The Herald's Heart (3 page)

Then her back was free of the weight, but more of it settled on her rump at the point where her bottom met her thighs. She sucked in huge gasps of air. Despite the grip on her arms, she twisted wildly, trying to dislodge her attacker and break the hold.

“Stop,” a vaguely familiar voice ground out as tight and hard as his grasp. “Or you’ll get more than the beating you deserve.”

She ignored him, pitching herself from side to side and bucking as much as she could.

The pressure on her arms increased. She shivered as his warm breath flowed over her ear.

“Sweet Jesu, will you cease before you do us both an injury?”

Larkin stilled, panting, but could not cease the trembling that seized her body. That voice belonged to the man she’d left cursing in the fog.

“Much better,” he huffed and eased back.

He hadn’t hurt her and was trying not to. Why?

Holding her wrists in one hand, she felt him fumble at her waist and remove the rope that cinched her robe tight. Nay! He would not rape her. Before she could renew her fight, he bound her wrists. When hard hands bit into her upper arms, she writhed in protest. He stood, lifted her upright, and turned her to face him. Her feet dangled above the floor.

From beneath the shadow of her hood, she stared into the same dark eyes she’d seen in the fog outside. Were they purple? ’Twas too dark to tell much save they were nearly black. Bloody furrows decorated his neck. Scraped skin showed on his nose and chin, and his mouth twisted in a frown. She made a silent prayer for release.

The prayer found answer in a rapid shaking.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

Larkin closed her eyes against the disorienting motion and felt her hood fall back.

Of a sudden the shaking ceased.

“St. Swithun’s toes, you’re the woman from the fog.”

She opened her eyes and sent him a piercing glare.

Unaffected, the man turned her around, set her on her feet before him, and pushed her into the solar and down onto a footstool. He pulled up the only chair and sat in front of her. Her gaze traveled from his square chin and firm-lipped mouth, past his broad shoulders, lingered briefly on his lightly furred chest, and then dipped lower. That was the moment when she realized he was naked—completely, hugely naked. She felt her eyes grow round. Her gaze sprang back to his face. Her cheeks burned, though she doubted he could see it in the dimness.

“Like what you see?” He grinned, showing strong white teeth. Without waiting for her reply, he rose and went to the bed where he donned hose and chausses, then returned to sit with his well-muscled chest entirely too close to her nose. “Now who are you? What are you doing here? Where is the earl?”

She remained mute under the hail of questions. Why couldn’t she have run faster?

“Well.” He leaned forward, crowding her. “I’m not a patient man, but I can be merciful, if you tell the truth.”

Larkin held herself still. Would he believe the truth?

He leaned forward once more and spoke quietly in her ear. “You were about to explain who you are and what you know about the earl’s disappearance.”

“I know nothing about the earl.” She answered in the same clear, crisp Norman tongue of the nobility that he used so he could not mistake her meaning.

“’Tis possible,” he acknowledged, “but not likely. I shall count that as one falsehood against you. Do not tell me another. Who are you?”

He would not believe her, so why not say true? “I am Lady Larkin Rosham.”

He heaved a great sigh.

Mint wafted her way on breath that was surprisingly sweet for such a monster. She shivered.

“Not many peasants can manage such clear Norman. ’Tis obvious you have been well schooled. I told you not to try another lie.”

“I don’t lie.” Although she did not bother to correct his assumption that she was a peasant. ’Twould be a waste of breath.

“Do you not? All England knows that Scots raiders murdered Baron Rosham and his family years ago. Since you cannot tell the truth, I have no choice but to keep you with me.” He grasped her chin between his thumb and forefinger. “’Tis a shame. I would have liked more cooperation this night.”

He would rape her after all. And she could do nothing to prevent it. She would end like her mother. But before she died, she would find a way to kill him.

She jerked her chin away and, from the corner of her eye, caught sight of the big bed. Fear numbed her ability to resist. She watched as he retied her wrists in front of her.

He lifted her over his shoulder and carried her to the velvet-draped bed, where he placed her on the thin rug beside one of the posts near the foot of the bed. She mentally rubbed her stinging backside and watched him fumble inside a sack that lay on a chest. What kind of rapine was this?

He pulled out a rope that he promptly wrapped round her torso, securing her arms to her body. He then tied the rope to the post, leaving enough slack that she might reach the screened chamber pot or lie down, if she wished. As if she could find comfort on the thin cloth covering the hard floor. Hmph. The man had no courtesy in him if he left a lady to shiver in discomfort on a scratchy rug that did little to soften or warm the floor planks while he sought his sleep on a cozy down bed. Of course, he thought her a peasant, not a lady.

Heavy cloth dropped over her head. Larkin sputtered and struggled to shake off the restricting wool. Her efforts were wasted. No sooner had he covered her than the man’s hands lifted the cloth, freed her face, and rearranged the wool around her for what little warmth the fabric might provide. His hands roamed across her body and legs. Larkin felt heat trail in the wake of his fingers. How could she possibly feel heat when the cold made her shake?

He lifted her head, and Larkin felt the down of a pillow behind her as he released his grip. The shadow cast by the bed obliterated all light, but she felt his breath on her cheek and knew he held his face close to hers.

“’Tis not my way to treat any woman with discourtesy. But you do not answer my questions, and your actions tonight resemble those of a thief. Tomorrow, perhaps, will be different. But know this, Mistress Ghost, you will never escape me. I always gain what I want, and what I gain, I keep.” He climbed into the bed and was soon snoring softly.

Larkin lay awake for a long time working at the knots and failing to loosen them, finally falling into exhausted slumber. Screams woke her, as they had nearly every night for the past seven years. She lay curled tightly against the dark, the fear, and told herself the screams were imaginary, an echo of the horror she’d suffered at mother’s death. But this night, the voice crying out in protest and denial was real and very audible. The rocks and bushes of her personal nightmare had become a hard floor and walls, and a deeper voice moaned against loss and pain.

Where was she, and why she was not abed? Moonlight streamed in from a high narrow window. She was in the solar of Hawksedge Keep. She’d come to search for the marriage box and been discovered. The man who’d caught her had tied her to the bed, apologized before making that odd threat, “What I want, I keep,” then gone to sleep. She’d heard his snores long before the ghosts of her past allowed her rest. Nay, I will not let fear conquer me again.

“Nay.”

Larkin’s body leapt at the voice that echoed her thoughts. Did those agonized cries come from her captor? She listened carefully.

“Don’t! Please, stop,” came his tortured whisper.

By the time she struggled to her feet, his voice had gone still. But she knew all too well the demons that hid in the silence.

One of the man’s arms lay on the bed against his side. His other arm lay across his waist. His jaw slacked open a bit. The firm lips issued the muffled snore. Moonlight fell across his brow and shoulders. He looked ... innocent. Fascinated, she swallowed her fears and stared her fill.

Ebon lashes fanned against his cheekbones. Her gaze drifted lower, past the sturdy column of his throat and the shoulders that could fill a doorway, to the gentle rise and fall of his chest. Pale, red-gold curls danced from one flat, brown nipple to the other and down his torso in an ever-shrinking spiral to slip beneath the linen. The narrow hips, so different from her round ones, tantalized her. She could see little more than the outline of long, lean legs covered by the bedclothes. But she recalled vividly the one sight she’d had of his naked form. Her face heated.

His head tossed, drawing her attention back to the blond locks and sculpted face. His eyes remained closed, but his lips moved. He pleaded with someone. Who?

She knew what it was like to have terror share her dreams. For seven years, she’d started awake in the darkest hours with no comfort to be found. He sobbed, and a lone tear escaped his eyelids.

She could not allow emotion to make her weak. He’d done her no kindness, tying her up and leaving her to sleep on the floor. Although, he had left her legs unbound, as well as giving her cover and a pillow when he’d no need to do either. What a strange mixture of the brute and the gentle. He claimed ’twas not his way to treat any woman with discourtesy. Oddly, she believed him, as much because of what he did not do, as because of the care he’d taken to give her some small ease. Still, safety demanded she keep her distance. She lay down, wrapped herself awkwardly in the cover, and waited for sleep once more.

She had ample cause to be wary of men. In the year since she left the abbey, the village males had tried to grope her body or kiss her whenever they could get her alone. She’d learned quickly never to be isolated with any of them. Yet here she was, alone with a stranger, and he’d neither groped nor kissed. Well she couldn’t be certain of the kiss, but he hadn’t tried to thrust his tongue down her throat as Wat the miller had—ugh.

She would act cautiously around her captor. As for her freedom, she would find a way to regain that, despite his threat to keep her.

• • •

The nightmare woke him. Talon lay still, sweating, trying to calm the mad fears of childhood beatings that overtook him in the night. Then through his lashes, he saw the woman standing by the bedside, her form a shadow against the moonlight.

He closed his eyes, not wanting to speak of the memories that haunted him. He felt the air stir as she moved. Her scent came near, battling the stench of the keep with the tang of sea and flowers. What was she doing? Was it possible that even here in this most lonely and dark hour, she offered comfort? No one had ever offered that.

A tear escaped him, and she was gone. ’Twas always so—show weakness and lose all life’s sweetness. A rustling noise told him she had returned to the floor.

He lay awake for quite a while, using her actions to push aside the nightmare words that even in his dreams, came with a fist or a kick: “Whoreson, you are not my get.”

Who was this woman who haunted Hawksedge Keep? What did she have to do with the earl’s disappearance? St. Swithun’s robe, ’twas beyond belief that Lady Rosham still lived, so why make the claim? And why did she fascinate him as she did? After all, she was just a woman.

His eyes opened with the dawn. He shifted in the bed and looked over the side at the woman asleep on the floor. She lay curled, shivering within his cloak, only her hair and face showing. He regretted having to leave her there, but sharing a bed with her, no matter how attractive she might be, wasn’t an option. He could have given up the bed to her, but even his chivalry had its limits. ’Twas enough that he’d resisted the temptation her body offered.

A delicate snore snuffled from her. Good. She was sound asleep. He rose and donned his chausses, then sought out the chamber pot behind the corner screen.

When he returned, he found her where he’d left her. One long-fingered hand peeked out, clutching the wool around her. A whiff of lavender knifed through the smell of the keep. He knelt, lifting away the cloak, seeking more of that sweetness. He ached with longing for the comfort he might have found with her.

He sat behind her, lowered his head, and nuzzled his face into her soft cloud of hair, trying to memorize the specific combination of scents she used. God’s bones, but she smelled good. Warm and yeasty, like fresh bread, and was there a hint of pansy among the lavender?

He had a weakness for pansies. His cock lengthened painfully, and he readjusted his position, stretching out along her back. She was soft and warm. A man could resist only so much temptation. He sought and found her delicate nape, then scraped his teeth along her skin until he located her earlobe. He closed his lips over the pliant morsel and sucked. His tongue darted forward to tickle the firmer shell of her ear as his fingers released the knots he’d tied last night. Her bottom wriggled, and her feet swept up his legs. Yes, she wants me. He relaxed against her and moved his hand to her thigh.

She kicked him.

Talon howled in pain and rolled away from her. A thumb’s length higher and she would have unmanned him.

She rolled after him, pummeling his chest and head.

“Cease, vixen.” He raised his arms to ward her off.

“Nay. You sought to maul me in my sleep. I will teach you to try rape.”

Talon set his jaw against guilt. He had touched her without her leave. Still, he had never forced a woman in his life and would not start now. He fought her for control before she could harm herself.

“I intended no rape,” he grunted.

“What else could you intend?” She battled back, raining blows on his chest as she spoke.

In moments, he manacled her hands between their bodies. He used his legs to hold her down while he fumbled with one hand to retie the rope around her. She shifted and bucked below him, causing no undue amount of stress to his aroused flesh, but their positions protected him from direct attack.

Once the rope was secure, he placed a hand on each of her shoulders, weighting her legs down with his own. “Cease,” he shouted when she continued to rage beneath him.

His words had no effect. Was she mad? He caught a glimpse of her eyes as she tossed her head. He had seen such looks on men gone berserk in battle. To stop those men often required a strong blow to the head. He was not about to hit a woman. So he did the only thing that came naturally. He clamped an iron grip upon her chin and ground his lips upon hers.