Conquer the Night (37 page)

“As I said, I considered such a course of action.”

“Perhaps you should not love me!” she told him.

He smiled. “I do not.”

“Then—”

“When I am camping with an army of men, I eat stale bread, when it is all that there is. When possible, I feast on rare, red meat, and drink the finest wine.”

“And that means—”

“It would be foolish to leave fine wine for stale bread,” he said.

“Oh, God, let me up.”

“No,” he said flatly, fingers savoring the feel of her breast. He looked at her, lowered his head, then covered her nipple with his mouth over the sheer knit. She knew that she jerked at his touch, melted with it, gave far too much away….

He tormented her in a leisurely fashion, teasing with his lips, teeth, and tongue, until he knew that she felt her own trembling.

“As fine wine, my lady, you may feel free to respond.”

“Alas, you are the conqueror, and as the conquered, it is my role, I believe, to scream and fight and be wretched.”

His face rose above hers. “I remind you, there are tears on this pillow.”

She set her hands on his shoulders and tried to push him away. “And I remind you, they are for the world around us.”

“It is a sorry world,” he agreed. His hand remained on her breast, so sensual through the fabric. She felt the weight of his thighs, his arms, his chest, held carefully away. He was hot; he was fire, erect, touching her. She had cried half the night—and he was back with her.

She was fine wine, so he had said.

“But still … give up your fight with me. I watched you tonight. Is that what you intended? I watched you sway and swirl and dance…. I watched men tremble just to touch your hand. Is that what you wanted? If so, I fell into your trap, and thought that two should play.”

“There was no trap!” she whispered. “You left the great hall.”

“And returned.”

“And danced with another, shared wine … and then left me here.”

“There is no one here I want but you!” he told her harshly.

“You have all you want.”

“Aye? So what is it that you want from me?”

“Nothing!”

“Is that the truth, my lady? Or do you seek some assurance? What I can't give? I had a wife!” he reminded her, suddenly angry.

“I know!” she cried in return, and yet she suddenly wondered if the anger he felt was for her—or for himself. Was it one thing to lie here with her …

And another to care?

“God help me, sir! I know. You never let me forget what happened, ever! You'll never believe that I was not to blame!”

“You are the enemy,” he told her.

I
am not!
she might have protested.

But she never had the chance.

He groaned, and his lips ground down on hers.

A sob escaped her from her lips to his. She slammed her fists against him, again and again. Then her hands went still. Her fingers splayed over his chest.

His hands tugged at the fabric of her gown, wrenching it up the length of her thighs, over her hips. She felt his nakedness rubbing against her, his body sliding low, hands catching her hips.

The weight of his form wedged his chest between her limbs. His thumb played upon her intimately, parted her; his tongue ravaged her, quickly, almost violently.

She burned with want….

Shrieking, protesting, digging into his shoulders, twisting, straining, pulsing, she surged against him. Felt the hunger curl and spiral deep within. Then he was up, rising against her, his hands touching her face, his lips finding hers, his mouth kissing her, ravishing, eliciting, evoking. The hunger built. His mouth was wild, ruthless, savage, his tongue seductive as his body penetrated hers, as he rose and fell with her, sank, pinned, thrust deep … withdrew, fast, fast, slow…. He buried himself within her, shuddering. Then he was rising, nearly withdrawing completely as he lifted his lips from the ravaging kiss and his eyes met hers. He moved slowly again. Each second seemed to make her more desperate. She met his gaze, then closed her eyes, threw her arms around him, and dragged him close. She shuddered with the impact, thought she would shatter from him, burst, die….
Slow … slow … please
…

And then he was the wind, and she rose with him, and she felt the sleekness of his body as it grew damp, felt the tension in his chest and limbs, the hard rhythm of his hips, the force of him in her, spiraling, touching, arousing….

She climaxed as he went rigid, thrusting with a volatile burst of wet heat within her. She clung to him, yet felt him shudder, and shudder, and shudder….

How would she live without him, now that he had forced himself into her life?

He didn't withdraw, but lay there with her, arms around her, as if he were loath to let go. And she could not seem to help herself, and she spoke to him, taunting him.

Taunting herself.

“Don't care too much for me, Sir Arryn!” she whispered. “I do not speak from any conceit, but …”

He traced the lines of her face. “I will not care for you, not at all, my lady,” he vowed passionately. “But you will be with me until …”

“Until?”

“Until I say you will be with me no more.”

“You're not being just or fair,” she protested.

“I do not need to be, my lady. I am the conqueror here.”

“Bastard!” she whispered.

“Aye, probably, but the conqueror still. For now, get some sleep. We have neither of us had any.”

She slept; he did not. He watched her, touched her hair, felt the softness of her breath, stared at the beauty of her profile.

Then he rose and walked to the mantel, then the ewer of water by the wash table. He drank deeply, then walked back to the mantel and stared at the flames, then back at her.

“Aye, I had a wife!” he said bitterly. “But God help me and forgive me … I never loved her as I love you now!”

He walked back to the bed, knelt by it, threaded his fingers through her hair again.

“But I cannot forget, cannot forget … I cannot forget how she died!” he said softly.

Kyra stirred, felt his touch.

And trustingly, inched toward it.

Fine wine …

He crawled in beside her again. The dawn had now long since broken, but it didn't matter. He needed to hold her.

There might be no more nights to come.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Once again, when the moon rose, the sound of the pipes lay over the land. Tonight the doors to the great hall had been thrown wide; the villagers had come, and everyone feasted, drank wine and ale, and danced, and wished the newlyweds well.

For Swen had married Ingrid. It was a good match. They were both the grandchildren of Viking invaders who had come to stay, which made them very good Scots, Arryn was quick to assure Kyra. Most good Scots had some Viking in their background. The Norsemen had brought terror and fury to Christendom, but here, in Scotland, the country had prevailed, for the invaders had stayed, and brought their skills with them, and become part of the forming nation.

“You've Viking in your blood, I assume?” she teased.

“Of course, the wildest, most barbaric of the lot!”

“Naturally.”

“My great-great-great—I don't know how many greats—grandfather was a jarl who ruled an isle. I've still family there.”

“Naturally. The clans are strong.”

He sobered suddenly. “Aye, lady, you can't imagine how strong. Perhaps our very salvation—even yours.”

He set down the goblet of wine he had been drinking. “You teased and tormented all my men last night lady. This evening will you dance with me?”

“I don't think the conquered are allowed to refuse, are they?”

“Not unless they want to face a dire retribution.”

“What retribution?”

“I would have to take you alone and away, to a darkened tower, to show you.”

“Ah, dear sir! A dance, or retribution. You do make the choice a difficult one!”

“You are not properly cowed at all, my lady.”

“But I am, Sir Arryn. I am. You cannot begin to imagine. Shall we dance?”

“Aye, lady. Take my hand.”

They danced, and they joined with the large crowd that gathered in the courtyard beneath the moon in the gentle breezes of the balmy night. They joined the groups, and changed partners, and returned to one another, laughing and enjoying themselves. Swen, for all his huge bulk, was light on his feet, and dragged anyone within reach into the dance. Kyra moved along a line of clapping dancers, spinning with each, until she came to the end of the couples, and then she came to a dead halt, forgetting to spin.

John Graham had come back to the castle. She saw him with several other men, dismounting from their horses. They had just ridden into the courtyard.

Arryn looped her arm through his own. Spinning her.

She looked at him, and knew that he saw in her eyes the realization that the time had come for them to leave. “We finish it out,” he told her.

He meant the dance.

The words had so many more meanings.

She spun with him, spun with the others; the pipes whirred and hummed in their unique combination of melody and wail, and soon it was over, and the others were laughing and talking, and if they were aware that their world was about to change, they gave no sign.

When the music faded, he turned her over to Jay—absently, she thought. Aye, the time had come; she was dismissed. She wished that John had fallen into some distant moat, and kept away from Seacairn.

Yet, what would that have done? Eventually, if Edward's army didn't prevail without him, Edward would come. And when he rode upon the Scots, there would be no mistakes, no faltering, and no mercy.

She excused herself from Jay; the music was playing again, but she had no heart for it. It was Ingrid's wedding, and she was glad, but Ingrid had no need of her now; she had her Swen. She walked back through the great hall, and Gaston, the sprightly Briton who had seemed to serve forever there, was humming as he picked up platters and set out more fruit.

He glanced her way, bobbed a curtsy.

“A messenger has come. The Scots will be leaving soon,” she said smoothly. She realized then that whatever happened to her, she would be leaving here. If the Scots won an unlikely victory, she might return. If not, she had abandoned these people.

“Aye, my lady.”

“Gaston, you should go under the stars, dance, enjoy the party.”

He looked at her sadly. “Aye, lady, that I will. But you needn't worry for us here.” He smiled, seeing the concern and question in her eyes. “Life goes on for the common folk, my lady. Great men come and fight wars, and they think they make great changes. Only the masters change, and some are kinder than others, that is all.”

She shook her head. “When the king of England is angry, God knows what he will do. And when men fight for him, they fight viciously.”

“And so do their enemies. My lady, we will prevail. If Lord Darrow returns, he will hardly slaughter us all. Who would cook for him, clean for him, serve him? He is a greedy man; he wants rich fields. He'll not massacre his own tenants or their wives.” He hesitated a minute. “But you must be gone. God help you, lady.”

He came to her, took her hand, squeezed it, bent low over it. He met her eyes. She found herself hugging him.

“You are a good man, Gaston. Whatever happens here, play any game you must. If Lord Darrow returns here, pretend that you are pleased, glad to have a proper lord, and that you loathed the ragged Scottish army that invaded. Live, Gaston; don't anger him.”

“Aye, to live, and to take moments of joy and celebration, like Ingrid's wedding. I will dance, my lady, sing, and tell Ingrid of my happiness for her. But first … there must be ale here, in the great hall. And wine, and bread and meat for the men who have just come. They'll sit late in the hall, tell one another of the battles that will come, and speak of their rage—and their hope.”

She nodded, kissed his cheek, and started up the stairs.

“My lady!” he said, calling her back.

She stopped and turned.

He shook his head suddenly. “It isn't my place to comment….”

“Aye, but please do so anyway.”

He hesitated a moment longer, then told her. “I had feared for you, thinking them to be wild men out of the mountains when they came, as savage as the old painted people, the Picts. I had wanted to help you so badly, yet you see, I knew your outlaw before, many years ago, and knew he was quick to compassion, though embittered by the war. And we see much in the kitchens and the great halls, lady, serving different masters. It's better to be”—he paused, and, being a Briton, he searched for a kind term—“better to be the lover of the man labeled a savage outlaw than the legal wife of one who would call himself lord. The one does seek justice, while the other is fueled by greed.”

“Thank you, Gaston.”

She hurried on up the rest of the stairs to the tower room. Her prison. She might never see it again.

It was not such a prison anymore.

She stoked the fire, sat on the fur before it, and waited.

John had come for them; the time had come.

They'd spend the next day preparing, packing food, weapons, blankets, supplies, everything they could easily carry that might be necessary for the fight.

They were to meet up with Wallace, de Moray, and whatever other freemen, nobles, clergy, farmers, and clerks would take to the field for Scotland.

With Jay, Ragnor, Patrick, Roger, and a number of the rest of his men, he adjourned into the great hall, urging the villagers to continue the wedding celebration.

John sketched a crude map of the area on the table. “We are to meet here, outside of Stirling. And we must take care on the journey there, for the king's men ride here,” John said, pointing to a place on the map to the west, “and here! Cressingham is here, Warenne here. 'Tis true Percy's men disbanded, but they may still be riding about in groups … lethal groups.”