With a stern mental jolt he reminded himself that she was a thief—worse than most, she had robbed the dead.
And created more dead. She had probably used her beauty to stun and murder. All the more despicable . . .
Looking at her, they had first been robbed of their senses, and then of their lives. Startled, as he had been, caught off guard, and then slain.
Such beauty, such treachery. But it would not work with him. He could close his eyes easily to her beauty, for beauty was often cheap. And when it encased a black heart, he could be totally cold, and totally impartial. Totally just.
In an icy calm fury, he bore down upon her once more, reaching out to grasp for her arm. She brought a riding whip down upon his hand with an astounding vigor.
“Bitch of Satan!” he growled heatedly, reaching for her again. This time he caught her. She was light for his strength; he was accustomed to unhorsing warriors in full armor. He dragged her without faltering from her mare and tossed her slender form over the pommel of his saddle as he reined in his destrier.
Once the giant horse had come to a halt, he gave her a firm shove, sending her sprawling to the ground. He stared at her with sharp, impassive eyes, then saw that she, even now, breathless and stunned, was trying to escape him, rolling from the still hooves of the destrier, but finding herself entangled in the cape.
Bryan threw his right leg over the horse and leaped to the ground, pouncing upon her before she could gain her footing. He straddled over her form and secured her flailing arms. She sank her teeth into his arm; he barely felt the pain, but he jerked her hands higher above her head to avoid her vengeful bite.
“Where are your accomplices, bitch?” he grated out. “Tell me now, or as God is my witness, I will strip the flesh from your body inch by inch until you do!”
She was still struggling against him, a tempest of fury and energy. “I have no accomplices!” she spat out. “And I am no thief! You are the thief! You are the murderer! Let me go, whoreson. Help! Help! Oh, help me, someone! Help . . .”
Bryan felt as if, somewhere deep inside his heart, something broke. Something that cried out in anguish and fury against the treachery and pain of the night. Her cry made him feel as if his blood burned within his veins. She cried for help, she cried for mercy—and she had given none.
He clasped her wrists with one hand, and drew the back of the other hard across her cheek.
“You robbed the dead!” He hissed coldly as her stunned eyes met his. “Henry of England! You were seen!”
“No!”
“Then I shall find nothing of his upon you?”
“No! I am not a thief, I’m—” She stopped suddenly, then continued. “Can’t you see, fool? I carry nothing of the king’s—”
Her voice broke suddenly once again, and a look of alarm flashed through her turquoise eyes, and her lashes fell like lush fans to cover them for a second. When they opened, they were clear again, bright with indignity and anger.
A consummate actress, Bryan thought. Quickly disguising true emotion with a fine show of outrage. But she hadn’t been quite quick enough. Before the treacherous shade of her lashes had fallen, he had seen the truth in her eyes. He had frightened her. It was probable that she did hold some property of the king’s upon her.
Her eyes fell closed once more; her body was stiff beneath his.
Bryan’s lips curved in a grim semblance of a smile.
“We shall see, madam,” he hissed, his voice even more of a threat than his tense grip upon her, “if you can prove your innocence.”
Her brilliant eyes flew open to challenge his. “I am the Duchess of Montoui! And I demand that you let me up this instant!”
Montoui? He’d never heard of it. Yet no duchess went around as poorly clothed as his captive—not that it mattered at the moment who she was. Had the Virgin Mary perpetrated the deeds at the castle, his fury could not have been abated.
“I don’t care if you’re the Queen of France! I intend to discover what you have done with your booty.”
Her body went more rigid beneath his; he felt her attempt to curl her nails to gouge his hand.
“Touch me, and I’ll see your head on the block!”
“I doubt that . . . Duchess,” he mocked, fighting hard to control his temper against her imperious tone. It was very difficult to remind himself that he was a knight, and not a judge and jury. If Henry had accomplished anything, it was to give law to England. He was not an executioner. Had she been a man, he could challenge and fight, he could have slain her. But as it was, she deserved the death sentence. But he had no right to decree it.
He released her wrist and crossed his arms over his chest, staring harshly upon her as his thighs continued to imprison her to the ground. “We’re going back to the castle,” he told her. “I suggest you be ready to talk by the time we reach it.”
Swiftly, contemptuously, he rose, striding to retrieve the reins of his destrier.
He turned back to her. She still lay upon the ground, just as he had left her, except that she had her arms hugged about her chest.
“Up, Duchess,” he said.
Her eyes met his, wide and shadowed and suddenly . . . hurt? Or perhaps frightened?
“I’m winded,” she murmured, “and I’m caught in my cloak. If you would help me?”
Impatiently, Bryan reached down to drag her to her feet. But once he had clasped her left hand, she sprang to her feet with an astounding ease, raising her right hand high into the air. The moonlight caught and reflected the shiny blade of her dagger just as it caught and reflected the hatred and venom in her now crystal clear and sharply narrowed eyes.
She wasn’t frightened at all; she was in a murderous rage.
And she encompassed surprising strength and expertise in her deceptively slender form.
Only his greater strength and war-trained reflexes saved him from the well-directed blow of her dagger. His arm bolted upward to capture hers, forcing her to drop the dagger. She cried out in startled pain as he jerked her hand, twisting her arm behind her back.
He couldn’t help but delight in her shiver when he whispered against the nape of her neck, “No, Duchess of thieves and murderers, I will not be your next victim. But if harlots and thieves believe in God, I suggest you start praying. For, at the castle, I guarantee that you will be my victim—and that you will pay dearly for this night.”
III
A cloud fell over the moon as he spoke the words, casting them into an almost total darkness. The wind picked up in sudden and chilling gusts.
She felt his whisper, and his hands upon her, like icy fingers of doom. And his presence. His towering form, his muscular form emitting a furious heat.
“Duchess?” His voice mocked her, and sent new ice shivers streaming along her spine. How she hated the sound of his voice. Deep, husky, autocratic, ever-condescending.
But at least he hadn’t wrested the dagger from her hand and stabbed her—as she had intended to do to him. Her dagger lay harmlessly upon the ground. Her wrist still chafed, but she was too aware of him.
She could feel the strength that emanated from him as he stood close behind her. He was sinewed like the steel of a blade, as staunch as an oak, and as threatening as a hungry wolf. Like the darkness, he was all around her, and like the sudden, bitter wind, he could buffet her as he so chose.
She had made a horrible mistake in attempting to stab him.
His fingers vised around her arm like talons. “Let’s go, milady—before the rain.” He spanned her waist with the long splay of his fingers and set her high upon the back of the destrier. She stared at him as he gathered the reins to mount behind her. She had never seen anything quite like his expression before: totally impassive, chiseled from the hardness of rock. The deep, midnight blue of his eyes offered no chance of mercy; he had judged and condemned her.
“Who are you?” she demanded suddenly. If he was not one of the thieves, then he had to be one of her father’s knights.
> “Sir Bryan Stede, Duchess,” he told her grimly. “Henry’s man to the end.”
Henry’s man. Then he really would return her to the castle. And one of the knights who knew her would be at Chinon, someone who knew that the king had made many journeys to the province of Montoui.
Yet, she wondered, what good would that do if they decided to search her? They would discover Henry’s ring, and they would assume that she was among the thieves. After what had occurred, no one, from peasant to royalty, would be beyond the wrath of the forces of Chinon. She couldn’t allow herself to be searched; it was that simple. She would have to bear herself with such dignity that none would dare to touch her. She had learned a great deal about autocratic authority; she was, after all, Henry’s daughter. She could generally command obedience with a cool gaze and soft statement. No one had ever dared touch her with the least disrespect.
Until tonight.
Until this ill-bred stone-and-steel facsimile of a knight.
Elise lifted her chin regally and offered him a dry smile that matched his for mockery. “Then, Sir Stede, let’s do hurry for the castle. Surely there will be an authority there who will make you pay dearly for what you have wrought this night! When it is proven just who I am, Sir Stede, you—”
“Duchess,” he said, cutting her short, “I have already informed you that even if you were the Queen of France you would find no mercy if you proved to be a thief.”
She wanted to make a sharp retort; she could not, for all that escaped her lips was a startled gasp as he nudged the giant stallion into movement and she was left to grasp at its thick mane for balance. The animal bolted into a run, throwing her hard against the knight’s chest.
She ground her teeth together as the harsh wind whipped about her face, tearing the cowl of her cape from her head, and releasing her hair with a stinging fury. A grunt behind her told her that at least her hair was also tangling about his face—and his discomfort gave her great pleasure. She felt as if she rode a storm, and knew not when the maelstrom would end, or if she would ever find a peaceful shelter again.
It was so dark, so very dark and growing colder by the minute. How did the massive horse know where it ran at its breakneck speed? Surely it would lose its footing and plummet them to a sure death.
But the man behind her seemed unconcerned. He leaned hard against her, low with the horse, as if he were accustomed to these wild rides. Perhaps he was. But she was not, and her thoughts became nothing but a monotonous prayer. Let it end, let it end, oh, please, God, let it end.
Just when she was certain she couldn’t possibly be more miserable, the darkness of the night sky was rent into a brilliant glow with a streak of jagged lightning. A scream caught in Elise’s throat, but to her amazement, the destrier didn’t bolt or falter. He just kept racing through the night.
The thunderclap that followed the lightning was deafening, but still the horse portrayed no signs of nervousness. Elise kept silent, wondering how the castle could now be so far away. Where were they? Had the dark knight really chased her so far?
Suddenly, as if an ocean had opened upon them, the rain began. It wasn’t the drizzle that had accompanied Elise to Chinon; it was a cold and vicious deluge, so forceful that at last the destrier slowed his gait, and the dark knight swore beneath his breath. Instinctively, Elise bowed low against the heavy neck of the destrier, trying to duck the savage beating of the wind and water. Her cloak and tunic were soaked. She was damp and cold to the bone, no longer able to control her shivering.
The knight swore softly again, spoke to the horse, and turned about, finding a little-used and overgrown trail that appeared to go straight into the foliage.
Something struck hard upon Elise’s shoulder and she emitted a startled cry. She twisted upon the mount, searching out the dark eyes of the unchivalrous knight.
“Fool!” she accused him. “There will be no vengeance for either of us if you don’t seek shelter from this—”
“I am seeking shelter!” he bellowed out in return as the rain was made more bitter with a driving pellet of hailstones. “Get your head down!” he commanded, using one gloved hand to push her back around and press her face low to the horse’s neck.
She felt him move against her again, and she was shielded from the storm by the breadth of his chest as his back took the punishment of the hail.
It still seemed as if they plodded miserably along forever. But at last Elise saw a break in the trees and heavy foliage, and by straining her eyes against the rain and the wind, she could make out the outline of a small building. A few seconds later they were upon it, and she could see that it was a hunter’s cottage, built of timber and roofed with thatch. There was no fire burning within, no hint of light, and Elise realized with a sinking heart that the cottage had probably been built by the knights who had come to Chinon with Henry, built by them to give them a place of rest on the days when they foraged far into the forest for game to feed the retinue at the castle. She would be alone in the cottage with Sir Bryan Stede.
“Come!”
She gazed down to see that he had already leaped from the horse and now reached out his arms to assist her down. She ignored his arms, but when she attempted to dismount from the horse on her own, her sodden cape became hooked upon the pommel, and she would have fallen had he not been there to catch her.
For a moment she stood shivering; she could barely move her fingers, they had been cramped in a death grip upon the destrier’s mane for so long. But she felt a sturdy shove upon her back, forcing her toward the narrow door of the cottage. “Get inside!”
Another hailstone fell hard upon her shoulder, and Elise needed no further urging. She raced to the door of the cottage, flinging it inward, and stepping beneath the shelter of the roof. She turned back to see that the dark knight was leading his horse around the corner of the cottage.
Now! she told herself. Now was her chance to escape. The hailstorm and the wind were merciless, but it would be far better to take her chances with the weather than with the menacing and insolent Sir Stede.
She had to run. It was her only chance.
Elise stared out into the darkness of the storm, took a deep breath, and pulled her soaked cowl over her head and low over her forehead once more. Then she left the doorway behind and bolted out into the clearing.
Her shoes sank and then slipped within the mud, and she stumbled and fell before she had gotten halfway to the sanctuary of the trees. She struggled back to her feet and started to run again. Another bolt of lightning struck, right in front of her, filling the sky with an awesome light and the air with a horrific screech as a tree was struck. Elise screamed as thunder followed almost instantaneously after the lightning, seeming to shatter the earth itself with the force of its explosive boom. The trees and foliage, she realized belatedly, offered her no shelter, only certain death.
But before she could turn back, she found herself hurtled back into the mud, and then encaptured in a cruel grip. One moment she was on the ground, the next she was in the air. Bryan Stede had no difficulty walking through the slick mud. His strides were long and efficient. He might have carried a length of cloth rather than the weight of a woman. He didn’t even glance at her as he returned her across the distance of the clearing to the cottage.
But she could see him. The line of his lip was so compressed that it appeared to be no more than a white slash across his darkly tanned features. His jaw was hardened to a solid square, and a vein ticked furiously against the corded column of his throat. His eyes had grown so dark again that they appeared like the black, bottomless pits of hell.
He kicked open the cottage door with his foot and Elise bit back a scream of terror as he slammed it behind him in the same fashion. The tension in his hold betrayed the depths of his anger, all the more acute to her senses as they were pitched into the total darkness of the cottage. He was furious enough to rip her limb from limb, she was certain, and in the blackness, she felt as if he would readily do so.
With the ease of a man who had spent years in the field, Bryan quickly had a fire burning. Its glow filled the cottage with soft light and warmth. Elise blinked against the sudden light, and quickly surveyed the cottage. It was well kept, and well supplied. On one side of the fireplace was a large trunk; on the other was a long trestle table, flanked by parallel benches. In the opposite corner of the room were two low-framed beds, spread with heavy wool blankets.
Clean rushes graced the floor, and Elise knew instinctively that her first impression had been right. The knights had built and supplied the cottage, and used it frequently when hunting game in the forest.
But although she could see now and the fire quickly began to burn with high, warming flames, Elise did not feel in the least warmed—or secure. Her soaked and muddied garments clung to her and continued to chill her, as did the proximity of the man she had spent long hours trying to escape.
At last he turned from the fire. There was nothing in the least reassuring about his stone-hard features. His midnight eyes swept over her from head to foot, and Elise wondered suddenly why she had found the lightning at all frightening.
She should have kept running.
He stood, still watching her with that cold gaze, and cast off his own soaked mantle. He turned his back to her to drape it over a bench near the fire, but when she shuffled a foot to shift her stance, he turned back upon her with an uncanny speed.
Blue Heaven, Black Night Page 5