Besieged Heart (No Ordinary Lovers Collection) (6 page)

“Will you surrender?”

Mara considered carefully. It was not easy in her distraction. Somewhere deep within was a disturbing sense of loss, as if something important had been forgotten or she had failed to recall a wonderful dream on awakening.

It didn’t matter. The question her wizard had asked of her required a reply. There was only one that she could see.

“Impossible,” Mara said. “Impossible here, impossible now.”

It was the answer to many things, the final result of everything that had passed between them in the isolated woodland, or at least everything that she could recall with any clarity. Slowly, she turned her head to look at him.

He met her gaze for a single instant. In the depths of his eyes was a desolation of corresponding loss allied to steel-hard resolve. Seeing it, she felt the sudden ache of tears.

His cloak billowed around him as he stepped to her side, coming close, so much closer than he had ever dared in the past. His breastplate caught the fading daylight and glowed with a blue sheen. Then he was kneeling before her, the wind ruffling his dark hair as he inclined his head.

“Command me, my princess,” he said.

Chapter Five

The baron swaggered into the audience hall, his every strutting step showing confidence in his victory. Faced with Mara’s challenge to settle the outcome of the siege by right of arms, he laughed aloud and slapped his knee at the jest. That was before Rayne stepped forward to present himself as her champion.

The insignia of deer and longbows, quartered, that was etched into the breastplate Rayne wore caught the light of torches and wax tapers. The baron blanched. A big man, well-fleshed, he seemed to shrink while he glared at Rayne’s features and tall form.

“Who are you?” Ewloe demanded. “What is your rank and title that you dare seek to contest with me?”

Rayne smiled, a movement of the lips that did not affect the chill of his eyes. “I am my father’s son.”

“A nameless bastard, then.”

There was craftiness as well as scorn in the baron’s charge. Mara held her breath, for it was the older man’s right to refuse to meet a man he considered his inferior.

“My father and my mother took each other in handfast marriage,” Rayne said evenly.

“Without witnesses, I’ll vow!” The baron jutted his chin forward as he made the charge.

“Witnessed by God on high. Who else is required? What wedding at the church door can be more sanctified?” Rayne touched his fingers to the insignia he wore. “Oh, yes, and there was one other present, an old man with some renown as a wizard. He left behind a document, properly sealed, testifying to my right to wear the Ewloe arms.”

A handfast marriage—private vows exchanged by a man and a woman in token of their intentions—was more than adequate, Mara realized with some amazement. Such a union was as legally binding as the two people involved wished it to be. The priests might rant about proper blessings, but no such intervention was required; not even a witness was necessary so long as the marriage was undisputed. This meant that Rayne was the true Baron Ewloe, or would have been if his father had not renounced his title.

Something like a snarl appeared on the older man’s face. “It takes more than a name and arms to be a champion. By what right do you stand for the sister of Prince Stephen?”

“By her faith and trust,” came the answer in ringing tones, “also by my sworn oath to protect her. Will you meet me?”

The baron swore as he set his fists on his hips. “I have no dispute with you.”

“The old wizard, my father-of-the-heart, thought otherwise,” Rayne returned with cold precision. “He swore it was you who worked upon the man who sired me, telling him he had sinned against God by taking a bride of Christ for his own. It was you who convinced my father that he must set out on a crusade of repentance. Moreover, no man heard him renounce his lands and title before he departed except you, the man who now holds them.”

“So you think to take them from me by force with your challenge?” Rage mottled the baron’s features.

“The man who found me in a cave kept me safe from you for that purpose, aye, even trained me for it,” Rayne said. “But no. I fight for the freedom of a lady; that is all. The title you gained by stealth will belong to the princess if you are killed in our match.”

Mara realized what Rayne said was true. The baron’s lands and his every privilege would be forfeit if he was defeated. Rayne, though he would meet the man, was only fighting in her name. She was the one who had been attacked; therefore the spoils of the battle would belong to her.

“Then you are twice a fool,” his uncle growled “for you will die for nothing. I will grind you into the dust and make mud of your blood. I will carve your carcass into quarters and feed it to my hounds. And then I will deal with the woman who would turn my kin loose against me.”

Turning on a booted heel, the baron strode from the hall. The great door clanged shut behind him like a clap of doom.

The preparations began. Rayne was a whirlwind of activity, appearing to be everywhere at once. He organized the details of the coming fight, designating the moment when the gate would be opened, also which weapons should be polished and which charger groomed for his use. He scrounged extra food from heaven knew where for the children and the injured. Lending his strength as well as his supervision, he shored up the castle’s defenses against possible surprise attack. In the midnight hours, tirelessly diligent, he traveled the walls to check that the sentries were alert, at the same time putting hope and heart into the defenders.

Sometime in the hours before dawn, Rayne visited the castle chapel. Prayer and fasting were prescribed before a contest of importance, and he must, of course, comply.

Mara, lying sleepless in her bed, thought of him kneeling alone. She imagined him before the altar with his dark head bowed, preparing his soul for whatever the outcome of the meeting might be. She pictured him there while her heart beat with slow, painful throbs inside her chest.

Still, something else troubled her mind. There was an important detail that had been overlooked, something forgotten or left undone. It hovered at the edge of her consciousness, but she could not quite grasp it.

It was in the quiet hour just before first light that it came to her. She sat up in bed with a cry, and then pressed her closed fists to her mouth while she stared into the darkness.

Rayne was admitted into her presence less than an hour later. She was dressed and ready, standing in an antechamber where thick candles glowed in tall floor candelabra of wrought iron and a small fire burned on the hearth. She had been gazing into the flames and thinking about the coffee that had been served to her by a man she thought to be a woodland outlaw. All softness was wiped from her face as she turned to receive her champion.

Without a greeting, without a flicker of acknowledgment for his smile or his easy bow, she said, “Where is your weapon you called a rifle? Why did you not bring it you when we returned from that time and place where we were together?”

Rayne’s face took on a stern cast. He came slowly forward to stand before her. “I could not use such a weapon for this meeting. It was best left behind.”

“Why could you not? Surely the mechanism would work as well in one time as in another?”

“The advantage given to me by its superior destructive force would be too great. To use it to defeat the baron would be as unfair as stooping to sorcery. If I prevail by dishonorable means, then I do not prevail at all.”

She stared at him for long moments while her face flushed with fear and wrath. With his words, he had openly admitted to being both Rayne Winslow and the wizard. She had been the first to make a slip, of course, by showing she knew he could have provided himself with the rifle if he wished it.

Her voice thin, she said, “You made me think this rifle would be your chosen weapon.”

“You assumed it. I never said so.” All warmth was gone from his voice.

“You intended I should so assume,” she returned instantly. “You wanted me to believe there would be no danger of failure.”

Rayne made an abortive movement, as though he would turn from her presence, but then stood absolutely still. A candle flame fluttered on its wick with a popping sound. The gleam of it flickered across the planes of his face, turning it to metallic bronze. His eyes seemed tormented and yet angry, though either expression could well be no more than a trick of the light.

“So,” he said finally. “It was never me you required for your protection, but rather the magic of the rifle.”

“That isn’t true!” She clenched her hands within the folds of her mantel so that her nails cut into her palms. “If you had wanted to be fair, you could have brought two rifles. That would at least have made of it a clean meeting instead of hacking butchery with lance and sword.”

“Death is no easier for being clean.”

She whirled away from him. “That isn’t the point. The point is—”

“Yes?” he asked in harsh demand as she stopped.

She was terrified for him. Still, to say so in plain words would be to let him know how much she cared. How could she do that when she had no idea what, if anything, he felt for her?

She could command him. He was her wizard, her adviser, her right arm; he had pledged his loyalty and would risk his life to keep her safe. But none of these things were proof of the kind of love that she required. She yearned for that proof with painful longing.

When she did not answer, he went on. “You lack faith, after all, in my ability to defend you.”

“It isn’t that,” she said, turning quickly. “It’s only that you are far too important for your life to be put at risk unnecessarily.”

“Important in what capacity? If you must wed the baron, your days of authority will be over; do not be deceived on this point. You will no longer need a wizard. Will you give me a position as your chamberlain then, knight of the royal sleeping chamber? Will I have the honor of seeing that your bed sheets are clean and sweet, your fire kept burning, and that you have warm water in the morning so you and your lord may wash away the stains of the night? Oh, yes, and perhaps I can take his place while he is away, soothing your bruises and warming your cold feet—among other things.”

She felt heat flare across her cheekbones, but would not look away. “Suppose I said yes, at least to the…the other things you mention? Suppose I said that we might become lovers, meeting in secret?”

“No.”

The word was like a hammer strike against her heart. She absorbed it, allowed no sign of the agony it caused to appear on her features. With some difficulty, she said, “There would be no…obligation to assume that duty, if you did not desire it.”

“I refuse not from lack of desire, but from a surfeit of it,” he said, his gaze steady upon hers. “Stolen kisses and snatched moments while listening for footsteps is not my idea of loving; I require more. It would be only a matter of time before something said or done made the affair plain. You would be beaten, locked away, even killed. I would be gutted and thrown to the dogs—if I were lucky. Of the two courses open to me, this one you propose carries the greater risk.”

He wanted her; he had said so. At the same time, he was telling her that closeness between them was impossible, that her position made it so. She had known how it must be. Yet she had been driven to make the suggestion by a haunting and persistent yearning after the loving intimacy they might have shared.

She could not dwell on these matters. There were decisions to be made.

Drawing a deep breath for control, she gazed beyond his shoulder. “You leave me no choice,” she said in strained tones, “except to withdraw my request for you to act as my champion.”

“That is your privilege,” he returned, his gaze steady on her face even as a white line appeared around his mouth. “I should warn you, however, that there is no purpose in withdrawing. Whether I seek the death of the baron on the field of honor or in your chamber is all one to me. Yet seek it I must, for I cannot stand by and watch you fall into the hands of such a monster. If I kill him on the jousting field, I will be applauded. If it is in your chamber, I will hang. Either way, my life is in the balance…and the weighing has already begun.”

She heard the bitterness in his voice, and spoke in response to it. “Perhaps you expect me to hail your courage and your pledge like some woman of ancient Sparta by saying,
‘Come back either with your shield or upon it.’
That I cannot do. If it makes me faithless, so be it.”

His gaze widened a fraction. His lifted his hand as if to touch her, then went rigorously still. He said in soft amazement, “You fear my death.”

A strained laugh escaped her. “What else have I been trying to tell you?”

He watched her for long moments, his eyes darkening with comprehension. Abruptly, his lashes swept down to conceal all expression. When he spoke, his voice was even more distant, as if he had already gone from her to the field where he and the baron would meet.

“You have just made it even more necessary for me to defend you. There is nothing more to be said, then, except that you to wish me well.”

She swallowed with difficulty against the hard press of unshed tears. “That much, at least, I can do.”

He stepped closer and reached to take her hand. Carrying it to his lips, he turned it and pressed a kiss into the palm. Lowering it once more, he stepped back quickly, as if he thought she might detain him, or that he might seek to stay.

His bow was perfection, holding the exact degree of homage that was her due. His knight’s cloak flared around him as he turned, swirling at his heels as he crossed the room with swift, steadfast strides. The door closed behind him.

Gone.

Her wizard, her Rayne, was gone. He was gone, and she had not given him her favor to wear. She had not kissed him good-bye or felt his arms around her. She had not told him she loved him.

Why? Oh, why? Pride was the reason, her senseless, unbending pride.

She would have confessed her love if he’d asked, if she had known with certainty that he wanted it. She wished that he had forced the issue as he had so many others.

But must she always be constrained to do what was best and right? Could she not forget power and duty and give way to her own needs?