The last lingering effects of sleep dissipated abruptly, and Lily held her breath. Stephen’s soft voice had come from the direction of the tent door, but it was not Stephen who had awakened her so abruptly.
There was someone standing over her. She could feel him, smell him—a combination of sweat, damp wool, and man.
Radulf.
Beneath the folds of her gown, Lily’s hand closed hard, her nails digging into her palm.
“My lord?” Stephen repeated, his puzzlement evident.
Now all of Lily’s senses were awake and quivering. There was a movement nearby as heavy wool—a cloak? —swirled, brushing against her cheek. The contact caused her to flinch, but Radulf had already turned away, his footsteps retreating.
Very carefully, Lily opened one eye and peered through her lashes.
Her enemy had his back to her, and by the tilt of his head was drinking from a goblet. Stephen stood beside him, waiting until Radulf had finished, and then refilling the goblet from a beaten metal jug. Radulf grunted his thanks.
Lily noted that Radulf had removed his hauberk and helmet, and now wore a green, short-sleeved tunic over a white linen shirt and breeches of a muddy brown. A thick, dark-colored cloak was thrown loosely over one shoulder. The chain mail had taken with it some of his bulk, but he was still enormous, wide of back and shoulders, his body as strongly muscled as any large fighting animal. Powerful. Again Rona’s word seemed to encompass all that was Radulf.
“My lord Radulf,” Stephen spoke. “Will I dress your wounds?”
Radulf paused, the goblet once more lifted. His hair was very dark and cut short over his skull, shorter even than the Norman fashion.
“No,” Radulf answered his squire. “My lady offered to do so,” and he nodded in Lily’s direction.
She tried to make herself smaller on the bed.
Dressing a knight’s wounds was the province of a lady, but Lily was wary of touching that warm skin.
“Did you search Vorgen’s stronghold, lord?”
“Aye. Empty.”
“So there was no battle, my lord?” Stephen sounded disappointed.
Radulf gave a snort of disgust. “No, there was not.” He flexed his shoulder, easing the ache.
“So the she-devil is still free?” Stephen looked uneasy at the idea of anyone defying his lord.
“She is. There would be less bloodshed if she yielded now instead of cooking up more plots, but it matters not. I will have her sooner or later.”
Lily bit her lip, cold fear crawling over her skin.
What if he were to find out that the woman he held safe in his tent was the very woman he sought? Surely he would kill her?
“Women are weak creatures, meant to be confined,” Stephen was saying knowledgeably, more like a swaggering knave than an untried boy. “’Tis not right they should be allowed the freedom to lead men and make war. ’Tis not right they should cause such pandemonium about the land!”
“Calm yourself, boy.”
Radulf was laughing, Lily could tell by his voice. How could Radulf, the bloody warrior, the putter-down of rebellions, be laughing? The men Lily had recently known in her life did not laugh very often, and when they did their humor was coarse and violent. This Radulf was a puzzle, and Lily could no longer keep still. She opened her eyes and sat up.
Stephen, facing her, frowned and glanced quickly at his lord. Radulf turned, the goblet in his hand and dying laughter in his eyes. Lily’s breath slipped out of her open mouth.
The church last night had been dark, the light poor. Although she had had an impression of size and strength, and a sensation of dangerous dark eyes and a sensuous mouth, she had not really seen him. Now Lily saw Radulf as he truly was, and her heart tumbled over and over, like a small water wheel in a raging millpond.
Why did his face stir her so? It was by no means handsome in the usual way, not at all like the blond perfection of Hew. Radulf’s nose had been broken and was a little crooked, and there was a deep scar that ran across one cheekbone and up into his hairline, just missing his left eye. Strong and masculine, it was the face of a man who had lived and seen much. His eyes, dark and deep set, were watchful and older than his years. And his mouth . . . Lily felt weak at the thought of pressing her own against it, of feeling those full lips moving over hers.
Her thoughts careering out of control, Lily’s gaze flew wildly to Radulf’s as she wondered whether he could read her mind. And then, horrified, whether he would need to. Surely women threw themselves at him every moment of every day? Such a man must be a honeypot for all womankind. With a mixture of uneasy fascination and horrified expectation, Lily watched Radulf approach her.
An angry spark flared in eyes that had a moment before been laughing and warm, and there was a hint of cruelty in the curl of his lips. He looked cross—had he discovered the truth already? No, if he knew the truth he would be furious. Lily held her breath as Radulf came to a halt beside the bed.
