by Nora Roberts
There was something about him. He moved with great decisiveness, with authority and a quick, hard grace that was somehow familiar. There was something familiar, too, in the dark hair, the broad build…
And then, as the fire roared to life, he turned and looked her full in the face, and her heart stood still.
It was him. Dear God, it was him.
After all this time, after the frantic messages sent by Marcus’s captain, after the searches, the inquiries, the sweep of neighboring and distant lands, he was here.
The gypsy spoke true, she thought dazedly, but as she was about to murmur the words, shock rippling through her, she somehow bit them back.
You can’t be sure. Wait and see…
But it was him. Nicholas. Ten years had passed since she’d seen him, her brother’s friend, Duke Armand’s son, but she knew him. He had been a young man of twenty years the last time he’d come to Galeron—a dark, wild, impossibly handsome young man who took scant notice of the small, freckled girl of no more than ten years who had watched openmouthed beside her father’s head groom as Lord Nicholas of Dinadan galloped grandly across the drawbridge with his company of men, his fine horses, his banner.
She had known from that moment that she would never forget him.
His eyes as he studied her now in the light of the fire were the dark gray of a winter sea, chill and harsh. The lean planes of his face were harsh, too, but handsome—still ruggedly, wildly handsome, though now there was a scar, white and wicked, cutting across one lean cheek. The straight slash of a nose, the downward slanting brows as fiercely dark as his hair, as dark as night, and the long, hard jaw that now looked more weathered, more weary than when she had last laid eyes on him. But yet it was the same.
His mouth, straight and thin, appeared to be set in a permanent state of anger. Yet she had in earlier days seen him laugh, had seen those arrogant lips kiss a maid as if he would devour her…
Arianne’s thoughts flew back. As a child and a girl, she’d been excluded from the feasts in his honor, as well as the hunting expeditions that he and Marcus and her father, along with the nobles, had set out on each bright, sparkling morn. How agonized she’d been, forced to sit in the tower room spinning with her mother and the other women each day, confined to the solar or her own chambers by night, always with fat old Gerta watching her like a hawk.
But she’d glimpsed him now and then all the same. Just as she’d done when she was even younger, four or five, and visited Archduke Armand at Castle Dinadan with her family, she tagged after him and Marcus as they climbed and raced and wrestled. When they rode at breakneck speed across the lush, rolling lands of Dinadan, she ran after them demanding that they wait for her, but they only laughed and galloped faster.
She’d managed to creep downstairs on the final night of his visit the last time he’d come to Galeron. He’d been twenty then and she only ten. She waited until old Gerta was snoring soundly, then in her nightgown she slipped through the solar, and down the winding back staircase to the alcove behind the great hall. There, hiding behind a velvet curtain, she gazed eagerly out at the dancers.
She saw him dancing with one of her mother’s lovely young cousins. Marta the fair, with her pale, gleaming locks and sideways smiles, seemed to enchant him. As Arianne watched from her hiding place, her palms cold and damp, Nicholas led Marta toward the very alcove where she had hidden herself.
She dashed around a corner in the nick of time and peeked out. He pulled Marta to him and kissed her in a way that Arianne in all the years since that night had never been able to forget.
“You’re cold.” He spoke to her roughly now, interrupting her thoughts. “Go and warm yourself before the fire. Then we must talk.”
“What makes you think I have anything to say to you, my lord?” Arianne spit out angrily. Then she saw the surprise that darkened those gray eyes that missed nothing. They narrowed, and his lip curled.
“Insolent child, I’ve just saved you from a fate worse than any other, unless I mistook the intent of your friend back there in the stables. I thought you might wish to thank me by providing me with some useful information.”
“I am not a child.” Arianne surprised him again by focusing on the first portion of his speech. She saw his eyebrows go up, then his features quickly took on an iron impassivity, and she could read nothing more there but a hint of harshness and of anger kept rigidly in check.
“Very well, my lady,” he responded coolly, his tone flirting with mockery. She remembered with a shock that he had no idea who she was. No doubt from her dull brown homespun gown and thin, plain cloak he thought her only what she had been pretending all these months to be: a simple tavern wench who had hidden from the soldiers out of fear, who was no doubt eager to go home to her own family and bed.
“So you are not a child, but you are behaving like one.” He advanced on her and gripped her by the arms so firmly that she gasped.
“Now, I have done you a good turn, my girl. It is incumbent upon you to do one for me.” He scowled suddenly, noting how her delicate cheeks were still red from the cold, how thoroughly she was shivering.
“You’ll sit before the fire and have a sip of wine. When you have answered my questions—and it shall not take long—you will be free to go. But,” he continued, his eyes piercing her in warning, “you will tell no one of this place. Or that you have seen me. Do not speak of it. Is that clear?”
“Perfectly clear, my lord Nicholas.” She spoke slowly, clearly, almost sweetly. But anger flashed in her eyes as he stared down at her in shock upon hearing his name.
“As clear as your own cowardice in having stayed away for lo these many months while your people were enslaved!” she rushed on, her voice throbbing now with growing fury. “As clear as your indifference to the suffering of one you professed to love as a brother!”
His grip tightened. The look he gave her could have sliced through a stone. “What nonsense is this?”
“Nonsense? I speak the truth. Can you deny it—Nicholas?”
He let her go. His expression turned so cold, so darkly dangerous, that Arianne involuntarily stepped back a pace.
“I don’t deny who I am,” he muttered. “But, by God, it’s high time you did me the honor of gracing me with your name, my lady—and with how you know of me.”
Quickly, with shaking fingers, she reached up and yanked the strings of her cloak. As the hood fell back and the cloak slid from her shoulders, she stared fixedly into Nicholas’s swarthy face.
“I am Arianne of Galeron,” she said with contempt. “I am the one who summoned you to the aid of your friend—my brother. Behold, my lord. At last, when it is nearly too late, you have come.”
For a moment there was dead silence in the cottage, except for the hiss and crackle of the logs. The sound of the moaning wind soughing through the trees of the Great Forest faintly reached her ears, as if from far, far away. Fingers of heat, of rich amber light, flickered across the faces of the tall, dark man and the slender, flame-haired woman who confronted one another with anger and distrust in that small space lit by fire and shadow.
Nicholas spoke first. “You…are Arianne? That little mouse who scurried after Marcus and me…that pest who would not cease annoying us?”
He looked so amazed that she flushed. Deep rose color burned her cheeks, turning them nearly the hue of her lips.
“How you flatter me, my lord. Take care you don’t turn my head.”
He smiled suddenly, a smile that broke through the grimness of his face and momentarily softened his features. “If it’s flattery you want, Arianne, I can give it to you. Heartily and sincerely.” His gaze contemplated her lush, sweet mouth, then shifted lower to appraise the slender form and feminine curves revealed by her simple gown. “You’ve grown into a lovely woman now, an entrancing woman…”
She stepped forward and slapped him. “I don’t want your damned flattery!”
Dark fury blazed in his eyes. He caught her wrist, and Arian
ne felt mortal fear flood through her. She’d gone too far. With a man like this, the type of man Nicholas of Dinadan had clearly become, one did not risk anger. It was not only his size and strength that were daunting, it was something in his bearing, in the swift, sure way he moved, in the coldness that lurked behind those fascinating eyes. He was not a man to cross. A dangerous man, much different from the laughing boy who had kissed Marta in the alcove, fenced with Marcus in the courtyard, and ridden her father’s prize destrier as if born in the saddle.
She wondered suddenly if the rumors about him were true, that he had become a warrior in the years of his banishment, a mercenary who spent his life fighting on behalf of those who would pay him for his service. Looking into that ruthless and icy gaze, she knew in a flash of insight that it was true. He was a man who thought nothing of killing another, who lived for hunting and war.
How many times had Marcus warned her that she needed to learn to control her temper? Somehow she could not. Especially with this man, who had once claimed to be her brother’s friend, then had callously left him to rot all this time in the hellhole of Castle Doom.
She had expected so much more from him. Based on her early memories, her foolish, girlish imaginings, she had envisioned him a hero, someone bound to aid her brother, as well as his own people, freeing them from the tyrant who had taken his father’s place. But he had stayed away. Damn him, he was not worthy of Marcus’s love or respect. Or of hers.
“Let me go,” she commanded, fighting back the tears that threatened. “You have no right…”
“I have every right. I rescued you, and now you will make yourself useful to me. Before this night is over, Lady Arianne, you are going to explain your hatred of me. And much else besides. Don’t even think of sleep for many hours, for we have much to discuss,” he told her roughly.
“Oh? Do you plan to help me, then?” she inquired, her wrist burning from the touch of his fingers. And for some reason the heat still had not left her face.
“My plans are my concern. You will answer my questions and do as you are told.”
“You mistake the matter. I am in charge of this rescue, my lord. I am working closely with Felix, my brother’s captain, who is even now assembling Marcus’s men to retake Galeron as soon as Marcus is freed. At this late date, if you wish to throw in with us, it is necessary for you to answer to me.”
Her violet eyes locked on his gray ones. There was no wavering in them, no uncertainty.
So, Nicholas thought, taking in not only the wide violet gaze but also the delicate line of her jaw, her blazing cheeks, and thick, spiraling curls that shimmered like a red-gold sunset in the firelight. The child with the braids and freckles and soiled tunic has grown into a slender, heart-stoppingly lovely warrior-woman. He fought a smile.
“The freckles,” he said musingly.
“I beg your pardon?”
He released her wrist, and his hand went to her chin. Very gently, he tilted it up so that he could better examine her.
“You’ve lost nearly all your freckles, Arianne. Save for a mere dusting across your nose. And a most comely little nose it is, may I add.”
She jerked back. Her face felt hot where he had touched it. “If you think to soften me with flattery, you’re sadly mistaken. I told you already, you will not turn my head with words, my lord. I am not a stupid maid who will come all undone because you have directed your attentions to me.”
His brows rose again. He looked puzzled.
“There are serious matters afoot,” she rushed on, lest she indeed become distracted by his touch, by the admiration in his words. Foolish first loves died hard. But hers was dead now, she told herself. Completely dead. The only thing she wanted from Nicholas was aid in freeing Marcus.
“We must plan. However much we may dislike one another, if you are interested in helping me to rescue Marcus, we must work together.”
“Very well. But my friend would never forgive me if I were to let his little sister freeze to death. For the last time, Arianne, go and sit before that fire, and then we’ll talk.”
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
He cursed under his breath in exasperation and grasped her arm. He hauled her to the low stool near the fire and pushed her roughly down upon it. “Stay there. And drink this.”
The flask he pulled from his pocket was silver, she noted, glaring at it and at him. There were rich carvings upon it and small encrusted jewels. A contrast to his peasant clothes.
“If you argue with me, Lady Arianne, I will pour this wine down your throat. The entire flask. Now drink!”
Arianne drank. She did not doubt that he would carry out his threat. Everything about him suggested barely leashed violence and deep, cold anger. The truth was, it did feel good to sit here before the fire. She was frozen to the bone. As she stretched her hands toward the flames, she felt the warmth returning to her limbs, flowing through her in lovely golden waves. And the wine…the wine burned her throat with its own sweet fire.
Spirits always made her drowsy, and she didn’t want to be drowsy. She needed to be alert, to keep her eye on Nicholas lest he vanish again before she could wrest from him a promise to help her. She needed to be on guard against any soldiers who might find the cottage and seek to question her. She needed to plan, to think, to come up with a new course of action—and quickly.
Yet, as the wine and the fire warmed her, a relaxed weariness stole over her, despite her best efforts to resist it.
She yawned. She couldn’t help it, it just happened, a small, delicate, catlike yawn, but Nicholas saw it and scowled.
“You look half dead.”
“More flattery,” she mumbled.
“You need rest.”
“No. I need…” Another yawn, quickly stifled. “…to talk to you.”
“You always were troublesome as a gnat, even as a child, Arianne. I never gave it much thought, but I suppose it stands to reason you’d turn into a stubborn, troublesome woman.” He stripped off his heavy cloak and draped it over her shoulders, then took back the flask still clutched in her fingers.
He tilted it up and enjoyed a long drink.
“If you wish to talk, then we’ll talk,” he told her curtly. “I have a great many questions, and I consider it a stroke of good fortune that I came upon you tonight—because you can answer them for me.”
“If I do, will you help me free Marcus?”
Ice glinted in his eyes. “What in hell’s name do you think I am doing here, Arianne? Julian’s men will have my head on a platter if they find me. Yet I’m here. You ought to be clever enough to figure out why.”
“I’ll have your word on it before I speak.”
Mockery curled his lip. “Since when does the word of a banished scoundrel mean anything?” he asked sardonically.
“Marcus believes in you,” she replied stiffly. “I suppose I must do the same.”
He turned away from her. He began to pace back and forth around the small confines of the cottage, looking far too large and strong for such a feeble dwelling. At length he turned back to her, and suddenly Arianne felt a vise tightening around her heart as she saw his face.
Bitterness filled it, a resigned and hopeless bitterness imprinted so clearly upon the strong, handsome features that it tore at her soul.
“You have my word,” he told her grimly. “My solemn oath. I will free Marcus from the castle dungeon or die. Is that good enough for you, Lady Arianne?”
She nodded, too stunned by the bleak emotions that she read in him to speak.
“Then we must act quickly. I know only bits and pieces. Tell me all that has happened in Dinadan and Galeron since my father’s death.” His tone was heavy. “By tomorrow we must devise a plan and begin at once, for if my information is correct, Marcus is to be hanged in three days’ time.”
“That is correct,” she whispered.
He heard the catch in her voice and fixed those implacable gray eyes upon her. “By all that is holy, my girl, it w
ill not happen.”
There was no tenderness in his tone, no concern or kindness. Only flint. The hard, fine-edged flint of a man not to be swayed from his purpose.
“Lord Nicholas, thank you.” She spoke formally, suddenly overcome with relief, and with a whole range of emotions, among them, finally, the faint stirrings of hope. “I…I believe in you.”
“Then you and Marcus are the only two souls on this earth who do,” he muttered with a quick, harsh smile. “So talk, Arianne. Quickly. There is no time to lose.”
3
The wind roared like a wild beast all through the night. With their cloaks spread on the dirt floor beneath them, Nicholas and Arianne huddled before the fire, and she told him of all that had happened since Archduke Armand had died.
“At first there were murmurings in Dinadan over Marcus being crowned archduke. He was never popular with the people, you know. Many prayed for your return—some even dared to call for it.”
This remark was greeted by silence. She bit her lip, knowing that when Armand had banished his son, he’d decreed that Nicholas should never succeed him as ruler of Dinadan. She’d never discovered what had transpired between the archduke and Nicholas to cause his banishment, and if her father or Marcus had known the reason, neither had shared it with her. It must have been something horrible indeed for Armand to turn against his firstborn son with such finality.
“Continue,” Nicholas ordered, his eyes hard as agates as she hesitated.
She inched closer to the fire, her hair drifting forward across her cheeks. “Immediately after the coronation, Julian had all the nobles who’d spoken publicly against him locked away. Then rumors reached us in Galeron that he was preparing for war, making plans to overrun his neighbors’ lands.”
“Didn’t wait long, did he?”
“Scarcely a sennight.” Arianne shivered despite the lovely blaze of heat from the fire. She was no longer drowsy; the story stirred her blood with fresh zeal against the man who had imprisoned Marcus.
“It started with border raids to the south, in Ruanwald,” she told him with a quick, flashing glance. “Duke Edmund realized that he didn’t stand a chance against Dinadan’s army, so he quickly offered his daughter, Katerine, in marriage as a means of securing peace with Julian.”