The Wolfe (29 page)

She was rebuked and complimented at
the same time and not quite sure how to react. “Who was his da?” she asked
after a moment.

“The captain of Northwood’s troops
before William took command,” he replied with a touch of remembrance. “William
bested him eight years ago to win the honor.”

Jordan’s mouth opened with
astonished empathy. She instantly felt bad for thinking unkind thoughts about
him. “Oh, Paris, it must have been so difficult for him. But, I swear, to look
at him I thought him quite cold and unfeeling in the matter.”

“He was anything but that,” Paris
said quietly.

William appeared beside them once
again, sweeping Jordan into his arms. “The earl is retiring to the castle,” he
announced. “He looks forward to greeting you at supper tonight.”

“Put me down, English,” she said
testily. “I will walk.”

He looked at Paris and, with shrugs
between them, he put her down.

“As you wish,” he said, then eyed
her with a bit of irritation. “Will you at least take my arm so that you will
not weave like a drunkard all over the bailey?”

She complied as if she was granting
him a favor.

Jemma was down from Kieran’s
destrier and fell into step on the other side of her cousin. “We’ll wash yer
hair and clean ye up,” she took Jordan’s other arm.

Jordan shook her off. She was
disgusted with Jemma’s bloodlust and sickened at herself, everything. She did
not want to touch anyone or be touched. The only reason she was grasping
William’s arm was so she would not fall down.

“I shall do it myself,” she said
coldly. “I dunna need any help.”

“Aye, ye do,” Jemma did not
understand what had gotten into her cousin. “Ye canna wash around that cut,
ninny.”

Jordan stopped and whirled on her
cousin, her face red.

“Dunna call me names, Jemma Scott,”
she hissed. “Ye’re close to getting yer face punched in.”

This was no place for a scene.
William pulled Jordan with him while Paris placed himself between Jemma and her
cousin. Jordan, angered and overwrought beyond her limit, dropped her head and
tried to fight off the tears that kept filling her eyes. She just could not
take it anymore.

She didn’t notice the castle when
they entered in, the twenty foot ceilings and the colorful banners that hung
from the gallery railings. But when the cool musty odor filled her nose, her
head snapped up and it was if she had been slammed in the chest. My God, she
was in an English fortress. Everything she had grown up learning to hate was
here in front of her, surrounding her. The men that had killed her cousins and
grandfather may have walked these halls. They hated her. She hated them.

Panic was new to Jordan. She’d never
experienced it before which was why she scared herself all the more to feel her
control slipping away. She yanked her arm away from William, her head spinning
and her legs like jelly. She turned to run but he caught her before she could
take a step.

She turned into a frightened animal,
scratching and kicking. William had her firmly by the body and easily captured
her arms as she struggled against him.

“No, no, no.” she moaned over and
over again.

Paris had wisely taken Jemma ahead.
Any servants who happened to be in the foyer had vanished. William trapped her
against him and lifted her to a small secluded alcove that usually served as a
cloak room. He wasn’t about to carry her kicking and screaming up the stairs.

“Stop it, Jordan,” he hissed into
her ear.

“Let me go.” She twisted violently
in his arms. “I want to go home. I dunna want to stay in here. Let go of me.”

Holding her with one arm, he gripped
her chin with his free hand and forced her to look at him.

“Listen to me.” he whispered
harshly. “Damnation,
listen…
you are injured and exhausted, and you are
not thinking rationally. Relax, Jordan,
please.
”

Her panic slowed. He had promised to
take care of her, hadn’t he? Her senses balanced but hot tears started anew at
her embarrassment and shame of losing control. She had been so scared a moment earlier
she would have done anything to get the hell out of there. Now she was deeply ashamed.

She wept deeply and he pulled her
against his chest with a sorrowful sigh. He rubbed her back, stroked her arms,
murmuring soft words into her ear.

“There, there,” he whispered. “Everything
is well. I know you have had a day of it.”

She was sobbing like a child. “I
want to go home.”

He smiled. She sounded so vulnerable
that had it been within his power, he would have turned this moment and taken
her home.

“I know,” he said simply.

She cried until no more tears would
come. He had held her so gently, like a father. Or a lover.

“Oh, English,” she moaned with a
hiccup. “I need a drink.”

“Of course,” he said softly. “There
will be wine in your room. Do you feel like going up there now?”

She pulled back, wiping at her nose
with her soaked handkerchief. “Not wine, English. Whisky. Do ye not have any?”

He almost laughed. “Whisky?” he
repeated. “You should not drink that stuff; it’ll burn holes in you.”

She cocked at eyebrow. “I have been
drinking it since I was a bairn.”

He was taken aback by her statement
and fought off the urge to laugh at her professed vice.

“No whisky for you, my lady,” he
told her. “‘Tis a low man’s habit and certainly not the drink of a future countess.”

She looked at him as if to pout. She
was about to argue but decided she had not the strength. “Very well, English,
whatever ye say. I would go to my rooms now.”

He gazed down into her eyes, smiling
gently at her and tapping her lightly on the side of her cheek. Jordan’s heart
swelled at the depth she saw in his eyes. She wished fervently he would kiss
her again, now. She needed it more than the drink.

“English?” she asked breathlessly.

“Aye?”

She took a deep breath. “I forgive
ye for what ye called me earlier,” she said. She was probing him and hoping he
did not realize it. “I know it was a slip. Ye need not be embarrassed.”

He looked perplexed. “What did I
call you?”

“Love,” she replied softly. “Ye
called me ‘love’ when ye were looking at my cut.”

His smile faded and her heart
lurched. She thought probing him was not such a good idea now.  She did not
want to hear his reply and lowered her gaze, gathering her skirts as if to
leave. He stopped her.

“I am not embarrassed and it was not
a slip,” he said. “But I apologize if the term made you uncomfortable.”

“Nay,” she said, trying to remain
impartial. “It did not. I thought….” She shrugged and refused to continue.

“Jordan,” his voice was husky and
deep. “I never, ever say anything I do not mean.”

Her head snapped up to him and she
could not breathe. It was too much to hope for, too much to believe possible.
She was afraid and thrilled and astonished at the same time. His eyes,
Sweet
Jesu’,
his eyes were boring their way down into her very soul. She felt as
if she were being torn in half by her confliction emotions.

She decided she wasn’t strong enough
to hear anymore. She tore her gaze away from his and nodded swiftly.

“I would go to my chamber now,” she
repeated softly.

She took a step but his hand shot
out and jerked her back, pulling her roughly against him even as his lips came
down on hers. He was gentle at first, his lips so soft and caressing against
her, that she instinctively leaned into him, aching for more. His stubble
scratched at her, enhancing the pure sexuality of the kiss like nothing she had
ever experienced.

When she moved to push closer, his
huge hand grasped her face and did not allow her to budge an inch. His kisses
were becoming more forceful, more demanding, and his tongue was plunging into
her mouth, ravishing her until she was breathless. Her limbs tingled painfully
from his actions and her belly was warm and quivering.

William pulled back reluctantly,
forcing her to open her eyes. She smiled back at him with complete contentment.

“I thought ye were never going to do
that again,” she teased.

He looked regretful. “I lied.”

“Then why did ye do it?” she asked.

“Because I could not help myself,”
he said. “I do not know why you make me so weak, Jordan. I am not a weak man.”

“I know, English,” she put her small
hand up to stroke his cheek and he kissed her palm. “Ye are the strongest man I
know. And the most decent. And the most honorable. And the most beautiful.”

“Men are
not
beautiful,” he
snorted. “But I thank you just the same. Considering you are the most perfect
woman who has ever lived, I consider your praise quite a compliment.”

She smiled, “Ye are the only person
who thinks I am perfect,” she said. “Ye and my Da, of course.”

“Untrue,” he countered softly. “Every
man in my command thinks the sun rises and sets on you, which makes you fairly
close to perfect in their eyes, too.”

“I dunna care what they think,” she
insisted. “I only care what ye think.”

His gaze turned smoky again. His
hands came up and cupped her face and he studied her well before gently kissing
her forehead, her nose, her chin.

“I think you are perfect,” he said
hoarsely. “And I think I am doomed to a life of misery.”

“Why?” she demanded softly,
thrilling more than he could imagine at his touch.

“Because you can never be mine,” he
replied simply. He dropped his hands as if the statement had spoiled his mood. “We
should go to your rooms now. Paris is bound to come looking for us.”

He tucked her hand onto his elbow
but she balked.

“English,” she said faintly. “Legally
I may never belong to ye, but ye will always have my heart. I swear it.”

He exhaled heavily, with sorrow, and
turned to her. “As you will always have mine,” he whispered. It had taken nearly
all of his energy to say it.

She knew how hard this must be on
the man; it was hard on her, too, although he had far more to lose than she
did. She was glad to hear it but at the same time sad for him. Her future was
beyond her control; he still controlled his path yet had set an awful hurdle in
the middle of it.

“English,” she put her hand on his,
looking at the contrast in size between the two appendages. “Dunna say that right
now. Ye may regret it when ye meet a young lady ye would like to marry.”

He covered her hand with his other. “I
already have.”

He led her from the alcove without
another word.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Bathed and pressed and primped,
Jordan watched the flickering torches in the inner bailey three stories below.
There were soldiers everywhere, calmly walking the grounds, and somewhere she
heard singing.

The night was amazingly warm. A cool
breeze blew in over the lush hills and gently caressed her as she stood at the
window. She wore a pale yellow satin surcoat that was high in the neck and long
of sleeve, clinging to her round breasts and slim waist. A gold link belt studded
with rough-cut topaz hung about her hips and the voluminous skirt drug behind
her when she walked. Her freshly washed and dried hair hung in loose curls, but
she parted it on the right side and brushed the front of it over so it
partially covered the cut on her right temple, just under the hairline.

After the bath and a good dose of
wine, she was feeling much better. The castle physician, a tiny bald man named
Byron, had been in her room when she had arrived and had taken care of the cut.
Then he had given her a potion of boiled willow bark for her splitting headache,
which had worked beautifully.

Her mind was clear, normal again, as
she gazed out into the lovely night and wondered when she would be retrieved
for supper. Moreover, she wondered who would be sent for her and wished on all the
stars in the sky that it would be William.

Jemma was in an adjoining room. She
could hear her cousin’s irritation at the borrowed clothes, nothing fit,
everything was too long or too tight in the bust, nothing was right. She smiled
to herself, more in a mood to take on Jemma’s tantrums.

“Jemma, do ye need any more help?”
she called.

“Nay.” Jemma bellowed.

Jordan smiled. “Ye should be happy
wearing the burgundy silk.”

“I am.” Jemma said as if she didn’t
mean a word of it. “But it is too long. I am going to kill myself walking down those
stairs.”

Jordan turned away from the window
and crossed the room. “We took it up as best we could, considering there wasna
proper time,” she reminded her. “Just do yer best and we shall mend it proper
tomorrow.”