Free Juliana Garnett by The Baron

was a trait he had found more in men than in a woman; had
never
found in a woman, he amended.
    Yet even that was not the reason he did not intend to arrest her. She was still useful. She knew the outlaws. More important—the outlaws knew her. There would come a time when outlaws and lady would meet again; he would not be forced to spend wearying days in the saddle searching forest and field for sign of them when they were bound to save him the bother by drawing near the lady. Moths to a flame.…
    He saw her wary relief and smiled. “You are a baron’s wife, my lady—a Norman’s widow. There would be an outcry fromhere to London were I to arrest you. Saxons claim you as their own, and Normans are fiercely protective of their rights.”
    It was true. Alone, that would not have saved her from retribution. Yet, he needed her; a lure to be used in much the same manner as the coffer had been, only more precious for her vulnerability. If the outlaws did not rise to that bait from fear, they would come for loyalty. But he would save that tactic for last, if all else failed.
    Easy enough, to send out patrols across the shire in a conspicuous effort to snare the outlaws, while all the time the lady would be watched. He would set men to hide in the surrounding wood, spies to report a lady’s treachery. A pity that she was faithless.
    For she was lovely, this lady of Ravenshed, a realization just remembered. Not, perhaps, in the conventional sense: no mane of blond hair that was so highly prized, no haughty pride to render a swain hopeless with despair. But he had never been a man who admired such things. He left that to the poets and minstrels, the knights of song and leisure. It was not for him.
    For him, perhaps, the understated elegance of this lady who now gazed at him with dignity and courage. A lady with eyes of intense blue below delicate winged brows, light brown hair a shimmering loose drape around a face of ivory character. Pristine. Sculpted by a master hand. Clean of line and uncluttered with the excesses of life. Yea, a rare beauty; a treasure; worthy of love were he so inclined.
    But he was not. He had made the mistake of loving too well, and it had nearly destroyed him. Not the love, but the loss of it … the end of a life that had set him on this path to destruction, to the ruin of all he had once prized. It was not an error he intended to make again.
    Yet it did not keep him from wanting this lady—if not for love, for pleasure. She had lingered in his thoughts; a fleeting memory to intrude at odd times, a swift vision of curving cheek, smooth brow, lips a soft rose color that drew his mind to sweet diversion.
    As now.
    Inconvenient lust, importuning and impudent, rising tounsettle him. He wondered if she recalled the details of their last meeting, when he had stood with lifted tunic and she had held a barbed arrow at his throat. Few things left a man feeling more exposed, chagrined.
    A sound beyond Lady Neville snared his attention, and the servant hove into view, a silver tray held carefully before her.
    Jane turned, something like relief briefly crossing her face as she beckoned the woman forward.
    “Dena, place it on the table. And bring a knife for the cheese, as I have left mine in the kitchens.”
    “Weaponless, my lady?” His mockery drew her attention again, as he intended. “I feel much safer now.”
    “That would be a grave mistake, my lord. Wine?”
    He flicked a glance to the cup she lifted. Lightly: “Is it safe, or should I have a taster drink first?”
    Deliberately, she put the cup to her lips and sipped. His gaze shifted to her mouth; a glimpse of good teeth, white and straight, save for one that was slightly crooked. The imperfection was somehow endearing, even more alluring. His body responded with a swift, aching erection.
    She gazed at him over the rim of the cup, then held it out. Wine beaded her lips, ruby against rose, wet and gleaming with temptation.
    He took the cup when he