White Lion's Lady Read online

  “It will do,” Griff said as he placed a coin in the whore's open palm and took the gown from her. When he realized how earnestly she peered at Isabel, trying to get a look at her from around Griff's shoulder, he deliberately stepped into her line of sight. “My wife and I are weary from our travels. We would appreciate a moment of privacy.”

  The whore scowled and began a reluctant shuffle toward the open door. “Don't tarry overlong, m'lord. Mind ye, this room is my business.”

  Griff nodded, waiting only long enough for the woman to cross the threshold before he closed the rickety oak panel on her heels. Behind him, Isabel shivered and blew out a quivery sigh.

  “Here, my lady,” he said to her, turning and offering her the whore's kirtle. “Let us get you out of those wet clothes.”

  Isabel's gaze snapped to him in shock. “Disrobe?”

  “You're soaked and freezing, and it would be foolhardy to let you walk into the castle keep in a noblewoman's silk gown when for all we know half the countryside could be searching for a lady of your description. We will draw less attention garbed as common pilgrims.”

  “Oh . . . of course, you are right.” She took the gown from him and held it to her breast, but made no immediate move to comply. It took a long moment of expectant silence for Griff to realize that she was waiting for him to leave the room.

  “We've no time for modesty,” he told her, his tone more impatient than he had intended. He was tired, cold, hungry, and aching, none of which helped his present mood. And he still had to secure them a space in the castle. If they delayed much longer, the gates could close and they would be forced to seek shelter elsewhere or spend the night outdoors. It was a prospect Griff did not particularly relish. “Change quickly, my lady. I will turn my back until you are finished.”

  He positioned himself near the door while behind him, Isabel began to undress. He heard her unfasten the clasp on his mantle, heard the heavy wet fabric slide down the length of her and crush softly on the floor. Her teeth were chattering, her breath shallow and tremulous as she set to work on her gown, gathering up the skirt and pulling the sodden green silk up over her head. An instant later, it, too, fell to the floor.

  Griff concentrated on what his eyes could see, counting the knots in the warped oak panels before him, trying to judge the age of the ancient leather hinges--anything to keep from imagining Isabel standing behind him wearing naught but a rain-drenched chemise. The very thought sent a bolt of lust shooting through him. Griffin clamped his jaw tight, willing away this unwanted awareness.

  Isabel, thankfully, seemed wholly oblivious to his discomfort. She was making little progress suddenly, struggling now with something on her chemise. Finally, she let out a huff of frustration. “Griffin?” she asked, her voice soft and hesitant. “Will you . . . I can't untie the laces . . .”

  Griff felt his every muscle clench taut as a bowstring in reaction to her innocent plea for help. Slowly, he turned around to face her. If he thought himself tense with want before, it was nothing compared to what he felt when his eyes lit on Isabel in that moment.

  The flimsy chemise clung indecently to every curve and swell of her body, hugging her breasts and hips and thighs like a glove of wet linen. The drenched fabric hinted at the dusky hue of her nipples, perfect pearls, puckered beneath their sodden veil. Griff noted with an appreciative eye how flat and soft her abdomen was, the sweet indentation of her navel, her flawless skin pale against the nearly transparent undergarment and a pleasing contrast to the dark, enticing shadow of her femininity. His arousal stirred swiftly, an inopportune, if inevitable, reaction to the vision standing before him. He nearly had to shake himself to keep from staring.

  Isabel had crossed her arms over her breasts, rubbing her shoulders and still shivering, though whether it was from cold or the hungry look Griffin had likely turned on her, he could not be sure.

  “I think I have managed to snarl the laces at my back,” she said as he stalked toward her.

  Griff came up behind her without a word. He had not realized his hands were clenched into fists until he reached up to sweep aside Isabel's mass of hair. This close, he could tell that she had last washed her hair in rosewater; the scent lingered on her as he gathered up the thick auburn tresses and draped them over her shoulder. It was all he could do to resist the urge to touch the lily fair skin of her bare neck, to place his lips against her delicate nape to see if she tasted as sweet as she looked.

  Instead, he turned his attention to the knotted laces of her chemise, cursing when his big fingers only worsened the tangled ties. He worked at the snarls relentlessly, until at last, they loosened and fell away. Griff pulled apart the zigzagging closure of the undergarment, then stepped away before he was tempted to help Isabel out of it entirely.

  “Thank you,” she murmured, to which Griffin could only growl.

  He turned away once more, waiting impatiently as she stripped off the chemise and donned the dry gown. Her sigh of pleasure as the warm wool covered her body was pure torture to him, a satisfied exhalation that was all too easy to imagine in another setting, issuing forth from another cause.

  “Very well, I am dressed,” she said, speaking more brightly than he had heard her in the past couple of days. Already the benefit of dry clothing and warmth had renewed her; it would take a lot more than that to soothe Griff's mood. “You may turn around now.”

  “'Tis about time,” he drawled sullenly.

  “Have you a plan for getting us into to the castle?” she asked as he turned to face her. She gathered up her hair and began braiding it. “What will you tell the guards to gain us access?”

  “That we are husband and wife,” Griff answered. “Common folk, en route to your family in the north when we were caught in the rain.”

  He did not miss her slight flinch when he said they were to pose as a married couple. Did she find the idea intriguing or repulsive? He could not be sure, but even in the candlelight he could see the tint of color rise into her cheeks. To her credit, she said nothing of her obvious discomfort with his plan. Instead she turned a thoughtful frown on him. “How do you expect to explain away your own appearance, my lord?”

  “My own--”

  Isabel gestured toward his face and left side in explanation and Griffin cursed. He had all but forgotten about the injuries he had received in his skirmish with Odo. He looked down at his arm, inspecting the torn, bloodied sleeve and the messy gash beneath it.

  “Here,” Isabel said gently. “Let me have a look.”

  Before he realized it, she was at his side. Carefully, she gathered up the fabric of his sleeve and raised it past the place where Odo's sword had taken a bite of him. Using the edge of her damp chemise, she dabbed at the dried blood that was now crusted around the wound, her fingers light, tender. In truth, she need not have been so delicate for the cut hardly pained him. But Griff was loath to tell her so; he was enjoying her attention far more than he should have.

  Indeed, if the idea of posing as his wife was unpleasant to her, she would have been appalled to know the increasingly illicit path his thoughts had begun to take. The memory of her exquisite body shrouded in wet linen, the feel of her hands on his skin as she touched him now, her unbound hair cascading over her slim shoulders and down the graceful curve of her back--all of it twined together into a potent spell that had him imagining what it might be like to be her wedded husband.

  To be the man who would bed her for the first time and teach her about the endless wonders of pleasure and passion.

  It was a ludicrous musing--the very last thing he needed to be thinking about--but that did not make the wanting cease. In that moment, as Isabel's innocent ministrations went from the gash on his arm to the bruises that marred his cheek and jaw, Griffin knew a keen and unabating desire.

  She rubbed the soft linen of her makeshift cloth over his brow and cheek, then touched it to the corner of his mouth, blotting away the grime and blood left from the morning's violence. Her hand seemed to li
nger there, long enough that Griffin entertained the very compelling notion of reaching up and taking her by the wrist to pull her closer to him. He could tell her he did it as part of their ruse, that to be convincing as man and wife they would have to be willing to touch, to embrace, to kiss, like two people accustomed to intimacy. He could tell her that it was all part of their game, that she had to trust him. That she had no choice.

  He could manufacture a hundred reasons to convince her of his need to feel her body pressed against his, a thousand lies to cover the truth of how he burned for her . . .

  Isabel glanced up suddenly and met his gaze. For a heartbeat, a moment filled with silence and certain, shared awareness, she held his unblinking stare. But then, as if she sensed the danger of his thoughts, she sucked in a small breath and drew back from him. Her gaze darted away, shuttered by the sweep of long lashes. “That should do well enough,” she said in a rush of words. “You don't look quite so dreadful now.”

  Griff chuckled but his blood was still thrumming in his veins. “Dreadful looking, am I?”

  Isabel threw him a shy glance. “No. Not so much . . . now.”

  “Well, I am glad to hear you say it, wife,” he teased, surprised at how easily the false endearment tumbled off his tongue. “After all, it would not do to have my bride recoiling each time she looks upon me.”

  The moment lost, Griffin pushed up his right sleeve to match the length of the left while Isabel turned away and busied herself on the other side of the small room, folding up her soiled chemise and green silk gown. “Do you really think your plan will get us into the castle?” she asked, her brows drawn together.

  “Getting in will not be the difficult part. But keeping our identity secret once we are there may well pose a problem. I suppose it would be too much to hope for that we be left to ourselves the entire time.”

  Isabel glanced up from what she was doing. “I could pretend to be sick. We could say I am ill from the weather. No one will bother a woman beleaguered with ague.”

  “No one will house her,” Griff corrected. “No, there must be another way to explain our want for solitude without raising suspicions.”

  He glanced at the folded bulk of Isabel's gown and suddenly had an idea. He strode over and picked it up, rolling it into a round bundle, which he then presented to Isabel. “Place this under your skirt. Your girdle should hold it in place at your waist.”

  She gave his a skeptical look as she accepted the ball of rumpled silk. “Very well, but I don't understand how my being plump will serve us.”

  Griff shook his head. “Not plump, Isabel. Pregnant. Sick with our first child.”

  Without affording her the chance to protest, he grasped her by the hand and hauled her out of the room, ready to begin their ruse and praying they would be able to pull it off.

  Chapter 11

  Griffin was right about the ease of which they gained access to the castle. His story, along with a silver coin passed discreetly to the gatekeeper, earned them a stall for their horses and space among the folk in the castle's great hall. They were directed up the wide motte that led to the tower keep, instructed to follow the other travelers seeking shelter there that eve. Rain still slanted down from the darkening skies, turning the path to mud and slowing the group's ascent to the castle.

  Warm and dry under Griffin's mantle, Isabel hardly noticed the continuing deluge.

  Her mind swam with anxiety for the many untold perils that likely yet awaited them on this journey. This stop for shelter was but a pause before they would be back on the road, a short reprieve before they would be back on the run from Droghallow's men. And there was another danger worrying Isabel, too.

  The danger of what she was starting to feel for Griffin.

  As much as she tried to hold on to her anger and wariness, Isabel had to admit her mistrust of him was beginning to thaw. Indeed, when she thought of him, she felt as if her whole body was slowly melting from somewhere deep inside, warming to the man she should despise.

  Heaven help her, but whenever he was near, she experienced the queerest sensation in her belly, a fluttery anticipation, a mad sense of hopeful expectation that Griffin might find her attractive, that he might want to touch her. When she found herself staring into his eyes in the seclusion of the tavern's back room, she had the unshakable feeling that he might have wanted to kiss her.

  But he had not, and she knew she should be relieved.

  She should be thinking of Sebastian of Montborne, of her sister's welfare, not contemplating her growing attraction to her captor and enemy. Except Griffin was feeling less of an enemy with each passing hour. Now that they were both declared fugitives, he seemed more of a partner in some strange way, and she his witting accomplice.

  More vexing to Isabel's mind was the fact that she found it entirely too easy to pretend to be his wife. It took precious little effort to imagine them partners in life, to make believe that the ruse of her pregnancy was instead real, that her belly swelled with their child and not a bundle of damp silk.

  Chagrined for her sinful, wayward thoughts, Isabel lowered her head, pulling the hood of Griffin's mantle low over her brow.

  “We're almost there,” he said softly beside her, startling her when he reached over and placed his hand on hers in a soothing gesture. “I'll have you out of this rain as soon as I can.”

  She could not help smiling at his consideration. That he would be concerned for her well-being when he was still soaked to the bone confused her as much as it comforted her. Or was this sudden kindness part of his act? she wondered. Was he merely beginning their ruse of man and wife before they entered the keep? If he pretended now, he did so without the benefit of an audience, for no one in the group of pilgrims traveling with them on the path to the castle paid them any mind. Isabel glanced from his reassuring expression to their joined hands, which were wet from the rain but warm for their mingled contact.

  Far more belatedly than was prudent, she felt guilty for enjoying the polite intimacy of his touch and withdrew her fingers from his grasp. From the corner of her eye, she watched as he slowly retracted his hand and settled back on his mount, his gaze finally leaving her, returning to the flinty coolness she had first known.

  His mood had remained brooding and aloof even after they had settled into the great hall of Hexford Castle. Seated at a trestle table near the back of the enormous chamber, Isabel and Griffin took their places among the common folk. The room buzzed with activity and conversation, a scene as welcoming to Isabel as a thick wool blanket after several days on the run.

  Torches burned in black iron sconces affixed to the walls no more than ten paces apart. In the hearth at the center of the hall a fire blazed, its warm glow and radiant heat chasing away the persistent chill of the damp outdoors. If the comfortable climate inside the hall was not enough to make one forget their troubles for a while, the aromas of roasting meat and fresh baked bread being borne to the tables on large platters certainly was. Isabel's stomach growled as the food and wine was served to the high table and then the rest of the hall. She could hardly wait to partake of the steaming viands, her eyes widening in delight as she and Griffin were given a trencher filled with lamb stew and boiled cabbage. They shared their meal and drank from the same cup of wine, observing the eating custom that was commonplace among married couples of all ranks.

  While Griffin's grim countenance dissuaded anyone from engaging him in conversation, Isabel was not so fortunate. The other ladies at their table chattered on about one thing or another, making every attempt to include Isabel in their gossip and idle talk. Isabel obliged as courteously as she dared, nodding and smiling when appropriate and keeping her own comments limited to the awful weather and compliments for the hearty fare presented them by the Lord and Lady Hexford.

  The titled couple sat at the dais, flanked at the high table by their children and an elderly priest from a neighboring parish who said sacrament over the meal. Throughout the supper, Isabel found herself staring a
t the Hexfords' little daughter, a cheerful, freckle-faced waif of perhaps six summers. She laughed easily, charming everyone in the hall with her gaiety and bubbly demeanor. Isabel giggled aloud when the girl stole a cherry from the old priest's dessert and popped it in her mouth. When he realized his plate had been vandalized, the white-haired clergy merely slanted a chiding look at the impish thief and wagged his finger at her in mild reproach.

  “That one's going to be trouble,” remarked one of the women at Isabel and Griffin's table.

  “Aye, she's a handful already,” agreed another. “Pray ye don't have a girl, leastwise not as yer first child. Boys are much easier to raise.”

  It took a moment for Isabel to realize that the woman was speaking to her. “Oh,” she said finally, glancing down at the still-surprising bulge of her stomach. “I'm sure it will make no difference whatsoever. I will be happy either way.”

  She made the mistake of looking at Griffin as she said it and felt herself grow warm all the way to her scalp. He was staring at her intensely, his green-gold eyes unreadable and impossibly steady, refusing to release her gaze. Isabel wondered what he was thinking in that moment, wondered what to make of his serious expression and the hard, contemplative set of his mouth. Did he feel as awkward as she? He certainly did not seem uncomfortable, staring at her so pointedly, almost indecently. Isabel's face flamed an even deeper shade of red.

  The women seated around them began to titter with amusement.

  “Heavy with child and still blushing like a virgin,” commented a middle aged woman seated across from Isabel. “Ain't that the sweetest thing ye ever seen?”

  The man beside her chuckled. “'Twas not so long ago that ye were a winsome bride yerself, Gert. And I can still make ye blush on occasion. Especially when I do that thing with yer--” He whispered something in his wife's ear and the matron burst out in a flurry of scandalized giggles.