The Viscount's Addiction (21 page)

Sparked by another idea, she raced downstairs to see if the mudroom that adjoined the kitchen held at least a rain cloak. The hooks were empty. The bastard had been ruthlessly thorough. If he wanted rid of her so badly, why hadn't he left her some clothing? Clearly, he wished to see her completely humiliated.

She stomped through the empty house. In the parlor, she clutched at the faded damask drapery thinking to yank the curtains from the wall, but the curtain rod was too heavy and well-seated. She would have to take scissors to the fabric. It was an inspiration with little chance of success. Her skills as a seamstress were negligible. Besides, it would take her forever to create a garment. She glanced out the window at the stables. Though

the house was somewhat isolated, certain angles of the yard could be spied from the road, and Tess did not have the courage to go outside mantled only in a blanket. When night fell, she'd fetch the ladder from the barn. She would explore the attic for moth-eaten garments. Surely there had to be remnants of other generations stored. Unable to occupy her mind with reading or anything remotely productive, she curled up on the settee to wait for dusk.

The sky was just starting to gray, the gloomy veil of night dropping, when the front door slammed. Tess flew off the settee and raced into the entrance hall, her bare feet skidding on the slick marble, to find the devil himself, with the two huge mastiffs at his heels. He gave her a placid smile as he pulled off his leather gloves. What was he up to? She didn’t trust a hair on his black head.

“W-What is going on? Where is everyone?” she stammered, completely flustered by the idea of being alone with him.

“They left early, just before the sun. I had the cook accompany Lady Stadwell in the carriage so that people would think you’d left with her.”

She eyed him suspiciously. “Why would you do that?” Her voice rose to a hysterical pitch and he immediately pressed his fingers to his temples.

Though he appeared stone cold sober, he was suffering the aftereffects of a week of imbibing. His skin was paler than usual and in stark contrast to his black hair. “Because people talk. And since we are just beginning this venture, I felt there was no need to stir up rumors.”

Tess pulled the wool blanket tighter, scratching her bare skin. She had never felt so vulnerable. She blinked up in confusion at the most intimidating man she’d ever known. She was at his mercy. Lady Stadwell had abandoned her.

“Is there some reason—” With effort, she squelched the urge to rain curses down on him “—why I have nothing to wear?” Her voice vibrated with fury.

He shrugged. “The dressmaker will have some of your wardrobe completed by the week’s end. In the meantime, you won’t need any clothing.”

“I suppose I’m to lock myself in my room naked until she arrives?” “No, I expect you to stay in
my
room naked for the week.”

She couldn’t have understood him correctly. “Pardon?”

“If I’m to hire you for my aunt’s dubious scheme, I’d like to see just how capable you are.”

“Exactly what does that mean?”

“I intend to fuck you, Miss Calloway.”

Lord Marcliffe was studying her a little too carefully. She suspected he was expecting she’d lose her nerve. He casually combed back his windblown hair with his fingers. How on earth could someone be that handsome and that cruel? “I detest you!”

Desire and distrust combined…

Can their strange bargain hold when faced with a deadly threat?

Shadowed Knight

© 2007 Jan Alyce Avery

Lady Margaret D’Arcy has ruled the manor of Warnmark since her father and brother were killed by a vicious outlaw. After six years of independence, to be told that she must marry someone she's never met offends her pride. But outlaws are on the prowl, and the Baron, her feudal overlord, wants Warnmark commanded by a man.

Richard Berenger, the bastard son of a nobleman who cruelly rejected him, has risen to the rank of knight through his own skill and courage. The Baron chooses him to become lord of Warnmark through marriage to Warnmark’s lady, though Richard is convinced Lady Margaret will despise him for his low birth.

When these two proud people are ordered to wed, the result is a fierce battle of wills that leads to an uneasy bargain: Margaret must acknowledge Berenger lord and husband in public, but in private, can deny any claim he has on her body or heart. Desperate to keep her home, Margaret agrees—but her resentment lingers.

Then the rogue knight who destroyed her family returns and Margaret and Berenger must work together to save Warnmark.

In the face of such danger, will their strange bargain hold?

Enjoy the following excerpt for
Shadowed Knight
:

Freda had left a single candle burning in the chamber on the small table near the bed. Its reflected light washed the stone walls of her niche with a soft, amber glow. Margaret’s eyelids grew heavy. If Berenger delayed much longer, she’d not have to pretend she was asleep.

At that moment, the door latch clicked. Margaret closed her eyes, slowed her breathing and waited. Footsteps moved from the door and paused by the cot. Margaret waited, her body tensed, feeling the slow, hard beat of her own heart. The footsteps moved on through into the main chamber and a moment later she heard the rustle of the bedclothes being pulled back.

She forced herself to relax. She felt relief—and a tiny measure of triumph?—that this small act against his will had been so easily accomplished, and yet…did she feel some

disappointment as well? How easily he had accepted her small sacrifice. Proof of his selfishness, surely.

She sighed, remembering the comfort of her wide, down-stuffed mattress. But if Freda found this cot comfortable, she would learn to do so as well. Especially if the alternative was sharing a bed with Richard Berenger. She sighed again, closed her eyes and, after a moment, felt herself slowly sinking into the soft darkness of sleep…

Her only warning was a whisper of sound. Her eyes flew open and she cried out as in one quick instant she was swung aloft in arms as hard and unyielding as bands of iron. She gasped, her body straining against the embrace that threatened to crush her bones.

“Did you think I would allow this?” Berenger said in a voice so deadly that Margaret’s breath locked in her throat. “You’ve yet to truly know me, lady.”

He whirled and carried her into the main chamber, laying her on the wide bed.

Shocked, too stunned to move, she bit back a gasp as he bent over her.

“Shall I act as tiring woman?” he said between his teeth. In the reflected light, his eyes glittered. Her robe had flung awry, slipping from her shoulder to expose the swell of one breast, opening below her waist to reveal her leg to the thigh. Slowly, Berenger drew the soft wool into place, his fingers moving with deliberate intent as they brushed her skin, his mouth curved in a mocking smile, the gaze of the predatory golden eyes examining every exposed inch of her. She couldn’t move, she couldn’t breathe, she could only feel, and the touch of those long fingers burned her like hot sparks, making her body tremble and quiver.

It was all she could do not to sob aloud as he slid his hand beneath her head and bent down, his eyes mocking her. For a heart-stopping moment, she thought he would kiss her on the mouth. A moan broke from her and she closed her eyes. But then Berenger laughed, softly, tauntingly, and his lips touched her forehead instead in a caress so chaste it could only be intended as an insult. The deep, mocking voice said, “Sleep well…wife.”

Then he was gone, taking the candle, the metal loops of the leather curtain that screened off the alcove rattling across the supporting bar behind him.

For long seconds, Margaret lay rigid, panting; then suddenly her trembling limbs answered her will again and she yanked the bedclothes over her head, grinding her teeth as she fought to keep from shrieking aloud. He, he—! Oh, there weren’t words to express the emotions that boiled inside her. Fury, embarrassment, and something else, something that she’d never felt before, a strange, fevered excitement that had shivered through her when he’d touched her. It was, must be, could only be revulsion, so intense that it almost frightened her. And shame? That he’d bested her, bent her to his will, with such ease again. Again!

Damn him!
Bastard, wolf-head
. And she was shackled to him, bound to him for life.

She buried her face in the sheets, her fingers clawing at the material.

In the alcove, Richard Berenger moved carefully on the creaking cot, listening to the muffled rustlings of blankets from the main room as he settled himself. His lady was in a rage, no doubt, her pride stung, her haughtiness pricked.
Vixen
. He forced himself to relax, fighting the almost overwhelming urge to rise, cross to that wide, soft bed, fling back the covers and take what by all the laws of man and church was his by right.
His by right.

That moment when he’d had her stretched half-naked before him, his hands touching her, her skin soft as a new leaf, her hair washed warm gold by the candlelight, her body trembling…and the expression of fear in those sapphire eyes, fear that she’d tried so fiercely to hide. He’d seen that look before, in his mother’s eyes when she was called to the bed of the man who so brutally used her—the man who’d sired him. The man he’d vowed he would never become.

He closed his eyes. Through the long, hard years, he’d learned self-control and he called on that now, willing his body to relax, willing his heated blood to cool, counting over the many times that patience had served him well. Yet would it serve him here? What if she never relented, this arrogant, stubborn woman? How long could they live thus, bound together, yet never truly joined?

No. There had to be a way to resolve this enmity, for them to at least learn to tolerate each other, if nothing more. Force her now and she’d hate and fear him for life, as his mother had hated and feared his father. His hunger for her now was almost overwhelming, but satisfy that hunger and he’d earn nothing but life-long regret.

Patience
, he told himself again.
Patience.
He’d made a bargain, given his word and he would keep it. He even managed to smile, remembering her startled shriek when he’d caught her up. No doubt his lady had convinced herself that taking the cot was a selfless act on her part. But he’d known instantly what it truly was, a defiance of his will. His smile stretched to a rueful grin as he saw the humor of the situation. The lord and lady of a manor, in absolute control of dozens of lives, squabbling about who slept where like a pair of children.
Still
, he thought, allowing himself a slight moment of pure satisfaction,
I doubt she’ll try that again.

He turned on his side, thinking what a fool he’d look if the cot collapsed under him now, then sighed and closed his eyes, though it was late into the night before his thoughts would let him sleep.

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