Varden's Lady Page 15

  Varden smiled wryly. “What are you doing in there?"

  "I'm just thinking, that's all. It's quiet in here, or at least it was before you started beating on the door.” After a moment, her eye disappeared from view as she retreated to the back of the armoire behind a shroud of gowns. “You should try it. Very therapeutic. Come in if you want to."

  How absurd. Grown men did not sit in armoires. He rubbed his chin, feeling the scrap of his whiskers against his callused palm. Of course, they were alone. Who was going to know?

  Shaking his head at his own foolishness, Varden climbed into the wardrobe backwards and pulled his long legs in behind him. Feeling both silly and awkward, he tried to get comfortable in a crowded space that was too little for him by half. He practically sat on top of Claire, and she had to help him fold his legs before he stuck his knee in her nose. A half-shelf directly above his head kept his neck bent at an unnatural angle and a shoe under his right buttock ensured he didn't get too comfortable. The gauzy fabric of a chemise tickled his nose. He batted it out of his face but, no matter how he moved, the sleeve stubbornly followed.

  He sighed again. “Now what?"

  "Now we sit here quietly and enjoy the peace and solitude."

  "Peace and solitude,” Varden echoed. In the back of the closet, the skirts blocked out most of the light, leaving them surrounded by a soothing near darkness. “I've almost forgotten what those are."

  "Don't worry,” Claire said. “With me, you're guaranteed to get plenty of both. When you get to know me better, you'll see how boring I really am."

  Covering his eyes with his hand, Varden didn't know whether he should laugh or cry. Laughter won.

  The corner of her mouth turned wryly upward. “I said, when you get to know me better."

  They shared a companionable silence for another minute more, then Claire asked. “Where did you go tonight?"

  He looked at her. Her head was bowed and she was picking at her fingernails. “To take care of my responsibilities."

  "You smell like smoke. It must not have been very fun for you."

  "Not this time."

  "Are you really going to send Grete away?"

  "Your only friend?” Though he tried to keep the sarcasm from his tone, he wasn't very successful at it.

  "Well, she almost laughed at one of my jokes this morning. Just you wait. Pretty soon we'll have a civil conversation."

  "Fine. I will give her one more chance. But the next time you leave this room without her, she will be on her way back to London that very night."

  "Deal,” Claire agreed. She picked at her fingers again.

  Varden took her hand in his and kissed the back, softening his tone as he added, “The gaol is off limits. There is no reason for you to go there."

  "You heard about that?"

  "First thing when I rode in. I wasn't even off my horse before Heston reported that you paid him a visit."

  "Oh. I was just looking around. I didn't realize what I had walked into until I was already there."

  "The only reason you are not across my knee right now is because I had eleven servants rushing up to tell me exactly where you were today.” Varden kissed the back of her hand again, turning to her at the same moment that she looked away. He froze when he saw the bruises on her neck. “What are those?"

  "Nothing.” Claire combed her hair around her neck. “Don't worry about it."

  He swept several skirts aside with one arm, letting in enough light to see. A disgruntled glare was her only protest when he tilted her chin up and gently touched the side of her throat where the bruising was worst, long dark shapes that almost looked like fingers. “Who did that?"

  Unable to meet his eyes, she nervously twined her fingers in her nightgown, then rearranged the shoes that were scattered around their feet to form a kind of barricade between them. “Does Godfrey live here with us, or would it be possible to send him away somewhere?"

  Varden stiffened, letting go of her hand. “Godfrey did that? Did he come here or did you go to him?"

  "I didn't go to him,” Claire protested. “We ran into each other downstairs. I think he might be planning to hurt you."

  "You waited until I left so you could meet with him,” he accused, a swelling fury seeping all through him.

  "I didn't meet with him! I told you, we ran into each other."

  "As if anything you have ever said to me could be believed!” Varden removed himself from her. First emotionally, as his face became abruptly unreadable; then physically as he climbed back out of the closet. “I suppose I can't complain. It's lasted longer than I expected."

  His coldness was his armor, making him seem stiff and unbending as he called Grete back into the room. “You are to stay with her twenty-four hours a day. Sit on her if you have to. No one comes into this room without my express permission.” He turned his glacial stare on Claire, who had crawled partway out of the closet. “And nobody leaves."

  "I didn't meet with him! Please, Varden, you have to believe me!"

  Varden stalked back to his room, ready now for that drink, a warm fire and bed.

  "Varden, wait!” Claire scrambled after him.

  He stopped just short of slamming the door in her face. His expression did not invite closeness. Even his eyes glittered, icy and completely devoid of warmth. “What do you want?"

  "Please may I stay the night with you?” With pleading eyes, she rushed to explain. “You don't have to touch me. You don't even have to look at me. I'll sleep on the floor. But I'll be safe with you! I know he won't come if I'm with you!"

  There was no change of emotion as Varden continued to glare. Then his eyes flicked down to the dark bruises against the pale skin of her throat. Without a word, he shut the door.

  Varden did not go to bed. He got drunk instead. It took over an hour of single-minded dedication before he reached a state of devil-may-care feeling good. He couldn't walk straight, but at least he was enjoying himself.

  Kenton had to half-carry and half-drag him to bed. He stripped Varden of his boots and trousers, rolled him so that all his limbs were on the mattress and his head was cushioned by a pillow, and then covered him over with the blankets. Banking the fire, Kenton left him, unchastened, to sleep it off.

  Sometime in the night, Varden blearily awakened. Someone else was in the room with him. Sprawled in the center of his bed, he cautiously opened one eye to find a shadowy figure hovering over him. Slowly, it pulled a corner of the blankets back and cautiously crawled up onto the mattress next to him. The shadow paused, seeming to look at him for a long moment before laying down to rest its head upon the pillow.

  His head was already pounding. He really needed to quit drinking.

  Varden growled. “I told you, no."

  "Are you awake?” Claire whispered back.

  Varden rose up on his elbow. “No. I talk in my sleep. Now go back to your own room. I don't want you with me. I already told you that."

  "You didn't tell me anything. You just shut the door in my face."

  He held his head in his hand and sighed. “That should have told you plenty."

  She wrinkled her nose. “You smell like a brewery."

  "Go back to your room, Claire, or I swear I will drag you there by your hair."

  Again Claire paused, studying him as if trying to decide whether or not to take him seriously. “I was going to sleep on the floor, but you don't have a rug."

  Then she rolled onto her side and pulled the blankets up over her shoulders.

  "See here, Madame,” Varden began, dangerously soft. He struggled to pull himself into a sitting position, but Claire reached behind her and took his arm. She pulled it around her waist and snuggled back against him. He made a half-hearted attempt to tug it free, but she only took his hand in both of hers and folded her fingers between his. She wiggled, making herself comfortable before heaving a soft and happy sigh.

  He was trapped.

  Varden scowled at the back of her head. There was no way he wa
s going to blithely share his bed with his brother's mistress. No fathomable way at all. Inconceivable! Absolutely ridiculous!

  "Good night, Varden.” She kissed the backs of his fingers.

  It was the most miserable night of his life.

  He never did successfully disentangle his arm from her grasp. Every time he tried, she only wiggled closer. Her soft bottom was now firmly nestled against his groin and he could feel the heat of her burning into his skin even through her nightgown.

  Tiny drops of sweat had long since broken out across his brow and upper lip. Varden gritted his teeth and firmly told himself he did not care if she spread her legs now and invited him into her. She was still a lying, unfaithful, viperous wench, who was making his life a living, breathing, firm-breasted, satin-skinned, moist, pulsating hell.

  Varden closed his eyes, determined to resist temptation.

  She was hugging his hand. With every soft breath, his fingertips brushed the soft skin of her breasts. His hand tingled—hell, his entire body tingled. He ached with the effort it took not to reach up and cup one. He stifled a tortured groan. The worst hangover he had ever experienced wasn't as bad as this.

  By the time the sun rose above the rim of his balcony railing, spilling its warming yellow rays across the foot of the bed, his arousal was painfully uncomfortable and she showed absolutely no signs of stirring. Varden bit his pillow savagely and growled. She shifted, her soft round bottom pressing back into the cradle of his hips. This was nothing short of torture. The rack would have been easier to bear.

  Claire sighed softly and he cast the back of her head a half-wistful, half-baleful glance.

  "I want to go exploring again today.” Claire suddenly said. “Will you take me?"

  Varden started. He sat up, throwing off her enticing limbs. “You miserable, intoxicating witch! How long have you been awake?"

  She rolled onto her back. Her hand found his erection, closed tightly around him. “You make it hard to sleep when you keep poking me with this."

  "I make it hard to sleep?” Growling, Varden grabbed her shoulders and pressed her back into the pillows as his mouth swooped down to claim hers. She gently squeezed and stroked him, only releasing her hold when he pulled her nightgown up over her head and threw it to the floor.

  "Sleeping with you is like snuggling with a furnace,” she murmured between kisses. “I thought you had a fire burning under your skin."

  "You should know,” he said as he moved over her. “You put it there."

  She was completely unrepentant. “I like that. You burn because of me?"

  "Oh yes.” Varden caressed her cheek, brushing his thumb lightly across her mouth. “And now you will burn because of me."

  She lifted her mouth to meet his, asking, “Is that a promise?"

  The door to Claire's room suddenly flew open as Grete burst into the room. “Your Grace, she is gone! I—"

  Varden turned with a roar. “Get out!"

  The door immediately slammed shut again.

  He glared after her. “I will see that woman flayed alive."

  Catching his face in both hands, Claire gently forced his attention back to her. “You made a promise to me first."

  "Ah, yes,” he looked down at her again and a wolfish smile tugged at his mouth. “This touchy subject of burning. First you have to find the source of the heat.” He placed his hand on her chest between her breasts. “Is it here?” His callused palm smoothed a path down her stomach, his fingers tickling over her ribs while she tried not to squirm. “Or here?” He stroked her hip, caressing the outside of her thigh down to her knee.

  Claire shivered as his hand moved around to the inner side of her knee and began the trek back up. When he touched her, she cleared her throat. “Yes, I think things are definitely heating up."

  "I am not content with ‘heating up,'” Varden said as he parted the moist folds to find the tiny nub hidden therein. “You have tortured me all night. I have to get my revenge."

  "Go ahead. Make me pay.” She wrapped her arms around his shoulders. “I like this kind of revenge."

  He laughed. “When you are well enough, I will torment you more fully. Until then, there are others things that we can do."

  "Mm.” She closed her eyes when he kissed the tip of her breast and the heat of his mouth closed over her.

  His bedroom door flew open with enough force to send it crashing into the wall. They both froze; Varden darkened, the muscle in his jaw jumping erratically.

  "Good morning, Your Graces.” Kenton brought a silver breakfast tray bearing a steaming pot of spiced ale to the bedside table. “It's good to see you patching your differences. Getting along. Making amends. I only hope you can find it in your hearts to forgive such an untimely intrusion."

  Varden remained over Claire, stiff and unmoving. A protruding vein pulsed at the side of his neck. “I will give you a two-second head start. I suggest you run."

  "How gracious, but also unnecessary.” Kenton went to the balcony doors and threw back the curtains to let in the morning sun.

  Varden winced and lowered his head to Claire's breast.

  "Your immediate attention is required at the north gate.” Walking back around the bed to the small table, Kenton filled two cups with the hot ale. He looked at Claire. “Do you prefer cream or sugar?"

  Varden glared at him. “What's wrong with the north gate?"

  "The Laird of the Kincaids is standing outside the castle walls with a small army.” Kenton looked first at her, then Varden. “He demands to speak with you."

  One minute Claire was nestled in Varden's arms, the next she was sprawled on the bed by herself, while he hunted the floor for his clothes. She pulled the sheet up to her neck even as Kenton offered her the cup.

  If the valet was at all embarrassed at interrupting so intimate an embrace, he did not show it. He held up the creamer. “Lady Claire, would you care for some?"

  "Mallory.” She shook her head. “No, thanks."

  He put the creamer back on the tray. “Sugar then?"

  "Thank you, no."

  "Shall I ring for your breakfast?” he inquired, ever solicitous. “Biscuits with jam? Poached eggs perhaps? You must have worked up quite the appetite."

  "Kenton, leave her alone,” Varden said as he pulled on a pair of black pants. “She does not need any nettling from you."

  "I disagree,” Kenton said. “My influence is boundless. I have yet to meet the man or woman who could not benefit from a daily dose of nettling. Besides, I was merely offering her breakfast."

  But Varden was not listening. He was wrestling with his shirt, tucking in the tails and trying to smooth the worst of the wrinkles from it. It still looked as if a drunk had slept in it. He ran an impatient hand through his mussed hair. “How long has he been out there?"

  "Only a few minutes. I fetched the ale when I saw him coming.” Taking the second cup for himself, Kenton retired to a nearby chair. “He claims to have grievances. If you will not speak with him, he threatens to take them to the Queen."

  "What could he possibly have to complain about?” Varden sat on the edge of the bed. He fought a minor war with his boots as he struggled to get his bare feet into them, then grabbed his sword belt and swung it around his slender hips. “Are my cows not fat enough? Perhaps my sheep need more wool. Ah, I have it. My pigs are too small. I shall simply tell him to come back in a month or two when they will have grown into nice fat slabs of bacon and ham."

  Claire sat up and set the ale aside. She pulled the sheet tighter around her, trying to ignore Kenton. “What are you going to do?"

  There was a crisp, metallic whine as Varden slid his sword into its scabbard. “I suppose I shall ride out to meet him."

  Kenton set his own cup back on the tray. “Do you not understand the situation, or have you lost your mind as well?” While his face revealed only minor irritation, his disgust was obvious. “Most of your soldiers are on the Training Field. The Kincaid has an army with him. He will kill you at
the mouth of your own portcullis."

  Varden strode out the balcony doors with the irate Kenton fast on his heels. “Saddle my horse!"

  They jogged down into the courtyard together.

  "Fine,” Kenton said. “Ride out to meet him, and I'll send for Vicar Meadows in Candlewick. He gives the most smashing eulogies. I'm sure we could arrange a spectacular service for you."

  "How many men does he have?"

  "I counted thirty."

  "Then I out number him twenty to one,” Varden said. “If he wanted a war, he would not have come to my doorstep to wage it. He could just as easily have caught me on patrol and taken my life there. It makes no sense for him to come here when I need but sound the horns and summon the Field. He would have to battle his way through that before making it back to Scotland in one piece. He hasn't got a prayer and he knows it."

  "Insanity must be contagious."

  Varden paused in the midst of running his hand over his unshaven chin. Still. At this point, he may as well grow a beard. “Either that or he is very clever. I am more inclined to think the latter. I suppose he could attack me, and I would appear the aggressor because I have more men and no one would believe he's that suicidal."

  "I meant you,” Kenton snapped.

  Varden selected seven men from the soldiers gathered in the courtyard and calmly mounted the black stallion the stable master brought him. A slight flicker of white caught the corner of his eyes and he looked up to see Claire, wrapped in the sheet from his bed, watching from the balcony. Her unkempt hair billowed softly around her face and shoulders as the early morning breeze played with it. She smiled and waved to him as if he were only going for a jaunt around the countryside.

  Would she still be waiting for him there when he returned? A part of him hoped she would. Of course, he hoped that she would be a little more dressed by that time.

  He pointedly fingered his own shirt and mouthed the word “clothes” to her. Claire blew him a kiss, and Varden almost smiled. The sun warm against his back, he clicked his tongue and lightly spurred his mount toward the portcullis at the north gate. He rode out of Cadhla's protective walls to meet with the Kincaid.