Conquer the Night (6 page)

She had no intention of running—and letting them toss her about like a sack of dirty laundry. She held her ground, her eyes steady on Arryn Graham. “If only John had chosen to continue to pay homage—”

Arryn moved in on her, just a shade closer. His companions were at the ready, like hounds eager to make a kill. “But what you don't seem to realize, my blinded lass, is that John paid homage and paid homage and paid homage—and finally refused when Edward demanded that we give him men and finances for his war against France! That was when the blood began to spill, when Balliol at last stood up against the king of England! And why? Because we are not England; we are Scotland—and he has no real right other than his own determination to be lord over us. We will not submit!”

“You will remember that when the bloodshed began, the Scots raided England first,” she reminded him.

His sharp blue eyes were narrowed hard on her “Oh, aye, King John, for once a king of his people, rode south against the English in defiance of the king's order that Scotland should raise men and arms to fight his wars! And the Scots raided and pillaged and did some damage, but there was nothing of a massacre in there.”

“Nae,” Ragnor chimed in fiercely, brushing back a long strand of his hair, “it was not a matter of merchants, men, women, and children perishing at the whim of a single man who seemed to think himself as powerful as the Almighty!”

“Nae, it was not murder, wicked, vicious, cold-blooded!” Jay provided.

“Don't you realize,” Kyra demanded, “that
Scottish
barons are on the side of the king? The Bruces, with the second most valid claim to the throne, give fealty to the king of England.”

Ragnor made a snorting sound of disgust.

“Aye, for they would be kings! But they will learn in time that Edward means to have no true king here but himself,” Arryn told her quietly. “Scotland is made up of more than just the powerful who fear what they will lose if they incur the wrath of the English king. She consists of a people who hold freedom very dear, and no matter what devastation he attempts to wreak here, we will win in the end. It is
our
country.”

“Aye! It is your country, but there does not need to be this bloodshed!”

“Oh?” Arryn inquired. She didn't hear the change in his voice.

“You and your misguided friends do not begin to understand. Edward is a great king—a great warrior. He possesses courage and strength. He intends to give that courage and strength to this country—”

“Oh, my lady! You are speaking such rubbish! If you'll forgive me!” Jay interrupted, coming forward to face her where she stood at the table. He shook his head with passion and sorrow. “Edward may be a strong king, and a powerful man—but he is an English king, an English man.”

“He has practiced treachery against the Scots in the most heinous ways!” Patrick said, joining the group. “You must listen to me and think about what you have said yourself! Scotland has followed a hereditary line of kings for centuries—a bloodline longer and truer than that of the English. But when Alexander died, and the Maiden of Norway so soon after him, we needed to go back a few generations to determine the right man for king. The regency, the guardians of the realm, were afraid that we might have faced civil war.”

Forgetting her rather precarious situation, Kyra felt her temper flare to meet the argument. “Oh, which you would have! Look at your own barons! They change sides with the fickle nature of the wind!”

“Lady Kyra.” Jay who seemed the most reasonable of the wild men, addressed her again. “Our king—crowned king, would-be king—sits in a London prison while Edward tries to fill Scotland with Englishmen governing the castles, with Englishmen given the ancient lands of different men who refuse to bow down to a would-be conqueror.”

“Well-spoken!” Ragnor applauded.

“Aye, and we shall drink to that!” Patrick cried.

They were a frightening enough assortment: young men, hardy, well muscled, with both strength and determination. Yet none seemed stronger or more determined than the one facing her.

Arryn smiled, watching her, a smile with no humor. He stepped forward and picked up the tankard once again. Right before her, he pressed the tankard of ale into her hands. She felt the strange power of his eyes upon her, and knew the way that he studied her, with thought and purpose.

“Ah, but then, what does this conversation mean? None of this matters to you anymore, my lady, though we are always grateful for any comprehension of our cause. The castle is no longer yours; freedom is no longer yours. You still try to defend them, but you have cast your fate with devils, madam, and with them, I'm afraid, you must reside in hell. Your anger and pride are sadly misdirected, for, because of the king and the men you would so ardently defend, your own fate is to be used, abused, and perhaps left to the buzzards, though, despite the wrongs done the fine fellows here, we've yet to commit murder in the same fashion as the men you are so determined to follow. So drink with us, my lady. Come, come, drink with us! We drink to Scotland. Scotland, my lady. We are in Scotland!” He smiled, and still no warmth touched the blue of his eyes. He pressed the tankard of ale toward her once more.

A knife protruded from the meat upon the table. She made a sudden, wild, reckless dive across the table after it, securing the utensil in her fingers before he wrenched her back and all but broke her wrist to force her to release the weapon.

“You'll not get out of your fate by plunging such a weapon into your heart, madam. And you would definitely go to hell for suicide, wouldn't you, lady?” he demanded, his fingers firm around her wrist, the hard length of his mail-clad body close and cold.

And still she could feel the fever of his heat from within.

She tossed back her hair, narrowed her eyes. “I had no intention of plunging it into my own heart; it was yours I intended to pierce!”

A cry of amusement, bravado, and warning arose from the heathen warriors who surrounded them.

Arryn wrenched the knife from her, his eyes never leaving hers. “Drink with us!” he insisted harshly. “Drink to Scotland, and a Scottish king! Ah, come, my lady. With us—would you drink with us, drink this?
An oladh sibh seo?
”

Her fingers wound around the cup. Seized by fear, fury, and frustration, she tossed the contents of the tankard into his face.

Unfortunately, there was not much left in the tankard, and he managed to avoid the toss as if he had expected it. Ale flew into his face, but only droplets, and he wiped them aside, staring at her with his eyes glittering with pure fury before he pushed her back—then abruptly threw his shoulder against her midsection and tossed her over his back. His men let out calls and guffaws once again as he strode with her across the hall, but he paused, turning back. “Jay! Can you watch her now within a tower and not fall prey to her wiles? There's business more important than tending to Darrow's woman for the moment!”

“Aye, Arryn! She'll not escape me again!” Jay said, following behind.

Dazed, afraid, humiliated, Kyra attempted to fight her position. But he moved swiftly, his steps fleet upon the stairway. He reached the second floor and started for the stairs to the eastern tower, and she thought again that he knew the castle—knew it well. Seconds later he was pressing open the door to the master's quarters.

She was suddenly set down.

Staggering, she found her balance and whirled around.

A fire already burned in the hearth; fresh linen stretched across the large bed, and the smell of clean rushes on the floor mingled with the fresh breeze that drifted through the high tower windows, as the tapestries that covered them had been pulled back. He had ordered this place prepared, she thought, and in little time. There were no servants present, this had all been done with remarkable speed and competency.

Naturally, she thought suddenly. He had come here as the conqueror—he meant to take the master's quarters. And he had already told her what her fate was to be: used, abused—and left for the buzzards.

She turned again quickly to find him staring at her. The strangest quickening and tension seemed to seize her limbs. But she was the lady here. And she had endured the taunting in the great hall below because she had gone there with a purpose—to find out about Father Michael and Capt. Tyler Miller.

“Look, sir—you are misinformed, misguided, and, I'm afraid, totally ignorant on many issues. And still, I understand, sir, what you have suffered in this war, and I am ready to pay for the sins done against you with my life.”

“I am glad that you are so resigned, for you will pay,” he informed her politely.

“So take vengeance against me.”

“I intend to.”

She hesitated, watching him, for he made no step toward her. She suddenly felt compelled to defend herself. “What happened at your Hawk's Cairn was horrible, Sir Arryn, but—”

“Beyond all words, my lady.”

“But Lord Darrow came after you, sir, you're aware, because of the death of his kin.”

It had been a mistake to remind him. She watched the icy steel mask that came over his features. “I didn't murder Darrow's kin or anyone in the path in cold blood, my lady. I met with a warrior, a knight, face-to-face. We fought. He died.”

“Sir, still …”

“You know exactly what was done at Hawk's Cairn!” he said heatedly.

She had heard the facts of the slaughter often enough. She looked down, not wanting to meet his eyes, wishing she had never spoken.

“Do with me what you will!” she whispered, and found the courage to lift her eyes. “But I beg of you, you must realize that the people here are truly innocent of the crimes that were done against you—”

“While you, my lady, are guilty of an outrageous amount of talk!” he broke in, harsh and impatient. “Guilty of a tiresome, shrew's tongue—among other things. Enough for now. I will tend to you later.”

He turned to stride from the room. She was surprised to find herself running after him, throwing herself against his back. “Wait, please! I've tried to explain again and again—”

“You've tried to explain? Ah, lady, at least your Capt. Tyler Miller is a trained fighting man. He mowed down lads and lasses, working in the fields, and he beheaded the smithy, who was surely innocent of any crimes against Lord Darrow.”

“Please!” she whispered. “I must know what you've done with Capt. Tyler Miller, with the priest, with …”

She backed away, dropping her hold on his arm as he spun to her. She stood straight, her eyes raised to his. “I know what happened at Hawk's Cairn. But I don't believe that you will practice butchery upon these people. You wish to taunt, but you will not be so cruel—”

A roaring sound suddenly seemed to erupt from him; she jumped quickly backward again, but not quickly enough. His hands were on her, wresting her to him. He held her, shaking her. She wore no cap or wimple; her hair hung free to her back, and she felt it shake along with her teeth.

“Don't underestimate my determination, lady! And by God, take care! Don't you—you, of all people—dare believe that I will know any mercy!” She saw the slamming of his pulse at the vein against his throat and cried out from the punishing force of his fingers on her arm. He moved his hand as if he would strike her. She closed her eyes, willing herself not to flinch.

She opened her eyes. He had not struck her, yet seemed the more furious for it. His fingers then fell upon the fabric of her outer gown, soft blue linen beautifully embroidered at the sleeves and neckline, and ripped with such force that the fabric gave way from bodice to hemline. Stunned and frightened, she met his eyes, then turned to flee again—to where, she did not know.

Nor did it matter, for he reached out and caught the cotton fabric of her darker blue undertunic, and her very impetus to flee aided the grasp of his fingers. The garment was wrenched nearly from her; she tripped upon the hemline. Half-clad, she stumbled and fell to the floor, trying to grab the fabric to cover her breasts even as she gasped for breath, and twisted in a desperate movement for defense.

He stared down at her, eyes still glittering cobalt, touched with anger and no other emotion. He was not about to fall on her with lust or unbridled passion. “Don't mistake the need for my time elsewhere as a weakness for having mercy toward you, Lady Kyra. I do not intend to offer any. No quarter. Let there be none asked, for none will be given.”

He turned away from her then and exited the tower room.

The door slammed in his wake.

She heard the sliding and grating of the heavy bolt beyond.

CHAPTER THREE

Jay stood just outside, watching as Arryn slid the bolt on the door. “Arryn, it did not occur to me that she would run. She must have known the castle was filled with our men.”

“Let any treachery occur to you; she is more devious than Darrow himself, and possessed of a greater spirit,” he told his friend and fellow warrior.

“Arryn, in all fairness, would ‘devious' best describe the lady?” Jay asked quietly. “My God, I had not expected such a …”

“May I suggest the word ‘devious' once again,” Arryn persisted, aggravated. The lady of Seacairn was not proving to be what he had expected, either. She denied wrongdoing, yet fought like a tigress. She was intelligent, certainly not without courage—and knew how to use arms and armor. It was not unthinkable that she should have known about Kinsey Darrow's exploits, suggested them, or even helped plan them.

Jay shook his head. “No, Arryn. I wasn't about to describe her as devious. ‘Beautiful' is the word I was seeking.”

“How can you think such a thing about this woman? Have you forgotten—”

“No, I've forgotten nothing, but then, I've never seen the Lady Kyra before. I'd heard the rumor that she was one of the loveliest women on God's earth, but such rumors regarding beauty and talent do seem to go with riches—with which she is also heavily endowed. But it is more than that! She is passionate, ardent; she is loyal to England's Edward because she thinks him a great king, because she was taught that he was her king, and it is natural that she honor him”