Rebellious Love Read online

  REBELLIOUS LOVE

  ❖

  Maura Seger

  An Original publication of TAPESTRY BOOKS

  A Tapestry Book published by

  POCKET BOOKS, a Simon & Schuster division of

  GULF & WESTERN CORPORATION

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, N.Y. 10020

  ISBN: 0-671-46379-9

  First Tapestry Books printing April, 1983

  POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster.

  TAPESTRY is a trademark of Simon & Schuster.

  Printed in the U.S.A.

  CHAPTER 1

  "Run, Lady Verony! Run!" the boy gasped. "Don't let them catch you."

  Verony ignored him. Her small but strong hands continued to work fiercely at the snare. If she could only loosen it a little more . . .

  The baying of hounds interrupted her. Looking up, she realized how very close their pursuers were. The boy's plea took on new urgency. "For God's sake, my lady, leave me! You don't know what they'll do to you if they find you like this!"

  In fact, Verony knew full well her likely fate. She had not lived in her father's house for seventeen years without becoming aware of men's seemingly limitless capacity for cruelty and the particular delight they could take in tormenting helpless women. But still she did not flee. In her slender, almost fragile form there was steel. Her hands worked faster.

  Endless moments passed. She was aware of nothing but the ever closer sounds of dogs and horses, her own desperate heartbeat and the boy's sobs. He was barely eight, the only son of the people who had first sheltered her when she fled the manor. Even if she had not been born to lead and protect, she still could not have left him.

  Dark red-gold hair fell into indigo-blue eyes. She pushed it back impatiently. That hair was her only remaining vanity. She refused to cut it and, to the horror of the serfs who shunned water, washed it frequently along with the rest of her now undernourished but still lovely body. Just then, however, she wished she had hacked it all off.

  Her hands were cut and bleeding from her efforts to untangle the snare. In the chill dampness of late summer, she shivered without being aware that she did so. Discomfort was second nature now. It did not impinge on her furious will to survive. The baying grew louder. She could almost feel the hot, moist breath of the dogs on her back . . . sense their razor-sharp teeth digging into her soft flesh.

  The snare broke. Verony gasped as the toughened leather came apart in her hands. It took them both a moment to realize the boy was free. When they did so, Verony leaped to her feet, carrying him with her.

  "Run!" she hissed. "Cross the stream. The dogs will lose your scent. Go on!" She gave him a little push, turning in the opposite direction.

  The boy hesitated. In his shy, child's way, he loved the Lady Verony. She was a mysterious creature of incomprehensible beauty and grace somehow fallen into their world from another, far higher life. But she was also the voice of authority. Generations of obedience won out. The boy turned and fled.

  Verony gave him a moment before dashing through the nearby copse of gnarled oaks. She was very tired and the thick underbrush made for hard going, but she ran swiftly. With rape and death in pursuit, her flight was desperate.

  She had always been a strong girl, despite her delicate bones and slender stature, and the hardships of the last few months had brought out strength she had not guessed she possessed. Despite the chronic lack of food and the toll taken by harsh weather and miserable shelter, she was still in good condition. If she could mislead the dogs, send them chasing a false scent, she might have a chance.

  Beyond the copse was a small pond. Verony hoped to wade through it. But time was running out. She could hear the pounding hoofbeats and the jovial shouts of the men sensing a kill. Like most of the young women of her former rank, Verony had hunted often. But only recently had she learned what it meant to be the prey. A hard fist of fear grew in her stomach as her breath came in labored gasps. Damn Curran d'Arcy! Damn him and the other men who chased her! Damn every one of the noble lords who cared nothing for the anguish they inflicted.

  The pond was only yards away when a twist of root thrust up from an oak tree tripped her. Verony fell heavily. Her head struck a stone and the breath was knocked out of her. Long, precious moments were lost before the whirling lights and plummeting darkness faded enough for her to realize what had happened. By then it was too late. As she tried frantically to rise, a huge mastiff hurled itself at her. The dog knocked Verony to the ground, his front paws pinning her shoulders as his teeth gripped the back of her neck.

  The animal was well-trained. He did not bite, but merely held her immobile until the riders reached them. Face down on the earth, Verony could do nothing but listen helplessly as the men laughed, congratulating the dog and themselves.

  "Well done, boy! Back off now. Let's see what we've caught."

  "Not much of a catch. Doesn't look as though he's got any meat on him."

  "Ran fast, though. Surprising. Most of these serfs are a lumberous lot. Hardly stir themselves."

  "Down, boy! That's it. We may feed him to you later, but for now ..."

  Verony was hauled upright, grasped in hard hands that bruised her shoulders through the coarse wool cloak she wore. "Small," a deep voice commented. "Not more than a lad."

  Her hood fell back, revealing the tumult of red-gold hair hiding her face. She felt, as well as heard, the gasp of the man holding her. "A wench! And a comely one at that! Our luck's in after all!"

  The men pressed closer to get a look at her. She could smell the mead and ale drunk at breakfast mingling with the stench of sweat and horses. More hands reached for her, grasping at the thin cloak still sheltering most of her body from their greedy eyes. Before the garment could be ripped from her, their leader intervened.

  "Bring her here," the deep voice commanded.

  Her captors hesitated, but only for a moment. Hoisted off her feet, Verony was deposited roughly before the large shape of a man just dismounting from a roan stallion. Struggling to catch her breath, she kept her head down, the cloak gathered tightly around her. This was even worse than she had feared. There were so many of them—at least half a dozen—harsh, powerful men she did not doubt would readily take their pleasure before killing her.

  Tears rose in Verony's blue eyes, only to be determinedly forced back. She did not want to die! Life, hard as it was, could still be sweet. There was so much she had never done or seen. Never lain in a man's arms and known the delight of love, never held a child of her own. Too late, her mind warned. She had already survived longer than anyone would have guessed. But her luck had run out. Caught poaching on the lands of Curran d'Arcy, she could expect only one punishment.

  Verony's back stiffened. So be it. If she was to die, it would be with honor. Even as the deep-voiced one's hand reached to force her chin up, her own fingers were feeling for the dagger hidden in her tunic.

  Her resolve faltered momentarily when her eyes met the compelling gaze of the man holding her. He was so tall that she had to strain to see the top of him. Massive shoulders clad in chain mail blotted out the sky. Hair dark as a raven's wing tumbled around his well-shaped head. His forehead was wide, matching the long, straight line of his nose, chiseled lips and strong jaw. But it was the deep-set eyes beneath thick brows that caught Verony. Their pure gray-green hue held her in a web of intense scrutiny unlike anything she had ever known.

  Her own deep-blue eyes glinted silver against her alabaster skin, the tumult of her red-gold hair framing delicately perfect features. The total lack of color in her face in no way detracted from high-boned cheeks, a small, uptilted nose and a lushly curved mouth. The man's gaze lingered there, drawn by the tiny mole at one corner of her li
ps. He had difficulty tearing his gaze from it to scan the ivory column of her throat, just visible above the all-enveloping cloak. His breath came more quickly as a cold, mailed hand moved to grasp her slender shoulders.

  "Not a serf," he growled. "Too beautiful. . . and too clean." Harshly he demanded, "Who are you?"

  Verony hesitated. She had little hope of being able to keep her identity secret, nor did she see any real purpose in trying. But she had to weigh the odds that, knowing who she was, he would decide to let her die easily or make her punishment even harsher.

  Only when impatience tightened the rugged features before her did she murmur: "I am Verony . . . de Langford. ..."

  The exclamations of the other men smothered anything further she might have said.

  "De Langford's whelp! Who could have guessed she was alive?"

  "All these months! Few men would endure. How did a mere girl manage?"

  "She's not lying," an older man proclaimed. The grizzled veteran moved closer to stare at her. "I saw her once at court, about a year ago. It's her all right."

  "I know that," the leader said quietly. "You are not the only one to remember the lady, Sir Lyle."

  Laughter rippled through the band, fractionally relieving the tension. "Trust you, my lord, to recall a comely wench. And trust the d'Arcy luck to find one here. Perhaps the winter will not be as dreary as you expected, Lord Curran!"

  Curran d'Arcy! Verony smothered a gasp of surprise. She should have guessed the leader would be none other than the new earl, come only weeks before to take possession of the lands that had been her father's. If the stories she remembered from court were anything to go by, Curran d'Arcy was not a man to let any usurp his authority. No one else would lead his knights, or protect that which was his.

  With their families firmly planted on opposite sides of the interminable political struggles, Verony and Curran had never been formally introduced. But she had no difficulty recalling the glimpses she had of him on the training fields or in the lists. Her cheeks colored as she envisioned the brawny sweep of his unclothed chest and long, sinewy legs. Nor had she forgotten a word of the admiring stories told of him in the ladies' solar, where it was said his great prowess on the field no more than equaled his skills in bed.

  At twenty-three, he was wealthy, powerful, admired, and at least as of a year ago, unwed. Though a second son of the feared d'Arcy clan, he held lands of his own and bowed to no man but the king, doing that only grudgingly. Since the death of Verony's father in a drunken brawl, Curran had risen to even greater strength. King John had granted the young earl all the lands once held by the Baron de Langford. All that lay within that demesne, and everyone dwelling on it, were his to do with as he would.

  "What's to be done with her, my lord?" one of the men asked, echoing Verony's own thoughts. Gathering her courage, she looked directly at Curran, her eyes wide and luminous in the dim forest light.

  He did not answer at once. Instead his grip on her tightened. "We found a deer some way back, slain by an arrow. Your trail led from there. Who was helping you poach?"

  Not for the world would Verony tell him, and he would not have a chance to force the information from her. On that she was already determined. Facing him bravely, she insisted: "No one. I was alone."

  Curran laughed. The sound was greatly at odds with his harsh demeanor. Verony stared fascinated at the gleam of white teeth against his stubble-roughened face. At court, she had never seen him unshaven. Was the current lack of a lady in his life responsible for such a lapse? Surely he could not be used to long periods of celibacy.

  Steeling herself for what was certain to be a swift worsening of his temper, she insisted: "I shot the deer. There was no one else." Defiantly she added: "But God would surely forgive your people if they did poach, with the hunger so great. . . ."

  She broke off. Curran's scowl frightened her more than she cared to admit. She was a fool to provoke him when he held her life in his hands.

  "You would be wise to concentrate on your own predicament," he said coldly, "rather than try to excuse the serfs' crimes."

  "It is no crime to want to live!" Verony exclaimed angrily. His careless dismissal of the starving men, women and children huddled in hovels across his land enraged her. Just as when confronted by her father's brutal callousness, she could not keep silent.

  Her defiance earned a harsh shake that threatened to snap her collarbones. "I find you on my land, killing my deer, and you dare to challenge the condition of my serfs? Moreover, you dare lie to me! You shot that deer? I would sooner believe you charmed him into lying down and dying!"

  Another shake, this one painful enough to make her bite back a moan of protest. "I will ask you only once more. Who helped you?"

  "No one!" Rage and fear merged to block out all caution. "I will never say otherwise! You may know nothing of loyalty, but I will not betray those who sheltered and protected me when they had little enough for themselves. They are worth ten of you, Curran d'Arcy, nay a hundred!" Contempt shone clear in her blazing eyes and the proud stiffening of her body. The cold metal of her dagger pressed into her hand. Taking courage from it, she sneered openly. "You do not frighten me. I have faced far too much these last few months to tremble before an arrogant, pompous lout!"

  Blank astonishment made Curran loosen, but not quite release, his grip on her. The fiery hellion before him was beyond anything he had ever encountered. Beauty, strength, pride all in what looked to be—at least from the neck up—a delectable package indeed. Through his mail glove, he could feel the fragility of her bones but poorly protected by the thin cloak. He became aware suddenly that she trembled, though whether from anger or fear he could not guess.

  A reluctant smile quirked Curran's mouth. He forced it back determinedly. "Brave words. We'll see how far your courage lasts back at the keep," he challenged ominously.

  Verony froze. She saw the eager light in the eyes of the men surrounding them and thought with sickening clarity of what was to come. Frantically, she twisted in his hold, her sudden movement surprising him. Managing to break free, Verony actually got a few paces away before Curran seized her, dragging her back against his steely length. "By God, you seem determined to provoke me!" he exclaimed. "Have you no sense at all?"

  Verony was not listening. Despite the vast differences in their strength, which made all her efforts useless, she continued to struggle. Only one thing mattered: to get away. She was willing to accept escape in any form, even death. Her cloak slipped open, revealing the delicately rounded body but lightly clad in a worn tunic. When she fled the keep, Verony had been able to take few clothes. What little she did have had long ago been shared with the peasants.

  Nothing remained of the beautiful wardrobe her father had grudgingly provided, not out of generosity but to increase her bridal worth. But she had never needed clothes to emphasize her loveliness. Not even the roughest garment could disguise the ripe fullness of her breasts, her small waist, and the gently rounded hips fashioned for a man's hand.

  Perfectly formed, poised between innocence and sensuality, Verony had no conception of the impact she had on Curran. Nor did she glimpse the rare mingling of desire and gentleness that flickered in his gray-green eyes. She knew only the iron strength of his arms holding her to him, the implacable force of a heavily muscled male body and the growing excitement of his knights who stared at her lustfully.

  Steel flashed in her small woman's hand. Steel, appearing where he had least expected it, darted past Curran's guard to slash at the metal links of his armor. Steel sharpened by months of careful use and wielded in profound desperation found a chink and drove deep, piercing skin and sinew.

  She had her wish, Verony thought an instant later when she was hurled to the ground. The knights, seeing their lord attacked, responded instinctively. Not for them to wonder at her daring or spare even a moment to consider her fragility. Blows fell across her head and shoulders. A hand drove hard into her stomach, driving the air from her. Waves of p
ain washed over her, each greater than the last. She floundered on the edge of awareness before her last strength dissolved. A deep well awaited her, plummeting her far from all but the promise of release.

  CHAPTER 2

  Verony returned to consciousness reluctantly. Every inch of her body ached. A hammer pounded in her head, and her throat was painfully dry. She stirred fitfully, a soft whimper escaping from between her clenched lips.

  "There, there, dear, don't be trying to move," a gentle voice murmured. "Just lie still. You'll be better soon." Lifted, Verony felt the rim of a cup pressed to her mouth. She drank greedily, the cool water tasting like nectar. Only when she was lowered again to the soft pillow did she dare to open her eyes.

  She was lying in a small, sparsely furnished room whose contours were as familiar to her as those of her own face. Her old sleeping chamber. The room she had grown up in, but which she had never imagined seeing again.

  Against one wall, a trestle table still held the battered brass ewer she had kept filled with wild-flowers or dried herbs. A leather- and bronze-studded chest which had once held her clothes stood at the foot of the narrow bed. Glancing down, she recognized even the wool blanket covering her. It was one woven at the keep, dyed crimson with blossoms she herself had collected not two summers before. The bright color complemented those used in the tapestry done by her long-dead mother which hung opposite the bed. In the soft light filtering through the shuttered windows, the wall hanging had the gently muted aspect of an old friend.

  "H-how . . . ?" Verony began, struggling upright. The hand on her shoulder stopped her.

  "No, my lady, you must not try to move. Please. Rest is what you need." The voice grew coaxing. "Be a good girl now. Mayhap you'll be able to get up shortly."

  Verony's eyes widened as she stared from the withered hand on her shoulder to the kindly, well-remembered face just above her. "Hilda! What are you doing here? It can't be ... I must be dreaming. ..."