Conquer the Night (25 page)

“There are many, many!” Arryn said, pleased at their discovery. Dragging Kyra along, he walked to the wall. He didn't think of the bodies that haunted their vision, of the dozens of men and women, some hardly changed in the cold of the cavern, some decayed to bone.

He pulled the shroud from a dead man at eye level, taking the handsome claymore at the corpse's side in his left hand. Kyra wrenched at her wrist, trying to free herself from him.

He gazed at her, startled. In his pleasure at the cache, he had almost forgotten her.

Her face was ashen.

“Do you know, my lady, what Kinsey Darrow has been doing?”

She froze, refusing to answer.

“He has just murdered an old friend of mine. And I am the one committing a crime here? Come, though, we'll leave the crypt behind; there are so many weapons here that I will have to send my men to retrieve them.”

He started from the crypt, pulling her along. To his surprise she pulled back. He turned to meet her eyes.

“Not my father's!” she whispered. “Please don't disturb my father's site!”

He arched a brow and turned slightly. Into the rock that made up the shelves, the names of each of the dead had been chiseled. He saw that the old lord of Seacairn was just a corpse away from the dead man he had disturbed.

He looked back at Kyra. “Why, my lady, isn't your father's sword the weapon you used against me when I came to find you in the chapel?”

She shook her head. “It was my own.”

He arched a brow again. But of course. If she had learned swordplay for her own amusement, she would have had a weapon made, one less heavy than the blade that such a man as her father would have carried.

“Please!” she whispered. “Don't disturb my father's grave.”

John, behind them, cleared his throat. “Perhaps one weapon will not make a difference.”

Arryn continued to stare at her. “Give me your sword, then, my lady, and we will let your father's be.”

“You have it. Your men took it after you bested me in the chapel.”

“I still say, lady, that it is up to you.”

She searched out his eyes; then her gaze fell. “Don't take my father's sword.”

He watched her for a moment, then looked to John. “I'll send men down now to assist. You'll get all the weapons we can supply. See to it that the body of Lord Boniface is not disturbed.”

“Aye, Arryn.”

“And you, my lady …”

“I will return to the tower, Sir Arryn,” she said.

He nodded to her, a slight, grim smile curving his lips. “Aye, lady, that you will.”

Ragnor kept the bulk of the men at work in the fields; John and Jay supervised the removal of all the available weapons from the corpses in the crypt.

The corpses held more than weapons. Many of them had been laid to rest with jewels, medallions, gold and silver chains, brooches, and more. John appealed to Arryn; the men had asked if there were not riches to be sacked from the castle as well. Since Edward—and even de Moray and Wallace—had been known not just to sack churches but to burn them to the ground as well, he determined that the men fought for an uncertain future, and God knew, some small piece of jewelry might buy them an escape sometime, when the tide of war did not go their way. He allowed the riches to be removed, but the corpses were to be respectfully shrouded once again, and when they were finished, Father Corrigan was to give a blessing. Father Corrigan reported tartly that he wasn't certain just what prayer was used for the ravaged dead, but that he would find something. It was when the day's work was done, when the training in the field had ended and the dead within the crypt were left in peace again, that Father Corrigan found Arryn upon the parapets, and reported that he had asked God's blessing on the dead again, just as he had requested.

It was late, very late. The night guards remained awake, and few others, and Arryn had not expected the priest to search for him that night.

“You're appalled, Father, that we've robbed the dead?” he inquired, leaning back against the wall. He had come here for his own peace. The summer night was beautiful—the warmest so far. If it were not for the very cold stone of the castle, they might not even need a fire for warmth, even into the wee hours of the night. The stars were out against an ebony background in the distant sky, and the breeze that touched his flesh was balmy.

Corrigan shrugged. “I heard about your earlier comment, Sir Arryn, to Lady Kyra. The crimes we commit against the living are far greater.”

“Ah, Father! You're a man of God. What crimes, sir, do you commit?”

“Sir Arryn, what do you know of any man? In my past, sir, there remain sins untold.”

The priest was a striking dark fellow, as tall and well built as any warrior. A curious man, Arryn had known from the beginning.

“Against the living—or the dead?”

Corrigan leaned against the wall, looking out at the night. “There are all manner of sins, sir. Pride is one.”

“Murder another.”

“Lust … vanity. But I would say, sir, that pride is among my greatest, and the dangers it causes! But I am the priest—I have no desire to unburden my soul to a layman, sir, no matter how powerful and wise.”

“Ah, so you would mock me, Father.”

“Nay, Sir Arryn, I do not. Nor do I condemn you for your sins against the dead!”

“Only against the living.”

Corrigan hesitated. “Only against the Lady Kyra.”

“That is all, Father?”

“It's the greatest sin of all, Sir Arryn, to refuse forgiveness.”

“Lady Kyra has not asked my forgiveness.”

“She has not sinned against you.”

“What of Kinsey Darrow?”

“One day he will have to answer to God.”

“Nay, Father, one day he will have to answer to me.”

“Perhaps.”

“And what of King Edward? What will he say to his maker?”

“All men must face a final justice—even kings.”

“Vengeance is mine, so sayeth the Lord, eh, Father?”

“Aye, Sir Arryn.”

“So … we should all prostrate ourselves before Edward?”

Corrigan smiled slowly. “Nay, Sir Arryn. And thereby my own sin, my own pride, for I cannot, will not.”

Arryn nodded slowly. “I have told you, Father, that when I leave here, I will leave the lady in good health. That is a promise. I swear it.”

“That's not enough.”

“What would you have me do?”

“Take her with you.”

“To the battlefield? Nay, Father, that would be madness! God knows if we can win this … and God knows as well, she is loyal to Edward, and to Darrow.”

“Sir Arryn—”

“That is all, Father. Good night.”

He did not expect the priest to leave, but departed himself.

He entered the tower room, certain that he would find Kyra there—after all, they had made a deal, even if the promises had been subtly given. He thought that she would be in the chair before the fire, as she had been the past nights.

But the fire burned low, and the chair was empty. Nor did she sleep upon the rug before the hearth.

Puzzled, his temper already beginning a slow boil as he wondered what trickery she might be about, he carefully entered the room, and quietly closed the door behind him. He looked about in the shadows of the room, then realized she lay beneath the sheets and furs upon the bed. He felt an instant quickening in his groin, a constriction of his muscles, a hunger in his very soul.

He determined he would not betray it so. Striding into the room, he began to disrobe. The mound within the bed did not move.

She would feign sleep, he thought.

The last of his clothing tossed aside, he approached the bed. He sat by her side, then drew back the covers. Her back was to him—naked, sleek, her flesh gold perfection in the dying firelight, the curve of her buttocks enticing, the scent of her sweet and feminine. She tormented his senses, haunted his loins, teased him as no woman had before. He found himself running a finger down the length of her spine and speaking to her mockingly.

“Do you think, my lady, that in life, your father would have so willingly traded his sword for your honor?”

He was stunned when she flipped with uncanny speed—a sword clutched in her hands and pressed instantly to his throat.

Her emerald eyes were alive with fire, with triumph. And he was ever more the fool. He froze at first, damning himself. He was not going to die for Scotland, or for glory or freedom. He was going to die for being a fool.

The point of her blade pressed against his flesh. His eyes met hers, filled with rage.

“Up, Sir Arryn!” she commanded.

With little choice, he clenched his jaw and rose—the point of the blade led him to rise. She followed.

“This is one weapon you failed to steal, sir!” she told him.

Standing, feeling the point of the blade, he returned her stare. “Your sword, my lady? You lied, I see, and my men failed to retrieve it when you lost it in fair battle?”

“Fair battle! You would talk about fair battle!”

“I wouldn't talk at all. If you're going to kill me, I suggest you do it, because if you lose that sword to me, you will rue the day.”

“I imagine I will rue this day one way or the other, sir. But kill you? So quickly? Nay! When I suggested you hang me quickly, you commented that a hanging would be far too kind, far too merciful! Nay, Sir Arryn!” The blade moved from his throat, teased his midsection, set upon his abdomen, very, very low. He felt the touch of her steel, almost a caress.

“Traitors, sir, are hanged until half-dead, disemboweled, castrated, and then cut up to be sent to the four corners of the world!”

“I'm not a traitor. I never gave my allegiance to an English king. But then, murder and mutilation are punishments your people enjoy inflicting. Is such a death one you would enjoy doling out, my lady? Are you trying to keep pace with Kinsey?”

“I want but to bargain with you, sir. Your life for my freedom!”

The passion and emotion in her voice startled him; she stood before him, naked except for the sword, so very beautiful, her hair reflecting fire and gold from the hearth, her eyes … so vital, so alive. Yet … she wavered. Just a sign of weakness. Enough …

He grabbed the blade itself, felt the sharpness with his fingers, even the sting as he cut his own flesh to seize the weapon and steer it from its present course. She gasped, struggling to retrieve control, but with the threat removed from his person, he caught her hands where they held the hilt of the blade and nearly crushed bone until she cried out and her hold eased. He seized the weapon from her and hurled it toward the far corner of the room. He caught her by the hair, wrenching her face to his. “Do that again and you had best kill me very quickly! A warning—never, ever hesitate. If you threaten a man, be ready to kill!”

He pushed her from him, then stepped past her, walking to the low-burning fire, hunkering down before it to study the deep cuts on his fingers and palm.

“Get over here!” he commanded sharply. She didn't move. His anger was such that he strode back by her again, catching her by the hair. She cried out, startled, as he drew her by its length to land on the fur before the light of the fire. He stared down at her. “I'll need your care for these wounds, lady. Now!”

She stood, coming to his side, her heart pounding. “I have a salve,” she began.

“Poison, I imagine.”

“I didn't mean to hurt you.”

“Castration is not painless, my lady.”

“I meant to bargain, nothing more!” she whispered. “Don't you see, you fool, when you hold the sword, you have the power. When I hold the sword …”

He stared at her. Aye, she'd held the sword. But she hadn't used it. Because she was a woman who could not commit coldblooded murder.

Was that the truth of it? Or had he merely taken her by surprise?

“Get your salve.”

She nodded and swallowed hard, backing away from him. “Perhaps the cuts should be stitched.”

“Perhaps you are trying to be gentle and kind so that I don't decide a simple hanging would be just fine!”

“I can stitch.…”

“The cuts are not so deep. Get your salve. And if these wounds fester in any way …”

His voice trailed off. She went to a trunk and returned with a jar. He sat on the chair before the fire; she knelt before him, the firelight playing on her hair as she lowered her head to tend his wounds. The salve she used was soothing. Her scent was intoxicating. She carefully wound linen bandages around his hand. When she looked up at him, she saw his eyes. Her own fell quickly. He saw that she was shaking.

“I'm sorry.”

“Of course you are. You don't want me to kill you.”

“I never meant—”

“Did you, or didn't you? Since I seized the sword, I'll never really know exactly what you meant.”

Her eyes remained downcast. He caught her chin with his thumb, forcing her to raise her head, to meet his eyes.

“Have I been so brutal, so vile?”

She swallowed hard. New life flickered into the emerald of her eyes. “Nay, you fool, you are not so vile!”

“Fool?” he asked, his voice dangerously pleasant.

“Nay, you are not so vile.”

He rose, drawing her up with him.

“I would have demanded nothing for your father's sword; I knew the man, and admired him.”

“You made me bargain.”

“I didn't make you do anything, if you'll recall. I let you bargain.”

“My God! And that means—” she began, her temper flaring.

“My hand does pain me, my lady,” he cut in quickly.

“The salve is good, I swear it,” she replied.

“I believe you, though that, indeed, might make me a fool.”

“I have tried to make it better.”

“You will try harder.” He turned and walked to the bed, drawing the covers back again with his good hand. He lay down.