Samantha James (53 page)

Nay, there was neither admiration nor adoration in the earl's gaze. Indeed, she was well aware he deliberately mocked her, yet she sensed a ruthlessness about him that almost frightened her.

A shiver played over her skin. He made her feel weak and uncertain, terribly aware of him as a man, and in a way she had never felt before, even with Barris—a way she was not entirely comfortable with. His was a strong, intensely masculine presence, a presence she could scarcely ignore.

She was suddenly anxious to be quit of him, to be quit of the unwelcome sensations he aroused in her, no longer caring if she had her revenge or no. She attempted to step past him but he blocked her way. Her chin climbed high as she summoned all her dignity. "Let me pass," she said quietly.

His teeth flashed white. "Milady, may I remind you that you've yet to yield your forfeit?"

"And may I remind you that you demanded no forfeit?"

"Only because I hadn't yet decided on it. But now—" his gaze lowered to settle on the fullness of her mouth, "—now I have."

A frisson of panic trickled up her spine. She masked it by loosening the full force of a chilling gaze upon him. "My lord earl, it is not an hour since you made it a point to tell me my charms escape you."

"It seems I've changed my mind."

"But I, milord, have not!"

He had moved so close that they stood but a breath apart. Shana's pulse began to throb as his eyes traced slowly over her features, coming to rest once again on her parted lips.

"You are a beautiful woman, Lady Shana," he mused aloud. "There must be many, many ways in which a woman like you could please a man."

"Aye," she stated daringly. "And my husband found just as many ways to please me." She was grace and poise, the slant of her head regal as she met his challenge, seemingly unafraid.

He clamped his jaw tight. God, but she was a cool one, all haughty and aloof and he would have none of it. But even as a dark resolve slipped over him, her beauty struck him like a blow. He could not deny that she was by far the fairest piece of womanhood he'd set eyes on in a goodly number of years.

A white-hot shaft of desire pierced his middle. In truth, he'd have liked nothing more than to tumble her to the ground and slake his passion in the heat of her body. He was, however, a man who had no patience for those who could not curb their desires. And regrettable though it was, he could not forget that the Lady Shana was a widow who still mourned the loss of her husband.

A grim smile creased the hardness of his lips. "I ask but a kiss. It seems a small enough forfeit, wouldn't you say?" Thorne was determined. If he could not have what he wanted, but he would at least have this.

By some miracle she managed to still the frenzied thunder of her heart. Where, she wondered frantically, were Gryffen and the others? Had they forgotten where they were to meet after all? Her mind tripped ahead. A kiss, he said. But would he be satisfied with that? She did not like the glitter in his eyes, nay, not at all.

"You ask much," she began.

"And you've asked far more, milady. You've asked my trust when I can think of no reason I should give it."

"Milord, I scarcely know you!"

Shana thought fleetingly of escape—of screaming at the top of her lungs in the hope that Gryffen and the others lurked nearby. Yet even as the notion chased through her mind, he reached for her. She braced herself for his loathsome touch as warm hands descended on her shoulders. An odd shiver coursed the length of her. She could only stare helplessly into the hard-featured face of the man whose harshly carved lips hovered but a breath above her own.

The kiss brought to bear on her lips was never to be.

Behind her a voice thundered, "You mishandle a princess of Wales, man! Leave off her before I cut off your hands!"

Those words brought Thorne upright as no others could have done. All around was the thunder of hooves, the hiss of steel. In that instant Thorne cursed long and fluently. Christ, it appeared he'd just been done in by a woman...but not just by any woman, it seemed.

A princess.

That was his last thought. There was a stunning blow to the back of his head. His knees crumpled, and he tumbled headlong into an endless tunnel of darkness.

Shana couldn't move. She stood as if rooted to the spot like an ancient tree, unable to tear her eyes from his figure.

She had sworn she would not rest until he lay dead at her feet. And aye, he now lay sprawled before her, but he was not dead. Nay, she thought numbly, at least not yet.

The knight who'd struck down the earl stepped forward. Hatred glowed from his eyes as he raised his battle-ax high. Only then did Shana rouse herself from her trance. A strangled sound emerged as he prepared to finish the job.

Sir Gryffen seized his arm in the nick of time. "Nay, man, not here!"

"And why not? It's what we came for, isn't it?" The one who wielded his ax so eagerly remained adamant.

Gryffen shook his head. "To slay him here would be too risky. We'd have the English army down on us in a thrice."

"We came here to do our lady's bidding." Still another spoke up. "Seems to me the choice is hers."

Six pair of eyes swung to her. The fate of the Earl of Weston—nay, his very life!—lay solely in her grasp.

The night fell still and silent.

She suddenly felt ill. There was naught in her existence that prepared her for such a burden—and oh, how heavy a burden it was, she realized desperately. In all her days, she had known naught but love and comfort. The harsh realities of life sometimes troubled her, but had never truly touched her. She had known little of heartache and pain, save this last horrendous day.

And never had she willfully harmed another.

Her nails bit into her palms so deeply they brought blood, but she paid no heed. She was tempted to leave the Earl of Weston as he was, to fly into the night like some mythical creature of old, never to be seen again.

But the man-at-arms who sought so coldly to slay the earl was right. She had come here to seek justice; to see her enemy vanquished. But what justice was there in killing a man who already lay bleeding and defenseless? Everything within her decried such a deed as dastardly and wrong.

Yet how could she grant mercy when he had spared none?

Her stomach heaved. In her mind's eye, she saw once again the fields of Merwen, strewn with bodies and blood, people who had been slaughtered and left to die. A simmering resentment smoldered in her veins. Such carnage could not go unpunished, and before her was the man who had Drought about such death and destruction.

One word, she realized numbly. One word from her and he would meet his Maker. One word...

It was a command she could not utter. Her stomach twisted inside her; she was painfully aware of her dilemma. She could not see him slain—nor could she free him.

"Lady Shana." Gryffen presented himself before her. He glanced at the prone figure that now lay between them, then rubbed a hand against his lined cheeks. "If we tie him securely, he'll give us no fight. But we'd best hurry, for there's just enough light to get us through the forest. The moon is full so we'll have no trouble once we're clear of the trees."

Her eyes conveyed a silent message of gratitude. For all that he'd been trained in the arts of war, Gryffen was a man much as her father had been, gentle and peace-loving. She raised her head and nodded at the earl, stating clearly, "We will take him with us back to Merwen and decide his fate there."

Even as she spoke, he began to gain consciousness. He fought like a wild boar, agile and fiercely determined. It took every one of her men-at-arms to subdue him, yet in the end he was overcome, for he was but one. Six men pinned him to the ground while Gryffen bound his hands behind his back with strips of leather. He was seized by the arms and hauled upright, but there was naught of submission in his bearing. He flung back his black head, lips drawn back over his teeth. The very air was charged with the force of his wrath. Chills raked up and down her spine, for his rage was a terrible sight to behold.

His eyes lit upon her. "Princess, is it?" He sneered. "Well, curse you to hell and back, princess. I do not know what game you play, nor do I care. You may have caught me in your trap, but you'd best be wary, for when I find myself free, you shall be the first one I seek out."

One of her men dealt him a blow to the jaw that snapped his head back "Cease!" the man roared. "Our lady does not have to listen to the likes of you!"

The earl's head came down slowly. Shana stood as if she'd been cast in stone. She was horrified to see a trail of blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

Still he taunted her. "Remember, princess. I'll have my revenge somehow ... someday. This I promise—by God, this I vow!"

With a snarl of fury, her man drew back his hand yet again. Shana moved without volition, putting herself between the two. "Nay!" she cried. "Did you not hear Sir Gryffen? We must be off, and quickly now!"

The earl was put forcibly upon his horse. All the while his gaze stabbed at her like the tip of a lance, as if she were the one he sought to kill, with naught but the touch of his eyes. It was almost a relief when Gryffen bound a doth around his eyes so that he could not see. But her stomach churned anew when Gryffen looped a noose around his neck; the other end of me rope was tied to the horn of his saddle. Oh, she knew it was done so that he could make no attempt at escape. Yet it sickened her to see any man—aye, even this one!—treated so. As if—if he were an animal.

He and Gryffen rode ahead while she and the others brought up the rear. There was something so rigidly dignified in his posture that she felt herself pricked by some nameless emotion. Shame? Nay, surely not, for she had no reason to be ashamed. Nor, she reasoned, should she feel guilty. Didn't he deserve to be punished? Didn't he deserve to pay in kind for such vileness as he had perpetrated?

The heavens were clear and bright. The full moon spread its silver veil across the land. They made good time, for it was nearly as light as day. They rode hard, in part to elude any English soldiers that might have followed, in part because they were anxious to return to Merwen. Shana spoke little throughout the journey, her mind all ajumble. She had captured her prey, but the triumphant satisfaction she'd expected to find was simply not to be. Nay, there was naught of victory in her heart, only a peculiar sort of resignation.

The first faint traces of dawn streaked the eastern sky when at last Merwen came into view. Tears stung Shana's eyes, but they were scarcely tears of gladness, for there would be no hearty welcome from her father. Instead she was filled with a despairing bleakness that yawned ever further.

A youth huddled beneath a blanket near the entrance to the keep, no doubt keeping watch. His eyes opened blearily when he heard their approach. They widened when he spied Shana. He bolted upright. Within minutes, the entire household—what was left of it, she reflected bitterly—was up and about.

The hours on horseback and the chill night air had left her muscles cramped. Her knees nearly gave way beneath her when she slipped to the ground. The earl, she noted darkly, had no such problem. Despite the bonds at his wrists, his stance was as boldly defiant as ever.

She motioned for Gryffen to remove the cloth from his eyes. He blinked, protesting the sudden light. Then his gaze slid slowly, inevitably, to where she stood in the center of the bailey.

"Princess." He greeted her with a mocking smile. "You've fed my curiosity these many hours. How do you come to be a princess? I know for a fact Llywelyn's daughter is scarce more than a babe."