Besieged And Betrothed. Jenni Fletcher
hand and moved haltingly towards him. To her horror, she saw that he’d already removed both his surcoat and chainmail, leaving only his undershirt, hose and leather boots.
‘They were wet.’ He jerked his head towards the discarded pile of clothing.
‘Your chainmail was wet?’ Her voice seemed to have become alarmingly high-pitched.
‘You’d be surprised at how heavy it gets in the rain. You should get out of those damp clothes, too.’
She stiffened instinctively before remembering to turn her look of affront into a smile. After all, she was supposed to be flirting with him. This was supposed to be her idea. It was ridiculous to be offended, no matter how insolent he was.
‘There’s no rush.’ She tried her best to sound playful. ‘You wouldn’t want me to surrender too easily, would you?’
His gaze flickered down to her legs before travelling leisurely up again. ‘Forgive me, Lady Juliana, but I was under the impression that you already had.’
She caught her breath, every part of her body tingling where his gaze touched her. He was right about her clothes being wet. She hadn’t thought about it before, but they were moulded so closely to her skin that he could surely see every curve of her body. Not that she had many of those, but she might as well have been naked for all the protection her tunic was giving her. Her mouth turned dry at the thought. Now that his warrior’s face was finally showing some sign of emotion she wished it wasn’t. She wished he was a statue again. He was looking at her in a way that suggested he wanted more, far more, than just a drink.
‘Some wine?’ She held the laced cup out towards him. ‘I offered you some refreshment.’
‘I don’t drink wine.’
His voice hardened abruptly, as if she’d just insulted him instead of having offered a drink, and she froze in panic. Had he seen through her deception already, then? Was that why he’d locked the door? She felt her hands break out in a cold sweat and her scalp tighten with dread. If he didn’t drink, then she’d have no chance of overpowering him. What would happen then? What would he do to her?
She licked her lips to loosen them, pretending not to notice the frosty shift in his demeanour. ‘It’s from one of my father’s best casks, for special occasions only. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.’
‘Taste has nothing to do with it. I don’t drink anything stronger than ale.’ Black brows drew together in a fierce line and then suddenly softened again. ‘But perhaps just this once. Since we’re celebrating.’
He reached for the cup with one hand and caught her fingers in the other, lifting them gently to his lips as her heart seemed to stop and then accelerate again wildly. Alone in a locked room, somehow the gesture felt more intimate than if he’d actually pulled her into his arms. His lips felt surprisingly soft and warm, brushing her knuckles with just the lightest of pressures, and yet somehow making the whole of her insides start to quiver.
It was fear, she reminded herself, fear making her body react in such a new and alarming fashion, as if she were losing control of her senses. In the flickering firelight, his eyes looked more purple than grey, shimmering amethysts rather than hard granite stones, pinning her to the spot with such compelling intensity that she hardly dared breathe, let alone blink...
On the other hand, the still rational part of her brain argued, at least while he was looking at her he wasn’t looking at the wine, wouldn’t notice any residue left inside. She was halfway to achieving her aim. He was holding the cup in his hand. Now she just had to make him drink.
She raised her own cup in salute and took a sip, stifling a cry of relief when he did the same. He drained half the liquid in one draught, his other hand tightening over hers as he did so, as if he were daring her to pull away. She didn’t move, torn between conflicting emotions of elation and fear. After all, she wasn’t out of danger yet. She still had to distract him, had to give the poppy a chance to work whilst she kept his mind off other activities. From the look on his face, it wasn’t going to be easy.
‘You look worried, my lady.’ His voice sounded even deeper than usual, sending a strangely visceral thrill all through her body.
‘Do I?’
A black eyebrow quirked upwards and she felt a sudden, faint tingle of suspicion. There was something vaguely mocking about the gesture, something that suggested he knew exactly what effect he was having on her, as if he were toying with her even. But that didn’t make sense. He’d followed her into the castle because she’d as good as offered herself to him. He thought she was a loose woman, a wanton, so why would he make fun of her? Unless that was what men did, made fun of their conquests? Though what did it matter as long as he was drinking?
‘There’s no need to worry.’ His thumb brushed lightly over her knuckles. ‘The Empress gave her word that no one would be harmed if you surrendered. You’re perfectly safe, I promise you.’
Safe? She tried not to look too incredulous. Nothing about him felt safe. The way his fingers were caressing her skin felt distinctly unsafe!
‘Then I thank you...’ she grasped quickly at the idea his words gave her ‘...though I did wonder why the Empress is offering terms again? Why offer to spare us after what I did?’
‘After you swore an oath of allegiance to her enemy, you mean?’
‘Yes.’ She gritted her teeth at the accusation. ‘I thought that she’d want to punish me. Isn’t she angry?’
‘Given your father’s loyalty to her cause, she was mostly surprised. But she has fond memories of him and would prefer to spare you for his sake.’ His expression shifted slightly. ‘As would I.’
‘You?’ She gaped in surprise. ‘You knew my father?’
‘I met him on a few occasions at the Empress’s court, yes. We even fought side by side at the Battle of Lincoln. He was a good man. Loyal.’
She didn’t answer at first, struck with a familiar pang of guilt. If Lothar was trying to rebuke her, to remind her of just how badly she’d betrayed her father’s ideals, then he needn’t have bothered. She didn’t need reminding. She lived with the consequences of her disloyalty every day.
‘If he knew what I’d done, he’d be furious.’ She answered the accusation before it came.
‘Then why did you do it?’
‘Why did I swear allegiance to the man who’d just killed my father, you mean?’
The eyebrow quirked even higher. ‘Yes.’
She drew a deep, faltering breath. This wasn’t what she wanted to talk about, not at all. She didn’t want to talk about her father, or politics, or any of the reasons why she’d betrayed the Empress. Her feelings on the subject were still too painful, too raw. She’d made her choice when she’d made her bargain with Stephen, and there was no going back on any of it now. But at least they were talking. Lothar was still holding one of her hands, though he wasn’t stroking the knuckles any more. He seemed intent upon what she was saying instead, as if he were genuinely interested in what her motivation had been. Strangely enough she didn’t feel frightened any longer. He wasn’t a statue or an enemy any more. He was a man who’d fought alongside her father, someone she could talk to about him, even if she probably shouldn’t... But perhaps she could tell Lothar part of the truth. She wanted to, she realised, wanted to talk about her father to someone who’d known him. If she could make a man like Lothar understand what she’d done, then perhaps it wouldn’t seem so bad any more. Perhaps if he understood, then he might even forgive her—and if he could, then perhaps she could start to forgive herself, too...
Juliana straightened her shoulders, trying to look Lothar square in the eye, though with his immense height she had to reach up on her tiptoes.