Conquer the night, p.8
Conquer the Night, page 8
He didn’t touch her. Nor did she hear him. At last she could not bear not knowing anymore. She turned.
He had rid himself of the mail coat, and more. Hose, shoes, tunic lay on the floor. He seemed completely unaware of her, a naked man in the prime of strength and life, covered in the dirt and blood of war, muscled like a Greek god, and oblivious to all else except his desire to step into the tub. If he would just do so …
“Take a step toward that door again,” he said quietly, “and I swear I’ll drag you downstairs and have done with this in the company of the entire castle, friend and foe. Now that, I believe, would disturb Lord Darrow if he hears of it—and I promise, it will disturb you deeply.”
She stood then, her teeth clenched hard, wishing she had the courage to defy his words and bolt.
She stared at the door, not bolted and not guarded, and did not move. And she despised herself for it.
And still, she spun around, biting hard into her lower lip.
He lay in the tub, his head back, soaking, eyes closed, ebony black waves of hair drenched in the steam of the water. Tiny scars flecked his chest and neck. The structure of his face seemed strong and undaunted; yet his eyes remained closed.
Vulnerable.
She turned wondering if he would leap naked from a tub to pursue her before the whole company of the castle.
“Aye, milady, forget the door. I will do it, and with great irritation.”
His rs rolled softly with his language. He was weary she thought. And yet … he read her mind—and assured her of his intent.
His eyes opened, pinning her where she stood clasping her gown to her chest. She couldn’t read his thoughts in the least.
He looked away, lifting a hand.
“Bring me ale.”
She stood still.
“My lady …”
“I am not your servant!”
“Servant? Nay, too kind a word. Slave, madam, better suffices for the moment. Bring me ale.”
She strode across the room in an instant fury, forgetting the state of her clothing, and stumbled as her torn gown tripped up her feet. She cried out, falling. To her distress, he was instantly out of the tub, lifting her from the pool of her clothing. His wet naked flesh brushed her own. She was mortified, red as a sunset. His eyes pinned hers. Are you all right?”
“Leave me be!” she whispered miserably.
To her amazement, he did. He stood, striding back to the tub. His leg muscles were as taut as steel. His buttocks were more so. She looked away quickly, shaking, burning inside, wishing that she had simply leapt from the parapets.
She heard him plunk back into the water. Then a moment later: “I’m still waiting for the ale.”
“You must wait until you rot!”
He was silent for a minute. “What an intriguing person you are, my lady! One would think that you’d strive to please me in little ways to abate my obviously foul temper.”
“And would it make any difference?”
“Not a whit!” he assured her. “And still, one would think …” She was startled then to see something that was almost a smile curve his lips. “I am willing to share.”
“You, sir, are in good health and able; you could help yourself—and serve me as well,” she said with all the haughty disdain she could summon.
“You want me out of the tub again?” he inquired politely.
No, she did not. Yet she was not in much better shape herself with her gown nothing more than tatters. She tried again to gather the pieces.
“It’s quite useless, you know.”
“What’s useless?”
“Any attempt at modesty.” She suddenly felt his eyes again. “You’ve been with many men….” His voice trailed suggestively. “Well, what difference is one more?”
She should have managed to cast aside every last strip of garment remaining to her, walk boldly naked about. She couldn’t quite do it. But she did pour cups of ale for them both. She came as near the tub as she must and handed him his. She even managed a tight-lipped smile.
Maybe she’d imbibed a bit too much ale already. She was feeling reckless, and perhaps had too much false courage.
“What difference is one more? No difference at all except, sir, I always choose my lovers, choose them carefully. Great lord or stablehand, I choose only those who intrigue me.”
He stared at her a long moment, shrugged and smiled with a certain amusement. “Slainte!” he said softly, imbibing all in a swallow. “You too, my lady,” he said gravely. “Take it all.”
She stared at him hard and drained her cup.
“I’ll take another. You must join me again.”
“Because I am so unappealing?”
His smile faded. “Because you are not,” he murmured.
Her eyes did not leave his. She walked back to the ale; poured his, then poured her own. She returned to stand before him. “Then … are you attempting to make this more palatable for me by forcing me to drink myself into a stupor?” she demanded.
But sunk within the tub, his hard, cobalt eyes upon her, he shook his head—and drank again deeply. “No, my lady. I am trying to make it more palatable for me.”
His words and manner were confusing, and yet … they could not have cut more deeply, and for that she hated him all the more. Here she was, about to face force and violence, and he was shuddering at the thought of it!
Despite herself, she had never felt more …
Insulted!
“Then, perhaps, sir, if this is all so unpalatable, you should give up this quest to hurt Darrow! I’ve been with half the castle; you needn’t bother trying to ruin me as a bride. I am common, vile—absolutely filthy!”
He studied his cup. “Half the castle?”
“Every stablehand,” she assured him. She should keep him drinking, she realized. He had to be exhausted.
“Every single stablehand?”
“Alas, every single one.”
“But I thought you chose your lovers carefully?”
“I carefully chose them all.”
“Ah, then! More ale, my lady! More—more!”
He frightened her and infuriated her. And yet … there was something about him that made him a worthy enemy—although a man with whom she wished she were not engaged in such wretched combat. She suddenly felt her temper soar. Common sense be damned; survival be damned.
This was not to be borne.
“Ale? More ale? You would have more, then fine! Aye, more ale, sir!” she exclaimed, seized with a reckless fury. She grabbed the container, determined to dash it and its contents upon his head.
He was up like a flash of lightning, his hands snaking out and capturing her hard before she could elude him. He shook her like a rag doll, and the remnants of her clothing fell from her like autumn leaves from a tree before winter. Their naked bodies, sleek and wet, were suddenly together, and she had never felt such tension, nor felt so strange at the touch of a man’s eyes pinning her own. He held her as she gasped for breath to speak, yet she did not manage to do so, for she was suddenly plopped down before him in the tub. “Filthy, my lady? I have said that I will share. You must then bathe as well.”
She tried to gasp a protest; she could not—because he was touching her. His eyes were suddenly hot as blue fire; the soap and his hands were suddenly everywhere, moving over her breasts, her hips, her abdomen, between her thighs. Where he touched, she quivered. She was furious and indignant.
And she was burning.
She tried to rise; he dragged her back down. His hold was rough, hard, powerful.
His fingertips moved again over her breasts, stroking her nipples. The wicked blue fire of his piercing gaze seemed to seep through her, ignite her limbs. Chills and tremors swept through her. His hands moved again, deep below the surface of the water. She reached out to stop him. She touched his chest. Muscle constricted.
His hands slid between her thighs again. His fingers were slick and ungodly intimate. She wanted to shriek, to scream. She tried to catch his hands, wind her fingers around him, stop him, press him away.
Stop, no, cease, damn you, bastard….
The words that she wanted didn’t leave her lips.
Breath escaped her, as worthless as her valiant attempt to stop his touch. She was shaking inside and outside, alive with a rage that swept like thunder with every brush of his fingers. It was anger, of course, that he dared touch her so, fury, fear—more—fire, simply fire….
“Wait!” she managed at last. It should have been a scream; it was a gasp, a whisper, a plea.
And he did so, but she quickly realized that he hadn’t really heard her at all, or if he had, he did not mean to give way. He had halted only because he was up again, dragging her with him. She shrieked, clinging to his shoulders to keep from falling, and yet he meant for her to fall to the rug beneath them. Their wet, naked bodies came together and apart; she felt the muscled heat of his every movement and twisted, writhed. But he was pure speed and fierce passion, anger, and emotion. He was above her, then atop her—between her thighs. She became abruptly aware of the state of his arousal as she felt the hard length of his manhood against the intimate portals of her sex. Then she bit hard into her lower lip, trying to keep from shrieking aloud as he suddenly penetrated her, moving deeply, more deeply within her. She would not cry out, she swore, but the pain was stunning, shattering, then numbing; she couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, could only feel him move, his flesh, hot, wet, the power of his hold against her, the slick movement, the pulsing, beating, pain….
He went as still and tense as a longbow; then heat seeped into her, filled her like a river, swamped her, and with it the pulse began again, a slow pain of memory. She wanted to hurl him from her, move him, yet he didn’t budge, and she was suddenly aware of his blue eyes, as invasive as his body, pinning hers. And there was no apology, just anger, and a single demand: “Why?”
“Please …”
“Why did you lie?”
“Please … oh, God, please—”
“Why did you lie?”
“I knew you didn’t really want me! I thought that you would …” She closed her eyes and swallowed hard. “I thought that you would leave me alone.”
He moved from her at last. She closed her eyes; her whole body seemed to continue to burn.
“You bloody little fool!” she heard him say quietly. “I thought you were goading me, challenging me. I believed that you were quite adept at what you were doing, that you were accustomed to your power, that you were tenacious, cunning—and had known half the men in the castle.”
She rolled away from him, aware that tears were seeping from her eyes, ready to fall down her cheeks. Her back to him, she whispered, “What difference does it make? You wanted to hurt me, didn’t you?”
He was quiet for a very long moment—so long that she was almost tempted to look back at him again.
He rose and walked away from her. He seemed as restless as a tiger, sleek and powerful in his every movement, and still … caged. And yet he was the one who had made himself master here. He paused at the mantel and was still, staring at the flames.
“I felt … obliged to take everything that was Darrow’s—including you. Did I want to inflict pain? No, not really!” he said very softly at last. “What I have wanted is to stop the anguish in myself, my dreams, the hauntings….” he said, and added bitterly, “Nay, what I really want is to kill Kinsey Darrow. I want him to die slowly—by flames.”
There was a tremor in the very deep cadence of his voice. She winced, shivering, her back still to him. “I know that perhaps you can’t believe me,” she whispered. “But I’m sorry about your wife. So very sorry.”
“My lady, I have just violated you. You need not apologize regarding the fate of another woman at this moment.” He was quiet again; then he must have seen her shaking, for he rose and reached for her.
“No, I—”
“I am taking you to the bed, nothing more—to the warmth of the furs.”
Despite her instant and instinctive protest, he lifted her and carried her to the bed. She was so very sore, wounded to the core. She couldn’t have fought him then; she hadn’t the will. Her arms curved around his neck. His eyes held hers; she trembled still harder, suddenly aware now as she hadn’t been before of his great, sword-yielding strength, the perfect honing of his body, the way that he moved—against her, touching her. He was the enemy who had come to her house and invaded; and she should have been fighting still, slamming against him, protesting even his lightest touch with the last breath in her body.
Her body remained in too much anguish.
He ripped away the furs that covered the bed and slid her onto the smooth cool sheets before covering her in the furs once again. Shivering, teeth chattering, she drew the furs tightly to her chin.
He studied her. She watched him in return, trying to keep her eyes glued to his and not let them fall to the portion of his anatomy that had so tormented her just moments ago. Then he slid into the bed beside her. She clutched the furs more tightly, ever guarded. But he kept his distance, lying back, lacing his fingers behind his head as he stared without really seeing up toward the ceiling.
“It is strangely hollow,” he said at last. “Kinsey Darrow stole everything from me. And here I lie in the handsome chamber he would have made his own, with the wealthy and titled heiress he would have had as his wife! But nothing has changed; the pain has not eased!”
He looked at her suddenly, sharply, eyes narrowed. “Ah, but there is something of a victory in this; I have taken something that will not be his.”
“You think that you will hurt Kinsey through me?” she whispered.
He turned away from her again. “He loves you so that it will not matter? Well, lady, God help you both then, for I cannot stop until I have ridden him down and to death at last. Would that he had seized Alesandra—and nothing more. If he’d kept her at his side for a year, she’d have still been my wife, and love would have been far stronger than any damage he would have tried to cast upon my pride. But he killed her! The bastard killed her!”
She held her silence then, wincing. She realized his rage, and felt the anguish that tore at him, and began trembling again.
Perhaps it was amazing that he did not seek to slay her in return.
She moistened her lips. If she were to tell him the truth, he would surely never believe her. “If I were to die now, I’m afraid that Kinsey would not too deeply mourn—I believe that the king would grant him my estates.” She didn’t add that the king had arranged the marriage to reward Kinsey Darrow and that she’d been allowed no argument in the matter. In fact, she’d been told quite simply that she’d marry Kinsey on her own two feet, or bound and gagged and held bodily before a priest so that she could be forced to nod at the appropriate moments.
He glanced at her sharply; then the smallest curve of a smile molded his lips. “My lady, I don’t think that you will die now. I intend to try very hard not to kill you. But upon occasion, I’m afraid you tempt one to throttle you.”
“And what did you expect? That because a woman had been left in charge of her own father’s holdings that I would surrender meekly like a mouse and forget all thoughts of freedom myself?” Tears were suddenly stinging her eyes again. How foolish. It was a violent world; she knew it. King Edward of England believed himself supreme—it didn’t matter in the least that he destroyed lives with a word or the wave of his hand. Why should it matter when he was ready to kill at any given moment?
“I had not expected … you,” Arryn told her, and turning toward her suddenly he said, “I’m sorry that I hurt you.”
“But that was the intent.”
“The intent was to take what was Darrow’s.”
“An interesting concept, for anything can be taken from any man at the whim of a king.”
He shook his head, staring at her. “I don’t think you, and certainly not your betrothed, begin to understand the swell of rebellion that has begun.”
“If you speak about the outlaw Wallace.”
He laughed interrupting her. “I do speak of Wallace.”
“He is an outlaw, a brigand.”
“And why is that?” he asked harshly. His eyes were narrowed on hers. She inched back as the passion of his anger caused him to raise up on an elbow and stare at her. “He is an outlaw! Because he protested his father’s murder? His father refused to sign the oath years ago, you know, and amazingly, he was killed. And then what befell … Marion … well, perhaps what he suffers is even worse than the dreams that haunt my sleep, because he feels his guilt is even greater.”
“I have heard the minstrels. I know it is rumored that the woman he loved was killed, but I have heard as well that the story is nothing but the outlaw’s defense because your William Wallace murdered the king’s agent Heselrig—”
“That was no rumor!” he snapped angrily. “My cousin John was there that day, with William. They had skirmished with soldiers, and disappeared through Marion’s house. Heselrig retaliated by killing Marion—a very sharp blow to the head, sent her way in anger, ended her life. And now, can you imagine? Her house was burned to the ground as well.”
“Wallace is not a man known for his mercy!” she protested. “He has burned men to death as well.”
“Once!” Arryn said his features constricted as he stared at her. “And I know that occasion, for I was there myself. The English tricked several hundred Scotsmen, calling them to a meeting at Ayr. Each man was hanged as he arrived. Our party was forewarned, and the tables were turned, and aye, when we arrived, he was in a rare fury, and the murderers were locked in—and the barn that hosted both the living and the dead became a funeral pyre for both.”
She bit her lip, staring at him, shaking her head. “Still!” she said softly. “It is a band of outlaws! I’m sure that your estates are forfeit after this attack on Darrow, and the seizure of a castle King Edward would claim. Scotsmen still continue to side with the king. Robert the Bruce and others with claims to the Scottish throne side with Edward. Men with wealth and power side with the king. You would fight a war against a mighty power with rocks and sticks!”
