Samantha James (26 page)

He thought of his tender, loving initiation of Elaine. Elaine, his wife, his beloved. A clawing pain ripped at his insides. He was not sure who he despised more, himself or Kathryn. He had lain with her, she who was kin to his wife's murderer.

And not once had he thought of his wife.

Yet Kathryn was so convincing, he could almost believe her. Yet doubt had clouded his mind for so long it was difficult to see the truth. Ah, but what was the truth? With her, he never knew. Nay, he decided harshly, he dared not trust her. He dared not believe her, for she had already proved that she was as cunning and treacherous as her uncle.

"I do not pretend to know what is in your mind," he told her. "Indeed, not until I returned to find you gone did I realize I might have given you cause for your hatred of me to run deeper than ever." His brows rose when she frowned at him blankly. "I'd rather thought of it as unforgettable," he went on smoothly. "Am I wrong then, in assuming you remember our coupling with fondness?"

His indifference sent hot shame coursing through her. Oh, he was a callous beast to remind her so cruelly!

"Unforgettable, aye, that it was!" she said fiercely. "But I do not recall that night with fondness. Nay, I think of it with naught but loathing and disgust!"

He smiled grimly. "So I thought, which is why I sought to appease you by removing your guard while I was gone." His tone turned as cutting as his eyes. "And how did you repay me? I returned to find you gone—and my son along with you! Now tell me, Kathryn, which of us has been wronged here?" He slammed his palms down on the table so hard she jumped. "Christ, I should never have brought you here!"

She closed her eyes as if she were praying. 'Then send me back to Ashbury," she whispered. The plea slipped out before she could stop it, and then she didn't want to. She opened her eyes to stare at him mutely. She went on, unaware of the naked longing that dwelled in her expression. "I've been here more than a month. I've obeyed your rules and done your bidding. And yet you continue to keep me prisoner!"

He scorned the leap of hope in her eyes.
Ashbury
, he thought savagely.
It is always Ashbury with her.
She would not cast aside this foolish notion that she could hold title to it!

"Prisoner, is it?" His laugh was grating. "The term intrigues me, Kathryn, especially since I've shown you every kindness."

Her tone was stiff. "Oh, you do not stoop to physical harm. But you keep me here against my will. What kindness is there in that?"

"Egad, woman, you have abused my trust! Yet you expect to be rewarded?"

She stamped her foot. "I've abused nothing! After all that has happened between us, you cannot expect me to remain here."

"You're wrong, Kathryn." His mouth twisted. "I can and I do."

She stared at him with eyes both accusing and pleading. Her anguished cry seemed to echo from the furthest depths of her soul. "Why? Tell me why!"

He ignored her completely, moving to sit at the chair on the opposite side.

She slapped her palms before him on the table. "I'll not be your mistress," she burst out. "Your prowess as a lover was much overrated, my lord. Indeed, I found it sorely lacking!"

Slowly his gaze lifted, tangling with hers. His features were set in a cold hard mask, but within those silver depths a molten fire burned hot and searing. "Do not seek to test me, Kathryn—" His lips curved into a wicked smile. "—for you would give me no choice but to prove the falsehood you speak, which I would do, I'm sure, with a great deal of pleasure indeed."

Oh, how her fingers itched to slap that insolent smirk from his mouth. "You bastard." She glared at him, her lips barely moving as she went on. "How long do you intend to keep me here?"

Her eyes were the dark green of a stormy sea. Her stance was defiant, small fists jammed at her sides. For the first time he noted the exhaustion that rimmed her eyes. He ignored it, driven by fury and some nameless emotion he refused to recognize as disappointment. He'd far rather meet her on these terms, for this was the woman he knew—coldly enraged and icily distant.

"Who knows?" He gave an offhand shrug. "A week. A month. However long it may or may not be, know that it will be my choice, Kathryn—" His smile grew brittle. "—mine and no one else's."

"I see," she said tightly. "Your will again, I take it." Her breath came fast and shallow. She was suddenly so angry she was shaking. "Well, your will be damned, my lord earl—you be damned."

To her shock, he rose and handed her a tiny dagger. He spread his hands, leaving his chest wide open and exposed. "Go ahead," he invited in a silky tone that was all the more deadly for its very softness. "Shall we place a wager on the victor?"

Green eyes clashed with eyes as cold and gray as a wintry sky. The tension that pulsed between them was like thunder in the air. Though his posture was relaxed, Kathryn knew that if she made one false move, those powerful muscles would quiver to life—he would not hesitate to subdue her. Kathryn's fingers tightened around the handle of the dagger—she was stunned and then sickened at the violence that surged like a tide inside her.

She stabbed the blade into the table. God! she thought brokenly. What was the use? She couldn't wound this iron hearted knight physically or otherwise. She spun around with a jagged cry.

"Kathryn!"

She half-turned.

His expression was stony, the fiery probe of his eyes unendurable. "Do not run from me again," he warned. "Next time I will lock you in your chamber." He took his time perusing the slender curves of breasts and hips outlined beneath her kirtle. "Better still, I'll lock you in mine."

She choked back an impotent cry of rage. "I've heard tell that King Henry travels far and wide across the land," she flung at him. "I will pray nightly that he calls you to his side."

The battle lines had been drawn once again.

Guy went his way. And Kathryn went hers. She saw little of him in the days that followed, except occasionally during the evening meal, which was always a strained affair. She was bitterly stung that she was no longer allowed to be alone with Peter. No longer was she allowed outside the walls without Sir Michael trailing along behind her.

It was but more fuel to fire her smoldering resentment of the earl. And for that, and for so many other things, she could summon no forgiveness.

There was nowhere she could escape his presence, whether he was present in the flesh or no. His will bound her to him as surely as chains of steel. She had even lost the peaceful sanctuary she'd once found at the stream, for he had invaded this domain as well, often riding there with Peter.

She watched him from afar one day, tossing Peter high in the air while the boy squealed with delight. Seeing him thus, laughing with his son, she could almost imagine how he might have been with his pretty young wife... Elaine. Gallant and teasing, those pale silver eyes alight with laughter and love and adoration.

A tight hollow band seemed to creep around her chest. She had never seen that side of him, she realized. She would never see that side of him.

And why. . . oh, why. . . was the certainty like a knife plunged deep in her breast? She could not forget what Gerda had told her—how Guy had loved Elaine dearly, loved her with a tender regard that was rare and precious and attained by so very few. Always, always, it was in the back of her mind, like a sliver beneath her skin. Every time she thought of Guy—and Elaine—there was an odd little catch in her heart. She did not understand it.

As the days became weeks, the tension became almost more than she could bear. Sometimes there was a strange restlessness inside her that would not be denied. She told herself it stemmed from being torn from her home. How she ached to see Elizabeth once again! She missed Ashbury. But when she mentioned her longing once in all innocence, Guy became enraged and walked out on her. Nay, she would not cry, or plead, or beg for mercy, for he had none. Still, she began to fear he meant to keep her at Sedgewick forever—his purpose eluded her. But being on guard so often was taking its toll on her nerves—they were scraped thin. To make matters worse, she, who was sick but rarely, had been feeling poorly of late.

She was combing her hair, preparing for bed one night in early August, when a knock sounded on her door. It was unusual for her to be disturbed at this hour. "Who is it?" she called.

"Sir Michael," came a voice from the other side.

Finely arched brows shot up. What! she thought testily. Had Guy decided to post a guard outside her door at night, too? She opened the door a crack and peered warily at the young knight.

"Forgive the lateness of the hour," he said with an apologetic smile, "my lord wishes to see you in his chamber."

Visit the beast in his chamber? She could think of one reason and one reason only why he would make such a request. His arrogance knew no bounds! Kathryn opened her mouth, prepared to deliver a biting refusal, when Sir Michael caught sight of her flushed cheeks.

"There's been a slight accident, milady," he said quickly. "He has need of your assistance."

The earl had not been at dinner, but Kathryn wasn't sure she liked the sound of this any better. But if she refused, she had no doubts whatsoever that he would come and fetch her. She inclined her head slightly and joined Sir Michael in the passage. The young knight escorted her to the earl's chamber, closed the door, and withdrew.

She did not see him at first. The candles in the iron-spiked wall bracket cast flickering spears of light into the room. He sat on a chair before the fire, long legs thrust out before him.

"My lord—" She sought to adopt a formal tone and failed miserably. "—you wished to see me?"

"Aye, Kathryn." There was a slight pause. "Come here."

She shuffled forward, feeling as if her legs were made of wax. She stopped what she considered a safe distance away. It was disconcerting to discover him regarding her rather quizzically.

"Kindly refrain from looking like a lamb on its way to be slaughtered," he said with sour humor. "I admit I'm in dire need of a woman's tender hand, but it’s your skill with the needle I've need of right now." He turned slightly and inclined his head toward his right shoulder, where the flesh had been sliced wide open. The gash was easily the length of his hand. Though he had recently cleansed it, blood continued to well from the shredded edges of the wound.

"The damn thing won't stop bleeding. I don't think it will unless it's closed up."

Kathryn's eyes were wide. "You want me to stitch it closed?"

Her tone reflected the horror she felt at the prospect but he paid scant heed. "Aye," he murmured.

"But I've never done anything like this before," she blurted.

"Gerda tells me you're quite skilled with the needle. Lord knows you probably sew a cleaner seam than my squire, and if you'll not do it, I'm afraid I'll have to submit to him." He offered a crooked smile. 'Think of it as a chance to torture me, Kathryn. You'll get to poke and prod as you please and I dare not summon a word against you."

"I'll hold you to it," she murmured. She fetched needle and thread from her room, then hurried back to his chamber. He had not moved while she was gone; he still sat before the fire.

His tunic lay across his lap; he wore naught but braies and chausses. His chest was bare, all solid muscle and dense dark fur. Kathryn tried not to notice as she knelt down, anxious to be done with the task and safely back within her own chamber. "How did this happen?" she murmured.

"We ran into several poachers in the forest. One of them decided he'd like to relieve me of my sword arm."

Poachers. Not raiders. Kathryn could not help but feel a twinge of resentment. It was still a sore spot that there had been no trace of the raiders she had seen that long-ago day. She did not inquire as to the fate of the poachers he'd encountered today. She had no doubts his prowess as a warrior was well earned; nor was he a man to let another get the best of him. Despite his relaxed posture, he radiated an aura of power and pure strength. His shoulders looked impossibly wide, his biceps sculpted and keenly defined. A quiver shot through her at the prospect of running her fingers over his muscular arms. Tentatively, she extended her fingers, pressing gently to gauge the depth of the wound.