A Flame Run Wild (10 page)

As if she sensed the strength of his temptation, her eyes, wide and misty, held his. Whether she challenged him or pitied him, he did not know, but his desire was like a compelling, maddening sting that might only be assuaged in her flesh. He suddenly knew he would never want another woman as he wanted Liliane. That she might feel nothing for him, that her response might be silent mockery, was unbearable.

When she stopped singing, he lay tense as a tightly strung bow, silent but ready to release all his pent-up emotion at the first touch of her hand.

Liliane listened to the growing silence after her voice no longer filled the air. She had expected at the least a polite murmur from Alexandre, if not the ardent response she had increasingly hoped for as she had come under the spell of the
canto hondo.
She had seen the
gitanos
dance, the elegance, the passionate attraction that mounted to fiery abandon. She had known that abandon once with Jean, and now she wanted to experience it with Alexandre. With his sun-glinted hair tousled and chainse falling open upon his muscular chest, he was most appealing. His skin was so smooth, so vulnerable and touchable. His eyes had turned that strange, disturbing shade of blue that stirred her, made her believe that he wanted her to caress him, to ease that chainse back from his shoulders and kiss him, have him slide away the covers so that she might kiss his naked body until he was wild for her. His eyes told her he wanted to see her unclothed, too; to see her hair swirling about them both as she molded her body to his and began the fierce, sinuous dance of desire together in search of another of love's endless mysteries.

When his eyes beckoned her so, why did he still look so rigid, so unapproachable?

Had her song offended him? The
canto hondo
could only offend a prude; the song itself was a work of art, and she thought that her voice was pleasant enough. She began to grow uncomfortable. "I take it that you find the wall cracks preferable to my singing, my lord?" she said a bit faintly.

"I assure you that I was far from bored, my lady."

In the golden afternoon light, Alexandre's expression was so like Jean's, that of an eager boy alive with a man's ardor. So often, she was certain he couldn't be Jean, and yet at this moment all her senses cried out that he was Jean, and she wanted him to take her in his arms. After so many weeks of uncertainty, both longing and frustration compelled her to cast aside caution. "Yet you appear unhappy, my lord," she murmured, her own heart in her eyes. "Perhaps you prefer the flute?"

Liliane had hoped for a reaction, but certainly not the one she received. Alexandre might have turned into a different man.

He was taken completely off guard by her question. His desire cooled abruptly as he was sharply reminded that Liliane still thought of Jean, and that her beauty cloaked a swordsman's mind.

To discover his weaknesses, she knew to probe for openings, and Jean provided a major one. Hurt and angry, he instantly became Jean's opposite. "I am not unhappy, Madame," he replied in a deliberately peevish tone. "I am merely weary. Pleasant music invariably pots me to sleep. Unfortunately, your heathen song of lecherous adultery has achieved the opposite effect. Do me the kindness of learning a few decent French songs that will spare us both embarrassment." He sank into the pillows and gave her a sour stare. "Also, call upon the priest this afternoon and make confession. Your moral education is sadly lacking."

Torn between fury and disbelief, Liliane gaped at him. She knew the hypocrite wanted her. Sanctimonious popinjay! She could scarcely imagine that only moments ago she had contemplated going to bed with him! She should have left him in the river to turn completely to ice; his brain was already as frozen as his stifled manhood! Stonily, she rose. "You need no music to put yourself to sleep, my lord; let but your serious nature have its sway. All creation will disappear into the maw of one great yawn."

Liliane saw Alexandre's mouth twitch as if he might laugh, but then he said sternly, "You are impertinent, milady."

"Children are impertinent, sir. You are in no danger of drawing ridicule from babes. Before your heir tries his teeth on your finger, you will be gumming gruel." Liliane stalked out and slammed the door. She flew so quickly down the turret stairs that she missed the muffled laughter that echoed through the upper tower.

A week later, Alexandre rode out to Pierre le Blac's hut. The gray horse he thought might have carried his half-drowned body to the castle was grazing in the meadows nearby, but Pierre swore flatly that he had played no Samaritan. "The nag was not in my keeping on the night you describe, my lord, but strung on the smithy line to be shod."

Alexandre accepted his story. After all, why would Pierre lie, particularly when a few questions to the smithy would expose him?

Alexandre had Pierre bring over the big mare, men he examined its hoofs; the left front one was notched from a loosened nail. "That's why I had her reshod," explained Pierre. "She was beginning to favor that side."

Alexandre thanked him, then set out for the riverbank he had tumbled down. As he did not remember precisely where the fell occurred, well over an hour went by before he located the spot a half mile below the old Roman aqueduct that spanned the river to the northwest. Several rains in the fortnight of his illness had washed away footprints, leaving only feint marks where bracken and undergrowth had been trampled. With a hunter's patience, he finally found a horsed hoof print with a crooked notch; also a human footprint, nearly as small as a child's. Serf children sometimes played on the bank; perhaps an older child had made the mark. Still, he was right about the gray.

As he was still weak from his illness, he rested on the bank for a few moments. Sunlight sifted through the new oak leaves to play on the rushing water. It made him think of fishing by the forest stream and his first encounter with Liliane. She had not come near him for days and he did not blame her. Fancy, his recommending a priest to curb her "lusty" spirit! He was delighted by her defiant response, less so by the alienation to which it must lead. Startled by her knowing mention of the flute, he had overreacted, seeming more of a martinet than he had intended. Liliane was also probably annoyed that he was using her dowry money without legally having a right to it, since the marriage was unconsummated. As a woman, even a wealthy one, Liliane could make little trouble on that score; however, if she solicited Jacques's assistance, she could force the issue. It was ironic that he should have to be forced to bed a woman for whom he was fairly panting, yet he was too well aware of his susceptibility to enter that snare too quickly.

The next day, feeling stronger after his foray in the fresh air, Alexandre rode out to the byre to finish resetting the wall. He had been in haste to finish the work the night he had been overcome by lung fever. With satisfaction, he found the project undisturbed. Making certain that he was unobserved, he entered the byre and pried three large stones from the wall where he had lowered the dirt floor a foot below the outside ground level. An iron box containing Liliane's dowry—gold dinars, silver dirhams and the titles to her lands—was wedged behind the stones. Whatever happened to him, the Signes would never retrieve Liliane's money. By much scrambling in the courts, she might regain her Spanish lands to buy her next husband, but any spying would cost her dear.

He took a pouchful of coins and replaced the box behind the stones, but as he turned to leave, he noticed a small, familiar footprint in the damp earth. It was nearly lost under his own prints, but had been undisturbed by the weather. He found similar prints by the door and outside the byre, as well as faint traces of a notched hoof. Whoever had ridden the gray had been both at the river and the byre. The byre was ruined, nearly roofless and empty for a decade; no one had reason to come there, except to look for him ... or the money. The money he dismissed—he had been too careful in disguising its hiding place, even to the point of sending workmen out to various sites about the demesne so that his own work at the byre would not draw attention.

Why then would anyone come looking for him? If foul play had been the object, he would certainly have been left in the river. Besides, the footprints belonged to a person too small to have considered assaulting him. The castellans were used to his spontaneous forays that sometimes lasted for days, so they would not have looked for him. Bit by bit, he narrowed down the possibilities. When he had not returned to the castle, someone, perhaps noticing he was growing ill, had set out to search for him. That someone had stolen the gray mare from the smithy string. His rescuer was either a small man, a youth ... or a woman. The first two possibilities indicated a loyal retainer too lowly to have his own mount; the last was highly intriguing. Did he have a female admirer?

* * *

His paunch spreading across his broad knees as he shifted his ponderous weight, Jacques de Signe did not bother to rise for his guest. While he had no particular contempt for spies, having often been one himself, he had no interest in nonentities, although he knew that nonentities made the best spies. The spy he had assigned to Castle de Brueil was reliable, dull and inexpensive. "Well?" Jacques folded his heavily ringed fingers over his gold-sashed middle.

"Your niece, the young countess, is enterprising," murmured the spy. "Although never allowed abroad without guards, she has already discovered a way to leave and enter the castle without detection."

Jacques smiled at Louis, who sprawled in a nearby chair. "So you were wrong, Louis. Liliane will have more than one use."

Louis, his stubbled face made no more attractive by the hazy candlelight, shrugged sullenly. "I still do not trust her. She is too clever for her own good. Women like that always try to play both sides."

Jacques laughed. "She is a Signe, after all." His attention shifted back to his spy, whose eyes were modestly downcast. Sometimes, the balding little man carried his mild-mannered demeanor too far, trying to convey his absolute trustworthiness. He was undoubtedly making his own puny, amateurish effort to advance his private profit. Jacques was presently unconcerned, but if the turncoat scuttled too far into the light, he would be crushed like an errant roach. "Tell me, Monsieur, how are the count and countess getting along?"

"With all respect, milord, the count trusts his new bride no more than your nephew." The spy bowed to Louis. "In short, he appears loath to touch her."

Jacques grunted. "That will pass. Liliane is too fetching to be ignored and Alexandre too hot-blooded not to try her. She knows better than to become with child; heirs do not serve our interests. See that she is discreetly advised by a midwife."

"The countess needs little advice in that respect, milord. She is an experienced apothecary," the spy replied dryly. "The count would have been dead of lung fever in his wedding week had she been less expertly devoted in nursing him."

Louis leaped to his feet. "You see! I told you she would play us foul!"

Jacques eyed him patiently. "Liliane has more sense than you. Had she let Alexandre die so soon after the marriage, she would have been blamed, fairly or not. Philip would be at our throats. What better way to gain an enemy's trust than to save his life?" He tossed a jingling pooch to the spy. "Has my niece spotted you?"

"Of course not" was the offended reply.

"Good. Keep it that way. See she gets the note in the poach."

While riding back to Castle de Brueil, the spy read the note, which was in English. He was not supposed to speak English, but he did, far better than England's ruling Plantagenets. English was an ugly language, but to the point. Jacques de Signe required information about the Brueil defenses from his niece. He would then compare her report with the ones he had been getting. If they did not match, Jacques would know that someone was giving him false-information. He carefully refolded the message and replaced it in the pouch. Then he wondered briefly how long it would take him to learn to forge the countess's writing and shove her neck into a garrotte.

* * *

the

Liliane soon became thoroughly disenchanted with Castle de Brueil. In the weeks that followed Alexandre's illness, the place was practically a prison. She was firmly advised that the ruined part of the castle was unsafe for exploration and she was never allowed past the castle wall without an escort. The servants accepted her orders readily, and because she had always been accustomed to a relaxed household, she required no major changes. Also, she was sensible, considerate and deft at handling servants. Her success in preserving Alexandre's life had quickly won her a respect that might have taken years to achieve. Still, although the servants were obedient, they were reserved and suspicious. Some whispered that Liliane was a heathen witch, particularly as she never attended Mass in the chapel and never confessed to Father Anselm.

Liliane received no outside guests and was very seldom in Alexandre's company upon his recovery. He slept in the small turret chamber beneath hers and avoided her except at evening meals. She did not miss him, for his reference to her spiritual health had galled her to the bone. She was convinced that his prim virtue would wither any woman's desire. By the month's end, she was more than ready to venture through the wall again for her appointed visit to the message tree. This time she took no chances on finding a horse, but instead had a page take the black out to the smithy just before dusk when the smithy would have no time to attend it.

After an hour ride, she reached the lightning-scarred tree that Jacques had pointed out near the Signe boundary. A narrow, ivory cylinder wrapped in oiled cloth had been placed high in a burnt-out hole. Standing up in her stirrups, she plucked it out and trotted into the moonlight to scan it. Jacques's request for information on Alexandre's fortifications was exactly what she had expected. If Jacques knew how poorly the castle was equipped to deal with a determined attack, he would have long ago attempted one. The Signe party had been watched closely during the wedding festivities; she was sure that Alexandre had let none of them see the damaged wall.

Liliane quickly reached for the writing materials in the pouch at her waist and wrote several lines on parchment. In her note she expressed her admiration at the number of armed castellans, praised the ample water and food supply, and marveled at the sturdy walls. Bedrock expanded under the castle and new weapons appeared in the armory. She described Alexandre and Philip as being not only friends, but virtual brothers. She warned Jacques that her ability to leave the castle would shortly end, and he must soon make a decision about Alexandre. On the last point, she sincerely hoped Jacques would be discouraged.

If he went ahead with his plans, she only hoped to catch him in a move that would prove his guilt in Diego's murder. She was certain Jacques would involve her in any attempt to kill Alexandre, thereby insuring his total control over her. If Jacques proposed a plan, she could not only warn Alexandre, with any luck she'd also have written evidence to present to Philip. But she doubted that Jacques would provide her a weapon by committing his plans to writing.

After returning the message cylinder containing her reply to the tree, Liliane headed back to the castle. The sound of the sea's murmur, however, proved too strong a temptation. Several hours remained until dawn, and she might not be out of the castle alone again for some time. She would certainly have the beach to herself at this time of the night.

Before long, Liliane spotted the stretch of beach she had found the day Alexandre had interrupted her ride and ordered net back to the castle. This part of the beach was unbroken by rock. The moon was high, the surf low, sighing sweetly on the smooth, shining pebbles. Liliane gave her horse free rein and for an hour she managed to forget that she was a virtual prisoner, far from her beloved Malaga coast Finally she dismounted. Part of her hair had slipped from her cotehardi, and after looping the horse's reins about her wrist, she let him tag behind her at the surfs edge as she walked along, absently tucking in, her hair.

Without warning, the clatter of falling rocks startled Liliane as a rider surged down the pine-topped outcropping above the beach just ahead of her. Within seconds, Liliane had swung onto her horse, wheeled him around and headed inland. Her pursuer was aboard a good destrier, and her pulse pounded in her temples as she used the looped rein to drive her stallion up the loose shale bank.

She dared not be caught, whether the rider was a marauding thief or a castellan. In the first case, she had only her knife and might well face rape or worse; and if the rider was a Brueil castellan, she would be in a great deal of trouble with Alexandre. She cracked the rein against the horse's flank.

Alexandre was almost sure his quarry was Liliane. He had seen the quick gleam of her long hair from the top of the outcropping. How the hell had she gotten out of the castle without passing the guards? Angry and determined to find out, he gave chase, but his sorrel could not match the black.

Alexandre arrived at the castle to discover that the black destrier and its blond rider were nowhere to be seen. He hailed the guards. "Has anyone passed through the gates since dusk?"

The reply was negative. Liliane must have another method. Alexandre circled the castle, but he saw nothing save black gaps too high for her to reach. She might have mounted the rubble against the inside wall when leaving the castle, but then she would have had to climb down the sheer outer wall and swim the moat. Wasting no more time, he ordered the drawbridge lowered, galloped into the courtyard and slid off the sorrel. Grabbing a torch, he raced up the turret stairs and pounded upon Liliane's door with both fists. "Open the door, Madame!"

A sleepy mutter answered him, and after a long moment the door opened. Disheveled and drowsy, Liliane looked adorable with her night shift slipped off one smooth ivory shoulder, her hair in soft disarray. "You knocked, milord?"

Alexandre seized her elbow and steered her back into the room. Without a word, he passed the torch low over the floor. Then he saw what he had expected: wet footprints. To his amazement, they were exactly the same size as the ones at the byre and river. Fury and confusion crossed his face as he turned to stare at her. Having seen the same thing as he had, Liliane stared back, no longer looking sleepy but cool and wary. Her hands were behind her back and Alexandre guessed they were locked around a dagger. "Well," he demanded hoarsely, "what explanation have you, Madame, for disobeying my orders and riding abroad at night?"

"I was bored," she returned flatly.

"More than bored, I would say! How did you get out?"

"I applied to the priest, as you suggested. He suggested I pray for a miracle."

Alexandre let out a snort of exasperation. "I shall turn Mohammedan if the Lord grants miracles to Signes! This is not the
first time you have gone out at night. You were the one who
dragged me out of the river!"

The flicker of surprise that crossed her face betrayed her, then she shrugged. "Had you drowned, I and my family would have been blamed. You would have been in no condition to deny that you had been clapped on the head."

Her blunt, apparent indifference made his blood run cold. "You are in a dangerous position, milady. For saving my life, I owe you a fair hearing, but do not tread too heavily upon my indulgence."

She lifted her chin defiantly. "If I defended my disobedience with wifely concern for your safety, would you believe me?"

Now Alexandre was startled. He would have given his horse to be certain that she cared for him, but everything he knew of her decreed that she was a liar. He was silent for a long moment, then he said slowly, "Your solicitude presents an entrancing idea, but I'd sooner believe a camel would rather kiss man spit."

Her face became even more guarded. "Well then?"

"Well then, tonight I was hale and hearty upon riding out. Did you assume I might land in another river?"

"Why not, when my uncle is apparently so enterprising?"

"He is not so stupid as to come for me while the honeymoon linens are scarcely rumpled. A far duller mentor than Philip might consider suspect your becoming my heiress so quickly." He thrust the torch near her face. "Your demise, my good wife, would cause considerably less clamor. Now, what were you doing out tonight?"

Alexandre knew she considered, him a peevish boy, but he saw his false threat had quickly altered that impression—now she judged him as dangerous.

"I told you I was bored. I am your wife, not your prisoner. Indeed, I am not even your wife, yet you spend my dowry and insult me when you have no proof that I have done more than seek respite from an intolerable existence."

Alexandre remained implacable, particularly as a black thought had just occurred to him. Most likely she had been on some Signe errand, but what if she had gone looking for Jean? "Did that respite include meeting a lover?" he snapped.

Liliane went white. "My crimes mount apace! Why not accuse me of conjuring spells over the sea to wash Castle de Brueil into its depths? Would that I had a lover, at the least a man who does not perpetually look at me as if I am a demon in female form!"

Alexandre let out a short sound of exasperation. Liliane would roast before she told him more than she wanted. For the time being he must stew in his own juices of jealousy and suspicion, but sooner or later she would make another slip. He was sure that Liliane had carried out some kind of rendezvous. His surest tactic was to provoke her into sneaking out again, so he could follow her. Her purpose in leaving the castle might be innocent, but if she was indeed bent on treason or infidelity, it would mean the end of them; a realization that sickened him. "I owe you my life, Liliane," he finally whispered. "For that I give you tonight. If you cross me again after tomorrow's dawn, you will sorely regret it."

She did not doubt him. His expression looked fierce in the flickering torchlight. ''Then do not imprison me," she said evenly. "I cannot live like this."

"Yet you are alive—better that than drawing an arrow in the back from an edgy castellan. "Suddenly feeling weak as he realized the risks she had been running on her nocturnal forays, Alexandre left her before she could detect his vulnerability.