Page 24 of Warrior’s Lady

Violet crossed the room to stand before her. "No."

She bent down to look into Violet's eyes. "This is between your uncle and me, I'm afraid. He has every right to decide what is right for you." She smoothed one of Violet's errant curls from beside her cheek. "Aren't you going for your ride this afternoon with Thomas?"

"Why don't you hurry along, Violet," Camden said. "You are keeping Thomas waiting. Then Rhiannon and I can talk."

Violet moved reluctantly toward the door. "Thomas said we could ride in the orchard this afternoon if it was all right with you, Uncle Camden."

"It's fine. But it's cold outside so remember your cape."

Violet nodded, her gaze still on Rhiannon as the girl let the door close softly behind her.

Rhiannon turned away. "Do the Ruthvens surrender so easily?" His voice was rough.

"I was merely being practical. It's obvious you don't want me here. I should leave before Lady Violet becomes too attached to me. She doesn't understand that this was a mistake. Mother Agnes was wrong."

"It's no mistake." He gazed at her flushed cheeks and full lips. Something flickered in the depths of his eyes. He took a step toward her. She froze, unable to move away from his presence. Slowly he reached for her, gently tracing his finger along the sensitive flesh of her jaw to her chin.

She braced herself against the power of his touch as her resolution faltered. "Why the change of heart?" her voice shook.

"I do not despise you." For a moment a shadow darkened his eyes. "Quite the contrary." His fingers slipped up then down the sensitive flesh beneath her chin. The caress felt far more arousing than it should have. "Lady Violet needs a woman she can depend on in her life." The heat of his body enveloped her.

She swallowed roughly, wanting desperately to step out of the web he'd woven around her, yet she couldn't seem to find the strength.

"You'll stay here with—" he paused again, "—with Violet." The air between them was charged with tension — a different kind of tension than had been there before. Something dark and mysterious in his gaze reached out to her, beckoned her to risk staying.

At a loss for words, she nodded.

She remained still, unable to do anything other than force herself to breathe, slowly, evenly.

He withdrew his finger from her flesh. "You and Lady Violet can do what you wish within the walls of the castle as long as Travis and Hamish are present."

"Who?" she asked, suddenly confused.

"Your guards."

She could only blink. "My what?"

"You may proceed with the archery lessons. You have proved your skill. And because I also know you to be a fine rider," he continued despite the angry color she knew he could see in her cheeks, "I will inform Thomas that you are to take over her riding lessons."

Camden ignored her growing anger, which only upset her more. He started for the door. "Hamish and Travis will assist you with anything you need."

The door closed with a firm click behind him, but not before she caught sight of the two hulking warriors who stood just outside her door.

He'd asked her to stay, as long as her two nursemaids stayed right by her side.

The realization that he still judged her by her last name stung.

Rhiannon moved to the bed and collapsed upon it. She lay there, nestled in a sea of crimson and wondered what her life would have been like had she been born as anyone else.

"Your Grace." His chamberlain's well-tailored form filled the doorway of the library in the small country home they'd been forced to rent on the outskirts of the town below Lee Castle. "You have a visitor."

Bishop Berwick studied his long, graceful fingers with a scowl. "Show him in," the bishop said, unable to keep the boredom from his voice.

"As you command," the chamberlain bowed, leaving the room.

Bishop Berwick's fingers wrapped around the ivory-handled mirror that lay facedown on his desk. He picked up the mirror and smiled at his reflection. A narrow, triangular face stared back at him. He could claim no attributes of beauty, except for his wide-set gray eyes. They sparkled with an exceptional brilliance that his mother claimed proved he possessed the holiest of spirits.

He stared at the reflection of his eyes. They gleamed with pleasure, then impatience, then boredom. He set the mirror facedown once more. He hated the country. Hated that the youngest Lockhart had unknowingly forced him to take up residence in an area where people did not love him as he should be loved. This Lockhart might be green in age, but he was twice as wary, and thrice as well-guarded by his armed warriors as his brother had been. Getting him to fall would take some skill.