Shana Abe (10 page)

He knew this was a serious breach of conduct. He was shamelessly taking advantage of someone in his personal care, a woman who had no other refuge. He should stop. It was wrong.

But it felt so good.

The hunger inside of him that had been born that night at
the inn had not abated, no matter how he rationalized it, no matter how he sought to dismantle it through logic, reason, or honor. The hunger had grown all yesterday and today, watching her, wanting her, and now the hunger took over completely because she was beneath him again, and she was twining her arms around his neck. She was kissing him back.

Roland felt the melting of her caution and systematically slipped in where her defenses had been, moving her body closer to his, teasing her lips with small, ravenous kisses, tracing them down her cheeks to her jaw, behind her ear, until she made a small sound in her throat, all feminine, that fed the fire in him to fever pitch.

Kyla arched into him when he bit lightly at her earlobe, he felt the sudden heat as her chest pressed against his. He took her mouth again with ferocity now, forgetting the time and the place, forgetting all but this woman, a stranger two days ago whom he thought he had known forever.

Because he knew just what to do to evoke that small cry in her again, he knew how to kiss her, how to stroke her arms, to cup the gentle swell of her breast, oh God, so sweet.

And she knew him, yes, how to touch him back, to frame his face with her own hands, trembling, as if in wonderment, and the kisses she gave back to him were hot and melting, her breath was honey against his skin.

Her body was lithe and taut beneath him, he could feel her even through the chain mail, such torture between them, but he moved to cover her completely with his body and she took his weight willingly, not seeming to notice until he pressed the fullness of his arousal against her thigh.

Then she gasped again, and he heard the difference. Her eyes opened wide, the heat dissolving in the silver and black, leaving clear lucidity. And fear.

Roland paused, caught between an agony of want and reality. The reality won. He pulled back, then rolled off of her.

He took a deep, shuddering breath. “See what happens to young women who attempt to leave their protection?” There was self-mockery in his voice.

She sat up beside him, looking uncertain, then defiant. “You said you were my protection.”

The crown of cherry hair was littered with leaves and pine needles, bringing back to mind his earlier comparison of her to a druid. She surely looked the part now. Without thought he reached up a hand to untangle a mossy twig from its silken bonds. “Yes,” was all he replied, at a loss for more. She was right and he had been wrong. They both knew it.

She sat still for him, allowing him the tending of her hair. Her breath was coming unevenly, and the thought that he was the cause of it made the shame grow, but worse, made the hunger spring back as well.

“Let me go,” she said suddenly, urgently, and he knew she wasn’t talking about just this moment.

“I can’t.”

Unexpectedly she reached out a hand and held on to his arm, her grip firm. The mist followed her movement in a white echo. “Please.”

He could guess how much that cost her, that simple word. He tried to keep the torment from his voice. “My lady, it is impossible.”

“No. It isn’t.” She kept her hand there. He could feel the strength of her fingers pressing through the chain mail. “You never found me. No one found me. I disappeared into the countryside. I’m still in Scotland. I’m dead. It won’t matter to anyone but me.”

“Ah, there you are wrong, my lady.” Roland took in her face, the fairy beauty. “You would be sore missed.”

“You don’t understand! It’s nothing to you! The king will not be angry at you! You did your best, I disappeared, and that is all! I am not worth pursuing further. Henry has my home, my wealth, the bones of my family. There is nothing left for me there, don’t you see? In the end, it won’t matter at all.”

“You matter, Lady Kyla.”

“I do not. Not in any important sense. Nothing I say or do there will mean anything to anyone, I assure you. What harm is there, my lord, in letting me slip away?”

“I can’t,” he said again, helpless to let her change her fate.

“You can. You won’t.” She took her hand away from his arm; he felt the absence there keenly.

She turned her head away from him, looking askance through the fog, seeing something there he could not. It was hurting him, watching her struggle with the pain, and he was appalled for both of them. What was happening to him?

Her lashes were long and dark, spiked with wetness, and for one horrifying instant he thought she was crying, until she looked up at him and he saw the anger sparking there.

“You would condemn me to death, all for your pride? I suppose I could expect nothing more from you.”

“Death!” He smiled in spite of himself, relieved if this was the direction of her thoughts. At least he could dispel this notion. “No one will put you to death, Kyla. Be reasonable. Henry wants to talk to you, that’s all. He wants to know what you know.”

“And when he has done with me, what then, do you think, Lord Strathmore? Do you think he will just allow me to go without a by-your-leave? Just stroll right out of the Tower and back to Rosemead?” She didn’t wait for him to answer, cutting him off with a flick of her hand. “Nay. He will have to do something with me. I am an enormous embarrassment to the crown. I know that. He will sell me off to pay a debt, or to incur one, no doubt. I am too conspicuous to be left alone.”

The clarity of her observation left him no room for comment. She was right. Of course she was right. He began to see what she was driving at, but it didn’t change his position.

She pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, then rested her chin on top pensively. The swath of hair shifted down her side, cascading dark red, covering half her face. “How did you know where I was?”

“In the tree, or at the inn?”

“In the tree.”

“Luck.”

“At the inn?”

“Luck.”

A wry smile twisted her lips. “You must have a lucky star, indeed, Lord Strathmore.”

Again he couldn’t reply; she had made the contrast between them so open that he could not bridge it with words. It left him feeling rather annoyed, that she would so quickly trounce him, exposing him in such ruthless brightness, picking out flaws he had never before considered.

Had he a lucky star? He would see about that when they returned to London.

Roland stood up, then took her arm and pulled her up beside him. “Come,” he said, and then gave a low whistle. His horse materialized out of the mist, looming large and sudden where before there was nothing.

He lifted her up into the saddle, then quickly vaulted into place behind her, wrapping one arm securely around her waist. The top of her head reached just to his chin.

“My men will have captured your horse by now. We will meet them back at the trail.”

Kyla made no acknowledgment, but her hands clenched together in her lap.

T
he fog would not lift, no matter that they waited until it was almost time for the sun to set. Roland had already ordered the tents unpacked and set up, expecting this, so there was no worrying about where to place the Lady Kyla while the soldiers straggled back in pairs and threes from the woods.

She had led them all on a merry chase, as Gilchrist, one of Henry’s captains, had complained sourly, and they had lost the entire day for it.

The fact that the fog prohibited travel anyway, which Duncan, Roland’s captain, pointedly mentioned, did nothing to sweeten the tempers of the men.

Actually, it wasn’t Roland’s contingent who were grousing at all. They were seasoned enough to handle just about anything. But Henry’s men were loud and obnoxious, no doubt
disguising their unease at the foul weather with bitter humors. Roland wasn’t concerned. The king’s men would not dare openly rebel; technically they were all under his command until the completion of the assignment. No matter what was said, all would obey him, and that was enough.

Everyone was tired. Everyone was sick of the extended stay up north and anxious to get back to London. And beyond London, for Roland, lay Lorlreau, at last Lorlreau, and he thought no one could be more eager to get home than he was.

He heard Duncan reassuring the others in their huddled groups around the smoking fires and knew he should be there with him, helping to soothe the fractured nerves, the surly demeanors of a group of fighters who had no battles to fight. But he would let Duncan handle it. The men respected him, they would listen. If there truly was trouble brewing, Duncan would alert him and he would deal with it then.

In the meantime, Roland decided it was far past time for him to sup with the cause of all this discord. He told himself it was only to ensure her health and safety. He needed to see for himself how she had fared after her adventure. She had not been eating her food. She might have some lingering illness. It was up to him to deliver her safe and sound to Henry. It had nothing at all to do with the fact that the memory of their kiss filled his mind, so spicy, so sweetly given.…

Still, he walked around awhile amid the men before reaching her tent, and then he entered without warning, passing her guards with a reserved nod. His men nodded back.

She was sitting on the pallet of furs, staring glumly at the untouched platter of roasted pheasant before her. She didn’t look at him.

He settled down in front of her on the other side of the tent. “Is it not to your liking?”

She didn’t seem to want to answer him, but then she sighed and said, “I’m sure it is fine.”

“You haven’t eaten any.”

“I am not hungry.”

“Not very gracious of you.”

That got her attention. “Gracious?” she repeated, astonished.

“My finest hunter went to all the trouble of finding you a pheasant. Not just any pheasant, mind you, I told him that wouldn’t do. I told him it must be the king pheasant, the grandest bird out there. And I assure you it was no little feat for him to find it. He had to pass up a great many lesser birds. But here it is, the King of Pheasants, just for my lady, and you too proud to take even a bite. Most ungracious,” he finished mournfully.

She studied him, puzzled, as if what he had said might be true and not some silly nonsense that popped into his head. Roland reached over and plucked a sliver from her platter to taste. It was dry, bland, and burnt on one side. He smiled. “Definitely the king.”

“You have a very odd sense of humor.” She tucked her hands under the furs covering her legs, then eyed him cautiously, as if unsure of what he might try next.

Roland looked affronted. “King Pheasant didn’t find it humorous, I think.”

A tiny furrow creased her brow, such a serious silver look, and he found himself wanting to charm it away all the more. It pulled at something inside of him, that tiny wrinkle, a short stab at the softness in him reserved for her alone, apparently. Roland racked his mind to think of something to say to bring peace to her, but before he could speak she pushed the platter away and lay down on the furs on her side, facing him, and he was too wrapped up in the elegance of her movements to catch his thoughts.

“Why are you called the Hound of Hell, my lord?”

“You don’t know?” he hedged, not wanting this conversation.

“Oh, well, I have heard different things, of course. Battles, victories, that sort of thing. Nothing in particular that could explain it.”

Roland pushed the platter of pheasant back to her. “Eat, and mayhap I will tell you.”

“Mayhap?”

“Eat,” he ordered, and somewhat to his surprise she reached out a hand and took some. She brought the bite to
her mouth, watching him as she did it, closed her lips around it, began to chew. After a while, she swallowed. “Well?” she prompted.

“I suppose,” he said slowly, “it is because the hounds from hell are supposed to be …” She took another bite. Her lips distracted him, luscious ripe berries, or velvet rose petals, he didn’t know which was more apt.…

“Wicked,” she said flatly, finishing the sentence for him when he lost his thought again.

“Relentless,” he said instead. That was it. Relentless in the pursuit of their goals, fiendish though they were, forever and ever. Relentless in the destruction of their enemies. Roland gathered himself. “Henry named me thus.”

Whatever he had said had affected her. She jumped a little at his words, her eyes darkened. He caught a bitter spark there, the curl of her mouth was derisive.

“So”—she took another bite—“you are his dog.”

He smiled sharply to show she hadn’t offended him. “Some would say so.”

“A lapdog?” Her eyes were bright now, the pheasant was disappearing faster.

“Nay,” he replied, his voice low. “A hunter. What else?”

He saw her glance at the mark she had made on his throat with her dagger, that night at the inn. “You hunt down the innocent.”

“I serve my sovereign.”

“You have no will, only a master.”

“You have a biting tongue and a quick wit, my lady, but I’m afraid you’re wrong in this. I am my own master. I choose to serve, because it will get me something I want.”