Conquer the Night (30 page)

“Sir Richard! Please. You're hurting me. Let go of me.”

He ignored her; it was as if she hadn't spoken. “We'll go to Lord Darrow, lady. He'll be anxious to see you, be certain.”

“Oh, aye,” she murmured, staring at him, her heart racing. He would drag her to Kinsey. She was damned. She couldn't let him know that she was far more desperate to escape him than she had ever been to flee the “barbarians.”

He moved the hood back from her head. “You think that I don't hear your tone, my lady? Ah, you've always considered yourself so much more … refined. But then, 'tis true, you're so beautiful, Kyra. Perfect teeth, perfect face … perfect form. Speech so soft, so melodic, so regal. You think that that will always save you, don't you? Perhaps, my lady, your very perfection, that which demands such ardor from those who know you, will be your downfall.”

“Sir Richard, if the king were to hear you, you'd be a dead man!”

“But the king isn't here, is he?”

“Sir Richard, lead me to Kinsey. But get your hands off of me.”

“Why, my lady, still so haughty? The stamp of an outlaw is all over you. But come, as you've said, you've saved yourself. Oh, indeed. I'll bring you to Kinsey, and with him you'll truly be safe.”

Safe? She'd never be safe with Kinsey.

“Sir Richard, I tell you again, your grip is too tight; you are hurting me.”

“My lady! I'm so sorry. I'm afraid of losing you again. It is a miracle indeed that you have come into the forest with us here.” The sarcasm in his voice seemed blatant in the quiet forest.

Yet she had to take care in answering him. If she could not get him to cease being so suspicious of her, she'd never get him off guard so that she might escape him.

“A miracle,” she said, trying to keep her eyes downcast and speak humbly.

“A miracle! Some women would not have survived so well; the horror of the touch of such a heathen outlaw would have sent them into thoughts of suicide! Yet you seem to have … survived quite nicely. Beautifully. But I'm sure you'll be explaining everything. Bless God, lady, you look well. Exceedingly well. Amazingly well!”

“Do I?” she whispered, feeling the ferocity of his hold as he started to lead her back to the main path he had come along, where his destrier waited.

“We heard, of course, what happened. And we were furious to know that you were seized by the outlaws, taken, abused at the hands of the barbarians. Lord Kinsey was beside himself with fear, and yet … you do not look abused, my lady.”

There had to be a way to break free from him. There had to be. He had found her this time because she had been careless. She knew these woods better than he did. If she could escape him, she could evade his pursuit with intelligence and success.

Desperate, she saw her chance.

She looked past him suddenly, frowning.

“Sir Richard!” she cried with great alarm.

“What?” His hold on her eased.

“Your horse has gone! Such a fine creature; we must catch him!”

She was able to reverse the tables, take him by surprise, and wrench free from his hold upon her arm. She went tearing up the trail and along the path—shooing the great destrier, who had ambled just a few feet away. Pretending to chase after the galloping mount, she burst into the trees and ran and ran.

And ran, never moving faster, or more desperately, in all her life.

“Kyra!”

She heard him calling her name.

Again, and again.

His rage growing …

Into the deep woods she sped, her priest's robe catching on brambles and thickets. It was hard to run; she carried the priest's heavy sword. She didn't dare discard it.

She kept moving, running hard, ignoring the fingerlike branches that seemed to tear at her hair. When she burst into a second copse, she had to stop, bend over, and breathe.

She had come far.

But she was on foot now. And they had horses.

Still gasping for breath, she tried to listen over the pounding of her own heart and the wind in her lungs. Flattening herself against a tree, she heard nothing for several minutes. Then she heard shouting and hoofbeats, coming her way.

She pushed away from the tree, avoiding the rider who went by.

But she burst into a copse, and as she did so, a rider thundered in from the opposite direction. She didn't know the man, but she knew the surcoat he wore over his chain mail. Kinsey's colors, and his family crest.

The rider leapt down from his horse, coming for her. He was a stranger, with blunt features and cold eyes. Richard Egan had told him to come for her, she was certain. To take her, no matter what. In any condition.

She realized that if she was handed over to Sir Richard, she would be dead when he delivered her to Kinsey.

She backed away from the man. “Shall we play, my lady?” he queried. “I've the night to find you. If you make it too difficult for me to catch you, I will make it difficult for you. Perhaps a less gentle touch even, than that you've come to know!”

That was enough. She drew the priest's sword. It was a powerful weapon; she just wished it were not quite so heavy. And she was facing a man in armor.

“Alone! By God, I've got you alone!” he said, inordinately pleased.

“Get away from me!” she warned.

“Oh, my lady, you rile the senses, you do!” he countered.

“You fool! Kinsey will kill you!”

“Ah, will he? He'll never know. 'Tis your word, and mine, though Sir Richard has said we'll not allow you to torment our great overlord anymore. And all know that you've become the whore of that filthy outlaw! Drop the sword, lady. I'd not have you bleeding and dying here—if I can keep from it! I'd even save your life. Come, be a good lass; drop the sword.”

He stepped toward her; she raised the weapon. He laughed, and she struck. His laughter faded as he barely managed to parry the blow. But then he realized that she'd had some training, that she knew her business.

And now he was furious.

She found herself fighting in earnest. She struck him several times, but his mail deflected her blows. She couldn't allow him any strikes, for she had no defensive armor, not even a shield. She searched for his weaknesses; beneath the arms, right at the neck, and at the knees. His coat was short; if she could strike …

He nearly caught her in the midriff; she jumped back, catching the bark of a tree, spinning around it. He came after her; rather than retreating, she leapt toward him, her sword in both hands, at the ready.

He fell back too late. She caught him in the left leg, a good blow that might well have severed a blood vessel—it had crippled him, at the least.

He let out a furious bellow. She started to sprint back again, seeing that he could not run after her. But she froze, for now a second man had come riding into the copse. He saw her, saw her imminent flight, and leapt down from his mount directly in front of her, barring her way.

She was between the two men.

“Take care!” the first howled. “She's near killed me, she has, the bitch! She's a wild one! Strike her down quickly!”

“We're to bring her to Kinsey alive—”

“Sir Richard says that she is to be taken dead if need be!”

“Lord Kinsey wants her alive!”

“Aye, then a well-used prize already! Seize her, but slice her to ribbons if need be!” The injured man swore. “She'll pay a few more pipers, I daresay! Take her down, man! I am bleeding to death here; I need help!”

Kyra looked quickly between them. She started for the second man, sinkingly aware that the first fellow
was
bleeding profusely—but he wasn't down. He was limping toward her.

Still, she had to meet the fresh swordsman first, and hope that speed and surprise would keep her back safe from the injured combatant.

She tried to watch both. Aye, bleeding, and staggering, the man she had wounded was coming toward her with greater determination. Her focus was on the second man then; she could still see the first as he kept coming … coming….

“Kyra! Get out of the way!”

A third man had come into the copse. His back was to her, but she knew the height of him, the breadth of him, the raven color of his hair.

She knew his voice. Arryn.

His sword arm was raised. The injured man raised his weapon in defense. Arryn smote a mighty blow. The enemy's sword shattered, he dropped without a sound.

Kyra had frozen. Arryn turned, thrusting her out of the way of battle, taking on her second opponent.

“You bloody outlaw!” the man raged, and he parried and fought hard. Arryn kept up blow after blow, step by step, pushing the man back. Kyra heard the constant scraping of his sword against the man's armor, the clangs as steel met steel time and time again.

Then … he caught the man at the vulnerable juncture of helm and armor at the throat. The man clutched his neck and let out a strangling sound.

Fell.

“Go!” Arryn thundered to her suddenly.

“But—”

“Go! You little fool! You came here to warn Kinsey, but his men do not all care that you find him, do they?”

“You fool!” she protested furiously, but her anger quickly died. “There are more coming!” she cried, gasping as she heard horsemen. Two men in Kinsey's colors came into the copse.

Cavalry, yet they could not manage on their horses here. They leapt down from their mounts. She saw nothing but eyes beneath their helms.

She hesitated; she still bore the priest's sword, and blood dripped from it.

“Get out of here!”

“I can help!”

But their eyes were on her; she backed away.

Arryn attacked, striking heavy blows to their heads and shoulders. They turned from her, and both men engaged with Arryn.

“My lady!”

She turned again, hearing the cry of her name. As silent as darkness, Father Corrigan had come into the copse.

“Father, he is outnumbered. I must stay and—”

“My weapon, if you please.”

“You're a priest!”

“You do well enough, but I think I can do better!”

She gave up the sword.

“Get her out of here!” Arryn cried, striking a blow that caught the first man in the side, finding a weak link through the slits of his mail. Blood spurted. “Go!”

“Go!” Father Corrigan formed the word on his lips.

She didn't wait longer, but burst into the trees once again, running. She didn't know where she was going. She had lost perspective. The woods were alive, she realized. Sir Richard was still close, God help her!

Blindly, wildly, she ran through thickets and dense stands of trees. At last, again, she could run no more. She paused by a tree and heard a trickling sound. The brook she thought. She had run right back to the brook.

She straightened, leaning against a tree. She bit her lower lip, hearing the sounds of hoofbeats, of men talking.

Sir Richard!
Good God, she had run right back to him. He was mounted—he'd caught his destrier—and he was raging at two other soldiers on huge war-horses.

Sir Richard was ranting and swearing. “She's out there—and so are they! Fools, peasants, farmers. Goldsmiths, by God. Idiot wild men in rebellion! There are three of our own men down in the woods, dead, slain, and you fools can't even find the swordsmen—or the Lady Kyra!”

She tiptoed then, deeper into the dark thicket of trees, closer and closer to the water. She watched her back, then turned again, thinking to cross the water.

And then she froze.

Kinsey. Tall, broad shouldered, handsome with his dark hair bared, his features so classical they were nearly beautiful. He stood upon a ledge by the water's edge. He had been giving out commands, while searching the area of the brook himself.

He didn't see her at first.

And then he did. “Kyra.”

Dark eyes narrowed on her. She saw so many things in them: rage, obsession, and something cold, dangerous, ruthless … lethal.

He lifted a hand. “My love … my poor lady love. Hounded, seized, abused. Come to me!” She didn't move; he started toward her. He was so close. He reached out.

He would have touched her, caressed her face.

She found motion; a burst of energy. She pushed herself from the oak where she had stood so paralyzed, and shoved him hard, with all the force and energy in her. He hadn't expected the attack.

He fell back, flat on his back, in the water.

If he hadn't hated her already, she had just provided a humiliation he would never forgive.

She started to run again. And she knew she ran for her life.

He was up, shouting to his men. The woods were alive.

She raced toward the cliffs, toward an arbor where the trees were thick, where she could hope to hide. She froze again, listening.

Nothing …

Nothing.

She nearly gasped out loud, stunned and terrified, when a hand clamped over her mouth from behind her. Tight. The fingers put terrible pressure on her lips. She could scarcely breathe.

So caught, she was dragged from the copse, along a trail.

She began to struggle. Deprived of air, she could barely see. Imprisoned so in arms of steel, she could scarcely move. He ceased dragging her. She was lifted, crushed to a muscled chest. She felt the pounding of his heart as they ran. And ran. Time whirled; terror filled her.

Then he slowed, and she heard his voice in a hushed, deep whisper.

“Not a word, my lady, not a sound, if you wish to draw breath again!”

Arryn. Relief riddled her, made her giddy. She nearly lost consciousness from the strength of it.

“Nod if you understand me. And if you do make a single sound, I'll put my sword straight through your heart, do you understand?”

Tears stung her eyes. They all hated her for betraying them, when she was the pawn in the game.

She nodded. The punishing fingers left her lips. They were swollen. She tasted blood where her teeth had crushed her lips.