Conquer the night, p.12
Conquer the Night, page 12
He was silent a moment. “Maybe I did.”
He felt and heard the hoofbeats at the same time. Ragnor was next to him, leading Pict. Ragnor’s teeth were chattering, too. The glance he cast the Lady Kyra was not a kind one, either.
“She seems alive and well, Arryn.”
“Aye,” he said simply, and, reaching a hand to her, he pulled her to her feet. She did, at last, seem too worn and weary to fight him.
“My lady, you are like a cat, landing on her feet at all times,” Ragnor said. “Darrow was a fool to leave you. What woman would plunge into a river for her lover?”
“You may ask your own man—I fell!” she snapped.
Arryn caught her around the waist, lifting her to a seat before Ragnor on his horse. “Take her back to the tower. See that she is thawed. I will tend to Darrow’s men.”
He turned away, but she called out, “Wait!”
He turned back.
“You fought Darrow?”
“Many of his men lie dead, lady.”
“But he was not among them?”
She sounded anxious, and yet he wondered at the strange tension in her eyes.
“Nay, unfortunately, Darrow was not among them.”
She lowered her lashes, hiding her gaze. She didn’t seem to be rejoicing in the fact that the man hadn’t been slain. And still …
Her lips were turning blue.
“Get her to the castle,” he said to Ragnor. “And, of course, warm yourself.”
“Aye, and that I will; my very balls are frozen, and my future dynasty may well be at stake!” Ragnor muttered.
He spurred his horse. Arryn leapt on Pict, swearing. He was freezing as well, and tired to the bone.
But there were dead men on the forest road.
And more worrisome still, there were living men there as well.
“They are saying that you are mad, they are!” Ingrid proclaimed indignantly. “And they whisper, and some say you were trying to kill yourself, and others liken you to Boadicea, the Briton queen who fought the Romans with such fury and passion.”
Kyra inhaled, then gave up. She’d told Ingrid a dozen times that she hadn’t been suicidal—or heroic.
She had fallen.
No one was going to believe her.
Despite Ragnor’s anger, she hadn’t said another word in her defense on the return to the castle—or to her tower room. When she asked him about the battle, his look told her he assumed that she was concerned only for Darrow’s men—and Darrow himself.
He had little to say to her. She’d kept from freezing on the return to the castle by worrying about the men who now lay dead.
Seeing Arryn emerge from the river, she’d known instantly, of course, that once again he’d been the victor. But he’d never believe she had been more afraid that Kinsey Darrow might have returned….
And that he might have been victorious.
At the castle, she hadn’t in the least protested the arrival of fresh steaming water or her immediate plunge into it. Ingrid brought mulled wine, and it was warm and good, and the simple luxury of warmth had been sweet as well.
But now … the time was passing.
She had emerged from the tub into one of the huge snowy bath sheets, and wrapped in it, stood before the fire. She had heard the men below, heard as a meal was served, as conversation flowed. She wondered what had happened to Arryn; he had been soaked and frozen to the bone, and surely he had dried and warmed himself somewhere—but not here. Had he given her up as a madwoman? She could only hope.
“My lady,” Ingrid said firmly. “You mustn’t try to reach Lord Darrow again.”
“Ingrid, I fell.”
“My lady …” Ingrid began, then she fell silent. She stiffened. “Footsteps!” she said softly.
“Footsteps?”
“On the stairs, he is coming back!”
“He will not hurt you, Ingrid,” Kyra said, and wondered if she wasn’t a fool to make such an assurance.
“But he hurts you.”
Kyra smiled, walked to her maid, and touched her face. “You are good and loyal, and I love you. But don’t be afraid. I’m not hurt.”
“There must be a means of escape!” Ingrid said passionately. But then her blue eyes went very wide. “Except not now. He is nearly here. I will think all night, lady, I swear. If you can survive just a few more hours … It must be so horrible for you. But we will help you; the right time will come. Oh, my lady, I will think until I have a solution. I will pray and pray … don’t give thought again to taking your own life. It would be a terrible sin, you know.”
She didn’t need to contemplate suicide, Kyra thought dryly. Darrow—or this Scotsman—might readily do the deed for her.
“I will survive another night, Ingrid. I don’t know what else to say. I was not trying to commit suicide. I fell.”
“You think you fell, perhaps, God love you, lady! You were just so desperate to escape the heathen outlaw brute that …”
Ingrid had started toward the door, but as her voice trailed, she hesitated. “But if you get so desperate again, my lady, or if you must …” She pulled a small, glittering knife from a pocket at the side of her overgown. She gave a grave nod to Kyra, and set it under the mound of one of the down pillows.
“Ingrid, don’t leave a knife.”
“You may need it, my lady!”
“Ingrid—”
“Bless you, my lady—oh, my God, take care of your sweet self!” Ingrid said, anxious then to depart.
She reached for the door.
It opened before she could touch it.
And indeed, Kyra realized, shivering anew …
The conqueror had returned.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Aye, Arryn was back, indeed, pausing curiously in the doorway. He had bathed and changed elsewhere. He appeared in a fresh tartan, his dark hair sleek, his cheeks freshly shaved.
Ingrid, caught there before him, stared at him, mouth agape, and turned so miserably red that she was nearly purple.
“Sir!” she cried, and bobbed a curtsy.
He seemed to fill the doorway. Ingrid remained as if frozen.
Arryn stared at the servant for several long seconds, then looked at Kyra where she stood by the fire. “What ails her?” he asked sharply.
“She is afraid to move.”
“Why?”
“You are blocking her path.”
He stepped aside. Ingrid fled as if demons from hell might come flying after her.
He watched for a moment, then closed the door behind her.
“Why is she so afraid?”
“You would ask me that? Sir, you attacked the castle!”
“I have offered her no harm.”
“Well, at one point, you did mean to ravish the poor lass.”
“Thinking she was you.”
“And I was preferable?” she queried with what she hoped was a regal and icy demeanor.
He stared at her a long moment, then slowly walked around her, hands clasped behind his back. “I’m not so certain,” he murmured.
“Oh?” She said, and could have kicked herself.
“Were she you, it would have been far easier to do the deed and walk away. Run away, perhaps.”
She lowered her head, determined that she wouldn’t smile, or find the least bit of humor in her enemy. He was speaking pleasantly enough now, but she was sure that he hadn’t forgotten her last escapade, and that, like Ingrid, he failed to believe the simple fact that she had fallen.
He sat at the foot of the bed, removing his hose and shoes. “Well, my lady, a dive into the river—and a steaming hot bath. Which was the greater attempt to scrub away the stench of an outlaw from your noble person?”
“Both, perhaps. I did my best, but I believe such a stench is impossible to wash away completely.” She was sure some dreadful payment was intended her for drawing him directly from the scene of a bloody battle into a cold river.
Especially when he believed she was either trying to kill herself because of him—or to escape to reach Darrow.
“Well, I’m sure you’ll keep trying.” He stood again, blowing out the lamp that sat on a bedside table. The room darkened into a gloom lightened only by the dying embers of the fire. She watched as he cast aside the yards of tartan wrapped around him, certain that he meant to come after her once again. His back was to her. She noticed again the muscle and sinew of his build, and the scars that lined his body.
She tensed, unnerved, certain that he had to mean some violence toward her.
But he did not come after her. He did not even turn toward her.
He crawled into bed, stretching out. She remained where she stood, watching him warily. He didn’t speak for a very long time. She was almost certain that he had fallen asleep. She took a step, a single step, just to see if he had done so.
His eyes did not open as he spoke. “Attempt to leave the room or raise a hand against me, and you will regret the rashness of such a choice.”
Startled, she bit her lip. “So … what am I to do? Stand here all night?”
“If it pleases you.”
“I may do what pleases me?”
His eyes opened and fixed on hers. “As long as what pleases you pleases me. You’re welcome to come to bed. It’s quite large.”
“Aye, indeed, but never quite large enough, thank you.” She tossed her linen towel over her shoulder and turned her back on him, approaching the fire. She lay down on the large fur before it, then rued her action, remembering too clearly that this was actually where it had first taken place the night before. And now it was so late, the fire was low. She shivered, and she didn’t know if she shivered because of the cold, or because no matter where he was in the room, it seemed that he was with her.
Time passed. It seemed that eons went by. She felt that he had to be sleeping. She rose again slowly, watching him. He must be beyond exhaustion. He had come riding out of the woods with his band of men, his foot soldiers in his wake. He had planned his strategy, and fought past Seacairn’s defenses. He had dealt with the men who wouldn’t surrender—and those who had. And he hadn’t slept.
And then he had fought the men who would have seized it in turn.
And he had dealt with her.
He had to be exhausted. Sound asleep.
It wasn’t so much that she wanted to test his temper, as she wanted to know just what her situation in the castle was. Did he sleep with guards on duty, making sure that she didn’t leave? If she did leave the room, was she to be stopped? He hadn’t said that she must stay.
She padded softly to the bed, barely daring to breathe, careful to be silent each time she put a foot down.
She reached his side and paused again, standing very still, like a wading bird in the marsh, listening, waiting. He lay on his side, facing away from the door.
Dangerous way to sleep, for an outlaw, she thought. And especially for a man so wary and careful. He must be so tired that he wasn’t thinking logically.
His face, in repose, seemed young, some of the lines even smoothed away, and she realized that his strong features were attractive and compelling. Even in sleep, however, he seemed knotted with muscle, and she thought that he must train very hard with his weapons of war to come to such a very honed state.
He breathed … his chest rising, falling. Muscles twitched slightly. She froze. She waited. He didn’t move.
At last she turned, tiptoeing for the door, ready to test her boundaries.
She never heard him rise; she knew only a whoosh of motion, and then he was in front of her, barring the door.
He towered at the door, very large, and very grandly naked, and she stepped back instinctively, but it did no good. His eyes were wide open now, very alert, as blue as the sea, and promising no quarter once again.
“I thought that it was open; I was checking for a draft,” she murmured.
“Excuse me, but, my arse, my lady!” he said softly. And before she knew it, his hands were on her, and though he only lifted her, she felt as if she were flying. He didn’t set her down with any particular cruelty or force, but it seemed that she hit the straw mattress very hard. Instinct caused her to inch away; his fingers landed on her jaw and he looked down at her. “One more move and you spend the night tied to the bedpost.”
His fingers hurt. She remained defiantly silent, her head high, until he released her. She worked her jaw, trying very hard to keep her eyes on his. “Why?” she demanded. “I don’t understand this! You need sleep. You don’t trust me. I have a room; why not let me go to it? You’ve accomplished all you wanted—”
“Kyra, you may shut up or I’ll tie you and gag you,” he said flatly.
“Why are you doing this? Must I stay here through an endless eternity for both of us?”
“It will not be endless, I do intend to sleep.”
“To sleep! So you intend to sleep, and I am to stay, and that is it?”
“Ah, so now you’re the wounded damsel!”
“I have been the wounded damsel since your arrival, sir.”
“There was no need for it.”
“Really? You came here for vengeance. For Darrow’s intended.”
“Perhaps I had changed my mind. But when you insisted on taunting me with the extent of your experience …”
“Now you make your force my fault?”
“My God! You are in no position to argue here, my lady! Still, I’m merely suggesting—strongly!—that you would be far better off if you would learn to keep silent.”
“I’d be very silent if I were just out of this room!”
“You will be silent, and you will stay.”
“Again, I remind you, you are exhausted, and need to sleep.”
“Aye, lady, and that’s the truth.”
“So you don’t need me anymore!”
“I never needed you, my lady.”
“Then let me leave!”
“Do you realize, lady, I am really tired, but you are awakening me?”
“Good, you should not sleep so easily!”
“Oh?” His brow arched. “Not to allow you any more arrogance, but you are quite capable of keeping me awake.”
“You deserve to be kept awake.”
“It would not be to listen.”
Her cheeks flamed. “You do need to sleep. If you’d just let me out of here …”
“No.”
“But—”
“Perhaps I’m afraid you’ll try throwing yourself in the river again.”
“I didn’t throw myself in the river.”
“Maybe I’m afraid of you falling again.”
“I’ll not fall again, I swear it.”
“Neither will you leave this room—I swear it.”
“But if you would just be logical …”
“Logical? I want you here. Where I can reach you at any given moment.”
“Ah! So I must remain here wretchedly in case an urge for further vengeance suddenly seizes you in the night?”
“My lady, many urges have plagued me already.”
“I am aware of that.”
“Many more urges than you have imagined.”
She knew that she flushed. “But you—the conquering hero—have now failed to act upon those urges?”
“Are you suggesting that I do?”
“No!”
“But then, did I even say just what the urges were? Alas—I’ve somehow controlled myself,” he said, and she was furious to realize that he was laughing at her.
“Then don’t keep me here!”
“Ah, dear Kyra! Are you afraid of yourself? That you may wake in the night with uncontrollable urges?”
She was astounded and further enraged that he could mock her so.
And afraid. Afraid of the trembling inside her. Rage, yes. Indignation, definitely.
What else …?
She didn’t know.
“You are beyond low, sir; to cast a term such as ‘rat’ or ‘wolf’ your way would be to insult thousands of animals. And I can promise you, there’s not a single urge that touches my heart, soul, mind, or senses regarding you, sir. There’s anger, loathing, more. You have seized my castle. You have seized me. You assault, kill, plunder … ravage. So forgive me if I fear like treatment again if I remain.”
“If you will just go to sleep, you’ll need fear nothing.” The teasing tone had left his voice. He was worn and irritated, and the threat was back in his words.
The very fact that she seemed absolutely powerless set fire to her rage. She gritted her teeth hard, knotted her fingers into her fists, and tried to remind herself that she was testing a barbaric outlaw who’d had his home and family burned to the ground. Yet she’d never felt so at a loss; no matter what tactic Kinsey Darrow had used to get his way, she had subtly reminded him that she was her father’s daughter, that King Edward had honored her father, that even his Scottish tenants had obeyed him, and that the power of loyalty from any of her lands lay with her. She was not wed to him yet, she would not share his chambers, and she did remain a free woman with a title in her own right, and though the king honored him, she could still place a case before Edward and …
Kinsey always backed down. She did stand in high regard with the king of England.
Edward had always shown her the greatest courtesy. She had been his first wife’s godchild. Though she never deluded herself that the tales she heard about his ruthlessness were false, she had always wanted to believe in his motives.
And yet …
He had done vicious things. He fought hard; he had slaughtered his enemies.
Edward had annexed Wales to England. He had all but done the same thing here, but the Scots kept fighting. And even if he had humiliated John Balliol and forced him to abdicate, many of the freedom fighters fought in his name, for he had been crowned the true king.
Edward meant to destroy any sense of nationalism here. He had stolen the Stone of Scone, the ancient piece of rock on which Scottish kings had been crowned for decades. He had taken it to England, all to prove his mastery of this country, all to break the Scots.
And still …
She had known him differently than the Scots. She had known him as a man capable of generosity and charm.
And she had used the king of England against Kinsey Darrow. She could not use him against this man. She could not escape this Scot, or rid herself of him. Her words meant nothing to him. She just wanted to be away from him—she wasn’t even certain that she wanted to escape the castle anymore.
