Rebellious Love Page 6

  Verony's heart tightened. How did he manage to look so contrite and so handsome at the same time? With his raven hair mussed, his color grayish and his eyes looking as though an army had marched over them, he still sent shivers of desire radiating through her. He was a magnificent man, she thought wistfully. Strong, tender, noble, all she could ever have hoped for in a husband. And incredibly he wanted to marry her, despite her total lack of property and position. But only because he believed he had dishonored her. Biting her lip, Verony fought down the treacherous impulse to let him go on believing that until they could be wed. The temptation to reverse her desperate circumstances was almost overwhelming. Only a deeply rooted sense of honor as powerful as Curran's own stopped her.

  Lowering her eyes, she murmured: "My lord, you mistake the situation. Your talk of marriage is unnecessary."

  When he stared at her blankly, not understanding, Verony was forced to continue. "Nothing happened," she whispered, not quite managing to keep a note of regret from her voice.

  Curran's bloodshot gaze widened. He shifted uneasily in the bed. "Nothing happened?"

  Verony nodded, still not meeting his eyes.

  "But I remember . . ." he began, breaking off as he tried to puzzle out her meaning. The truth came to him with a jolt, turning his face bright red. He remembered the ripe, sensual body pressed to his, the firm, uptilted breasts whose nipples blossomed in his mouth, the long, slender legs glowing like alabaster. He remembered his own intense excitement, the girl's hesitant but unmistakable response, the fierce sense of joy that had filled him as he moved to possess her. Then nothing.

  Acute embarrassment surged through him, banishing the relief he should have felt. A few minutes before, when he was berating himself for a contemptible dolt, Curran would not have imagined he could feel worse. But he had not then discovered that remorse over ravaging a helpless woman was equaled by shame over having tried and failed. Impaled on this two-pronged horn of mortification, he hung his head.

  Verony took advantage of his preoccupation by leaving the room. She sensed Curran needed some time alone, and she wanted to be back in her own chamber before the household became fully active. But her hope of regaining her own quarters unseen was not to be realized. A small gasp escaped her as she encountered the shape of a knight leaning against one wall of the corridor.

  "Good morning, my lady," Sir Lyle said pleasantly, as though it was the most normal thing in the world to find her thus.

  Taking refuge in bad temper, Verony snapped: "You are ever surprising me, Sir Lyle. Do you spend all your time skulking about?"

  "No," he informed her good-naturedly.

  His gentle smile made her regret her waspishness. Contritely Verony said: "I'm sorry. I'm just a little . . . confused this morning. ... If you will excuse me, I was just going to . . ."

  "To dress?" Sir Lyle interrupted. His tone was still pleasant, but with an undercurrent of sharpness that left no doubt he understood the meaning of her presence in the corridor at such an early hour and in such inappropriate garb.

  Verony flushed, but still managed to hold her head high. "Lord Curran," she said calmly, "could use your attentions better than I, my lord. He is not well."

  Sir Lyle snorted. "I should think not, given the quantity of wine that boy swallowed. And him not used to it. He's never been a drinking man, and somehow I don't think he'll become one now. But he will hurt for a while. Do him good," he concluded flatly.

  "I doubt Lord Curran would agree with you," Verony said, barely suppressing a grin. She went to move past the old knight, only to hesitate. Impulsively she asked: "Have you no concern at all about what happened last night, Sir Lyle?"

  "None, my lady," he declared succinctly. His expression softened as he explained: "You see, I've known Lord Curran all his life. And I've no doubt at all that drunk or sober he's just not capable of harming a woman. So that being the case, I figure whatever happened is between the two of you." A laugh crinkled his eyes. "You'll work it out, I'm sure. To all our benefit. But perhaps I had better see to the lad, just in case you're impatient for his company."

  Bowing gracefully, Sir Lyle took himself off, leaving an astonished Verony to wonder if she had mistaken the glint of approval in his gaze.

  By midmorning she had bathed, dressed and placated Hilda, who had woken panic-stricken to find her missing. With that done, she was at a loss as to how to occupy herself.

  Curran had not yet put in an appearance, leading to much jocular ribbing on the part of his men. Their ribald talk ceased when Verony entered the hall.

  Nodding at her respectfully, they hastened off about their tasks.

  A rueful smile touched her lips as she realized the events of the previous night were hardly a secret. Yet no one seemed inclined to condemn her for what everyone must presume had happened. On the contrary. She was now considered to be under Curran's protection and was treated with the utmost regard.

  Certainly the servants were well disposed to accept her initially hesitant and then more assured guidance. Without even being aware that she did so, Verony was slipping back into the daily routine she had followed before her father's death. Only this time supervising the household was a pleasure rather than a struggle.

  The steward, trained by Curran's mother, seemed relieved to once again have a lady in charge. He cordially persuaded Verony to allow him to escort her around the manor so that she could evaluate the few changes that had been made and decide what else needed to be done. By the time Curran emerged from his chamber, Verony had set several women to weaving on the new loom and had helped set up the tanning press, after first determining that he had already approved such action. She looked forward to telling him all that had been accomplished, but was prevented from doing so by his foul mood.

  Though he joined his men for supper, a meal Verony shared with them, Curran neither spoke nor looked at her. He sat morosely at the head of the table, picking at his food, and refused the offer of wine with a snarl. No sooner were the dishes re-

  moved than he went back upstairs, leaving his men to glance at each other uneasily.

  Verony did not linger after him. Hurt by what she regarded as his coldness, she told herself he could be as childish as he liked. She didn't care. Going off to bed, she tossed and turned for a while. But the upheavals of the last few days quickly caught up with her and she slept soundly through the night, enjoying dreams she would later blush to remember.

  CHAPTER 5

  "The north field was sown in barley last year, my lord," the village elder explained. "So it lies fallow. The south field is seeded for wheat, may it please your lordship."

  Curran nodded absently. He bent to pick up a clod of soil, pressing it between his fingers. Dark and moist, it crumbled easily. Satisfied, he nodded at the man who watched him so anxiously. "The land is well cared for."

  "Aye, lord, we have done our best. All manure is gathered for fertilizer and we bring marl from the south to spread twice a year. That was the Lady Verony's doing. She understood why it was good for the crops and arranged the shipments."

  "The Lady Verony," Curran noted drily, "must have kept very busy."

  "Aye, sir. From the earliest age, she worked day in and day out, dawn to dusk. Always cheerful and wise, always helping us. There isn't a man, woman or child on this land who doesn't hold her in the greatest esteem. May the good Lord bless and watch over her."

  Though the words were said courteously enough, Curran did not miss the hint of warning. He would hardly be able to, considering that he had been receiving essentially the same message all day. In the hours he spent walking and riding over his land, he was informed over and over that the Lady Verony had made this improvement and that refinement . . . had arranged for these tools and those supplies . . . had advised on ways to improve the yield of crops, the fertility of livestock, even the health of the peasants themselves.

  "Got us to whitewash the cottages, she did," the elder explained, pointing at the neat array of huts clustered ju
st beyond the fields. "Couldn't see the sense of it myself. But when it was done, and everything swept out and kept tidy, there were less vermin. After a while, it began to seem that fewer people got sick. When she convinced us to carry the waste further from the houses and wash the clothes more often, there was less fever. 'Course, one thing might not have anything to do with the other."

  His tone made it clear he believed otherwise. The Lady Verony was sage and trustworthy. Because of her, there was less illness and fewer people died. Children who would never have seen their first year lived to the joy of their parents. Daring her father's rage, she had worked hard to improve the life of her people, and they loved her for it.

  The lady, Curran thought grimly, inspired strong feelings. Not the least of which was admiration. Her management of the estate would have merited great respect under any circumstances. But considering that she had at every step to combat her father's callousness and brutality, her achievements were nothing less than remarkable. He had expected to find barren fields, exhausted land and sullen serfs who would mulishly oppose him at every turn. Instead, he found the promise of good crops and hard-working people who showed themselves quite willing to cooperate with him, given the single proviso that he not harm their beloved mistress.

  And all that was due to the lady he could not bring himself to face. All the last week, since that debacle in his bedchamber, he had studiously avoided her. Yet not for an instant did he manage to think of anything else. Beautiful, seductive, tantalizing Verony haunted him day and night. In the keep, he was eternally conscious of her graceful movements, the scent of her perfume, her soft laughter as she moved among the servants, competently overseeing every task.

  Outside in the fields, where he finally sought refuge, her name was on all lips. He could no more force her from his mind than he could stop his body's incessant yearning for her. Having recovered from bis embarrassing failure to compromise her, he was increasingly desperate to repair his botched proposal.

  His men sensibly kept away from him. His temper was strained to breaking and he was liable to lash out at the slightest provocation. Only Sir Lyle maintained a patient watch over him, unobtrusively seeing to it that he ate and slept regularly. In this he was aided by Verony, who quietly instructed the kitchens to prepare Curran's favorite dishes, added fresh clothes to his wardrobe and did a multitude of other small things for his comfort.

  Between the old knight and the young girl a ready friendship had sprung up. They understood each other perfectly without any need for words, and they worked together smoothly out of love for Curran. His manor might have been the happiest of places, but for his own aching frustration.

  Perhaps he could go fight somewhere, Curran thought hopefully, only to immediately reject that idea. He could hardly flee his own lands because an exquisite woman held him in thrall. But neither could he do what his body demanded and take her to his bed. In all honor, she deserved better.

  The village elder coughed discreetly, recalling his lord's attention to matters more immediately at hand. "The children, sir, are waiting to welcome you."

  A cluster of boys and girls, briefly freed from their duties in the fields and workshops, stood before him. Under the proud eyes of their parents, they chorused thanks for the meat Curran and his men were supplying to the village. Recognizing that Verony's claim of great hunger among his people was not exaggerated, he. had set himself to remedy that condition as quickly as possible. Dozens of deer, boars and smaller game fell before their lances, some designated for the manor kitchens but most shared among the serfs.

  Already a bloom of health could be seen on faces that had been pallid. Everyone moved with greater energy, the children in particular. They found the constant chores no hindrance to their eager games, their happy shrieks penetrating even Curran's gloom.

  He smiled at them indulgently, encouraging the little girl chosen to offer the villagers' gift. In a tiny voice that gained strength as she realized the lordly giant would not harm her, she said: '"Twas carved by my father, sir, from wood my brothers found. My mother did the polishing, but I helped. ..." Small hands thrust the cloth-wrapped package at him.

  Curran opened it carefully. He was prepared to graciously accept whatever might be inside, but the first sight of the villagers' offering took his breath away. The statue of a woman glowed warmly in the sunlight. So precise was the work that the beautiful features, the set of the head, even the carriage of the slender, proud body were all unmistakable. The peasant artist had perfectly captured the face and form of Lady Verony.

  "Do you like it?" the little girl whispered, daring greatly.

  "Y-yes," Curran managed to get out. Unconsciously he turned the statue in his hands, almost as though he was caressing the woman herself. An idea began to form in the back of his mind,

  "I hope you don't object, my lord," the village elder said cautiously. He thought he understood what lay behind the young lord's disquiet, and he wasn't absolutely sure they had acted wisely. Suppose he took offense at what might be regarded as presumption?

  "No ... I don't object. ..." Curran said slowly, mulling over the thought that had just come to him. A tentative smile creased his handsome features. "I don't mind at all." Turning to the artist, he said sincerely: "You are highly talented. Even at court I have not seen work to equal this. My thanks."

  A great sigh of relief rippled through the crowd. Freed of their last fear regarding this man, the people broke into smiles and laughter. Curran, who suddenly saw the solution to his dilemma, readily joined in.

  By dusk he was back at the keep and searching for Verony. He found her in the kitchens, seeing to final preparations for the evening meal. She looked up, surprised to see the man who was constantly in her thoughts but rarely in her sight. "My lord . . ."

  "Come away from there," he said, seizing her hand and leading her toward the door. "The servants will finish up."

  Delighted by his sudden desire for her company, Verony had no wish to argue. But she did regret his timing. Trust Curran to find her tired and disheveled, in wrinkled clothes with a smear of flour on her nose. Using her free hand to unobtrusively tidy herself, Verony trailed after him.

  At this time of day, there were few places in the keep where they could be alone. But Curran managed nonetheless. His guess that the chapel would be empty proved correct. Guiding her inside, he shut the door firmly behind them.

  For a moment he did no more than stare at her, letting his eyes drink in the loveliness of red-gold hair, sparkling indigo eyes, perfect skin and a figure whose beauty was in no way disguised by her forest-green tunic and amber mantle.

  Under his scrutiny, Verony flushed. She had no idea what he wanted, but she was determined to make the most of this opportunity. Empty, frustrated nights had convinced her she would be a fool to do otherwise. The memory of his passionate caresses and her own unbridled response gave her courage.

  Taking a step toward him, she said softly, "I have missed you, my lord."

  Curran's smile faded. His expression was serious, his hands gentle as he drew her to him. "And I have missed you, my lady. For too long."

  His dark head blotted out the light as he bent to kiss her. Their lips touched tentatively, barely brushing. Verony trembled as a fire ignited within her, threatening to rage out of control. Curran's breath grew labored, so intent was he on restraining the full force of his desire. Determinedly, he reminded himself he was bent on persuasion rather than seduction. There would be time enough for that when he had her safely wed.

  Drawing back, he muttered thickly: "You intoxicate me, Verony, far more potently than any wine."

  She took a deep breath to still her own raging need before grinning up at him mischievously. "With less destructive effect, I hope."

  "With quite the opposite effect," he assured her. The truth of these words struck him forcibly. Her nearness and that single fleeting kiss were enough to arouse him achingly. Thinking it wise to put some distance between them, he led her to a bench ag
ainst one wall.

  Verony sank onto it gratefully. Her knees shook, and her legs threatened to give way. Even as she marveled at the impact he had on her, she wondered how quickly they could contrive to assuage the yearning she was now sure pounded through them both. Nothing in her training had prepared her to tell a man she wished to be his mistress.

  Curran did not help her. He was too busy grappling with his own thoughts. Knowing he had to strike just the right note with her robbed him of the natural eloquence he showed in every other situation. As dumbstruck as a young boy, he faced her warily.

  "Curran ..."

  "Verony ..."

  They broke off, laughing self-consciously. Curran was willing enough to let her go first, anything to gain himself more time. But Verony deferred to him. Sitting with hands clasped tightly in her lap, eyes lowered, she waited for him to speak.

  Confronted with what was easily the greatest challenge of his life, far beyond any battle or political intrigue, Curran drew on his deepest reserves of courage. His face pale but composed, he said the words he had never thought to utter with only the barest tremor. "Verony, I want you to marry me."

  Her head shot up, indigo eyes darkening in disbelief. Not that again! Vexed that he should return to such an impossible issue just when she thought they were making some progress, Verony snapped: "If you have dragged me from the kitchens to be the butt of a tasteless joke, I will take my leave. Your humor is wanting."

  Curran drew back slightly, an angry flush darkening his cheeks. "This is hardly a joke," he said stiffly. "I am not in the habit of asking women to marry me."