Chapter 2 #2
Is he? mocked her inner voice. Lily shivered and wondered how a man with such sensuous lips and intelligent eyes could be as cruel and frightening as was generally believed.
She had thought she was adept at reading a man’s mind and character—such tricks had been necessary to keep her alive—but Radulf was a puzzle.
The man who had touched her in Grimswade church was not the same man whose legend was spoken of in hushed tones.
Lily would stake her lands on it—if she still had any. He had desired her, and to
Lily’s surprise, she had desired him. Her surprise at her own feelings wasn’t because Radulf was undesirable—such a big, masculine man must always be attractive—but because of Vorgen.
There had been no love between Lily and her husband.
In fact Lily had hated him, and at first Vorgen had seen her as nothing more than the means to his domination of the north.
He had not pretended otherwise, and anyway, how could Lily love the man who had murdered her father and turned her comfortable, ordered existence into hell?
In the beginning, when they were first married, Vorgen had tried repeatedly to consummate their marriage.
He had pressed and pummeled her, hurting her when he failed.
As time passed his attempts became fewer, but were still as frantic and frightening.
Lily had imagined his impotence was due to his age, for he was nearly as old as her father.
But with each failed attempt, Vorgen’s need to have her grew.
He roared at her that it was all her fault, that she was a frozen bitch, and it was her coldness that had made him incapable.
“Then I am glad. Glad!” she had screamed back at him, and earned herself a bruised cheek. But she had been glad he could not take from her what she had always considered hers alone to give.
Still, his cruel words had hurt as much as his hands. And he began to say them so often and with such venom, Lily could not help but believe them.
Occasionally Vorgen would threaten her with other men. He told her that he would force her to mate with them, for Vorgen needed an heir to con-solidate his position. His subjects thought of him as a foreigner, but they would accept a half-Norman, half-English child and give it their allegiance.
Yet the threats had been just that. And then Vorgen was dead, and she was his widow without ever having been his wife.
The coming of night had been something to dread, in case he visited her chamber.
She did not think she would have dreaded the nights if Radulf had been her husband, but Vorgen had left behind a legacy of doubt.
Would Radulf, too, find her cold and undesirable?
Would he kiss her with passion, only to find that heat chill and shrivel to naught?
He is my enemy! her weary brain reminded her.
But that only further confused her; it felt as if her mind and her body were playing tug-of-war.
But Radulf’s bed was soft and warm, and Lily’s body rested in a comfortable hollow. The past weeks, the past few years, had been like living on a knife edge, and it was a very long time since Lily had been so peaceful or so relaxed.
Finally, she succumbed to exhaustion.
Her sleep was so deep, she did not hear the sounds of the army camp settling for the night, or Stephen coming to light the candles, or an owl calling outside. She slept on, dreamless, her silver hair spread about her.
“My lord?”
The last lingering effects of sleep dissipated abruptly, and Lily held her breath. Stephen’s soft voice had come from the direction of the tent door, but it was not Stephen who had awakened her so abruptly.
There was someone standing over her. She could feel him, smell him—a combination of sweat, damp wool, and man.
Radulf.
Beneath the folds of her gown, Lily’s hand closed hard, her nails digging into her palm.
“My lord?” Stephen repeated, his puzzlement evident.
Now all of Lily’s senses were awake and quivering. There was a movement nearby as heavy wool—a cloak? —swirled, brushing against her cheek. The contact caused her to flinch, but Radulf had already turned away, his footsteps retreating.
Very carefully, Lily opened one eye and peered through her lashes.
Her enemy had his back to her, and by the tilt of his head was drinking from a goblet. Stephen stood beside him, waiting until Radulf had finished, and then refilling the goblet from a beaten metal jug. Radulf grunted his thanks.
Lily noted that Radulf had removed his hauberk and helmet, and now wore a green, short-sleeved tunic over a white linen shirt and breeches of a muddy brown.
A thick, dark-colored cloak was thrown loosely over one shoulder.
The chain mail had taken with it some of his bulk, but he was still enormous, wide of back and shoulders, his body as strongly muscled as any large fighting animal.
Powerful. Again Rona’s word seemed to encompass all that was Radulf.
“My lord Radulf,” Stephen spoke. “Will I dress your wounds?”
Radulf paused, the goblet once more lifted. His hair was very dark and cut short over his skull, shorter even than the Norman fashion.
“No,” Radulf answered his squire. “My lady offered to do so,” and he nodded in Lily’s direction.
She tried to make herself smaller on the bed.
Dressing a knight’s wounds was the province of a lady, but Lily was wary of touching that warm skin.
“Did you search Vorgen’s stronghold, lord?”
“Aye. Empty.”
“So there was no battle, my lord?” Stephen sounded disappointed.
Radulf gave a snort of disgust. “No, there was not.” He flexed his shoulder, easing the ache.
“So the she-devil is still free?” Stephen looked uneasy at the idea of anyone defying his lord.
“She is. There would be less bloodshed if she yielded now instead of cooking up more plots, but it matters not. I will have her sooner or later.”
Lily bit her lip, cold fear crawling over her skin.
What if he were to find out that the woman he held safe in his tent was the very woman he sought? Surely he would kill her?
“Women are weak creatures, meant to be confined,” Stephen was saying knowledgeably, more like a swaggering knave than an untried boy. “’Tis not right they should be allowed the freedom to lead men and make war. ’Tis not right they should cause such pandemonium about the land!”
“Calm yourself, boy.”
Radulf was laughing, Lily could tell by his voice.
How could Radulf, the bloody warrior, the putter-down of rebellions, be laughing?
The men Lily had recently known in her life did not laugh very often, and when they did their humor was coarse and violent.
This Radulf was a puzzle, and Lily could no longer keep still. She opened her eyes and sat up.
Stephen, facing her, frowned and glanced quickly at his lord. Radulf turned, the goblet in his hand and dying laughter in his eyes. Lily’s breath slipped out of her open mouth.
The church last night had been dark, the light poor.
Although she had had an impression of size and strength, and a sensation of dangerous dark eyes and a sensuous mouth, she had not really seen him.
Now Lily saw Radulf as he truly was, and her heart tumbled over and over, like a small water wheel in a raging millpond.
Why did his face stir her so? It was by no means handsome in the usual way, not at all like the blond perfection of Hew.
Radulf’s nose had been broken and was a little crooked, and there was a deep scar that ran across one cheekbone and up into his hairline, just missing his left eye.
Strong and masculine, it was the face of a man who had lived and seen much.
His eyes, dark and deep set, were watchful and older than his years.
And his mouth . . . Lily felt weak at the thought of pressing her own against it, of feeling those full lips moving over hers.
Her thoughts careering out of control, Lily’s gaze flew wildly to Radulf’s as she wondered whether he could read her mind.
And then, horrified, whether he would need to.
Surely women threw themselves at him every moment of every day?
Such a man must be a honeypot for all womankind.
With a mixture of uneasy fascination and horrified expectation, Lily watched Radulf approach her.
An angry spark flared in eyes that had a moment before been laughing and warm, and there was a hint of cruelty in the curl of his lips. He looked cross—had he discovered the truth already? No, if he knew the truth he would be furious. Lily held her breath as Radulf came to a halt beside the bed.
“You do well to fear me, lady,” he said in his deepest, most menacing voice. “You are the lamb to my wolf. I could tear out your throat.”
Lily gazed up at him, her eyes held prisoner by his. Oh yes, this was indeed her feared enemy, just as she had always imagined him. The terror of the north, the King’s bloody Sword! A shudder of fright ran through her body . . . and then faded.
Lily’s frozen mind thawed and began to work.
Why, if Radulf was so alarming, if his face was as hard and cold as his sword, was the expression in his eyes so achingly weary? As if his own infamy were a burden he could hardly bear.
“I am not afraid of you.” Lily heard the quiet certainty in her voice.
Surprise flickered in those dark depths.
Slowly the cruel smile faded and became genuine.
“No, lady?” He shrugged, winced, and dropped his deep voice to a husky rumble.
“Then methinks you are very foolish. Everyone is afraid of me.” Radulf held her gaze a heartbeat longer before turning away, back toward Stephen.
His next words were offhand, a deceptively negligent challenge.
“However, if you speak the truth, and are brave enough, you may tend my wounds. Stephen usually does so, but his hands are more used to the serving of meat than the repairing of it.”
Radulf turned again to look at her, while Stephen appeared suitably shamefaced.