Lord of a Thousand Nights (8 page)

“Let me leave,” she said. “I have a friend in Edinburgh who will help me. I will be safe.”

He reached out and stroked her jaw and chin in that affectionate gesture he had used two nights before. “I can not.”

Her skin prickled where he touched her. The room held an unnatural stillness. Candles flickered behind him, casting his face in shadow, but still she could see the firm jaw, the straight mouth, the eyes looking down intently. She could hear herself breathe, could feel the aura of his power and maleness, could smell his compelling, faint scent. She thought his gaze would absorb her.

“You can. If my father demanded my safety, it was merely a gesture on his part. He does not care about me.”

He slowly shook his head. “It is not just that.”

What, then? She almost asked, but she didn't have to. The answer throbbed between them, frightening her, finally splitting through her ignorance with its intensity.

His hand took her long plait and eased it up from her back until he held its length. He slid off the ribbon that secured its end and began letting the thick tresses unwind, combing them out with his fingers. “You have been avoiding me, Reyna,” he said, watching his hands. “Hiding from me.”

She glanced down at that hand stroking higher and higher, working out the plait, occasionally grazing her through its thickness. A shaky, weakening, delicious fear spread all through her. “Not hiding,” she lied, trying to sink back into the stone wall. “I have been evading all the men. You warned the women were to avoid misunderstandings.”

“It is a little late for that with me.” He slid his fingers under her hair until they rested behind her ears and he cradled her face in his palms. “And I misunderstood nothing.”

“That is not fair.” She tried not to look at his wonderful face, vainly seeking some safety from the uncontrollable and unnameable feelings. A demanding expectation swirled through her, pulling apart her secure sense of purpose. His rough hands felt so warm, so welcome on her skin. The contact soothed and terrified her. “What happened in your tent was not my intention. You took advantage of me.”

He smiled. Dear lord, what a smile. “A very small advantage, considering your vulnerability. I could not help myself. Just as you could not help that you enjoyed it.”

He stepped closer.
Do not do this
, she cried.
It is cruel and dishonorable of you.
But her trembling mouth would not speak.
Stop him, fight him
, her mind urged desperately.
For your sake and your pride. For Robert.
But his closeness and gentle touch summoned that irrational yearning so long denied, so overpowering, and she could only hold her breath and watch the face bending down to hers.

Warm lips on hers, gentle, soothing, luring. Kisses brushing her cheek, shocking her ear. A dangerous swell in that sensual power streaking out of him, into her, and arms pulling her into a tight embrace.

Her mind clouded with a confusion of horror and denial and desire and relief. For a moment she became rigid. But his hands moved over her back, and the comforting touch defeated her. Her mind lost its battle against her senses. Duty succumbed to need.

She knew that he knew, but suddenly she didn't care. He raised his head and looked down at her before claiming her with a more demanding kiss. She lost all thought, and let herself submerge beneath the aching desire.

His kiss grew more intimate, probing slowly inside her mouth, and shivering sensations spilled through her limbs and body, finding a destination deep and low inside her. Her arms rose of their own accord and embraced him, bringing her closer yet. Her breasts hardened at the pressure of his chest, and she gasped at the pleasure the contact gave. She turned her head to accept the hot, impatient kisses exploring her neck. She was lost now, utterly lost.

Tight, thrilling pleasure spun through her, building quickly to something excruciating and insistent. He leashed whatever drove him but she could not do the same. More calmly, he caressed the length of her body, and she sighed at this intimacy that both brought relief and made it worse. His firm touch rose and cupped her breast and the sensation, more wonderful than the memories of her dreams, made her cry out. He swallowed the sound with his kiss. His arm arched her up to his seductive hand and he circled and stroked the nipple, driving her to delirium.

He half carried, half guided her over to the bed. He sat on its edge and pulled her between his thighs.

She gazed down at those smoldering eyes and tight jaw and parted straight lips. She had never known that a man could look so beautiful and strong in his passion. She could have looked at him forever. His hands stroked
down her hair, following its path over breasts and stomach and hips. His fingers found the lacing on the side of her gown and untied it.

She couldn't move. She could barely stand. Without his embrace she felt vulnerable and bereft and hungry for contact. She closed her eyes in relief at the faint touch when he slid the gown and shift off her shoulders and arms. The garments fell down low on her hips.

Through lowered lids she watched him look at her nakedness and push her hair aside and trace her breasts with a light touch. He gently caressed and rubbed the hard, begging peaks, and looked up with hot, knowing eyes. She tensed her body for some vague control and pressed her thighs together to relieve that lower, throbbing awareness.

He had driven her mad even before he pulled her closer and teased with his tongue, first at one nipple, then the other. She stroked her hands into his hair and leaned into his tantalizing torture. Her hips squirmed in a shocking way, and he embraced them and took her breast in his mouth. She held his head to her and gave herself over to wonderful, mindless bliss.

He pulled her further, easing back, making to recline. “Come and lie with me, Reyna.”

She looked down at his beautiful face and felt the dream crack. A strange sorrow flooded her. Better for him to have never spoken. Words were rational things and encouraged rational thought. His summoned back her mind, her awareness, her restrictive sense of duty and virtue.

She pressed lightly, stopping him. “I can not. Must not.”

Anger flashed as he realized that she meant it, that she would go no further. Anger and amazement. He
pulled her down on his knee and took her face in his hand. “Is this a challenge, my lady? To see if I spoke the truth when I said there would be no rapes here?”

“Nay,” she said, knowing she was very vulnerable and that no one would ever call it rape now.

He pushed her off his lap onto the bed. She almost fell to the floor. Feeling very ashamed, she scrambled to cover herself with the gown.

He rose. “You have certainly taught this English whoreson a lesson.” He strode to the door. “Do not think to do it again.”

Reyna sat forlornly on the bed after he left, trying to subject what had just occurred to some logic. Her mind felt too scrambled. She only knew that she had betrayed herself in a disgraceful way, and almost betrayed Robert as well.

She wanted to blame Sir Ian, but knew it was pointless to do so. What did it matter to him that old loyalties and hard needs battled inside her? She doubted that this was a man who reflected much on consequences, or thought twice about his women after he left them. He was a brigand who laid siege to her castle, and once she yielded he would exact his tribute and move on.

Aye, his actions had been understandable and predictable.

The real blame lay with her.

She went to one of the windows and climbed into its deep niche, sitting near the slit, letting the air flow over her face to cool her humiliation. Her chamber faced east, and from here she could look out over the final mile of moss to the abrupt rising of the waste and the subsequent mounds of the Cheviot Hills.

Her gaze fell on the old motte-and-bailey castle that had stood sentinel for centuries by the first crag of the waste, near the source of the Black Lyne river. It was an
ancient fortress, used before Black Lyne Keep had been built. It was no more than a jumble of rocks falling over cavernous foundations now.

Something flickered amidst the ruins, like a yellow star glittering at the base of the distant structure. She squinted and saw it again.

Reginald's signal. He had found some horses.

I
an felt almost in control by the time he reentered the torchlit hall. Forcing himself not to think about the woman who had just made a fool of him, biting back the fury that she had found the strength to deny him in a way few women ever had, he scanned the large chamber until he found Gregory.

Striding over, he pulled the man aside. “Tomorrow morning, take ten men and go to Harclow. Tell Morvan that Maccus Armstrong is within the fortress.”

Gregory whistled lowly. “A shrewd move, their hiding that fact even during the parlays. No wonder Maccus has led no force down from his stronghold at Clivedale.”

“Aye. The seneschal at Clivedale would not risk it, but Thomas Armstrong will be there now, and perhaps he will. Tell Morvan that we will increase the patrols and keep watch on the north, but that he should be alert too.”

Gregory left the hall to choose the men whom he would bring. Still fuming about the woman upstairs, Ian threw himself into the lord's chair at the high table. Had she planned it? Deliberately enticed him toward the garden so that she could close the gate at the most effective moment? Had she resorted to fighting this war with a woman's weapon, when the daggers and swords had failed her? Had her soft yielding been no more than
another ploy by the actress who had first posed as a whore?

He didn't believe it. He had known women highly adept at deception but had been taken in only once, when he was little more than a youth. He had learned his lesson well, and his instincts in these things had become well honed over the years. It would take more skill than she possessed to fool him.

He considered the other possibilities and finally forced himself to face the most obvious. She had claimed to be faithful to her old husband. A virtuous woman, then, and by his own code he should be leaving her alone.

So, why hadn't he walked out of that chamber as he had intended?

He resisted the reflection that the question demanded. She was in his head, that was certain, and he wanted her, that was more certain. Wanted her more than he had wanted a woman in a very long time. Not since Elizabeth, but this was different from that too. He had gone to Elizabeth a scarred, vengeful boy, and left as a man. It was the man who wanted Reyna now.

He glanced down the table's length from his dominating position in the lord's chair. It was the closest he would ever get, but it was still better than most younger sons saw. Tonight, however, that thought gave him little comfort. He was, in the end, only a paid sword, and had been little more than a thief these last years. At least one person in this conquered tower would always see him so, no matter where he sat.

What role had that played in her denial? Why should he give a damn?

He shouldn't give a damn but, unaccountably, he found that he did.

At the end of the hall, a servant girl scrubbed the tables, her long dark hair draping from beneath her kerchief. She glanced at him and continued her work. He watched her move to her labors, her breasts and buttocks swelling against the fabric of her homespun gown.

She noticed his attention, and approached. He recognized her. She had sought his eye several times during the last two days and given him warm, shy smiles. She smiled less shyly now. “My name is Eva. Would you like me to fetch you some ale, my lord?”

My lord. Not really accurate, but a minor point to the servants under the circumstances. One person in this keep would never call him that, even if it were accurate, even at the point of a sword. Despicable whoreson, dishonorable bastard, aye, but never my lord.

Ian looked across the table at Eva. He smiled.

Chapter SIX

T
hroughout the next day, Reyna made very sure to avoid Sir Ian. If she heard his step coming up one stairway, she darted down the other.

In the late afternoon, a commotion in the passageway drew her out of her chamber to see Margery and the other ladies conversing with excitement.

Margery's gaze raked over the simple gown that Reyna had put on after dinner. “Go and make yourself presentable,” she ordered. “We are expecting a visitor. The rider just came announcing him. It is a French noble, the Comte de Senlis.”

“Why would a French comte visit here? This keep is held by an English army, and the French are their enemies.”

“Whatever his reasons, we must greet him properly. I have instructed Alice to do her best for the evening meal. We don't want this man to think he is amongst barbarians. Make yourself decent or hide in the kitchen. He arrives soon.”

Reyna returned to her chamber, slipped on her blue cote-hardie, and descended to the yard, where the women waited to greet this luminary from France. Ian was there, and he hadn't done anything to avoid looking like a barbarian.

He was completing a pulley that he had devised to bring water to the upper levels of the tower. A large beam jutted out from the top-level garderobe, and ropes dangled down from its wheel.