Shana Abe (23 page)

They were alone in the room now. The sunbeams slanted just a little more over the walls this morning than she remembered, past the horned conch and over to the carved marble of the fireplace mantel, pure white.

Roland watched her drop her eyes, masking whatever she was feeling with the fans of her lashes.

While she slept he had watched her for hours again, well into the night, watched her until his vision of Kyla had become a dream of Kyla, a dream in which she laughed and danced beside him, living flame and storm somehow joined together.

She had been like that last night in his arms, she had scorched him. He took it willingly, whatever pain she inadvertently brought to him he would live through, because it meant having her here beside him in real life every morning, every day, every night.

Roland rolled to his side to face her and placed one hand tentatively on her arm. She didn’t move to stop him so he slid it down to the curve of her waist, enjoying the delightful feminine line of her.

“Did I hurt you last night?” he asked.

“No. Yes.” Her standard answer when he got too close.
The pucker between her brows was back, but he thought he knew what this was: the lingering shyness of a maiden. That she could still be shy after what they had shared somewhat surprised him, but then again, she was made of some magical element he might never fully comprehend.

He had to smile. “Then I am not sorry, and I am.”

She watched him now, examined the smile suspiciously, then relaxed when she perceived his teasing. “It only hurt at first,” she offered, then blushed, hiding her face.

Roland moved closer to her, pushing the blankets and furs out of his way until there was nothing between them again and he could cup her face with his hand. He had been going to say something silly to reassure her, something light to make her smile back and forget the pain, and then maybe something else, something sweet to feed the flame he now knew lived in her. Because he was ready for her again.

But instead Roland lay face-to-face with her, both of them resting on their arms, his hand still warm against her cheek. She looked back at him openly, the level of their heads exactly matched, the extravagance of her hair tumbling past her shoulder.

All the pretty words he thought to say were gone.

She was no tavern wench, to be tumbled and appeased, as he might have done in his very green youth. She was no courtesan, to be flattered and soothed, as he might have done in his early years at court. She was, in fact, like no other woman he had ever known, and she was also his wife. And he was a man now, not a youth. She was his responsibility. But there was more to it than that, so much more, because as he lived out the pattern of his life, all Roland could see now was Kyla in it, Kyla everywhere, day and night, tempestuous or fair. She blessed the ordinary man that he was, and she alone held the key to redemption that he might seek.

In some disquieting way he had known this from the very first night he had seen her, that fateful night at the inn, when she had fought him for what she believed he had done to her and her family, when she had stood before him and condemned
him without fear, a shining angel of ruthlessness. And he had deserved it, yes, even as he had wanted to capture her for himself.

She was his forevermore, and he was hers, whether she wanted him or not. Mayhap if she had had more time to consider her fate she would not have married him. Mayhap she would have retreated to the Tower, to Rosemead, and eventually to some other man, had he not acted to bind her to him.

No other man on this earth, Roland was certain, would be able to fully appreciate the Lady Kyla the way he did. So although he had been selfish, and although he had acted on what he thought was just lust, he knew now that Kyla had captured him, not the other way around. He was her prisoner. She held his heart. And there still lived that weak part of him that wanted her to forgive him, that would have said or done just about anything to erase everything bad between them, leaving only today and all their tomorrows to look to.

So instead of some flowery nonsense, what Roland said was: “I want you to know something. I wasn’t at Glencarson. I had not arrived yet when the attack came. If I had been there, I would have stopped it.”

The impact of his words took a moment to sink in. He could almost watch the progression in her eyes, confusion to comprehension, disbelief to denial.

She pushed off his hand and sat up abruptly, a tremor to her lips.

“You would dare say such a thing to me now? After …” She trailed off. It seemed even in her anger she would not find the words to name their loving. “Don’t lie to me! I was there! I know you gave the order to attack!”

He sat up as well, searching for reason where there was none to be found. He had started this and he was grimly determined to see it through. If it made her hate him anew, at least he would have the comfort of knowing she had heard the truth. She deserved the truth. “You were there, Kyla, but I was not. It wasn’t my order to attack. I was still days away
when … one of my subordinates took over. He was not even supposed to deliver my message to you until after I arrived. He sent it early.”

She stared over at him, the tremor not leaving her lips until she pressed them together. Her hands were unconsciously clenched into the covers. He plowed on.

“I would not have assailed a village of innocent people just to get to you and your brother. I am not that kind of man.”

Not any longer
.

The ruthlessness in her was back with a vengeance, sparks and silver fire. “Oh, no, I see that. You are a man that lets his inferiors take the blame. Do you think I am
witless
?”

“No, no.” He shook his head, smiling sadly. “You are the most far from witless person I have ever known. And you do have a point. Glencarson was still my responsibility, and therefore ultimately I am still accountable for the actions of my soldiers. But I did not give that command. I would not have.”

He let her think about that a moment, hoping she would hear the truth to his words, discovering that what she thought of him meant more than he had even guessed before. She had to believe him.

Kyla looked away and shook her head, mouth down-turned.

“I don’t know what to believe anymore, Lord Strathmore. You keep me topsy-turvy. You say you didn’t lead the command at Glencarson, and yet you hunted me and kept me prisoner. You dragged me to London only to save me from the king. And then, last night—”

Her voice choked off. She clashed away a tear that appeared in the corner of her eye.

That was what broke him, the lone tear, the only one he had ever seen her shed through all of her misery. Not once had he seen her cry, and God knew she had had reason enough to do so.

He gathered her to him despite her muffled protests, easily overcoming her halfhearted attempts to rebuff him, gathered her close and rocked her gently as more tears followed. He
said whatever came to him, trying to help her, wanting to comfort her, wanting her healed from this terrible wound.

“You tied me
up
!” she sobbed into his chest, holding on to him now as they rocked. “You tied me up, you made me
parade
around like a criminal,
you
did that.…”

He was sorry, he was so damned sorry to have ever hurt this fragile girl, and yet he wasn’t—because all of that meant she was here with him now.

If things had been different, if her family had lived and their betrothal had run the common course of betrothals …

But that was not what happened. So Roland whispered his apologies to her, he kissed her hair and her forehead and her temple, he cradled her and stroked her and apologized some more, all the while aware that some part of him wasn’t sorry in the least. Some part of him, his own ruthlessness, was glad he had thought to tie her to him, was glad that she had not been able to escape after all. For then he would be alone again, his one chance at happiness having slipped away into the mists of middle England.

After a while she quieted, and his rocking slowed until he was leaning back against the iron headboard with her relaxed against him. He still held her with both arms, he let his lips rest against the crown of her hair. His eyes were closed, trying to judge the aftermath of the moment, trying to contain the feeling of triumph mingled with desperation that he felt now.

He had told her the truth and she had stayed. She had allowed him to comfort her. She had shed some of the bitterness, yes, but was it enough?

Her hair had become a mass of heavy corkscrew curls, delightfully whimsical, the opposite of her mood. He let one springy lock wind around his hand.

“Your hair curls from the rain, did you know?” he asked, mostly to distract himself from the uncomfortable feeling of vulnerability she provoked in him.

“So does yours,” she said after a moment, her voice low.

“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

She pushed back from him and he reluctantly let her, watching intently for any of the anger that might remain.
But it wasn’t anger in her now, it was something else. Perhaps resignation, perhaps weariness. She was still considering what he had said. She was probably going to be considering it for a long while, he thought.

She looked blankly around the room, past him, on to the bits and pieces of things that he had surrounded himself with to represent his life.

The mermaid tapestry for his mother, who used to stay up late just to tell him stories of gods and beasts and magical creatures.

The horned conch for his father, a worthy bauble for the king of the seas.

A heavy tome on meditation from Harrick, the learned man.

Right beside that, lacy bits of moss from a nest Elysia had found and presented to him.

A small jeweled box, hinges broken, from Eleanor. Her childhood chest of dreams.

Kyla saw all of this but understood none of it, how could she? He hadn’t told her. There was no reason for disappointment when she skimmed his few precious memories without pause, without thought.

“I need to be alone,” she said. “Please understand.”

“Of course,” he replied, and held back the protest that wanted to stay her.

He gathered his clothing, putting himself together with slow movements, every now and again glancing over to her, solemn in the bed, watching him. Not angry, Roland told himself. She’s not angry. She simply needs time.

When he was ready he walked back over to her, not saying anything, leaned over, and kissed her hard on the lips. He wanted her to think about that, as well. It wasn’t all bitterness between them. There was hope, there was passion. What more beyond that, he wasn’t ready to say.

She allowed the kiss, not rebuffing him, not quite kissing him back, but still her lips were soft and succulent, enough to make the aching blackness in him spring forth again. The want.

He repressed it by leaving the room, shutting the door softly behind him.

S
he had no riding habit. Apparently even Lady Elisabeth had not been that farsighted. Kyla had made do with the regular gowns on the ride from London and they would do fine enough again right now. She was going for a ride. She would let the clear, fresh air and the galloping pace of Auster clear the cobwebs from her head.

She found the stables after walking somewhat aimlessly around the bailey, nodding greetings to the strangers that called out to her, watching from the corners of her eyes those who watched her. She passed squires and knights, laundresses and farmers, and then finally a stablehand, who pointed her in the right direction for the old stone building that held the horses.

She had been remiss. She should have checked on Auster sooner, but though he nickered and shook his head at her in mock anger, she knew he had been well treated. Clean, crisp hay, clear water in a bucket, and one of the largest stalls in the whole building, more than enough for him to pace back and forth, which was apparently what he had been doing before she came up.

“My boy, my darling,” she murmured, trying to soothe her absence with words. “My great, strong boy. How dost thou fare?”

The black muzzle was soft; Auster curled back his lip and nipped lightly at her fingers, just for play, before allowing her to stroke him again.

“Careful, milady,” came the sharp warning of a man beside her dressed in the stablemaster’s garb. “Strong teeth is what he’s got.”

Kyla smiled. “You are correct. But we are friends, see?” Auster rolled his eyes fearsomely at the man, who backed up. Kyla laughed at his playacting. “No need to fear. His name is Auster, and he is a peaceful creature.”

It was clear the stablemaster thought her either a liar or demented.

With a great deal of gentle persuasion and more than a little use of the force behind her new title, Kyla convinced him to saddle up her stallion, which was why she was now enjoying the sting of salt in her eyes and the whipping wind in the ragged tail of her hair, streaming behind her as she took Auster into a full run away from the castle.

She had not only refused an escort, but she had also forbade it, which didn’t sit well with the stablemaster, it was obvious. From the loud muttering and the flat scowl on his face as she rode away, Kyla knew her time alone on Auster was limited at best.