Ah, but he was bold! Fury wrapped its stranglehold around her. The man was a beast, with no manners whatsoever. She opened her mouth to deliver a scorching retort, but as if on cue, there was a knock on the door. He bade a young maid enter. The girl carried a tray laden with food which she deposited on a small table before the hearth. She curtsied, then left.
The earl crossed to the table, then turned to her, as if she were no more than a troublesome afterthought. "Will you join me, milady?"
Shana took a deep, calming breath, secretly glad she'd curbed her wayward tongue. She dared not antagonize him, not yet. She let him seat her, then serve her, all the while faultlessly polite. And all the while Shana thought secretly that he need not bother. He disliked her. He disliked her intensely. She could feel it with all that she possessed.
She accepted only wine and a small portion of herring. The earl attacked his meal with relish. Clearly her presence did not hinder his appetite. Shana chafed restlessly, wishing he would hurry. She was anxious for this encounter to be over and done with.
He sliced a tender morsel of roast lamb and offered it to her. The tempting aroma teased her nostrils, yet she hesitated. She wanted the tidbit, she realized, but was loath to take it from his hand. She chided herself impatiently, wondering what madness seized her. It was usual for a man to carve for a woman. She'd often eaten thusly from Barris's fingers, so why was she so reticent?
She shook her head. There was a subtle tightening of that harshly carved mouth. Had she given herself away?
At length he pushed aside his trencher. "For a woman who professed the need to speak to me on a matter most urgent, you are remarkably silent, milady."
His voice held all the warmth of a winter wind blowing from the mountaintops. It seemed, Shana concluded grimly, that he played at pretense no more.
"I merely wished to let you eat in peace," she said coolly. "But if you are ready to tend to business, I shall gladly oblige."
"By all means, please do so." His expression was distantly aloof.
Shana took a deep breath. "You have come to Castle Langley in order to bring the Welsh to heel, have you not?"
"I've made no secret of that, milady."
Her heart began to beat with thick, uneven strokes. "I believe you've also come to roust out the rebel known as the Dragon."
He went as still as a statue, yet she sensed a rapier-sharp alertness which had not been there before.
"And you, Lady Shana—" his lip curled, "you profess to know the Dragon's whereabouts, is that it?"
His scorn stirred her anger. "I did not say that I know, milord. I am, however, acquainted with a man who does know." She gathered every scrap of her courage and went on boldly, "A pity you would refuse my help, milord. Because no man's sword is all-powerful. I daresay, even yours."
"So you are wise as well as beautiful. Milady, I begin to wonder what treasure I've stumbled upon."
His sarcasm cut deep. She bit back an impotent cry of fury and despair. She could never hope to lure him from the castle—never! She had thought herself so clever, but alas! she was not clever at all, for she had just gambled greatly and lost.
She rose to her feet and blindly turned, her every intent to flee this chamber, this devil's lair! But she hadn't progressed more than three steps than he was there before her, tall and commanding, as formidable as a fortress of iron.
Only now no mockery dwelled in his countenance. There was only a silent probe of eyes that cut sharp as a blade.
"This man, milady. Who is he?"
"His name is Davies," she lied. "He is kin to one of my housemaids, a freeman who has proved his loyalty to my family countless times over the years." A stab of guilt sheared through her, even as she spoke. A part of her was appalled at how easily the lie came to pass. But she had only to remember how she had held her father's body, bloodied and dirty, limp and prone and lifeless. Once again, bitterness sealed her heart.
"And how does he know the Dragon?"
"The Dragon sought him out for his skill in bow-making. He is to meet Davies several days hence."
"Where?"
She shook her head. "I do not know. Davies thought it best not to tell me."
Thorne's eyes narrowed. "Why didn't he come to me with this information?"
"He is Welsh, milord, though he married an Englishwoman. He does not wish to have his identity known for fear of being branded a traitor by his people. And he dare not come to Langley for fear of being branded a liar. He will meet with you at a clearing in the woods. But he bade me tell you it must be this very night, otherwise it may be too late."
She held her breath and waited. Her story was well thought out. Indeed, her mind was filled with little else on the long ride here.
Thorne stared at her in silent speculation. Did he dare believe her, considering the outrageous stories he'd heard these past few days? He found himself admitting he could find no fault with her explanation, and yet—
"Your motives, Lady Shana, elude me. Indeed, I must ask myself why you should so trouble yourself."
Lord, but he was a crafty one! She assumed an outrage that was not entirely feigned. "You forget it is I who oblige you, milord!"
"And I say again, there must be some reward for you."
Shana tried not to panic, for he stared at her with scorching intensity. Those devil's eyes never once strayed from her face. He unnerved her, she realized, as no one had ever done. And for all that he was but a man, it was as if he were a wall of stone. She sensed no softness in him, none at all.
"You are right," she said, her voice very low.
"My reasons for coming to you are not without selfishness."
Ah, so now the tale would finally be told. Thorne arched a brow and waited.
Her lashes lowered, shielding her expression. "I ... I recently lost someone very dear to me, milord... "
"Who?"
"My husband." She wet her lips nervously and uttered a silent prayer that the Lord would not strike her dead for such blasphemy. "The Dragon himself was responsible for his death."
The earl's silence was never ending. Shana's nerves were scraped raw. She dared not look at him, for fear she would give herself away and he would discover her deceit. At length he spoke, and there was neither pity nor condemnation in his tone, only a curious whimsy.
"Somehow you do not strike me as a grieving widow."
Shana thought wrenchingly of her father. "I spend my grief in vengeance"—she spoke with quiet fervor, for God above knew it was the truth—"a vengeance only you can satisfy, milord." At last she looked at him, and it was all there in her eyes, the bitter ache of her loss.
Something ... a tingle of warning ... prickled up his spine. It whispered that all was not as it should be. For all that she chanced to meet his gaze with earnest regard, she was cloaked in mystery... veiled in secret allure.
But her distress was genuine. The pain that shadowed her face was real And so Thorne dismissed the flicker of disquiet within him, for she was but a woman. Of a certainty she could do him no harm.
He turned and swept her cloak from the chair, then held it out for her with an arrogant arch of jet-black brows.
Shana could hardly believe her good fortune. "You'll come with me to meet Davies?" Even now, her steps carried her blindly forward. She turned so that he could set the cloak upon her shoulders.
Rich green velvet caught her snug in its enveloping folds. "Aye, milady, I'll go with you—" — husky laughter reverberated at her back—"and mayhap we'll catch ourselves a dragon."
Chapter 3
Shana did not like the sound of that laughter. It hinted at an arrogance that revealed Thorne de Wilde as a man who knew little of defeat—and much of triumph. Try as she might, she couldn't quite banish the feeling that she, not he, was the one about to ride straight into a trap.
It didn't take long for several grooms to saddle their horses. They left the gates behind within minutes. Several times Shana cast a discreet but distinctly wary glance
over her shoulder, anxious to make certain Thorne had not given orders that they be followed.
The purple haze of twilight spread its veil across the land. Birds and insects ceased their strident call. There was naught but an almost unearthly stillness. She shivered in spite of herself. Behind them, Castle Langley jutted into the sky, looming like a silent sentinel.
At last they breached the sanctuary of the forest. The earl's mount, a massive gray with a coat like polished armor, kept pace alongside her own. They forged ever deeper through a luxuriant undergrowth of trees, shrubs, and wildflowers. Her pulse began a clamoring rhythm, all through her body. Soon they would be there. Soon—
"Wait." A gloved hand intruded into her line of vision, seizing her mount's bridle and thus calling a halt to her progress. "How much further?"
Shana was quick to note his air of watchful awareness, yet there was naught in his tone to alarm her, neither suspicion nor worry. But her heart was thudding so she feared he might see as well as hear it. "Not far," she said quickly. "There is a clearing nearby, just beyond those bushes."
He released her bridle, yet his eyes continued to hold her in thrall. His pose was almost lazy. One lean hand rested casually on the pommel of his saddle. A faint smile lurked about his lips. She stilled her apprehension and glanced toward the clearing.
"We should hurry, milord."
"In time, milady. In time."
He dropped to the ground in one fluid move. Before she knew what he was about, those steel- gloved hands swept aside her cloak and settled on her waist. He lifted her effortlessly from the saddle. There was scarce time to draw a startled breath than her feet touched the ground.
Shana stepped back as if she'd been scalded, her movement purely instinctive. She did not want him to touch her. Yet it came as a shock to realize it had nothing to do with the fact that this man was responsible for her father's death.
Her reaction did not go unnoticed. There was a subtle hardening of the plane of his jaw.
"I fear I've been remiss, milady. Indeed, it occurs to me it might be wise to demand some form of good will on your part—a forfeit, if you will."
Shana stiffened, for though he smiled as he spoke, his smile was wolfish, his regard almost leering. She gathered her cloak about her like a shield. "I am not averse to that," she said coolly. "My family is wealthy."
"I've no need of your coin, Lady Shana. Nay, milady, I should prefer something else entirely."
He indulged himself with a thorough inspection of her form, lingering with blatant interest on the sleek coil of her hair, the slender arch of her throat, the merest hint of breast beneath her cloak. Another time, another place, and she might have dared to slap the arrogant expression from his features. She was not entirely ignorant of a man's base desires—not all men were kind and gentle like her father and Barris! Many took their pleasure where they pleased, and if that pleasure included having their way with a woman, so be it.
Nay, there was neither admiration nor adoration in the earl's gaze. Indeed, she was well aware he deliberately mocked her, yet she sensed a ruthlessness about him that almost frightened her.
A shiver played over her skin. He made her feel weak and uncertain, terribly aware of him as a man, and in a way she had never felt before, even with Barris—a way she was not entirely comfortable with. His was a strong, intensely masculine presence, a presence she could scarcely ignore.
She was suddenly anxious to be quit of him, to be quit of the unwelcome sensations he aroused in her, no longer caring if she had her revenge or no. She attempted to step past him but he blocked her way. Her chin climbed high as she summoned all her dignity. "Let me pass," she said quietly.
His teeth flashed white. "Milady, may I remind you that you've yet to yield your forfeit?"
"And may I remind you that you demanded no forfeit?"
"Only because I hadn't yet decided on it. But now—" his gaze lowered to settle on the fullness of her mouth, "—now I have."
A frisson of panic trickled up her spine. She masked it by loosening the full force of a chilling gaze upon him. "My lord earl, it is not an hour since you made it a point to tell me my charms escape you."
"It seems I've changed my mind."
"But I, milord, have not!"
He had moved so close that they stood but a breath apart. Shana's pulse began to throb as his eyes traced slowly over her features, coming to rest once again on her parted lips.
"You are a beautiful woman, Lady Shana," he mused aloud. "There must be many, many ways in which a woman like you could please a man."
"Aye," she stated daringly. "And my husband found just as many ways to please me." She was grace and poise, the slant of her head regal as she met his challenge, seemingly unafraid.
He clamped his jaw tight. God, but she was a cool one, all haughty and aloof and he would have none of it. But even as a dark resolve slipped over him, her beauty struck him like a blow. He could not deny that she was by far the fairest piece of womanhood he'd set eyes on in a goodly number of years.
A white-hot shaft of desire pierced his middle. In truth, he'd have liked nothing more than to tumble her to the ground and slake his passion in the heat of her body. He was, however, a man who had no patience for those who could not curb their desires. And regrettable though it was, he could not forget that the Lady Shana was a widow who still mourned the loss of her husband.
A grim smile creased the hardness of his lips. "I ask but a kiss. It seems a small enough forfeit, wouldn't you say?" Thorne was determined. If he could not have what he wanted, but he would at least have this.
By some miracle she managed to still the frenzied thunder of her heart. Where, she wondered frantically, were Gryffen and the others? Had they forgotten where they were to meet after all? Her mind tripped ahead. A kiss, he said. But would he be satisfied with that? She did not like the glitter in his eyes, nay, not at all.
"You ask much," she began.
"And you've asked far more, milady. You've asked my trust when I can think of no reason I should give it."
"Milord, I scarcely know you!"
Shana thought fleetingly of escape—of screaming at the top of her lungs in the hope that Gryffen and the others lurked nearby. Yet even as the notion chased through her mind, he reached for her. She braced herself for his loathsome touch as warm hands descended on her shoulders. An odd shiver coursed the length of her. She could only stare helplessly into the hard-featured face of the man whose harshly carved lips hovered but a breath above her own.
The kiss brought to bear on her lips was never to be.
Behind her a voice thundered, "You mishandle a princess of Wales, man! Leave off her before I cut off your hands!"
Those words brought Thorne upright as no others could have done. All around was the thunder of hooves, the hiss of steel. In that instant Thorne cursed long and fluently. Christ, it appeared he'd just been done in by a woman...but not just by any woman, it seemed.
A princess.
That was his last thought. There was a stunning blow to the back of his head. His knees crumpled, and he tumbled headlong into an endless tunnel of darkness.
Shana couldn't move. She stood as if rooted to the spot like an ancient tree, unable to tear her eyes from his figure.
She had sworn she would not rest until he lay dead at her feet. And aye, he now lay sprawled before her, but he was not dead. Nay, she thought numbly, at least not yet.
The knight who'd struck down the earl stepped forward. Hatred glowed from his eyes as he raised his battle-ax high. Only then did Shana rouse herself from her trance. A strangled sound emerged as he prepared to finish the job.
Sir Gryffen seized his arm in the nick of time. "Nay, man, not here!"
"And why not? It's what we came for, isn't it?" The one who wielded his ax so eagerly remained adamant.
Gryffen shook his head. "To slay him here would be too risky. We'd have the English army down on us in a thrice."
"We came here to do our lady's b
idding." Still another spoke up. "Seems to me the choice is hers."
Six pair of eyes swung to her. The fate of the Earl of Weston—nay, his very life!—lay solely in her grasp.
The night fell still and silent.
She suddenly felt ill. There was naught in her existence that prepared her for such a burden—and oh, how heavy a burden it was, she realized desperately. In all her days, she had known naught but love and comfort. The harsh realities of life sometimes troubled her, but had never truly touched her. She had known little of heartache and pain, save this last horrendous day.
And never had she willfully harmed another.
Her nails bit into her palms so deeply they brought blood, but she paid no heed. She was tempted to leave the Earl of Weston as he was, to fly into the night like some mythical creature of old, never to be seen again.
But the man-at-arms who sought so coldly to slay the earl was right. She had come here to seek justice; to see her enemy vanquished. But what justice was there in killing a man who already lay bleeding and defenseless? Everything within her decried such a deed as dastardly and wrong.
Yet how could she grant mercy when he had spared none?
Her stomach heaved. In her mind's eye, she saw once again the fields of Merwen, strewn with bodies and blood, people who had been slaughtered and left to die. A simmering resentment smoldered in her veins. Such carnage could not go unpunished, and before her was the man who had Drought about such death and destruction.
One word, she realized numbly. One word from her and he would meet his Maker. One word...
It was a command she could not utter. Her stomach twisted inside her; she was painfully aware of her dilemma. She could not see him slain—nor could she free him.
"Lady Shana." Gryffen presented himself before her. He glanced at the prone figure that now lay between them, then rubbed a hand against his lined cheeks. "If we tie him securely, he'll give us no fight. But we'd best hurry, for there's just enough light to get us through the forest. The moon is full so we'll have no trouble once we're clear of the trees."
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