A Flame Run Wild (6 page)

"Have you a . . . less civil, less dutiful brother?" Liliane blurted with a hint of desperation.

Startled, Alexandre hesitated. He saw that she had not meant to question him so bluntly, yet to consummate her marriage with an unpleasant mockery of Jean was obviously distasteful to her. His eyes narrowed as he decided upon his tack. "Scarce two hours under my roof and you have the audacity to suggest my father has strewn the countryside with bastards?" His head tilted slowly as he gave her a wolfish smile. She suspected that he was Jean, but she could not be sure. He would make certain that she knew he was Alexandre, and only Alexandre. Jean was Action; Alexandre was reality. And Alexandre would discover why she had agreed to a marriage that she deemed so repellent. He suspected that Jacques had put her up to something that could prove lethal. He could not imagine that her character was so black that she would make an attempt on his life, but she was undoubtedly Jacques's spy. Whether or not she was willing, she might give away information to feed Jacques's always dangerous ambitions. He would test her faith before letting her know how fully his heart had lain in her hand; he would not yield it again so lightly. "For all I know, half dozen of my brothers may roam with the deer,
Dona
. I am the only legitimate one—the only one harnessed to duty. If you prefer another lover, I warn you not to take him too close to my shadow. My sense of honor is keen."

Liliane was both quick to cover her impulsive ploy and take real offense at his implication. Her eyes narrowed with indignant fury. "You mistake my meaning, sir! I merely suggest that you would do better to approach me with something of a lover's tenderness. I am well aware that this match means naught but gold to your coffers, but does that require that you greet me with coldness and insults? I have vowed before God and man to be your wife, and I shall fulfill that vow in every way. My honor, too, is strong. Needs that my honor duel yours, thereby killing all our hope for felicity?"

Alexandre had already learned that she was magnificent in anger. Now, with her eyes flashing like her jewels, her breasts heaving, she was a marvelous golden vixen, and he longed to kiss her with a passion that matched her own. He also wanted to reassure her, yet he feared she would recognize him as Jean. Alexandre and Jean must remain separate entities until the time came, if it came, to reveal that they had once been one for a single, enchanted night. If he took her now, she would see through his deception. They were too close to the memory of their night together. He would end by whispering all sorts of idiocies in her ear, telling her of his ridiculous gladness that whatever she was, she was his. But she wasn't. He could never let himself forget that she was Jacques's . . . and Louis's. She belonged to them first and always.

"
Dona
," he began, trying to think how he was going to explain not making love to her when she was so ravishing that her very nearness was making him dizzy. Her perfume mixed with the faint scent of the fresh meadows she'd galloped through. ... "Ah,
bella Dona
. . ." he breathed. As her eyes widened, a tickling sensation seized his nose. He gave a violent sneeze and heard his bride's faint, nervous giggle. He steered her firmly into the room, backed rapidly out and closed the door. His last glimpse of her face told him that she was dumbfounded but vastly relieved.

A half hour later, Alexandre sauntered into the great hall, the look on his face hiding the glum disappointment in his heart. With the pact so obviously completed, Jacques and Louis went quickly over the written contracts, then departed for their own neighboring fief in the north. Alexandre politely saw them off, then climbed the winding staircase to a turret window, where he watched them file homeward. The Signes had been picking at the Brueil borders for nearly three centuries. They would be back, one way or another, and they had left Liliane as their key.

That night, Liliane prayed that Alexandre de Brueil would not change his mind about consummating their marriage, that whatever his reasons, he would leave her alone. Sometime after midnight, she left off tossing in his big bed and began to wander about the spartan chamber. Pacing the cold stone floor she wondered why he hadn't come back. Eventually, she arrived at two possibilities: he was indeed Jean and he reseated her lies and aversion to their marriage: or he was really Alexandre and he wanted only her money as revenge against the hated Signes. However it seemed that he could not possibly be Jean, who had loved her. Her Jean would not have left her alone tonight in such confusion and unhappiness.

Sleepless for the rest of the night, Liliane went to the southern window to watch dawn, rise pink and dusky over the calm sea. Whoever he was, this cold man that she had married, she must try to reach him for his sake as well as her own. Alexandre de Brueil had reason to hate and mistrust her family. Louis had been vicious from childhood and Jacques . . . Jacques was a clever pig who wanted all he had ever seen. He should have been an Italian profiteer with his love of art, gold and deception. Having little interest in women, he was married to a sweet little simpleton who doted upon him and asked no questions. He was as faithful to her as one might be to a particularly comfortable, cushioned chair.

Louis was less predictable. She took care never to be alone with Louis.

And Alexandre de Brueil did not want to be alone with her.

Life would be much easier if he trusted her. As for love . . . She sighed, looking out at the dawn's elusive pink and gold playing over the gray sea. Better take one step at a time, she counseled herself.

* * *

After catching Liliane's Moorish mare, Alexandre was less morose than on his wedding day. He had not slept at all during the night, so at dawn he had gone riding in search of her white mare. The animal was far too valuable to let wander and be stolen; yet in his heart, he thought the return of the pretty mare might please his bride. He had not given her a very pleasant reception, after all. To be different from Jean the poacher was one thing; to be an ogre was another.

The sun had climbed halfway to noon before he found the mare grazing in a meadow near the shore. Luckily, she had not stumbled on her reins and damaged herself. She shied away as he walked his own black stallion near her, so he eased the stallion's reins and let it do the work of herding. He had little energy left, for his cold had settled into his head and chest now, and two nights of scant sleep had left him drained. Soon the stallion nosed the mare close enough to let him catch her rein. As he headed back to the castle, he toyed with the prospect of finding his new bride abed, fresh, rosy and drowsy. Should he amend his neglect of the previous night?

He had gone only a little way when he saw a rider on a sorrel destrier coming across the fields toward him. The rider was Liliane, dressed in her page's gear, her hair streaming in a long braid. His eyes alight with anticipation, he spurred to meet her, but as the couple closed on each other, he saw she was pale with suppressed anger. Scarcely another second passed before he realized why. Having saddled his stallion without looking, he was riding "her" horse. Quickly reining in, he decided to put matters right. "
Dona
," he said heartily, "what luck to meet you!"

"As a matter of fact," she replied in a taut voice, "I was concerned about my stallion. When I went to the stable, I thought he might have been stolen."

"No need for concern. I was just exercising your wedding present." With an innocent look, he paraded the mare.

"An uncommonly fine animal," she observed dryly. "Not the sort one encounters just wandering around."

"Indeed not," he agreed with a quirk to his lips. "I had quite a time finding her."

With an easy movement, Liliane dismounted into the budding furrow of the field. "I hope you did not pay too much. She has a cracked left hoof."

"Really?" He sounded convincingly dismayed. "How can you tell?"

Liliane did not believe Brueil's ignorance of the mare's condition any more than she did the rest of his tale. She had seen his skill with the stallion. As he had ridden toward her, he had been half asleep, yet his knees guided the stallion as if man and horse were one ... as if they were familiar with each other.

Too familiar. Had he known where to look for the mare? "I know horses," she replied evenly. "Particularly those from Andalusia."

"Andalusia? I only buy horses like this one from the Crescent." Aware of the direction her thoughts were taking, Alexandre affected a supercilious tone. "This mare," he lied baldly, "came from Damascus."

Liliane stroked the mare's nose. It whickered at her familiar touch. "The Caliph Almansor's sixth cousin once removed is also from Damascus," she said lightly. "Is that not remarkable?"

"As in coincidence?" Alexandre became stern. "
Dona
, are you accusing me of lying about this animal?"

Liliane's eyes widened with feigned innocence. "Never. I would not dream of wrongly accusing you of anything so dishonorable and common—"

"Never have I seen a woman more inclined to look a gift horse in the mouth!" Feigning indignation, Alexandre leaped off his stallion. "Ungrateful wench! Who are you to prate of 'common' when you lack the common courtesy to accept a gift generously given!"

Liliane felt a twinge of remorse. Count Alexandre was poor, after all, and he was trying to impress her. To be obliged to take a rich wife from a family he hated must be very damaging to his pride. She could at least give him the benefit of the doubt. She replied in a soothing voice, "Thank you, milord. I certainly do not mean to sound ungrateful. The mare is beautiful."

Alexandre had not expected so swift a turnabout. Had she seen through his charade? "Ah . . . then you agree she is not Andalusian?"

Liliane clamped her teeth. "No more than the caliph's cousin is from Damascus." She caught up the stallion's rein and began to mount.

Alexandre was loath to lose her company so quickly. Her hair was a shaft of sunlight, her eyes bewitching. He was impatient to make love to her again and would wait no longer than he must. Now was also a good opportunity to test her faith. His hand went quickly to her velvet-clad shoulder, halting her from mounting. "
Dona
, forgive my imposition, but I have taken a great fancy to the splendid stallion you ride. If you like the mare so much, particularly as she is more suited to a lady, perhaps you would consider giving me the black?"

Give him Jean's black? Liliane's anger rose. Give this petty, greedy, prideful liar the one remembrance Jean had left her—at great sacrifice to himself? How could this man be Jean when he antagonized her so? Looking up at Alexandre de Brueil, she said quietly, "You must forgive me, milord, if I decline your offer. The stallion was also a wedding gift . . . from a dear friend."

Unexpectedly, Alexandre felt his jaw tighten with an unreasonable surge of excitement and jealousy. Brief though her affair had been, Liliane remained faithful to Jean, a man she thought was gone from her life forever. "A dear friend, you say?" His voice held a sharper edge than he had intended, for her pensive, lovely face was filled with memories of Jean. "Dearer than your husband, who stands so close to you now?" He stepped impulsively toward her. He wanted to kiss her, to make her accept the reality of Alexandre and forget her forest lover.

As if burned by a flame, Liliane drew swiftly back. The revulsion she tried to conceal struck him like an unexpected, punishing blow. It was obvious that she wanted Jean; Alexandre was not at all to her liking. "Then, by all means, keep the black." His words came out painfully, breathlessly. "I have other nags."

Liliane wondered if he was intimating that he also had other women. His handsome face was taut; he was startled and hurt by her refusal. The marriage was beginning disastrously and she would have given much to correct it. But she would not give him Jean's horse. "I have planned a gift that may please you better, milord," she said quickly. "It is a rich gift and one that will outlive this stallion."

Alexandre grimly mounted the sorrel, leaving her to manage the restless mare. "I will be much pleased, milady, if it but outlasts a Signe's affections."

Liliane stepped back from the dancing sorrel's path. "What has my family to do with this?"

"That remains to be seen, milady." With that, Alexandre spurred his horse and galloped back to the castle.

Liliane slowly followed him. Matters were quickly going from bad to worse. She was not accustomed to handling men, perhaps because Diego had not required the usual feminine machinations; he had seen too much in his life to be influenced by his pride or social tradition. In comparison to Diego, this Alexandre seemed a prickly boy. Diego had readily given her freedoms beyond her sex, and she'd enjoyed a position that commanded respect. She was intelligent and fair and she'd been comfortable with servants, castellans and visiting gentry.

What was this Alexandre like? How would her treat her? He did not impress her as being especially tolerant.

Be fair, she told herself. You don't know him at all. Why not tour the demesne and see if he is at least a tolerable manager? You have given him control of your fortune, my girl; and you would do well to discover what he means to do with it. She mounted the stallion and whistled to the mare. As the horse trotted after her like an obedient dog, Liliane smiled impishly. If Alexandre could only see his Damascus mare now!

Stopping briefly by the stable, Liliane handed the mare over to a hostler with grooming instructions, then she proceeded to cross the field. If upon her return, the mare's coat shone properly, Liliane would have gained a foothold in her new domain. If not, she would cuff the hostler's ears.

Liliane was eager to explore the coast, but she thought it best to accustom herself to her prospective duties as soon as possible, as well as see to the future of her dowry. Reaching the crest of a hill, she paused to gaze over the fields toward the deep green forest where she had met Jean. Although only a few miles away, it seemed very far. The way north to the Aquitaine was still farther. How easy it would be to turn the stallion's head north!

With a sigh, Liliane brought her attention back to the problem at hand. She knew the perimeters of the Brueil demesne, for Jacques had shown her maps. Except for the encroaching Signe fief which bordered perhaps fifteen miles from Castle de Brueil, Alexandre's fief ran northeast in a finger from the sea nearly to the French Alps, east beyond the village of Cannes and west over a day's ride toward the Italian kingdom of the Lombards. Squabbles with the city-states of Italy had many times changed the western border, but the Brueils, who were invariably fighting someone, had always retrieved their own. Scrappers, she judged, and Alexandre de Brueil was the worst!

During her ride, Liliane tallied up repair costs in her head. Due to Alexandre's absence in Palestine, many of the fields were overgrown, the vineyards were parched and one of the nearby village wells had caved in. He had made a valiant beginning, but all the work would cost a fortune: a generous share of her fortune. Oh, he needed money badly enough. From a practical standpoint his marriage investment would be a good one. The greening land which swept to the seas was lovely and fertile, the forests were thickly timbered and not too much depleted from centuries of wood fires. Most of the serf gardens were plowed for planting. The villagers, like the castellans, were reasonably well fed and not surly from mistreatment, although they were naturally wary of her. They had heard that their master had married a Signe, and like him, they had no love for their predatory neighbors. Anxious to assure herself that Alexandre was a humane ruler, she had greeted them pleasantly and introduced herself. While the serfs were polite, she received few smiles and a good many sober stares. She was sure that the news of her visit would soon reach the castle.

Indeed the news of her roving reached the castle before she did. Tired and dusty, Liliane went to her chamber with just enough time for a bath before dinner. The maids were disgruntled. All these baths were a bother. The master had acquired the habit of excessive scrubbing in the Bast; must they now lug water for their new mistress, as well? Perhaps when the novelty of her honeymoon wore off, she would be back to a sensible schedule of one or two a year.

Tossing off her riding clothes, Liliane ignored their muttering as they placed a yellow cloth screen between the copper tub and drafty windows. She was relieved that Alexandre kept sufficient provisions for bathing—she had expected no more man a wooden keg and lye soap. Both the patterns stamped on the tub and the one woven into the screen fabric were Moorish, and the fine soap was scented with sandalwood. He had probably found these things in the Crescent markets. In a castle where she had seen little furniture other than the great hall's carved chairs, benches and truncheon tables, to have such splendid bath equipage was a great luxury. However, she now noted that Alexandre's bed was big and comfortable with a few scattered Eastern pillows. Two Roman-style chairs rested by the fireplace, and a wonderful Damascus rug covered the floor's cold stones.

In truth, Liliane thought as she settled into the water, the gray stone set off the bright Eastern colors beautifully. The room exuded a sophistication that she had long ago discovered in Andalusia with its wonderful architecture and splendid mosaics. She missed Malaga's pine-softened crags and surf-pounded beaches. She missed the lemon-scented vales and twisted olive trees; the dark-eyed, ivory-skinned people with their flowing Moorish robes and intricate customs. Sniffing Alexandre's lovely soap made her remember the scents of the bazaars and perfumes of veiled women and . . .
Dio
, she wanted to go home.

Wishing the serving women would go away, Liliane closed her eyes. When she opened them again, the women had left and Alexandre was staring down at her. She had not yet used enough soap to cloud the water, and she had to force herself to lie still under his brilliant gaze. His eyes held a fierce hunger and he seemed to be holding his breath. He was poised between flight and fascination as if he had been surprised by some danger.

Alexandre was her husband and she must make him so in feet, thus they might make a beginning. That they should live separately was wrong. If she could seduce him, soften him with womanly wiles, they might have a fruitful life together, if not the passion of chosen lovers. They might have children . . . and hope. She must lure him into forgetting his reservations. Strangely, the intensity of his blue eyes disturbed her as Jean's had done, made her feel that she was looking at Jean. She wished fervently that he was Jean so that he might take her, wet and slippery, up into his arms and kiss her with that velvet mouth and make her forget . . . that she had married Alexandre.

Alexandre wondered what Liliane was thinking as she lay mere so still and silent, her hair hanging in damp strands to the floor. He wanted to wind it around his fingers, kiss her soft, blooming mouth and watch her eyes change, their smoky fires shimmer and flare. The water surrounding her pale body was glinting in the setting sun's long shafts of rusty rose and gold. She was softly rounded, blue-shadowed, mysteriously enticing. The peaks of her breasts glimmered just beneath the amber water. You are mine, he thought: by law, by your own consent and by your heart whose warmth I have known, whose racing pulse I have kissed when I made love to you. You are mine, mine. But even when he started to reach out to her, he knew she irrevocably belonged to Jean.