Conquer the Night (9 page)

He left the great hall, hurrying toward the kitchens. “The lady has her supporters!” Ragnor said softly.

“So she does. Pour me more ale.”

Ragnor filled his tankard. He lifted it. “To Scotland. To our slain brethren.”

“Aye, to those we've lost!” he said, and watching Arryn added, “And why not drink to vengeance?”

“Fine. To vengeance.” Arryn drained the tankard. Finally, finally, he could begin to feel the soothing effects of enough ale in his blood. He walked to the fire in the great hearth, leaned against the mantel, and watched the blaze. Red flames, gold, yellow, crimson, even blue. Leaping, falling, warming the hall. Man needed fire. Fire warmed, fire heated, fire cooked. It staved away the sure death of the bitter cold that could come to the land. And yet …

Fire burned. Fire killed….

He could still close his eyes and smell the smoke, the rancid smell of burning flesh.

“There must be vengeance!” he said softly.

“Aye. And Darrow's woman should know that vengeance.”

Ragnor spoke with no conviction. She had bewitched them all.

Arryn spun around, his teeth gritting in fury. “I should simply give her to every soldier who breached these gates and leave her thus for Darrow to find.”

“But you would not.”

“Aye, and why not?” Arryn demanded bitterly. “Tell me, why not? Why do we stop where our enemies would not?”

“Well, knowing Darrow as we do, he would marry her still, and thus gain her wealth and many estates, both English and Scottish.”

“If he kills enough Scotsmen, the king will reward him with estates and riches anyway,” Arryn said bitterly. “He probably rose miraculously in the king's eyes, simply by burning men—and women—to death.”

“You have taken this place, and his intended. You will drain him every time you're able. In time you will catch up with him. And then …”

“Then, so help me, if I die in the effort, I will see that he meets Satan.”

“The time will come.”

“Well, then!” He strode back across the room and poured himself more ale. “I am to duty, and to bed.”

“Good night, Arryn, and take care! You must know that she'll fight back. That …”

“That?”

“That she'll want to kill you.”

“Aye, I am aware.” He paused, placing his hands over Ragnor's red-bearded cheeks. “She has already tried. Though it seems that this castle is filled with fools who fall quickly to her feet, I will not fall prey to the lady, my friend. Trust me,” he said earnestly, looking into Ragnor's eyes.

Ragnor watched him go. “Would that I had your duty!” he whispered softly, and yet he knew that demons plagued his friend, and that this was a strange vengeance indeed.

Arryn walked up the steps, tension knotting his limbs. He felt a new surge of anger, and couldn't help wondering if he would be so bitterly determined if Lady Kyra had been the broad servant girl, Ingrid. As in the words of Julius Caesar: “I came, I saw, I conquered!” That simple. Have her brought to him, brought away. Over and done …

Why wasn't he doing that? Why was she residing in the tower room already? He would have to take his longed-for steamy bath with her there; he wouldn't dare shut his eyes—she'd be ready with a knife….

He paused, frowning, forgetting his dilemma for the moment as he heard a thumping sound from the area of the parapets. Rather than taking the twisting steps on up to the tower room, he walked out to the parapets once again.

The drop from the tower to the parapets was perhaps thirty feet. There was a guard above her, but as long as she had stared at the circular walkway below, she had seen no man make a single pass by. There was nothing to guard from here; the man atop the tower above her head could see riders coming from any direction.

The castle and the village had been duly subdued.

And already the dead had been cleared from the courtyard; the wounded had been taken away to be treated. Morning had come, another day, a new day. Things changed, and things stayed the same. The merchants were at their business again—grateful they had been spared the last battle to plague them.

Locked in the tower room, she had paced through the night, waiting, and at every little sound, jumping—certain that he was returning at last.

She had paused before the fire and, unbelievably, drifted to sleep, then awakened once again with an ungodly feeling of urgency. She had paced like a fool, making no attempt to escape.

But then, realizing the night was ending and day was coming …

It had been time for sheer desperation.

If she could make it down to the parapets below, she could make it to the courtyard from there, mingle with the bakers' daughters and the fishwives—and disappear.

So thinking, she dragged her hastily created escape sash from the bed. It consisted of linen sheets wrenched from beneath the rich furs on the bed, her torn undertunic, the tassels from the tapestries, and the towels that were always set by the washstand. Her overgown had been left in little better shape by her tormentor than the tunic beneath it, but she'd found one of her father's old mantles to tie around her shoulders, and thus she could escape with both decency and some anonymity.

She had carefully chosen the structure of the escape rope she had created, with the tassel cords at the top end to be tied around the legs of the heavy oak chair she had wedged by the window. When her knots were carefully completed—very carefully completed, for she didn't intend to die in this endeavor—she took a deep breath.

She started out the window, then looked up. She could see the top of the guard's head, but he could not see her. The overhang protected her from his vision.

Slowly, slowly, slowly … she started down the rope.

It was painstaking—so difficult! She feared that one of the knotted garments would slip at any minute. She had to move more quickly … and yet so carefully. The day was chill; sweat beaded on her forehead.

Another foot … another foot …

And she could jump.

She did so, landing softly, her knees buckling slightly, both feet on the ground. She paused then, eyes closed, hands against the cold stone of the tower. She was shaking, very afraid, aware that she might well have plunged to her death.

But she hadn't.

She had made it.

And she was almost free.

And yet … what then?

Don't think about it
, she warned herself.
Don't dare think about it, not now; just figure out how to leap down to the ground below, to join with the workers in the courtyard…
.

She opened her eyes. They flew wide. A gasp escaped her.

He
was there—the damnable, wretched, invading bastard so bent on her destruction. He was quite at his leisure, and had been watching while she struggled with a desperate and precarious attempt to elude him. He leaned against the wall quite casually, one arm across his chest, sipping ale, staring at her with his deep blue, ruthless gaze.

She started to turn. His fingers snagged her hair, drawing her back. She met his deep blue eyes, his shaven cheeks beginning to show stubble. He was weary, drawn, and sarcastic, his deep voice pleasant—and biting.

“How very rude. You intended to leave without saying goodbye.”

“Aye, I'm afraid so. I didn't know your whereabouts. So, now, sir, how very rude of you to detain me when I am so anxious to be away,” she replied, reaching for his fingers in an attempt to persuade him to let go of her hair.

“So you missed me, and wondered about my whereabouts. I'm so sorry. Seizing and securing a castle are time-consuming. But I was just coming to join you.”

“How unfortunate. I was just leaving.”

“But I think not!” he said, and his light tone changed in such a manner that she knew he meant his words.

“You are hurting me,” she told him, tugging anew at her hair.

“Good,” he said, and his stare was so cold, his rejoinder so flat and honest, she felt a swift siege of chills. “That is my intent.”

“Perhaps your intent should be delayed for the sake of logic, as this is most awkward. Be so good as to let me go, and I will precede you back up the stairs,” she suggested.

“I will not let you go, and you will still precede me back up the stairs.”

He had the most piercing eyes she had ever known, and a strange way of speaking in a manner that left no doubt as to his intent. When he spoke, there was no room for argument or negotiation. His statements were cold, chilling—and irrefutable. He absolutely despised her, she was certain; yet she would go with him and be …

Used and abused! His words!

He was as cold as ice, but his limbs and eyes burned with a strange passion. He had given mercy to the men, to the servants, but he was still covered in blood from the battle.

She bit her lower lip, staring at him. He gripped her as if he would far more willingly throw her from the parapets than drag her up to a bedroom. There had to be some way to argue him out of this; he had but one intent, and that was revenge against Darrow.

“You think to threaten me, and so strike out at Kinsey? My dear sir, you don't understand us. We are both ambitious to a fault, and therefore will still wed. I am aware of his fondness for damsels in distress; he is resigned to my hunger for variety. I—”

“Were you aware that he has murdered those ‘damsels' when he is finished with his own amusements?” he queried sharply.

She bit her lower lip again. “He never meant to kill your wife—”

“I'm sure his remorse was deep, that he has prostrated himself on his knees to God daily since the event.”

His dry sarcasm was biting.

“I still say that it was not intended,” she protested, “and since you are so obviously appalled by me, I can't think what you hope to accomplish here! Did you think to soil his virginal bride? Dear sir, you're so sadly mistaken. There's nothing you can do, short of murder—”

“Ah, but,” he interrupted, “we have not yet discarded that as an option, I must tell you in all fair warning.”

“You don't want to kill me!” she accused him.

“No,” he admitted flatly, those impenetrable blue eyes never wavering from hers. “But that will not stop me from doing so. Let's go back upstairs, shall we?”

“Why don't you just finish it here? Go ahead. Prove your brutality. Do it now. Throw me over the parapet!”

“Alas, I dare not. I might hit someone below.”

She tugged afresh at her hair, as frightened by his coldness as his heat, and not at all reassured by his dry humor. “Please …”

He suddenly released her hair. “Get upstairs.”

She walked in front of him, then turned on him again. “I'm telling you, this will mean nothing at all to Kinsey.”

“Indeed? Well, good, then. God knows, there is nothing wrong with enjoying vengeance. I see that you are so anxious to get to it that you have already discarded half your clothing.”

Her cheeks reddened. “Sir, you might remember that my clothing is in dishabille due to your less than gentle touch!”

“Ah, but that was hours ago—last night, as a matter of fact. You had no time for repair?”

“I was busy with important work,” she told him.

“So I see,” he replied, surveying the tied clothing and bed sheets that had supplied what should have been her escape route. Then he stared at her again, touching the garment that cloaked her shoulders. Your father's mantle?” he asked politely. Then his eyes narrowed darkly. “Or Kinsey's?”

She didn't know why she answered with the truth so quickly, but she did. “My father's.”

His eyes stayed hard on her. She started to walk again, then spun around, anger and despair welling within her. “I will not walk ahead of you like a lamb to slaughter!” she exclaimed, and, slamming both hands hard against his chest, she tried to push by him. She made it to his left side before she was dragged back. His fingers tangled in her hair again. Tears stung her eyes. Step by step, she was dragged inexorably toward the tower room.

And there stood Jay. “Thank God!” he muttered, and the way he now looked at her, she thought that she had lost a friend for certain. He was furious with her for trying to escape.

Yet what did they expect? As they had come against her in Darrow's place for vengeance, so they must realize that it was equally a matter of honor for her to refuse to accept the fate they intended for her as well.

Yet Jay was furious. She had made a fool of him.

“Arryn! I tell you, she did not leave by the door! I just discovered her absence when the servants came with the bath—”

“She departed by the window, Jay,” Arryn said, and she felt his gaze. “Not suspecting her capable of such idiocy, I discovered her quite by accident.”

“Idiocy!” she protested, fighting his tangled hold upon her hair again “Not idiocy, but sheer desperation. It is my
duty
, sir, to escape you!”

“She is very eager to return to Darrow, so it seems,” Arryn said.

He had come from behind her, placed his hands upon her hips, and thrust her forward into the middle of the tower room.

Gaston was there with several strapping young lads. He had brought the old, deep, Norse-carved hip tub from the kitchen. Water steamed from it while a kettle bubbled above the fire. Fresh towels had been laid out on the tapestried chair by the side of the hearth. A deep, thick, brown bear pelt lay on the floor by the tub and before the fire.

It was a charming domestic scene.

To make it all the more comfortable, new linens were being hastily arranged upon the large bed, with its carved oak head-and footboards.

Gaston met her eyes with sorrow. She realized that he had come here, seen her escape attempt, and had tried to keep quiet the fact that she had been absent from the room. But Jay had burst in behind him, and when Gaston could not pretend that she was still within the room, he had hastily tried to repair the damage she had done, hoping that by doing so, he might help soothe the temper of some savage beast.