Knight Triumphant (32 page)

“You didn't call Jarrett and ask that the bath be sent,” he reminded her.

“You're by the door.”

“So I am, but so were you. And I asked you, politely, I believe, to summon him.”

“I can only repeat what I have said several times before. I am a prisoner here. Prisoners are not expected to be charming lackeys who obey a master's commands.”

His smile deepened. It was a dangerous one, she thought. And she remembered that she had first been eager to escape the room because she wasn't certain just how angry he had really been when they had arrived here.

He took a step toward her.

She rose. “I'll see that the bath is brought.”

She slipped around him, opened the door, and saw Jarrett in the hall. She called to him, telling him that Eric required water and the bath.

She was deeply tempted to run after him.

A hand on her shoulder kept her from doing so.

“Why, thank you, my lady, how kind.”

She stared at his hand where it lay then on her upper arm. “Must you?”

“Indeed, I believe I must, since I wouldn't dream of allowing you to give in to temptation, run down the hall, and find yourself in the degrading position of being thrown over my shoulder, and dragged back.”

“How very polite of you to worry now about the humiliation such a thing might cause. It's truly a pity you didn't think of it on the night of our mock marriage.”

“A legal ceremony, no matter how you arrived for it.”

“And never so much as opened my mouth!” she reminded him.

He shrugged. “Come farther into the cage, little bird.”

Her eyes narrowed, and she wished that it didn't seem he could read her every thought. His touch propelled her back into the room. She strode to the fire again, feeling the confines of a chamber that was really more than generous in size.

“Fine,” she murmured. “I will stay here, and we will cast cruel and miserable words at one another while you bathe.”

“I'm actually trying to understand why you feel the need to cast barbs, Igrainia. You're a prisoner. One allowed to keep every stitch of rich and valuable clothing. Your prison is a room that has been your home. You tease, talk, laugh, and sing in the hall. You eat well. You admit to liking some of your evil captors.”

“They are still my captors. And I am a prisoner while you train men to fight against those to whom I owe my loyalty. Those I love.”

“Good King Edward!” he scoffed.

She hesitated. “I grew up in England. And in England, he is considered a great and glorious king. Tall and golden, a Plantagenet with the power to rule, to make laws, and govern well.” Her voice faltered slightly. “I have seen him at court, and I have seen him be kind and generous, as befitting a king.”

“Ah, yes. The earl's daughter, knowing about royalty in the great and glorious halls. So, you have seen him, and know him. And you know Robert Bruce as well. And surely, Edward finds you as grand and beautiful a pawn as Robert Bruce. Except that he refused to rescue you. There is your kind and generous king.
He
betrayed you. And you know as well that he has often ordered wholesale slaughter.”

“I know that men from both sides have been vicious and brutal when invading one another's land,” she said.

“We had no fight with England. Edward is fighting a war here of pure aggression. We fight hard in our defense. And we will continue to do so. I train men to fight for the freedom of their land, against the aggression of a tyrant.”

“Your war against me is a battle of aggression! Haven't I the right to fight back against a tyrant?” she asked him sharply.

“Your war has long been lost, the fight is over, and you are the conquered territory. And I am far from a tyrant.”

“You certainly are a tyrant!” she protested, “and like Scotland, I will keep fighting.”

A tap sounded on the door. Igrainia bit her lip, swallowing back her denial. She didn't want to fight in front of the servants.

Especially since it did seem she had lost long ago.

Even the battles within her soul.

Eric opened the door. Garth had come, leading the party of servants with the endless kettles of water. At length, they finished.

The door closed behind the last of the servants. Eric stripped off his soaked shirt, boots, hose and breeches, and settled into the water, as if she were not present.

She remained in the chair, her fingernails digging into the wooden arms. His head disappeared below the surface of the water as he soaked his hair.

He emerged a moment later, and seemed to bask comfortably in the steam while she felt the tension increase in her limbs moment by moment. She nearly jumped when he moved, taking soap and cloth to scrub, then rinsing the cloth, placing it over his face, and sinking back into the heat.

Finally, she could stand it no more. She rose and walked to the tub. His distrust of her was apparent as he quickly drew the cloth from his face, eyes narrowing as he watched her.

“What? You're eager to scrub my back?” he inquired.

“Don't be ridiculous, I am not Margot,” she replied, then felt her limbs grow cold as she saw the frost that entered his eyes.

She couldn't believe what words had escaped her lips in her haste to retort.

“No, you're not,” he said, and leaned back again. “You are not Margot at all.” His tone certainly implied that she lost in the comparison.

She should leave it be, walk away. She shouldn't have spoken those words.

“But,” he said suddenly, “you are what I have now.”

She should still walk away! she warned herself.

She had begun what she shouldn't have, but his last words were like salt in a wound, and she found herself unwilling to let it lie.

He had actually given her the opportunity to walk away.

She could not take it.

“I am what you have now . . . not the perfect wife, adoring from the moment she became your bride, willing to cast aside her own loyalties and thoughts and feelings for any passion you had in your mind. No, I am not that woman!”

He rose, water running from his body, now gleaming with soap and steam. She jumped back, turned and fled, headed for the door, certain that he wouldn't follow her dripping and naked into the hallway.

But she didn't reach the door before he caught her. Heedless of his dripping state, he held her shoulders and backed her against it. “Are you so curious? Let me tell you about her then. Margot was no blushing bride when I married her. She was my companion for years before we wed. I defied my father and family when I did so, since it was assumed that I would marry a woman of means. She brought nothing to me in the way of lands, estates, or riches. But she did bring an unwavering loyalty. She ignored the disdain of others to follow where I led. And I don't think I knew myself just what she endured, and what she gave without question or demand, until we had been married. She was educated, intelligent, and beautiful, and cast away what promised prospects she had herself when she chose to follow me.”

Igrainia found that she was shaking, though she wasn't certain exactly why. She knew that he wouldn't hurt her. Except for the pressure of his hands, gripped hard into her flesh. But there was a blue fire in his eyes that seemed to burn her, and the wet pressure of his body, against hers in anger, somehow brought a greater misery than a slap across the face might have done.

“I can't be Margot!” she whispered.

“And I cannot be your precious, idealistic Afton, living in the clouds.”

“When she spoke, you probably listened!” Igrainia murmured.

“Since you never care to really speak to me, except to inflict a wicked barb with your words, it would be difficult to listen. You are what I have now. And I am, Igrainia, what you have as well. You are not held in chains of steel, starved, or beaten. Perhaps upon occasion you would consider giving in just a bit.”

She lowered her head. “I am already an outcast among my people for what I have given in on.”

He caught her chin, lifting it. “What people, Igrainia? Who? Those who lived at Langley and survived the plague and my people, imprisoned here, were treated just the same. This is Scotland. People have bowed to Edward out of fear. They are more than willing to embrace a king who might lead them to a real freedom. Do you see anyone here walking about in chains? The gates open daily. Men and women are free to leave.”

“Except for me,” she murmured.

“And where would you go?”

She held silent, exhaling. He shook his head, serious as he studied her eyes. “You know as well as I that both Niles Mason and Robert Neville are butchers. And unless you manage to escape to a nunnery on the continent, far from Edward's power, you will be a prize for Neville, a trophy, wrapped in the ribbons of your lands and riches.”

She knew that she was trapped in her own argument. He was awaiting a reply. “At the least, you are not a butcher,” she murmured. “I'm not at all sure what you gain. What can my lands in England mean to you?”

“Nothing,” he said. “Absolutely nothing.”

“You have Langley,” she said.

“Aye.”

“So what can my value be to you?”

“Interesting question,” he murmured, without replying to it. “But I am grateful for your admission that I, at the least, am not a butcher. I take that as a great concession, coming from you,” he said, with a small curve of his lips but a somber tone. “What is your value? The point is that I do have you, and I am not displeased with what I have now.”

“You are not
dis
pleased. Because you don't
dis
like me.”

“You do know your own power, and your assets, Igrainia,” he said dryly. “You've the face of an angel and the form of a goddess.”

She was startled by such a compliment from him. Even if it was spoken impatiently.

She moistened her lips, watching him, still wishing she could escape.

“Of course, you have the fighting spirit of a fire-breathing dragon,” he continued.

“You think that you are made of steel,” she countered.

He shrugged. “Perhaps. And perhaps it is an illusion that keeps me alive.”

His shoulders were nicked with scars. She touched one without thought, following the jagged line with her finger. “But you are flesh and blood. You've been wounded.”

“But I have always survived. My opponents have not.”

She started to draw her hand away from his flesh. He caught it, drawing the palm against the heat of his chest once again, fingers locking around her hand, keeping it there. “What do you want from me, Igrainia? Your freedom? I cannot give it to you. An assessment? You are, indeed, stunning. Young, perfect, intelligent, compassionate. I deeply grieve for Margot, and will, I imagine, for a long time to come, just as you grieve for someone who was articulate, noble, and fine, and adored you beyond life itself. And you cannot imagine what it is to lose a child. But they are gone, and I cannot change that. And we are alive, and I am sorry for the bitterness I have felt, and sometimes held against you. I am glad that you like Jamie, and glad that you have found a certain affection for many of my men. Just don't try to use it against me. I swear to you that I don't intend any harm to you; we are caught in a war, and that is the way it is, and there is little I can do to ease that tempest for you. By the laws of Scotland, and our church, you are my wife. I would rather have a wife than a prisoner. A black-haired witch, or violet-eyed enchantress, I'm not at all certain which, but I must admit to being stunned at the pleasure I have discovered in the fact that prisoner, wife, witch, seductress, you have become mine.”

She held very still, breathing deeply, painfully aware of him, and his nakedness.

“I am sorry that I brought up Margot's name,” she whispered.

He was silent for a moment and nodded. Then a slow smile curled his lips. “I believe it's time for a few small regrets,” he murmured.

“You're sorry because . . . ?”

“I'm about to ruin your dress,” he said.

“My dress?” she breathed.

But she understood completely. She closed her eyes when his body pressed her more tightly against the door. She felt the ripple of muscle and sinew, and the conspicuous state of his arousal. Amazingly, instantly, intoxicating. Sensual, sexual, but no more evocative than the sudden touch of his hand against her cheek, and the way that his lips formed over hers, with a touch so light at fist . . . then molding with force, and the swiftly rising burn of passion . . .

His lips broke from hers. He murmured against her forehead. “I do believe that I've acknowledged there are absolute perfections about you.”

“Scarred, but decently formed,” she returned, her fingers playing over his shoulders. She leaned her head against his chest. The dampness still there beckoned. She pressed her lips to his flesh, teased each little drop of water with the tip of her tongue, and relished the spasms that seemed to wrack each detailed flex of hardness and sinew upon him. She drifted downward against his body, finding that the water had not all left him, that he was damp from head to toe . . . everywhere, between. Physically, he fascinated her. A wall of muscle and sinew, perfectly honed, with a raw sensuality that she could not deny. There was a dangerous magnificence to the very power of his height and the breadth of his shoulders and . . .

And the sexuality he exuded. She was compelled.

He spoke, words of desire, passion, encouragement, yet she had no idea of what he said to her. The sound of his voice alone drove her on. The breath seemed to wrack from him, the length of him knotted in tautness. His fingers moved into her hair. He gave a low groan, awaking and arousing her as just being near him could do, as this . . .