Conquer the Night (36 page)

“Tonight? That, my lady, is ludicrous. It's late. Very late.”

“Aye, well night and late will be the time to go, won't it? I'll need to travel by cover of darkness.”

“And just how were you planning on traveling?”

“Carefully, of course. With just a servant or two; I can go as a pilgrim—”

“And ride unmolested, a great distance, with several armies scavenging the surrounding towns and villages and forests?”

She rose with supple grace, folding her hands before her. “What difference does it make to you? You tell me not to care for you. Well, you mustn't become overly concerned with my welfare.”

“Or your whereabouts.”

“What does that mean? Oh, yes … of course. That you don't trust me. I will somehow betray you, and Wallace, and de Moray, and the whole union of rebels!”

He waved a hand at her impatiently. “When the time is right, I will make arrangements.”

“Why? What possible concern can you have for my future?”

“My lady, aye—you could betray us.”

“I have told you—”

“You may be adept at lies.”

“You have seen—”

“Kinsey is not the only Englishman out there.”

“I've no intention of betraying anyone. I am trying to survive!”

“Thus far I have kept you alive. I won't have you leave here to be slain by foraging men on their way to do battle.”

“Most men would not kill a lone woman.”

“Many men, far from home, drunk with power, would molest a lone woman. Especially when King Edward has suggested that the Scots should be ‘bred out' if not decimated.”

She ignored his words against the king. “That's going to be a risk, but it's my risk, and my affair.” She stared at him with her eyes caught by firelight, emerald in the extreme.

“No,” he said firmly.

“Arryn, I have to—”

“You're wrong; this is not just your affair. I will see to your situation.”

“Will you? You're riding off to an all important battle; you may win, you may lose, and God help you, you may well die.” She walked to him and stood before him, her eyes remaining brilliant upon him. “You wanted to hurt me; you said so once, when you first came. In revenge, of course, for your wife. Whom I never knew nor harmed. Well, you have managed to do me serious damage, sir. Are you pleased, is justice served, can you ride with pride in yourself now?”

Her eyes were reproachful; her tone was sharp, goading.

He was shamed. And guilty still. And angry.

He longed to strike her, shake her, tell her that she still didn't begin to know what hurt was. He reached out for her, gripped her shoulders, gritted his teeth, fought for control. She was so vibrant, passionate, alive.

He threw her from him, threw her back, knowing he had to get his hands off her. She landed on the bed, as he had known she would, breathless and stunned, but unharmed.

“Justice, my lady? Is it served? Never. My wife is a pile of ash. There is no justice for such a loss. But as to you—you'll leave, my lady, when I tell you to. And you'll depend on my protection for your travels, because I have said it is so.”

Shaking, he turned to leave her.

And he strode from the room.

The door slammed hard in his wake.

It was almost dawn. Arryn had not come back to the room.

Kyra wasn't sure at what point she had begun to cry, but she had been tired and desolate, and the tears had started, and to her horror they had just kept going. She tried to stop, and then she furiously told herself she had the right to cry, and then she told herself that she'd never cry over him again, and that she'd never, never let him know that she had. He had warned her continually not to care about him. Why had she done so? He was probably bound for a traitor's death, if nothing else, and yet she lay in knots, wanting him to return, wanting him beside her, wanting to hear his voice, feel his touch….

She had goaded the fight, she thought now numbly. She had teased and flirted and tried to test his temper. She had wanted …

What he couldn't give.

And when he had returned, she had thought she'd gotten her emotions and her vision under control; the armies were moving. Time dwindled. Better to break rationally and intelligently; better for her to go than to watch him leave! No matter what Father Corrigan had said, Arryn had never suggested that she ride with them!

So he had come, she had insisted … she had lashed out at him, and he had lashed back—and left.

She pictured him dancing with petite Elizabeth, the round-bosomed maid with the pretty young face, pictured him having gone to her when he left this room. Men needed little incentive to go to a woman; hadn't he told her that?

She had to stop thinking about him, torturing herself.

But she could not.

Maybe he had gone to find pretty little Elizabeth just to prove to Kyra that she meant nothing to him, but, oh, God, if she meant nothing, why prove it?

While she lay tired and tormented, there was a tapping on her door. She stirred herself to rise, hopeful, yet foolishly so, for she knew he'd never knock.

So who did so?

In the very late hours of the night, she had shed her clothing and donned a soft, knitted nightdress; the fabric was somewhat sheer and clinging, and she hugged the soft garment to her as she called out softly, “Who is it?”

“Ingrid.”

Ingrid. Of course
.

“Are you alone, my lady?”

“Very,” Kyra said. “Come in.”

Ingrid came hurrying in, rushing to her at the bed, then drawing to a halt, staring at her, her fingers curling around the length of one of her braids, her eyes huge as she stared at Kyra.

“My lady!” Ingrid said in a rush.

Kyra half rose, certain that there was something terribly wrong.

“What is it?”

Ingrid started to speak. Her pale features turned ashen, then brilliantly pink.

“Ingrid!” Kyra leapt up, taking her maid by the shoulders. “Ingrid, what is it?”

Ingrid managed a word at last.

“Swen!”

Kyra arched a brow. “Swen?” she questioned.

Ingrid suddenly clapped her hands together. “Swen!” she repeated.

“Ah, yes—Swen.” One of Arryn's men. The huge fellow, taller than any man, as big as a small house. He'd asked to dance with Ingrid; she had told him to insist to Ingrid that she do so.

She noted then that Ingrid hadn't changed. She was still wearing the clothing she'd been wearing the night before.

Except that …

There was straw in it. Or hay. And there were a few little pieces of hay in her long blond braids.

She gripped Ingrid by the shoulders. “Oh, my God. Oh, Ingrid, I'm so sorry, did Swen … did he—Oh, he must have! Father Corrigan will speak with him, the bloody bastard! Big as a house and he acts like an animal—”

“No, no, no, my lady!” Ingrid cried, horrified.

“You mean he didn't—”

“Oh, no! He
did
, but because … I wanted him to.”

“Oh.” Kyra's mouth formed the word.

“My lady!” The maid's excitement was tangible. “My lady, he has asked me to marry him!”

“Marry him!”

“Aye, Lady Kyra, isn't that wonderful?”

“I … I—”

“May I, my lady; will you give permission, please?”

“Ingrid, um—you barely know him, you—”

“I have watched him, my lady. Since they came. He's talked to me before. He carried the laundry for me … and last night, when we were dancing …”

“Marriage!” Kyra said.

“Oh, please, my lady!”

Kyra shook her head. “I would never deny you, Ingrid, but—you know this, that you want to marry him, after one night?”

“One night is far more than most maidens get, my lady.”

“Aye, of course, but—”

“The rich are wed as children, sometimes not even knowing one another.”

“Aye, and that's tragic.”

“It's the way it is, my lady.”

“But, Ingrid—”

“I love him, my lady.”

“Can you be so certain?”

“Will I ever have such another chance? Oh, my lady! I am no great beauty, but neither is he. He is Swen! My Swen, perfect for me!”

Kyra started to smile; then she froze, for Ingrid had left the door open at her excited entrance, and Arryn was standing there, and she didn't know how long he had been there.

He walked into the room. “What is this, Ingrid?”

Ingrid blushed, but she didn't seem so terrified of Arryn any longer. “Sir Arryn, it's … I … well, I've come—”

“Aye, Ingrid, about Swen?”

She nodded, then looked at him earnestly—and worriedly. “Oh, sir, has he your permission? I didn't think—”

“Swen is a free man, not my servant; he rides with us by choice, for Scotland, Ingrid. But aye, lass, he has my blessing.”

“What say you, my lady?” Ingrid asked anxiously.

“Ingrid, he will ride off to war.”

“I will wait!”

“I still say that you can hardly be so certain.”

“I know that I love him, my lady!”

“You don't know him.”

“It seems to me, Lady Kyra, that the two wish to wed with far greater reason than most couples who would come before God.”

He was making her sound ridiculous and bitter, Kyra thought. She lifted her hands. “Ingrid, you must do what you choose. With my blessings!”

“Oh, my lady!” Ingrid threw her arms around Kyra, kissed her cheek, then withdrew. “What will I do? What will I wear? We must wed quickly….”

“You are welcome to anything of mine,” Kyra told her, which sent her into gales of laughter.

“Oh, my lady, you tease me; I couldn't wear your clothing!”

“Ingrid—”

But Ingrid wasn't listening. She had risen to approach Arryn, tentatively, then with a huge smile. “Oh, Sir Arryn!” And she hugged him, and he hugged her back.

“Go tell Swen to find Father Corrigan; there will be a wedding tonight. Just before dinner. And we will feast and party again.”

“Bless you! Oh, bless you, Sir Arryn!”

She went running out of the room.

Arryn followed her to the door, closing it in her wake. He came back rubbing his nape, and then his temples. He gave no sign he remembered that Kyra was in the room. After a moment, he hunkered down to rebuild the fire. Flames sputtered, then blazed to life again.

He rose and began to strip off his clothing.

Kyra stood, inching from the bed. “What do you think you are doing?” she demanded.

He turned to her, surprised at the question. “I don't think—I am doing. I am going to bed. I need some sleep.”

He padded by her, his eyes level with hers until he had passed her. Then he crawled into the bed, turning his back on her. “This is by far the most comfortable bed in the castle,” he murmured.

As if he had tried others.

Rage and misery filled her—the latter being the greater emotion.

She ignored him, walking to her wardrobe trunk to choose clothing for the day.

“My pillow,” he noted, “is soaked.”

She didn't respond, but kept digging through the trunk.

“Were you crying over me, Kyra?”

“Don't be absurd.”

“Come here.”

“I think not.”

“Actually, I think that you should think anew. Because if you do not, you know I'll come and get you.”

“That will be a useless effort on your part.”

“Useless, my lady? No, for the intent is that you come from there to here, and it will happen. I will simply pick you up and bring you over.”

She straightened, ready to protest, but he was already out of bed and on the way. And as he had promised, he picked her up, and she tensed and her jaw clenched but he walked back to the bed. And as he did so, it seemed that the sheer white knitted garment she wore made her feel him all the more fully, the play of his muscles, tension, vibrancy, movement….

He laid her down, leaned over her. His hand covered her breast over the fabric; his fingers played over her nipple and the feel, through the fabric, was torturously erotic. She squirmed, trying to twist from him.

“I told you not to love me,” he said softly, his touch tightening upon her.

“I do not.”

“Then why were you angry; why were you crying?”

“I don't know what you're talking about—”

“You were crying.”

“And it must be over you?” she inquired, eyes flashing furiously, hands pressed against him in protest. “Why would I be crying? My God! You don't trust me, and many men want to kill me! To survive I must leave my home, all that's mine, all that I've known! Imagine, why would I shed a tear—and why would I do so for you?”

His lips curled slightly; his eyes were intense.

“Why are you trying to refuse me now?”

She stared at him, incredulous. “Why are you attempting to seduce me now, when you don't trust me, and have obviously been elsewhere?”

“Since you are among the beaten and seized, you really have no right to ask such a question. Ravished ladies have no rights, you see. They meekly obey their new masters. But since I'm in the mood, I'll tell you where I have been, and that has been awake all night with Ragnor and Jay.”

“And not with another woman?”
Oh, God!
She hadn't said those words. But she had! She longed to kick herself for the question.

“I considered it,” he told her gravely. “You should not forget who I am, and what I am.”

“And who and what are you?”

“The barbarian half Highlander who has conquered you and this castle, and that is all.”

“Then you should have let me go last night.”

“I didn't choose to do so. Conqueror, my lady. I rule here, for the time.”

“If I mean nothing to you, you should have taken another for the night, and sent me on my way.”