Thunder and Roses (37 page)

The more she thought about it, the surer she became that she no longer had to fear his advances. Supporting her theory was the fact that he hadn’t once touched her since returning home, which was unusual in a man who loved to touch.
   
             

Though she would miss his kisses—dreadfully! —she wouldn’t miss the dangerous game they had been playing. For weeks she had been balancing on the edge of a cliff, one step away from falling into the abyss. It would be safer, and far more comfortable, to spend the rest of the three months like brother and sister. And at the end, she could return to Penreith with her life intact.

She wasn’t fool enough to think that Nicholas would embrace celibacy. Once he gave up hope of bedding her, he would soon find a more accommodating female. The thought did not enthrall her; in fact, it turned her stomach. But as long as she didn’t know the details, she could bear it. Better to be his friend than one in an endless procession of quickly forgotten bedmates.

In the library, he handed her a copy of the lease and she sat down to study it. While she read, he picked up his harp and began playing softly.

After going over the document three times, Clare laid it back on the desk. “I see what you mean about simplicity. All this says is that Lord Michael Kenyon or his assignees have the right to remove coal from the designated tract for twenty-one years. If the leasing fee was based on the amount of profit, you might have had a case if Madoc is embezzling, but since the fee is a fixed sum, that won’t work.”

“And unfortunately, the five hundred pounds rent is paid promptly every Lady Day,” Nicholas said. “I checked in the hopes that the company had ever been late paying, but no such luck.”

“Is there a chance that the mine shafts have extended beyond the limits of the leased land?”

His brows went up. “That’s a good thought. The area leased is quite large and probably the mine has stayed within the boundaries, but I’ll have it looked into. Any other ideas?”

“Sorry, that’s the best I can do.”

He smiled. “Your idea is better than my solicitor’s. He suggested filing a suit on the grounds that Michael used undue influence to persuade my grandfather to lease him the mineral rights, thereby depriving me of part of my lawful inheritance. It’s a feeble argument—not only is five hundred pounds a fair price, but my grandfather was mentally competent when he signed the lease. Still, if we keep thinking about it, perhaps we can come up with a legal challenge that will work.”

He began to play the harp again, and this time he sang along in Welsh. Clare kicked off her slippers and settled into the sofa with her feet tucked under her. On the second song he persuaded her to join in. Though her voice was unremarkable, a lifetime of hymn singing had made it strong and flexible, and like all her countrymen she loved music.

They drifted from song to song, sometimes in English, other times in Welsh. Clare sang when she knew the words, and listened in contentment when she didn’t. It was the kind of evening friends enjoyed together, and she enjoyed every minute and every note. Admittedly, Nicholas looked impossibly romantic as he bent over the harp, his whole body engaged in the act of making music, but he couldn’t help that. What mattered was that they could enjoy each other’s company without strain.

At least, that’s what she thought until he began singing love songs. Every one of his glances was a caress, every heart-tugging phrase was aimed at her, and she was halfway to ruination before she recognized the danger. Without a single touch, he was melting her resistance and preparing her for his bed.

Her dreamy contentment vanished. As she sat up on the sofa, she said accusingly, “You’re trying to seduce me again.”

He finished the song he was playing, then gave her a smile of lazy innocence. “I haven’t touched you since this morning.”

She frowned. “But the songs you’re singing are designed to turn any female’s head.”

His smile widened. “I certainly hope so.”

Her earlier hopes crashed as she realized that nothing had changed. “I had hoped that you had decided to stop trying to seduce me,” she said bitterly. “If we are friends, how can you want to wreck my life?”

“The trouble is, I genuinely do not see passion as destructive.” His fingers danced across the strings. “I see it as—liberation. Fulfillment. As I said when we first agreed on this bargain, if I win, we both win.”

“And if I win, you lose,” she said tartly. “An idea that I prefer.” She rose to her feet, slipped on her shoes, and headed for the door. It was irrational to feel betrayed—the belief that Nicholas had ended their struggle had been entirely in her own head—but nonetheless she felt deeply hurt. When he had needed her the night before, she had instantly set aside her compunctions to help him, but he was not responding in kind.

She was almost to the door when he began singing again. She recognized the tune, which was by a twelfth-century poet-prince called
Hywel
ap
Owain
Gwynedd. But never had it sounded as magical as when Nicholas sang:

My choice is a maid, wondrous slender and fair, Beautiful and tall in her purple-hued cloak.

 
Compelled by the music, she halted, then slowly turned back to him. As the dark fire in his eyes dissolved her anger and resistance, his velvet voice spun a tale of yearning, of a man longing for a woman.

My choice art thou—how
reckest
thou me? Why wilt thou not tell, who in silence art sweet?

 
Step by reluctant step, she crossed the room to him. His eyes blazed and his voice soared to the song’s conclusion.

I have chosen a maid, and no regret have I, It is proper to choose a lady sweet and fair.

 
As the last notes died away, he raised a beckoning hand and said softly, “This kiss must come from you.”

So potent was his spell that she raised her hand to take his. Gypsy magic. Musical magic.

Old Nick, with all his demonic power.

With self-disgust, she saw how close she was to yielding. Her hand dropped. “You’re like a spider, spinning a web of sound to trap a foolish fly. But it won’t work this time.”

His smile was a little wistful. “To become part of another being is the ultimate union. It is what humans strive for when they mate, but even at best, they achieve it only briefly.” Deep, melancholic chords flowed from the harp and twined around his words. “Who is to say that the fly doesn’t enjoy that ultimate union which is the end of aloneness?”

Exasperated by his ability to make anything sound romantic, she snapped, “That’s a lovely metaphor, but the reality is that the fly becomes the spider’s dinner. The fly dies while the spider goes on to devour other fools.” She spun on her heel and marched toward the door. “Find yourself another victim.”

She heard the hum of strings as he set the harp on the floor and followed her across the room. “Clare.”

Reluctantly she turned to him. “You have no right to stop me—you’ve used your kiss for today, and tomorrow as well.”

“Don’t think I don’t know that,” he said ruefully.

He loomed over her, so close that the warmth of his body caressed her. But not touching. “I can’t kiss you, but you can kiss me.” He gave her an entrancing Gypsy smile. “I’ll resist if you’d like that.”

Her anger overflowed. “This isn’t a joke, damn you!”

“Why are you so distressed?” he asked quietly.

She blinked back the tears that threatened. “You claim to believe in friendship, but it’s strictly on your terms. You’re stone selfish, Nicholas, like every man I ever met.”

He rocked back, and she saw with satisfaction that her words had hurt him. After a pause, he said, “Perhaps friendship between men and women is rare because the sexes view it differently. Obviously you think our friendship should be platonic, while I think that friendship enhances passion.” His fingertips skimmed her hair, as light as gossamer. “Yes, I want to make love to you, and there is some selfishness in that. But if I simply wanted to satisfy lust, it could be more easily done elsewhere. With you, passion would mean far more.”

The tenderness in his voice almost undid her, but if she softened, she was lost. Anger was safer. “Your beguiling Gypsy tongue could sell coals in Newcastle, but it’s not going to work this time. No matter how you dress it up, the fact is your desires come first, and what I want is a distant second.”

She knew she was being irrational and would not have been surprised if he lost his temper, but his answer was mild. “You were the one who said that you care more about the people of Penreith and the miners than about your own welfare,” he pointed out. “I’m doing my best to see that they get the prosperity and safety you wanted. Passion is my end of the bargain, and I’m merely trying to make you want that, too. And I’ve succeeded, haven’t I? That’s why you’re so upset.”

Honesty compelled her to admit, “You’re right, but that doesn’t make me any less angry. Good night, Nicholas.”

She swept out the door and slammed it behind her. He was trying to make her forget her own best interests, but by God, she was going to turn the tables. He wanted her, and she was going to use that fact to make him feel as harrowed as she did.

Yet he had the last word, for as she lay in her bed, she heard him play the lilting melody of “The
Raggle
Taggle
Gypsies, O!” The words of the old ballad danced through her mind, telling the tale of the high-born lady who gave up her silk and gold and her new-wedded lord, and ran away with the
raggle
taggle
gypsies.

The lady of the ballad was an immoral wench, and needed her head examined if she preferred a cold open field to a goose feather bed. Yet if the Gypsy who lured her away resembled Nicholas, Clare couldn’t blame the lady one bit.

20

 
Clare awoke the next morning less angry, but no less determined to teach Nicholas a lesson. But what was a suitable revenge?

The ceiling of her bedchamber was painted with a rustic scene of satyrs chasing giggling nymphs, and the answer came to her as she gazed at their amorous antics. Pursuit and retreat was a pattern that played itself out between male and female over and over again—the wary female fleeing, wanting to save herself for the best possible mate; the male giving chase, wanting to conquer another female. It had been the pattern of Clare’s relationship with Nicholas.

Since that pattern lay at the heart of her predicament, her vengeance should be in kind—it was time to play the nymph to his satyr. She would act like a proper trollop until he was half mad with desire. Then she would walk away, leaving him to suffer the worst torments of frustration.

Of course her desire for revenge was distinctly unchristian. However, after a month with Nicholas, her soul was so tarnished that another moral lapse couldn’t make it much worse.

She was more concerned by the knowledge that she would be acting with an immaturity that ill became a grown woman. She had never behaved in such a petty fashion in her life. Regretfully she realized that it was a sign of her moral deterioration that she looked forward to it.

More seriously, there was a risk that she would be carried away by passion and give Nicholas exactly what he wanted. If that happened, she would deserve it, but she believed that she would be able to resist him. After all, she had managed to say no after spending a languorous night in Nicholas’s arms, an act of willpower that still amazed her.

The greatest danger was that if Nicholas became too aroused, he would not be able to stop when she told him to. Again, if that happened she could hardly blame him for the results. But she had faith in his self-control, having seen it demonstrated again and again. He was not a lust-crazed boy of twenty, nor was she Helen of Troy, whose face had launched ten thousand ships.

She smiled with anticipation and tucked her hands behind her head. Now that she had decided on her strategy, it remained only to choose when and where she would put it into effect.

 
Nicholas was relieved to see that Clare’s anger had passed by the next day. Though she was quiet, she didn’t sulk. On his part, he meticulously avoided claiming another kiss to compensate for the extra two he had taken the morning before.