Page 77 of Bold Angel
Relief flooded through him, though he worked hard to deny it. “Then whatdoyou want?”
Caryn looked at him and did not glance away. “My freedom. ’Tis all I have wanted from the day of our first meeting.”
Ral clamped his jaw. “You are my wife. What freedom you have is by my grant of will. ’Tis my right to command you, just as it is my right to bed you.”
But instead of forcing her to accept him as he had intended, he found himself turning away, stalking from the room without looking back, slamming the heavy oaken door.
Caryn stared after him and suddenly her knees felt weak. He had not forced her, but he might have—if he had known how hard she worked to hide the passion he stirred inside her. It had taken every ounce of her will, every particle of her determination to ignore the fire that roared through her body. That she had succeeded amazed her. It was a measure of the Saxon pride that also ran through her veins.
She looked once more toward the door. He was gone from her now and part of her felt elated by the victory she had won.
Another secret part wished he had torn off her clothes and carried her over to his big high bed. That he had kissed her until her legs would no longer support her, that he had molded her breasts in his hands and thrust himself inside her. She wished he had spoken soft words in French, that he had held her and caressed her and driven her wild with the feel of his muscular body.
But most of all she wished that he loved her.
The way that she still loved him.
***
Ral slept fitfully again that night, imagining Caryn in the arms of the handsome blond knight Geoffrey, seeing her stricken face the morning she had found him naked in his leman’s bed. When he awoke, he was bathed in sweat, his insides knotted in a cold hard fist.
He cursed softly, frustration like bile in his throat. Grimacing at the stiffness in his muscles, and the throbbing in a place far lower down, he tossed back the covers and climbed from the bed.Caryn. Always it was Caryn.He wanted her with a passion that amazed him and because he did, he refused to give in to his needs and take her.
Instead, he forced his uncertain feelings behind him, forced himself to think of his duties and the day that lay ahead. He dressed as he would for battle, in a short brown tunic and chausses, and pulled on his high soft leather boots. Gathering his sword and shield, he went downstairs. Outside in the bailey, his squire helped him on with his armor and fastened his swordbelt around him, preparing him for a morning of practice with his men.
They were already well underway, armed with sword and shield and wearing their chain mail hauberks. He spotted Odo, speaking to Lambert and Hugh, then noticed the blond knight, Geoffrey, fair and virile and filled with the arrogance of youth.
Ral glanced back toward the high stone walls of the keep, up at the narrow slit of window in what should have been his chamber. Even now, did his wife look down at the knights and men-at-arms in the bailey? Did her eyes seek out the handsome blond knight instead of him? Standing next to Lambert in his padded jerkin and dusty mail, Geoffrey practiced alone, raising his sword then cutting downward in a savage arch, as if he faced a real opponent instead of just his shadow.
Ral smiled with malice and pulled his own heavy sword from its scabbard. He tested the blade with histhumb, saw that his squire had done a good job in honing the edge, then stalked across the yard until he stood before Geoffrey and Odo.
“You’re looking fit this morrow, Geoffrey.”
“’Tis exactly how I feel, my lord.”
“Your sword arm looks strong. Let us see if your practice has helped hone your skill.” Ral pulled on his conical helm and adjusted it till the nasal bar fell into proper position.
Geoffrey smiled. “As you wish, my lord.”
They faced each other squarely, raising their shields and then their swords. Around them the men fell silent, enjoying a chance to rest and intent on watching the fray, though none had doubt of the outcome.
Ral stepped closer, goading the younger man with a word or two, waiting with relish for Geoffrey to strike the first blow. When he did, his blade fell squarely, the heavy metal clanking against his own, sending a tremor up his arm.
Ral barely felt it. Memories of the dream pumped through his veins… images of Geoffrey with Caryn.
He parried three hard blows, his sword ringing loudly, let another several fall, then countered and went on the offensive. Geoffrey feigned right and lunged left, blocked a heavy blow, then parried, avoiding at first the brunt of Ral’s slashing attack. But soon he began to tire.
It didn’t take long to spot the younger man’s weakness. Ral brought his blade down hard on Geoffrey’s left, once, twice, blocked the young knight’s feeble efforts to gain control, and continued his vicious assault till the lad went to his knees. Even then Ral continued, casting a ringing blow with the flat of his sword to the side of Geoffrey’s helm and another to his mail-covered ribs.
“I yield, lord!” Geoffrey called out but it took a moment more for the words to pierce the haze of his temper. His hands were shaking when he brought his swordback under control, his blood pumping fiercely. As the young knight stood up, he noticed Geoffrey’s helm was so badly bent it would take hammer and anvil to straighten it enough to remove it.
Ral felt a twinge of guilt.
He had never seen Geoffrey act aught but with respect to Caryn. It was hardly the young knight’s fault his wife found the blond man so attractive.
It was hardly Geoffrey’s fault, yet the rage he felt at the knowledge bubbled up inside him, searing his insides and refusing to leave him in peace.
***
