Sharon Schulze - L'eau Clair Chronicles 03 (2 page)

“Indeed?”

Her lips tightened into a grim line, and her chin rose another notch.

“Aye. Take me to him, if you please.”

Her expression didn’t change, making a mockery of her attempt at courtesy.

“Come.” He tightened his grip on her elbow.

She pulled against his hold, mouth opening to speak.

Sweet Mary save him! Did she dare to defy him again?

Tossing his belongings aside, Ian hoisted her over his shoulder, then scooped up his sword. She’d come with him whether she wanted to or not. Accompanied by a stream of insults from his captive, he ran lightly down the stairs, his lips curved into a smile.

Lily’s breath ran short before her scant supply of curses did. His firm grip said as clearly as words that any attempt to free herself would be doomed from the start. She knew firsthand of his strength. How else could he have hauled someone as tall as she up and over the wall with such ease? She’d always felt huge and clumsy, towering as she did over the sisters—as well as the few men she’d met.

But the top of her head came no higher than his shoulder.

She’d do well to respect his size, and the power and confidence he wore like a mantle.

Besides, she was inside Llywelyn’s keep, just where she wanted to be. In the company of a man of some authority, if the guard’s reaction was any indication. Still, being carried thus certainly lacked dignity—as well as being painful. She tried to get more comfortable, but couldn’t squirm into a position where his brawny shoulder didn’t force the air from her lungs with every jolting step.

The heat on her face had more to do with the cursing she’d done than with hanging upside down. With blasPhemy added to all the sins she’d committed of late, she’d be better off going back to the abbey and taking the veil in atonement. And likely doing penance the rest of her life.

Where was he taking her? The sounds of revelry soon grew faint as he carried her toward a shadow-filled corner of the bailey.

She doubted she’d see Llywelyn this night.

Her ill-planned scheme didn’t seem any more likely to bring her to the mighty prince’s notice than anything else she’d tried. Although there didn’t appear to be the strict social order in Llywelyn’s court that she’d expected, she knew no one who could help her. Tonight’s foolishness had been a desperate act, she’d known it from the start.

But then, she was a desperate woman.

However, clinging to the curtain wall had been less frightening than her present situation. A lifetime spent within the confines of the cloister hadn’t prepared her for the darkness she’d seen in her captor’s eyes.

As surefooted as a cat’s, his step never faltered. The shadows grew deeper, closing about them until the moonlight was little more than a memory. They entered a building—she could feel the walls surrounding them, but she didn’t realize it was a tower until they began to ascend the spiraling stairs.

They stopped, his sword clattering against stone. A faint, metallic jangle told her he held a ring of keys.

The door opened silently. Her captor kicked it wider, then crossed the chamber and dumped her from his shoulder.

She couldn’t help grabbing for him, her only reality in this fearful sea of darkness. Her fingers grasped emptiness as she landed flat on her back on a soft pallet.

Did he think to bed her? Why else would he have carded her off to his lair? Sister Alyce maintained that men thought only of their pleasure whenever they were around a woman; ‘twas the reason so many young girls sought the safety of the cloister. As unlikely as that seemed, she’d best take no chances. She scrambled to her knees, hands reaching for the edge of the mattress. Mayhap she could get away before he kindled a light, or at least The scent of burning tallow brought her head up, and the sight before her held her transfixed. The candles he held cast his features in harsh relief, lending a satanic aura to his face and giving credence to her fears.

“Going somewhere?”

he asked, raising an eyebrow in inquiry.

His voice was smooth, melodious. A shiver rose at her nape in response to its seductive timbre, Heart pounding wildly, Lily crawled off the bed and stood. He reminded her of a wild animal, beautiful, appealing and untamed.

But she knew better than to show fear before him. Taking a deep breath, she stiffened her spine and met his gaze.

His eyes held her captive as he set aside the branch of candles and moved to stand before her.

“If this is meant as a disguise,” he said, slipping the cap off her hair, “it doesn’t work. Not in the light.” He took her chin in his hand, his fingers hard and warm against her skin, and tilted her head.

“Only a fool would mistake you for anything but a woman.”

Her pulse quickened at his touch, then spun out of control when he smoothed the tangled tresses from her face.

She told herself ‘twas fear made it so, and not the deep green of his eyes—dark as an emerald, and as cold. Yet despite their chill, she saw something there… Loneliness? Yearning? Need?

A dark curl fell over his forehead. Her fingers itched to caress that silken bit of midnight.

She closed her eyes, but it mattered not. Something drew her to him still, made her want to move closer, even as he made her tremble. Had she gone so long without human touch that she longed for such from a stranger?

What sorcery was this?

The night’s events had addled her brains. Speak, she told herself, do anything to break the spell. She opened her eyes, pulled together the tangled threads of thought and found her voice.

“I wasn’t trying to hide.

“Tis easier to climb in this than my usual clothes.”

The sound of her own voice gave her the strength to move, to attempt to pull away. When she stirred in his grasp, he released her and crossed the small room to shut the door. Grateful for the reprieve, she drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, struggling to shake free of this enchantment.

“Why did you bring me here? I wish to see Llywelyn.”

“Twas a pity she could think of nothing else to say; he’d surely believe her a simpleton.

Besides, her questions were for his master, she reminded herself. And she didn’t know if even Llywelyn could provide the answers she sought.

What would she do if he couldn’t? She had nowhere to go, no one to turn to. Llywelyn had to hold the key; beyond that, she refused to consider.

Ian leaned back against the rough wooden panels of the door, crossing his arms as he watched the woman, seeking some clue to her purpose here. He found her persistence astonishing. But then again, it took an immense amount of determination to do what she’d done this night. The idea of a woman attempting—and nearly succeeding—to scale the walls of Dolwyddelan was mind-boggling.

However, he hadn’t brought her here to admire her tenacity.

Or anything else about her, he reminded himself as he remembered the feel of her tall, slim body slung over his shoulder. He rubbed his back against the door, as if that would wipe away the lingering sensation.

“Tell me who you are and why you wish to see him.”

“My name is Lily.” A trace of pain tinged her features, so fleeting he almost thought he’d imagined it.

“Just Lily.”

Her composure disturbed him. Didn’t she realize the threat he posed? He couldn’t recall the last time a woman had remained so calm while in his chamber. By Christ, even those he’d invited here generally quaked like frightened geese in his presence.

This woman presented a challenge, one he’d take on gladly. He’d never met anyone he could not break.

“What business could you possibly have with the mighty Llywelyn?” he asked, glancing at her threadbare garments with insulting deliberation. He noticed how they clung to her soft curves, and forced his gaze back to her dirt-smudged face.

“He has no need of a filthy villein to warm his bed.”

She gasped and took a few steps toward him. The candlelight hit her full in the face, giving him his first clear look at her and illuminating her tangled fall of hair.

“Twas her expression of outrage that caught his eye. He straightened and pushed away from the door. Perhaps all women looked thus, but he’d never noticed. By the rood, something about her face seemed so familiar, it caught his breath.

And her hair, pale copper, the color shining forth like a beacon… What trickery was this?

He captured her chin in his hand once more, his fingers as harsh as his voice.

“Where have you come from? And what do you here?” He snatched the branch of candles off the table and brought them closer.

“Who are you?”

For the first time since he’d pulled her from the curtain wall, she appeared frightened, and he could feel the fine tremor running through her.

“I told you. Lily.”

Her voice shook, too. Good. Mayhap he could use her fear to get what he wanted. He set aside the candles and tightened his hold.

“Lily who? You must have more name than that. Who are your people? Where do they live?”

He tugged at her until the heat of her body reached him through his linen shirt.

“How could they permit a woman like you to wander the countryside alone?”

She shoved at his hand, to no avail. Her strength was no match for his. But she paid no heed to that fact—he began to doubt she was even aware of it.

“Why should I tell you aught? My questions are for Llywelyn, not some lackey.” Ignoring his tightening grip, she curled her fingers and raked at his face with her nails.

“I demand you take me to him.”

“She-devil,” he snarled as he jerked his head to the side—though not far enough. Twin streaks of fire trailed down his left cheek.

“You demand?” He grabbed her arms and forced her back until her legs pressed against the bed frame.

“Don’t you know who I am? Have you not heard of Llywelyn’s Dragon?”

Her gaze darted toward the bed, and her resistance increased.

“Answer me,” he snarled, shaking her.

“Stop! Leave me be!” she shouted. Renewing her struggles, she squirmed against his hold.

“Damn you.” By Christ, did she think he meant to bed her now? All he wanted of her was answers. The heat rising in his blood meant naught. Any man would react thus, to feel a woman’s softness pressed to his flesh.

But he would not let her go—not yet. In this battle of wills, he would yield nothing.

Cursing, Ian wrapped his arms about her and pulled her flush to his body. Theft eyes met, the heat of their breath mingled between their lips. He fought the urge to lower his mouth to hers, to close the hairsbreadth separating him from sweet temptation.

Suddenly the fight seemed to leave her. She slumped against him, lowering her head until her hair veiled her face.

“I cannot tell you who I am, milord … because I do not know.” ‘

The feel of strong arms surrounding her, and the steady beat of his heart beneath her cheek, broke through Lily’s sorrow. Horrified, she pushed herself away, swaying until she found her balance, her breath coming in sobbing gasps.

Her captor–the Dragon—stood staring down at her.

She couldn’t read his expression in the wavering light, but she doubted he planned to ease his lust upon her. He’d had ample chance just now, had that been his intention, but he’d let her move out of his hold. He’d sounded angry, almost puzzled, though why that should be his reaction, she did not know.

Chest still heaving, she stepped back. Her gaze never left him as she considered what to do.

Aye, she had heard of Llywelyn’s Dragon. Who had not? He was legend among the village folk near the abbey.

Even the sisters, their voices filled with a kind of fascinated horror, had been known to discuss the deeds he’d done in Llywelyn’s name. In truth, she’d thought him to be older, although his size and strength proved no surprise.

And the aura of power she’d felt in his presence… Yes, she could believe this man capable of every exploit attributed to him—and more. And yet she did not fear him.

When had she become such a fool?

His eyes measured her, examining her face with such intensity she feared he could see her very soul. Why should he stare at her thus? She tried not to squirm, but couldn’t keep from swiping her sleeve over the hated tears filling her eyes.

“Why have you come here?” the Dragon asked, his voice calm now, the smooth sound an invitation to answer him.

Lily knew better than to fall into that trap; the abbess had used the same technique, usually as a prelude to some horrendous punishment.

“I am sorry, milord. Where I’ve come from would mean nothing to you.

“Tis your master I must speak with. Only he can answer my questions.”

He headed for a wooden chest beside the bed before she finished speaking and slammed the lid open with scant regard for the delicate carving adorning the piece. The tunic he chose was the same deep emerald shade as his eyes. She looked away when he tugged the garment over his head, unwilling to fall victim once again to the power of his gaze.

He snatched up the scabbarded sword leaning against the coffer and belted it about his trim hips.

“You will not talk? So be it, then. Mayhap a night spent in the cellars will loosen your tongue.” The expression on his face had her backing away, but he grabbed her by the arm.

“Who knows? You might even get the chance to speak with my ‘master’—if I’m of a mood to plead your case.”

But the harshness in his eyes before he snuffed the candles warned her there was little chance of that. Her heartbeat unsteady in the sudden darkness, Lily let the Dragon lead her from his lair.

Ian crossed the courtyard as the rising sun cast a rosy glow over the gray wails of Dolwyddelan. Icy puddles crackled beneath his boots, the perfect accompaniment to the wind whipping around the battlements.

He loved the brisk air, the cold serving to stoke the fire in his blood. It thrummed through his veins, lent energy to his steps as he descended the stairs into the vaults below the keep.

The promise of battle with a certain mysterious fiery-maned stranger had nothing to do with it.

The guard snapped to attention beside the cell door, then grinned his thanks when Ian dismissed him to break his fast above stairs