Prisoner of My Desire (9 page)

Rowena did not beg John not to take her to his lord. There would be no point to it. If he did not take her, someone else would come and get her. But she wanted to plead. All she could remember of Fulkhurst was his bigness and that slash of cruelty that was his mouth—and that icy coldness in his voice when he had sent her to his dungeon.

She barely noticed the Great Hall as she was led through it. ’Twas only the middle of the afternoon, so there were not so many people about, mainly servants busy at some task, a few soldiers, a few knights of no great stature.

It was to the lord’s solar that she was taken, a large room beyond the hall. It was bright with sunlight streaming in through two deep-set window alcoves, one on each side of the hooded fireplace. The large bed was four-posted and
finely curtained. It was set against the stone wall that divided the hall, so in winter it would have the added warmth of the great hearth in the hall heating the stones behind it.

There were other things to note, but Rowena was so arrested by the sight of what looked like a pile of chains in the center of the bed, she did not notice the man standing on the other side of the bed, not until he came around it.

His very height proclaimed him, if his fine black tunic and chausses did not—and his mouth, aye, that thin, cruelly shaped slash. It took her a moment more to see the dark blond hair, not quite brown with its golden sheen, and then the eyes, silver and blazing with emotion.

Her own eyes grew enormous, the single word “You” formed on her lips without sound, and then merciful blackness rose up to engulf her.

“Here now,” John grunted as he caught her just before she hit the floor.

Warrick leaped forward to almost yank her out of the older man’s arms. He carried her to the bed and laid her out on it. One of her small hands came to rest on the chain beside her. She would feel it when she awoke. He smiled.

“I cannot imagine what caused that, my lord,” John said anxiously at his back. “She has been eating good.”

Warrick did not take his eyes off the flaxen-haired wench. “So you did pamper her? She has no rat bites to scar that smooth skin?”

John’s answer was a loud snort. Warrick knew his man. John was well known for his soft heart and gentleness with all creatures.

Warrick had been furious with himself after he had sent the order that John Giffard alone was to guard her. But he did not send another man to rescind it. He did not want her to suffer until he was there to make her suffer. And he did not want her small, delicate body shrunken with deprivation, not for what he planned. But mostly, he wanted no other man to touch her, at least not until he knew if she had been successful in her thievery. According to John, she had been.

“She is such a sweet, gentle lady, my lord. What did she do to warrant the dungeon?”

“Her crime was against me personally, so great I cannot speak of it.”

“Surely not!”

“You have let that pretty face fool you, John. She is naught but a greedy wench who wouldst do aught, no matter how atrocious, to see her ends met. She possesses a stubborn core of determination worthy of a man. She—” He stopped, realizing he was saying more than was necessary. He did not need to explain his motives to any man. “I have stripped her of the title she gained in wedding Godwine Lyons, so call her lady no more. And you need not concern yourself with her further. She will not return to the dungeon—for now.”

Warrick felt John’s need to argue, though he did not look back at him to see it. The man would be wise not to overstep his bounds this once, and John must have sensed that, for he quietly left the solar without saying anything more.

Warrick continued to stare at his prisoner, not
even minding that her faint was denying him his revenge. He could be patient now that the time was finally at hand, though he had not been patient until now. Yet he had stayed away apurpose, knowing full well that he could not be here without beginning the revenge he had decided on. Only that would not suit. He had to know first if the wench had been successful in her greedy scheme.

Now he knew, and that doubled her crime against him. If he had thought to spare her even a little, which he had not, her breeding settled the matter, and brought his fury back with a vengeance. She carried
his
child.
She had no right to it
!

He had known the very moment she recognized him, had seen the fear that had caused her to faint. He had gloried in that fear. He had not been sure if she had recognized him in Robert’s borrowed armor in the bailey at Kirkburough. Now he knew she had not. But she did now. And mayhap by now she had learned what manner of man he was, had heard of his reputation for exacting utter destruction on anyone so unwise as to encroach on what was his. That he had never sought revenge on a woman before mattered not. He had only needed to decide what would be an appropriate retaliation for one of her sex, and he had had ample time to do that while he had searched for Isabella.

That had been a fruitless endeavor. When one of his messengers had returned to tell him that his future bride had not arrived at Fulkhurst, he had been thankful for a reason to delay his own
arrival there. But searching for her had been an effort in frustration. There were simply too many different routes she could have taken along the way to Fulkhurst. Finally, he had left the matter of finding her to her father, who was certainly more upset by her disappearance than he was himself. And
that
had annoyed him, too, that it was more thoughts of this wench here that had plagued him the whole while, when he should have been concerned only with his missing bride.

She sighed, and Warrick’s breath held, waiting, willing her to open those large sapphire eyes. Her lips were parted. He remembered the lushness of them, remembered the hot feel of them against his skin whenever she had had to work harder at coaxing his body’s response. Her flaxen tresses were in two thick braids, one beneath her, the other curled across her breasts. He remembered those breasts, full and tempting, but never his to touch or taste, revealed to him only to inflame his senses, to aid in his defeat. He had them to touch now, and it was all he could do not to rip her gown open. But not yet. Not yet. She had to be fully aware of everything he did to her, just as he had been agonizingly aware of everything she had done to him.

She stretched, making a soft sound in her throat, then stilled, except for her hand. He watched the fingers of the hand that rested on the chains feel the cold iron links, watched the frown that creased her brow as she wondered what it was.

“A souvenir,” he explained. “From Kirkburough.”

Her eyes flew open, enormous eyes dominating her small oval face. She made another sound, as if she were strangling. Her fear was palpable, but it was too much, more like utter terror. He would be furious if she fainted again.

Rowena wished she could. God’s mercy, no wonder she had spent these weeks in a dungeon. It had naught to do with her properties. She was going to die, but not by mere deprivation as she had thought. She remembered this man’s hatred and knew he would probably torture her to death. She knew now why he had fought so violently against her rape of him. He was no villein to be in awe of her, but a powerful warlord, a man no one would dare treat as they had done. And Gilbert, that utter, utter fool, had not even known he had captured his worst enemy. Like as not Fulkhurst did not know who she was, either, or that it was
his
own worst enemy who had captured him.

A laugh bubbled up in her throat. She could not stop it. If she had not already lost her mind, she soon would. And he just stood there beside the bed, frowning down at her. Had she thought him handsome? A delusion. That mouth, those chilling eyes—he was a living nightmare, her nightmare, a man who defined cruelty with every line of his face.

She began to shake in reaction. He swore foully and brought his hand to her throat with firm pressure. Her eyes flared even wider.

“Do you faint again, I will beat you,” he growled.

Was that supposed to reassure her? But he released her and moved away from the bed. In self-preservation she watched him, but he only went to the cold hearth and stood there staring down at it.

From behind, he was not a monster, just a man. His dark gold hair was not really curly, yet it curled at his neck. It looked soft, though she had never dared to bring her hand that close to his face to touch it. His body was still appealing to the eye. She had known he would be tall, just not this tall. And he held himself so taut with emotion now, the tunic pulled tight across his broad back and shoulders.

Minutes passed, then more minutes, and he did not turn to look her way. Rowena stopped shaking and took several deep breaths. Her torture would not begin yet, not here in his solar. He had brought her here likely only to frighten her—and to gloat. The captive was now the captor.

“Have you calmed yourself, wench?”

Calm? Would she ever know that state again? But she nodded, then realized he could not see it, for he had not looked at her to speak.

“Aye.”

“Though ’tis my right to do so, I do not mean to kill you.”

Rowena had not realized she had held herself as stiffly as he until she sagged into the mattress with her relief. Under the circumstances, she would never have believed she could be so for
tunate, nor would she have thought him to be merciful enough to tell her. He could have left her with her terror. He could have…but he was not finished.

“You will be punished. Doubt it not. But my retaliation will be in kind—like for like.” He turned then to see her reaction, but he saw only incomprehension, so he explained. “As you and your brother intended to take my life if I had not escaped, yours now belongs to me, and I find it of little value. As I was treated, so will you be. You have had a reprieve only because I wanted to know first how great was your guilt, if you had succeeded in your theft. We both know that you have. So as you took the child from my flesh, so will it be taken from you when it is born.”

“No,” she said quietly.

“No!?” he exploded incredulously.

“Possession is nine-tenths—”

“We do not speak of properties! ’Tis flesh of my flesh you stole!”

God’s mercy, how had she dared defy him and tempt him to this level of rage? He was livid with it, a mere inch from coming after her and breaking her in two. But she could not let him include the child in his vengeance.

She continued softly, praying he would see reason. “I hold it, I will bear it, and I want it for itself, for no other reason than it will be mine.”

“
Never
will that child be yours. You will be no more than a vessel to succor it till it is born.”

He did not shout that, nay, he said it
too
coldly. “Why do you want it?” she cried. “It will be no
more than a bastard to you. Have you not enough of those to satisfy you?”

“What is mine is mine—just as you are now mine to do with as I will. Argue with me no more, wench, or you will immediately regret it.”

That was a promise she could not ignore. She had pushed him too far, had dared much more than was wise at this point. She might know the man intimately, yet she knew him not at all. But time would tell, and she had time now. He had allowed her that, allowed her her life. The issue would definitely be raised again, however, for ’twas too important to her to let it be. But she could wait until she had more hope of winning.

She left his bed to stand beside it. She was surprised that she had even been put on it, as despised as she was. And he had every right to despise her. She wished she could not see his side of it, but she did. She wished he could see her side of it, but he would not. ’Twould not matter to him that she was sorry for what she had done, that she had not wanted to do it. She had still done it. Verily, she deserved whatever retribution he demanded. And to be fair, she did not deserve the child either, not if he considered it stolen from him, as he had said, only—she could not be fair where the child was concerned.

She was becoming tense again under his chilling regard, but finally he said with sneering contempt, “It should not surprise me that you lack intelligence, considering the plan you devised to keep Kirkbur—”

“’Twas Gilbert’s plan, not mine. He wanted it, not me.”

“You still display naught but stupidity.
Never
interrupt me again, wench. And never mention to me again an excuse for what you did. Your Gilbert was not the one who came to me and forced me—”

He was too angry to finish. Rowena became alarmed once more as his skin darkened in hue.

“I am sorry!” she blurted out, knowing it was inadequate, yet knowing not what else to say.

“Sorry? You will be much sorrier, I promise you. But you may begin appeasing my outrage now. I hardly recognize you in clothes, wench. Remove them.”

Rowena’s breath had stopped completely. Her eyes closed in dread. Fulkhurst had said like for like. She had known that meant he would force her as she had forced him. And ’twould no more pleasant for her than it had been then, which was no more than it should be. But why would he choose this way to punish her when he hated her so, could not really want to touch her? But of course, the revenge was more important to him. Already she understood that about his nature. But to have to remove her clothes for him…

“If I must assist you…”

Another threat of she knew not what, but she did know she did not want to find out. “Nay, I will do it,” she said in an abject whisper.

She turned around to untie her embroidered
girdle, but in a few steps he was behind her, his hand gripping her shoulder painfully as he swung her back around. Whatever she had done wrong, his anger was high again. But he did not make her wonder why.

“You know I need the sight of you disrobing to wet my appetite. ’Tis why you stripped for me before. Whoever advised you, wench, advised you well. But know this. If I cannot accomplish what I intend through lack of interest in what you have to offer,
you
will have the blame for it. But you will not have another reprieve if that is what you think, because what I cannot do, I will bring in another to do—nay, ten others. I doubt you will disgust them as you do me.”

Rowena met his eyes as he stepped back and wished to God she knew if he really meant that, or if it was just an idle threat. He looked cruel enough to do it. He looked angry enough to do it. But he wanted like for like, and watching her being raped by others would not be the same. Would it?

She dropped her girdle on the floor and reached quickly for the laces on the side of her bliaut. She could not take chances with him, not with such terrifying consequences. But she tried to remember Mildred’s advice and could not recall a single thing. The chamber was too bright with daylight, her skin too hot with embarrassment, her fingers too clumsy. She
knew
she was not the least bit enticing.

Warrick’s blood was already raging for her. Her fear was exciting him, that was all. Not that becoming flush to her cheeks. Not her virginlike
demeanor. Certainly not the small though exquisitely curved body he remembered, and which was about to be revealed to him again. He realized, with chagrin, that he could not continue to watch her, or he would not be able to do all that he had planned to do.

With a silent oath, he moved to the other side of the bed and picked up the chain. He had meant to make her stretch it out beneath the bed and position it as he directed, just to increase her trepidation, but he did it himself now for the distraction. Only it did not take long, not as long as it was taking her to disrobe.

Her red outer gown was on the floor, her long-sleeved chemise on top of it. But she still wore a thin linen shift, though her fingers were gripping the hem, had been in the process of lifting it over her head, when she finally noticed what he was doing.

“Please, no,” she pleaded, looking from the manacle still in his hand to his cold eyes. “I will not fight you. I swear it.”

He did not even hesitate in his implacable reply. “It will be the same, exactly the same.”

Rowena stared at the chains he had brought up on the outside of the posts at the end of the bed, positioned so the posts would prevent her from closing her legs. “That is not the same,” she said.

“Allowances must be made for the differences in the gender of the body chained. My legs had no need to be open. Yours do.”

She closed her eyes at the vivid mental picture his words evoked. Like for like. And she could
not prevent it, could not even beg for mercy, for he had none. He was ruthlessly determined to do this to her, and it would be exactly as had been done to him.

“You are taking too long, wench,” he warned softly. “Do not try my patience more.”

She yanked the shift over her head and climbed swiftly to the center of the bed, anything to get this over with so this sick dread would leave her. She lay down before he ordered her to, but her body was as stiff as a board. She kept her eyes closed, tightly, only she could still hear him, and the sound of his steps took him to the bottom of the bed.

“Spread them.” She groaned inwardly, but she did not dare to defy him. “Wider,” he added, and she did that, too.

But she still gasped as his fingers went around her ankle to hold it until the cold iron was locked on. The manacle did not fit tightly as it had on him, the weight of the chain pulling it down to catch on her arch and heel. Her other foot was quickly done the same, but he uttered a curse when the chain did not extend far enough over the top of the bed to reach her wrists. It had been cut to his stretched length, which was much longer than hers.

“’Twould seem another allowance must be made.”

Disgruntlement was clear in his tone. Hope stirred, that he would now forgo the chains entirely. She should have known better, for he merely left her to come back with two strips of cloth that he bound to her wrists, then to the
manacles. Like for like, so she had to hear the creak of the chain if she moved, as he had heard it; feel its weight dragging on her limbs as he had felt it.

She tested the bounds and experienced an overwhelming panic. My God, was this how he had felt? So helpless, so afraid? Nay, he had not felt fear, only rage. She wished she could bring that more powerful emotion forth to sustain her through this, but anger that he would do her thusly was the farthest thing from her mind just then. So it would not be exactly the same. She would not twist and fight to avoid his touch, would not try to smite him with her eyes or shake him from the bed. She could only hope these differences would not matter to him and make him angrier still.

Her eyes opened in surprise when the gag was shoved between her lips. She had forgotten about that, but he had not. He did not want to hear her entreaties any more than she had wanted to hear his, though their reasons were not the same. He was feeling no guilt, as she had felt. He was enacting vengeance. She had only tried to save her mother’s life.

Satisfaction at her helplessness blazed from his eyes. She wished she had not seen it, or that he had removed his clothes before he fetched the gag. The evidence of his readiness, however, gave her small relief. She need suffer only
his
rape of her, then, not that enforced by many others while he watched. And she already knew
what he would feel like inside her. She could bear it—she would have to.

“Are you virgin here, I wonder, as you were there?”

His hands came to her breasts to tell her of what he spoke, both hands, and his eyes went there, too, to watch what he did. Rowena stared only at his face so she could gauge the moment he finished toying with her. And that was all he was doing. There was no need to caress her and coax her to readiness as she had found it necessary to do to him. He was already in that condition. ’Twas unnecessary that she be. And she felt no more than the heat of his palms, and momentary surprise that his touch was gentle. She was simply too frightened to feel more than that.

He played long with her breasts, flicking at the soft nipples, squeezing and pulling on them by turns. But when he ended with a frown, Rowena thought she would die of fright. She did not know it was because he had been unable to make her nipples tighten in response to his caresses, not even a little, not even once. With that frown still terrifying her, he brought a hand between her legs and thrust his finger inside her.

She groaned at the sharp discomfort she felt. His frown got darker.

“So you would deny yourself the shame that was visited upon me? I think not, wench.”

Another threat, but she was lost in the dark this time, nor could she ask him to explain.
She had no idea what had so displeased him, or what shame he thought she was denying herself that he wanted her to know. She would have done aught that he wanted her to at that point, just to get that terrifying scowl off his face. But there was naught that she
could
do, chained to the bed.

She began to tremble, not as greatly as when she had thought she was about to die, but enough for him to notice and growl, “Close your eyes, damn you. You do well to fear me, but I will not have you reacting to my every frown, not now. I will do to you no more than you did to me, and you already know the way of it, so put your fear aside. I order it.”

He was mad to think she could do that, no matter what reassurance he gave her. He was mad anyway, for by his own words, he wanted her to fear him—but not now. What difference when, for God’s mercy? But he had
ordered
it. Ah, God, how,
how
could she comply?

She closed her eyes. He was right in that respect, that she was reacting to the dissatisfaction clearly written on his face. Not even the fear of being unable to anticipate what he would do next was as bad as seeing those scowls. And what he did next was as he had said, no more than she had done to him. He began caressing her, not just her breasts, but all over.

She stopped trying to reason why he was touching her when it was not necessary to his purpose. His hands were soothing, and she welcomed his touch as a means to appease him. Somehow, she began to relax. She began to feel
things other than fear: the texture of his hands, callused yet gentle; his warm breath whenever he leaned close; gooseflesh when he neared a sensitive area.

She was so relaxed when his mouth came to her breast that she felt only a moment’s alarm that did not last. Heat engulfed her then, and a sharp tingling that shriveled her nipple and sent a strangeness to the pit of her belly. She did not mind the feeling. It reminded her of those not unpleasant things she had felt at times when she had caressed him. Had he felt them, too, at the time? Did he feel them now?

His caresses became slightly rougher now that he had drawn a response from her that he wanted. She did not mind that either. In fact, unknowingly, she was arching into his touch, on her breasts, over her belly, as if she suddenly craved it. But when his hand drifted back toward the juncture of her legs, she stiffened again. Only he did not attempt to thrust his fingers inside her this time. He merely continued his caresses there, softly now, and he was touching on something hidden in that area that produced the most deliriously languorous feeling. She relaxed more, forgot why she was being done so, forgot who was doing it. The sensations were exquisite, coursing and commingling into that secret core of her.

She was not even aware of him moving over her, but when she felt his thick manroot sliding slowly yet easily into her warmth, her eyes flew open in surprise—and met his above her, so filled with male triumph that she inwardly
cringed. He was leaning over her with the full length of his arms extended, so that the only place he touched her was where he filled her. She did not look down at their joined bodies. She could not take her eyes off his.

“Aye, now you know how it feels to have no control of a traitorous body,” he almost purred in his satisfaction. “You made me want this, despite my fury, so I have made you want it, despite your fear.” She shook her head frantically, but he only laughed and thrust more deeply into her. “Aye, deny it as I did, but the proof is the ease with which I entered, the wetness that surrounds me now.
That
is what I wanted, wench, to force you to readiness as you forced me. And the shame of being unable to deny me will be yours each time I take you.”

The pleasure he felt in achieving his revenge was as hard for her to witness as his anger. Rowena closed her eyes once more against it, but that was a mistake. It let her feel the fullness of him deep inside her, which was no new experience, except before she had never been “readied” for him. The difference was beyond description, as day to night. Each slow plunge made her crave the next, harder, deeper, more…until she finally screamed against her gag as the full pleasure exploded and carried her beyond anything she could have imagined.

She was left limp and sated, and a while later, when thought returned, as shamed as he had wanted her to feel. It was inconceivable that she had found pleasure in that ordeal, pleasure at
the hands of her enemy, a man who despised her with his every breath. And now she truly knew what he had felt, all of it, and hated him for showing her.