Rebellious Love Page 21

  For just a moment, Verony hesitated. Perhaps it would be wiser to remain in London and wait for him to come to her.

  That thought faded almost the instant it arose. It was not in her nature to wait. If she had permanently damaged Curran's love for her, to the extent that he no longer wanted the close, trusting relationship she now craved, it would be better to find out at once.

  To her surprise, riding in the cart turned out to be more comfortable than expected. Lined with straw-filled pallets covered by blankets, it proved a remarkably luxurious conveyance. Accompanying her, Hilda thoroughly enjoyed the indulgence.

  "Mark my words, my lady," the nurse declared, "someday people will ride all over the place in wagons like this. Fitted out with every sort of comfort. . . seats . . . cushions . . . even roofs and walls to keep out the rain."

  Verony laughed, peering into the padded basket where the twins slept peacefully. "How dull that would be. I like to see the world from horseback . . . feel the breeze on my face and the smooth rhythm of a well-trained steed carrying me along."

  "Hmmph. All well and good at your age. But when you get older, when your joints get a bit stiff, you'll remember what I said. Then a bit of luxury like this will look very good indeed."

  "I just hope Catherine and Gawain don't get the wrong idea. Heaven forbid they should always expect to travel in such comfort!"

  Hilda snorted. "Don't talk to me about those two. They're already as stubborn as they come. And such energy! I expect to find them crawling any day now."

  "Give them a few more months." Verony laughed. Modesty prevented her from mentioning that Catherine was already doing remarkably well at holding her head up and waving her chubby arms around. Gawain wasn't far behind, though he seemed willing to let his sister take the lead. After holding her back so long in the womb, it seemed a courtesy she deserved.

  Both babies were fast asleep by the time the party reached the large meadow on the banks of the Thames near Windsor where the meeting between John and his barons would take place.

  Verony's deep-blue eyes widened as she looked around. The meadow still called by its ancient name, Runnymede, was an unlikely scene of gaiety and boisterousness out of keeping with the somber tension of the moment.

  Over ground vivid with ox-eye daisies and purple clover, some fifty tents were pitched. About two dozen of these housed England's greatest nobles,

  including all her barons. Proud banners fluttered from spear points, shields hung before the entrance-ways shone with fearsome emblems, and servants dressed in the colors of each noble house darted back and forth about their many tasks.

  It looked for all the world as though preparations were under way for a tournament. Verony said as much to Lady Emelie, who snorted disparagingly.

  "How else do you think Garrett could get all these louts here and make them hold still for several days? He's promised a great meet once the agreement is signed. Let's just pray that isn't too far off."

  A large section of the meadow was cordoned off for the d'Arcys. With speed born of long practice, large, comfortable tents were quickly erected, fold-~ ing tables and benches moved in along with bedding, and supplies set near the river where it was particularly cool.

  The largest tent, intended for Earl Garrett and his lady, was also where the family would gather for meals. Around it smaller tents were put up for Verony and Curran, Arianna and Mark, and the younger boys.

  When Hilda had at last convinced herself that the ground was not too damp, the breeze ruffling through the opened flap not too brisk and the interior as graciously appointed as was possible, she permitted Verony to enter.

  "Now lie down and rest," she instructed. "The twins will sleep several hours yet, and you could do with a nap."

  "I'm not tired. Do you think there's any chance of a bath?"

  "A bath! Out here in the open with all manner of foul humors mucking up the air? Whatever are you thinking of?"

  Verony grinned mischievously. "I'm not exactly planning to strip in the middle of the meadow, Hilda. I just want warm water and soap so that, in strict privacy of course, I can wash off some of this road dirt clinging to me."

  "Hmmph! Well, perhaps . . ."

  "Please," Verony cajoled. "I promise to rest as soon as I'm clean."

  Won over, Hilda capitulated. She set a servant to heating water and took herself off to help unpack the foodstuffs and start supper.

  Stripping off her dusty tunic and surcoat, Verony bathed leisurely. Drying herself on a soft towel, she rubbed scented oil into her skin before donning a fresh linen chemise. The day was growing wanner, so much so that she chose a thin tunic of lavender wool and left off the heavier surcoat that would usually have gone over it.

  Her hair, protected during the journey by a veil, was quickly brushed clean. Not bothering to braid it, Verony let it hang free in thick waves to her waist. Smells from the open cooking fires made her stomach growl, but she preferred to wait before eating.

  Sitting down on the narrow camp bed, she wondered how much longer it would be before Curran came. Tedious and demanding though the negotiations must be, he would surely take time out to greet her. In the dark recesses of her mind, the thought occurred that Curran might have more than just political intrigue to distract him.

  During the months they were apart, Verony had to fight against the tormenting fear that such a virile, passionate man would not go long without a woman, especially if he believed himself saddled to a wife who disappointed him.

  As that dread rose again to haunt her, she forced it down, telling herself Curran deserved all her trust and faith. But even as she told herself to believe, a remnant of doubt remained. Willing herself to patience, she nestled her head onto a folded blanket and closed her eyes.

  When she woke, it was to find a large, shadowy form looming over the twin's cradle. Starting up, Verony almost cried out. In the shadows of early evening, she saw only that the man was immense and powerful. Not until he turned could she make out his features.

  The sounds of the camp, the laughter and talk of men, the soft singing of women, faded. Curran straightened, his attention shifting abruptly from his children to his wife.

  "I wasn't sure you would come," he murmured.

  Still half dazed by sleep, Verony answered hesitantly. "I thought... it seemed safe enough . . . and you hadn't seen the twins in so long."

  Curran smiled down at the babies. "They've grown so much. Hard to believe it's only been three weeks."

  Verony barely heard him. She was too busy drinking in the sight of his long, lean body simply clad in a short tunic and cloak. His ebony hair was a little longer than usual, brushing the nape of his neck.

  Evidence, she supposed, of the frantic activity of the last few months that had allowed little attention to personal matters.

  His eyes, looking even more like deep, inscrutable pools, were brighter than ever. There was a hard glitter to them that made her shiver, even as she told herself it came from fatigue and irritation at the long-drawn-out talks.

  Despite the rigorous trials he had endured all spring, his body was as powerful and muscular as she remembered. Broad chest gave way to a massive torso tapering to lean hips and long, sinewy legs. He was deeply tanned, his skin gleaming bronze in the fading light, and a dark stubble showed on his chiseled jaw.

  A stab of longing darted through Verony. Biting her lip, she fought down the desire to reach out to him. Too much remained unsettled between them. If she gave in to her yearning to hold and caress him, he might well respond in kind. Glorious though their reunion would undoubtedly be, it would solve nothing.

  Curran seemed to share her thoughts. He backed away slightly, increasing the distance between them as far as the confines of the small tent allowed.

  His tanned fingers fiddled with the stem of a goblet as, his gaze averted from her, he asked: "Are you well?"

  Verony pulled herself upright on the bed, feeling more secure when her feet were firmly on the ground. "Oh, yes. I can hard
ly take a step without your mother or Arianna or Hilda appearing to make

  sure I don't overdo. They've been wonderful about helping to look after the twins. Since their birth, I've done little but sleep and eat."

  "That's as it should be," Curran muttered gruffly, still not looking after her. "When I think . . .". He did not continue. The pain was still too raw.

  Verony's eyes darkened. She took a step forward. "Curran ... I never had a chance to thank you.. . ."

  "Thank me? For what? Getting you pregnant so that you nearly died?" Whirling on her, he forgot himself long enough to grip her arms and draw her close.

  "Oh, Verony," he groaned deep in his throat, "if you hadn't survived ..."

  Staring up at him in mingled wonderment and hope, Verony thought she saw the first faint sign of what she longed for in his eyes. Daring greatly, she raised herself on tiptoe so that her lips brushed his. "But I didn't. I'm here and alive . . . and I've missed you so much ..."

  Her words trailed off, lost in the power of Curran's kiss. He claimed her mouth with fierce tenderness, delving deeply to taste all her hidden sweetness. Verony responded uninhibitedly. Forgetting her resolve that they must talk first, she gave herself without restraint. All the pent-up longing of months threatened to burst from her as she embraced him ardently.

  Curran's self-control, so long maintained, shattered. His arms closed around her like a vise, drawing her against the full, hard length of his aroused body. His hand, insistent but tender, grasped the back of her head, tangling in the silken curls as he deepened the kiss even further.

  Without her even being aware of it, he loosened the ties of her tunic and eased it from her along with the chemise. When her ivory shoulders were bare, he rained kisses along them, down into shadowed hollow between her breasts.

  Stroking the ripe curve of her hips and buttocks passionately, his ardent mouth nuzzled aside the cloth still clinging to the tips of her swollen breasts. Large hands came up to grasp them gently as his tongue darted out to soothe one aching nipple and then the other.

  A low moan tore from Verony. Arching her back, she pressed even closer to him. All hesitation dissolving, her hands moved over him, savoring the long-denied touch of his burnished muscles, the broad sweep of his powerful back, the long, tantalizing line of his steely thighs.

  "C-Curran . . ." she breathed brokenly, some tiny part of her fevered mind remembering she had meant to talk. No words would come. Nor did he allow her to try again. Sliding her garments from her, Curran carried his wife to the bed.

  He set her down gently before stepping away just long enough to strip off his own clothes. When he joined her again, Verony welcomed him joyously. Whatever she had wanted to say, she decided in the last moments before reason whirled away into the red mist of passion, it could wait.

  She doubted that Curran would be able to do the same. His engorged manhood, pressing against her, made her quiver with mingled delight and trepidation. Some tiny remnant of fear caused her to press her silken thighs together, only to have them lovingly but firmly parted by Curran's coaxing touch.

  "V-Verony . . ." he groaned, "I've waited so long ... let me . . ."

  Beyond denying him anything, Verony lay back. Savoring each beautiful inch of her, Curran kissed and stroked and tasted until they were both on the verge of consuming ecstasy. Even then he delayed, restraining her efforts to draw her to him. With gentle insistence, his tongue found her most sensitive point, quickly sending her spiraling over the edge of fulfillment and beyond.

  Her moans of pleasure were smothered by his mouth as he moved to complete their union. On the verge of penetrating her velvety depths, Curran hesitated. Sounds outside the tent pierced even the haze of his ardent need. Swamped by desire almost painfully intense, he tried desperately to ignore what he heard. But a sudden shout and the crunch of fists meeting bone compelled his attention.

  Groaning, he swung his long legs off the cot. Lost in the glory of his touch, Verony could not bear such withdrawal. Her small hands gripped him determinedly as soft sighs of protest rippled from her. Shamelessly, she stroked the taut peaks of her breasts across his furried chest as her skillful fingers caressed the aching seat of his desire.

  All thought of the desperate need to keep peace in the camp at least until an agreement could be signed fled from Curran. He reached for her hungrily,

  stretching his full length on her as they tumbled back across the bed.

  "L-love me, Curran . . . don't stop . . . p-please ..."

  He was about to oblige, most willingly, when the wall of the tent fell in.

  CHAPTER 17

  "Excuse me while I go kill someone," Curran rasped. Rising from the bed, he tossed a blanket over the supine form of his wife to shield her nakedness. Unconcerned about his own nudity, he stalked through the gapping wall of the tent to confront two squabbling barons.

  "Montgomery! Debourgard! What the hell are you doing?"

  The unmistakable ring of authority reached even those accustomed to commanding in their own right. Sweat-streaked and dirt-smeared, the assailants paused. They had started drinking early in the day, when boredom over the wait easily overcame their too brief patience. Their bellies full of ale and raw wine, their heads whirling with a mist of alcoholic fumes, neither could really remember what had

  sparked the present confrontation. But neither were they willing to stand down.

  Only the fearsome sight of an enraged Curran d'Arcy made them pause. The befuddled barons were both big men, but Curran was larger by far. Naked and unarmed, he still appeared more than a match. And the fiery gleam in his eyes made it clear he was relishing the thought of pounding some sense into both their inebriated brains.

  A quick glance at his tent told them just why Curran was so angry. Verony blushed fiercely as she dragged the blanket more tightly around herself. While the men were so distracted, Curran moved swiftly. Grasping each by the collar, he lifted them off the ground and shook them hard. "This little show would delight John! He'd like nothing better than for us to be at each other's throats just when we're about to win." Another shake. "If you can't control your tempers, I'll be glad to do it for you. A soak head-down in the horse troughs should help."

  The threat penetrated even the combatants' sodden daze. Twisting wildly, they scrambled to get free. "Wasn't nothing . . . ! Just a little spat . . . could happen to anyone. ... No reason t'get mad. . . . We'll just get out of your way. . . ."

  With a disgusted snort, Curran released them. As swiftly as their wobbly legs could manage', they weaved their way among the tents and out of sight.

  Shaking his head, Curran turned back to the downed wall. He was about to lift it into place when a drawled challenge stopped him.

  "Who says the d'Arcys don't rule here?" demanded a tall, slender young man Verony recognized as a second or third son of one of the lesser houses. Dressed in full armor, the features beneath his battle helmet were spare and sullen. When he spoke, his narrow mouth curled back acrimoniously. "The Earl Garret and his whelps hide behind a mask of unity, yet still dare to order the very manner of our lives. Interfere with their pleasures"—his small eyes fell on Verony lewdly—"and they'll squash you like a flea."

  Curran took a deep breath, fighting hard for self-control. With the king due in camp at any time, accord among the barons was vital. No matter how sorely tempers and patience might be tried, it was not a time for fighting. If John even sensed dissension among his rebel lords, he would seize the opportunity to undo everything the d'Arcys and others had labored for these many months.

  Hoping for a quick, peaceful end to the challenge, Curran said softly: "You sound drunk, too, Fairleigh. Why don't you go sleep it off?"

  "Drunk? I only wish I was." Straightening to his full, if unimpressive height, the young man sneered. "Maybe a belly full of wine is what it takes to make you lot tolerable. But as for me, I can hardly bear the stench of so many d'Arcys gathered in one place. It would take a full wind indeed to clear the air around
here."

  Onlookers gathered to enjoy Curran's handling of the drunken barons drew back slightly. It took no great wisdom to see this was a far different sort of confrontation. Sir Fairleigh was known to be arrogant and impetuous. He had an overweening love

  for himself and a deep hatred of anyone he thought more privileged. And he was just stupid enough to try something truly dangerous.

  Curran was of the same opinion. He still hoped to convince the offensive youth to take himself off. But when Fairleigh abruptly drew his shortsword, that hope faded. Without armor or weapons, Curran was at a severe disadvantage. Verony watched in horror as his challenger advanced.

  The crowd, always eager to witness a fight and having no great love for the d'Arcys, edged forward. No one made a move to help Curran as Fairleigh's sword thrust through the air only inches from his abdomen. But for his lightning reflexes honed through years of training and battle, he would have been severly wounded right then.

  Circling warily, Curran managed to keep some distance between them. He rapidly sized up Fairleigh's weaknesses, of which there were many, and decided how best to disarm him. Flexing long, powerful legs, Curran was about to put an end to it when a rope trailing from one of the tents caught his foot and he went down heavily.

  Verony screamed. Vicious dullard though he might be, Fairleigh knew a priceless opportunity when he saw it. In an instant, he was on Curran, his sword lifted high to slash through bone and sinew.

  The blow never came. Leaping from the bed, Verony seized a mallet used to pound in the tent stakes and fairly flew across the small distance separating her from the struggling men. Without thought for her own safety, she ran directly at them.

  In that terror-twisted instant, she felt just as she had inside the small room high in the tower, listening to John brag about torturing Curran. Only this time the horror was even more immediate and the danger real.

  Wearing full armor, Fairleigh was a difficult target. But in that breathless moment, as his sword hung suspended between the cobalt sky and Curran's exposed body, Verony spied a chance. Summoning all her strength, she rammed the hammer down against the back of his neck exposed between the helmet and the surcoat.