Conquer the Night (16 page)

She tensed, unnerved, certain that he had to mean some violence toward her.

But he did not come after her. He did not even turn toward her.

He crawled into bed, stretching out. She remained where she stood, watching him warily. He didn't speak for a very long time. She was almost certain that he had fallen asleep. She took a step, a single step, just to see if he had done so.

His eyes did not open as he spoke. “Attempt to leave the room or raise a hand against me, and you will regret the rashness of such a choice.”

Startled, she bit her lip. “So … what am I to do? Stand here all night?”

“If it pleases you.”

“I may do what pleases me?”

His eyes opened and fixed on hers. “As long as what pleases you pleases me. You're welcome to come to bed. It's quite large.”

“Aye, indeed, but never quite large enough, thank you.” She tossed her linen towel over her shoulder and turned her back on him, approaching the fire. She lay down on the large fur before it, then rued her action, remembering too clearly that this was actually where
it
had first taken place the night before. And now it was so late, the fire was low. She shivered, and she didn't know if she shivered because of the cold, or because no matter where he was in the room, it seemed that he was with her.

Time passed. It seemed that eons went by. She felt that he had to be sleeping. She rose again slowly, watching him. He must be beyond exhaustion. He had come riding out of the woods with his band of men, his foot soldiers in his wake. He had planned his strategy, and fought past Seacairn's defenses. He had dealt with the men who wouldn't surrender—and those who had. And he hadn't slept.

And then he had fought the men who would have seized it in turn.

And he had dealt with her.

He had to be exhausted. Sound asleep.

It wasn't so much that she wanted to test his temper, as she wanted to know just what her situation in the castle was. Did he sleep with guards on duty, making sure that she didn't leave? If she did leave the room, was she to be stopped? He hadn't said that she must stay.

She padded softly to the bed, barely daring to breathe, careful to be silent each time she put a foot down.

She reached his side and paused again, standing very still, like a wading bird in the marsh, listening, waiting. He lay on his side, facing away from the door.

Dangerous way to sleep, for an outlaw, she thought. And especially for a man so wary and careful. He must be so tired that he wasn't thinking logically.

His face, in repose, seemed young, some of the lines even smoothed away, and she realized that his strong features were attractive and compelling. Even in sleep, however, he seemed knotted with muscle, and she thought that he must train very hard with his weapons of war to come to such a very honed state.

He breathed … his chest rising, falling. Muscles twitched slightly. She froze. She waited. He didn't move.

At last she turned, tiptoeing for the door, ready to test her boundaries.

She never heard him rise; she knew only a whoosh of motion, and then he was in front of her, barring the door.

He towered at the door, very large, and very grandly naked, and she stepped back instinctively, but it did no good. His eyes were wide open now, very alert, as blue as the sea, and promising no quarter once again.

“I thought that it was open; I was checking for a draft,” she murmured.

“Excuse me, but, my arse, my lady!” he said softly. And before she knew it, his hands were on her, and though he only lifted her, she felt as if she were flying. He didn't set her down with any particular cruelty or force, but it seemed that she hit the straw mattress very hard. Instinct caused her to inch away; his fingers landed on her jaw and he looked down at her. “One more move and you spend the night tied to the bedpost.”

His fingers hurt. She remained defiantly silent, her head high, until he released her. She worked her jaw, trying very hard to keep her eyes on his. “Why?” she demanded. “I don't understand this! You need sleep. You don't trust me. I have a room; why not let me go to it? You've accomplished all you wanted—”

“Kyra, you may shut up or I'll tie you and gag you,” he said flatly.

“Why are you doing this? Must I stay here through an endless eternity for both of us?”

“It will not be endless, I do intend to sleep.”

“To sleep! So you intend to sleep, and I am to stay, and that is it?”

“Ah, so now you're the wounded damsel!”

“I have been the wounded damsel since your arrival, sir.”

“There was no need for it.”

“Really? You came here for vengeance. For Darrow's intended.”

“Perhaps I had changed my mind. But when you insisted on taunting me with the extent of your experience …”

“Now you make your force my fault?”

“My God! You are in no position to argue here, my lady! Still, I'm merely suggesting—strongly!—that you would be far better off if you would learn to keep silent.”

“I'd be very silent if I were just out of this room!”

“You will be silent, and you will stay.”

“Again, I remind you, you are exhausted, and need to sleep.”

“Aye, lady, and that's the truth.”

“So you don't need me anymore!”

“I never
needed
you, my lady.”

“Then let me leave!”

“Do you realize, lady, I am really tired, but you are awakening me?”

“Good, you should not sleep so easily!”

“Oh?” His brow arched. “Not to allow you any more arrogance, but you are quite capable of keeping me awake.”

“You deserve to be kept awake.”

“It would not be to listen.”

Her cheeks flamed. “You do need to sleep. If you'd just let me out of here …”

“No.”

“But—”

“Perhaps I'm afraid you'll try throwing yourself in the river again.”

“I didn't throw myself in the river.”

“Maybe I'm afraid of you
falling
again.”

“I'll not fall again, I swear it.”

“Neither will you leave this room—I swear it.”

“But if you would just be logical …”

“Logical? I want you here. Where I can reach you at any given moment.”

“Ah! So I must remain here wretchedly in case an urge for further vengeance suddenly seizes you in the night?”

“My lady, many urges have plagued me already.”

“I am aware of that.”

“Many more urges than you have imagined.”

She knew that she flushed. “But you—the conquering hero—have now failed to act upon those urges?”

“Are you suggesting that I do?”

“No!”

“But then, did I even say just what the urges were? Alas—I've somehow controlled myself,” he said, and she was furious to realize that he was laughing at her.

“Then don't keep me here!”

“Ah, dear Kyra! Are you afraid of yourself? That you may wake in the night with uncontrollable urges?”

She was astounded and further enraged that he could mock her so.

And afraid. Afraid of the trembling inside her. Rage, yes. Indignation, definitely.

What else …?

She didn't know.

“You are beyond low, sir; to cast a term such as ‘rat' or ‘wolf' your way would be to insult thousands of animals. And I can promise you, there's not a single urge that touches my heart, soul, mind, or senses regarding you, sir. There's anger, loathing, more. You have seized my castle. You have seized me. You assault, kill, plunder … ravage. So forgive me if I fear like treatment again if I remain.”

“If you will just go to sleep, you'll need fear nothing.” The teasing tone had left his voice. He was worn and irritated, and the threat was back in his words.

The very fact that she seemed absolutely powerless set fire to her rage. She gritted her teeth hard, knotted her fingers into her fists, and tried to remind herself that she was testing a barbaric outlaw who'd had his home and family burned to the ground. Yet she'd never felt so at a loss; no matter what tactic Kinsey Darrow had used to get his way, she had subtly reminded him that she was her father's daughter, that King Edward had honored her father, that even his Scottish tenants had obeyed him, and that the power of loyalty from any of her lands lay with her. She was not wed to him yet, she would not share his chambers, and she did remain a free woman with a title in her own right, and though the king honored him, she could still place a case before Edward and …

Kinsey always backed down. She did stand in high regard with the king of England.

Edward had always shown her the greatest courtesy. She had been his first wife's godchild. Though she never deluded herself that the tales she heard about his ruthlessness were false, she had always wanted to believe in his motives.

And yet …

He had done vicious things. He fought hard; he had slaughtered his enemies.

Edward had annexed Wales to England. He had all but done the same thing here, but the Scots kept fighting. And even if he had humiliated John Balliol and forced him to abdicate, many of the freedom fighters fought in his name, for he had been crowned the true king.

Edward meant to destroy any sense of nationalism here. He had stolen the Stone of Scone, the ancient piece of rock on which Scottish kings had been crowned for decades. He had taken it to England, all to prove his mastery of this country, all to break the Scots.

And still …

She had known him differently than the Scots. She had known him as a man capable of generosity and charm.

And she had used the king of England against Kinsey Darrow. She could not use him against this man. She could not escape this Scot, or rid herself of him. Her words meant nothing to him. She just wanted to be away from him—she wasn't even certain that she wanted to escape the castle anymore.

And she couldn't even tell him that she was afraid of Darrow, now that this had happened.

She had only despised Kinsey Darrow before. Now she feared him.

But she couldn't explain that to this outlaw.

Nor did it matter to him.

Sir Arryn was apparently quite confident in his own strength and command. He stared at her a moment longer, then crawled over her to reach the other side of the bed. She shuddered, feeling his flesh brush her own. But he settled a distance from her. He lay on his back, though she wondered why he bothered. He could see with his eyes closed, from either side of his body, so it seemed.

For a moment there was silence.

But she couldn't endure his proximity.

“I don't know why you won't just let me sleep in my own chambers.”

“Ah, lady!” he warned. “Those lovely lips will be sadly bruised by a gag!”

She turned her back on him, pulling her sheet around her shoulders and trying to delve down deep into the furs. She told herself that he meant to sleep, and she should do the same. Yet her hand slipped beneath the goose-down pillow, and she felt the knife that Ingrid had left there for her, certain that she'd be ready to sacrifice her life for her honor. Her fingers curled around it.

Maybe she could sleep … just touching the blade, believing she had some control over her life—or death. Some sense of protection, no matter how false!

Again, it seemed forever that she lay there, her back to him. At last, uneasy that he lay so close, not touching, she turned with as little movement as she could.

She was startled to see that a sheen of sweat had broken out over his face, chest, and shoulders. His breathing was rapid; his heart seemed to thunder. He began to twist as he lay on his back; then he cried out the word “No!”

He swung toward her, reaching out, his eyes wide open. In terror she shrieked out, digging beneath the pillow for the knife, hastily bringing it before her, ready to strike. Yet the sound of her voice suddenly froze him, and she realized that he was looking at her, really looking at her, as he hadn't done before. And the tense look of anguish that contorted his features was gone, replaced with simple fury.

“English witch!” he swore.

“No, stop!” she cried, edging back against the pillows, brandishing the knife before her. “Stop it now; I'm warning you—”

He didn't seem to appreciate fair warning.

He moved with such swift violence and force that she cried out again, instinctively making a slashing wave toward his chest with her weapon. Instinct betrayed her, for he hastily jumped back, then lunged forward, capturing her wrist. She cried out again, certain her bones would snap.

She was dragged back down flat on the bed. The knife was wrenched out of her hands. She gasped for breath, struggling wildly against his weight pressing her down, even if she struggled with no hope that she could ever so much as shift his hardened frame.

He crawled over her, straddled her, pinned her wrists flat down to the mattress, and forced her to lie still beneath the pressure of his thighs. She was very afraid again, because it was evident he thought she had meant to attack him. She had pushed him too far too often now, perhaps, and now that she was actually innocent of malicious intent, she was afraid that she had learned his temper too well, and the consequences she now faced were dire. And then …

His violent tossing in the night had been so disturbing. He had been asleep; he had been dreaming! But she knew he would never believe that she had thought he was attacking her, as he might have attacked whatever demon had haunted his dreams.

Kinsey, of course. Kinsey had been that demon.

“Don't! Please!” she whispered.

She felt his eyes more than saw them, for the fire had died low and the night was dark.

“Don't what?”

She inhaled deeply. “Kill me!”

“Um. You meant to stab me in the heart, but I should offer you no violence. I was warned that you would try to kill me. Quite frankly, I didn't think you were so stupid.”