Silk on the Skin: A Loveswept Classic Romance (22 page)

She shook her head firmly. “No. I want your word. If I … stay here tonight, with you, I want your word that you will give me the pearl in the morning.”

He took a moment to study her. When he’d first heard her voice, he’d gotten the impression of delicacy—an impression that was strengthened when he stood over her, touching her. She seemed small, fragile, with big, luminous eyes, a small nose, and a wide, generous mouth just made for love. Surely a mouth like that couldn’t lie. But he’d almost forgotten that she was a thief. She had broken into his home with the intention of stealing from him. No matter how guileless and innocent her face, she lacked moral character. For some perverse reason, that made him want her all the more.

“I have said I will if that is what you desire.” He could see that his answer didn’t satisfy her.

“Say it,” she demanded. “Say, ‘I will give you the pearl tomorrow morning after you have lain with me tonight.’ Give me your word of honor.”

Ah, so the immoral little cat hoped to tangle him in his own honor, did she? Well, he had no qualms about making promises to thieves in the night. “You have my word of honor, my dear. I will give you the pearl in the morning after you have lain with me tonight.” He knew the words were a lie even as he spoke them. But he also knew that the money and gifts he would give her in the morning would more than make up for it.

He took a step closer and saw her eyes widen. Her gaze seemed to be in constant motion, as if she was too nervous to let it alight on any one part of his exposed person. He found it charming regardless of whether it was true or a performance for his benefit.

“But you will do more than lie with me, my dear,” he whispered, noting with satisfaction the shiver along her shoulders. She licked her lips again, and Alasdair went from firm interest to hard desire as he followed the path of her tongue along the plump folds of her lips, now wet and glistening in the moonlight. “I will make you cry tonight, little thief. I will make you moan and beg and cry out with pleasure.” With each word her eyes grew larger and more alarmed. “Now, are you still willing to make this bargain?”

Julianna was terrified. Because some part of her, some clearly perverse and heretofore unknown part of her, desperately wanted this beautiful naked man to make her cry and beg. But it wasn’t about what Julianna wanted, was it? It was about what she needed. And she needed that pearl. She had no other options. It was too late to look for funds elsewhere. And if she didn’t pay the solicitor within the week, the children would all be out on the street. She had worked so desperately to shield them from the harsh realities of their life, to provide a safe home and a happy future for them. All would be lost if she lacked the courage to accept this bargain. Truly, it would ruin her if she failed to produce the rent. Ruin her chance at independence, her chance to prove she was capable of taking care of herself and others. The failure would hang over her head, branding her incompetent and unworthy. And that would be the ultimate failure on her part. She would lose the children and so much more.

She nibbled on her fingertip as she debated with herself. Her virginity certainly hadn’t ever helped her up until now. After all, it wasn’t as if she was saving herself for someone. True, she was untouched, but that had been by choice. She had never wanted to give herself to any man before, either in bed or in matrimony. She very much doubted that would change after a night in bed with Mr. Sharp, who most certainly did not have matrimony on his mind. If she was honest with herself, she’d admit her attraction to him was part of the reason she’d decided on this mad scheme. Surely this weakness she harbored for him would pass if she surrendered to it for one night? Then she could move forward, take care of business, and forget Mr. Sharp entirely. It was a business proposition, nothing more. She had seen countless men and women, her father included, walk away from affairs such as this without a backward glance. She knew Mr. Sharp had done so in the past. She saw no reason why she couldn’t do the same.

But could she trust his word? That was the real question. Could she trust that he would live up to his side of the bargain? And could she live with herself after it was over, after she had sold her body for the price of a pearl? Well, an incredibly beautiful, valuable pearl, but still.

She could feel his eyes on her, measuring her, tempting her, seducing her. She bit her lip in panicked indecision and watched his eyes narrow just a bit more as the rise and fall of his chest lost a step in the cadence of his breathing.

With amazement she realized he really did want her. This might be a diversion for him, a meaningless encounter, but he really did want her. Why? He didn’t recognize her. For all he knew she was nothing but an immoral thief. And yet he wanted her. Did he even know what she looked like? It was dark enough in the room that she could make out only the basic outline of his features. If she hadn’t seen him countless times before, she wouldn’t know the blue of his eyes, the gleaming blond of his hair. So what did he see that intrigued him?

It is what he thinks me to be.
He thought her a thief, a trickster, a criminal. It was why he’d proposed the bargain. He thought she was experienced, he’d said as much. He thought she was a woman of the streets. She almost laughed aloud. She knew her way around a lock, it was true, but she hadn’t learned that on the streets. Oh, no. She’d learned that in the drawing rooms and country houses of the glittering society in which he moved so effortlessly. He had no idea who she was, none at all. And that was a good thing. She worked very hard to blend into the background, disguising the real Julianna behind a bland facade. That way no one would take an interest in her. It was a habit she’d learned as a child, so as not to interfere with her father’s thieving or romancing. She’d grown to like the anonymity of it. Now her disguise gave her the freedom to do as she chose while society promenaded past her, uncaring about who she was or what she did. Clearly Mr. Sharp had walked past as uncaring as everyone else.

But tonight he cared. Tonight she would drop all disguises and, for the first time in her life, she would be herself and take what she wanted, as well as get what she needed.

“I accept,” she whispered the words as she closed her eyes tightly, her stomach flipping, though not unpleasantly, at the risk she was taking.

C
HAPTER ONE
 

England, 1192

“D
id you hear that?” A mailed knight jerked nervously at the reins of his mount and cast quick, furtive glances into the gloom. A mist had begun to rise like smoke, drifting along the ground in vaporish wisps. It was too quiet—too ghostly in the dim, dusky silence of the forest. Tangled tree branches of ancient oaks formed a high ceiling overhead, as ribbed and vaulted as a French cathedral. Diffused sunlight pierced the tight-knit canopy of new leaves in thready streamers to light the narrow road, a hazy contrast to the air of expectant darkness looming beyond.

A faint tinkling sound like tiny bells carried on the wind. It faded so swiftly Rhys ap Griffyn wasn’t certain he heard it. He pulled off his helmet to listen; light gleamed on blond hair, catching in thick strands dampened from the weight and heat of his helmet. Gray eyes narrowed to steely slits as he surveyed the road and dense weald around them. Nothing. No sound but the muffled thud of hooves on soft ground and the clink of harness.

The mailed knight rode closer to Rhys, looking around uneasily. “Did you hear it?”

“I heard nothing, Brian. ’Tis only the wind.”

“Nay, this was different. It was … strange. Like … faerie bells.” Brian seemed locked in the grip of fear. His back was stiff, and one hand tightly gripped the loop of leather reins. His mount danced nervously at the strangling hold.

Knowing better than to let the idea of faeries take hold of his men, Rhys said, “It’s footsteps—the sound of our horseshoes on stones.”

Brian blanched; his face paled beneath the lifted visor of his helmet. “Don’t look behind us, for the footsteps will be those of dead men.”

Rhys nudged his mount close and spoke low so only Brian would hear. “There are no footsteps. ’Tis the wind through tree branches you hear.”

“Holy Mary—we should have stayed at the village inn for the night.” Freckles stood out like splotches of mud against pale skin stretched taut over Brian’s cheekbones and nose. “It’s Beltane Eve, and we shouldn’t be out. Spirits roam on the borderline eve between spring and summer, when it’s not one season or the other.” He paused to take a deep breath. “And it’s a borderline hour, neither day nor night, the time when the faeries and spirits roam most freely.”

Several of the soldiers within earshot began to mutter uneasily. Silently cursing Brian’s superstitions, Rhys leaned on the pommel of his saddle to gaze at him with mock amusement. “Big as you are, do you think the Tylwyth Teg will be strong enough to carry you with them, Sir Brian?”

One of the Welsh soldiers laughed, though the sound was strained. When he added in a tense mutter, “Vsbrydnos,” the Welsh name for “spirit night” did nothing to calm the other Welshmen. A murmur ran through the ranks of mounted men.

Rhys sat up straight, shaking his head. “The spirit night will not harm us. Nor will the Tylwyth Teg.”

“In Ireland,” Brian said darkly, “we call them the Daoine Sidhe. And it’s been said about more than one man that the faeries captured him.”

“Yea, but it’s my belief that more than one wayward husband had to invent an excuse for his angry wife,” Rhys retorted with a grin. “Claiming capture by the faeries would be enough to convince almost any goodwife that her husband was detained beyond his will.”

“You mock me,” Brian said irritably when several of the men laughed. He glanced around, tugging off his helmet. Sweat plastered his red hair to his head. Splinters of light filtered through the roof of leaves, providing enough illumination to see the narrow road, but in the trees beyond, it had grown dark. Looking back at Rhys, he complained, “We should have lingered in the village, I tell you. The maypole was lifted on the green, and there’s feasting and merrymaking.”

“And winsome maids to go a’maying with—perhaps to get lost in the woods with while picking whitethorn flowers?” He grinned when color flushed Brian’s face. “Nay, I know your way with the ladies. If we’d lingered, we’d not get to Coventry by Saint John’s Eve, much less by the day after May Day.”

Brian turned his mount on the close road, scowling at Rhys. Before he could speak, his horse gave a shrill whinny and half reared, huge hooves thrashing in the air. Leaves shuddered as the animal backed into a hawthorn hedge thick with white flowers and thorns, and Brian cursed loudly.

It was infectious. Suddenly all the horses began to plunge and snort, throwing the knights into turmoil. When his own stallion threw up his head and snorted, Rhys drew his sword and adjusted his shield. He’d been too long a soldier and knight not to trust the instincts of his warhorse.

Brian’s sword flashed in the gloom, as did those of the other men. Some muttered curses, others offered prayers as they tried to calm their mounts without being unhorsed. Then one of the men gave a shout.

Rhys looked up. The hair on the back of his neck prickled a warning, and he fought his destrier to a standstill before he was able to focus on the object of this terror. His blood chilled, and he choked back a curse.

In the middle of the road just ahead stood a small figure, wreathed in shreds of mist as if newly sprung from the very ground. Flowing robes of deepest purple completely draped the motionless form. Rhys made the sign of the cross over his chest before he could stop himself. A light peal of mocking laughter greeted his instinctive movement, and he clenched his fist. Embarrassed anger replaced the irrational spurt of fear.

He curbed his plunging mount and spurred forward a few steps. “Move from the road,” he ordered. Instead of immediately yielding, there was the sound of more amusement, and a brittle tinkle like tiny bells.

“In nomine Patris,”
Brian moaned, crossing himself in a clink of chain mail that was echoed by the others.
“Confiteor Deo omnipoténti, beátae María semper Vírgini …”
His prayer faded into silence.