My Rebellious Heart (43 page)

Gryffen shook his head. The bite in his tone was gone as he added, "And I would remind you, she had no one to cling to when she lost her father With death visited upon her once again, 'tis not right that she should be alone."

Thorne made no effort to hide his bitterness. "She weeps for the man she loves."

"No," ne refuted quietly. "She weeps for the man she once loved." When Thorne said nothing, Gryffen laid a hand on his shoulder. "I think you're wrong, boy. I think she'll not push you away, foT there is no grief greater than one borne alone. And you are not half the man I believe you to be if you allow her to suffer when you have the power to ease it."

They were strange, those gruffly spoken words, considering al that had passed between the two of

them. Yet al at once it was neither in his mind nor his heart to question them. Thorne turned and fol owed in Shana's path without a word.

With one hand he eased the door open. A dreary light from the window revealed her lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling, those beautiful silver eyes shimmering with tears. Even as he watched, she rol ed to her side and brought her knees to her chest, huddling into a smal tight bal . He crossed to the bed and touched her shoulder. She stiffened at his touch but did not leap away, as he had feared. Praying as he had never prayed before, he turned her toward him. His tanned fingers very dark against the delicate line of her jaw, he whispered her name.

Her eyes cleaved to his. The pad of his thumb was rough where it grazed her cheek, but the gesture spoke of infinite tenderness. Something came undone inside her.

She gave a dry, heartbreaking sob that was like a blade tearing deep in his gut, reaching for him blindly. Thorne needed no further invitation. His arms engulfed her, bringing her shaking body dose. He felt the great jagged breaths she drew in an effort not to cry. His heart wrenched. His arms tightened. He held her close while shudders racked her slender form and whispered against her temple, he knew not what. He'd been so convinced he could lend no comfort, but he was wrong. Soon she melted against him as if he were al she craved.

Thorne knew from the deep rise and fall of her breasts that she had fallen into a light sleep.

For a long time he simply held her, for the moment was steeped with an odd contentment.

Reluctantly he arose and bathed, then went below to fetch food for them.

She was awake when he returned. He frowned when she partook rather sparingly of the trencher

he'd heaped for her but did not chide her. Her mood disturbed him, for throughout the meal she was quiet, almost subdued. Afterwards she moved to stand at the window, her gaze fixed in silent concentration upon the far-distant hills of Wales. The profile she presented was outwardly calm, yet Thorne was not deceived. While her tears had deserted her eyes, they had not deserted her heart.

"It wil not be long, wil it?"

There was no need for pretense between them. He knew instinctively she spoke of the war.

"I suspect it wil be over in a matter of days," he toid her quietly. "There are reports Llywelyn ral ies for support but none is to be found. Edward's fleet mounts an offensive on the western coast. We have intensified the overland attack from Langley and al along the eastern border."

A ringing silence ensued. Shana did not look at him. Thorne's expression turned brooding, his eyes bleak. It was almost as if he could see her receding from him, slipping away into a realm where he could not reach her.

"I can be no less than honest with you, Shana. 'Twould be cruel to let you nurture hope when none exists." He did not mean to be unkind, and he prayed she knew it.

She turned slightly Her eyes grazed his. "I—I know." The words were but a wisp of sound.

This time it was Thorne who remained silent. Al at once he stood abruptly, as if he had come to a sudden decision. His gaze trapped hers.

"Come here, Shana." Oh, he knew he sounded every inch the master in command. But inside he found he was holding his breath, praying she'd not refuse. If she did, pride would dictate he compel her compliance. And he did not want that ...

Time hung suspended. For a never-ending moment, Shana did not move—or speak. Seeing Thorne again, so tal and commanding, his stance

so arrogant and proud, she felt a painful torrent of emotion sweep through her being. She loved him, but she hated the power he wielded over her emotions; yet her feet began to move of their own volition.

Her steps slowed as she neared him. Their eyes collided for what was surely the longest moment of her life.

He reached for her, his hands warm and large upon her waist. His gaze lowered to her mouth. "I would know, wife, have you missed me as sorely as I have missed you?"

Her heart lurched like a sotted knight. He had missed her! Her hands crept up to rest on his chest. Her eyes clung to his.

"Aye," she whispered helplessly, and then again "Aye!"

She flushed, for his gaze had fallen to her thickened waist She was nearing her fifth month, and her clothing did not entirely hide the slight swel of her belly. But the curious tenderness which lurked in those night-dark eyes made her heart turn over.

"I've worried about you by day," he confided huskily, "and longed for you by night." He searched her face anxiously. "Have you been wel ?"

She nodded. "The sickness that plagued me has passed. Adelaide says if I continue to eat as I do, this babe will be born a ful -grown knight."

Thorne caught his breath at the soft curve of her smile. But alas, it wavered all too quickly.

Her eyes glazed over with sudden, startling tears.

He gave an impatient exclamation. "No, Shana, do not turn from me! Is it Barns thai distresses you so? Did you—love him so much then?" He girded himself for her answer.

" 'Tis not that," she said in a strangled voice that cut him in two. "Thorne, I am ... afraid."

"Afraid! Of what?" The shield around his heart vanished. He bent and lifted her, bearing her to the bed. There he cradled her within the protective binding of his arms.

He trailed a hand the length of her spine and back, the motion soothingly monotonous. His breath grazed her temple, stirring the goiden strands scattered there. 'Tel me," he whispered.

His hold on her was immeasurably gentle, yet she faltered, unable to meet his gaze. Instead she focused on the springy dark hairs spil ing over the neckline of his tunic and began unsteadily.

"You say the war wil end soon. But I fear the bitterness wil never end. And I—1 tremble to think what chaos this babe wil be born into." Her hand slid protectively to her middle. "Wil he be despised by the English because his mother is Welsh? Hated by the Welsh because his father is English? And will he consider himself English—or Welsh? I—I do not want him to be torn—as I am torn. I do not want him to hate either England or Wales or ... to be hated in return. Yet I greatly fear it can never be otherwise."

A heady tenderness stole through him. His chest swel ed. For so long now she had hidden so much from him—she was so strong and defiant, staunch and determined not to reveal weakness to anyone, least of all him! But now she had roused a fiercely protective instinct that made him long to shelter her from any and al harm.

His fingers slid beneath her hand, splaying possessively on the mound of her bel y.

"English ... Welsh ... Shana, it does not matter! Would you love this child less because a part of him is English? And wil I love him less because of his Welsh heritage?" He chided her gently. "Nay, for I want this child, and I do not think of him as English or Welsh . -. but ours!

This child, whether

son or daughter, is a part of you—a part of me— and that is cause for joy, not pain."

She savored the dark velvet of his voice. With a breathless little cry, she wound her arms against his neck. She clung to the moment and to him, for she had known precious little happiness these days. Oh, but this was a moment to cherish!—a moment she would hoard deep in her soul for al eternity.

A finger beneath her chin, he tipped her face to his. A tremor shook her as she stared into the dark intensity of his features. He was so strong, so handsome, and she was his wife—his wife!—and he was neither angry nor indifferent that she was to bear his child, but glad ... and suddenly she could ask for no more. She faltered no longer, wordlessly offering soft, tremulous lips. His kiss was long and infinitely sweet, but time spent apart had sharpened the ravening pangs of hunger within them. It took naught but a single kiss to kindle the sparks of passion into a raging storm.

Never had he made love to her with such lingering tenderness, sliding his palms over her breasts, skimming her nipples, grown dark and achingly sensitive with her pregnancy. He kissed the tightness of her belly where their child lay curled deep in her womb. Fever burned inside her, a sizzling streak of fire.

At last he rose above her, his shoulders muscled and sleek and bronzed. Her fingers dug into his back, a wordless plea conveying the depth of her need. They were both shaking when at last he came inside her, hard and driving and fil ing her so that she moaned in sheer, sweet bliss. She cried out his name; the sound echoed deep in his throat as he claimed her lips, even as he claimed her body and soul ...

1 love you! she thought helplessly. Oh, Thorne, I love you so! With every thrust, with every heart-

beat, those words seared her heart and soul, clamoring to be free. But then the sun and the moon and the heavens themselves exploded inside her, a white-hot release that left her content and replete but utterly exhausted. Limp and suddenly wearied beyond measure, she closed her eyes and smiled drowsily when Thorne's arm locked tight about her waist, angling her into the hardness of his form. Her head tucked beneath his chin, one slender hand curled amidst the dark forest on his chest, her mind spun adrift.

Tomorrow, she decided fuzzily. Tomorrow, as soon as they awoke, she would tel him how very much she loved him.

But in the morning he was gone.

Nor did he return that night.

Shana slept not a wink for the fear that gripped her soul. The next afternoon a lone horseman gal oped through the gates. He leaped from his mount and threw his helm high in the air. Shana was sitting in her chamber when the blare of trumpets roused her from her fretful musings. With a frown she arose, glancing out the window in time to see a swarm of servants from the hal streaming into the bailey. She opened the window and leaned out as a great hue and cry arose— shouts of triumph, a cry of exultation. One soared aloft with the wind, one that stood out above all

others:

"Llywelyn is dead ... Long live the king!.., Long live King Edward!"

The war was over. Llywelyn was dead.

Even as relief weakened her knees, a shadow slipped over her like a shroud. Her blood moved sluggishly through her veins. She closed her ears to the dm in the bailey, and lay down upon the bed. Hot, scalding tears seared her heart.

They were the only tears she shed.

The days that followed were among the most difficult of her life.

In her heart, Shana had long ago resigned herself to England's victory. She was vastly relieved that the rebel ion had ended. The paralyzing fear that Thorne might never return to her was gone, and that was something she could never regret. But there was a price to be paid. She later learned that the Welsh forces were overpowered near Orewain Bridge, not far from Langley. Llywelyn had been caught by a smal band of English soldiers and run through with a spear. Dafydd had not yet been captured.

She felt hollow and beaten ... as Wales had been beaten.

Yet her emotions were a hopeless tangle. She did not hate Thorne—dear God, how could she? She loved him more with every beat of her hearl. But she hated what he had done— what England had done!

Thorne was not exactly cold, but he was remote and distant, his mind preoccupied, for he was as busy as ever tending to Edward's affairs. She overheard him with Geoffrey one night.

King Edward sought to tighten his stranglehold upon Wales even further—he planned to build even more of his monstrous castles along the borders to hold the Welsh in check.

Her spirit wilted. England had claimed victory, but she felt she had lost everything! Merwen was in ruins. Her heart felt as if it had been crushed by a mighty hand. Her father was dead, and so was Barris. For a time she had nursed a meager hope that Barris might have escaped, for Thorne had said the troops did not search for a body. Yet it had been naught but a foolish hope indeed, for no man could survive fire!

Even Thorne was lost to her. Oh, he had whispered how very much she pleased him in those

shared, shattering moments of wanton rapture. But never had he professed to love her! And neither love nor desire had played a part in their marriage. Indeed, she reflected with wrenching despair, he had married her for one reason and one reason only ...

Because the king commanded it.

A sennight after Llywelyn's defeat, Thorne came to her where she sal in their chamber one afternoon, her sewing idle in her hands.

"Princess, we nave received word King Edward plans to visit us on the morrow."

Slowly she raised her head to meet his regard. "Your news precedes you, milord." The servants who brought in her bath that morning were al agog with the news that King Edward would formally declare Thorne the new Earl of Langley. "Shal I have chambers prepared for the king and his party?" She struggled to control her contempt.

She did not succeed. She knew it by the way his face shut down from all expression. "There is no need. He wil be here but a short time, for he is on his way to Rhuddlan." He paused, his gaze raking over her. "I ask only that you dress in your finest for the ceremony."