Conquer the Night (10 page)

She ruefully smiled her thanks to him, then quickly lowered her eyes. She didn't want the invaders seeing any exchange between them. He was her friend, trying to help her. It was a pity that he could not.

Gaston was quick to spring to action. “Ah, sir, ah, my lady! The bath awaits, and all is fresh and clean. And there is a large flagon of ale here, sir, with two of the castle's finest silver cups. I shall pour for you.”

He offered ale first to Kyra; she took it gladly, draining the cup before he had turned to Arryn. Arryn didn't notice.

Gaston quickly gave her more ale. Again she thanked him with her eyes. She would never give up the hope of escape, but it seemed to dim. Drink was all that was left.

“Shall I serve you, sir?” Gaston asked. “Help you to remove your mail—”

“The lady will help me,” Arryn said.

“The lady will not!” she protested, then felt his eyes. She wanted to scream, but she found herself smiling sweetly instead. “The lady could not possibly give you the assistance you require. Why, the weight of your mail—”

“I'm sure you'll manage very well. Gaston, leave us.”

Jay had hovered at the door. “I'll remain on guard.”

“It will not be necessary. Gaston, if you please …”

“Ah, but Lady Kyra is right! The weight of your mail—”

“Gaston. Get out.”

The Briton had done his best to defend his lady; he had lost. “Aye, sir,” he said softly. He looked at Kyra, apology in his eyes.

She lifted her chin, trying to show him that she would be all right.

He left the room. Her friend was gone. She was not going to be all right.

Jay looked in on them a minute longer. “Good night,” he said simply.

Then he, too, quietly departed and closed the door.

And she was alone with the man who had sworn vengeance against her.

CHAPTER FOUR

“Come over and help me,” Arryn demanded.

Help
him?

“No!”

“I need your assistance with my armor, my mail.”

“You want me to undress you?”

“Aye, dammit, get over here.”

“Shall I rape myself as well?” she inquired far too flippantly.

“Madam, get over here.”

“I haven't the strength—”

“You have considerable strength, as you demonstrated by crawling down that wall. Now get over here.”

To her surprise she found herself obeying. He directed her in unbuckling the leather lancets that held his mail at his shoulders. When she was finished, he ordered her to lift the coat of mail.

He was captured within the mail, his arms held in the prison of links. He had ordered Jay from his post at the door. It suddenly seemed her last chance for escape.

“If you'll hold just a moment here …” she murmured, and leaving him with his face covered by the coat of mail, his arms encompassed by it, she stepped away.

Then she sped for the door.

She had barely reached it, grasped the large brass handle, and begun to drag at the heavy weight of the wood, when she felt his hands upon her. He caught hold of the sturdy fabric of her father's mantle; it did not tear, but gave to his grasp, falling from her shoulders. She tried to gather the remnants of her torn gown around her, standing, shaking, her back to him. She winced, eyes closed, aware of her bared shoulders.

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.”