Bride Of The Tower. Sharon Schulze

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      The insinuation coloring his voice—or was it the feel of his mouth upon hers?—sent a wave of heat through her body and a fiery flush to her cheeks. She mentally shook herself free of his spell and drew a deep breath. “That is most unlikely, sir, I assure you.” Heedless of whether or not she lost a hank of hair, Julianna wrapped her free hand about his to pry loose his fingers and jerked away from him, just as he released his hold. She fell sideways to the floor, barely avoiding the candle stand as she rolled clear, becoming tangled in her tousled cloud of hair in the process.

      He slipped back against the wall with a thump.

      “By the Virgin, you’re an insolent knave.” She thrust her hands through her hair, pushed it away from her face and scrambled to her feet, moving to stand over him. “I’ve a mind to send you down to the cellars to recover,” she added as she flung her hair back over her shoulder and bent to peer at him.

      He didn’t groan this time, nor make any response at all to her threat. He lay slumped against the wall, his head lolled to the side and his face contorted with pain. The fury drained from her and she dropped to her knees beside him. A nudge at his shoulder produced no reaction from him, instead sending him sliding bonelessly toward the floor.

      Catching hold of him, she bit back a curse and lowered him onto his pallet. He remained quiet, and he made no move to help or to resist her as she moved him into a more comfortable position.

      Julianna shifted to sit beside him. “Dear God, have I killed him?” She touched the side of his neck and felt his lifeblood pulsing strong against her fingers. At least he still lived, though considering his treatment at her hands, ’twas a miracle. Perhaps he’d have fared better with the men who attacked him than he had with her, she thought with disgust.

      What had possessed her? She was generally even-tempered and patient, able to weigh all sides of a situation, to listen and hold her temper in rein no matter the provocation. Yet her behavior toward this fascinating stranger was as foreign to her as he was, as though a different person altogether had suddenly inhabited her traitorous body. Her thoughts and actions felt so new, so odd, that she scarce recognized herself.

      Enough of this maundering self-pity, she cautioned herself as she sat back on her heels and considered his still features in the flickering light. Easing her hand beneath his head, she sank her fingers into his thick, soft hair, satisfied when she felt no new bumps on his poor battered skull.

      She checked his wounds to make certain they’d not begun to bleed again, eased him down onto his pallet, and adjusted his bandages before settling the damp compress on his brow. She drew a soft wool blanket over him and smoothed it into place with a sigh. There was naught more she could do for him now, save watch over him as he slept.

      Julianna slid around and leaned her shoulder against the wall, keeping her gaze fixed on the bruise-marred symmetry of his face. Memories of the feel of his whiskers beneath her fingers, of his surprisingly soft lips brushing her own, would guarantee she’d get no rest herself this night.

      ’Twas just as well, for considering the blows to his head—several of which she’d caused by her own carelessness—she’d best keep watch over him to ensure he’d suffered no additional harm. She might as well enjoy the wakeful hours by reliving the brief contact they’d shared, for she doubted ’twould be an experience she’d ever know again.

      Will woke alone the next time. Given what he thought he remembered from before—if it wasn’t a dream—he wasn’t sure whether that fact pleased him or not. He’d be happy to welcome the sweet-smelling siren he’d cradled upon his aching body once again, though he could certainly live without another battering by the anger-filled harpy she’d become.

      He opened one eyelid with care, grateful he’d been cautious when the faint light seeping through the open shutters filled his head with a searing pain. Squeezing his eyes closed, he let his other senses explore the chamber, seeking a sound, a scent, the feel of another person nearby.

      Seeking her.

      He quieted his breathing and waited. He could sense no one else. Best to use the time to inventory his aches and injuries while he had the chance.

      He felt battered enough to hurt even while at rest, of a certainty, but not so incapacitated as to keep him from fighting should he need to. His head felt nigh ready to fall off, but he’d suffered that same sensation once or twice after a night of hard drinking in Ireland and survived it. He couldn’t blame a cask of usquebaugh this time, however.

      Blame his own idiocy, more like, or his lack of attention. To be attacked from above like the veriest untried lad…He’d been taught better—aye, and his instincts alone should have warned him even though his attention had wandered.

      Had he grown so complaisant since he’d been knighted that he’d become mindless and soft? If so, he deserved whatever he got. At least he’d survived—and no one at l’Eau Clair would know of his stupidity.

      Assuming he ever returned home. For all he knew, he was a prisoner here, held by the same knaves who set upon him. Perhaps the woman had been but another of their weapons, more subtle, meant to torture him into madness with her body.

      Or with her temper.

      He shook his head in disgust at his mawkish thoughts, an act he regretted at once. By God, but his skull throbbed! He’d fought near as wounded as this before, though he’d rather not do so again if he could avoid it. But until he knew where he was and who held him, he’d be wise to remain alert and ready to take advantage of any opportunity.

      He dared not allow his vigilance to lapse again.

      Nor would he let himself fall victim to the woman once more, should she return. Neither female wiles nor warrior ways would tempt him, he vowed, no matter how appealing she appeared in either guise.

      The door hinges squeaked and the door swung wide, sending a draught of cool air into the room. The scent of spice and flowers flowed over him, as noticeable this time as before. His sweet-smelling temptress had returned.

      Will fought back a smile and composed himself to remain still and silent while she entered the room and shut the door.

      She crossed the chamber, her boot heels tapping lightly on the plank floor, and dropped to her knees beside his pallet. Her hand rested cool and light upon his brow for but a moment before she rose and moved several paces away.

      Will waited as long as his patience could bear to ease his eyes open. Better prepared for the sensation of light on his aching eyes, he forced himself to turn his head to his left, where he’d heard her go.

      Pain forgotten, he surged to his knees at the sight that met his gaze.

      The woman stood nearby, the message pack he’d worn slung over his shoulder open in one hand, the bundle of Lord Rannulf’s messages from within the leather bag clutched under her arm. Even as he struggled to his feet, she muttered a curse and carelessly stuffed the letters back into the pack.

      Except for one. Before he could stop her, she’d cracked the wax seal on the parchment square and shook it open. The color fled her face and her words grew louder and more foul.

      By the rood, what if she’d opened the message from Rannulf to Pembroke and the king? Though he was unaware of the contents, of a surety ’twas nothing for her eyes.

      Will gathered himself and lunged toward her. They СКАЧАТЬ