Autumn Lord (17 page)

each other not at all."

She looked up slowly as he spoke, up the long, hard-muscled length of him. She was almost more

aware of the heat that rushed through her from his touch than of his voice. Almost, because his voice

touched her as well. It brushed like heavy velvet along her sensitized nerves. He was the one who ought

to be a storyteller since he could mesmerize her with a word.

He might as well have been naked, he thought. For his thick layers of clothing were no protection

against the way she drew her gaze over him. He went hard just from the slow, intense scrutiny of Diane's

fathomless dark eyes. Once again, this was going too fast. He had wanted her to want him, but had not

expected it to happen so quickly. He was not prepared, no matter what his body told him.

He dropped her hands and turned away. He went back to his chair and slowly eased himself into the

seat. "We need to talk." He folded his hands before him again. This time they were tightly clenched. "I

need to explain some things to you," he corrected as she reacted with a sharp look to his ill-chosen

words.

Simon tried to assume a lecturing tone. "Last night I tried to show my high regard for you in the most

flattering way I know. You obviously did not understand my intent. We both came away feeling insulted.

Let us now endeavor to come to an understanding of what is expected in our respective roles."

Comprehension gradually lit Diane's expression as he spoke. This awareness was followed by the

skeptical arch of eyebrows that he found endearing. She leaned forward to rest her folded arms on her

side of the wide table with casual, negligent grace.

He was not the one who was here to be charmed, he reminded himself sternly. But the fact that she

was beautiful, and seemingly unaware of the effect of her beauty, was most distracting.

Diane had her emotions under control enough to be curious. She wanted to keep her mind working.

She nodded for him to go on, and was determined to listen to what he said rather than just react to the

sound of his voice. He was right, they were from different cultures. She'd gotten in enough trouble

already from not knowing how this world worked. It was time she learned. He was offering to be her

teacher.

Actually, he probably wasn't offering, he was making a pronouncement that he was going to teach her

what she needed to know. That was all right. The reminder that he was autocratic, didactic, and lord of

all he surveyed, was good for her.

Besides, one didn't fall in love with one's teachers, she reminded herself. At least, one shouldn't.

He picked up a roll of parchment. "Poems," he told her. "That speak of love and life and the rules of

—"

Diane sneered. She hated poetry. She remembered English classes where she'd been forced to

memorize crap written by sensitive, drugged-out, centuries-dead jerks in baggy shirts. Banal stuff like, "I

arise from dreams of thee."

Simon leaned forward eagerly at her words. Her tone had been derisive, but at least she had spoken.

"What say you, fair Diane? Have you fallen in love while neither of us were looking? Is this love that

frees your voice?"

She shook her head, and recited,

"I arise from dreams of thee

In the first sweet sleep of night,

When the winds are breathing low,

And the stars are shining bright—"

Simon looked disappointed that she was still just parroting other peoples' words, but no more than

she felt. Apparently, the poetry she'd recited passed for a story. She was determined not to tell any

more stories. No more singing for her supper, even if it was the only chance she got to speak. So she

shook her head rather than repeat the rest of it. Besides, it really sucked.

Simon sighed when she didn't go on, but he didn't ask her to finish. She appreciated that he didn't.

"I take it you do not admire poetry?"

You could say that,
she thought. She gave a silent chuckle, amused rather than bitter that he could

say anything he wanted.

"I used to enjoy poetry," he went on as he unrolled the parchment.

"But that was in another country," she said.

It wasn't from a poem, it was from a play, one that she'd helped videotape in college. It was also a

comment.

He laughed with delight. "Yes, my dear, it was most certainly in another country. In Aquitaine." He

realized what she'd done. "Clever girl."

It was a fluke, Diane thought, but she let herself bask in his approval for a few moments. She

wondered if she could manage to dredge up enough appropriate comments to carry on actual

conversations. No, she wasn't that clever, or quick-witted. In fact, all she could remember was the next

line of the play. So she said it.

"Besides, the wench is dead."

The scroll dropped from Simon's fingers. His face went ashen. In place of his usually beautifully

controlled voice, he spoke with a croak of pain. "Yes," he said. "She is."

Diane watched with a shriveling ache of conscience as Simon got up and walked away from his desk.

With his back to her, he went and stared out the window.

"It was my fault," he added.

As she listened to Simon's pained words, she felt helpless and was hurting. She hadn't meant to do it,

but she'd said something inappropriate again. She'd screwed up again. From this point on, she vowed,

she was going to keep her mouth shut.

She was also going to stop being so reactive, so passive. She'd just hurt the man without meaning to.

She needed to do something to make up for it. All that came to mind was to get up and go to him. She

wasn't quite sure she had the courage to face the same sort of rejection she'd gotten from him the night

before. She wasn't sure what she'd do once she reached him. Sure or not, she got up, and began to

slowly walk forward.

Simon took several deep, ragged breaths. Though he'd had the window opening covered over for the

winter with oiled hide, the cold air that leaked through was bracing. He was glad the translucent hide was

too thick to give him a decent view of the dead garden and its ghosts. He had to live in the present, to

live in the moment, but even with Diane, a child of the future, there was no escape from his mistakes and

sins.

How odd, he thought, that the scars of memory did not ache so when anyone else reminded him of his

past. Perhaps it was because he would rather keep the wrongs he'd done to himself. Or, more likely, he

wanted this innocent young woman to think well of him. Of course, that could not be, not for long. Hadn't

he decided that honesty was the way to her heart? If he used honesty correctly she'd end up feeling pity

for him, and her compassion would trick her into love. It was simple. All he had to do was rip his soul

open and present it to her on a platter.

With his purpose in mind, he took a deep breath and turned to face the object of his quest, only to find

that she was standing just behind him. She had approached across the rushes on silent, softly shod feet.

He had not heard her, nor had he expected to find her so close.

"If you were an enemy I'd be dead by now."

Her expression was full of concern, her dark eyes bright with unshed tears. Tears that were for him, he

realized as he stepped forward and brushed a finger across her cheek. She was there for him. At his

touch, one tear spilled over. The sight of it twisted his heart.

He would have wiped the tear away. He would have bent down to kiss the salty trail it left. He might

have done many things, but the door crashed open before he had a chance to move closer to Diane.

Sir Joscelin hurried in, red-faced and breathing hard. The scent of horse, sweat, and fear trailed in with

him.

"My lord!" he shouted as he hurried across the room toward Simon. "The raiders are massing to

attack Marbeau!"

"Winter is no time to lay siege
to a castle. Any fool knows that."

Sir Joscelin looked past him, and spoke to Diane. "Perhaps they are hungry samurai."

"What?" Simon had no time for riddles. And less patience for Joscelin making cow eyes at a woman.

Especially this woman. Simon stepped in front of her. "What raiders? How many? From what direction

do they approach?"

Jacques came in before Joscelin could answer. "Simon, my scrying glass has shown warriors massing

—Ah, Joscelin's brought the warning before me, I see."

"So he has," Simon agreed. He looked from the old man to the young knight. Between Jacques's

magic and Joscelin's early warning, the Lord of Marbeau hoped they'd bought enough time to plan the

defense of his lands before they were attacked.

Simon turned to Diane. "Return to Jacques's chamber. I have work to do now." It was best to have

her out of the way, where she wouldn't be a distraction for Joscelin, or himself. "You'll be safe there," he

added with a reassuring smile when she didn't immediately obey.

Diane quivered with rage at Simon's easy dismissal of her. He might as well have said,
"Go away,

little girl. I'll take you out and play with you some more when I'm done with real man's work."

She wanted desperately to tell him that she was not Hong Kong Barbie, and didn't take kindly to

being put back in the doll case. For the first time, she wished that she was in love with somebody—so

she could yell at Simon de Argent.

She could accept the fact that the castle was in danger, and that it was his job to defend it. What she

didn't appreciate was his automatic assumption that she had no part to play in the upcoming crisis.

Then again, she conceded with a hollow sigh, she supposed she didn't. She didn't belong here. She

didn't know the rules. She hadn't done one sensible or useful thing since Jacques dragged her into this

world. She didn't have to like it. She didn't have to appreciate Simon's throwing her out. She did have to

obey him.

That didn't mean she didn't give Simon a venomous look as she passed him on her way to the door.

******************

something like, "Make yourself useful as well as ornamental." Diane couldn't get it out of her head as she

paced the length of Jacques's room over and over again. This wasn't the first time she'd been bothered by

her tenuous position in this world, by her lack of purpose. She found this both odd and irritating, since

she hadn't been particularly worried about a lack of purpose in her own world.

Maybe having so much taken away from her—her voice, her routine, her whole life—had left her

wondering just what was left. She wasn't afraid to find out, but she was frustrated that no one would give

her the chance.

And, why,
she wondered as she abruptly stopped pacing,
am I waiting for permission to lead my

own life?

There were things going on out there. The woman who'd been assigned as her servant had told her

that the castle was preparing for a siege. Surely there must be something she could do to help. She took

a deep breath and went to the door.

She hesitated as she reached it. She knew that she'd face Simon's disapproval, and the hostility of the

people of Marbeau if she stuck her nose in where she wasn't wanted. She'd been beaten, nearly raped,

insulted, rejected, and just generally shown she wasn't wanted by almost everyone. Why should she try

to help them?

Because not everybody was cruel and vicious, she reminded herself. Jacques, and Joscelin, Yves, and

her own servant were actually rather nice people. More importantly, an image of Simon de Argent stuck

in her head, looking like a grim, graying lion. The sad, determined, responsible, kinder-than-he-knew

Lord of Marbeau needed as much help as he could get, and was too proud and stubborn to ask for any.

Besides, it was Simon who had first told her to make the best of this bad situation. It was time she took

some initiative.

She opened the door and took the winding staircase down to the hall. What exactly did one do when

a castle was under attack? Run away, was the logical answer. Of course, running away probably resulted

in people with swords chasing you down. She knew what happened after that, she'd seen
Braveheart

six times. Not to mention what she'd seen since arriving here, and here the blood wasn't fake.

Her stomach was twisted with nausea from the memories by the time she reached the hall. But her

head was also full of scenes from some of the more realistic medieval movies she'd viewed. She

reminded herself that she'd taken a few first aid classes back when she was a Girl Scout, as well. Surely,

she had some bit of practical knowledge that she could put to use, she thought as she approached a