Juliana Garnett (7 page)

Luc struggled for control, but fury pricked him hard. All evening he had watched her, his growing admiration for her refusal to yield in the face of overpowering odds mixing with irritation that she refused to recognize his hard-won right to be lord. If not for her insult, he may yet have inclined himself to leniency.

Norman bastard
.

So he was, and it cut deep that even this pagan Saxon could see it. It was as if there were a visible mark on him, some sign that all could see that branded him as a bastard son, worthless save as battle fodder. Even his father had said it, though it had been years ago. So long now it would have been forgotten by most, but not by the son at whom it had been directed. No, those spiteful words had cut him deeply, a mortal wound he’d
once thought. Yet he lived. How powerful words could be, uttered with contempt, or joy, or yearning—more powerful even than action. They had a greater power to heal than the most skilled medicines. And a greater power to hurt than a sword.

Yet William’s promise had given him what nothing else had—what none would take from him, not even his father’s contempt. Or perfidy.

Traitor
 …

It was that word that had brought down his father, and would bring down many more foolish enough to defy William. Like this rebellious Saxon staring up at him so mutinously, her hatred a palpable thing between them.

He drew in a deep breath and held out his hand. “Rise,
demoiselle
.”

When she gave a contemptuous shake of her head that sent a clutter of pale hair into her eyes and cascading around her shoulders, his tight hold on control wavered.

“Rise,” he repeated in a soft snarl. She did not move, but remained in her half crouch like a feral beast, a she-cat with wary eyes, poised for flight—or attack. How long did she think she could defy him without reprisal?

Bending, he yanked her up from the floor, holding hard when she tried to wriggle free. He caught her chin in one fist.

“Nay, do not think to flee. You are well snared, and must yield to me whither you will it or no.”

“Never!”

His grip tightened. White splotches appeared on her pale skin where his fingers pressed. “Yea, vixen—you will. You will swear to me, and swear to William, or your life may well be forfeit. Do not think the king will hesitate to see you undone, for he is not a kind man.”

“There is no need to tell me that—he is Norman, is he not?”

“And you think all Normans to be unkind.”

“Can you deny it?”

Luc almost smiled. “Nay. Nor would I want to. Kindness is a weakness when dealing with Saxons who forswear oaths.”

Ice-blue eyes turned even frostier, a hard-winter freeze that chilled him even as he forced her head back to look up at him. Her lips were trembling, and his gaze was inexplicably drawn to her mouth. Lush lips parted, revealing white teeth gritted in a faint snarl. It was a bristling show of defiance, like that of a startled kitten.

Luc released her chin and studied her until her creamy skin flushed with color, and her dark brown lashes lowered to veil wide eyes glittering with hostility. Even scratched and bruised, she was lovely. Earlier, with the unmistakable curve of her breast against his palm, his body had responded with a predictable tightening of his groin. It had been annoying that he wwould react so to a woman who had tried to kill him, though not very surprising. The heat of battle sent the blood surging, as did the heat of a female caress.

“Yield,” he said roughly, irritated further by his arousal. “Yield to me,
demoiselle
.”

In that moment, he didn’t know if he meant her to surrender to his authority, or to surrender her body. Never had he dealt with a Saxon woman with her long legs bare and tempting. And without her armor, her slender curves were easily discerned beneath the simple tunic that ended just above her knees; sandals laced to midcalf and leather bindings wrapped around bare legs and feet only emphasized her shapeliness. She was enticing in a primitive fashion, and he had seen more than one of his men eye her with lustful curiosity during the evening. It had prompted him to sit beside her with his hand on her shoulder or tangled in her hair, stating his ownership of her by the occasional touch on her cheek.

Now she rebuffed him with a contemptuous curl of her lips, the jerk of her chin upward, and the scathing rake of her glare—as if she knew well that he was not what he pretended:
not new lord of this estate, but a son made bastard by his own father, spurned by his own blood.

Impulsively, his fingers twisted in the cloth of her tunic and he dragged her hard against him, driven to crush her rejection and the mockery in her eyes. Alarm quickly replaced her contempt, and his mouth curled in a satisfied grimace.

“Yea, well should you fear me. I’ve no patience for stubborn Saxons too foolish to yield when there is no other choice.”

Her fisted hands pushed futilely against his chest, and she struggled desperately in his grip. “ ’tis all Saxons have done since your cursed king set foot in our land—yield lands and pride and even our lives to William the Bastard and his marauding knights. Allegiance is expected, but must I yield my maidenhead, as well, to satisfy Norman justice?”

Behind her panting defiance he recognized fear. She expected to be raped. Tempting, he admitted, but he had no intention of obliging her. He preferred his women warm and willing, not biting, scratching, and exhausting a man so that any chance of pleasure was destroyed. But why tell her that when it would be to his advantage to leave her quivering in apprehension?

“Une pucelle?”
He laughed softly and shifted back to English. “Even if you are truly virgin, you value yourself too highly to think your maidenhead is adequate payment for the damage you have caused.” She hissed at him, trying to pull free, but he held her fast. “Nay, do not think to escape me. When I want you, I will take you. For now, your oath will serve my needs.”

Her eyes were sharp as daggers as she glared up at him. “I will not swear to you or to William—and you will have to kill me before you can take me.”

“Will I? You cannot even free yourself from my hold. Can you thwart me from doing whatever I will?”

“Aye—”

Provoked as much by some obscure emotion as by her tart challenge, Luc curled one hand into her hair to pull her head back, tilting her face upward. Panic clouded her eyes.

“You said you wanted only my oath—”

“Aye, and I also said I would take you when I want you, princess.”

“Don’t call me that! Curse you—” The words came out in a husky, strangled sob. “Don’t ever call me that again.…”

Her knee came up in a slashing jerk, and he barely avoided the blow. His hand splayed against the small of her back to press her close against him. He could feel her muscles knotting beneath his palm. His lips slanted across her mouth in a punishing kiss, and the blood began to beat hot and swift through his veins. It was a contest of wills that he meant to win, but by the Rood! he began to wonder if he had underestimated the effect she had on him. He had bedded his share of women in the past, but not like this one. None had ever bested him at anything. Most of the women of his experience were rather pale, simpering creatures who grated on his nerves with sighing professions of everlasting love, exhausting him with their expectations.

Not this one. She was fire and ice, defiance and hatred, a contradiction and a challenge that would stir any man. Still, he did not expect the potency of his response to her, a raging need that clouded the memory of other women.

Jésu
, her mouth was soft, honey-sweet and as hot as the fire that raged through him. His entire body was a throbbing ache. He wanted her. He wanted to push her down to the waiting bed and spread her beneath him, plunge inside her toward that sweet release that only a woman could give him. Yet he would not, and he knew it even as he kissed her into limp submission, felt her weight sag in his arms and her body drape into that curious boneless compliance that oft preceded a woman’s surrender.

Only then did Luc lift his head and allow her to take a stumbling backward step away from him. Hot color stained her high cheekbones, yet her lips were strangely bloodless, her eyes like wide blue bruises beneath straight brows. She was trembling, and she put her arms around her body as if chilled.

In a shaky voice, she snapped: “I see Normans are as bestial as they are reputed to be.”

“So we are. And you will see just how bestial I can be if you do not swear to me as your new lord,
demoiselle
.” Slowly, he began to unbuckle the wide leather belt around his waist.

“You … you would not!”

“Better leather than steel, but do not deceive yourself into believing that I would withhold my hand from delivering Norman justice where it is warranted.”

“Justice, or tyranny?”

When he said nothing, but looped the length of leather belt in his hands, her crimson flush deepened and she looked away from him, biting her lower lip between her teeth.

The silence dragged between them for a long moment before Ceara looked at him again, her expression mutinous but her voice subdued. “It seems that you are right—I cannot stay your hand. And though it galls me, I concede that you fought well and fairly against us. Wulfridge is now yours to command.”

Her capitulation was too sudden and too evasive to be believed. Luc said nothing, waiting with lifted brows, slapping the looped belt against his open palm.

Ceara’s shoulders lifted in a slight shrug. “It must ring false to you, my lord. I understand. But I am so weary, and now that it is over, I have little to gain by earning your hatred. It would be better to have your amity than your enmity, I think.”

“A wise decision. To what do I owe this sudden—if incomplete—change of heart?”

“Fear.”

The blunt admission was unexpected, and he grinned. “Fear of what I may do, or fear of what you may do,
demoiselle
?”

Her mouth tightened, and she shot him an irritated glance from beneath her lashes. “You are crude indeed, sir. Do not flatter yourself that I will fling myself into your arms with abandon. I merely thought to oblige you in appreciation for your mercy earlier today.”

“Mercy … 
My
mercy?”

“Yea, my lord. As you
escorted
me from the hall, I saw the boy that was hidden earlier in the storeroom. Rudd is unharmed.”

“I have no reason to harm children. Or women who do not attack me with sword or dagger.”

Another flash of irritation crossed her face, and she took a deep breath. “Yea, so I see. Do not misunderstand me—I do not profess love and devotion, only gratitude.”

It was Luc’s turn to be irritated. “I do not want your gratitude.”

“No?” She looked up, blinking innocently. “What else do you want from me, my lord?”

It was a dangerous question. If not for his heavy leather tunic, it would be obvious what he wanted from her, or what his body wanted. And why not? She was lovely, soft-skinned and desirable in her short garments, her long legs drawing his gaze again and again—until he forced himself to look away. A man’s admission of his desire was a potent weapon in a woman’s hands.

“Your oath of loyalty will be enough for now,
demoiselle
.”

Silence fell, lengthening until she cleared her throat. “Can I trust that?”

“ ’tis you who flatter yourself. Do you think me so enamored of you I cannot restrain myself? I assure you, I am not a green youth about to lose control. I prefer a woman who knows how to be a woman, not a half-clad warrior wielding a sword and mouthing threats. You are safe enough, I warrant.”

It was a lie, and he knew it even as he said it. He should never have touched her. His body was taut as a bowstring and thrumming with need. What would William say if he did as he wanted to do? An act of war was an act of war, but the king had strict rules of conduct. She was a political hostage. If he took her, he may well have to answer to William for it.

Ceara had gone even paler, and lines of strain formed
brackets around her mouth as she stared at him. “I suppose you kiss all your enemies as you did me, then.”

“Only those foolish enough to play the seductress so clumsily.”

“Norman swine, do you think for a moment that I would truly attempt seduction with one such as you?”

Luc’s hands were on her so swiftly she had no time to evade him, and she gasped when his fingers dug harshly into the tender skin of her wrists. “Bide your tongue,” he said with soft menace. “I weary of this carping.”

He released her with a slight shove, and watched as she straightened and stalked to the farthest corner of the dimly lit room. She pressed her back against the wall and watched him warily, as if he might yet use a whip or sword to punish her. Well she might be wary, for he was tired of her sharp tongue. It cut as deeply as a dagger.

He gazed at her moodily until his squire arrived with Luc’s chain mail. A boy was with him, a towheaded, freckle-faced youngster wearing the short tunic of a peasant. Alain swept out an arm to indicate the boy. “I brought this lad with me, Sir Luc, as he seems to be a likely prospect to instruct. Scrawny, but quick of wit and obedient.”

“That will be a welcome change. Obedience is in short supply here.” Straightening, Luc tossed the leather belt onto a small table, and wryly noted the boy’s quick glance from the belt to his bruised mistress. Little could be done that servants would miss, and no doubt the tale would be all over Wulfridge by the morrow that the new lord had beaten the Saxon maid who had dared draw steel against him. The error would certainly do no harm, and might even be to his benefit.

“Bring me a length of chain, Alain,” he instructed when his mail was laid out. “I have need to bind a she-wolf this night.”

The squire glanced at Ceara curiously, his expression altering when she drew in a hissing breath. Though they spoke in
French, the girl’s face had gone even paler than before, as if she understood them.

Alain smirked, but his voice betrayed nothing when he asked if Luc required a guard for the maid. “Or perhaps she should be chained in a cell, my lord?”