Rebellious Love (23 page)

Her hair, protected during the journey by a veil, was quickly brushed clean. Not bothering to braid it, Verony let it hang free in thick waves to her waist. Smells from the open cooking fires made her stomach growl, but she preferred to wait before eating.

Sitting down on the narrow camp bed, she wondered how much longer it would be before Curran came. Tedious and demanding though the negotiations must be, he would surely take time out to greet her. In the dark recesses of her mind, the thought occurred that Curran might have more than just political intrigue to distract him.

During the months they were apart, Verony had to fight against the tormenting fear that such a virile, passionate man would not go long without a woman, especially if he believed himself saddled to a wife who disappointed him.

As that dread rose again to haunt her, she forced it down, telling herself Curran deserved all her trust and faith. But even as she told herself to believe, a remnant of doubt remained. Willing herself to patience, she nestled her head onto a folded blanket and closed her eyes.

When she woke, it was to find a large, shadowy form looming over the twin's cradle. Starting up, Verony almost cried out. In the shadows of early evening, she saw only that the man was immense and powerful. Not until he turned could she make out his features.

The sounds of the camp, the laughter and talk of men, the soft singing of women, faded. Curran straightened, his attention shifting abruptly from his children to his wife.

"I wasn't sure you would come," he murmured.

Still half dazed by sleep, Verony answered hesitantly. "I thought... it seemed safe enough . . . and you hadn't seen the twins in so long."

Curran smiled down at the babies. "They've grown so much. Hard to believe it's only been three weeks."

Verony barely heard him. She was too busy drinking in the sight of his long, lean body simply clad in a short tunic and cloak. His ebony hair was a little longer than usual, brushing the nape of his neck.

Evidence, she supposed, of the frantic activity of the last few months that had allowed little attention to personal matters.

His eyes, looking even more like deep, inscrutable pools, were brighter than ever. There was a hard glitter to them that made her shiver, even as she told herself it came from fatigue and irritation at the long-drawn-out talks.

Despite the rigorous trials he had endured all spring, his body was as powerful and muscular as she remembered. Broad chest gave way to a massive torso tapering to lean hips and long, sinewy legs. He was deeply tanned, his skin gleaming bronze in the fading light, and a dark stubble showed on his chiseled jaw.

A stab of longing darted through Verony. Biting her lip, she fought down the desire to reach out to him. Too much remained unsettled between them. If she gave in to her yearning to hold and caress him, he might well respond in kind. Glorious though their reunion would undoubtedly be, it would solve nothing.

Curran seemed to share her thoughts. He backed away slightly, increasing the distance between them as far as the confines of the small tent allowed.

His tanned fingers fiddled with the stem of a goblet as, his gaze averted from her, he asked: "Are you well?"

Verony pulled herself upright on the bed, feeling more secure when her feet were firmly on the ground. "Oh, yes. I can hardly take a step without your mother or Arianna or Hilda appearing to make

sure I don't overdo. They've been wonderful about helping to look after the twins. Since their birth, I've done little but sleep and eat."

"That's as it should be," Curran muttered gruffly, still not looking after her. "When I think . . .". He did not continue. The pain was still too raw.

Verony's eyes darkened. She took a step forward. "Curran ... I never had a chance to thank you.. . ."

"Thank me? For what? Getting you pregnant so that you nearly died?" Whirling on her, he forgot himself long enough to grip her arms and draw her close.

"Oh, Verony," he groaned deep in his throat, "if you hadn't survived ..."

Staring up at him in mingled wonderment and hope, Verony thought she saw the first faint sign of what she longed for in his eyes. Daring greatly, she raised herself on tiptoe so that her lips brushed his. "But I didn't. I'm here and alive . . . and I've missed you so much ..."

Her words trailed off, lost in the power of Curran's kiss. He claimed her mouth with fierce tenderness, delving deeply to taste all her hidden sweetness. Verony responded uninhibitedly. Forgetting her resolve that they must talk first, she gave herself without restraint. All the pent-up longing of months threatened to burst from her as she embraced him ardently.

Curran's self-control, so long maintained, shattered. His arms closed around her like a vise, drawing her against the full, hard length of his aroused body. His hand, insistent but tender, grasped the back of her head, tangling in the silken curls as he deepened the kiss even further.

Without her even being aware of it, he loosened the ties of her tunic and eased it from her along with the chemise. When her ivory shoulders were bare, he rained kisses along them, down into shadowed hollow between her breasts.

Stroking the ripe curve of her hips and buttocks passionately, his ardent mouth nuzzled aside the cloth still clinging to the tips of her swollen breasts. Large hands came up to grasp them gently as his tongue darted out to soothe one aching nipple and then the other.

A low moan tore from Verony. Arching her back, she pressed even closer to him. All hesitation dissolving, her hands moved over him, savoring the long-denied touch of his burnished muscles, the broad sweep of his powerful back, the long, tantalizing line of his steely thighs.

"C-Curran . . ." she breathed brokenly, some tiny part of her fevered mind remembering she had meant to talk. No words would come. Nor did he allow her to try again. Sliding her garments from her, Curran carried his wife to the bed.

He set her down gently before stepping away just long enough to strip off his own clothes. When he joined her again, Verony welcomed him joyously. Whatever she had wanted to say, she decided in the last moments before reason whirled away into the red mist of passion, it could wait.

She doubted that Curran would be able to do the same. His engorged manhood, pressing against her, made her quiver with mingled delight and trepidation. Some tiny remnant of fear caused her to press her silken thighs together, only to have them lovingly but firmly parted by Curran's coaxing touch.

"V-Verony . . ." he groaned, "I've waited so long ... let me . . ."

Beyond denying him anything, Verony lay back. Savoring each beautiful inch of her, Curran kissed and stroked and tasted until they were both on the verge of consuming ecstasy. Even then he delayed, restraining her efforts to draw her to him. With gentle insistence, his tongue found her most sensitive point, quickly sending her spiraling over the edge of fulfillment and beyond.

Her moans of pleasure were smothered by his mouth as he moved to complete their union. On the verge of penetrating her velvety depths, Curran hesitated. Sounds outside the tent pierced even the haze of his ardent need. Swamped by desire almost painfully intense, he tried desperately to ignore what he heard. But a sudden shout and the crunch of fists meeting bone compelled his attention.

Groaning, he swung his long legs off the cot. Lost in the glory of his touch, Verony could not bear such withdrawal. Her small hands gripped him determinedly as soft sighs of protest rippled from her. Shamelessly, she stroked the taut peaks of her breasts across his furried chest as her skillful fingers caressed the aching seat of his desire.

All thought of the desperate need to keep peace in the camp at least until an agreement could be signed fled from Curran. He reached for her hungrily,

stretching his full length on her as they tumbled back across the bed.

"L-love me, Curran . . . don't stop . . . p-please ..."

He was about to oblige, most willingly, when the wall of the tent fell in.

"
E
xcuse me while I go kill someone," Curran rasped. Rising from the bed, he tossed a blanket over the supine form of his wife to shield her nakedness. Unconcerned about his own nudity, he stalked through the gapping wall of the tent to confront two squabbling barons.

"Montgomery! Debourgard! What the hell are you doing?"

The unmistakable ring of authority reached even those accustomed to commanding in their own right. Sweat-streaked and dirt-smeared, the assailants paused. They had started drinking early in the day, when boredom over the wait easily overcame their too brief patience. Their bellies full of ale and raw wine, their heads whirling with a mist of alcoholic fumes, neither could really remember what had

sparked the present confrontation. But neither were they willing to stand down.

Only the fearsome sight of an enraged Curran d'Arcy made them pause. The befuddled barons were both big men, but Curran was larger by far. Naked and unarmed, he still appeared more than a match. And the fiery gleam in his eyes made it clear he was relishing the thought of pounding some sense into both their inebriated brains.

A quick glance at his tent told them just why Curran was so angry. Verony blushed fiercely as she dragged the blanket more tightly around herself. While the men were so distracted, Curran moved swiftly. Grasping each by the collar, he lifted them off the ground and shook them hard. "This little show would delight John! He'd like nothing better than for us to be at each other's throats just when we're about to win." Another shake. "If you can't control your tempers, I'll be glad to do it for you. A soak head-down in the horse troughs should help."

The threat penetrated even the combatants' sodden daze. Twisting wildly, they scrambled to get free. "Wasn't nothing . . . ! Just a little spat . . . could happen to anyone. ... No reason t'get mad. . . . We'll just get out of your way. . . ."

With a disgusted snort, Curran released them. As swiftly as their wobbly legs could manage', they weaved their way among the tents and out of sight.

Shaking his head, Curran turned back to the downed wall. He was about to lift it into place when a drawled challenge stopped him.

"Who says the d'Arcys don't rule here?" demanded a tall, slender young man Verony recognized as a second or third son of one of the lesser houses. Dressed in full armor, the features beneath his battle helmet were spare and sullen. When he spoke, his narrow mouth curled back acrimoniously. "The Earl Garret and his whelps hide behind a mask of unity, yet still dare to order the very manner of our lives. Interfere with their pleasures"—his small eyes fell on Verony lewdly—"and they'll squash you like a flea."

Curran took a deep breath, fighting hard for self-control. With the king due in camp at any time, accord among the barons was vital. No matter how sorely tempers and patience might be tried, it was not a time for fighting. If John even sensed dissension among his rebel lords, he would seize the opportunity to undo everything the d'Arcys and others had labored for these many months.

Hoping for a quick, peaceful end to the challenge, Curran said softly: "You sound drunk, too, Fairleigh. Why don't you go sleep it off?"

"Drunk? I only wish I was." Straightening to his full, if unimpressive height, the young man sneered. "Maybe a belly full of wine is what it takes to make you lot tolerable. But as for me, I can hardly bear the stench of so many d'Arcys gathered in one place. It would take a full wind indeed to clear the air around here."

Onlookers gathered to enjoy Curran's handling of the drunken barons drew back slightly. It took no great wisdom to see this was a far different sort of confrontation. Sir Fairleigh was known to be arrogant and impetuous. He had an overweening love

for himself and a deep hatred of anyone he thought more privileged. And he was just stupid enough to try something truly dangerous.

Curran was of the same opinion. He still hoped to convince the offensive youth to take himself off. But when Fairleigh abruptly drew his shortsword, that hope faded. Without armor or weapons, Curran was at a severe disadvantage. Verony watched in horror as his challenger advanced.

The crowd, always eager to witness a fight and having no great love for the d'Arcys, edged forward. No one made a move to help Curran as Fairleigh's sword thrust through the air only inches from his abdomen. But for his lightning reflexes honed through years of training and battle, he would have been severly wounded right then.

Circling warily, Curran managed to keep some distance between them. He rapidly sized up Fairleigh's weaknesses, of which there were many, and decided how best to disarm him. Flexing long, powerful legs, Curran was about to put an end to it when a rope trailing from one of the tents caught his foot and he went down heavily.

Verony screamed. Vicious dullard though he might be, Fairleigh knew a priceless opportunity when he saw it. In an instant, he was on Curran, his sword lifted high to slash through bone and sinew.

The blow never came. Leaping from the bed, Verony seized a mallet used to pound in the tent stakes and fairly flew across the small distance separating her from the struggling men. Without thought for her own safety, she ran directly at them.

In that terror-twisted instant, she felt just as she had inside the small room high in the tower, listening to John brag about torturing Curran. Only this time the horror was even more immediate and the danger real.

Wearing full armor, Fairleigh was a difficult target. But in that breathless moment, as his sword hung suspended between the cobalt sky and Curran's exposed body, Verony spied a chance. Summoning all her strength, she rammed the hammer down against the back of his neck exposed between the helmet and the surcoat.

Fairleigh swayed. The blow Was just enough to stun him, giving Curran the chance he so desperately needed. A long, muscle-hardened leg shot out, wrapping around the other man's pelvis in a wrestler's hold. Turning agilely, Curran managed to deflect the blow that would have cleaved his chest. At the same time, his steely arm grappled for the sword.

They struggled briefly. Fairleigh was willing enough to attack when he believed he held an insurmountable advantage. But with the contest turned more than equal, fear engulfed him. He saw the deadly implacability in Curran's eyes and knew what was to come.

Tense moments of frantic struggle did nothing to change the end result. Resisting the impulse to extend the man's torment, Curran moved swiftly. He did not even bother to use the sword, but simply bent his knee into Fairleigh's back, grasped him around the neck and pulled.

The younger man's backbone ruptured, sending splinters ricocheting into his brain. He died so swiftly that it took his body a moment to realize its fate. A low sigh broke from him and he crumpled to the ground.

Clutching the blanket to her, Verony stared down at him. She who had never willingly harmed anyone in her life had just helped kill a man. Yet she felt not the slightest regret. No hint of horror or dread touched the utter relief filling her. To save Curran, she would have gladly helped slay a hundred such.

The surprise darkening her sapphire eyes was familiar to her husband. He, too, understood what it was like to act with such absolute deliberation and certainty that there was no room left over afterward for even the faintest remorse. Nor could he find it in himself to feel anything but immense admiration for what his wife had done.

Taking her gently into his arms, he led her back to their tent. The crowd, stunned by what had happened, moved quickly to lift the wall back into place.

This latest evidence of the d'Arcys daring and ruthlessness, extending even to one of their ladies, made the barons acutely aware of how close they had come to disaster. If Curran had been harmed, the Earl Garrett would undoubtedly have exacted revenge against every man who stood by and let it happen. Breathing a silent prayer of thanks for the unexpected ending to the confrontation, they dispersed swiftly.

Seated on their bed, held close to Curran's massive chest, Verony shivered. She, too, was thinking of the crowd and what might have been. "They were like animals . . . standing there . . . cheering him on. . . . T-they wanted to see you die. . . ."

Several months before, when he did not know her as well, Curran would have tried to soften the harsher edges of reality. But now he paid her the compliment of being completely frank.

"They fear us greatly. Despite all we have said about not wanting to supplant John, many still believe we desire the throne for ourselves. Added to that is immense envy of our wealth and power. You are right to think that had I been killed out there, many of our so-called allies would have rejoiced. At least until they had a chance to discover all the results of such an act."

"But why then do you try to work with them? Why endure all these months of debate and negotiation ... all the long, wearisome efforts to hold the barons together? If they are so unappreciative and distrustful, so filled with savage resentment, why try to help them?"

Curran sighed, running a hand through his rumpled hair. He felt wearier than he had in a long time. The weeks of effort and struggle were taking their toll. He longed to carry Verony and the children off to their own lands, where they might recapture at least a measure of the peace and happiness that was so briefly theirs.

Only the strongest respect for duty, drilled into him since childhood, forced him to stay to see the outcome of all their careful planning.

"We try," he explained slowly, "because whether we like it or not, our fate is linked to theirs. No matter how much power we have, we can still be hurt by the king. His authority is too far-reaching, too free of any control or restraint. That has to

change, or we will always be potential victims for unscrupulous rulers."

Verony closed her eyes. She dreaded the thought that Curran's part in the conflict might deepen, but she felt compelled to say: "If one of you ruled, there would be justice for all."

Her husband laughed softly. He studied her with indulgent eyes. "Maybe, but there's no guarantee. We are men like everyone else. Better than some, worse than others. If we could take the throne, without provoking civil war, perhaps England would be better off for a while. But down the years, who's to say that we wouldn't breed inept, selfish rulers as bad as anything that's come before?"

Shaking his head, he stroked her cheek gently. "The system itself has to change. We must have a body of law that protects all men regardless of who happens to sit on the throne. Only then will we have any protection against abusive rulers like John."

"All men? Even the serfs?"

"Well... no ... not yet at least." Glancing down at her, Curran smiled. "I know you think the peasants are as deserving of rights and privileges as the rest of us, but very few share your opinion. Someday perhaps the laws we're struggling for will be extended to everyone, but right now it's enough to protect those who hold property."

His tone made it clear he regarded her vision of a world in which all men—and women—would be dealt with equally as a fantasy not to be taken seriously. Verony was in no mood to argue with him just then, but privately she clung to the hope that

whatever good came out of this encounter at Runny-mede might one day be extended to people like those who protected and sheltered her when she was most in need.

Snuggled into the warmth of his chest, she blocked out the sounds of men outside carrying away Fairleigh's body. She supposed there would be some complaint from his family, but given the circumstances of his death, she doubted they would do anything but bluster. At any rate, she was not willing to worry about it.

There were far more immediate concerns. Despite all her resolve to be at least a little less independent and forceful, she had done it again. While Curran would certainly not have preferred her to stand by and watch him killed, he couldn't help but take her assault on Fairleigh as further proof of her "unwomanly" temperament.

While she yet had the opportunity, Verony resolved, she would do her best to convince him she was the equal of any female. But no sooner had she reached out a slender hand to stroke his thigh than fate once again intervened.

"What's this I hear?" the Earl Garrett demanded from just outside the tent. "My son has taken to fighting bare-ass naked, leaving it to my lovely daughter-in-law to rescue him?"

Snorting, Curran rose from the bed. He paused long enough to throw on a tunic before greeting his father. "If we have to stay here much longer, my gentle wife may reveal other skills I hadn't suspected." He looked back at her teasingly. "But right now, it's enough to know she can look after both herself and me."

Stepping into the tent, the earl studied Verony carefully. "Are you all right?"

She understood that he was asking after far more than just her physical safety. "I'm fine. If I had to do it over again, I wouldn't hesitate a moment."

Though he believed her readily enough, the earl also knew she was far too gentle and kind not to suffer some aftereffects from what she had done. But he was glad to know they would be no more than the normal revulsion that comes from confronting death.

Satisfied, he saw no reason to dwell on the near tragedy. "John is on his way. He should be here at any moment."

Curran reached immediately for the rest of his clothes. "I'll meet you in your tent, all right?"