A Flame Run Wild Read Online Free PDF Page A

slept here, she thought. Tim room is too well kept, the bed too fresh, unless this Jean the poacher has kept it so. Still gazing at the room, Liliane pulled off her cap and her mantle, and slid out of the rest of her wet clothes. What she had thought were braies were actually Moorish pantaloons, which swelled full to gather at the ankle. She was reaching for the tonic when a soft laugh at the door made her catch the garment to her chest and whirl around.
    "Lucky mice." Jean's amused, admiring gaze dropped to the tunic she clutched to her breasts. "You have a splendid back," he observed lightly. "Certainly strong enough to cut your own wood."
    "What do you mean by spying on me?" she demanded, frightened and furious.
    At her flushed cheeks and smoldering stare, his own eyes grew hot. "I thought you had finished dressing; you took long enough. Why play at being a boy? You are lovely." His gaze swept to the silky fall of her hair, then down to the pale swell of her breasts, and his voice grew taut. "And ripe. Alexandre de Brueil is a lucky man."
    The fire in Liliane's eyes flared. "Why do you say that? I have never seen him!"
    "Come, are you not the lady he is to wed—and bed 'ere the morrow's moonrise? His bride is fair, I hear, yet"—his voice lowered—"I knew not she was gold as a mote of sunlight and fair as a spring-dewed morn. Nay," he breathed, "thou seem wizard-spun, a changeling maiden with such sorcery in her eyes and form that may lure mortals and magicians alike to folly."
    Liliane was reasonably accustomed to flattery, but no man had ever spoken so to her, not even Diego, who had surrounded her with love and friendship. Although she was not vain, she suddenly knew that in many ways she had been a stranger to Diego. He had not sensed the secrets of the sensuality she was beginning to realize lay within her. Not so this Jean, with his alert, penetrating gaze. He watched her as if awaiting a mistake, a revelation . . . something she must not give him. She was to be chatelaine of this demesne, the wife of his half brother. Already he knew too much and was rapidly guessing more. She must confuse him, escape this place and go to Castle de Brueil as quickly as possible. "As you say, why play games? I see mine is up," she forced herself to reply coolly. "My name is Pilar and I am meant not to marry your Alexandre de Brueil, but ray cousin, Louis de Signe."
    His eyes became so hard and flat that she stiffened. She could not tell whether he was contemptuous or somehow disappointed.
    Bitter and angry, Alexandre was galled to the core. This lovely, tantalizing creature was not to be his on the morrow, but go to a pig of a Signe. He knew Louis, who was nearly twice Pilar's age and dissolute as a baboon. In mounting fury, Alexandre stalked from the room.
    As he waited by the fire for Pilar to finish dressing, Alexandre quickly made up his mind. This Pilar had a cool tongue, but she was shy of men . . . rather, shy of a man who openly desired her. Her uneasy blushes at his nakedness suggested she was yet unpracticed in love. Alexandre squared his jaw. Before dawn, he would see that she was experienced. She would know pleasure before she knew the pain of mating Louis. God knew what creature he himself was to wed on the morrow, but Pilar, with her hair caressing her slender hips, fired his blood as his rich widow was scarce likely to do. With charm and luck, he might persuade Pilar to be his mistress rather than marry her baboon.
    But what could he offer her? He had no money to keep her richly, and he was loath to promise the wealth of a wife he had not yet seen. Alexandre had pleased many women, if he believed their passionate sighs, but he was not fool enough to consider himself so splendid a lover that a woman would exchange her future security for the pleasure he could give. Also, Pilar might well be far less delighted than he to offend the Signes. He frowned. Women were unpredictable and Pilar had shown herself to be