Conquer the Night (12 page)

He had come for revenge….

She felt the strangest urge to be touched again. She denied the urge, felt his eyes.

“Your cousin is here!” she whispered. She tried not to look over the length of him—muscled, tensed….

Aroused.

“Your cousin—” she began again.

“Aye.”

He reached out and took the fur from her. Her fingers curled tightly around it, then eased to his force. And she knew, and she felt tremulous within.

“You don't want me!” she protested in a desperate whisper.

“I don't want to want you!” he returned.

“Your cousin—”

“Will remain. Would that you had just stayed down, my lady, hidden in a bundle of begging! But then … it is war, isn't it? And I am here and the castle is mine … and so are you.”

He hadn't moved from her. He didn't touch her still, but she could feel him. Something seemed to burn in the air between them. His muscles were so tense, rippling as he stood watching her….

She tried not to let her gaze slip.

Oh, God, his eyes the way he looked at her … she seemed flushed, trembling, shaking, on fire, denying, and yet …

There was something about him, this, the intimacy….

He caught her to him, lifted her.

Fight!

She didn't.

His eyes kept burning into hers.

He laid her upon the bed. He came over her. Some kind of a terrible groan seemed to rake through the length of him.

And still, his eyes pinned hers….

He was within her; she closed her eyes, moistened her lips….

She didn't feel the pain, just something strange, burning, building.

She should have been twisting, turning….

She couldn't have stopped him.

She hadn't tried.

But she wasn't in any pain! Indeed, there was that something….

And then it was over. And he didn't apologize or explain. He didn't speak to her at all. He smoothed back a tangle of her hair, pulled a fur back around her as she shivered.

Then he rose.

The fire still blazed, but the light outside had succumbed to the darkness and shadows of night. His body was a silhouette, muscle, tone, and agility somehow stressed by the silently moving dark figure he had become. He walked toward the tub and found the length of tartan he had worn, wrapping it around his waist and throwing it over his shoulder. He paused long enough to retrieve his hose and shoes, then started to exit the room. She thought that he had forgotten her entirely, that he would leave without looking back.

But when he reached the door he paused. His back remained to her. “Make one move out of that bed while I'm gone and suffer the consequences.” he said.

The fur was warm.

She kept shivering.

“Mark my words, lady!” he warned softly.

And then he opened and closed the heavy door, and was gone.

CHAPTER FIVE

It was past midday, Arryn realized; his men had come in from their duties to dine in the great hall.

A number of their captured enemies were among them—the Irishman Michael Corrigan, the Seacairn priest, and the captain of the guard, Tyler Miller. The priest seemed to be listening and observing; the young captain of the castle guard was asking questions of the newcomer, Arryn's cousin, John Graham. John sat at the edge of the long oak table, his legs folded beneath him. All eyes were on him, as if he had been entertaining the company with heroic tales.

“Ah, lads!” John was saying, addressing mainly the men who had survived their capture of the castle, but also the Scotsmen among them. Brendan had come in, eager to listen to the tales of his adventurous kinsman.

“Aye! You can talk about King Edward being a fine specimen of a man, tall and great, known as Longshanks, aye. He's a Plantagenet king, my friends, and aye, they can be fine enough in appearance, good enough to look upon, and he is a long, straight fellow, honestly a warrior; now that cannot be said of every king! So it's not that he's a fool, or an embarrassment. But did you know that the Plantagenets have a curse upon them? They're known for being evil men, men of vile temper and fury—and dishonesty. Why, when good King Alexander died in 1286, the king swore to be our friend while planning to wed his son and heir to our little Maiden of Norway! Alas, the child died as well—God sparing her a marriage to that boy, perhaps! But then Edward claimed again to be our friend, overlooking the choice of king, and he must have been glad indeed when the law agreed that John Balliol had right to be king over the rest of the thirteen claimants, all heirs through various daughters of true kings. So he raised up a king—and how lucky for Edward, since this king was married to the daughter of John de Warenne, Earl of Surrey, one of Edward's most efficient and ablest commanders on a field of battle! So Edward made a king, and made that king swear fealty to him, and when Balliol had been crowned, the Great Seal of Scotland was broken into pieces—and taken to England. And bit by bit from there, Edward tore down the king he had created, and made himself overlord of a country not his own. Ah, good fellows! We should have seen what was to be. Too many of our influential lords were willing to lie down with Edward for the sake of the titles and lands they claimed in England. But sleep with the devil, and the devil will have his due! We have seen what this king had intended all along. Take note of Wales—in 1282, Prince Llewelyn was defeated in battle and killed, and, ah, there you have it; Wales is annexed to England. Will we let this king win such a victory over us? Never. Men will fight for the Crown; they will sleep with the devil again and again to achieve riches and land, and the king will think that Scotsmen can be bought—he doesn't realize that there is a man among us they call an outlaw, but who fights for no personal gain, and seeks only one reward—the freedom of a country!”

“Do we drink then to William Wallace, cousin?” Arryn inquired.

John turned quickly toward him.

They were nearly of an age, and similar in height and stature and coloring; eyes of a deep Nordic blue had come into the family at an early age, and it seemed that most of its men carried the trait, along with thick, wavy, very black hair. John had a pleasant sense of humor about himself, and a flair for the dramatic; he was charming, but never shiftless. He had given his loyalty to William Wallace with an unshakable conviction, and like Wallace, he had determined that he would live to see Scotland unbridled from the yoke of the king of England—or die in the trying.

“Arryn!” John hailed him in return “Indeed, cousin!” He leapt from the table, standing and walking toward Arryn. They embraced briefly. “We can drink to William Wallace—or to you! My congratulations! What a victory you've seized here!”

“Something of a victory. The rat I'd hoped to capture departed before our arrival. So, John, we've seized a castle for the time being,” Arryn said.

John was searching his eyes. “But
Darrow's
castle,” he said with meaning.

Arryn was tempted to correct him, to tell him that the hereditary rights to the castle came through Darrow's betrothed. Yet before he could speak, he remembered Kyra's comment that the lordship of any castle came at the whim of a king.

“And Darrow's woman,” John said quietly, with a small smile on his lips. “I did not mean my interruption to be ill timed, yet riding in your wake, I learned along the way that you had come here.”

“Aye, I made my intent well known,” Arryn said. “Why were you riding after me? Were you eager to be a part of this? “Where rides Wallace?”

John's smile deepened. That's why I've come. I'm seeking men to fight a real battle against the English.” He half sat and half leaned against the end of the table once again.

“A real battle? Is the English army on the move?”

“Indeed. After William killed Heselrig, there was no going back.”

“I heard that William Wallace dragged the bastard right out of his bed and slit his throat!” Captain Miller said with surprising relish.

Arryn stared at the young man whom they might well have cast into chains or put to the sword.

Miller cleared his throat. “Kinsey Darrow has never been my laird, sir!” he told him. “I was duty bound to his lady, but …” His voice trailed.

“So, young man. Would you ride with an outlaw then, for Scotland? Have you the balls, son, to ride against the English?” John demanded.

“Aye, sir!”

“Aye, sir, so you say, yet I faced this man with my own army of brigands today,” Arryn said, walking farther into the room and studying the young man suspiciously. “Captain Miller, young sir—how do we know we could trust you to ride with us?”

“The lad tells the truth of his heart!” the priest interrupted. He stepped forward into the center of the room. “Tyler, Justin, Joshua, Julian, Conan … and more, sir, have long despised their duty here. If William Wallace raises an army against our oppressors, they will be passionate warriors for our country.”

Arryn listened, arching a brow doubtfully, crossing his arms over his chest. “To defy the king of England is certain death if a man is caught.”

“We know what depths of cruelty kings and their lackeys fall to, sir!” Tyler told him. “We have seen the handiwork of the English.”

“Don't fool yourselves that you'll ride for a man who will not take such brutal retaliation,” Arryn warned. “What you've heard of Wallace is true. He didn't start the war with the English; they murdered his father, and his brother, for refusing to bow down to a foreign prince. And they murdered those who gave him assistance as well, including women and children. But for all who enter this war … be aware. The conclusion could be grim.”

“So, cousin!” John demanded. “Does this mean you will leave behind this glorious homestead you have seized and ride for Scotland as well, when you are needed!”

“Did you ever doubt it?” Arryn asked him.

His cousin grinned and shook his head. “Trust me, William Wallace is not a learned general such as some of the men in the king's command, but he knows this country, and knows how to use every brush and tree and strip of river to our advantage. He has raided and triumphed. But he has learned as well that to truly rid us of the English yoke, there must be more. He is anxious to have you, Arryn. He asks that you join him for a meeting at—”

“We'll drink to the endeavor!” Arryn interrupted firmly.

His cousin gazed at him, arching a brow. Then he realized that Arryn was not yet ready to trust everyone in the hall, no matter how passionately they stated their convictions.

“To William Wallace's endeavor!” John agreed.

“Aye, let's drink to a free Scotland!” Arryn proclaimed.

Gaston was in the hall, bringing pitchers and tankards of wine and ale. How much attention did the Briton give to what was said? Arryn wondered. Were these men all against Kinsey Darrow in truth? It was easy to believe because of his own hatred of Kinsey, and yet, in this outlaw war against the king, men were ever treacherous. The richer or more powerful a man, the more he had at stake to lose if he defied the English king.

His thoughts he kept to himself, pretending to drink and enjoy the revelry. With his men and those who attended John—and with those who had fought them and now claimed to love Scotland with equal passion—he drank, yet now far more moderately. They hailed the future, Wallace, dead Scottish kings, and the kings to come. Drink flowed freely.

“Hail to all outlaws!” the priest called out.

Arryn looked at the priest, and found the man's eyes enigmatic. “Aye, Father, hail to all outlaws who would seek honor and freedom!”

“Hail to the Lady Kyra!” someone called.

And the room was suddenly silent.

It was a disturbing matter. Men who claimed to despise Kinsey Darrow were not so hostile when it came to the man's betrothed. Yet every man here knew that it was her position and her riches that had aided Darrow in every turn of his brutal rampage against the borderlands in the name of the king—and the lady of Seacairn.

And every one of Arryn's men had known what had befallen his home and property—and his wife. There had been no pretense about the fact that he had meant to take Darrow's castle and his intended bride.

And so men stared at him now. Surely, some of them, such as Father Michael and passionate young Tyler Miller, must be pondering her fate—and feeling shame that they should so readily betray her to the enemy and join with that enemy.

He smiled, lifted his own glass, and inclined his head. “Indeed. Hail to the Lady Kyra!” he said politely.

Then the rough-hewn humor of seasoned warriors came to the fore. I came, I saw, I conquered! he thought again. The reward of victory. Seize and take. It was what they had done. What he had done.

And still she had ignited his temper—and his appetite, making it easy to carry out what he had seen as a duty. Revenge. The victory now seemed hollow. How much easier it would have been if she had been the broad blond servant woman, if she had been a fool, a trembling schoolgirl—a far different lass! Yes! He had meant to hurt! And now he was …

Shamed and guilty himself, and it infuriated him that he should be so. He hadn't begun to imagine that he might want her. That she might slip beneath his skin. She was the enemy; he had loved the wife he had lost! Alesandra still walked in his dreams; he saw her face….

Heard her screams …

And yet …

She had leapt up, afraid again at the pounding on the door. And he had watched her pulse race, her breasts rise and fall, and what she had awakened in him …

He hadn't meant to touch her again! Not then, not that night, and now …

He was alarmingly eager to return to the tower room above.

Well, he would not do so. Not for hours. It was day; there were things to be done. He had conceded enough to her already. And she still argued for King Edward, and was quick to tell him how he would be hanged and disemboweled if caught.