Samantha James (54 page)

"Llywelyn is my uncle," she informed him coldly. "My father was Kendal, Llywelyn's younger brother."

"I see," he said smoothly. "Well, princess, you needn't have kidnapped me. Had you but issued the invitation, I'd have come with you ever so willingly."

Shana's temper soared stark and furious. "My lord earl, you strike me as a man who does what he pleases and goes where he pleases. And I know for a fact that you make war as you please, for not two nights past you and your men bloodied the very ground on which we stand!"

His eyes narrowed, dark as agates. "Milady," he stated flatly. "I made no war on this place, nor did any of my men. I've never set foot on these lands in all my days."

Ah, but he was a cool one! He gazed at her head-on and spoke the lie as if it were the most divine of truths. "What! You do not recognize the place where you struck down so many of our own? How conveniently you forget, milord." Shana was suddenly so angry she trembled from head to foot. She turned to Gryffen. "You may take him to the blue chamber on the second floor. See that the door is bolted and two guards are posted outside."

She spun to face the earl. It gave her no small amount of pleasure to see that his anger blazed as keenly as her own. "I truly regret that we have no dungeon here at Merwen. I'd gladly see you spend the rest of your days there."

She whirled and ascended the stairs into the keep. Not once did she deign to look back.

Thorne was indeed furious, furious with himself for foolishly playing into the lady's hands, and furious with Shana for daring to make him her victim. To think that he'd actually compared her to a queen—and her a princess yet, a princess of Wales at that! He couldn't have known, for her English was faultless. Yet it might have crossed his mind, for only now did he realize her fair coloring bespoke her Celtic heritage.

If there was a twinge of admiration for a plan so boldly carried out, it was swiftly suppressed. He paced the chamber in which he'd been imprisoned like a caged animal, back and forth, incessantly. And he swore over and over again, cursing her, cursing himself, until at last the red mist of rage left his mind and he was able to think more clearly.

Only then did he take note of his surroundings. A smile of little mirth creased his features. "You provide a prison cell unlike any other, princess," he murmured aloud. The chamber was not overly large, but elegantly furnished. The bed was draped in rich blue velvet. The only window was long and narrow, set high in the wall. Not even a child could manage to wiggle through.

He raked a hand through the tumbled darkness of his hair. He dimly recalled that someone had cut his bonds—the old knight, Gryffen.

Stretching out on the bed, he considered what little he knew. Apparently they thought he was to blame for whatever battle had ensued here. He did not doubt that the loss of life had been staggering. He'd seen only a handful of servants and men-at-arms other than those who had brought him here from Langley. A melancholy sorrow shadowed those he passed. There was bitter hatred reflected when they looked at him.

But their suffering was not of his doing.

He could not dwell on their problems for long, however. He had his own to confront, such as how to escape.

With a grimace he moved to stare out the narrow window. And it was there, a long time later, that he spied the she-devil who no doubt plotted even now to see an end to him.

She stood on the last of the steps that led into the hall. There was no concealing cloak to hide the slender lines of her body. Her flowing white gown rippled sinuously about her legs as she strode across the courtyard, all fluid grace and lithe beauty. Her hair was caught in a ribbon at her nape, a rich, lustrous gold streaked through with living fire. Despite the hatred simmering in his veins, Thorne stared as if spellbound. But he did not fall prey to her spell, nay, not this time, for such delicate beauty defied all that he knew her to be.

Beware, princess
, he whispered silently.
You will soon rue the day you dared to cross my path.

His face settled into a, hard, implacable mask. He was about to turn away when a white stallion raced across the courtyard, straight toward Shana. She showed no fear, but stayed her ground with her head held high, facing the intruder unafraid. The stallion stopped in a flurry of dust. A dark-haired man leaped from the saddle. She was caught up against his chest, clearly a willing captive of his arms. Thorne's lip curled as their mouths clung together in an unbroken kiss that spoke of long— and intimate—acquaintance.

Shana clung to Barris long after he released her lips. She was very much afraid she was making a brazen spectacle of herself, but she couldn't bring herself to care right now. It felt so good to be held again, to cling to someone near and dear and comfortably familiar.

Even as a child, Shana had loved and admired Barris. He was keen of wit, clever, and passionate, yet Shana was certain no man was ever more sensitive and tender. But it was only when she'd grown to womanhood that Barris had truly begun to notice her. Kendal had been reluctant to wed his daughter out of expedience and not for love, for he and her mother had loved each other deeply. He could not bear to see her marry a man she did not love, and so he had held off. Shana, too, had been determined to settle for no less than the happiness her parents had shared. Springtime had seen the culmination of all her secret yearnings.

Barris had asked for her hand in marriage. They were to wed after the fall harvest.

Now her beloved caught her in his arms, availing himself of a long, sweet kiss that sent her heart spinning. "I've only just returned from Gwynedd and learned Merwen was stormed a few days past." He searched her features anxiously. "You are all right, love? You were not harmed?"

Pain burned like fire in her chest. "I am unharmed," she said unevenly. "But my father ..." A hot ache closed her throat.

Barris was stunned.
Nay
, he thought,
it cannot be
! "Your father is dead?"

Her eyes filled with tears. It was all the answer Barris needed.

He wrapped her close once more. "You need not worry, love. I will care for you, this I swear. And I will find the fiend responsible for your father's death," he vowed. "I will search him out and see that he pays."

Shana pulled back, shaking her head. "There is no need," she said quietly. "I have already seen to it."

His hands tightened on her shoulders. He stared at her, convinced his hearing had failed him.

A ghost of a smile grazed her lips. " 'It's true, Barris. My father yet lived when I reached him. He did not recognize our attackers, but he, and others, saw the pennon they carried."

Barris's face was like a thundercloud. "Englishmen?"

She nodded. "They gather at Castle Langley," she said bitterly. "It appears Merwen was one of their targets." She told him how they had gone to Langley to seek out and identify their quarry.

Barris was both furious and aghast. "Are you mad?" he cried. "You marched straight into the hornet's nest with no fear of being stung? Why didn't you wait until I returned?"

"The duty was mine and mine alone." She withdrew from the binding of his arms, her eyes flashing silver fire. "My plan was simple but effective. I was able to find the man behind the attack on Merwen. I merely told him I knew someone who might lead him to the Dragon, then lured him outside the castle where we were able to capture him."

"Sweet Mother Mary," he muttered. "I pray you didn't tell him who you are!"

Shana bristled. "I was careful to speak to as few as possible. I had no wish to attract attention to myself."

"But you must have been seen leaving with him!"

She bit her lip. This was one detail she had overlooked. It seemed she hadn't been so clever, after all. "We've kept to ourselves here at Merwen, Barris." She sought to assure both him and herself. "I know not a soul in England, so how could anyone at Langley possibly suspect who I am? They may search the area around Langley, but they will never search this far into Wales. The earl told no one of his plans, and I sent a man back to release his horse in the border lands. If perchance they find his horse wandering, they will think he's been thrown—or has met with some other foul play."

Barris had gone as pale as a mountain snow. "I pray you are right, for all our sakes."

Shana felt a hand at her sleeve. One of the kitchen boys stood at her elbow. "Begging your pardon, milady, but the prisoner demands to speak with you."

She glanced inquiringly at Barris. "By all means," he muttered. "I've an urge to meet this butcher."

Shana nodded to the boy. "Please ask Sir Gryffen to bring him into the hall." The boy ran off. She and Barris followed more slowly. They had been waiting in the great hall for several minutes when they heard footsteps on the stairs. Gryffen descended the last steps, slightly behind the earl, whose hands were still tied behind his back. The grizzled knight guided him to a low- backed chair in the center of the room.

Shana and Barris had been standing in the shadows at the edge of the hall. Once seated, the earl tilted his head to stare at them. In so doing, the light fell full upon his face.

An unearthly quiet prevailed.

Beside her, Barris drew a harsh breath. She felt him go rigid as stone and glanced at him in surprise.

His gaze was riveted to the earl. "Jesu," he whispered. "Shana, do you know who this man is?"

Her reply was a bit indignant. "This is the man who saw my father and all the others killed—the Earl of Weston!"

"Aye," Barris said grimly. "The Bastard Earl."

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Outlaw Heart

Prologue

Wyoming Territory, 1878

Stringer Sam.

There wasn't a man, woman or child west of Deadwood who hadn't heard of him. Some said he was spawn of the devil. Some predicted that— good or bad—he'd end up a legend. But for those unlucky enough to cross his path, Stringer Sam was more like a nightmare come to life.

His nickname was apt. Stories about his trademark display of deadliness soon spread from barroom to barroom, from parlor to parlor, from cow town to cow town. Little boys listened in terrified awe as their fathers recounted grisly tales of Stringer Sam's savagery. Women shivered in fear at the mention of his name, while little girls hid their faces in their mothers' skirts.

But it wasn't Stringer Sam sitting in the Laramie jail that warm May night. Instead it was Rowdy Roy, reported to be one of Stringer Sam's gang. There were two deputies guarding him, Andy Horner and Nate Gilmore. Andy was a rangy youth of twenty who had decided six months ago to put an end to his cowboy days. To Nate, who was nearly ten years his senior, Andy had a tendency to run off at the mouth. But he could draw and hit a target with a six-shooter faster than a man could spit, and that was why Marshal Dillon MacKenzie had hired him.

"Don't know why the marshal insisted both of us be here tonight," grumbled the younger man. He thumped his boot heels against the wide-planked floor, his lips twisting in a grimace as he glanced at their prisoner.

Nate puffed on his cheroot, then blew a lazy ring of smoke into the air. "The territorial marshal should be here tomorrow night at the latest to take him off our hands," he said with an idle shrug. "Besides, one thing about Dillon. He usually has a good reason for doin' whatever he does."