Conquer the Night (47 page)

“The king's court?” Reginald said.

“A court of the king's design!” Kinsey snapped. “I am the wronged man here, sir! The outlaw stole my betrothed. And the lady turned traitor. I will prove it, legally.”

“There is one other matter,” Sir Reginald said.

“Aye?”

“He sends you this.”

“What is it?”

Kinsey accepted the small linen packet Sir Reginald handed to him. He started to unfold it.

He jumped back suddenly. The packet and its contents fell to the earth.

“It is his portion of the flayed skin of Cressingham, sir. He admits to being somewhat sorry that men resorted to such barbaric deeds, but then, he understands how deeply many hated Cressingham, because he knows how deeply he hates you. If she lives and is returned to him, you live. If she is harmed in any way, he will hunt you down until he finds you, and you will be food for carrion.”

“He will hunt me down until he finds me!” Kinsey said in a rage.

Kyra tensed as she suddenly saw him coming toward her, his strides long and furious. Looking past him, she saw old Sir Reginald lower his head; he was a man, she thought, sorry for the violence, and sorry for any wrong he brought to her.

She was glad that Arryn had let him live.

Kinsey kept coming, tall, powerful, his head bare, his brown hair gleaming in the moonlight, his dark eyes sharp as daggers. There was nowhere to run, nothing to do. The ropes that held her to the tree were fast and binding.

He reached her and drew his knife. Her heart ceased to beat.

He slashed the ropes, wrenching her to her feet.

She found herself dragged through the trees. His strength, in his rage, was terrifying. His hold on her might have bruised flesh, torn muscle, snapped bone. They came to a clearing within the woods. He suddenly spun her around in front of him. She rubbed her wrists, barely daring to breathe, returning his stare.

“What? What is it?” he flared suddenly. He walked around her, came closer, moved farther away. “Are you a witch, my lady? What about you makes men so obsessed? Do you hold such incredible riches? Is it your voice, your eyes … or witchcraft? Or are you simply so good in a man's bed?”

She felt herself go pale. She might have told him that it was none of those things. Arryn cared for her, aye. She believed that. But he hadn't forgotten Alesandra.

He would come for her now, she was certain, because Thomas would have told him about the child.

Arryn would not, could not, let Kinsey Darrow destroy another of his unborn children, and live with himself. His pride was too great—and his honor.

“There … is nothing,” she said. “I am but a part of this war between the two of you.”

“You have not lain with him?” Kinsey queried dryly.

Should she have lied? She never had the chance. Her face gave her away, and Kinsey shook his head. She wondered again why she had always hated him so much. Standing in the clearing, his head bare, his colors over his coat of mail, he was an imposing figure with handsome features, sharp eyes, and a powerful presence.

His lips, she thought, pursed too thin. There was too feral a glitter in his eyes. A perfect picture that should have been right … but it was flawed by those slight defects that betrayed the soul of a monster.

“I never wanted to hate you, you know. The first time I saw you …”

“You saw my father's place in this world. Lord of the English—and the Scots. You saw my mother's wealth and family reputation here.”

He smiled. “Well, aye, I saw those things. But I saw your hair as well, and your eyes. My God, Kyra, no one has eyes quite like that, so very green. You must be a witch, of course. Only a witch could have such eyes.”

“If I were a witch, Kinsey, I'd not have bewitched you into obsession; I'd have bewitched you into a ditch!”

He smiled grimly, crossing his arms over his chest. “Kyra, you do play reckless games. You are entirely in my power. I hold your life or your death in my hands.”

“My death could bring about your own.”

“I'm not afraid of that madman outlaw,” he said.

He was lying, she thought.

“Are you afraid of the king of England?”

“Let's say I'm wary of the king of England,” he said. “But I can hold a legal trial; I am to be lord of Seacairn.”

“It's my title, Kinsey.”

“Aye, but we will be married.”

“Nay, we will not.”

“We'll see about that, won't we?”

She shrugged uneasily.

“I still believe that Edward would forgive me a moment's insanity. Here I am, my lady, one of his most powerful knights, ever ready to ride against his enemies! A powerful man in my prime, promised a bride of incredible beauty. And then I discover that she has been lying with one of the king's greatest enemies! My betrothed! I lost my head. My anger and jealousy were so great that I snapped her long, graceful neck beneath my fingers!”

“Perhaps the king will lose his head as well, hearing that I was so murdered.”

He smiled. “A gamble indeed, my lady. I never really wanted to kill you. Except in those moments, of course, of pure jealous rage. They are real, you know.”

“What do you want from me, Kinsey?” she demanded. “The hour is late. You may defy the madman, but you'll be running from him in a few hours.”

“Imperious to the end, eh, Kyra?” he said softly.

“Kinsey—”

“I want what you gave him so freely.”

“What?”

“You want to live; I want you.”

She lowered her head, shaking. She remembered vividly the times she had been with Arryn, and the way he had spoken of Alesandra. His pride had not mattered; possession had not mattered. He would never have felt his wife ruined by Kinsey's touch; he had only wanted her alive.

He would never condemn her now for what must be. Life was important. She had to live. She bit her lip.

“I have itched to seize you many a time now, Kyra, throw you against the ground, a tree—alone, with others about … but we've been so busy….”

“Running,” she reminded him. “We still need to run.”

“You were going to marry me.”

“By the king's command.”

“Ah, but you would have been my wife.”

“I thought it was your intent to marry me still?”

His hesitation was chilling. He didn't intend it, and he hadn't intended to give himself away. He didn't mean to forgive her—ever.

He meant to marry her—and then kill her.

But he did want to do it legally—have a mock trial, see that there were dozens of witnesses to call her a traitor.

The laws were written. The king had seen to that. And the punishment for traitors was written out more clearly than any other.

“Aye, Kyra, we'll marry. It will be done.”

She stood in the clearing, watching him.

“But until then …” He lifted a hand to her. “Come here.”

She shook her head. “I'll not come willingly to you, Kinsey. I loathe you.”

“What? And if I touch you, you'll be so dishonored you'll plunge a dagger into your own heart.”

Now she gave away too much, hesitating.

He smiled. “There's too much spirit in you, Kyra. Too much of the fighter. What an admirable quality it might have been, had you just accepted the king's decree—and loved me.”

“Had there been a man there to love, Kinsey, I would have honored the king, and done so.”

“Kyra, come here, or I'll plunge that dagger into your heart and claim you did it yourself rather than lie in the arms of your future husband.”

“How quickly that fact spreading across the countryside will attract another lady for you!” she exclaimed.

“Kyra, come here—or die.”

Her lashes fell.

Survive!
She must survive.

She began to walk toward him. “Come kiss me, my love, as if you mean it.”

She reached him. She tried to keep from shivering. “I loathe you,” she whispered, standing directly before him.

“You cannot know the hatred I feel for you in my heart!” he told her.

“Then why … this?”

“I am obsessed!” he said. His arms wound around her. His lips lowered to hers. “Make it good, my lady, very, very good. I would discover what magic you perform.”

His mouth molded over hers. Surprisingly, there was no cruelty to the touch. And still she felt nothing but the discomfort of him, the feel of him, the pressure of his mail against her, the physical irritation of his tongue….

A taste of onions.

Onions
.

He'd been eating onions. Suddenly that seemed paramount in her mind. She barely noticed that he had his hand on her breast, that he was pressing closer and closer to her, that the whole of him was becoming overwhelming.

Onions!

They must have found them along the way, eaten them with the rabbits they had killed for their meal that night.

He was lifting her, holding her, growing more and more aroused. Carrying her down to the earth.

She tried to twist from his kiss.

She would bear him, endure him, whatever he did to her. She wouldn't try to plunge a knife into her own heart, or his.

But she couldn't kiss him anymore, couldn't bear his breath….

He was making noises, fumbling with his clothing, with hers. His lips traveled to her throat.

His mouth rose above hers again.

“No, Kinsey, no, just don't … kiss me.”

“Witch! You'll do it right, love me, as you love him.”

His mouth touched hers again. She pushed against him desperately. He forced his lips down hard, grindingly.

She ripped at his hair. He rose, swearing as she leapt to her feet, staggered away.

And was violently ill.

She barely heard him rising behind her.

But then she heard his anger.

“Trust me, you will marry me!” he vowed with low fury. “And then you will die, and die your traitor's death very, very slowly for this insult!”

She heard him turn away from her.

She groped for a tree trunk to keep herself standing.

Insult! He thought that she could manage such an act of such physical misery as an insult?

She almost laughed, but she didn't.

Sir John had seen her ill, and figured out the truth of her situation.

Soon enough Kinsey would figure it out as well. And then …

Would he want to hasten her death, just to hasten the death of Arryn's child? Shaking, shivering, she finally realized that he had actually left her.

In the woods.

She spun around, hope flickering in her heart.

But Sir Richard was there.

He smiled. “I won't blink before killing you, my lady. I won't even blink.” Then he bowed suddenly, laughing. “My lady, your bed—and your shackles!—await.”

She hadn't the strength to fight him, and again, the desire to live kept her from doing so. She walked ahead of him, back to their makeshift camp.

Before the dawn, they were riding again.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

There was a group of knights, dismounted from their horses, at the stream. Brendan had found them; he was incredibly adept at slipping through the trees in dead silence, and his hearing seemed so acute that he knew when other riders were near long before the others heard the slightest sound.

They had nearly stumbled upon the Englishmen, but because of his cousin's unique ability, they had held back, Brendan had gone on, and now they circled the riders.

They were cavalry; there might have been foot soldiers in their original number, but if so, they had left the slower men behind.

Now they were encircled.

Arryn gave a signal.

Arrows flew in the forest. Perhaps eight of the thirty or so men were hit. At this close range, a number of trees were hit as well.

The men who were hit went down.

At this close range, most mail could be penetrated by a well-strung arrow.

Watching their comrades fall, the others drew their swords, turning in a panic. Arryn stepped from the trees, his sword bared. Across from him, on the other side of the water, Jay appeared. To their left Ragnor stepped out, and to the right John appeared, planting a foot on a rock and leaning upon it.

Patrick stepped forward with more of the men, just appearing from the trees. With such a show, they appeared to be more than they were.

“Hold; shield your weapons!” one of the Englishmen immediately roared. Arryn recognized his colors, and the standard on his tunic.

He knew the man. He was a graybeard, but a steady, strong man. Lord Griffin Percy was from the great northern England family of Percys, and he had met him many a time as a lad at King Alexander's court.

“The bloody Scots will eat us alive!” called one of his men. “We may as well die fighting!”

“Eat them!” Jay exclaimed. “We've not been ordered to resort to cannibalism as yet, have we, Arryn?”

“I've no taste for so tough and dry a taste as an Englishman!” John called out.

“Why, you bloody outlaws!” cried the man, drawing his sword again.

“Hold!” their leader commanded furiously. Old, Lord Percy might be, but he was a commanding figure still, and his voice could compel the very wind to cease blowing.

“Hello, Lord Percy,” Arryn said.

“Hello, Arryn,” Percy said, and turned to his men. “This man will not skin us, spit us, and eat us. He will not even put us all to the sword—I don't believe. Unless you have changed, Sir Arryn?”

“I've little heart for more murder, my lord. We kill enough on the battlefield. And of course,” he said, pausing to note the downed Englishmen, “to surprise our foe, and allow him to see our strength. Of course, I wish to make certain as well that you are leaving Scotland?”

“Aye, Arryn,” Lord Percy said.

“The king will raise an army against us, as soon as he returns from France,” Arryn told Percy. “When we let men live, we have them swear a blood oath that they will not return.”