Conquer the Night (17 page)

“I'm not stupid! I never meant—”

“If you hadn't
meant
, you wouldn't have wielded a knife.”

“I swear to you—”

“God, quit lying!” he cried with enraged aggravation. “Tell me, did Darrow ride
to
war, or
away
from your ceaseless tongue?”

“It's a pity I didn't kill you!” she retaliated, then rued her words. Stupid, oh, God, aye, if she didn't realize the fury of this man who held all the power!

She closed her eyes, wincing, waiting for some awful blow to come her way.

But he didn't touch her. To her amazement, he rose. She heard him moving about in the shadowland that was almost complete with the dying of the fire. Yet a minute later he was back, and he carried one of the long leather bands that attached pieces of plate to his coat of armor.

She inched away again, backing against the carved headboard. She tried to leap up; she succeeded in losing the linen sheet at last. If he noticed, he gave no sign, but pressed her firmly back, capturing her wrists, smoothly slipping them into the noose he'd created, and tying it then firmly to a post on the headboard. Amazed, she tried to free her wrists, protesting passionately. “Don't, please, don't, I wasn't trying to kill you!” she whispered. “You attacked me—”

“I attacked you? Never, my lady.”

“I beg to differ!”

“Beg to your heart's content,” he told her. “I am bone weary, and need to sleep.”

“Then you should have slept alone!”

“I'm afraid that it would not have the same effect on those who know that I came here specifically for you.”

“But I didn't try to kill you. I'm telling you the truth. You were dreaming, you spun on me, I thought that you meant to … strike me, strangle me….” Her voice trailed. His deep blue eyes were on her.

“Do the ties hurt? Are they too tight?”

“Am I to say ‘aye'? Then you can tell me that you've come to hurt me?”

He smiled suddenly, and shook his head, and she became disturbingly aware of him, every inch of him, of his flesh against her own, of the burning it created. With the sheet gone, she was humiliated to feel as if her breasts swelled, her nipples hardened. She was in pain, but not from the leather that bound her to the headboard. She hated herself for not hating him; and she despised the way that she felt, her flesh, so incredibly sensitive, vulnerable to his every movement, each brush with his flesh, the touch of his hands, the movement of his thighs.

“I'm tired. I don't want to hurt you; I do want to sleep.”

“You were dreaming!” she repeated.

“Perhaps. But you had a knife.”

“I didn't mean—”

“How can you not mean a knife?” he asked softly.

“I will never be able to sleep so!” she told him.

“That is your misfortune this evening, my lady.”

He crawled from her. She should have been glad. He lay down again, his back to her—safely now. She tugged at her wrists, wondering if she could possibly writhe her hands from the ties.

She could not. He had definitely learned how to tie a knot.

She lay there, miserable, cold, shaking. She would have pleaded with him again if she thought she had a chance. As it was, she suddenly feared to waken him again. She didn't know if he might have believed her that he had been dreaming, but still …

He could waken and try to strangle her, and she would be a lamb to slaughter….

She'd lost her sheet and the furs. And the fire was gone, and the castle was drafty. Her shaking increased. She'd awake very ill, she thought, and then he'd repent his cruelty.

Or would he? If a man came in vengeance, would he ever repent?

He moved suddenly and she went dead still in terror. Then she realized that he was walking to the fire, looking around, finding the pile of logs, restoking the blaze. She could see the breadth of his shoulders and back as he hunkered down before the fire, assuring himself that the wood was catching, the flames were rising.

He rose, waited a moment longer, his body bathed in the red of the flames.

He returned to the bed. “Better?” he inquired.

“Warmer,” she said softly.

He pulled the furs up around her.

“I wasn't trying to kill you.”

“Maybe I'll believe you—in the morning,” he told her. “At the moment, I really am exhausted. I dare take no chances.”

“You
were
dreaming.”

“Maybe, lady. I often dream.”

“I'm …”

“Aye?”

“I'm sorry.”

“For trying to kill me?”

Her temper started to soar at the question. “I'm sorry for what happened at Hawk's Cairn. Sorry that your wife died.”

“And I should release you for those words?” he asked sharply.

“Fine, sir! Leave me be then!”

“My lady, that is my intention for the night. And I am sorry, but I cannot release you. Only a fool would do so.”

She jumped, startled when he reached out to touch her.

He only adjusted the covers again, then walked around to his own side of the bed.

At least she was warm. And she was exhausted herself. And the ties that bound her were not too tight, and she wasn't actually in any real pain.

Eventually, she slept.

CHAPTER EIGHT

It was her turn to dream. The world was soft, gentle. She lay entwined in furs, comfortable furs. She curled against them, slid along them, savored the feel that seemed to caress her spine, touch her nape, bring a sweet warmth all around her. Delicate strokes eased along her flesh, teased her neck, back, breasts, belly. Liquid warmth, slow, erotic, feathered over her, seduced, elicited, demanded response. She arched, moved into the touch of fur, the fiery wetness that brushed her with a greater urgency, a greater strength. Liquid seared her throat, her breasts.

Her eyes flew open. She was staring at the expanse of his chest. She was no longer tied to the bedpost, and her arms didn't ache. He must have released her almost immediately after he had tied her. Despite her denials, she had fallen asleep quickly.

Her hand lay upon his chest. Her leg was cast over his body. She was curled against him as if he had been her lover for eons. Her fingers even moved upon his chest, her fingertips brushing through the dark mat of hair. And the way that her leg was angled … she could feel far more about him than she wanted to know.

How had she done this? She had slept with her entire length cast intimately against him.

His arm was around her. Amazingly, his touch had been the seductive stroke of fur that had so teased her in her dream. He had lain awake for some time. And amazingly he was still touching, his fingers moving through her hair, his body curving now to hers….

She tried to pull away. His arms tightened around her.

“Did you think you were with him?” he inquired, and she could hear the hardness of his words vibrate in his chest as she lay against it. “With Darrow?”

She was certain that she was flushed the color of sunset, yet he could not see her face, just the top of her head. Had she thought she was with Darrow, and thus responded? What a foolish, foolish man!

She tried again to free herself from his grasp, struggling against his arms and the length of his body. She felt as if she grew hotter and hotter with her every effort. Surely she did not want him repeating what had been, and yet the fever in her made her long to touch him, explore the strength that lay against her. She had to keep protesting, fighting. It was the only honorable, noble, proper thing to do. Yet he didn't ease his hold; she felt a certain tension and anger in him.

“Did you think I was Darrow?” he repeated harshly.

“What on earth difference would that make to you?” she cried in return, going rigidly still. He pressed her from him and down to her back, leaning over her intently.

“Perhaps I'm simply curious. They say that men can bed anyone who is warm.”

“Including sheep, so I've heard,” she told him, eyes narrowed. “Especially Highlanders.”

“What aspersions you cast upon Highlanders! I have heard it is the English, especially royalty and nobility, who are fond of sheep. From the first Plantagenet on down. Ah, but I'm not actually a Highlander myself, though Stirling is the gateway and I ride with many a man who is a Highlander. As yet none has requested that we travel with sheep. You still haven't answered my question. You slept, you dreamed. Did you dream of Darrow?”

“Will you let me up?”

“No. Answer my question. You were comfortable, my lady, nay, more, you were seductive, and so I am curious. Men, as you have agreed, can sleep with anything. They say that women must feel something to want a man.”

“I don't want you; this conversation is ridiculous. If you'd please—”

“So did you want Darrow? Is it he who intrigues you?”

“Release me.”

“I won't release you until you've answered my question. Tell me, must a woman be intrigued at some level to lie so with a man?”

“Sir, your questions are absurd! Most women are wed at the whim of a father or an overlord to men they despise. Or—” she began, then broke off.

“Or what?” he queried.

She shook her head.

“Or what? Tell me, and I'll know if you're lying!”

She still hesitated, her lashes falling. “Or … they are simply taken by relative strangers … and I've heard many poor girls are forced into the arms of the landed lords on their wedding nights because Edward has said that his men in Scotland were free to practice the droit de seigneur.”

The right of the lord. It was an archaic feudal custom in which a lord could take the bride of any tenant for the first night following her wedding. Edward had decided it should be revived in Scotland; he was not kind regarding the people he would conquer. He had been known to say that they would simply breed the Scots out, just as he had been quoted as saying, on leaving Scotland, “A man does well who rids himself of a turd.”

She opened her eyes, meeting his again. This wasn't an easy thing for her to say, especially due to her current situation. What had made her bring up such a thing, more sins on the part of the English lords sent to rule here in Scotland?

He was staring down at her thoughtfully. She wondered what he would have been like if they had met under different circumstances.

“Please, I've answered you,” she murmured, meeting his gaze. She had to break free from him. She flushed, remembering the way he had looked at her when she jumped from the bed. Now she lay touching him. The same such situation would arise….

“No.” His eyes narrowed on her again “No, you haven't answered me. Did you think I was Darrow?”

She felt the stirring of her temper and a deep sense of aggravation. “How could I be dreaming you were Darrow when I wouldn't have known what I was dreaming!”

“My dear lady, was I remiss completely? There's far more to the act of love than …” He looked at her, and she thought that surprisingly, he broke off the words he had first meant to say. “There is far more to the act of love than … the act of love. But then, I'm sure you know that well enough—you may have managed to maintain innocence, but it's unlikely that you're ignorant. If you're wise enough, and sardonic enough, to bring up sheep, you're hardly unaware of the ways of the world—and men and women.”

“If you don't mind …”

“I do mind. I want to know the truth about you.”

“What does the truth matter?” she inquired, beginning to feel desperate.

“We're talking in circles; I won't do it.”

“And I have nothing to say to you! Will you beat the truth out of me? Torture me?”

“Ah, perhaps there are different ways to discover … let's see, we know what you and Darrow did
not
do. But what did you do? Two cunning and ambitious schemers … and a man with such a betrothed, such beauty and promise awaiting in what he is anxious to claim as his house! He was just awaiting the words of a priest for all to be his. It has been a long betrothal. So just what did occur between you two young lovers? Tell me.”

“There's nothing to tell.”

“Ah, you're shy of description. I shall help. We'll start with basics.” His face lowered to hers. His thumb stroked slowly over her cheek. “Did he touch you this way? Is that why you're as quick as a cat to lean in to be stroked? Did he cherish your lips, kiss you so …?” he inquired politely, and before she was fully aware of his intent, his lips were on hers, opening them, forcing, molding, sensual … his body was pressed to hers, and the feel of his lips seemed to touch the length of her. Pride caused her to twist; his strength defied her pride. His fingers held her face to the slow leisure of his lips. The kiss was markedly slow, sensual; he tasted, teased, delved. The way that his tongue moved … aroused … stirred…. She tried again to shift, alarmed at the fire that seemed to seize her, the way her tongue slid against his … simply to find room in her mouth, so she told herself. But it was something else—tasting in return. She became aware of the scent of him, and found herself liking it, the feel of his body blanketing hers, and liking it as well. His hands, the way they touched her, held her to the kiss….

It was a feeling of being cherished, wanted; it was sensual, sexual, an intimacy she hadn't known, and hadn't known she could want.

Ridiculous
.

It was the way he had probably touched every whore he had known since his wife died.

Men could bed sheep, so they had agreed.

Why didn't this bare and brutal logic keep her from feeling that …

The way that he kissed her was tender, languid, meant to seduce. As if he were bewitched by her, hungered for her, touched her with longing. The feel of his lips tantalized, and the warmth of him beside her made her pulse within.

Fight him this time; don't be such a fool!