"I had heard that," she replied cautiously. "It is said that you were appointed by the empress, Burgoigne by the king."
He nodded. "The same thing has happened in several other counties—Cornwall, Wiltshire, Hereford. It's an inexpensive way for Stephen and Matilda to persuade barons to do their fighting for them," he said cynically. "An English county is a rich prize, for the earl is entitled to a third of all royal tax revenues in return for keeping order.''
"So you and Burgoigne will butt heads like spring rams while the people of Shropshire endure endless disorder.'' She did not trouble to keep the contempt from her voice. Sweet Mary, it would be a better world if women ruled! "No doubt the two of you will fight until one of you is dead. A pity that the common folk have no voice in who will rule them."
He did not flare up in anger, just sighed and looked at the blackened ruins of the keep. "I'm told that most of the shire hopes that I will win, and do it quickly. Until the civil war began, Guy was no more than captain of a band of robbers, but he was shrewd enough to see the advantage of being one of the few knights in the west to declare for the king. Sure enough, Stephen rewarded him richly for his support. Then Guy forced an heiress to the altar, which made him master of a large part of Shropshire and extensive estates in Normandy as well. He is now one of the most powerful barons in England. But he still has the black, lawless heart of a bandit."
"Are you so much better a man than Guy of Burgoigne?" she asked caustically.
He shrugged. "I keep order in my lands, and I do not burn dwellings, then slaughter all who escape the fires."
It took Meriel a moment to understand what he wasn't saying. Then she inhaled sharply, glancing from the ruins back to the earl's still profile. "That is what Burgoigne did here?"
There was a long silence before Lord Adrian replied. "He struck before dawn on Christmas Day. My entire family was inside, save only my half-brother Richard." The steadiness of his voice did not disguise the sorrow. "Guy took great care that no one—not man, woman, or child, Norman lord or English servant—escaped."
She found herself aching for the old tragedy whose pain still echoed down the years. "How did you survive?"
"I was at Fontevaile Abbey, preparing to take vows."
"You, a monk?" she exclaimed.
"I daresay that seems strange to you," he said, smiling a little as he set his horse in motion away from the keep.
As Meriel followed, she thought that on the contrary, Lord Adrian's words explained a great deal. His reading skill and library, the austerity of his dress, perhaps even the strange duality of his character. It also gave Meriel a surprising sense of kinship with the earl to know that he too had experienced the religious life. Had he had felt the same suffocation she had? "A monk's life is a limited one," she commented as the ruins disappeared behind them. "Were you glad to leave the abbey?"
"Limited only on the surface. Within the boundaries of prayers and books lies a wider world than the one visible around us. As to whether I was glad to leave—part of me was, part of me was not." He turned his palm up apologetically. "I can give you no better answer than that."
It sounded as if Lord Adrian had been more suited to the cloister than Meriel, who had never regretted leaving. "Which part of you was sorry and which part was not?"
"The better part of me was sorry." He smiled wryly. "Doubtless I've already earned a few extra decades in purgatory, for the world offers many more temptations than an abbey does and I have not the saintly strength to resist them all." His glance slanted over to her. "Your presence is proof that I am not good at resisting temptation."
"Then for the good of your soul, you had best set me free," she said, her voice light but edged.
His self-mocking humor vanished, leaving his gray eyes utterly serious. "Never."
Sweet Mary, why her? Chilled, Meriel pulled her gaze away and there was no more conversation as they picked their way through the waters of a shallow stream.
A few minutes later, ignoring their last exchange, the earl asked, "Are you hungry?"
"A little," she admitted. "I had scant appetite for my dinner."
He rummaged in a small pouch hanging from his saddle, then pulled something out and tossed it to her. "Catch."
Meriel was so startled that she bobbled the object and almost dropped it. "An apple!" she said with delight just before biting into it. After chewing a mouthful, she gave him a quizzical glance. "It tastes fresh, not like one of last autumn's crop, but isn't it rather early for apples?"
"It came from France." He bit into his own fruit.
Impressed, Meriel stopped eating and examined the apple with awe. "Goodness, I don't know if I should eat it. This apple is better-traveled than I am."
The earl laughed. Meriel had never seen him laugh before, and humor transformed his face from austerely handsome to quite irresistibly appealing. She laughed with him, until she realized what he was doing and her amusement abruptly ceased.
Since a straightforward invitation to his bed had failed, Lord Adrian was now trying to charm her into submission. He probably thought that after a few hours of conversation and a gift or two, she would be eager to spread her legs for him.
Meriel sank her teeth viciously into the apple and tore out a large piece. What did he think she was, a randy goosegirl with neither morals nor sense? It took a moment for her to realize that she could hardly blame him for thinking that when she was doing her best to act like a simple peasant wench.
Ruefully she nibbled away the last of the apple flesh, then tossed the core into the high grass. For the first time she wondered if her brother could have meant Guy of Burgoigne when he had referred to the vicious Earl of Shropshire.
After a moment's thought, she mentally shrugged. There was no way to know which of the two earls was more villainous, since she would be a fool to trust one man's words about the character of the other. Besides, it didn't really matter. Even if Adrian of Warfield was less vicious than his rival, he was still a ruthless man and a danger to Meriel.
Licking apple juice from her fingers, she resolved that the earl would be no more successful with his charm than he had been with his threats. If he was the honorable Christian knight that he sometimes appeared to be, in time he might be shamed into releasing her, particularly if another female caught his fancy. She would pray for that to happen soon.
They were taking a different path from the one they had ridden out on, and it wound through higher, more heavily wooded ground. Perhaps a mile from the burned keep, they entered a clearing where about two dozen standing stones were set in a circle. Fascinated, Meriel rode to the nearest and slid off her horse to investigate further. The stone stood easily twice her height. "I have heard of these stone rings where our ancestors worshiped, but have never seen one before."
"Your British ancestors might have worshiped here, but mine were Northmen who sailed around in longboats and raided honest folk." The earl dismounted also, tethered his mount, then gestured toward the center of the circle, where the ashes of a fire could be seen. "This may have been built in ancient times, but it is still used, apparently within the last few weeks."
"Do some of your people worship the old gods?"
"I'm sure of it, but there isn't much that can be done to stop them." He drifted across the circle, his step light, his brow furrowed. "Executing everyone suspected of following pagan superstitions would not necessarily save their souls, and would certainly deprive the fields of much-needed labor."
"That is a wise and practical way to deal with them." Meriel flattened her hand against the coarse surface of the standing stone, feeling the sun's warmth in it. "Life is hard for serfs. Doubtless the folk who come here are good Christians—they just don't want to risk angering any older gods who might still linger."
She caught her breath as she noticed something much more important than ancient forms of worship. The stallion was tethered only a few feet from Meriel, but the earl had moved away. Now he was on the far side of the circle, exam
ining the stones, his back turned to his captive.
Trying not to betray her excitement, Meriel mentally rehearsed her actions. She held the reins of her own horse in her hand. All she need do was untie the stallion, mount Rose, and she'd be off with both horses. Lord Adrian would never catch her on foot.
Swiftly she untied the stallion's reins and swung onto Rose's back. Then she turned the mare back the way they had come and kicked her in the flanks.
So far, so good. But then events went wrong with shattering suddenness. Alerted by the sounds of harness and hooves, the earl turned, saw what Meriel was about, and exploded into action. A shrill whistle split the air and the stallion reared up, jerking the reins from Meriel's hands and coming down directly in front of the mare as Lord Adrian closed the distance between them with terrifying speed.
Meriel abandoned hope that she could take the stallion and concentrated on regaining control of Rose, who was panicking under the nips and harassment of the other horse. Since the stallion blocked their path, Meriel wheeled Rose about so she could escape in the other direction. But before the mare could stretch into full gallop, the earl dove forward and grabbed the bridle with one hand.
Desperately Meriel pulled her foot from the stirrup and kicked the earl's right wrist, hard. He gasped and released the bridle, and for a moment she thought there was a chance of escape.
Then he twisted like a cat and lunged for Meriel. The clawing fingers of his left hand missed her shoulder but caught in the neck of her gown, his falling weight tearing the fabric before he managed to get his arm solidly around her waist.
Meriel was jerked from the saddle to tumble helplessly through the air. She landed on her back with jarring force.
Lord Adrian had fallen next to her, and with one quick movement he pinned Meriel to the soft turf with his hard, furious body. His head and wide shoulders loomed above her and his heaving chest pressed against hers as he fought for breath.
Meriel could scarcely breathe, and not just because of his crushing weight. She had seen dangerous intensity in him before, but his present annihilating rage terrified her. She was so close that she could see the darker gray that rimmed his clear light pupils, and the grim lines carved around his mouth.
Violence sizzled in the air like heat lightning. Meriel's shift and bliaut had been ripped almost to the waist, exposing her right breast, and as the earl lifted the upper part of his body away, his fierce gaze raked over her nakedness. "You should not have tried to escape," he said in a low, ominous voice.
Meriel knew that he was perilously close to raping her. With what breath she could muster, she replied, "You are right, it was foolish of me to try. I never dreamed you could move so quickly."
His expression eased, still furious but no longer wild. "A knight does not survive long if he is either slow or stupid."
"My experience of escaping from knights is limited," she said lightly, as if his loins were not pressed against hers like a lover's.
A spark of humor showed in his eyes. "Not limited. Nonexistent."
He lowered his head and she tensed, fearful that he would force a kiss on her. Feeling her stiffen, he hesitated.
Instead of capturing her mouth, he kissed her ear, using lips and tongue in a sensual and wholly unexpected way. Meriel gasped, shocked by the intensity of the sensation, and by how distant, previously undiscovered parts of her body were reacting.
Gentle and implacable, his mouth traversed the length of her throat as one of his hands moved into a caress. Her exposed flesh was chilled by the air except where he touched her. There she felt fire.
First his questing hand molded the shape of her breast. Then he found her nipple and rolled it delicately between thumb and forefinger. As dark, compelling warmth unfolded deep inside her, Meriel cried out, confused and frightened by how her body was responding.
"Please... please stop," she begged, terrified that he might be able to persuade her body to permit an act that was utterly against her will.
The thought was somehow more frightening than that he might take her by force. To be ravished was physical violation, but turning her own body into an enemy would violate her spirit. "Don't punish me like this. It would be better if you beat me."
To her amazement, after a taut moment he did stop. "I had not thought of this as punishment," he said, and from the dry note in his voice she knew that the danger had passed.
The earl rolled away and sat up. She stiffened when he reached out again, but he merely pulled the torn shift across her bare flesh, his hand lingering for only an instant. When he stood, his movements were slow and precise, as if he were brittle and would shatter if he moved too quickly.
He extended his hand to help Meriel. As she regained her feet, his sleeve fell back and she saw that his right wrist was bandaged, and that blood was seeping through the fabric.
Meriel gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. "Did I do that when I kicked you?"
He glanced at his wrist. "My wrist was slashed in a skirmish last week. Your aim is excellent. You managed to catch the wound dead center and open it up again."
She bit her lip. "I'm sorry. I just wanted to escape. I didn't mean to hurt you."
"No?" His golden brows raised skeptically as he tugged at the bandage in an attempt to reduce the bleeding.
"No," she repeated firmly as she intervened. "I would never have aimed deliberately at an injury."
While the earl watched with ironic amusement, she unwound the bandage to examine the damage. The gash was ugly and would scar but it wasn't deep and there were no signs of infection. While his wrist must hurt like the very devil, she decided that her kick had done no real harm.
Since her shift was already in dire straits, she had no compunction about tearing off another strip of fabric. She folded the original bandage into a pad, closed the edges of the wound and placed the pad over it, then wrapped his wrist with the fabric stripped from her gown. "This should hold the bleeding until you get back to Warfield, but it must be dressed again."
"Are you quite finished?" he asked mildly.
"Yes, my lord," she said, unable to repress a note of mischief. "Should the situation arise again, I shall do my best to avoid kicking sensitive parts of your anatomy."
"I sincerely hope so. There are things more sensitive than an injured wrist." He put two fingers to his mouth and gave a piercing whistle. The stallion, which had been grazing nearby, raised its head. The earl gave a different whistle and his horse trotted to where the mare grazed on the far side of the clearing and herded the smaller animal back.
Meriel watched the stallion with admiration. "Remarkable. Do you use him as a destrier?"
"No, Gideon's gift is swiftness, he isn't large enough to carry full armor for long distances. But he has a destrier's training, and some other tricks as well. One can never tell when a casual ride might turn into a skirmish. Or an escape attempt."
Refusing to rise to the bait, she walked to Rose and spent a moment stroking the mare's muzzle and murmuring soothing words in Welsh. While she did that, Lord Adrian removed his mantle and tossed it to Meriel. "Wrap this around yourself or I will not guarantee my behavior."
Glancing down at her torn gown, she blushed and did as he ordered, almost disappearing under the folds of fabric. When Meriel started to mount the mare, the earl said, "Don't bother. You will ride in front of me."
Dismayed, she turned to face him. "Is that necessary?"
"I have no faith that you have learned the futility of trying to escape," he said as he swung onto his own horse.
"If you were held prisoner, would you not take any chance to try to win free?"
"Of course," he agreed with perfect good humor. "That is why I don't trust you an inch."
Meriel bit her lip in frustration, hating the idea of being brought in on his saddle bow like a naughty child. "If I promise not to try again, will you let me ride Rose?"
"Not to attempt to escape ever again?"
"I'll not try between here and Wa
rfield," she replied, unwilling to swear away future chances.
She could see him considering her request, weighing whether she would keep her word. Finally, to her relief, he said, "Very well." He smiled faintly. "If nothing else, I don't intend that you will find another opportunity today."
There was a curious amiability between them, and they talked easily for the rest of the ride back, but when they reached the castle, Meriel found it almost impossible to reenter. As the walls loomed oppressively above her, icy tendrils of panic began curling around her heart and it took a major act of will not to wheel her horse and dash off in futile flight.
When, if ever, would she leave the castle again? After her failed escape attempt today, she doubted the earl would take her riding another time.
She should have been prepared for his next move, but she was not. It was an unpleasant surprise when he picked up her distaff and spindle when they reached her chamber. "What kind of host would I be if I allowed a guest to work?" he murmured. "Sleep well, my little Welsh falcon." He collected his cloak and turned to go.
Her lips thinned but she refrained from comment, guessing that the earl knew just how much the spinning had done to alleviate her boredom. If she pleaded to keep her tools he might be amused or he might be regretful, but she was sure that he would not change his mind.
As Meriel watched the door close behind his lithe, broad-shouldered figure, she knew that there was war between them, a war of wills as clearly drawn as a chess game. His latest action was simply one more move in a game where he held all the strongest weapons, except one: the fact that she would never allow herself to be defeated.
Chapter 7
Back in his own chamber, Adrian set down Meriel's spinning, then drifted across the room to stare sightlessly from the great window as he recalled how achingly lovely she had looked when flying down the meadow on the sorrel mare. What a rare creature she was. Though he held her captive, her spirit was as free as a falcon's, as impossible to hold as a shower of sunshine.