He had made love to her as thoroughly as any man could, and yet he had been aware of her needs, too. Lily remembered, with a rich coloring of her cheeks, how he had brought her to her pleasure time and time again before he took his own.
Would Vorgen have caressed her, lifted her to such heights, made her forget her very reason for being? Assuming, of course, he had been capable of it! Lily shuddered at the idea of swapping Radulf for Vorgen. Vorgen was as different from Radulf as rain from sun. And Hew—what of Hew? Once, long ago, Hew had begged her to allow him to visit her in the night, and Lily had been young enough and flattered enough to agree.
Luckily, her father had guessed what was afoot and prevented any harm from coming to his precious daughter.
At the time, Lily had raged and wept with a mixture of shame and regret. She had been spoiled and headstrong—the only child, and her mother dead. Now she was glad her father had stopped Hew that night.
So Radulf is a fine lover.
Lily’s inner voice invaded her mind, scattering her thoughts.
Will his kisses keep you safe, if he discovers the truth?
No, of course they would not! Radulf cared nothing for her—how could he? He didn’t even know her. He thought her a widowed Norman lady, grateful for his protection.
I do not think you will hurt me.
Lily had meant what she said in the tingling warmth of Radulf’s embrace, but now . . . Fright caught like fingers at her throat, quickening her breath.
Lily had had her night of love, and she knew she would never forget it. But now, she must go.
She did not think of where she would go. The dread of Radulf’s discovery was driving her, and that had little to do with common sense.
Cautiously, fearful of waking him, Lily crept out of Radulf’s bed. Shivering from the cold and her somber thoughts, she found her clothing and dressed hurriedly. The jeweled dagger lay on the ground, and she strapped it around her thigh.
Breathlessly she caught up her cloak and, with one eye on Radulf, felt for the ring in its lining. The rounded shape had lodged into one corner. Lily slipped her hand into the tear to remove it, and hesitated. Where else would she hide it? It was safe enough where it was; best to leave it for now.
Moving noiselessly across the tent, Lily noticed that, as well as some cold meats, Stephen had brought water for washing, a knob of sweet-scented soap, and a drying cloth. Hastily she availed herself of all these things, then wavered over the wild tangle of her hair. At some point during the night Radulf had freed the silver strands from her braid, running his hands through them as if through gleaming water.
Impatiently Lily cast the memory aside. There was no time now to tidy her hair. She thrust it down inside her cloak and pulled up the hood. Yet even as she set her mind to the task ahead, she turned once more to face the bed.
Radulf slept on, his long brown legs and strongly muscled torso framed by the dark furs, his face turned from her into the shadows. Lily took a sharp breath, swamped by regret for what might have been. In another time, another place, she and Radulf could have met and loved.
Lifting her chin, her back stiffening with determination, Lily turned and made her way on soft feet to the tent opening. There were several slices of dark bread on a platter on the table, and she picked one up as she passed, nibbling at the coarse crust.
Lily peeped outside into the steely morning.
She saw the camp, hazy with smoke. Soldiers were setting about their daily tasks. A woman laughed, a horse stamped, voices were raised in mild dispute. And two guards in chain mail stood just beyond the entrance to Radulf’s tent.
Lily jumped back like someone bitten.
Of course there were guards—and whether they were there to keep her in or others out made little difference.
She was a prisoner.
There would be no escape this morning.
A flutter of relief somewhere in the region of her heart caught her by surprise. By God, she must stop this madness!
“Is he up, Stephen?” came a voice from outside.
Lily peeped out again, more cautiously this time. A thickset man of medium height was walking toward the tent, his gleaming chain mail and the decorated hilt of his sword proclaiming him a knight as surely as his confident manner. The squire hurried forth to meet him, looking rather like an eager, half-grown puppy.
As Lily watched, Stephen gave Radulf’s tent a nervous glance. “No, he’s not awake yet, Lord Henry. Think you I should wake him? He said we would search to the south this morning, and his men are already waiting. Will he be angry if I wake him?”
The knight laughed, tipping back a mop of short chestnut curls. He was almost as handsome as Hew. “Angrier if you do not! Come, boy, let me do the deed for you. I am used to his scowls.”
Lily stepped back swiftly, the piece of bread dangling from her fingers.
