A Flame Run Wild (8 page)

* * *

Liliane rode along the shore toward the spot where Alexandre had intercepted her on the beach. She saw no sign of him. The sand and water were pale, the tumbled rocks echoing the wind and sea. She thought longingly of the forest where she had met Jean, but it was too far away to go there and be back before dawn.

She did not expect to encounter Alexandre prowling about. He probably had a mistress among the serfs, but this thought did not arouse her jealousy. Only Jean could make her jealous. After all, Alexandre had a life before her arrival. Indeed, they were virtual strangers!

Still, she was concerned about his appearance this afternoon; he had looked ill. He had also been filthy, with drying mortar on his hands. She had not seen him working on the castle, and as she quietly passed the few outbuildings that were being repaired, she looked surreptitiously for him. As might be expected at this late hour, all was still and dark.

After checking the last dilapidated byre, Liliane decided to head home. Her clothes had begun to dry, but she was shivering and eager to seek her warm bed. After all her exertions, her ride of freedom was proving less enjoyable than she'd anticipated. Some three miles from the castle, she trotted along a worn path winding near the river that fed into the sea. Beyond a fringe of trees and down a steep bank, the river gurgled and murmured . . . with a voice that sounded almost gutturally human.

Liliane instantly halted the nag and went breathlessly still. The moon shone down through the trees, and flickering leaf shadows played along the path. The water ran below the trees through a long, winding black gully. The rush of water crashing down rocks surrounded her. Liliane strained to listen above the churning river, and she could almost swear she heard someone moaning. She slipped from her horse and tethered it, men drew her poignard from the sheath concealed within her sleeve. Silently she crept down the bank. On the edge of the river, she crouched, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. Soon, she was able to define the shapes of the trees towering above the underbrush and bracken, the sharp rocks of the higher river, and the pool of quiet water below them gathering before it formed another rocky cascade. Among the reeds along the bank lay a dark form that could easily have been mistaken for a log.

The limp body was breathing fitfully with a soupy rasp. A hand stirred in the reeds, plucked at a bit of river debris, then fell limply. Liliane crept forward like a squirrel. She might have happened upon a drunken serf, who was in danger of either drowning where he lay or being drawn into the river's current. To help him was to risk discovery and its nasty complications; she might well be packed back to Jacques or something even worse if Alexandre felt so inclined.

Liliane's eyes narrowed as she peered at the body on the bank. To leave the man would be committing murder, and that she could not do. She tossed a pebble at him, but he remained motionless. She eased down the bank to his side. He lay on his face in the mud, his arm and lower body submerged in the rushing water. Her poignard poised near his ribs, she turned him over. It was Alexandre, his face nearly covered with mud and leaves. He gasped in pain at the movement, and his eyelids flickered but did not open. The water was cold with melted snow runoff and his skin was icy.

Madre de Dios,
Liliane thought with pity and dismay. Better a drunk! Alexandre must have fainted sometime in the afternoon while working, then recovered his senses long enough to mount his horse and try to reach the castle.

Panting with effort, Liliane dragged him up the bank, then she began to rub him briskly until he coughed and stirred. She retrieved the gray plowhorse, then, gathering all her strength, placed his foot in the stirrup and, pulling, forced Alexandre to lift himself into the saddle. While both relieved and perturbed that he did not seem to recognize her, she took care not to stimulate his memory by talking to him. When she finally had him securely upon the plow horse, she led it wearily up the bank.

Suddenly the nag whickered. An answering neigh sounded from an upper glade. Just as Liliane debated retreating into the brush, the shadowy bulk of Alexandre's destrier materialized through the trees. This was luck—she would have to ride double with Alexandre to keep him mounted, but she had another use for the sorrel. After luring the horse near enough to snare him with her cord, she mounted behind the mumbling Alexandre, nearly pitching him off in the process, and headed home at the fastest pace he could tolerate. Dawn was close; she was already pressing her luck. The trip was difficult—Alexandre's large body was limp and she could scarcely keep him conscious enough to maintain his balance. Finally, she let him lie along the nag's neck. The stars were paling when she came as close as she dared to the castle drawbridge. She let him slide off the horse, not bothering to hide the noise, and immediately a demanding shout came from a guard.

"Who goes there?"

In a flash, Liliane had wrapped the sorrel's rein about Alexandre's lax wrist, vaulted onto the nag and disappeared into the darkness.

The four guards looked at one another. "Something's out there; I heard it," insisted the one who had called out.

"As did the rest of us," another guard replied calmly. "Want to go out and take a look?"

Not past his teens, the first guard flushed. He could not yet see the horizon, and to venture beyond the walls by dark might invite an attack from whatever was wandering beyond the bridge. " 'Tis a short while until dawn. We'll see what it is, quick enough," he muttered.

The other guard laughed derisively. "We've the makings of a veteran, lads."

* * *

Dawn had scarcely brightened the sky when a pounding came at Liliane's door. She stripped off the last of her garmets, shoved them under the mattress, then pulled on her sleeping shift and slid under the covers. "What is it?" she demanded breathlessly.

"The count is desperate ill, milady!" came the urgent reply.

Her fingers dug through her forgotten braid, unravelling it as she went to open the door. Fortunately, she had thought to pile her hair atop her head under the hood of the cotehardi; otherwise it would now be suspiciously wet. Alexandre, unconscious and borne by two men, looked worse by gray daylight. His closed eyes were smudges in his white face; his clothing was sodden. "Put him on the bed," she commanded. "What on earth happened to him?"

"We don't know, milady," the head guard answered as he and his companion lowered Alexandre to the bed. "We found him fallen off his horse near the drawbridge at first light. Looks like he's been in the river. He must have tried to make it back, but fainted on the way." He started to thrust back the cover.

Fearing he would notice the unrumpled linens, Liliane intervened quickly. "I shall do that. If you will see that the servants bring hot water from the kitchen . . . also more linens and enough cord to string them high about the bed."

Seeming relieved that she had her wits about her, the guard nodded and went to dispatch his duties. The other guard, a broad young man with fiery hair and a stubborn jaw, did not move, and Liliane had an idea why. "You require other instructions?" she asked quickly.

He held his ground. "I think I should stay, milady. You need assistance."

"With milord's clothes or with poison, sirrah?'' Her eyes held a sympathetic understanding that belied her ironic tone. "You need not be concerned. I am neither overly shy nor a murderess. My first husband lived to a ripe age."

"You will forgive me, milady"—the young man's head came up—"but one might observe that your former lord's demise fit well with your uncle's ambitions.''

Angered and amazed at his gall, she stared at him. "Do you propose, sir, that I dispatched my husband?" When he simply looked back at her, she wanted to explode with exasperation. So this must be the castle gossip. And why should Alexandre's retainers not think Diego's death quite convenient? It certainly had been timely, and damnably so.

Liliane glanced at the bed's inert occupant. No wonder Alexandre was reluctant to bed her; he would rather tangle with a scorpion. She sighed. "You are to be commended for your loyalty, guardsman, if not for your deference. Come, help me with my lord Alexandre. While we debate, he freezes."

After they had quickly stripped Alexandre of his wet clothes, Liliane was glad of the guardman's presence. Alexandre's body, was identical to Jean's, arousing all her memory and longing. Like Jean, he was brown all over except for the pale band at his loins. However, now his skin had an unhealthy, grayish tinge, and his labored breathing boded ill. Liliane was worried. His illness had the look of lung fever; if so, he might easily die. If he did, she would be free of both him and Jacques, but not free of her debt to Diego ... or her compelling attraction to Jean. However unlike him in spirit, Alexandre was inextricable from Jean, and she had vowed to stand by Alexandre in sickness and in health. Now helpless and in danger of losing his life, he deserved her best care. She leaned over and gently covered him.

The guardsman was watching her closely. She looked up at him. "What is your name, sir?" She supposed he was not used to being addressed so courteously by anyone, far less a titled lady. Under his shock of flaming hair, he looked at her speculatively, as if he suspected she might be trying to natter him.

"Charles."

"Just Charles?"

"Just Charles."

So, she decided, with that name, his fine speech and features, he is another noble bastard . . . who might well be acquainted with Jean. "How did you become sworn to my lord Alexandre, sir?"

Charles seemed to become slightly less wary. "I was appointed his father's squire when I turned thirteen, milady. The old count was a friend of my father's."

Wisely, Liliane did not inquire further about his father. "And you became Alexandre's squire when he was knighted?"

"I did, milady."

They both heard the rattle of buckets accompanied by grumbling outside the door. Liliane rose. "Well, sir, you appear to be my husband's friend. I will tell you frankly, there's a chance he may die. I shall do my utmost to see that he does not. To that end, Alexandre and I will both need your help. Be as suspicious as you like, but I warn you, do not fix too entirely upon me. You may become like a blind hound with a fine nose wasted upon his own familiar hearth when the woods are lively."

Charles smiled quizzically. "I will remember, milady."

At Liliane's orders, the servants hung sheets about the bed, then brought braziers to boil pots of water to steep the rose hips and herbs she had brought from Spain, until pungent steam filled the room. The lung fever, gathering its forces for days, now seized Alexandre with a vengeance. By midnight, despite massive drafts of rose-hip tea, his breathing was a gurgling rattle that had the servants crossing themselves and blaming the infernal, sweltering steam. Without the steam, Liliane knew that Alexandre would suffocate.

His restless ravings were incoherent, mostly in Arabic the servants could not understand, for they would have found his curses on Palestine to be blasphemous. Charles, however, understood more than a little, Liliane believed. Most of the European fatalities hi Palestine had not been due to the sword, but to disease and the relentless sun. Shocked and saddened, Liliane listened to Alexandre, until without thinking she took Ins hand, that he might dimly know he was not alone in his hellish memories.

Charles's eyes widened at her gesture, then narrowed in suspicion. Although she noticed increased antagonism, Liliane was not much worried by it. While she might not understand Alexandre, she understood Charles. He would be a hard nut to crack, but once she gained his trust, he would be soft and as priceless as gold.

Three days passed with little sleep for anyone, particularly Liliane, who was trembling with exhaustion. She did not know when Charles slept, for he was continually at her side tending Alexandre. Charles saw right through her, Liliane thought. He sensed that she was merely performing a duty, with no love and little affection. He was wrong, but Liliane was unsure just how wrong he was. She missed Jean terribly, more,because he seemed to be with her in the form of Alexandre. In some strange, distant fashion, she loved Alexandre, but where that love began and stopped, she could not begin to say. She only knew that she wanted to love Alexandre, who could give her a full life and children; she did not want to keep hopelessly loving Jean, whom she could never have.

Liliane found it easy to love Alexandre when he awoke and looked at her with the eyes of a child. She stroked his brow and felt its coolness. She touched his lips and found her name upon them. "Sleep now," she whispered, and he closed his eyes and slept peacefully.

She looked over her shoulder at Charles. Expressed in his face was both gratitude and dismay at the unguarded trust for her he had witnessed in Alexandre. He smiled crookedly. "I am not sure whether to thank you or cut your throat. You are much more clever than I anticipated."

Liliane's eyes closed wearily as she lay back on the bed. "Do you really think anyone here will ever trust me? One needs a clever head in this place. Everyone else is befuddled with fear of my family.''

"We do not fear the Signes, milady," Charles replied sharply. "We merely know them."

Her eyes opened. "As you do me? May your God protect you for you are deaf and blind." She closed her eyes again. "No matter. Cut my throat and count yourself prudent. Perhaps my lord Alexandre will reward you from my dowry."

Charles stepped forward to retort, but he could see that she was already falling asleep and beyond caring whether or not he dispatched her.

Weary as she was, Liliane was lovely, with her shining blond locks so near Alexandre's dark curls that their hair tumbled together. Because of her cleverness and beauty, they will soon think as one, mused Charles. Struggle as he may, Alexandre will become besotted with her and that will be the death of him.

And what of you, Charles? he asked himself. Are you, too, already besotted with the wife of your liege lord? Cut her throat and be hanged for it. Alexandre can live and hope for happiness.

Charles fully understood Alexandre's susceptibility to Liliane. At five, Alexandre had lost his mother and two-year-old sister in one of the plagues that repeatedly scourged Europe. His father, Henri, was rarely at home. He was usually involved in some military campaign, either for King Louis or his own adventurous ambitions. When he was at home, he overwhelmed his lonely son with hearty, bullish affection and demands. He expected the shy, slender stripling to be strapping and aggressive. "Scare off the dogs, boy. Roar at 'em like a lion and give 'em the back of your fists." Fortunately, Alexandre was strong, both in his wiry frame and his will. The old man had not broken him, but he had left several dents. Alexandre, who never cared to be a soldier, was thrown headlong into the violent adventures his father adored. He hated slaughter, the waste, the stupidity; yet all along, he had remained loyal to his one bond of love—his father.

Alexandre and Charles became closer than most boyhood friends. When old Henri shoved his fist down a dog's throat once too often in Burgundy and had it fatally bitten off, Alexandre inherited the estate he had run from the age of thirteen. Alexandre had shrewdly stretched Henry's war booty further than his clerk nought it could possibly go. However, Alexandre made the mistake of applying to King Louis for monies owed his father for loans and knightly service, and when they were not forthcoming, he went to Paris to demand them.

In Paris, he met Philip, who at the tender age of fifteen had already governed France for a year in his ailing father's place. Brilliant and dangerous both in intrigue and war, Philip meant to unite all the warring factions of France under his rule. He was in the midst of recruiting officers for a fight in Flanders when he met the audacious, stubborn Alexandre. Finding the young man charismatic, attractive and persuasive, he allowed him to pry from the royal coffers a portion of the monies due him, and thereby hired him into service to the crown. "As I am raising a campaign and cannot pay you the total now, help me put down the rebels," he cajoled Alexandre, "and you shall have all your gold and more."

To Alexandre, the offer had been irresistible. He would gain the active battle experience necessary to all landed seigneurs and enough money to allow him to spend the rest of his days without having to use that experience.

Alexandre performed valiantly in the Flanders campaign, yet somehow he did not earn enough in booty and pay to return to his fief; Philip shrewdly saw to that. Alexandre was no idiot; after another campaign, he perceived Philip's ploy. By then, however, Philip had infected him with the fever of duty, patriotism, friendship and the desire to see France unified and strong so that her safety would be insured. Time and disillusionment had killed those dreams. In strength lay a margin of safety, but there was no guarantee. One battle led to another, and at last he knew that the fighting would never end. One day, Alexandre found himself frying in the Holy Land for no reason other than to uphold Philip's reputation.

Charles, although trained as a squire and ambitious to win a knight's spurs, had not accompanied Alexandre. Alexandre left him to manage the Brueil demesne. Honored, Charles was adept at his task, but he never told Alexandre that he longed to be in the military. Each time Alexandre came home, Charles found him more withdrawn, torn as he was from the roots that gave him sustenance and strength.

Liliane could have no idea how dangerous she was to Alexandre now. Alexandre desperately needed a home and children and, most of all, a woman to love who would love him in return with all her faith and strength. Liliane's beauty was breathtaking; she was the sort of woman a man dreamed of in deserts and high places. Wildly desirable, she would be all too easy to love. In the last days of Alexandre's illness, Charles had seen she was also strong, intelligent and resilient. She was the wife Charles would have chosen for Alexandre, except for the one fatal flaw of her birth and upbringing. Charles had sometimes dealt with the Signes in Alexandre's absence; they were vipers who wouldn't rest until they saw Alexandre dead. Now one of them lay in his lord's bed. Charles strongly suspected that Liliane had merely saved Alexandre for another day in order to gain his trust. She might simply be ensuring that he completed the worst of the repairs on his fief before her family appropriated it.

Charles half slid his dagger from its sheath, but one thought made him hesitate. What if Liliane had acted honorably? She professed little love for Alexandre, yet she'd spared nothing for his care. Such dispassionate diligence might be expected if she had an ulterior motive, but what if he was wrong in his assessment? At times, he had glimpsed a tenderness in her, almost as if she wished for a like response from Alexandre. If Liliane were good, to destroy her would be heinous wickedness, yet to let her live posed a great danger to himself. She now knew that he was her enemy. If she gained sway over Alexandre, she might bring about his dismissal, even his destruction.

Finally, Charles shoved his dagger back into its sheath. He would give her a little time to show her spots before he flayed them off her.