He reached back for her, needing the reassurance of her flesh against his palm.
But while he had listened to the fight below, she had slipped past.
“Julienne!” he shouted.
With a teasing glance over her shoulder, she sashayed toward Count duBelle.
Count duBelle caught her around the waist and pulled her toward him. Together they faced Rainger.
They were smiling. Both of them were smiling.
Rainger struggled to comprehend this horror.
“My darling, you weren’t lying,” Count duBelle marveled. “You hold him by the ballocks.”
Rainger’s bile rose.
“Isn’t he sweet?” Countess duBelle placed her hand on her cocked hip. “Even now he can’t take his eyes off me, and he’s erect and ready.”
She had betrayed him. Julienne had betrayed him. And his men. Below the window, the sounds of the fight had faded. Not, he knew, because his men had won the day. Because they had been vanquished.
A trap. His men had tried to tell him, but he’d been too stubborn and too lustful to admit they were right.
She had trapped him. And he’d let her.
Count duBelle’s gaze slithered down Rainger’s body to his genitals, and his smile tilted down on one side. “Young Rainger proves the royal family didn’t win their position by their impressive size.”
“Darling, I told you that.” Countess duBelle caressed her husband’s arm. “He’s nothing but a straw boy compared to you.”
She had said those exact words to Rainger about Count duBelle.
She was naked in front of Count duBelle’s men, and they acted as if the sight were a common one. Count duBelle stroked her flank, then slipped his hand behind her, manipulating her until she squirmed. For more than two years, she’d enticed Rainger, first subtly, then openly. She’d seduced him, taught him how to make love to a woman, flattered him, entrapped him.
She had meant nothing she said to him. She’d given her body carelessly because she valued her body not at all.
“You’re nothing but a whore,” Rainger realized.
She laughed, a frivolous ringing sound. “Everyone knows that except you, my darling. Everyone except you.”
Count duBelle’s men advanced, their swords out, flashing amused smiles.
If Rainger had any honor, he would impale himself on the points.
But he didn’t have the courage. Even if his men were dead. Even if he’d ruined the nobility of his house, of his father, of his name—he was only seventeen years old. He was young. His whole life stretched before him. Surely something would happen to save the day. Surely somehow he would rise to achieve his revenge and win back his honor.
Count duBelle must have seen Rainger’s brief surge of hope, for he strolled out onto the balcony. “Ahhh. Two of your men appear to be dead. One is bleeding. Well, no. Let me take that back. They’re all bleeding, but that one’s wound seems to be rather messy.”
Rainger started toward the window.
The sword points stopped him.
“Don’t hurt yourself, darling.” Julienne stepped in front of him and sank her claws into his chest. She left five small red crescents. Taking the blood on her fingertip, she licked it in a lavish display. “That’s our task.”
Catching her arm, Count duBelle jerked her to the side. To his guards he said, “Take His Highness Prince Rainger to the dungeon. Chain him to the wall. I’ll be down…soon.”
The men grabbed Rainger by his arms.
With Rainger in Count duBelle’s hands, Richarte’s army of noble soldiers would be forced to acquiesce to his demands.
Rainger—and Richarte—faced defeat. And it was all Rainger’s fault.
Slapping his whip in his palm, Count duBelle smiled thinly. “When I’m done with you, you’ll lick my boots and beg for your life.”
Rainger struggled against the guards. “I will never beg you for anything.”
But he’d been wrong.