Fairest of Them All Read online

  Had she been the woman in his arms this night, the tent would indeed have been an enchanted bower of delight until the dawn. He would have called a halt to their journey hours ago and loved her for the first time while the setting rays of the sun played pink and gold against the tent walls. He would have plucked the fragile petals of heartsease from her sweat-dampened skin with his teeth, tasting and caressing every succulent inch of the flesh beneath.

  He would have captured her breathless cries of pleasure with his mouth, muffled them with his tongue. He would have wedged himself within her virgin’s body, thrusting deep and hard until he coaxed from her beautiful lips a vow that no other man would ever—

  Austyn bit off a savage oath. What more potent reminder did he need that the sensual spell that enslaved him would have inevitably led to his destruction? Not even in his fantasies could he be free of the jealousy that gnawed his soul. As if sensing the sudden violence of his grip, his bride stirred in his arms, a fretful spasm passing over her puckish face.

  Ruthlessly ignoring the demanding throb of his arousal, he laid her on the silken nest. Her lips parted in a drowsy sigh of contentment. Puzzled, Austyn leaned forward, sniffing the air. How was it that her breath could be so sweet when her teeth were so foul? He ran his tongue over the straight, blunt edge of his own teeth, wondering if she would be offended by a gift of a carved twig with which to clean them.

  She looked terribly defenseless with her sparse lashes shadowing her blotched cheeks, her small fists curled as if to ward off some unseen attack. Their bitten-to-the-quick nails stirred his conscience, yet he could not resist the peculiar temptation of her hair. He stretched out his hand, then drew it back, surprised to find it unsteady.

  “She’s your wife, you fool,” he muttered. “You have every right to touch her.”

  Touch her he did, running his palm over the close-cropped contours of her skull only to learn that her hair felt less like the shorn fleece of a lamb than the downy fluff of a baby duck. Oddly charmed by the discovery, he chuckled, rubbing a feathery lock between thumb and forefinger.

  A faint whimper of distress warned him. He slowly lowered his gaze to find his bride gaping up at him, trembling like a fawn beneath his guilty hand.

  CHAPTER 9

  Holly had already surmised that her new husband was a dangerous man, but until she saw his unguarded smile, she had no idea how dangerous. The shallow furrows carved into his brow crinkled in boyish delight. Even the coarse bristles of his mustache seemed to soften with the motion. She fought an imprudent urge to reach up and touch them. To run her fingertips over their foreign texture until she could summon the courage to seek the smooth warmth of the lips beneath.

  His smile faded as he gazed down into her eyes, his expression shifting to mirror her own bewildered yearning. Then his face hardened just as it had in the garden, and he snatched her up by the shoulders, giving her a slight shake.

  Believing her treachery discovered, Holly slammed her eyes shut, trying not to imagine the worst he could do to her.

  “Have you a sister?”

  Her eyes flew open. Caught off guard by the peculiar question, she blurted out, “No.”

  “A cousin then? Or an aunt? Any womanfolk who might share the uncommon hue of your eyes?”

  “An aunt? A cousin?”

  Still dazed by sleep and the delicious sensation of being tucked against a strong masculine chest and borne like a babe from horse to bed, it took Holly a muddled moment to fathom what he was asking. When it occurred to her that he must be seeking the identity of the irksome woman who had disturbed his tryst, a rush of mingled relief and alarm made her stiffen in his grasp.

  “Oh, aye! I’ve hordes of cousins and dozens of aunts! Nieces, too, every one of them with purple eyes. ’Tis a trait as common as dirt among the de Chastels.”

  He arched one shaggy eyebrow, restoring his rugged face to its forbidding aspect. “I saw no such woman at the tourney.”

  Irritated that she had given him the answer he sought, yet still he dared to contradict her, she retorted, “Perhaps the brilliance of my father’s gold blinded you.”

  He released her to rub his bewhiskered jaw. “Perhaps. Or perhaps I was fool enough to stare too long into the face of the sun.”

  He settled back on his heels, his imposing bulk making the confined space seem even more cramped. Holly drew her knees to her chest, reaching up out of nervous habit to twirl a sleek curl only to be rudely reminded that she’d left it and all of its mates on her bedchamber floor at Tewksbury. As her fingertips brushed her shorn head, she frowned in confusion. Had she been dreaming or had Gavenmore been fondling the repulsive mess when she awoke?

  She lowered her eyes, fearing it might not be their lavender hue that betrayed her, but the flicker of uncertainty in their depths.

  Austyn was disturbed by his bride’s shy withdrawal. She looked no less defenseless awake than she had asleep. Her whitened knuckles gripped her curled knees as if to erect an impenetrable bastion. Not for the first time, he wondered what manner of father would give his daughter into the hands of a stranger. A stranger who might not hesitate to lay siege to her fragile defenses, “throw up her skirts and have done with it” as Carey had so bluntly suggested.

  A thread of dark temptation snared his conscience, holding it briefly at bay. He had taken this woman to wife, had he not? Why should he not sate his whetted appetite between her willing thighs? If nothing else, she could grant him a brief surge of relief from the lust that tortured him. Perhaps if he kept his eyes closed when he reached for her, he could dare to dream …

  Austyn had believed himself exorcised of all his ghosts, yet the woman from the garden still haunted him. He could almost feel the taunting softness of her hair as it wrapped around his knuckles, scent the exotic spice of myrrh on her fair skin, taste the yielding softness of her lips as they shyly bloomed beneath his coaxing. An anguished groan escaped him.

  Holly jerked her head up at the sound. Her husband’s eyes were pressed shut as if he suffered some mortal pain.

  Ignoring a spasm of envy for his dark thicket of lashes, she tugged his sleeve, daring to use his Christian name for the first time. “Sir Austyn? Are you ill? Does your wound pain you?”

  The instant he opened his eyes, Holly knew that it was not he who was at risk, but herself. The joust with Eugene had been only a pallid shadow of the battle being fought behind the deceptive winter of those eyes. Eyes lit not by frost, but by a flame so hot it burned blue, scorching her with the realization that if the conflict was not decided in her favor, she might lose more than just her disguise.

  He rose to his feet above her, blocking the torchlight. Holly found it ironic that the shadows should be both her ally and her enemy. When he reached to pry apart her rigid knees, he wouldn’t see the padding sewn into her skirts. Nor would he see the tears sliding soundlessly down her cheeks.

  She dared not beg tenderness or patience from him. If he granted her such a boon as to temper his lust with kisses and caresses, it would only be a matter of moments before his seeking hands exposed her deceit and turned brutal and punishing. All she could do was quiver in his shadow, waiting for him to fall on her like a bear on a fresh haunch of venison.

  The passionless timbre of his voice startled her so badly she nearly sobbed with relief. “I have wed you under false pretenses, my lady.”

  As his words sank in, her relief shifted to panic. She realized dismally that she had stripped herself of all weapons that might have leavened his fury with mercy. She had no silky eyelashes to flutter, no sable curls to toss, no creamy cheeks to frame her tears of remorse.

  She snatched at his leg, hugging it in supplication. The calf muscles sheathed beneath his hose felt as steely and resolute as the rest of him.

  The frantic torrent of words gushed from her. “ ’Twas never my intention to deceive you, sir, truly it was not. ’Twas only that one harmless little falsehood led to another and before I knew it, even I had lost sight of the
truth.” She turned her pleading face to his, hoping the shadows would not obscure the luminous sheen of tears in her eyes. “Punish me if you must, sir, but I beg you to spare Nathanael and Elspeth your wrath. ’Tis true that Nathanael’s prideful spirit might benefit from a sound thrashing, but Elspeth is an old woman, too frail to endure the hardship of a beating.”

  Austyn tried to disengage his bride’s clawlike grip, but met with such resistance he was forced to stop for fear of injuring her fingers. He gave his leg a shake, but still she clung.

  “What on earth are you babbling about, woman?” he demanded, adding the tenacity of a rabid hedgehog to her list of intriguing attributes. He lurched away from her, forcing her to release him or be dragged across the tent floor.

  She popped to a kneeling position. “Babbling? Was I babbling?”

  “Profusely. Do you honestly believe I count thrashing priests and old women among my sins?”

  “Sins? My sins?” she parroted. A winsome grin lit her face. “Oh! We were discussing your sins!”

  Austyn scowled. When she grinned like that, she was so ugly she was almost comely.

  “And which sin might you be atoning for this night, sir? Shall I hazard a guess? You do not truly fancy me. You sought only to win me for my dowry.” Her ripple of merry laughter surprised him. “You and every other challenger at the tourney.”

  Austyn moved to shove back the tent flap, gazing into the inky darkness. “Would that my transgression were so easily shriven.”

  Holly’s relieved mirth faded. “What is this terrible crime even God cannot forgive?” she asked softly.

  A web of moon shadow laced her husband’s profile. “I made my vows to you when my heart was already pledged to another.”

  Holly struggled to recapture her relief, but her breathless laugh sounded strangely dissonant. “Perhaps you are unfamiliar with the customs of courtly love, sir. ’Tis not seemly for a man to swear devotion to his own wife.” She could hardly afford to regale him with the numerous tributes and pledges of devotion she had received and discarded from married men. “If you were wed to your beloved, then what would be the covert thrill of flaunting her ribbons on your lance in a tournament? Or penning a pretty verse to honor your chaste affections for her?”

  His bearded jaw clenched, informing Holly that his affections for this mysterious woman were less than chaste. He drew a small object from his surcoat, his pained expression rousing Holly’s curiosity. Was it a tribute from his lady fair? Some treasured memento of their love? Surely the uncouth brute wasn’t so sentimental as to carry such a token next to his heart.

  “Forgive me, my lady,” he said hoarsely, “but I cannot be a husband to you this night. Whatever the customs of the English, I’m not the sort of man to lay with one woman while thinking of another.”

  The words slipped out before Holly could stop them. “Not even if she’s your wife?” Sweet Christ, what was she doing? Encouraging him to bed her?

  Slipping the object back into his surcoat, he looked straight at her, his gaze both steadfast and wary. “Especially not if she’s my wife.” With that cryptic promise, he ducked into the night, leaving her alone.

  Holly fell back on the pallet, her body going boneless with a conflicting rush of emotions. Austyn’s desertion should have alleviated her fears, yet tangled through her relief was a disturbing thread of discontent. She had believed her deception exposed only to discover her husband was also hiding secrets. His blunt confession mocked her own petty deceit, making her feel more wretched than ever.

  She threw herself to her stomach. The cool samite failed to ease the fever in her nettle-stung cheeks. Fearing her husband might yet make peace with his conscience and return, she dared not draw off her gown to sleep naked as she longed to do. A feathery petal of heartsease tickled her nose. She plucked it irritably away, holding it up to the torchlight.

  It seemed her husband’s heart was pledged to another just as his impassioned kiss in the garden had been intended for another. A foreign spasm tore through her stomach. Holly was at a loss to identify it. Since she’d been old enough to stretch out her chubby little hands in supplication, every heart had been hers for the asking.

  She rolled restlessly to her back, finding no recourse but to attribute the incessant gnawing in her belly to hunger. She gazed blindly up at the tent ceiling, barely realizing that her tense fingers were ripping the tender bloom of heartsease to shreds.

  CHAPTER 10

  “Elspeth!”

  At the piercing shriek, Austyn shot straight up out of a troubled sleep. Leaping to his feet in a crouch, he wrenched his sword from its sheath, prepared to defend the nearby tent from a horde of slavering Englishmen or some other terrible foe more likely to have emitted that unearthly cry.

  “Elspeth!”

  His sword arm went limp with relief as he realized the cry had come from within the tent. ’Twas not some bloodthirsty banshee come to claim their unshriven souls, but only his wife bellowing for her maid.

  Carey and the priest came stumbling out from the pines into the misty dawn, the priest gripping a crucifix as if to ward off some supernatural threat, Carey fumbling to notch an arrow in his bow.

  Austyn nudged the bow to a less lethal angle before he could skewer one of them. “Stand down, Carey. We’re not under attack from the English.”

  Carey ran a hand through his disheveled hair, still gasping for breath. “The English? I thought a pack of mad dogs had fallen upon you.”

  The priest shuddered, his gaze darting wildly from bush to bush. “Dogs? I thought it was demons.”

  “Elspeth!”

  No amount of reassurance could stop them all from blanching at the renewed vigor of that scream. Austyn’s hand dropped instinctively to his sword hilt.

  Carey stumbled backward with an involuntary cry as Austyn’s wife popped her head out of the tent. With the tent flaps hugged close around her throat, her homely face appeared curiously disembodied.

  “Could I trouble you to summon my nurse, sir?” she inquired sweetly, blinking up at Austyn as if she hadn’t just startled a decade off his life. “I require her assistance to dress for the day.”

  “ ’Twould be an honor, my lady,” Austyn gritted out between clenched teeth. In truth, he would have summoned Beelzebub himself to stop her infernal squawking.

  He was spared the task as the stooped maid came bustling out from the trees, gripping something he assumed to be a bundle of clothing under her cloak. At the sight of Austyn guarding the tent, hand on sword hilt, an alarmed squeak escaped her and she almost dropped her burden.

  She bobbed an ungainly curtsy, chins quivering. “If it wouldn’t trouble ye overmuch, might I pass, sir? I thought I heard the musical sound of my lady’s voice bidding me—”

  A slender arm shot out from the tent, jerking her inside.

  Carey gaped at the place where she had stood before noticing the folded cloak at their feet. He nudged it with a bare toe, shaking his head sadly. Carey’s crestfallen realization that Austyn had not shared the bower of delight he had so lovingly prepared didn’t goad Austyn’s temper nearly as much as the smirk of triumph that appeared on the priest’s narrow face.

  Holly arched her back, preening like a satisfied cat as she massaged her unbound breasts with the flat of her palms. Morning sun filtered through the tent wall, caressing her naked flesh in tingling fingers of warmth.

  “Oh, Elspeth,” she moaned. “I don’t know if I can bear it another day.”

  Holly would have liked nothing better than to sleep away the morning, but the temptation of stealing a few unfettered moments with her nurse standing guard had proved too strong.

  Elspeth’s wry nod toward the rumpled pallet dampened Holly’s innocent pleasure. “One look at ye with yer wee belly all tucked in and the rest of ye all tucked out and I’ll vow that husband of yers won’t leave ye to sleep alone another night.”

  As if invoked by Elspeth’s words, Austyn’s imposing shadow fell across the tent wal
l. Holly crossed her arms over her naked breasts, besieged by sudden, painful shyness. Her husband had been pacing around the tent in impatient vigil for over an hour, halting every few circuits to growl out a reminder of the passing time.

  Admitting with a pang of resentment that her brief liberation had come to an end, Holly spread her arms, inviting Elspeth to mummify the natural exuberance of her breasts. When that was done, Elspeth fetched the pot of cold ashes she had smuggled from the fire and rubbed them in her mistress’s hair, dulling its ebony gloss. Elspeth held the hand mirror while Holly added the finishing touch to her disguise by drawing a fingerful of ashes across her upper lip. Holly hoped such subterfuge would become unnecessary once the sun had coarsened her skin.

  From outside the tent, a masculine throat cleared with the force of a thunderclap. The mirror slipped from Elspeth’s trembling hand, striking the edge of the iron pot.

  Austyn’s voice reverberated with exaggerated patience. “If you care to eat while we take down the tent, my lady, you’d best finish your primping posthaste.”

  Fearing he might yet storm their citadel or tear the tent down around their heads, Holly hissed, “Quick, Elspeth. My gown!”

  Holly snatched the narrow tube of her chemise down over her hips while Elspeth dropped the cotte over her head. She batted the smothering bulk of its padded skirts away from her face, then clawed her way out of the drooping bodice. The overtunic was a subtle shade of apricot that had once warmed her natural blush to peach. Sighing wistfully at the memory, she yanked the skirt this way and that around her hips, then twisted to peer over her shoulder for a troubled look at her backside.

  Elspeth wrung her gnarled hands. “ ’Tis a mite crooked, my lady. I had very little time.”

  “ ’Twill have to do,” Holly replied, snatching up the mirror.

  She was less concerned by the fit of her skirt than by the need to break her fast. Not only was that odd pang in the pit of her belly still troubling her, but she had deduced without Nathanael’s help that if she could eat enough to fatten herself up, there would be no need for padded skirts to maintain her disguise.