Conquer the Night (4 page)

The woman didn't reply. He started to twist the knife in his hands.

“She
is the Lady Kyra!” the very broad blond woman suddenly cried out.

Ahh …

Was it true? Yes. He could see it in the flashing emerald eyes of the beauty sprawled before him.

Despite himself, despite hatred, anguish, and revenge, he felt his limbs burn, his blood find fire, his body quicken.

“Lady Kyra!” he said softly. Well, she was not broad, and she certainly appeared intelligent, and with a temper—and courage surpassing that of those who would defend her.

This … this was Darrow's woman.

No man of flesh and blood could find the need to place a sack over this damsel's head.

“Aye, indeed!” she spat out, thrusting the knife aside, sitting up, and trying to slide back from him. She smoothed a strand of tangled gold hair from her face. “I am the Lady Kyra. But trust me, sir, I do
not
know you.”

For a moment, her complete pride and reckless defiance amused him.

He rose, reaching for her hand, wrenching her to her feet. “But you will know me, my lady. You will come to know me very well. Indeed, from this moment onward, you will know no one
but
me.” All humor and amusement left his eyes. “Indeed, lady, in payment for those so woefully misused and abused in your name, you will know me very, very well.”

CHAPTER TWO

Did she know him? Yes, of course, she did. She had lied.

Yes, of course she had lied. She knew far too much about him, far more than she wanted to know.

She stood now, facing him. He was a tall man, broad and powerful in the rough-hewn and battle-weathered chain and leather armor that adorned his frame. If he had worn a helmet into battle, he had cast it aside now, and she could clearly see his features; like his well-worn armor, they were both oddly striking and weathered. He was a young man with a clean, chiseled face; a hard, squared, and unrelenting jaw; wide-set eyes—large, piercing, and a very deep blue. His hair was as dark as ebony, almost blue-black in its darkness, long to his shoulders, wavy, despite the fact that it was unruly and wild as well. He was clean-shaven, which seemed to make the utter ruthlessness in his eyes and the set of his jaw all the more apparent. Rough, crude, coarse, she told herself. Barbaric, as much a berserker as any of the Vikings who were part of his ancestry, or as brutal as the Picts, the painted men of the north who were equally a part of what made up the Scotsmen of his kind and clan. They were all tribal men, no more civilized than the horses who swept the continent in the dark ages gone by. Not even the Romans had troubled much with them, for they were far too much like animals to be worth the effort.

Yes, this man was definitely …

An animal?

Thus Kinsey had described him—as he described all Scotsman. To Kinsey they were one and the same. Especially the Highlanders. This man, though, was from Stirling, so she had been told, and kin to the Sir John Graham who rode so closely to the rough renegade William Wallace, a man who was little better than the berserkers who had ravaged these coasts not so very long ago.

Yes, she knew of this man, one of the Grahams, a clan of born Lowlanders themselves, who led and fought and died with the heathen Highlanders. They hailed from a southern section of the country, where they should have become far more civilized—more Anglicized—but they chose to be a group of Gaelic-speaking madmen who defied God and law and practiced every manner of barbarism known to the imagination.

So this was to be her salvation! she thought, feeling a new rise of panic grow within her. She had prayed for something to happen to change her life. This! This was God's jest, God's irony upon her.

But then, indeed, she had said that she'd gladly meet with Satan himself….

And still, it wasn't so much what she had been told about him that so frightened her.

It was what had been done to him!

All in the name of justice, all in the name of the king, so Kinsey Darrow had said. But Kinsey gave his loyalty to the English king, while the Scots, both desperately and furiously, were fighting against subjugation to that very king, at least Scots such as this one. Fools, Kinsey often said, for Edward I of England meant to have homage paid to him by Scotland, one way or another.

Killing Scots was not like killing people, Kinsey had boasted in the great hall of this very castle. She must always remember: they were animals, and thus killing them was like killing animals; they should be bled, their throats should be slit. Then they should be gutted. Castrated. Quartered. Burned.

Burned, yes, that was what he had done….

A chill swept through her. Like rays of an ice-sun, the cold streaked out into her limbs as she stood, staring at him, feeling the hard, calculating assessment of his cobalt eyes in return. She gritted her teeth very hard, fighting another wave of panic.

She suddenly realized that she very much wanted to live, though she didn't want to admit she was afraid to die. And if she was going to be executed, she should meet her new destiny with all the dignity and courage of her rank and station in life—chin high as she walked toward death!

She
should
know such dignity and pride.

What a pity she was so terrified. It was amazing how much easier it was to be brave and courageous when not facing imminent torture and death.

What else could she be but afraid—very afraid?

The methods used for execution between these enemies were beyond cruel and horrible. If she was tortured, would she suffer in silence?

Most probably not.

God, the way he looked at her was nearly as frightening as knowing what he had decided—and anticipating what was to come.

After what had been done to him….

In the name of Edward I—who wanted to be known as the Hammer of the Scots.

And in her own name, of course, for she was the heiress of an English man, an English lord given dominion in this land. Though her mother had been a Scot, she was an English subject, and subject to the man who would be Hammer of the Scots.

So what awaited her now? Would she be drawn and quartered? Disemboweled? Suffer a fate more fitting the members of her fairer sex, condemned for witchery, heresy, betrayal?

Burning …

God help her, she wouldn't face the flames. Some kind executioner would strangle her before the fire scorched her flesh, before she felt the pain, and yet this man must want her to know every dreadful second, after what had been …

Her heart thundered. She stared at him, “Sir? Shall you have done with it now? Will you hang me from the rafters in the great hall?”

“Hang you?” he queried. “Hang you? A simple hanging? Good God, my lady! We are barbarians, but surely you must expect that we have some imagination!”

“I'm quite sure you have more than ample imagination. But you have taken the castle. Be advised that the men here had nothing to do with …” Despite herself, her voice trailed. She had meant to keep her eyes steady with his. She could not. “The men here were not involved with the events that occurred so recently on your holdings … sir.”

She wanted to look at him, wanted so badly to raise her eyes to his. Feeling his stare, she wanted so very badly not to appear a coward.

And at last she looked up at him. “If they beg for mercy, I pray that you will remember that in simple justice: they were not involved.”

“And we know, of course, that you were,” he said, and she wondered if it was a statement, or a question. The words from him, quietly spoken in the Norman French of the court, were more disturbing than a harsh demand in the Gaelic he had thundered thus far. She wondered if it was because there was a more subtle but far more deadly threat in a tone so soft.

She hesitated, feeling the fury that lay within him, feeling it tangible in the air, washing over her in great waves. And she knew that it was more, of course, that it was pain and loss and horror, and she was tempted to scream out her own terror and throw herself at his feet.

“My name was used,” she said. “What matters, sir, is that you do not punish the innocent here, that you—”

“No quarter,” he said softly.

“What?”

“No quarter, my lady,” he answered her, his eyes studying her face, his tone low and even. “No quarter. They are the two words given by your good King Edward at Berwick on Good Friday, March thirtieth, 1296. You have heard of the occasion, surely? He attacked the town and mercilessly slaughtered the citizenry—the estimate of deaths that night ranges from about seventeen to forty thousand. Edward was in a rage—his cousin had been killed by an arrow. His own churchmen begged him to stop the carnage—he would not do so until he had to witness a child being born as the mother was hacked to death.”

Kyra knotted her fingers into fists at her sides, well aware that the event had occurred. “Terrible butchery has taken place,” she said quietly. “But these people were not part of it. Does revenge justify the murder of innocent men?”

“Innocent men?
Innocent men?
Any man who serves such a master as Kinsey Darrow can hardly be considered an innocent.”

“Those who have remained here were my father's retainers. They never rode with Kinsey. They were left to guard the castle when he rode out. I swear to you that they were innocent of…”

She faltered. The sudden rise of rage and pain to his eyes were such that her voice trailed to silence.

“The death of my wife and child?” he finished harshly for her.

She was shaking and she knew it. She couldn't meet his gaze.

She had been promised to Kinsey by the king, but as yet, no wedding ceremony had taken place. She had come of age at a time when Edward was ruthlessly destroying Wales and turning toward Scotland, despite his disputes with France. England and Scotland had always struggled for border lands, but never like this. She could not believe the atrocities that took place, the destruction of Hawk's Cairn, Arryn Graham's manor and holdings. Fighting men had been locked into a barn—which had been set ablaze. Then the house itself had been torched.

Kinsey had sworn to her that he hadn't known that Arryn Graham's pregnant young bride was in the residence when his manor was set afire. And still …

Had his lady succumbed to the smoke? Or had she died in the fury of the flames?

“None of these men took part,” she said.

“Perhaps not. And perhaps you're a liar, praying that they'll find courage and strength and rise again in rebellion when I believe they've been subdued.”

Her eyes flew open and she stared at him, surprised by the sudden rise of renewed courage his scornful words had brought to her. “I am the one against whom you should seek your vengeance. Take what revenge you will against me. Turn these men to your own use, for they are far more Scottish than English, and will be grateful for your mercy and perhaps far more useful to you in the future alive than they could ever be now as dead men! Take your revenge against me.”

“Oh, I will, lady, I will!” he assured her, spinning around, his strides long as he began to exit the chapel. As he started out, another man, a strapping young dark-haired warrior with his helmet held now in his hand, came bursting in.

“Arryn, did you find—” He broke off seeing Kyra.

“Yes, I found her,” Arryn said, turning back to indicate Kyra.

The newcomer stared at her hard, then at Arryn.

“Well,” he murmured.

“Escort her to the eastern tower room,” Arryn said, his gaze—hard, blue, and passionless—assessing her once again.

“Now?”

“Aye, now.” He still gazed at her. He looked at the newcomer once again. “She has suggested that we hang her. I have informed her that, barbarians though we may be, we've imaginations far superior to so simple a solution.”

“But Arryn—”

“Jay, you will escort the lady to the eastern tower, where she will await my leisure.”

Ingrid came running up to her from the few steps behind her where she had stood. “I will be with you, my lady—”

“You!” Arryn snapped, pointing at Ingrid. “You will descend to the great hall now!”

“No!” Kyra cried, grasping on to Ingrid. “You will not hurt her or abuse her in any way! She is truly no part of this—”

“Madam, she will not remain with you!” Arryn grated. “Who are you? What is your name?” he demanded of the terrified girl.

“In … In … In—”

“God help us!” he roared impatiently. “Your name! All I've asked is your name.”

“Ingrid, she is Ingrid!” Kyra told him.

“Have her go below before I have her dragged out.”

“Ingrid, go below to the great hall; see what work needs to be done. He will not hurt you. She stared at him, praying that she told the truth as she looked into the icy pits of his cold blue eyes. Would he hurt her—kill her? Neither women nor children could expect simple decency in this conquest Edward would make. How could she promise Ingrid her safety when she knew what had befallen this man's wife?

It didn't matter. Maybe Ingrid wasn't as aware as she of what horrible cruelties had taken place against their enemy. She stepped forward as Kyra urged her, slowly approaching Arryn, then nervously passing him by.

Arryn watched her go.

“Aren't you afraid she will find a weapon and come back and crush you?” she heard herself say defiantly. Then she was terrified anew, afraid that her reckless words might endanger the girl's life.

“Afraid, madam, of timid Ingrid? Not a whit. While you, my lady …” Once again he assessed her. “I'd not trust you for a split second. Only a fool would turn his back on you. But we'll deal with that difficulty later.”

Without another word, he threw his mantle over his shoulder and started on his way out of the chapel again. A moment later he was gone, and she was left alone with his man to be taken to the tower room.