Beauty's Curse (24 page)

Her eyes closed again, and she burrowed her face into the crook of his arm, searching for protection.

He would give it.

It annoyed him that he was put at such a disadvantage.

He was not used to being drawn in by a female. He'd learned at Queen Eleanor's throne that women were not at all the weaker sex. Aye, most women were harmless. They bore their men babes and cared for the castle while their men were away in exchange for food and a roof over their delicate heads.

However, there were other women—Rourke squirmed as he remembered a specific few—who knew how to milk a man's secrets as expertly as a dairy maid did a cow.

And there was still another sort—the ones who could and would wear the breeches in the family, while hiding their brutish tendencies behind the title of lady.

But the rarest female of all—the one who wielded her feminine power with justice—that was the most dangerous woman on earth. She'd draw men to her like flies to honey and have them do her bidding, while they'd be grateful for the privilege of serving her.

He'd known only two women like that in his life, and both were royalty.

So how did Galiana remind him of those two?

She moaned softly, and his heart lurched.

God's wounds, she would be his undoing.

“Pass the vinegar again, me lord,” Dame Bertha instructed.

“Nay,” Rourke handed the jar back. “She'll be fine, in but a moment.” How could he bother her, when she turned to him for comfort?

“Who is Layla?” Jamie asked.

“She works in the kitchen, newly hired from the village. She's a mite lazy, Cook's only complaint afore this, but Lady Galiana wanted to speak to her about Sir Robert.”

“Where can we find her? I'll question her meself,” Jamie said. “But she couldn't have been the one to, er, kill Robbie.”

Rourke heard Jamie stumble over the brutality of the crime and realized he should have been more sympathetic to Galiana's tender ears. He'd thought to crack her polished veneer, but he'd gone too far.

Why did she affect him like this? She'd laugh if she heard he had a reputation as a charming ladies' man. All she'd heard from him was bullying orders and whining.

The old dame offered, “I'll take ye, sir. She's a room above the laundry, but my lady wanted her locked up until her parents return.”

“What happened?” Rourke asked Dame Bertha.

“I don't know, me lord, just that me lady was very put out by the girl, and it was more than just poisonin' us all! We was looking fer the bailiff when you came in.”

Confused, Rourke nodded at Jamie.

“I'll get to the bottom of the barrel, Rourke—ye can tend the lady, aye?” Jamie gave him an exaggerated wink.

“Watch your back, man,” Rourke said as the two left the room. “This place is as treacherous as a battlefield.”

“You brought the trouble,” Galiana whispered.

Rourke looked down to see her frowning up at him.

He saw her realize she was snuggled next to him as he sat on the edge of her bed, and she immediately tried to sit up.

“Nay, be still,” he ordered, angry that she was probably right. He had arrived at their idyllic home bringing trouble on his heels.

Though she had the aim of an archer, she couldn't have prevented trouble's entry into Montehue Manor.

She struggled, far from content to be trapped against his body. All he could think about was her lips beneath his, how her warm tongue had tasted, how her breasts had filled his large hands.

“Am I so repulsive to you that you risk making your head bleed anew?”

“What?”

Her brow was shaved free of hair to allow a smooth expanse of forehead beneath a circlet or wimple. It touched Rourke that his plain lady went to such troubles for beauty. It shocked him that he desired her without it.

He helped her sit, and she touched the linen square at the back of her head. “How did I do this?”

“You claim to never truly faint, and yet twice I've caught you.”

“You caught me?” Her nostrils flared slightly. “I vaguely remember Jamie lunging for me, and let me tell you, that did nothing to calm my nerves.”

Rourke laughed. “Aye, he's a big man, a Scots brigand through and through. But I'm faster.”

“You always compete with one another?”

“Compete?” Rourke paused, thinking about the question. “We were raised together, royal bastards in Queen Eleanor's court.”

“You share a sire?”

“I don't blame you for sounding doubtful.” Rourke tucked the coverlet carefully around her waist and fluffed a pillow so she was comfortable. “I don't know who my parents are, and Jamie cannot claim a blood tie either, for all his fiery looks. Although there are rumors—but—” Rourke shrugged.

“How—” she lowered her voice, but emotion was evident in her tone just the same. “How can you not know your parents? Wouldn't the queen tell you if you asked?”

“Nay. We never wanted for attention. We were cared for, trained to be useful.” He chuckled, but Galiana didn't join in his mirth, so he cleared his throat. “We could have been put to death. I prefer life.”

She sighed, and her fingers smoothed the folded cover. “Aye, if you put it in that perspective, 'tis a good solution. Are there so many royal bastards, then?”

“A good crop of extras. Not just the king's get, but other indiscretions happen, and what is one more baby among many? No questions are asked, and there is safety in that for all involved.”

It was the accepted way of the royal court, but he could tell Galiana remained unimpressed by the royal nursery.

“You never wonder if you look like a certain person? What if you were a—” She paused, and Rourke appreciated her attempt at delicacy.

“What if I shared blood with a king?” Rourke shrugged, though they were getting close to the heart of what drove him, and his liege. “It wouldn't matter. If the line was too close, then …” He jokingly sliced a hand across his neck. “The line would be erased.”

She blanched, and her lips parted. Her breaths came in rapid succession, and he quickly apologized.

“I wasn't thinking, my lady.” Rourke cursed himself for a fool, and lifted her hand to his lips. Her fingers were so soft that he absently rubbed the pad of his thumb over her hand. Her skin exuded a light and fresh floral scent that he was coming to recognize as belonging just to her. “Forgive me?” His voice dropped, and he searched her face. Would she accept his kiss?

She swallowed and leaned back against her pillows, making a small mew of distress as she jarred the bandage.

“I'm sorry,” he said, stunned. She didn't want him. He didn't know what to do.

“My lord, I'm tired.”

“You can't sleep after a head injury.” Rourke vowed to keep her awake even if he had to walk her around the room.

“'Tis but a small bump,” she protested.

He looked around her chamber and changed the subject to something safer than his ancestry. “Are you always so untidy? Clothes are everywhere.”

She gasped, her eyes narrowed with outrage.

“Your shed was a mess, too—aside from the obvious. The shelves were stuffed with everything from dried flowers to ribbons.”

“It is my space to create what I wish; it was not meant to be judged for cleanliness. I know where every last ribbon is,” she said sharply. “Or at least I did, before …”

Rourke was left to find yet another thing they could talk about that wouldn't lead to shark-infested waters. “That doesn't explain all the clothes in here. Or will you blame the lack of a maid?”

Again that pointed chin lifted, and he watched with concealed amusement as she hid her curled fists beneath the covers. What did she think would happen if she let her true feelings be known?

He knew what it was like to constantly hide.

Mayhap that was why he got such wicked pleasure from catching her off guard.

“I was sewing, my lord. Gowns for court.”

This time he was the one to have to mask his thoughts. “You were going to make gowns from this?” He reached over to the top of a trunk and pulled out a length of fabric. It felt rough and knotted, but he couldn't tell the color. His guess would be brown.

“You have something against wool, my lord?” Her sarcasm was lethal.

“Ladies at court do not wear wool. Silks, damasks, finest furs and linens—but wool? Pah.”

“And what would they wear for a cloak, I wonder?” Pulling her hands from beneath the covers, she crossed her arms, and tapped one finger against her lower lip and pretended to be deep in thought.

“You said you were making gowns.”

“I didn't realize you were an expert in ladies' fashions, my lord.”

“From the looks of it, neither are you.”

“You are giving me a headache,” Galiana said. “When is Jamie returning? Yes, even his company is preferable to yours.”

Rourke got to his feet. “He went to question Layla. Supposedly she knows something about what happened with Robert.”

“She knows plenty, and she told me Sir Robert paid her—in fact, Layla even showed me the coin—to put the buckthorn bark into the stew.”

“I don't believe it. Why should I trust a Montehue servant over the goodly reputation of my own knight?”

Galiana shoved back the covers and rose unsteadily to her feet. She looked up at him and pointed her finger to his chest. “I don't care what you believe, you arrogant man. What matters is that my brothers are innocent.” She hesitated for a moment, and Rourke wondered what she was hiding. “Innocent,” she continued, “and your knight, for reasons unknown to me, wanted the manor sick.”

Rourke stared at her full lips, barely hearing the words from her mouth. He couldn't have her, not yet, but it was time to tell her she wasn't through with him.

“You aren't going to court, my lady.”

She stilled, her expression giving none of her emotions away. Yet he sensed he may have hurt her.

“I have not been entirely honest with you.”

She whirled away from him, her hair stinging his face. “This is news?”

Ah yes, Rourke thought, Galiana and her ideals of honor and chivalry. What a wagon full of lies. “Let me explain,” he said, relying on his charm.

“You owe me nothing.” She put her fingers to the wound on the back of her head, and she sniffed. “I believe this makes us even, my lord. A bump for a bump. I'll not count the stitches at your temple as my doing.”

“Are you still bleeding?” Rourke's gut knotted at her dismissive tone.

“Nay, but I would not ask you for help even if I were. I want you to leave me alone. Now.”

“I can't do that.” He focused on the tall, straight line of her back—or tried to. It was obvious she was through with him. Yet he couldn't let her have the victory.

“You won't.”

“You still need to pack—and lightly. Just the bare essentials of what you'll need to live day to day.”

“You are not taking me to court, and you can't force a marriage without a priest.” Her shoulders stiffened, and she seemed to get impossibly taller.

He reached out for her and turned her around.

Tipping up her pointed chin, he leaned over and stared directly into her eyes. Blurred, brown and gray shadows, even so close. “I know. We ride for my home. Three days from here, and God's teeth, my priest will say the vows in his undershirt.”

Galiana forced her heart to repel the cruel stab of Rourke's rejection. He thought her a disaster, a woman unable to run a home, and one too countrified to bring to court. She thought he'd tell her Prince John couldn't possibly expect him to marry such a naïve and dull twit.

Then she heard the word vows, and her heart forgot all the pain. Her mouth met his halfway, and she boldly pressed her body against his. All that mattered was feeling his chest against her breasts, his mouth against her lips, his breath whispering in her ear. His hands, his wonderful hands, caressing her hips.

“Rourke,” she whispered, nibbling his lower lip, not sure where to put her hands, only that she needed to touch every part of him she could. “Rourke?”

It seemed he understood her question, for he backed her up until the bed was at her thighs. She fell to the mattress, but within the safe circle of his arms.

His belt jabbed her, and she quickly unbuckled it and dropped it to the floor. He kissed her deeply, and his hands roamed over her shoulders, deftly removing her mantle. It landed on top of the belt.

Galiana embraced the cool rush of air against her skin as he untied the laces on her gown, dropping kisses against each exposed area of flesh along her collarbone.

She was hot to do the same to him.

He laved the column of her neck, and she tilted her head back to allow him access. His breath against the damp flesh gave her goose bumps. Her nipples tightened into peaks that begged for his mouth.