Defiant Angel (32 page)

"I ... I am," she sniffled, and began to cry again.

He kissed the top of her head, inhaling the delicate fragrance of violets, and held her against him, caressing her hair.

"You. . . you," she sniffled, "said you sold him to . . ." She could not finish and began to hiccup.

Looking down at her tearstained face, wiping away her tears with his thumb, he said, "Yes, but I said the new owner met the price." Looking down into teary raised eyes, he explained, "A lifetime. Remember?" She nodded, recalling the moment in the meadow at Chablisienne.

Xanadu whinnied, breaking the moment, causing Tiffany to turn and find Keegan smiling at her. She blushed becomingly, and softly said, "I remember you. You were the one who took him away at Courtland."

"Aye, milady, 'twas me. And I been givin' 'im his bonbons like you said."

Tiffany smiled at him, and her voice broke. "You . . . you've taken good care of him. Thank you." Tears filled her eyes and threatened to fall anew.

"Was nothin', milady. A fine 'orse the likes of 'im deserves no less."

"Would you like to ride him, Princess?"

Turning to Clinton, Tiffany awarded him with a beaming smile at his suggestion, crying, "Yes!"

Clinton opened the gate. She rushed in, then turned to ask, "Will you not join me and ride?"

Touched by her offer, he shook his head, "Not today, Princess. I am content to watch you."

Clinton leaned back against the fence thinking she was a magnificent sight to watch. She was both beautiful and bewitching to behold as she rode. Her raven tresses escaped their ribbon and flowed loosely to her hips, blending with the horse's coat. And as she had ridden him this morning, so she rode Xanadu; flowing in abandoned unison, her hips moving with the motion of the horse, meeting their thrust. Holding her head high, slightly back, she exposed the slim column of her neck. Her breasts pushed against the soft muslin shirt as they had pressed against his muscled chest. He unconsciously rubbed his hand across his chest in recall.

His loins tightened as her legs, long and shapely, wrapped tightly about the horse's flanks, preparing to take a jump. He could almost feel them gripping his sides as she accepted his full length within her body. He drew a deep breath, still watching as her fingers wrapped themselves in the horse's mane much as they had done with her own locks this morning, when passion engulfed her being.

When she landed safely from a jump, Clinton watched her sit back on her taut, yet soft, buttocks he knew bore his weight well.

His body burned, aching with the need of her yielding against him, bearing his weight, holding him tightly within her while he spilled himself, marking her. He took another calming breath, letting it out in a slow stream when she collapsed on the neck of her mount, spent from her exertion just as she had done a few short hours ago. Her muslin shirt was damp and clung to her, revealing her breasts, almost as if she were naked.

Tiffany dismounted, walking Xanadu to cool him. Xanadu nudged her, causing Tiffany to lurch forward. Righting herself, she turned and scolded him. Xanadu curled his lip at her retort. Standing her ground, shaking a finger at him, she scolded, "Where are your manners, you beast? I have no bonbons!"

M

Clinton smiled at their playful antics, a bit envious over the carefree manner Tiffany displayed, one he was yet to share with her. In time, he thought, grinding out his cigar. Yes, in time she would accept his companionship, his love, and give him hers, in turn.

T
iffany could almost hear the haunting music of the harp and voices singing the song of fierce bards, crying out their will to live in freedom. The wind whipped fiercely, causing her to pull her cloak abut her as she stood on the stone steps of a cliff-hung staircase which wound up the seaward side of the castle's keep. The land bespoke the unconquerable spirit of a warrior past in the raw, brooding beauty of its terraine.

"Here Kind Edward I built his fortress--" Clinton pointed to the turret towers that pierced the gray, stormy sky "--to consolidate his conquest of Wales."

Tiffany pictured strong-featured handsome men, unique and different, fighting to maintain their spirit and culture. She reached, brushing a strand of hair away from her face, turning her head into the wind.

"During the War of Roses, desperate men offered desperate resistance. This was also one of the last strongholds the Royalists held before it fell to the Roundheads."

Tiffany looked up at the castle sitting formidable and impenetrable atop the cliffs. The pounding of the surf resounded with the war cries of the men fighting desperately, taking their last noble stand. Tiffany envisioned the site and sympathized with their losing battle and understood the indomitable spirit that pushed them to fight odds they could never beat.

Turning to Clinton, who stood three steps down from her, she declared, "Your family, they stood beside their king, against the Welsh, and destroyed the culture?"

"Aye, my ancestors were rewarded by King Charles II for loyalty to him. The castle and its lands were titled to us and have remained in our family since."

Again Tiffany regarded the brooding pile of Halthorne Castle where it sat commanding the rocky ramparts overlooking the rugged coast below, which belied the bloody history of the shore. Looking up at her, Clinton thought she resembled the tone and spirit of the land. A sharp gust molded her clothes against her, revealing the soft line of a body he had come to know intimately. Shaking himself from the directions of his thoughts, he continued on with the history of his family. "Most of our lands came to us as spoils of war. We have maintained them by knowing the fickle face of our politics."

"Your ancestors were truly ruthless men, having no conscience, only ambition. I doubt it was loyalty, but rather greed. Yes, greed and the quest to be all-powerful which drove them to unspeakable deeds," she shouted above the roar.

"Ah, ruthless, relentless, and ambitious men, true. Greed? Nay. Wealth, spoils, or tribute comes the way of the victor. My ancestors strove to improve their lot, provide for their own, and to protect what was theirs to hold. What they spilled their blood for, they coveted. War, Princess, has no conscience, only victims and victors."

"Then I am a victim?" she asked above the roar.

Clinton refused to be drawn, wondering at her strange mood and at its cause. Tiffany rushed on, "Or perhaps I am the spoils? Which is it, Clinton, victim or spoils?"

He turned to face her, weary of this argument. "Nay, you are my wife," he stated simply, running his hand through his hair. She cast her gaze, watching the surf-hemmed swells pound and gnaw endlessly at the ragged shore below. A feeling of hopelessness prevailed over her as she likened the proud, yet futile, struggle of the ragged cliffs against the furious ebb and flow of the tide to herself.

"Wife, spoils, or victim." She turned to find him watching her. "Wherein lies the difference? None, I say. If I am one of them, I am all of them."

Tears filled her eyes. "Am I not the spoil? Don't I belong by right to the victor? You. Am I not the victim? One subjected to deception, sacrificed under conditions I had no control over?" Tears fell freely and etched her voice. "If I am your wife, then I am also a victim, the spoils." Turning away, she brushed the tears that fell with the back of her hand. She felt him touch her shoulder and turn her to him so he held her.

Clinton saw the pain in her eyes, the tears. "Those are your words, not mine. If you so choose to believe you are a victim, the spoils then so shall you remain. But I think only of you as the woman I love; a woman I want to love, cherish, and protect above all else."

Pulling from him, fresh tears spilling, she cried, "And above all else, I wanted another to love, another to cherish, another to protect me. Not you!" Turning, fleeing from his grasp, she ran up the stone steps wet from the mist of the churning waters below.

Tiffany reached the top, stopping, tears falling freely, her breath coming in short gasps from having run up the fifty-odd steps. She entered the keep and ran up to her chamber, where she flung herself across the bed and gave vent to her tears. Sobbing loudly, she clutched the pillow to her breast. Her tears nearly spent, she lay there, staring up at the bed canopy, her mind filled with memories of the last month. She had fought and lost the battles--all of them--and now it would appear the war also. Her body betrayed her at every turn, at every touch of his hand. She surrendered nightly to him and yielded easily every morn to his lovemaking. It mattered not how she set her will against him, no matter how often she summoned up her resistance, she would yield to the unbearable pleasure she knew she found in his arms.

She turned to her side, biting her lower lip, which trembled. She knew no matter how often she yielded, he was still not content with her physical surrender. No! Now he knew he controlled her body and he demanded more. Now he was driven in ruthless pursuit to possess all of her. He had told her, nay warned her, he would take no less than all of her.

Fresh tears sprang to her eyes. She slammed her fist against the bed in frustration, for she no longer knew what she wanted. She believed she could lose herself in the physical pleasure he offered, yet remain detached from him in other ways. Slamming her fist again, she realized he caused her to doubt her own convictions. She damned him and herself for the emotional turmoil she felt, and cried out. She needed to escape his web, to be free of his hold before he devoured her, leaving nothing but a shiny, yet empty, trophy to be shelved. And again with no plan, only strong conviction, she vowed her heart, he'd never have; as exhaustion overcame her, she drifted off,, summoning Alan's image. Whispering "my love," she strained, trying to recall his features, but instead a face with smoky gray eyes lulled her to sleep.

Clinton stood by the windows, his foot resting on the rung of a nearby chair. He lifted his cigar to pull leisurely on it as he stared at the gray sky which promised rain. His thoughts traveled over the past weeks. It had been three weeks since their arrival at Halthorne Castle and four weeks since their wedding. The sound of a servant bringing him brandy caused Clinton to turn. He gazed at the Great Hall, scanning its contents--a large open hearth, where a fire now blazed, took up an entire wall; a large coat of arms hung above the hearth; an immense head table with lower ones filled the hall. He looked at the richly carved inlaid chairs, designated for the lord and lady, and idly wondered what means his great-greatgrandfather had used to finally tame the fiery Irish princess he had married. Walking to the hearth, he drew a chair and sat, stretching his long legs before the fire.

His thoughts, as always, came to Tiffany. He wondered at her swift mood swing and its cause. He knew she was mercurial, but today she had caught him totally off guard. Since their arrival at Halthorne, they had settled into a mutual routine, starting each morning off with a most satisfying romp in bed and moving on to improve their riding skills on a different mount. Each morning's ride found them traveling the course of the property, exploring the endless caves and bluffs. In the afternoon they'd fish in the cold streams, catching their night's supper, or walking the endless length of the coast. The evenings were spent having intimate suppers, which ranged from elaborate fare to a simple trencher of cheese, fruit, and bread, shared in front of the hearth in their room. Often the evening was spent playing chess or cards, accompanied by conversation. And while the days they shared were filled with delightful adventures, the endless nights were spent exploring the depths of passion.

He knew her body craved his, her passion as full as his own, her releases as shattering as his. She had never resisted him, but herself, and no longer even that, yielding to him the minute he touched her. She had as of yet to become the aggressor, but in time this, too, would pass. He smiled thinking this, and sipped his brandy in a silent toast. She knew his love, for he declared it often enough. That she believed it, he doubted. She believed his passion and her own. Her love? He knew her last barrier--her love--she withheld, believing it belonged to another. Smiling almost wolfishly, he silently predicted, "Where her body goes, soon her heart would follow," and he had her body with her consent now. He was making good progress and, being a patient man, would wait for her declaration of love, knowing it would come once she admitted it to herself. Until she realized that she loved him and not another, there was nothing he could do. Well, he grinned, he was not totally ineffectual. A broad smile lifted the corners of his mouth. He would help his cause along at every turn, and he had no doubt that what he pursued, he would get.

The fire crackled and spit as a log caught and he shifted his gaze to the flames. He grew weary of her arguments whenever she felt threatened, and today she felt threatened. But by what? Shaking his head, he surmised a part of it was her own doubts, and a major part was him. He had to admit she was right accusing him of being driven, ruthless, highhanded, and lustful. Oh yes! He was all those things and more! If he weren't, he would not be the right man for her, and by God, he was the man for her.

He knew what he wanted and worked to get it. She, on the other hand, was sheltered, young, and dreamed of what she thought she wanted. He'd give her all her dreams, save one--her girlhood infatuation, a love that dwelled in the mind, not her heart.

She considered herself a possession of his, and she was. She belonged to him as much as he belonged to her. He wanted her by his side, not behind him or on a shelf. She had yet to equate the freedom she longed for with him. For he, above all and anyone else, respected and loved her. He admired her spirit, pride, and courage. He loved her for who she was and had no expectations she had to meet; he demanded nothing save her honesty with him and herself. One day, he thought, she will realize that above all else, she loves me, and all my deceptions and ruthlessness will mean naught.