Conquer the Night (15 page)

Tonight was especially beautiful. It was a pity she could not take time to enjoy the simple splendor and deceptive peace of it all….

For there was a man upon the tower, naturally, keeping a keen eye on the surroundings of Seacairn.

Careful not to make a sound and to keep her distance from him, Kyra tried to surmise what was happening. The high tower here gave full view to all of the surrounding countryside. She looked anxiously to the road from the northeast, and felt fear settle in. The trees shielded most of the activity, but between branches and trees she could see that men had returned to Seacairn, that baggage wagons littered the roads ….

Along with bodies.

Her heart shuddered and seemed to skip a beat. Kinsey had returned, she thought. And even as she watched, riders broke out from the trees. Their heads were bent and they rode hard, two at first, followed by more.

Who?

The guard at this high point had moved close to the low wall. Kyra moved silently behind him, and far to his right, using one of the four brick pillars that supported the low wall as a shield. She bent over the wall, trying to see.

If the sun were only still out …

God in heaven,
who
was coming?

“My lady!”

Startled that she had been seen, she twisted around. She saw Arryn's man coming toward her.

And, to her horror, she felt the wall behind her giving. She tried to straighten, tried to catch herself.

No one had leaned against this sector of the wall in a hundred years! she thought in dismay.

She reached out instinctively; brick crumpled in her hands. She hadn't intended it, but suddenly she was pitching over the wall.

From the outer wall, Arryn saw Kyra go sailing toward the water.

It appeared to be a perfect dive.

“She's mad!” he cried, reining in Pict. Then he spurred his horse, certain that the fool had broken her neck, and if not, then she would plummet to the depths and drown—freeze.

He raced around the outer wall, reaching the river where it veered from the castle. He couldn't see her. He looked up. Guy of Wick stared down from the tower, pointing. Arryn saw where she had landed; he cast off his mantle, scabbard, and sword and plunged in.

The river was bitingly cold, deep, and swift, a fact for which the inhabitants of the castle were usually grateful, since it removed the waste that might be stagnant in a protective moat. But the water was dark as well, thick with undergrowth in places, and in plunging from such a height, she might easily become entangled and trapped. She might be knocked unconscious.…

Fool!
If she died, she deserved it! he told himself, furious—and afraid. And ever more furious that he was so afraid. Was she trying to kill herself? Or was she so desperate to reach Kinsey Darrow that she would attempt any idiot's scheme?

He dived into the water, searched in the stygian darkness, then surfaced. Again, and again. He refused to give up.

He was vaguely aware that Ragnor had reached him, and others, and that they, too, had plunged into the river after her.

Then he heard shouting; Guy from the tower high above. He spun in the cold water and saw her. On her own she had risen and swum to the opposite bank. She had emerged and, soaked and panting, stood on the embankment. She rose to her full height, still gasping in air. She was dressed in some ridiculous male's outfit she had surely seized from her late father's coffers, and the material molded to her form as she stood there shivering, regaining her breath.

And then she saw him, met his eyes, froze as they stared at one another.

And at that moment he wanted to throttle her. There was far too much defiance in her, and far too much that …

Appealed. The brilliance of her eyes, catching the dying light of the river. The clothing that clung like a second skin to her perfect form. Even the length of her hair, tangled with sea grasses.

She turned to run.

In seconds he was out of the water. She was fast and fleet, but she had made a death-defying dive and surfaced in ice-cold water and swum hard against it. Despite the lead she had on him, he was quickly behind her. She cried out before he touched her, aware that he was there. He threw his arms around her, bringing them both down. They fell on the hillside and tumbled down the grass. In the end, he pinned her down, staring at her. She was soaked, covered in grass now, and shaking. And still her eyes met his with that same green defiance.

“Get … get … get …” She gasped, and could say no more. Her eyes closed.

“I should just let you kill yourself!”

Her eyes flew open. She shook her head. “I wasn't trying to kill myself!”

“Then you're an idiot, pulling such a stunt to reach Darrow. Why? To warn him? Of what? He'll know we're here soon enough. Just to get away?”

“Oh, you're an idiot! I wasn't trying to kill myself.”

“So you were trying to reach Darrow!” he lashed out angrily.

“No!”

“Liar!” His anger was such that he almost struck her. He pulled back and realized that he was mostly angry with himself. Damn him, why the hell did he care? Why was he still shaking with relief just because she was all right?

She flinched, still shaking, her teeth still chattering. “I fell!” she cried out, her voice tremulous.

He realized the depth of his own cold, but he didn't let her up, not then. “You
fell?
If you weren't trying to reach Darrow, why did you run?”

“Because of your face!”

He arched a brow, startled. “Ah, lady, it may not be so beautiful, but it isn't a face to make a maid run!”

“You looked as if you meant to kill me!”

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.