Heather Graham (4 page)

Fool! You’ve a near perfect woman you’re about to wed! he reminded himself. A woman who loved him, who came to him, who filled his nights.

And yet he could feel this dark, fierce desire for a girl he had barely touched. A desire unlike anything he had known in all his life. A desire created by the copper flame of her hair, by the emerald blaze of her eyes. By the weight of her within his arms, her breasts heaving with the fever of her fury.

He set his jaw hard, determined he didn’t feel a thing for her.

“Oh, you overgrown oaf!” she cried, trying very hard to regain her balance, and snapping him out of the curious lethargy that had seized him.

His fingers tightened around her arms. His eyes sizzled. “Oh, dear Lord, yes, girl, I am so very sorry! Of course, it’s not really my fault if you’re incapable of standing. But let me help you now!” And with an apparent attempt to right her himself, he flipped her over, so that she then lay backside down in the water, drenched, her plumed hat drifting off in the water, her dark hair coming loose and sodden all around her.

“How dare you!” she raged, striking out at him. But he was quick and avoided her blow, catching her wrists and offering her a wicked, warning smile.

“Alas! I slipped! But you must be very wary of men who cannot sit their horses. You never know where else they may falter. I am so sorry—”

Her eyes could surely burn an emerald fire. She was undaunted, unbeaten, the type who would fight to the bitter end. “You most certainly are not sorry, you wretched knave! You did that on purpose!”

“I most certainly did not! We oafs have a terribly difficult time with grace of movement, that is all. But if you’ll let me try again—”

“No!” Her eyes rippled with a luster that seemed to reflect from the water. She gritted her teeth then, staring up at him. “Get off me! I can see that you are quite fine—other than that you suffer from some mental lack that surely has been with you since birth! If you’ll just remove your oafish, graceless weight from me—”

He still held her wrists. Her fingers were wound into fists right about them, her lime-colored gloves now deep green since they were so soaked.

“Certainly,” he said politely. He stood, dragging her along with him. For a moment again, he was startled to realize that he was holding her very close. Then he released her, determined that perhaps he had taken things just a bit too far, and that he would retrieve her hat in amends.

But the second that he released her, she seemed to turn into a tigress. Her fists pounded against his chest with remarkable strength. He was so taken off guard and so unbalanced in the mud of the stream bed that he started to go toppling over backward again—which was, of course, exactly what she had intended.

“Why, you little vixen!” he cried, and before he lost his footing completely, he reached for her again. She shrieked, trying to escape him, but his fingers wound around her wrists and they plummeted down into the water, this time into the deeper section of the stream, where they both went spiraling down. Pierce came up quickly, finding a boot hold against a rock on the bottom, and for a moment he felt a tremor in his heart, for he had lost his hold upon her, and it occurred to him that perhaps she couldn’t swim. He plunged under the water again, catching hold of her skirts. For all his pains, he felt the fevered slam of her fists against him. They staggered to the surface together once again.

“My God, what are you trying to do, drown me this time? And all because you cannot control your horse!” she cried.

“Drown you! I was trying to save your fool neck!”

“Save me! Sir, I ride better, and I’m damned certain I must swim better—”

“And swear better?” he inquired.

She was furious, her cheeks flushed brilliantly with her anger, her eyes even greener because of it. “Oh,” she cried out again, then disappeared beneath the surface. She rose, and the next thing he knew, she was flinging mud from the stream bottom at him.

“Why, I’ll be damned!” he cried, amazed and absurdly determined that he was not going to lose a fight—no matter how infantile—with this girl. “You wretched little brat!” He wasn’t sure what he intended to do, but he ducked back beneath the surface himself, quickly washing away the mud, then took a step toward her. She let out a startled scream and swirled the best and most swiftly she could within the confines of her waterlogged clothing to head for the bank and dry land. His arm came sweeping around her waist, detaining her. Her fingers worked furiously upon his. “You let me go, instantly!” she warned.

“Oh! Throw mud at me, and demand your freedom as if you had behaved with the least bit of dignity? Alas! Mud throwing is quite childish, and you, little girl, are going to pay as a child would—”

“Touch me, and you’ll be sorry!”

“I’m touching you this minute, and I’ll pay no price at all, I’ll warrant!”

But he had paid a price. A huge price. The second her eyes had touched his, the minute his fingers had found her flesh.

“You wait, you idiot knave!” she cried. “You wait until the king hears of this! You’ll be boiled in oil, hanged from a gibbet—”

“Me! Vixen, someone should wash your sweet mouth out with lye!” he assured her, moving swiftly through the water and dragging her right along. “You wait, my little witch, until the king hears of this—”

He broke off, startled by the deep, rich tones of masculine laughter. He stood still, the exquisite, muddied urchin still held beneath the grip of his arm.

The king didn’t need to hear about anything. He had come upon them, accompanied by the Lady Anne.

“The king, my friends, is with you!” Charles announced. “And we are ever so eager to hear all that has happened, aren’t we, Lady Anne?”

C
HARLES, ATTIRED IN CRIMSON
breeches with an even more deeply shaded brocade waistcoat over a ruffled white linen shirt, was indeed with them. Mounted on one of his royal horses, he stared down at them with high-arched, dark brows. There was a great deal of laughter about his flashing brown eyes, and had it only been the king to stumble upon him, Pierce might have been richly amused himself.

However, the Lady Anne was by the king’s side, elegant and lovely, her golden blond beauty enhanced by the very light purple of her velvet riding gown. She was staring from him to the creature in his arms with a great deal of shock and reproach. He opened his mouth, wondering how he could explain to Anne that the girl was an irascible schoolchild who deserved such treatment.

“This is intriguing indeed,” Charles said to Anne, almost as if the two of them were still alone. “I do wonder if they’ve ever been properly introduced. Let’s see, where do I start? My dear little flower, Rose! You must be just a shade kinder and cease referring to this fellow as an oaf. He is one of my oldest and dearest friends, a peer of the realm, Lord Pierce DeForte, His Grace, Duke of Werthingshire. I’m quite sorry. I’m afraid that I cannot boil him in oil and hang him from a gibbet as I might still have need of his sword arm. And, Pierce, my good fellow, this lovely creature is Mistress Rose Woodbine, my guest at court. Though she has a guardian in England, I do feel quite responsible for her welfare, and my wife, most certainly, is equally concerned.” He smiled. “Her father, you see, is also a friend …”

Woodbine! So this was Rose Woodbine! He might have guessed; he should have known.

He smiled, his teeth grating, then bowed deeply. “Miss Woodbine.”

“My Lord DeForte!” It sounded as if she were choking on the name as she said it.

Charles cleared his throat. “Pierce, you might consider setting the girl down!”

She gazed up at him with wicked satisfaction. He smiled in return, unmindful of Anne for a moment. “Certainly!” he assured Charles. He released Rose. Naturally she went sinking toward the bottom once again.

“Pierce!” Anne cried. He strode from the water, looking innocently at her. He could hear Rose sputtering behind him. He smiled at Anne.

“Pierce, perhaps she can’t swim, perhaps—”

“Oh, she can swim,” Pierce assured Anne. He had reached Anne’s mount and leaned against the horse’s high flanks, staring up at her.

He could just hear the girl hiss as her head broke the surface of the water. “Nobleman, indeed! Noble bastard!”

He raised his voice. “She can both ride and swim much better than I, and I do assure you, m’lady, Charles’s darling little colonial desires no help from me.”

“Miss Woodbine!” Anne called out. “Perhaps he struck his head. His manners are not usually so lacking!”

He was certain that Miss Woodbine was not concerned about his manners. The king had dismounted from his horse, and most solicitously gone to help the girl from the water.

The scheming little social climber was assuredly much more interested in such attention from a king than a duke, he was certain. The fact that she was staring at him with gemstone eyes that seemed to cut pleased him deeply at the moment.

“His manners, m’lady,” Rose replied, “seem not lacking, but completely nonexistent!”

“’Tis the association with colonials, I am afraid,” Pierce said regretfully to Anne. Her eyes widened. She’d never seen him be purposely cruel, yet then again, Mistress Rose Woodbine didn’t seem to mind in the least being a colonial.

“Pierce!” Anne exclaimed, her huge blue eyes upon him. “What is this? Battle with a pretty little girl! Will you please behave? You’ll have everyone talking!”

He gritted his teeth, somewhat ashamed. She was right. But she just didn’t realize how irritating this particular pretty child could be.

He looked back to Rose. Her hair was free and wet now, streaming down her back in rich cascades. It fell far below her waist. Anne was wrong, he thought. She was not a pretty child. She was an elegant and exceptionally beautiful woman, very wild and arrogant and headstrong, and she might well be the type to cause an unimaginable amount of trouble. Even soaking wet and totally disheveled, she remained strikingly lovely.

She’d certainly caught the king in her spell.

Pierce smiled suddenly, watching Anne. She was quite right. He had sunk to an absurd level, exchanging insults with this pretty child. “Well, my love,” he said huskily to Anne, “I do believe I shall have to forgo the hunt. Your Grace!” he called to Charles. “If you’ll forgive me, I shall repair to the castle for a bath.”

“Perhaps we should all travel back,” the king said, “since I surmise my lovely Rose must also bathe and change.”

“How lovely,” Pierce said flatly, still staring up at Anne with a half smile. “Let’s do all ride back together!”

Anne offered him a stern frown. She was fond of amusement, but she also demanded good manners.

Rose smiled to the king, then left his side to reach her mare. With no assist, she leapt atop the horse. “I shall see myself back to court, thank you, Your Majesty, Lady Anne.”

“Oh, no, no, no! We must show this dear little colonial every courtesy!” Pierce insisted. A whistle brought Beowulf trotting over to him. He leapt up quickly on his horse, wondering what demons she had stirred within him. “Let’s ride together.”

Rose’s mare pranced as if she knew her mistress’s wild mood. “My dear Lord DeForte! Any more courtesy on your part and I might well freeze to death! I am quite capable on my own, you need not worry—”

“Perhaps I was not quite so worried about you, Mistress Woodbine, as I was about other unwary travelers who might stray upon your path!”

He kneed Beowulf, and the stallion started off at a brisk trot. Rose’s mare leapt forward, following. The king and Anne came behind.

They left the shade of the trees and rode into open fields. Rose gave her mare free rein. In seconds she was racing along.

Pierce was not to be outdone. Not at this. Beowulf deserved the chance to redeem them both. He gave the stallion free rein then, and in seconds he and Rose were engaged in a wild race over emerald green hills.

The king, trotting along in their wake, arched a brow to Lady Anne. She shrugged in return, shaking her head.

“What is he doing?” Charles demanded.

Watching them, Anne shook her head. This was very unlike Pierce. She bit her lip suddenly. They should have married already. They enjoyed each other so thoroughly.

But they were both equally fond of their freedom. He hadn’t been her first lover, and she most certainly hadn’t been his. They were both rich, powerful, and experienced—and so they had taken their time. Maybe too much time. A shiver suddenly seized her. She was anxious for the night.

Anxious to hold him again.

“You two need to marry,” the king commented, as if reading her mind. They were both his loyal supporters. The marriage would be good for him. He meant to be the most tolerant monarch ever—even if, in his heart, he agreed with his father about the divine right of kings. But his father lay long dead, and the pain of all that had been would never die. No matter what his true thoughts were, Charles II would always rule with Parliament, and tolerantly.

It was helpful, however, to have rich and powerful friends. Anne’s wealth would make Pierce an even more valuable supporter.

“You’re right, we should marry!” Anne murmured. She was struck by how abominably he was behaving toward the Woodbine girl, so why she should feel a little twinge of jealousy, she didn’t know.

Yes, she did. They were like a pair of lion cubs, roaring, spitting. But there seemed to be something in the air around them, too. Something that caused the sun to grow warm, the air to shimmer. They might be the most bitter enemies …

But there was something like lightning there, too.

Had Charles seen it? No, he was busy musing over Pierce.

“He is a good man,” Charles said. “One I call friend with tremendous security!” But then he smiled, shaking his head again. “Amazing, isn’t it? There rides the man who often charmed safe harbor for us from the heads of Europe! The man who fought would-be assassins at my back, one of the finest swordsmen in all of Europe. He’s determined to outrun her!”

“Oh, and he will,” Anne assured him.

Charles’s eyes sparkled. He loved racing, and wagering. “A gold piece says she takes him!”