Prisoner of My Desire (14 page)

“You take too much pleasure in my hate and my resistance. I would prefer not to give you any pleasure at all.”

“Selfish, wench,” he chided, though there was suddenly real humor in his eyes. “So you think to lie there like a dead thing and hope I will grow bored and let you go?”

She had yet to meet this particular mood of his and said warily, “Now that you mention it…”

He laughed, confounding her, and laughed even more when he saw her confusion. Then his hand came to her cheek, so gentle, and his thumb rubbed slowly, tantalizingly, over her full lower lip.

“What am I to do with you?”

The question did not seem to be for her, ac
tually, merely was he wondering it aloud. But she answered him anyway. “Let me go.”

“Nay, never that,” he said softly as his eyes dropped to her lips. “You were virgin in more than one area. What about these, too?”

There was warmth now in his eyes and smile that made him so handsome she was nearly mesmerized. And then his lips touched hers.

She had seen it coming, had been prepared to resist, but she was unprepared for the unexpected involvement of the rest of her that she had no control of. His tongue licked at her lips, and she felt sensations in her belly. His tongue slipped between her teeth to caress her own, and she felt heat in her loins.

’Twas true that no lover’s lips had ever shown her the way of kissing. What Gilbert had done just before he left her to Warrick’s mercy was naught like this. That kiss had been brief, hard, and repugnant to her. This one was soft, unending, and she wished she were not being made to know the difference. There should have been no difference. But she could not deny this was another thing about her enemy that she did not mind.

“As I thought, another virgin terrain to explore,” he said, and seemed pleased by it. “You must have been locked away until I found you.”

Words seemed to be the only defense he would allow her. She used them now as a desperate measure, for she realized that she would have herself to fight as much as him if this continued.

“You did not find me, you were found
for
me.
Remember that, and that you do not really want to do this. Let me go, Warrick.”

His answer was to kiss her again, a kiss not so gentle this time, but still not the least bit repulsive. In fact, she was caught up in the passion of it so quickly, she forgot the taunt she had just used to avoid it.

He did not. He was as angry with her as she had hoped he would be, merely was the result not what she had wanted. Nor did she become aware of it until much later, when she heard his whispered command, “Beg me,” and she had reached the point of such frustrating need—that she did.

Warrick was in a bemused state of utter repletion and disgruntlement. Neither feeling sat well with him at the moment, but neither would leave him alone. The one made him wish he could deny the other, but he could not, for burying himself deep inside that flaxen-haired witch had been unbelievably satisfying. Of course, obtaining revenge against her had made it so good. Such immense pleasure could not be for any other reason.

But he should not have experienced that at all, for he had had no intention of touching her again after she had been released from her chains. He had meant to continue plaguing her, certainly, and heaping shame on her. He still meant to, for he had not allowed her to live without paying a price for it, and he wanted her constantly reminded of that.

But tonight had shown him that he was a fool to think he could shame her by having her perform intimate services and not pay a price for it himself. He could have if she had continued to feel only shame—but she had become aroused instead, though she tried so hard not to show it, and her wanting him had sent him over the edge. Still, he had resisted her siren’s call and sent her away. Yet she had continued to prey on his mind—and body.

That should have enraged him, that she could still make him want her so powerfully. Verily, it did infuriate him, for ’twas no different from his lack of control when she had had him in her power. And he
had
fought the overwhelming urge to go and fetch her back to him tonight. But once it had occurred to him that her very status now gave him all the excuse he needed to have her again, he lost the fight.

He leaned over to look at her now. She was pretending sleep, hoping to avoid any further attention from him. He smiled to himself. He had not expected to find her so amusing. Her spirit, her attempts to defy him, were ridiculously funny. Most of the time she truly feared him, but at other times she was too angry to, and he found he enjoyed her anger much more than her fear, which made not much sense to him.

Nor did her daring in deliberately trying to prick his anger make much sense, considering the seriousness of her position. He had not bothered to undress her or himself, merely tossing her skirt up as he had warned her he could do.
But he had also told her he did not want her willingness, yet hearing her beg him to take her had been sweet indeed, appeasing the anger she had sought.

Her skirt was still hiked up to her hips. He brought his hand to rest on her bare flank and watched her hold her breath. But she did not open her eyes, still pretending sleep. Another little defiance he chose to let pass for the moment.

His mood was certainly strange, despising her for what she had done to him, but enjoying too much having her in his power. And this urge to touch her when he was well sated—that increased his disgruntlement.

He removed his hand from her with a frown, deciding that her presence had to be responsible for his strange mood. At least that he could rectify, and right quickly.

“Be gone, wench. My use of you does not include sharing my bed more than I already have. I did not like sleeping on a hard pallet these last three nights.”

“I am overcome with sympathy,” she retorted as she rolled off the mattress to the floor and headed straight for the door.

Her sarcasm was too blatant to amuse him. “Remember my soft bed when you sleep on your own hard pallet,” he called after her.

She turned to give him a tight little smile. “Your bed has already been forgotten—except for me to know a stone slab would be preferable to it.”

“Such was not your attitude when you were begging me to take you.”

Her face went scarlet at the reminder. Good. That would teach her to be a little wiser in her taunts. But he forgot about that the moment he noticed her bare feet.

“Come back here, Rowena.” Her face went from red to white, making him snap, “I am in no mood to carry you back to your bed because you were forgetful in bringing your shoes along.”

“
Me
forgetful? I had had no intention of leaving the weaving room. You wake me in the middle of the night and expect me to be fully dressed?”

“You were not sleeping. But regardless, now you must sleep here after all, until I can have your shoes fetched in the morn.”

“I will not catch cold, I swear I will not.”

“Do you mean to stand there and argue with me, wench?” he demanded.

She lowered her head. “No,” she said so softly he barely heard.

“Then get you back in this bed now.”

He said no more while she came forward at a snail’s pace, tempting his patience, his temper, his good intentions. But by the time she had reached the bed, he was annoyed enough to add, “Remove that chemise first. I do not care to be chafed by it do I roll toward you in my sleep.”

Her head snapped up to show him she was not cowed, as he had thought. She had been trying to hide her fury from him. She gave up the pretense now to yank the chemise over her
head and throw it to the floor. That demonstration of pique was merely amusing. The redness on her skin from the coarse wool was what kept him annoyed.

Damned delicate skin. He had just made one exception by permitting her to share his bed to safeguard her health, and here was another he felt compelled to make for her.

He did not like having his revenge undermined by incidentals, but still he made a mental note to tell Enid to fetch the soft linen shift that Rowena had come with, mayhap her own chemise, too, when she brought the shoes in the morn. But this had best be the last allowance that must be made because of her size, gender, or softness, or the wench would begin to think he was not serious in his dislike of her.

To ensure that she did not think so now, he let his eyes roam over her nakedness and said, “’Tis pleasant indeed, teaching you your place.”

“Which is beneath your feet?” she snapped.

He began to remove his own clothes, but spared her a brittle smile before replying. “If I so wish it. Now get under the covers. I do not care to hear another word from you this night.” Or see any more of that luscious body she did not even attempt to shield from him now.

For once she quickly did as bidden, but when he joined her moments later after dousing the candles, and turned toward her merely to find a comfortable position, she cried out, “I cannot endure your touch again. I will go mad!”

He was tempted to disprove those words. Instead he said, “Be quiet. I am too tired to force
you again—no matter how much you might beg for it.” But perversely, he now put an arm around her and drew her into the curve of his body.

“I will not be able to sleep like this,” she gritted out.

“Best you hope I can, wench, or ’twill not matter how tired I am.” She became so still she did not even breathe. He laughed and hugged her closer. “Do I want you again, your silly antics will not prevent it, so go to sleep ere I change my mind.”

She breathed again and said no more. Warrick
was
tired, but not so tired that he did not appreciate the warm body pressed to his. There was a benefit to her softness after all, and he realized he could get used to it if he was not careful.

God was merciful the next morning in allowing Rowena to wake to an empty chamber. She did not know how she was going to endure facing Warrick in the bright light of day after last night, but at least she had a temporary reprieve—but not from the memories.

She groaned as they assailed her, and buried her head beneath the pillow. She had been so sure she could resist begging Warrick, but with his fingers and lips tormenting her, with her blood soaring ever faster with need, the words he had wanted to hear had tumbled from her lips. And she had not cared then, had cared for naught but the exquisite pleasure he had withheld until she did as he wanted. The mortification and self-loathing had come after, but would last for much longer—most like forever. And she
still could not bear the thought of facing him and seeing his gloating expression.

She would die, burn up with the shame of it, and he would laugh. Her weakness meant naught to him; his own triumph was everything. Aye, he would laugh, and she would hate him more than ever…

“Unbury yourself, wench, and put these on.”

Rowena gasped and swung around to find Warrick standing beside the bed with her shift and chemise in his hands, as well as the bliaut and shoes she had left in the weaving room. He was frowning at her—and had more to say in his brusque tone.

“Think you you can laze abed as you are likely accustomed, simply because I found some little pleasure in you yestereve? Nay, your status does not change, nor do your duties, which you have thus far neglected this morn. However, as I have already eaten, you need not serve at the high table until the evening meal, so go and break your fast now and attend to your other duties.”

He left before she could come up with a suitable scathing reply. Laze abed indeed. As if she would, especially in
his
bed.

And then it dawned on her that she had faced him and survived it. He was not going to gloat about her shame? He was not even going to mention it other than that he had found some
little
pleasure in her? Verily, she did not understand him at all. He had passed up the perfect opportunity for further humiliation.

She glanced at the clothes left on the bed, and
her confusion increased. She knew
why
she had been given servants’ clothes—so she would be constantly reminded by their roughness of her new status. Yet here were her own undergarments back in softest linen to protect her skin. She would still have to wear the servant’s outer gown, but she would no longer be chafed raw by it.

She stared in bemusement at the door through which Warrick had departed. This cruel man refused to let her go hungry, refused to let her get chilled, albeit his concern in those matters was for the babe she carried. But now he refused to let her skin become abraded by the clothes
he
had insisted she wear, and that was not for the child. That was only for her. Cruel? Aye, certainly he was—but mayhap not to the core.

Nay, what was she thinking? There was no kindness in Warrick de Chaville, not even a little. No doubt he had some ulterior motive in giving her back her underclothes that she just could not see yet, but was like to cause her embarrassment somehow. The hateful man. Did he have naught better to do than plot ways to plague her?

She dressed quickly, sighing with pleasure at the familiar comfort of her thin white shift and the snug-fitting red chemise that covered her ankles as was proper—for a lady, anyway. The coarse dun bliaut no longer touched her skin at all, but she found she would have a problem keeping it up on her shoulders, now that she had her smooth chemise under it instead of the rough wool that had at least kept the loose garment in place.

Regardless, she felt so much better wearing at least something of her own that she was almost smiling when she entered the hall, and did smile when she saw that Warrick was not there to unnerve her with those chilling silver eyes. She looked for Mildred at the hearth, but only Warrick’s daughters were there with their tutor, learning new stitches. She did not spare them another glance, so did not notice how they watched her all the way to the kitchen stairs, with looks almost as baleful as their father’s.

“Pay her no mind, my dears,” Lady Roberta admonished. “A lady does not deign to notice women of her sort.”

“But she passed the night in his solar,” thirteen-year-old Melisant pointed out. “Celia never passed the whole night with him.”

“Celia is hardly pleasant company with her haughty airs,” Beatrix said with a disdainful sniff.

Beatrix was the older daughter at ten and four, if you did not count the bastard, Emma, whom their father never even asked after, and whom neither legitimate daughter acknowledged as sister. Melisant was the prettier of the two, with her light blond hair and gray eyes, which had just enough blue in them to make them not so cold as her father’s. Beatrix had brown hair and eyes herself, and cheekbones too narrow. She would have been passing fair if her expression were not always so pinched and disapproving. But then, it was a well-known fact that Warrick had been betrothed to her mother at a young age, and her mother had been a plain-looking
woman. Whereas Warrick had picked Melisant’s mother himself for her comeliness.

Beatrix did not hold this too much against her younger sister. She was older, after all, and her father’s heir. Melisant would have her mother’s dower property, but Beatrix would have all the rest—as long as there was no male heir. Which was why Beatrix had lived in dread of the Lady Isabella’s coming, and had silently rejoiced to hear the maid was now missing, possibly dead. It had taken Warrick so long to find her when he had decided ’twas time for another wife, and longer still to make contract for her. And he was so busy with his wars and increasing his property, which would be Beatrix’s property, that he would not have time to look for another wife.

But she did not like the rumors she was hearing about the new servant. Twice now it had been whispered to her that the wench was breeding, and that the babe was likely Warrick’s. That was not alarming in itself, for Warrick would never wed a lowly serf, and a serf’s bastard would never inherit Fulkhurst, even were it a male child. But the other rumor she had heard, that the wench was not truly a serf, but a lady born who had merely earned Warrick’s enmity—that put a different face on it.

She did not believe it. Even her father, who was utterly ruthless to his enemies, would not treat a lady so. But if it
was
true, and the girl gave Warrick a son, he might be induced to wed her.

Beatrix knew he wanted a male heir. Everyone knew it. But she could not bear it if it came to
pass, not now, after she had lived her whole life with the expectation of having it all. She
wanted
it all, needed it. She did not have Melisant’s prettiness. Only the promise of Fulkhurst would get her the husband she wanted.

“There she is again,” Melisant said as Rowena appeared in the hall with Enid in tow this time. “I wonder from where she got that pretty red chemise.”

“Spoils Father no doubt gave her,” Beatrix replied with narrowed eyes. “I think I will summon her and—”

“You will
not
, young lady,” the tutor scolded sternly, fully aware of how spiteful her charge could be. “Do you make trouble for your lord’s leman, the trouble is like to come back to you. Remember that for when you have a husband.”

Beatrix glared at the old woman, but did not argue. She had found it easier just to ignore Lady Roberta’s sage advice and then do as she pleased when the pious old fool was not around.