Dark Immortal (6 page)

Unfortunately,
that thought summoned Nightshade to her mind and, try as she might, she could
not make herself believe that the man the king chose for her would even begin
to compare favorably.  He might well be worse than William had been.

Dismay
filled her at that thought--not just the possibility that the man might be a
vicious brute, but the realization that she had not even met the man and
already found herself deeply reluctant--held little belief that he could
possibly compare favorably with Nightshade.

Perhaps
Nightshade had not truly given her something wonderful at all.  Mayhap he had
only succeeded in ruining any hope she might have had of finding acceptance, if
not contentment in her marriage. 

Chapter Seven

The
snow falling past her chamber window perfectly suited Bronwyn’s mood.  The
king’s man, Sir Horace Fitzhugh, had blown into Raventhorne with the first
blizzard of the year and the snow had not ceased to fall since his arrival a
fortnight earlier.  It had only alternated between a light to heavy fall until
drifts were piled several feet high along the castle walls and still growing.

Her
misery was complete, she thought dolefully.

Restlessness
had chaffed at her the moment the snow began to fall and the knowledge sank in
to her that she was thoroughly and completely trapped within the castle walls. 
Truthfully, she rarely went out in any case.  And she had already discovered
when she had tried excursions outside to take the air that she could not
outstrip the gloom that overshadowed her days, but the snow had so curtailed
her activities that she had little to occupy her hands and mind.

Grimacing,
she acknowledged that that was not completely true.  Her mind was fully
occupied, but with thoughts of Nightshade, which she would have liked to avoid.

Guilt
plagued her, not the remorse she supposed she should have felt, but rather the
distress that she was to blame for Nightshade’s hopelessness.  She did not know
what she might have done differently--save to go to her death willingly--but
his despair tore at her.

I have tossed my only hope of redemption from
these castle walls to save a pitiful scrap of humanity that means nothing to
me.

What
hope had William represented, she wondered?

The
only answer that presented itself to her was the fact that his death brought an
end to his bloodline.  William, himself, could not have had a hand in ‘damning’
Nightshade, for he was no sorcerer.  But William’s great uncle, Gaelzeroth had
reputedly been one of the most powerful in the land. 
He
would certainly
have had the power to bespell Nightshade.

How,
though, did the two connect?

Unless
Nightshade had believed that another powerful sorcerer would arise someday from
Gaelzeroth’s line, one who
could
break the spell?

She
thought that must be it, but even if it was, the knowledge was of no use. 
William was dead--dead because he had tried to kill her and Nightshade had felt
compelled to save her and protect her.

The
night he had come to her, she had felt that she knew why.  She was certain he had
taken a fancy to her.  She supposed she had thought it was merely lust then,
but she had come to believe that it was more than that.  He had taught her
passion in that one night they had spent together, lavished her with his own
passion, but there had been far more to it than animalistic coupling.  He had
not simply fallen upon her and slaked his needs.  He had
loved
her.  He
had made her feel beautiful and desirable, yes, but more than that, cherished.

That
was what had made
filled her with joy, the sense that she had shared herself with someone who
cared for her.  Perhaps he was skilled enough that he would have made her feel
that way anyhow, but the yearning that had begun to eat away at her resolve to
forget him was not merely a hunger for an appetite he had spawned.

She
missed him.  She missed the sense of being cherished and protected that she had
felt in his arms as much, or more, than she missed the fire that he had stirred
in her senses.  And each day, she missed it more.

Her
stomach churned at the thought, and she leaned her forehead upon the cool glass
of her chamber window, fighting again the urge to call him to her.  Every day,
it seemed, it became harder to refrain from calling out to him instead of
easier.

She
had begun to fantasize that she would somehow discover the way to free him from
his curse and that he would then be able to come to her openly, take her to
wife.

It
was absurd.  As certain as she was that he had been bespelled by Gaelzeroth, he
had lost more than the humanity he had once had.  He had lost
all
that
he had had.  He might never have been more than a lowly soldier, but even if he
had, in truth, been the valiant knight that she believed he was, he was now
landless and powerless and the king would not allow her to wed a man with
nothing.  She was heir to both her father’s holdings and now William’s.  The
king would want an alliance that would benefit him.

She
would still free him from his tormented existence if she could, only for his
sake and to make right what she had inadvertently deprived him of, but she did
not even know what had transpired. 

Gaelzeroth
had fallen to his own evil long ago, before the memory of anyone living, and
nothing remained but the tales woven about him--many of which were probably
exaggerated and some of which were probably completely untrue.  According to
legend he had been betrayed by his wife, a young woman he had forced to wed
him, a witch whom he believed he might breed an even more powerful sorcerer
upon.  She had outwitted him, though, conspired with his enemies to weaken him
so that they could destroy him.

No
one knew what had become of her afterward.  She had simply vanished and all
that Gaelzeroth had taken had passed to the son of his cousin--the son his
cousin because Gaelzeroth himself had slain his brother.

Was
there some significance to the fact that Nightshade had been cursed to guard
this keep and not one of the others Gaelzeroth had taken?  She thought there
must be.  Perhaps Nightshade had been the captain of the guard and that was why
Gaelzeroth had thought it would be amusing to make him guard the Keep for
eternity?

It
seemed in keeping with the things that Gaelzeroth had done.

And
yet she could not see how that would help her to help Nightshade even if it
were true.

Pushing
away from the window, Bronwyn paced for some time and finally settled on a
stool before the hearth, staring into the flames. 

She
had sent her maids away regardless of Marta’s warning.  There had been a time
when she had welcomed their presence, but now it only chaffed her more to feel
their eyes upon her, to sense the speculation churning in their minds. 

Mostly,
though, she had sent them away because, deep down, she hoped that Nightshade
would ignore her demand that he not seek her out again.  She had wanted him to
brush aside her qualms and force her to take him as her lover so that she could
enjoy his caresses without guilt.

It
had begun to seem unlikely that that would happen, though.  It had begun to
seem that either she had been completely wrong about his feelings for her, or
he was bound by the sense of honor that he had lived by when he was a man.

She
covered her face with her hands.  She did not want to live the remainder of her
days with only that one moment of beauty to warm her memories--to haunt her. 
If she could do nothing to change her fate, or Nightshade’s, why was it wrong
to take what happiness there was to be had?  Who would it hurt save her when
she was torn from his arms and forced to wed another man?

It
was pride that restrained her, not a sense of decorum or honor.  She would
gladly have thrown both to the wind but for her pride.  She
needed
him
to come to her to reassure her that he cared for her because that was far more
important than the passion, however glorious it had been.  If she called him,
she would never know whether he had come because he yearned for her as she did
him, or merely because he had been summoned.

Irritated
by her thoughts but unwilling to seek her bed in case Nightshade sought her
out, she rose from the stool and began to pace her room again.

He
startled her.  She had no idea how long she had paced the floor while he
watched in silence, for he moved as no mortal man did.  A jolt went through her
when she turned to find him watching her near the window where she had stood so
long.

A
heady mixture of longing and gladness filled her, but also wariness.

Had
she summoned him, she wondered in sudden embarrassment?  Had she called to him
aloud as she had stood by the window, fighting the urge to do so?  “I did not,”
she said emphatically, vocally answering the question in her own mind.

He
tilted his head curiously, but his eyes narrowed.  “Did not, what?”

Embarrassment
colored her cheeks.  It stirred her irritation to the surface.  “You gave me
your word that you would not … ask more of me!” she said accusingly.

Anger
hardened his features.  He closed the distance that separated them, catching
her upper arms in a hard grip.  “That I would plague you no more for your
favors?” he growled angrily.

The
blood rushed from her face and then back again with a vengeance.  “I did not
say that!”

“That
is what you meant, but I made no such vow!”

Disconcerted,
Bronwyn searched her mind but, in truth, she could not recall anything that had
been
said
between them that night. She was not even certain that she had
found the nerve to demand that he agree to her terms before she allowed him to
bed her, only that she had
meant
to do so. Instead of responding with
the lie that teased at her tongue, she took a different tact.  “The king’s man
is here,” she hissed.  “You must go!  You cannot be found here for I am
promised by the king’s decree to another.”

He
released his grip on her arms but before she could feel any relief, he fisted
one hand in her hair and caught her waist with the other, jerking her hips
tightly against his as he dragged her head back, forcing her to look up at
him.  “I do not give a gods bedamned what the king has decreed and less about
the king’s man even now drinking himself into a stupor in the hall below!” he
snarled.  “You are mine!  You did not
endure
my touch!  You did not
‘give selflessly’ to repay a debt.  You wanted
me
!”

Bronwyn
reddened.  “You bespelled me!” she accused.

Something
gleamed in his eyes beyond the anger--amusement, satisfaction.  “You bespelled
me!” he countered.

“I
did not!  I do not have the power to cast spells!”

“Aye,
you do,” he said in a hoarse growl, dragging her upward as he bent his head to
take her lips beneath his in a kiss that was fiercely possessive. 

The
fight went out of Bronwyn the moment she felt the moist adhesion of his mouth
upon hers.  She had wanted this, wanted him, to the point of desperation.  A
sigh of surrender escaped her as she parted her lips for him, strained to move
closer.

She
had not really believed that it could possibly feel as wonderful as she had
remembered, but she felt as if she would swoon with pleasure as his taste, and
scent, and heat produced a storm of riotous sensations within her.

He
was breathing raggedly when he broke the kiss and Bronwyn could not seem to
catch her breath at all, sagged limply in his hold as her knees buckled,
refusing to hold her up.  Supporting her with one arm, he jerked at the tie of
gown, grasping the neck and dragging it from her shoulders when he had released
the closure.  Dropping to his knees, he opened his mouth over one breast,
sucking it so hard the muscles low in her belly clenched in a hard, painful
knot and moisture flooded her woman’s place.  She caught his head to steady
herself, trying to lock her wobbly knees as he tugged and teased the sensitive
tip until she lost herself completely in the fiery sensations crashing through
her in breath stealing waves.

His
arms tightened around her, supporting her as he released one nipple and moved
to the other, dragging at her nightrail until it puddled at her ankles.  She
had no inkling of his intensions as he ceased to tease her nipples and wove a
path downward, kissing and sucking at her quivering flesh until he reached her
mound.  The hot, wet flick of his tongue along her cleft dragged a sharp cry
from her.  The fingers she had curled into his hair to balance herself
tightened as her knees gave way.