had.
Lilliane picked up the hem of her kirtle to dry her face, heedless of the renewed commotion among the doves. Her thoughts tumbled disjointedly around her lost dreams, her crushed idealism, and the bitter truth of reality. Then it seemed reality was truly remorseless for a large hand caught hers, and she looked up into Sir Corbett’s glowering face.
She gasped, she was so startled. But he did not allow her time to collect her wits. “So, ’tis William of Dearne you pine for. And to think I gave you credit for being a pure maiden.”
“How dare you!” she cried in true shock. “You have no right to accuse me of such things—”
“If not in deed, then most assuredly in thought,” he cut in. “Do you deny your tears?” With his other hand he rubbed his thumb across her cheek, erasing the trail of one last tear. It might have been an intimate gesture, but the cruelty of his suggestion made it cold and insulting.
She turned her face stiffly away from his touch. “He is married.”
“Precisely,” he answered in a dark tone.
She was silenced by his implication, appalled that he could think such a thing of her. Then her frozen wits were restored and with a swift yank she freed herself of his grip. “You have the mind of a low-born … a low-born …” She struggled for an insult bad enough for him.
“A low-born bastard?” he supplied with a cold chuckle. “I assure you, I am neither low born nor a bastard. You will have to accept my word, however, for my parents cannot verify it. They are both dead, a crime I lay at the doorstep of Orrick.”
“My father did not kill your father!” Lilliane cried with much vehemence. “And he most certainly had nothing to do with your moth—”
“My mother died of a broken heart,” Sir Corbett said with a growl. “She pined for her husband, preferring death to his absence from her.”
His angry interruption gave her pause, and when she retorted it was in a more subdued voice. “You will not listen to the truth. You seek only revenge, and now you would even marry to get that revenge.”
Sir Corbett did not reply at once, only shrugging as if in mute acceptance of her words. But his eyes were sharp upon her, their gray as hard and opaque as slate. “My reasons for this marriage are many. But they are of no matter to you.”
“Of no matter to me!” Lilliane cried. “Is my life of no matter to me then? Is my entire future of no matter? How casually you disrupt my life as if I were of no account! As if I were no more than some poor beast of burden!” Her anger was in full flight as she stood in the dim rookery. Her eyes flashed golden fire as she faced him with her chin arrogantly raised and her clenched fists on her hips.
“’Tis your father’s will.” He shrugged again then let his eyes slide slowly over her. Lilliane felt an ominous shiver as if he had truly touched her with his close scrutiny, but she determinedly ignored it. When he met her eyes once more he smiled, but with no real warmth. “As for being treated as a beast of burden, I remind you that your primary duty as my wife shall be to bear my heir. Small enough burden that shall be, and as I see it, one you are well suited to.”
“And what of the burden of your lustful attention?” she cried recklessly. “I despise you and do not want you for my husband!”
In a moment he had her in his iron grasp and forced her to meet his icy glare. “It does not matter to me that you abhor my touch or my attention. You will be my wife. You will share my bed. You will bear my children. If you cannot stomach my scarred face or my battle-marked body, close your eyes. But do not think to shirk your wifely duty!”
She could feel the heat of his anger down the whole length of her. Only inches separated them, and yet he might have held her close against him so vivid was the feeling. Then without warning he captured her lips in a hard and demanding kiss.
It was of no use for her to struggle: he held
Lilliane picked up the hem of her kirtle to dry her face, heedless of the renewed commotion among the doves. Her thoughts tumbled disjointedly around her lost dreams, her crushed idealism, and the bitter truth of reality. Then it seemed reality was truly remorseless for a large hand caught hers, and she looked up into Sir Corbett’s glowering face.
She gasped, she was so startled. But he did not allow her time to collect her wits. “So, ’tis William of Dearne you pine for. And to think I gave you credit for being a pure maiden.”
“How dare you!” she cried in true shock. “You have no right to accuse me of such things—”
“If not in deed, then most assuredly in thought,” he cut in. “Do you deny your tears?” With his other hand he rubbed his thumb across her cheek, erasing the trail of one last tear. It might have been an intimate gesture, but the cruelty of his suggestion made it cold and insulting.
She turned her face stiffly away from his touch. “He is married.”
“Precisely,” he answered in a dark tone.
She was silenced by his implication, appalled that he could think such a thing of her. Then her frozen wits were restored and with a swift yank she freed herself of his grip. “You have the mind of a low-born … a low-born …” She struggled for an insult bad enough for him.
“A low-born bastard?” he supplied with a cold chuckle. “I assure you, I am neither low born nor a bastard. You will have to accept my word, however, for my parents cannot verify it. They are both dead, a crime I lay at the doorstep of Orrick.”
“My father did not kill your father!” Lilliane cried with much vehemence. “And he most certainly had nothing to do with your moth—”
“My mother died of a broken heart,” Sir Corbett said with a growl. “She pined for her husband, preferring death to his absence from her.”
His angry interruption gave her pause, and when she retorted it was in a more subdued voice. “You will not listen to the truth. You seek only revenge, and now you would even marry to get that revenge.”
Sir Corbett did not reply at once, only shrugging as if in mute acceptance of her words. But his eyes were sharp upon her, their gray as hard and opaque as slate. “My reasons for this marriage are many. But they are of no matter to you.”
“Of no matter to me!” Lilliane cried. “Is my life of no matter to me then? Is my entire future of no matter? How casually you disrupt my life as if I were of no account! As if I were no more than some poor beast of burden!” Her anger was in full flight as she stood in the dim rookery. Her eyes flashed golden fire as she faced him with her chin arrogantly raised and her clenched fists on her hips.
“’Tis your father’s will.” He shrugged again then let his eyes slide slowly over her. Lilliane felt an ominous shiver as if he had truly touched her with his close scrutiny, but she determinedly ignored it. When he met her eyes once more he smiled, but with no real warmth. “As for being treated as a beast of burden, I remind you that your primary duty as my wife shall be to bear my heir. Small enough burden that shall be, and as I see it, one you are well suited to.”
“And what of the burden of your lustful attention?” she cried recklessly. “I despise you and do not want you for my husband!”
In a moment he had her in his iron grasp and forced her to meet his icy glare. “It does not matter to me that you abhor my touch or my attention. You will be my wife. You will share my bed. You will bear my children. If you cannot stomach my scarred face or my battle-marked body, close your eyes. But do not think to shirk your wifely duty!”
She could feel the heat of his anger down the whole length of her. Only inches separated them, and yet he might have held her close against him so vivid was the feeling. Then without warning he captured her lips in a hard and demanding kiss.
It was of no use for her to struggle: he held
Similar Books
