Lady of Valor Page 20

  He chuckled, tipping his head back to stare up at the star-filled sky. “You want me to admit to freeing that beast, do you, my lady?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well, I freed him,” he said flatly. Then he turned to look at her, and instead of feeling relieved by his admission, Emmalyn felt strangely chilled. “After everyone had fallen asleep drunk or exhausted, I stole into the gaoler's tent and took the key. I set that haggard beast free and swept away his trail, Emmalyn, but I was also the one who saw him caged. I was the one who provoked him, who drew his blood simply because I could. 'Twas my idea to give him to the king, my suggestion that Richard be given the chance to slay the beast.”

  Emmalyn's heart grew a little heavier in her breast to hear him confess his part in the lion's capture, to hear the blurred edge of remorse in his voice. “But then you set him free,” she said, a gentle reminder that despite his initial intent, his humanity had still won out over his darkness.

  She wanted so badly to reach out to him then, to caress away the tension in his stern jaw, to chase the hauntedness from his eyes with a kind touch, with understanding. She wanted to hold him, inexplicably needing to soothe him. Wishing beyond all logic that she had the power to bring him out of his seclusion. Knowing that he alone could do the same for her.

  “Why did you come down here tonight, Emmalyn?” he asked brusquely, an element of impatience in his voice. “Why are you standing here with me in the dark when you must know you are but a hair's breadth away from being pulled into my arms? What are you looking for?”

  “N-nothing,” she stammered, certain he would see through the lie. “I only wanted to be a part of the festival--”

  “Disguised and lurking about like a ghost?” he scoffed, but his gaze was anything but cool. “I warn you, my lady, you are getting in over your head.”

  Emmalyn swallowed hard, unable to break his potent gaze, watching the faint flickers of firelight reflect in his smoldering eyes. The village chapel stood behind him, deep shadows stretching out like veils of night-black velvet: soft, inviting. Emmalyn said nothing when Cabal reached out and caught her hands. He stepped back into the darkness of the alcove, pulling her along with precious little effort.

  Once ensconced in the seclusion of the tiny church, he reached up and swept back the hood of her mantle, his rough, battle-scarred hands smoothing first over her hair, then tenderly following the slope of her cheek and jaw line. His voice was a deep rasp that she responded to almost as surely as his touch. “Have you missed me, Emmalyn?”

  “Yes,” she breathed.

  He smiled. “I have been wanting you more than ever these past few days.”

  In truth, Emmalyn felt much the same. For days--since the night in the armory--against all prudent reason, she had yearned to be with him again, to feel his strong hands weaving into her unbound hair, to see his dark-fringed eyes hooded with passion and smoldering for want of her. Heaven help her, but she had longed to breathe in his heady scent once more, to hear his heartbeat pound in time with hers. To taste his kiss....

  As if sensing her need, Cabal dipped his head and claimed her mouth with his. A low growl rumbled at the back of his throat as their lips met; his palm cupped the back of her head and brought her closer, deeper into his embrace, deeper into his kiss. Tentatively, Emmalyn parted her lips, allowing his tongue to spar with hers, thrilling to feel its tender invasion. His breath rasped out of him on a harsh oath when Emmalyn reached up to twine her fingers in his hair, bringing him closer, kissing him fully.

  He tasted of wine and something ever more intoxicating: a potent, wild desire that felt too bold for its tether and ready to snap. But if she feared that knowledge, even a little bit, it was soon engulfed by her body's growing answer to Cabal's touch.

  With a sensuality that threatened to be her undoing, Cabal dragged her against the solid length of him as his kiss deepened, one hand splayed at her back while the other caressed her hair, her cheek, the sensitive skin of her neck. Vaguely, Emmalyn felt her mantle slip off her shoulders and down her arms. It pooled at her feet in an audible crush of soft fabric upon the ground. Cabal's hands were heavy and warm as he smoothed them down her arms, his strong fingers coarse and rasping atop the sleeves of her gown.

  He broke their kiss only to press his lips against the hollow at the base of her throat, his tongue like a wisp of warm, raw silk, so smooth and sensual that Emmalyn gasped at the pleasurable sensation of it, her head arcing back as of its own accord, granting him freedom to roam further.

  And, Heaven help her, he did just that.

  He bent into her, his arm at her back, holding her steady against him as his lips swept every inch of sensitized flesh bared above the scooped neckline of her bodice. His breath was hot and fevered; shaky, shallow, much like her own. His stubbled growth of whiskers abraded her tender skin like the subtle scrape of a cat's tongue, an exquisite contrast to the moist softness of his hungry, roving kisses.

  Emmalyn thought he might have murmured her name, but she couldn't be sure above the mesmerizing din of distant music and pounding drums. She clung to him, feeling his heart beat a wild tattoo beneath her palms, knowing she was slipping farther and farther away from herself...edging dangerously closer to what she yearned to be with him.

  All thought and reason fled when he cupped her breast over the fabric of her gown, kneading the swell of flesh that so ached for his touch. Emmalyn sucked in her breath, thankful for the chapel's stone wall at her back--the only thing keeping her standing as Cabal traced the shape of her body with his hands, skating past her ribs and over the swell of her hips. He grasped her bottom, squeezing her, wringing a mewling, desperate cry from somewhere deep inside of her as he nestled his mouth at the curve of her neck, his lips warm, the soft nip of his teeth startlingly erotic. “God help me, Emmalyn,” he murmured on a harsh breath against her ear. “I've never wanted anyone the way I want you. Never.”

  He drew back slightly, his gaze searching hers in the semi-darkness a moment before he bent and captured her mouth anew. His kiss was not the same tender taking that it had been the first time; now it was raw with passion, deeply sensual, hungry. Emmalyn melted into his embrace, parting her lips to him, taking him in, letting him pull her against the hard plane of his chest, her abdomen pressed to the steely ridge of his groin.

  He wanted her; she could feel the evidence of his desire pressing insistently into her hip as he dragged her closer, enveloping her in his strong arms while he kissed her nearly senseless. He wanted her. It was more than any other man had ever felt for her, and that alone should have pleased her. He wanted her, but she wanted more. Deep in her heart, she wanted Cabal to love her.

  The way she was coming to love him.

  Emmalyn felt her legs go weak beneath her as the realization struck her, stunning her as much as it terrified her. Dear Lord, it could not be. How had she let this happen? She could not be in love with this man! Bracing her hands on his shoulders, Emmalyn tore herself away from Cabal's kiss, panic mounting within her breast.

  “What is it?” he asked huskily. “What's wrong?”

  At first she could only manage to shake her head. “This is a mistake,” she gasped. “I can't do this. I'm sorry, I just cannot--”

  “I'm not going to hurt you, Emmalyn. Trust me...” He pressed his lips to hers once more, his seductive kiss making her senses reel.

  “I'm sorry,” she whispered on a broken intake of breath. “I can't. I'm so sorry.”

  Without further explanation, she ducked out of his arms and left him standing there alone in the dark, before he had the chance to respond. Before he could stop her flight with gentle hands or a tender promise that she would surely be too weak-hearted to doubt.

  Chapter 18

  Cabal cursed softly as he bent to pick up Emmalyn's forgotten cloak. His pulse was still thrumming in his ears, his body still heavy with want of her, and remained thus long moments after she had fled his arms. What had gotten into him that he would think to
make love to her here, in the midst of a village festival, sheltered from view by nothing more than a few feet of shadow? He had behaved like a beast, so blind with passion that he had afforded her no more consideration than a randy peasant lad would give a common wench.

  He did not think it likely that he had imagined the desire he felt stirring within her as he kissed her; her response seemed to echo his own hunger. But there could be no doubting the fear in her eyes when she pulled out of his embrace and stared up at him, her lips trembling as she shook her head, horrified. He wished he could deny the look of utter desperation he witnessed on her face before she had backed away from him and bolted headlong into the night.

  Cabal was certain he would be the last person she would wish to see right now, but he could not simply let her run off like this. Pride be damned, he had to make sure she was all right. He had to apologize at the very least. With her mantle draped over his arm and his lust coming to heel at last, Cabal rounded the chapel wall and stepped back into the teeming crowd of revelers.

  He scanned the mass of people, moving among them impatiently and biting off a frustrated oath when it seemed Emmalyn was nowhere to be found. She could not be difficult at all to spy without her shapeless concealing cloak. Her crown of glossy white-gold hair and her fine silk gown should act as a veritable beacon among the crush of unwashed bodies clad in homespun milling about everywhere he looked. He stood in the center of the throng, wanting to yell out her name yet knowing he could not. He would not cause her that added humiliation before all of her folk.

  Agitated, and with a queer sense of dread niggling his every instinct, Cabal searched the hundreds of dirty faces once more, crushing Emmalyn's mantle in his fist as his initial prickling feelings of dread began to further gnaw at him, becoming with every passing moment something closer to a wary mounting alarm.

  Damnation, where could she be?

  * * *

  Emmalyn skirted the ongoing celebration, scarcely able to resist the urge to run. Her head was spinning from the jumble of festival noises and the barrage of her confusing feelings. Having no cloak to hide her flushed cheeks or her kiss-swollen lips, she hoped to avoid the discomfiture of prying eyes by keeping to the shadows along the backs of the village outbuildings, walking briskly toward the path that would lead her back up to the castle.

  She had made an utter fool of herself with Cabal this evening, first by sneaking out to be near him, and then, even worse, by encouraging him physically--only to flee without excuse an instant later like a skittish, untried maiden. Chagrined anew by her behavior, Emmalyn tucked her head down and rushed on, past the rows of cottages and furlongs, beyond the village grain stores.

  The sound of muffled voices in the vicinity of the wool shed caught her ear, momentarily distracting her from her own inner turmoil and giving her something more productive--though not much less troubling--to consider. Who would be tending the fleece at this hour, let alone during festival? she wondered as she neared the barn. She wanted to think that it was merely a band of village boys left unsupervised and getting into mischief, but the closer she got to the outbuilding, the better she knew that the voices did not belong to children. And inside there was far more under way than just a bit of harmless mischief.

  Emmalyn stood in the partially open doorway, watching as four men rummaged around in the unlit shed, gathering up the rolls of precious fleece that had yet to be sacked for market. Several rolls had been corded together with thick twine, making neat packs, each manageable enough to be carried off and stolen. Outraged beyond reason, Emmalyn stormed inside. “What do you think you are doing in here? Get out this instant!”

  The men all turned to stare at her in the dark. A couple of them merely chortled, but the largest of the four strode toward her. “Well, well. What have we here?”

  “Get out, all of you, before I have you thrown out.”

  That garnered more amusement from the trio, but the one approaching Emmalyn leered with malicious interest. “My, but ye're a fine, pretty bit of fleece. Come around for a tupping, did you?”

  His companions chortled, but Emmalyn could see that the one who said it was not laughing. She ignored the intimidation and took a step backward, trying to gauge the distance between herself and the entrance to the shed. “You men have no right to be in here,” she said with all the authority she could muster.

  “My, she is a comely little stray,” one of the brigands said, the band of them all moving forward now like a pack of wolves surrounding a helpless lamb. They closed in, their tight ranks forcing her away from the center of the barn and toward a shadowy corner that would afford no easy escape.

  “Stealing is a hangable offense...” she warned shakily.

  “Not when we been hired to do it, sweetling. And anyway, who's here to stop us? You?”

  “What do you mean you've been hired?” Emmalyn demanded in confusion.

  “Clive,” warned one of the thieves. “Arlo said naught about hurting anyone. Let's leave her be.”

  “She's seen us,” the big man shot back. “And now you've gone and told the wench who we work for.”

  Emmalyn had a man on either side of her. The menacing giant named Clive accosted her from the front while the last thief followed closely at his back, pulling a length of twine from the coil in his hands. “Th-there are forty men-at-arms in the village tonight,” Emmalyn stammered. “All I have to do is yell and they would all be here in an instant. Any one of them would be quite able to stop your thieving permanently.”

  The big man chuckled. “Forty men-at-arms you say, and not a one guarding the wool. I reckon they're all too drunk or too busy rutting themselves senseless to come around, even if they could hear you scream over the din outside.”

  Emmalyn's heart sank a little when she realized that he was right. Who would hear her above the music and laughter of the crowded village and plains? Who could discern a cry of alarm among all the other voices raised in celebration?

  “Go ahead and scream if you want to,” Clive said, a nasty twist to his mouth. “I like it when my tups bleat a little. Makes things interesting.”

  And Emmalyn did scream.

  She cried for help at the top of her lungs, only to be silenced a moment later by the crushing weight of her attacker's filthy body as he lunged for her, capturing her in a hard, bruising embrace. She thrashed wildly, twisting herself around so that her back was against him, all the while struggling to break out of his arms and biting at his hand when he reached up to clamp it over her mouth. Frantic and desperate to get away, she kept screaming under the vise-like grip of his palm on her face, even if the sounds rang louder in her head than anywhere else.

  She stomped and bucked, using any means of defense at her disposal. With her heel, she kicked backward and jammed her foot into her assailant's unprotected shin. He barked a curse and shoved her forward, right into the waiting clutches of another brigand standing at the ready. Laughing with the sport of it all, the ruffians took turns pushing her around from one man to the next until their gang leader stalked toward her once more, fuming with anger. Panting, locked in the steely grip of one of the thieves, Emmalyn could only stare at Clive as he came to stand before her, glaring his hatred through narrowed, cold eyes.

  “Take the bitch over there and tie her up,” he ordered the others with a harsh jerk of his head. “She's mine first. The rest of ye can have what's left of her when I'm through.” Then he laughed wickedly. “Providin' there's aught left to be had, that is.”

  As she was dragged toward the corner of the barn and thrown down on one of the solidly packed sacks of wool, Emmalyn felt as if she were somehow removed from the scene. As if it were happening to someone else, somewhere outside her conscious understanding. One man held her down while another worked to secure her arms with a rough abrading length of twine. She was only vaguely aware of her chief assailant standing behind the others, where he fought with the ties of his chausses.

  She felt cool air hit her legs and kicked wildly
as one of the men tried to ruck up her skirts with groping, impatient hands. Though the stink of the thief's decayed mouth told her that he had his lips pressed almost against her ear when he warned her to cooperate or face the consequences, his voice sounded slowed, muffled, as if it had come from a great distance away. It was shock, she realized dazedly. She was becoming too shocked and panicked to make sense of her surroundings, let alone wrest herself free from this abhorrent imminent harm. Before the struggle could leak out of her entirely, Emmalyn gathered her strength and made a last effort to buck the men away from her.

  Her cry of “Nooo!” seemed to echo up into the rafters of the barn, rallying her for one more brief, futile moment before she was silenced with a harsh slap across her cheek. The blow stunned her, so much so that she almost did not hear the angry order issued for someone to bar the shed door closed. Her vision swimming, she watched as the blurry silhouette of one of the three spectators standing over her suddenly disappeared to carry out the command. There was a splintering crash nary a moment later, too powerful to be the slamming shut of any door.

  And she had no idea what to make of the terrible, animal-like roar that followed in the next heartbeat.

  A ruckus stirred up in the barn, a swift and confusing hail of queer noises, all of them completely foreign to Emmalyn's ears: the sharp grate of metal against what she was certain had to be flesh; voices raised in anger and surprise, then dissolving into some strange, liquid gurgle; and, undercurrent to it all, a deep, vicious snarling.

  Though it was surely happening in mere moments, to Emmalyn, the events seemed to elongate, dragging out in surrealistic sequence for some untold time. Above her, the last man holding her down moved off to confront the ruckus behind him.