Princess of fire, p.3
Princess of Fire, page 3
He caught her hands and held them, ruefully meeting her eyes. “Margaret, I rode most of the day. And the Saxons did not shudder; they fought bravely.”
“Ah, but you rode and you conquered!”
She spun from his arms, moving with her fluid, swaying walk toward the cot. She looked back at him, her red hair a flame of glory in the firelight. She lifted an arm to him. “Come, Alaric, comte d’Anlou. Come, my love. Ride me, conquer me.”
He chuckled softly and went to her, ready to join her, ready to forget the day. He took her into his arms and she was soft and giving and her lips parted hungrily to his, her breasts swelled into his cupped hands.
“Hurry,” she urged him, and together they fell to the cot, fumbling with each other’s clothing
A furious thundering came then at his door, startling them both.
“What the hell—”
“Count Alaric! Milord!”
“See to it,” Margaret told him. “I shan’t go anywhere.”
Swearing irritably, Alaric stamped to the door and swung it open. One of the Norman knights was standing there, stripped of his armor, but he held his sword tensely at his side.
“What is it?” Alaric demanded
“Sire, ’tis—’tis Falstaff and the Saxon cub. The girl. She’s—she’s stabbed him!”
“What!”
“Come quickly, my lord. He calls for you!”
Alaric grabbed his mantle, swept it around him, and hurried through the darkness to Falstaff’s large tent out on the field. He threw open the flap and gazed at the scene within.
Three candles burned in grounded sconces; two armored knights stood within. From some pillaged manor Falstaff had taken linen sheets and with them had created a most welcoming bed, draped and pillowed, in the center of the tent. A small table stood there and, on it, a silver chalice of wine, a loaf of bread, and a hunk of cheese, and something delectably baked. The corners of the tent were in shadow.
Falstaff lay on the floor in a pool of blood.
Fallon—the Saxon bitch!—stood white and grim in a corner, her back pressed against the canvas, blue eyes huge, rose lips silent.
Alaric barely gave her a glance; he rushed to Falstaff. So silent there, so still.
The great friendly giant groaned softly, and Alaric bent his head low to him, listening for his breath. He tore at the man’s tunic and shirt then, seeking out the wound, feeling his own heart beat like thunder.
“Falstaff . . .”
He found the wound—surely not so deep!—beneath the left rib. Blood poured copiously from it, though, and Alaric could not judge if he would live or die. He looked to the two Normans standing guard.
“He will die,” one of them whispered.
“Fools, aye, he will die if you stand there like idiots! Come, take him—gently, I implore you. Find the duke’s most trusted physicians. See that they attend him instantly.”
The guards obeyed, reaching for the heavy man as tenderly as if he were a babe. Falstaff let out another groan, and a fury like lightning raged through Alaric, burning away all thoughts of mercy and reason.
As Falstaff was carried out, Alaric turned to Fallon. Ah, yes! She was bathed and perfumed and beautiful—just as Falstaff had wanted her! Black hair freed and brushed to a gloss, perfect young body adorned in a flimsy garment of virginal white that scarce concealed her lush young form.
“You murderous bitch!” he spat out at last.
She stared straight at him. She did not waver, yet her eyes remained as great as misted pools and it was several seconds before she answered him.
“I had no wish to kill him, or even harm him.” She spoke softly and with cool precision. “He attacked me, and I fought back.”
“He adored you. He was hopelessly enamored of you!”
Her eyes flashed and her temper broke. “I was not enamored of him!”
He was afraid to approach her. Falstaff! Great bear, best of men, and most loyal of friends! He—Alaric, comte d’Anlou, known for his careful judgment and cool wisdom—was afraid to go near her; he had no control whatsoever now. If he went near, he would grasp her beautiful swanlike throat; he would squeeze and twist until . . .
He took a breath and said hoarsely, “You might have killed him!”
“He shouldn’t have attacked me!”
“Attacked you! You are his property! I gave you to him!”
The candlelight flickered between them. It seemed incredible that she could have wounded the great Falstaff, so—she was slim and lovely, deceptively fragile. In the sheer white garment of softest gauze she was totally feminine, her young breasts full and curved, the nipples like cherries—red as roses—in the glow. Ribands of ebony hair fell over her shoulders, over her fair flesh, soft and smooth as cream.
“I am the king’s daughter, a princess of England,” she said regally. “The daughter of Harold Godwinson. I am no man’s property!”
“You are a murderess, Fallon. Bitch!” he swore again, taking a menacing step toward her. “Princess, as of this day, your father lies dead, and you are mine. Mine, lady! And I chose to bestow you upon Falstaff. Mother of God! What have I done!”
“He was a Norman invader!” She cried, suddenly passionate. “A thief, a ravager, a vulture, a viper, out to attack me! I care not what you say! I am not yours to give or take! I do not recognize the authority of the Norman bastard.”
“English law allows free men to own slaves, Princess!” Alaric thundered. “Whether criminals condemned in court or prisoners of war!”
“English law! English law! You foul barbarian! Don’t speak to me of murder or English law! You slew innocent men on that field today! I am not your property or William’s or anyone else’s. I am an English princess, my lord count,” she hissed scathingly. “I will not be pawed by a Norman animal while I draw breath into my lungs!”
Alaric clenched and unclenched his fists. A pain, swift and violent, like lightning, seemed about to split open his head. “Fallon, you refuse to comprehend the situation. We have come; we have conquered—”
“You have conquered nothing! You own nothing. You have slain my father, but that does not give you England!”
“Fallon, if all of England should fall tomorrow or if your people should fight on for a decade, it means nothing where you are concerned. You have been conquered. You have fallen. You are a prisoner—mine. And by God, girl,” he warned, his words barely a whisper, “you should have bowed before him!”
Falstaff! Had the last heartbeat pounded through that massive chest yet?
“Nay!” she cried. She stared into his eyes and knew that his soft voice held a deadly menace. “What would you have me do? Should I say, ‘Aye! Come! Burn our villages, steal our food! Murder our farmers, plunder, pillage, ravage—and we, like lambs, will scurry out of your way? I tell you once again, bastard count, that I am the daughter of a king, whether that king be dead or alive! Never, never, will I submit to the foul and filthy touch of a Norman vulture!”
Alaric crossed to her at last with long strides. He had no thought and no feeling except the pain. All of England was about to know rape and pillage and tragedy, and Falstaff had meant to set her upon a pedestal.
He saw her eyes dart about as she desperately sought a means of escape. There was none, for he blocked her way. “You are a princess of England, eh? And so you must murder a man who would love you. You are too clean and pure for the likes of us Norman swine?”
She stared at him for a moment; he saw that she quivered, but whether with rage or fear he knew not. Nor did he care. He hated her, despised her at that moment. And all that filled his mind was the terrible physical constriction of his wrath, like a rushing sweep of the wind.
“Perhaps you should slay me now, for I shall always fight you!” she warned him suddenly.
“Hear this, Fallon: If Falstaff dies, you will beg for mercy.”
Her chin went up. “Mercy, Alaric—from you? Beg? Never, vulture.”
He moved slightly away from her—confident now, for he saw in her eyes the fear that belied her words. Yet even as he grew certain that he had bested her, she moved with the speed of wind. Her arm rose to strike, and he saw in her hand a small dagger dripping with blood.
“Saxon bitch!” he shouted, and with a sweep of his hand sent the knife flying across the tent. “By God, you will be humbled!”
She cried out, but that was not enough for him. He threaded his fingers into her hair and locked an arm around her waist, lifting her off the floor. The pounding pain in his temples was ferocious now; it filled his body with passion and a need for vengeance. She had gone too far; this night, so help him, she would break. She would plead for mercy or feel his wrath.
“No!” She raked her nails along his arms, drawing blood, but he didn’t notice. He threw her down on the bed that Falstaff had prepared so lovingly.
And he fell upon her, cupping her exquisite chin in his palm, speaking in a deathly quiet tone, even as she writhed and flailed, twisting, trying with all her might to fight him.
“William could well decide that your throat should be slit, my princess. I am to extract an oath of allegiance from you, lady, one way or another—or see to your execution.”
“See to it, then!” she hissed at him. “Bastard! Slay me, but—”
She caught her breath, and he wondered if she meant that. But even his wonder was brief, for it was his anger that ruled him, and fury shuddered through him.
“Bend!” he raged at her. “Bend, lady! Ask my mercy. Beg for your life! Fallon, by God—”
She spat in his face.
He smiled grimly. With one hand he secured her arms high above her head. He wiped his face against her gown and with swift purpose ripped the gauze garment from hem to thigh, ignoring the allure of the beautiful shape that had plunged Falstaff to his demise, aware only that the shrieking inside him demanded satisfaction.
Her eyes widened further—those splendid angel’s eyes—as she saw his intent. Her struggles and oaths began to increase in earnest, but her struggles were in vain, for his passion was beyond reason, beyond control.
As he stood she tried to scramble from the bed, but he caught her with one strong hand and flung her back, and as she gasped for breath, he calmly doffed his scabbard and tunic. She swore and attempted to rise again, but he fell upon her with the full strength of his hard, muscular weight.
“No!” she shrieked, and like a fox cornered by a hound, she struggled desperately to free herself from his hold. His anger was so great that he was barely aware of her wild flailing. With cold precision he held her wrists high above her head with one hand while he boldly passed his other hand down the length of her body, then wrenched her knees apart and wedged his weight between them, stripping her of all power to elude him.
She saw his eyes but briefly as he hovered over her—dark gray eyes, full of thunder. She shook her head vehemently, even now refusing to be conquered. Even now when he, the knight, hard as alien steel, rose with brutal determination above her.
“Pray, Fallon! Beg quarter!”
“Quarter! From you? I swear I shall die first—”
Her words were curtailed by her own cry as he slammed his weight menacingly against her. It was meant as a show of strength, but he felt a storm of passion burst free inside him and he wondered distantly if he had loosed a tempest he could not control.
“Bastard!”
She struggled furiously against his hold, gasping as she felt his body nearly cleave to her own. She fought desperately to dislodge him, to escape the threatened invasion. She dug her nails into him instinctively, but she could not free herself. Nor could he release her then—or even find the strength within himself to make gentle his assault.
Now fire sang in his very blood, and instinct came like a sweeping tempest, telling him he could not cease what he had begun. He had wanted her too long; he had been a fool to think that giving her to another would still the desire within him, and now he was touching her too closely; he was nearly a part of her. The tempest came unchecked, invading his body with heat even as he thought to invade her body with his own.
The violence he felt created a burning tension within him. He felt it in his hands as they traversed the softness of her flesh, felt it in his body as he thrust himself hard between her thighs. She was the enemy.
“Nay!” She cried out, trembling. She swallowed hard. “Nay, please, Alaric!” A whisper then, of fear, of supplication. “Alaric . . .”
Something in her tone, in the plea he had dragged from her, brought him at last to sanity. They had known each other so very long—even if they had been enemies all that time. As a child she had known he would never hurt her. She had even dared to tempt him time and time again. He had always admired her courage; she had respected his strength. It had cost her to beg him, he knew. And she had lost her father today, he reminded himself. Her world was gone.
The violence did not leave him, but he was master of himself once more. As suddenly as his brutal assault had begun, it was over.
He did not feel remorse—for in truth, she deserved what punishment he could mete out. But he felt ashamed of his own loss of control. He had known that he could not stop the invaders from ravaging England, but he had sworn he would not be a part of it. He would never kill except in battle, never plunder, never harm a Saxon maid, never rape. But he had come so very close. In just seconds he would have breached these portals of her chastity. He was ashamed.
Fallon lay still beneath him, breathing shallowly, her heart pounding. Her eyes were wide open, but showed no sign of tears. She stared up at the top of the tent, biting her lower lip.
When at last her eyes met his, they sizzled like a summer sky. She spoke again, and there was a husky timbre to her voice. “How could you . . . give me . . . to anyone?”
For a brief moment he thought with absolute fascination that Falstaff had been right. She was beautiful beyond imagination, and worth any price a man might pay. With a wrenching realization he knew that he had given her to another because he knew she could too easily touch him. God, if any man had learned not to be a fool for a woman, it was he. Years and years ago he had learned the folly of love.
He did not love Fallon. They were wary, respectful enemies at the very best, and that was all they had ever been. Nay, he did not love her, but he cared, and he knew the intoxicating excitement of being near her, of tasting her lips, caressing the sweet fullness of her breasts, and pressing his mouth to the beauty of her flesh.
England lay before the Normans. And Fallon was dangerous. If she caused trouble, and if William succeeded in being crowned king, he would order her execution. And here he was, William’s right hand, contemplating mercy.
He felt her tremble beneath him; he felt the silken heat of her body. He knew that with a single movement, a simple thrust, he would take something away from her forever. Why did he pause? He asked himself angrily. She had tried to kill Falstaff, his best and most loyal friend.
But she had acted in self-defense, Alaric realized it was that simple. He could not hate her for it.
He longed to soften, to soothe her. It was a laughable impulse, for he was her enemy, and she would scarce accept gentle words from him.
A sound like a sob escaped her, and she struggled against him—but her writhing only served to bring her naked flesh closer to his. Then she closed her eyes and remained still, as if to avoid goading him into the simple thrust of movement she must surely have been expecting.
Soothe her . . .
There would be no soothing for her. Saxon England was damned, and Alaric knew it. More villages would burn, men would die, children would go homeless. Fields would be trampled and ravaged, and hunger would be the common man’s lot.
Saxon maids would fall to Norman warriors, and Fallon, Harold’s daughter, would lose her life if she did not come to heel.
Alaric’s body shook with burning tension. Keen awareness charred him, yet he was in control again. Surely she thought he was taunting her—teasing until he chose to come in for the kill. That was for the best. He had to be cruel to bring her to submission—else William would.
He rose from her carelessly and adjusted his hose and tunic with a casual lack of interest. He ignored the bleak pain that paled her beautiful features, the way she grasped for the bedcover.
“So, my lady,” he murmured, bending to retrieve the dagger she had used against Falstaff and attempted to use against him, “now we have no further problem, no point of discord. You would murder Falstaff, believing he should not touch you, as you were a princess of England.”
Alaric walked back to the bed, leaned over her, and offered her a tight and mocking grin. “But now you know that at any time you may become nothing more than the whore of the Norman bastard’s bastard henchman. You are mine, Fallon, to do with as I will. Give yourself no more airs of grandeur. Harold Godwinson is dead; the Normans will rule England now.”
Blue fire soared into her eyes; they were liquid with tears, and aflame with hatred. She moved swiftly to strike out at him, but he was ready. He caught her hand and held it tightly until she cried out. Her hair swept over her face, and she lowered her eyes.
And then Alaric made his mistake. For no matter what had happened that night, no matter what violence had raged, he could not change the things that had been, and pity surged within him. “Fallon,” he murmured, and he sank back down beside her, “I am sorry about your father; he was a brave man.”
The tears spilled over onto her cheeks, and she sobbed in terrible silence. She did not want Alaric’s sympathy. He knew this, but she was too wretched to push him away, and he wrapped his arms around her shoulders and held her. The candles flickered against the night as he held her, saying nothing. He lay back against the pillows and used the pad of his thumb to smooth the tears from her cheeks. At a loss against the depths of her misery, he did what came naturally to him, and he whispered senseless words, kissing her forehead, kissing her eyelids, stroking her sleek, raven-black hair.
He kissed her lips.
And as a ragged sob escaped Fallon, her lips parted beneath his. Everything within him seemed to burst and explode in glittering white-hot desire. Her kiss answered his, softly, hungrily. In her he could feel the tempest rising swiftly, too, as it had done when he wrapped his arms about her that first time in Normandy. Desire had grown, flowered; it blossomed between them now undeniably, as sweet as summer flowers, as heady, as exquisite. She trembled beneath his touch and seemed to fuse with him. The very air about them seemed to crackle with lightning, as if a wild summer storm thundered near. She sobbed softly, and her arms were suddenly around his neck. He teased her lips with the tip of his tongue, and showered little kisses about her mouth before claiming it again, sliding his tongue deep within it, drawing hers forth to play as the fever of desire gripped him ever tighter.
