The Lily and the Sword (Medieval 1)

“’Tis true ’tis sometimes hard to tell one from the other,” Radulf agreed softly. More humor? Lily had no time to ponder Radulf’s strange manner, for his voice curtly demanded, “Do you know who I am, lady?”

She nodded. Beneath her cloak, the ring popped off her thumb, and she nearly dropped it.

“Then you know I am the king’s man. If you are indeed who you say you are, you are safe with me.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Could he believe her so easily? Lily gripped the ring tightly in her slippery palm as Radulf leaned over her, his dark eyes holding a twin image of the boy’s fiery torch. Steadying her fingers, Lily slipped the hawk ring neatly through the tear in the lining of her cloak.

None too soon. Radulf was holding out his hand, palm up, and with the sensation of placing her head in a wolf’s jaws, Lily gave him her shaking fingers. His skin was very warm, and callused where he gripped his sword. As he raised her to her feet, his gaze ran over her face, taking note of her features as if he were making an inventory, she thought in frightened anger. Lily was well aware of what he would see; her face was no mystery to her.

Widely set gray eyes framed by thick, dark lashes and above them arching dark brows. An oval face with high cheekbones, a straight nose perhaps a little long for true beauty, and a stubborn chin. Skin like pearl, growing flushed now from his intense perusal. Once a bard had come to her father’s manor and sung songs in praise of her beauty and of how he wished to melt her heart. Hers was a cold beauty, and strangers assumed her heart was equally cold.

Lily only wished it were so. In truth her heart was soft and tender, and she had had to guard it all the more diligently to prevent it shattering. The defense came naturally now; she had lost the ability to be open.

Carefully, as if he were afraid of startling her, Radulf reached to slip the hood of her wool cloak from her hair. The pale silk, neatly plaited when she had left Rona’s, was now a wild mass of escaping curls. The sudden flash of heat in Radulf’s dark eyes told Lily more than any words what he was feeling.

“The moon has come down from the sky to light our way,” he murmured. “What say you to that, Stephen?”

The boy laughed nervously.

Radulf lifted a strand of her hair and allowed it to slide through his brown, battle-scarred fingers. Lily’s breath caught in her throat, and warmth crept into her cheeks. The sight of her hair against his skin was disturbing in a way she didn’t understand. This was Radulf, she reminded herself, the man who would hunt her down and destroy her.

Slowly, Radulf’s hand cupped her face, his roughened fingers sliding over her skin as though he sought to imprint it in his memory. A tingle ran through her from the point of his contact, down her throat, spreading across her breasts and arrowing into her belly. He made a wordless sound, but she did not look at him, too caught up in her own sensations. It was as if she were a pale candle and he were the brand that had set her alight. And now she was burning. Slowly, languorously burning.

“You have not told me your name,” he reminded her, his deep voice gentle, and tilted her head back so that she was looking far into his eyes. He wanted to kiss her—Lily read it in those dark depths. And she wanted him to. Light-headed, Lily found her gaze shifting again to that sensuous mouth. Watched it curve up ever so slightly at the corners.

“Your name?” he whispered.

“My name is Lily.” Instantly, she cursed her wandering wits. Then she remembered that to the Normans, Vorgen’s wife was known as Wilfreda. It was only her father who had called her Lily—my cool, beautiful lily.

“Lily,” he repeated, warming the name on his tongue. “Aye, it suits your cool beauty.”

His thumb smoothed the jut of her chin and, as Lily’s breath sighed softly between her parted lips, boldly brushed her full lower lip. She trembled, sliding deeper into a situation of which she had little experience. Suddenly his mouth was so close that Lily could feel his warm breath, smell the male scent of him.

She knew then that this was not fantasy, this was not a dream. He really did mean to kiss her, right there, in Grimswade church. And if he kissed her, Lily feared she would melt into a puddle at his feet, would be his to command. An even more dangerous situation than the one she was now in.

Lily jumped away, like a startled mare.

The boy grunted a curse as her elbow connected with his midriff, and then muttered an apology to his lord. Lily felt her cheeks warming again as betraying color flooded her pale skin. Never in her life had she behaved in such a wanton manner! And never in your life have you wanted to.

Radulf had stepped back. He was smiling, but all humor had vanished from his face. It was as if Lily’s fear of his kiss had broken whatever strange, hot spell they had been under, reminding him of who and what he was. This time when Radulf leaned toward her, his voice was soft with menace rather than desire.

“Yes, I am to be feared, lady. You do well to remember it. You tell me you are loyal to King William, but why should I believe you? For all I know, your loyalty may lie with Vorgen or his she-devil of a wife.”

Lily shook her head firmly, trying to still the savage beating of her heart. She-devil! He dared call her so, when all she had ever cared for was the welfare of her people! And yet how could Radulf or King William know her truly, when Vorgen had ruled her lands and made war in her name?

“My lord,” she said, “truthfully, I am no ‘she-devil.’”

But the eyes that had gazed into hers so warmly were cold and unfeeling; the mouth that had promised her such pleasure had become a thin, hard line. The change in him was frightening, and yet it was also a relief. This was how she had always imagined Radulf, not that other man with his melting dark eyes and delectable mouth. She could hate this man.

Radulf had turned away from her, speaking to the boy, Stephen, as if Lily no longer existed. “Take the lady to my tent and guard her there. When I return from Vorgen’s keep I will question her again.”

Lily gasped at his high-handedness. She had expected to face some suspicion as to the truth of her identity, but she had still hoped Radulf would give her the benefit of the doubt and send her on her way. She should have realized a man like Radulf would be overcautious. How else had one as hated as he lived so long?

He was watching her again, absently rubbing his shoulder where the chain mail had been cut. Lily saw that blood the color of rust had seeped through his under tunic.

Her heart gave a hard, solitary thump.