Samantha James (2 page)

T
here was among the Normans a man named Merrick. In the prime of youth and vitality, he was tall and well-muscled, as strong as the mightiest oak. Like most Normans, he had been bred to be a soldier, trained in the arts of war since he was a boy. And Merrick learned his lessons well—to wield sword and lance among the best in the land—to ride and hunt and fight. Although he was the son of the Count of d’Aville, he would never inherit, for he was the youngest; indeed, he had five elder brothers and two sisters.

And so, for what lands would come to him, he must fight. What rewards might come his way, he must earn. Proud and indomitable, he was a man who would make his own destiny. ’Twas for that very reason he took up arms with Duke William, who promised vast estates in return for victory; Merrick was determined to carve out his domain in this land across the Channel…in England.

And it was to the north, along the sea, that
William sent his fiercest knight; there Merrick battled long and hard against the lord of Brynwald—battled and won.

Now Brynwald was Merrick’s…and so it would remain.

Merrick was also wise enough to recognize that although the English had laid down their arms, they had yet to subdue their enmity. Mayhap it was their Saxon pride—or mayhap it was merely stupidity. No matter the reason, Merrick was well aware it would be a long time yet before they would surrender their loyalty.

Indeed, the scene before him now but supplied proof of the same. He’d heard the shouts, the shrillness of a scream, and knew well what he might find. So it was that Merrick was not surprised at the sight of his soldiers surrounding a Saxon wench. They were men, not milkmaids, and lusty ones, at that. That they had trapped the wench troubled him not, for such was the way of war. Nay, he would not have deprived them of their sport.

But that was before he’d seen her.

Merrick was a man who knew well the charms of a comely maid, and this one was certainly that. She wore no wimple; her hair was glorious, the color of shimmering pale gold; it fell down her back clear past her hips in a braid as thick as his wrist. Despite the strips of hide that bound her feet and the shabby clothing she wore, he knew she was lovely beyond measure, for her profile prom
ised only sweetness and youth. Yet when their eyes met, her gaze locked on his as if he were the devil himself. Indeed, he could have sworn she was terrified of him…

He nudged his mount forward. He did not stop until he was but a few paces distant. “What is amiss here?”

It was Raoul who answered. “We found this girl and the old man here, where they do not belong.” He would have reached for her elbow, but she rounded on him fiercely.

She stamped one ragged foot. “What would you have us do?” she cried. “Aubrey and I were hungry, as are all of the villagers!” She pointed to the bag with the dead game. “We left the village only to hunt, and there you will find the two hares for our evening meal.”

Raoul’s lip curled. “The old man does not look as if he could hold a bow, much less shoot an arrow straight and true.”

She tossed her head and said coldly. “’Twas I who shot the hares. And if I’d had my bow in my hand when you came upon us, I vow you’d be as dead as those hares.”

Raoul’s expression tightened. Before he could say a word, Merrick laughed. “The wench does not seem to favor you, Raoul.” While Raoul’s dark features grew flushed, Merrick glanced at the old man. “Is he dead?”

This time it was another burly knight who spoke. “Nay, milord. The blow was meant only to silence him.”

“That is good.” Merrick gave an approv
ing nod. “I would avoid needless bloodshed whenever possible.”

He transferred his gaze to the girl.

“You are from the village?”

She made no answer, but her delicate chin notched higher. She stared at him with burning eyes.

A dark brow arched high. Her defiance, silent or no, rankled. “Since you do not deny it, then I can only assume that you are. Just as I must also assume you were fully aware of my order that the villagers were to keep to the village.”

At last she deigned to speak. “Why?” Her voice rang out as clear as a summer morn. “Why should we? Are we prisoners then?”

Merrick’s jaw clenched. Clearly he had been mistaken, for it was not terror that glazed her eyes. It was hatred, pure and unwavering. “Nay, you are not prisoners. But for now, ’tis best that you keep close to the village. ’Tis the best way—the only way—to preserve the peace.”

“Peace?” Mockery lay deep and biting in her tone. “My lord, how can there be peace when you allow no freedom?”

His eyes narrowed. He spoke easily, his tone belying the sizzle of anger that seared his veins. “You know nothing of me, Saxon, save the country of my birth. Yet if you could, you would do me grievous harm, would you not?”

Her tone held the fervency of a prayer. “If I could, by God, so I would!”

He merely regarded her in silent speculation, his steel-gloved hands crossed loosely before him on the saddle. “Would you, now,” he mused. “For what reason, might I ask?”

“I need no reason other than that you are a Norman swine!”

“A swine?” His lips twisted into a tortured smile. “Then why do you stare at me as if I were some apparition from Hell?”

“Perhaps ’tis because you are!”

“A Norman swine. An apparition from Hell. Which is it, girl?”

She surveyed him in ill-disguised hostility. “My lord, I think you are a swine from Hell…and much, much more.”

Merrick’s smile withered. His eyes narrowed. He studied her dispassionately. “Who are you?” he asked abruptly.

She straightened her shoulders, her spine so stiff it appeared it might splinter in two. “I will tell you nothing, Norman. Not my name, nor anything else. Not until I know yours!”

Up close, she was even more exquisite, Merrick decided in the back of his mind. Young, yes, yet not so very young…But sweet?

He smiled tightly. “I hide nothing from you, Saxon. I am Merrick. The keep on the bluff is now mine. The land on which you stand is now mine.”

Hidden fire seemed to alight inside her then. The soft line of her lip curled in disdain. “So you are Merrick. Lord of the manor. Lord of the Norman pigs. Well, I tell you this, Merrick
of Normandy. You are naught but what you are, a swine who belongs in the pen with the rest of the sows!”

For an instant Merrick could scarcely believe his ears. Such audacity—and from a peasant yet!—was not to be endured. Sheer fury hardened within him. By God, she was either a fool, or very, very brave…

In truth, Alana was neither. She was frightened half-out of her wits. What madness possessed her that she would dare taunt this knight who haunted her dreams?

He sat his mount with arrogant pride, a powerful figure garbed wholly in black. A mantle of wool swept across his shoulders, emphasizing their width. Unlike his Norman brethren, his hair was not tonsured; it swept heavy and dark along his head, like the sky at blackest midnight. But unlike the English, most of whom wore beards, he was clean-shaven, the line of his jaw square and ruthless. His skin was bronzed from wind and sun, like worn leather.

A low murmur went up among his men. With but a look, he commanded silence. And as the silence ripened, so did Alana’s unease. She watched as he dismounted, clearly taking his time, making her wait for she knew not what, the beast! And all the while, not once did he take his eyes from hers. They were like pale blue frost, those eyes. He approached with silent footsteps, possessed of a surefooted grace.

Alana fought against the urge to run screaming into the forest, for he seemed bigger than
ever. It was not her imagination that proclaimed his shoulders broad as a sword was long. And he was taller than any man she’d ever seen, taller even than Radburn, one of her father’s most valued men-at-arms.

He stopped before her, so close her feet were planted squarely between his. He touched her nowhere, yet he was so close she could feel the rise and fall of his massive chest with every breath he drew.

She didn’t move, though instinct clamored she do just that. Deep within her breast, she knew that her father had not shown weakness in battle despite this fierce opponent. Nor, she decided with perhaps more valiance than prudence, would she.

Though she was inwardly quaking, boldly she met his regard.

“Thrice now, you have called me a swine.” Softly though he spoke, there was no disguising the edge in his tone—nor the threat he now posed. “By God, woman, I have killed many a man for much less. And you
will
call me lord, Saxon. This I promise. By God, this I vow.”

A reckless daring arose to the fore.

“I will call you what you are, a Norman dog!” she cried. “You speak of peace. Yet you Normans know nothing of peace, only of war and killing! You are thieves, all of you. Thieves of land. Of lives. And I will not obey you, Norman. Nor will I obey your law. I spit upon you, all of you!”

Only when the deed was done did Alana realize she had gone too far. Only then, as
he slowly wiped the spittle from his cheek, did it strike her how incredibly rash she had been…

He seized her with such startling quickness that she cried out. Belatedly she recognized the violence in his features—oh, but she had spoken unwisely once again! He needed no weapon to slay her; he had only to wrap his fingers about her throat and squeeze the breath from her body. It struck her then…his hold was not brutal, yet there was no mercy in it either.

“I did wonder,” he said softly, “if you were truly so brave. Or merely foolish.” He paused. “It seems I have my answer.”

Sheer panic wedged in Alana’s breast. She pounded against his chest. “Let me go!”

“Not yet, Saxon. ’Twas you who started this game we play”—a hard smile creased his lips—“but I will see it ended, this I promise you.”

Slowly he released her. “Mayhap I should cut out your tongue, Saxon.” His gaze swept over her with brazen insolence, lingering on the thrust of her breasts beneath her bliaud, and then the secret feminine place where her thighs met. ’Twas as if he saw all that lay hidden beneath her clothing.

He smiled, a smile she knew instinctively did not bode well for her. “Or perhaps,” he said softly, “there is another way to silence that lovely mouth of yours.”

Raucous laughter ensued. His men warmed to their lord and his intentions.

“A juicy morsel, she is!”

“Give her a taste of a Norman blade, milord!” jeered one.

“Put her on her knees, where she belongs!” added another.

“Ah, and just think where her mouth would be then!”

The men roared.

Alana’s face burned painfully. Though they spoke in French, her father had taught her well. Even if she had not understood, their leering grins bespoke far more than she was wont to know.

And all the while, Merrick of Normandy’s gaze had yet to leave hers. “Leave us,” he said to his men. “Take the old man back to the village, then return to the keep.”

Alana watched anxiously as two men dragged Aubrey to his feet. Relief washed through as she saw that he appeared unhurt, though he was clearly groggy and dazed. After all the soldiers had dispersed, she pressed her lips together to keep them from trembling. She remained where she was, frightened and uncertain, her arms wound around her body, as if she might defend herself thusly. But there was no escaping his gaze.

And she had the awful sensation there was no escaping
him
.

She swallowed her terror. “Why did you tell them to leave?” Her voice was but a breath.

He smiled—a demon’s smile, to be sure! “Perhaps I will finish what my men would surely have begun, were it not for my timely arrival.”

Alana’s mind flew like the wind across the seas. The men in the village had said no woman was safe from the ravening Normans. That very first day, at the edge of the pasture, she had seen a burly Norman rising from between the bloodied thighs of Hawise, the dairyman’s eldest daughter.

She shuddered. “Nay,” she said faintly. “You cannot mean to—”

“’Tis just the two of us, Saxon. You could not fight me.”

Mayhap he was right. Mayhap she
should
not fight him. Yet she knew she would.

She hesitated but an instant, then tried to dart past him. He caught her easily. Steel-gloved hands around her waist, he swung her around.

She tried to pummel his chest. Everything within her rebelled against him. “Nay! You will not touch me!”

Her blows fell like twigs against his shoulders. He tumbled her backward to the mossy ground. Husky laughter rushed past her cheek. “Saxon, I touch you now.”

And alas, it was true. Alana was shocked to feel the weight of his body full and heavy upon hers. His chest crushed the softness of her breasts. The battle-forged hardness of muscled thighs lay hard and taut against her own. From breast to belly to the tips of her toes, there was nowhere they did not touch.

His hands like iron manacles, he forced her arms back so that they lay on either side of her
head. “We are the conquerors, Saxon. Surrender to me, your Norman lord.”

“Nay!” she cried. “I will not surrender.
We
will not surrender! We will fight until you are driven back to your Norman shores.”

The grip on her wrists tightened ever so slightly. “And who would be the victor in our battle here and now? Norman or Saxon?”

Alana gritted her teeth and sought to buck him off. He was immovable, like a stone above her. She screamed her rage. “You may have beaten us now, Norman, but we will rise against you and then
we
will be the conquerors.”

He laughed. The bastard, he laughed!

Alana went wild then, seeking to kick him, to free her hands that she might shove him away. But her struggles were in vain. He had only to press his chest against hers until she lay gasping and still.

“I ask again. Who is the victor now, girl? Norman or Saxon?”

Perilously near tears, she denied him yet again with a wordless shake of her head. A glimmer of anger flashed across his face. Above all else, she was aware of the power of his body, the strength of his will. She closed her eyes, fearful of the form his retaliation might take.