Juliana Garnett (7 page)

That she had been thought dangerous enough to require an armed escort had been ludicrous; for one enemy to think it necessary to protect her from another had been added insult.

Yet now she was alone, locked into this evil chamber that was furnished with only a bed, table, stool, and chamber pot. A tattered velvet wall hanging fluttered in a draft; the lamp was a crude bowl filled with fish oil and lit with a wick of reed pith. Better, she thought, than the smoky, foul-smelling torches that lit Dragonwyck’s wide corridors.
The resinous wood gave off dangerous sparks that could set fire to clothes in an instant. Not that her garments had survived the day’s ordeal in decent shape. Her ermine-lined cloak had been torn from her, she supposed, in the confusion of the fight. Her blue velvet cotte was a simple one, donned for an expedition into the meadows beyond Seabrook’s castle and not for endurance. The vee-shaped neck of the outer garment was edged with gilt embroidery that was repeated on the sleeves. Somehow it had been torn during the day and hung now in a frayed loop from one long cuff. She tugged at it idly, reflecting on her options.

Despair battled with weariness, and Annice wondered if le Draca would truly be cruel enough to hold her hostage. Negotiations could take years, given her cousin-by-law’s stubborn temperament and the Dragon’s unyielding tenacity. Who would prove to be the more valuable hostage in this game of wits?

It was not especially comforting to realize that to Rolf le Draca, nothing was as important as his son. A man who dared hide in Seabrook’s own woods to snatch the boy from under the earl’s well-armed nose would have little compunction about harsh retaliation in order to gain his own ends. Or to exact vengeance.

Closing her eyes, she shuddered. Aye, she was well and truly a pawn in this game. And there was naught she could do to deliver herself, save keep her wits about her. That, she thought with another shiver, would be much easier done if the Dragon did not terrify her at times.

Where was the humanity she’d thought she’d glimpsed in him that day at Stoneham Castle? He had exhibited tenderness and love to his child, a gentleness that few knights she knew had ever possessed. Was it, as Alais had suggested, merely a masquerade for the benefit of those watching? Nay, there had been no disguising his true emotion that day. She had not been wrong in that. No man could so readily duplicate his hoarseness of voice or the slight sheen of tears that had been present when she had taken Justin away.

Yea, ’twas the same man who had risked his life to save her from thrashing hooves, when Seabrook’s men had fought to save themselves. It was mystifying to her why he
had done so. ’Twould have been much more in keeping with his reputation to risk nothing for an enemy.

Rolf le Draca was a complete enigma to her. He was a complex man of vast contradictions. And he held her life in his hands. She opened her eyes and stared across the chamber at the flickering lamp on the table. If he chose, he could snuff out her life as easily as he would a lamp. Who would stop him—the king? Nay, John had his own enemies, and though he would evoke a fine on one of his barons for such a deed, he would be more interested in the provinces of Anjou or Aquitaine than in a dead heiress whose lands would revert to the crown. Yea, John would probably be pleased at such news.

A sound at the locked door startled her, and Annice heard the scrape of a key in the lock. Her hands curled into fists and she rose to her feet, legs trembling as she waited.

It was not surprising to see Rolf le Draca fill the portal. He studied her for a moment, then stepped inside and flung the door shut with a mighty crash. His mail was gone, as was the dust and mud of the day’s travel. A long ebony tunic covered his broad frame and was belted at the waist. Gilt threads formed a rampant dragon on the tunic’s front. Lamplight made his hair shine with the color of ripe wheat and picked out gold hairs sprinkled through the dark beard.

A smile lifted one side of his mouth but did not reach his eyes as he folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the closed door. “I see that you are expecting me, milady. P’raps you know why I have come.”

She didn’t reply. Her heart thumped so hard against her rib cage that she was surprised he did not remark upon the noise. Surely he could hear it. ’Twas all she could hear clearly, the loud beating that heralded her fear.

Over the rapid, throbbing clamor in her ears, Annice heard him say, “You have had time to reconsider your impulsive refusal of earlier. My scribe will be here at first light, and you will sign a plea to Seabrook for an exchange of hostages.” A hard light glittered in his eyes, making them gleam like bits of green stone. “ ’Tis for your own comfort that I suggest you yield the day. Life here can be pleasant enough, given the proper circumstances.”

Pride pricked her into flinging le Draca’s demands back into his teeth, no matter the outcome of her defiance. ’Twas not a thing done consciously, but instinctively. She met his gaze with a proudly lifted chin.

“I have experienced discomfort aplenty, my lord. ’Tis nothing new to me. Dishonor, however, is more your wont than mine. I will sign nothing.”

She wasn’t certain just why she defied him, save the fact that craven surrender was alien to her nature. Never had she cried for mercy before, even when Luc was wont to beat her most harshly. Nay, she had not done so even to save herself bruises; her pride had not allowed it.

Yet she wondered in the next instant if she had not gone too far this time. Though her husband had only beaten her, this man held her life in his hands. And he was furious.

Stepping forward, he growled, “Do not be fooled by my gentle words, milady. I will brook no resistance. You will sign what is put before you or suffer the consequences.”

“And would you kill me?” she flung at him, curling her hands into the grimy folds of her gown to hide their trembling. “ ’Twould make my use as a hostage of little worth then, my lord. Seabrook would hardly want a cold body in exchange for a warm one.”

The smile that curled his lips was more a snarl. “I am not fool enough to slay you outright, milady. There are many methods of coercion available to me, as you should well know.”

Aye, she knew that well enough. Observations of the king’s methods of persuasion were amply chilling. Imprisonment was King John’s kindest method of dealing with recalcitrant ladies; starvation and torture were the most effective.

Now, faced with over six feet of glowering, hostile male, she felt the first pangs of surrender raking at her. Could she withstand him for mere principles? After all, she had thought more than once that his son should be returned to him. Even understanding the reason for holding the boy hostage had not tempered her sympathy. As long as Seabrook held the child, he was certain of le Draca’s behavior. It was as if he held the Dragon on a leash and could jerk him to heel with just the suggestion of harm to his son. Yea,
she understood well the reasoning behind holding Justin hostage, and the same applied to her situation now.

She drew in a shaky breath, wishing she were not too weary to think clearly. If only le Draca had waited till the morrow to press his demands. Then she could have met him with a clear head and solid arguments. As he must have well known.

“Well, milady?”

His brusque reminder frayed her already tattered composure. He was standing too close; the proximity of his height and breadth was intimidating enough without his growling reminder. She took a step back and felt the hard pressure of the bed against her knees. To her dismay, le Draca stepped even closer. He was almost touching her now, so close that she could count the gilt threads of the embroidered dragon on his tunic.

“I will not yield,” she heard herself saying in a breathless voice, and saw his dark-blond brows snap down over his eyes.

“Yea, milady,” he grated, “you will yet yield the day, I assure you.” His hand flashed out to grab her arm, fingers biting into flesh already bruised by the days travails. Jerking her close, he thrust his other hand into the tangled mass of hair on the nape of her neck, curling his fingers into a painful fist that held her still.

Annice felt the sharp pressure of his belt buckle against her chest, and her hands flung out to brace herself against him. She encountered the hard, unyielding muscles of his chest beneath her palms and fought a spurt of unbridled fear. There would be no mercy from this seasoned knight, only retribution for her defiance. The fingers of her right hand brushed against the hilt of the dagger in his belt and immediately closed around it. Before the Dragon could guess her intent, she had drawn his dagger from its sheath.

Holding it against his belly, she stared up at him with more boldness than she felt. Tension and fear made her hand quiver, but her voice was steady. “And now, my lord? Would you loose me ere I carve my name into your belly?”

For a brief, sizzling instant he stared down at her with as much surprise as fury. ’Twas plain he had not considered
her reckless enough to draw a weapon on him. There was a flicker of something like admiration in his green eyes before they narrowed to cold, glittering slits.

Not loosening his grip on her, he said softly, “Your folly is like to cost you dear, milady.”

Annice had no time to react before he jerked harshly on her hair, snapping her head back at the same time that his other hand closed around the wrist of the hand holding his dagger. Hard fingers bit into the tendons, and she dropped the dagger with a cry of pain.

“Release me,” she gasped out, unable to stop the plea before it escaped her lips. He had her bent backward, his grip tight on her hair while his other hand caught up the dagger.

“Nay,” he said, “ ’twill not be at your whim that I release you, little vixen. ’Twill be at my own. And I find myself intrigued by a woman with such a willful nature that she would dare attack a knight in his own keep. Are you that brave? Or merely that foolish? ’Tis an interesting puzzle, I vow.”

Pressing her slowly back, le Draca forced her harder against the unyielding bed frame, until she found herself sinking backward. Panic flared hotly in her as she felt the straw-stuffed mattress cushion her shoulders. Surely he did not mean to—

“Nay, lord!” she blurted, struggling against his grip and the hot intent she read in his eyes. “I warn you, do not do this.…”

A muscled thigh settled over her, effectively pinning her flailing legs to the mattress. He still gripped her hair to hold her still, his other arm braced against the mattress beside her head. There was no sign of mercy in the mocking green eyes gazing down at her.

“Do not do what, milady? Dishonor you? But ’twas you who pointed out that honor was one of my shortcomings, was it not? I merely behave as a man of my breed would do.” One hand shifted to stroke lightly over the curve of her cheek, then settled on her throat with suggested menace. “Mayhap I should reap the rewards of such a ferocious reputation. You are very fair, after all, and it has been some time since I have bedded a noblewoman.”

He deflected the blows she aimed at his head and caught her arms in a harsh grip. Deliberately, holding her gaze, he wedged a knee between her legs and thrust them wide apart. Only pride stifled a cry of protest. She knew his intent. She was no maiden and had done her wifely duty to Luc without complaint. Though her husband had been rough at times, taking his pleasure with little regard for her needs, he had rarely subjected her to force. Nor had he ever stirred in her any feelings of desire, save that it be over with quickly. Luc had not seemed to deem passion necessary.

Rolf le Draca, however, seemed determined to wrest a response from her, willing or no. He shifted his grip on her wrists to one hand, and with his other began a leisurely exploration of her body. Even through the velvet gown, she could feel the heat of his hand. Shaping her breast with his palm and fingers, he kneaded it in gentle, circular motions that sent shivering sparks through her nerve endings. She tried to bring up a knee to kick him, but he easily evaded it by gripping her leg between his thighs.

“Nay, lady,” he said softly, “you will not escape me so easily till I am done.”

Frustrated, Annice squeezed her eyes shut and tensed her muscles, willing her mind elsewhere as she had done so often with Luc. But that was not so easily managed, either. He seemed to know just where to touch to arouse the most unusual sensations. Closing his thumb and finger on her nipple, he rolled it between them. That act sparked an immediate dull, aching throb in her belly that spread lower, pulsating between her thighs. To her horror and dismay, the scalding heat of response made her moan aloud.

Her eyes snapped open to see him watching her through the bristle of his lashes. A faint smile curled his mouth.

“Cease that at once,” she managed to gasp out, and he shook his head.

“You are no maiden. You’ve played this game before. ’Twould be to your advantage to play it well, for then I might be persuaded to be lenient with you.”

How could she tell him she had no idea what he was talking about? Almost desperately she tried to twist away from him, but he held her much too easily. The iron-hard
muscles beneath his long-sleeved tunic and tight chausses were evidence enough that she waged a losing battle, but she could not yield without a struggle. It was not in her nature to surrender so easily.

“Do not force me, my lord,” she said between angry breaths. “ ’Twill go hardly with you when the king and my overlord learn what you have done.”

“I had thought to hear more convincing arguments from such a fierce adversary,” he mocked without releasing his grip the slightest bit. “Do you not have a better reasoning than that?”

“Aye!” She glared up at him. “If you take that which I do not willingly yield, I will see you spitted for it like a wild boar.”

His teeth flashed white in the dark, bearded face. “Ah, ’tis a violent nature you possess, sweet vixen. Like the fox, you bare your teeth and snarl a threat that you cannot sustain.” One hand shifted to tangle in the loose twist of her hair. He lifted it slowly, letting it slide over his palm. “I am not a hare,” he murmured, “that will fear the red fox.”