Elise clawed furiously at the fist that held her wool tunic, but Stede caught her wrists with his free hand and sent the remnants of the woolen tunic flying across the room to land in a heap at the far corner. In dismay Elise paused to stare up at her tormentor. Indigo eyes that fired with condemnation returned her scrutiny harshly; his jaw was set in rock-bound determination.
He stooped to retrieve the ring, making her gasp and curse him anew as she was dragged along with him.
“Nothing of the king’s?” he demanded.
“Wait!” Elise sputtered. “You don’t understand—”
“Aye, but I do understand. I’ve understood all along.”
“No—”
He rose again, jerking her up. “The shift, milady.”
“What?”
He released her, walking around the bench once more to sit expectantly upon it, arms crossed over his chest as he assessed her with cold and calculating eyes.
“You heard me, Duchess. The shift. Now you can take it off yourself, or I can do it for you. I’m afraid that my way is a little rough, so if you wish to retain at least one garment in one piece, I suggest you do it yourself.”
“You must be a lunatic!” Elise hissed, trembling with sudden shock. This could not be happening, not to her. She had been cherished by her parents, a favorite of the king’s—and she was loved and respected by her people. She issued orders in a soft tone and they were instantly obeyed; her knights rallied to her side in any crises, ready to lay down their lives for her protection . . .
And now this . . . beast of the night . . . was treating her with more contempt than he would a common scullery maid.
And she was allowing him to do so. He was edging beneath her skin and stripping away more than her clothing; he was robbing her of the dignity and nobility carefully crafted throughout her entire life . . .
“A lunatic?” he repeated dryly. “Perhaps, the moon is full, and one might easily say that soul-deep fury borders upon lunacy.” His voice had almost been pleasant for a moment, a husky velvet that would have stood well in Eleanor’s once-famed court. But then it changed again, became as cutting and rigid as steel.
“The shift . . . milady.”
Elise lifted her chin and willed a spark of lightning to straighten her spine and proudly square her shoulders.
“You are no honorable knight, Sir Stede,” she told him with her coolest hauteur. “No knight would thus treat a lady—”
“But you are no lady, Duchess,” Stede broke in unhurriedly. “No lady would speak with such a sharp and vile tongue.”
“Anyone would speak with a vile tongue when beset upon by a vile creature!”
He smiled, and she did not at all like his smile. “I’m waiting, Duchess.”
“Then you’ve a long wait, sir, for I’ve no intention of stripping before you like a common trull.”
He shrugged, as if the matter were entirely her choice, but then he began to rise. From experience, Elise could not doubt his intent, or his capability to carry out any threat. Dignity was lost to the wind again as she stamped her foot with frustrated fury upon the ground.
“Wait!” she commanded, but there was far more plea to her voice than she would have wished. But he paused, hands upon his hips, a brow arched, as he gave her a chance to speak further.
“Sir,” she began, deciding that a quiet beseechment might best serve her now no matter how she loathed extending even the least of courtesy to the man. “Surely you must see how gravely you have already compromised my position! You tarnish my reputation by holding me here even as this storm rages, you have done me the greatest indignity already by leaving me so ill clad as it is, yet now you would have me naked to the core so that any honorable man would . . . would . . .”
“Would what, Duchess?” he queried politely.
Another flood of crimson washed to her cheeks. Why was she stammering so? The situation was obvious.
“You compromise my position!” she flared, her temper rising despite herself. And with the words out, she realized that her position might become truly compromised. Bryan Stede was proving himself to be even more uncouth than she had first imagined, if that was possible. It was clear that every word she spoke convinced him more thoroughly that she was a thief. And now he was holding evidence that she had taken something from the king. If he believed her to be nothing more than a common thief and a harlot, then he might engage in any dishonorable action . . .
“Duchess,” he said evenly, “you compromised your own position—when you saw fit to join in murder and thievery.”
“May the devil take you!” Elise grated, knotting her fingers into the palms of her hands and trying not to attack him foolishly in an insane frustration. “I tell you—”
He held up the king’s sapphire, allowing it to gleam in the firelight.
“This ring,” he said thickly, “belonged to Henry Plantagenet. He wore it upon his small finger, day and night, as long as I can remember.” For a moment his eyes were upon the brilliant stone, and they were dark and clouded with memory. Then they were upon her, as sharp and glittering as the stone.
“The shift, Duchess.”
“I swear to you that I carry nothing else—”
“You swore to me that you carried nothing to begin with.”
It was a foolish gesture, a desperate gesture, but Elise was desperate. She ran. Skirting the bench, she made a mad dash for the door that led into the night. She touched the hard oak, and grabbed wildly for the handle. The door began to open.
But just as it began to veer inward, he flew to close it with a reverberating slam. Elise felt herself vised about the middle, and wrenched crudely to the ground. She started to roll, but he came after her quickly, moving with the swift ease of a cat with a cornered mouse.
“Leave me be!” she screamed out in fear and fury as she rolled herself into a corner and he planted a foot on either side of her waist. “Leave me—”
He started to lower himself, his legs straddled around her to imprison her once more with his body. The elemental warning that had sent her running to begin with kept Elise fighting. As she saw his towering form about to eclipse her, she began to kick with all her strength.
A sharp, whistling intake of breath and a growl of pain rewarded her efforts, but her feeling of victory was quickly dashed by the sound of the rising wind. Pain did not deter the man from action. He braced himself coldly around her, catching her still-flying arms, and restraining them at her side for a moment as he took a deep breath, and stared at her with such a furious hatred burning from the indigo fire of his eyes that she quickly regretted her rash actions.
She was amazed as he slowly released her, warning her with those eyes all the time not to move as he eased himself to his haunches, keeping the bulk of his weight off her.
“Duchess,” he said slowly, “don’t move again. I would enjoy an excuse to snap your ‘noble’ neck, so if you are wise, you will not give me one. You try my manners, milady, but I promise you that, by this point, a goodly portion of your ‘courtly’ knights would have readily beaten you black and blue. I have refrained from abuse, I have sought only to restrain you. Be still, and cease goading me, for every man—no matter how ‘noble’—has a breaking point.”
Tears were coming to her eyes, tears of pure panic. In a matter of seconds she would be crying like a small child, and she had no intention of doing so before this man.
“Restraint! Abuse!” she protested, her fingers itching to strike out for his stone-and-ice features. “I have merely fought being abducted! You ravaged me to the ground from my horse, carted me about at your whim, and have abused me. You—”
“I did nothing but catch a thief!”
“Bastard—” The itch in her hand became too much. She struck out at him, but was denied even the pleasure of affording him that small pain. He was too quick. He caught her arm even as it sailed toward him, and the ice smile that touched his lips as he replaced her arm at her side was so chilling tha
t she did not dare move again.
She held herself perfectly still, watching his eyes, and trying not to tremble. But when his hands fell upon the bodice of her shift, she could no longer lie still. She clawed at them and writhed in a furious effort to dislodge him from her person.
“Damn you, bitch! Little fool—”
She cried out as he snatched back her wrists again, his grip so cruel that her tears rose and sparkled.
“I have given you every warning!” he thundered.
“And I would rather die than be raped by a beast like you!” Elise retorted in torn anguish.
“Rape?”
To her amazement, Bryan Stede went dead-still, then laughed—but he did not release his hold as he pulled her hands above her hair and bonded them together with just one of his own.
“Duchess, my last intent this night is to rape you. Were I to want a woman, it would be one who was warm and winsome, not one with the cold, black heart of a thief!”
He meant his words; yes, he meant them. Never in his life had he desired to take a woman by force. Since he had been a youth, women had come to him. From peasant serving girls to high-born ladies, they had come to him. Warm, glad, and giving. Women, he had learned, often yearned for the pleasures of the bed with as much passion as men. They longed to be taught, to please, to be pleased. Gwyneth was such a one. Lovely, long-legged, and lusty. Ready to embrace him with a sultry heat and promise . . .
And Gwyneth came with lands and wealth.
It had been a long time since he had had Gwyneth. A long time since he had felt her sweet warmth and met her knowing eyes . . .
It was equally true that he might never see her again. If Richard decided to punish those who had stood fast by his father, Sir Bryan Stede could quickly forget Gwyneth and her titles and land, and turn his efforts once more to the bounty that could be earned at tournaments.
But even so, he knew, there would still be women. Warm and giving, wanting to be wanted. Never could he imagine stooping to force. There would be no pleasure in it.
Especially not when he despised the woman as he despised this one. A born beauty, yet carrying the ring he knew to be Henry’s. Pleading innocence, pleading rank, yet clearly holding the evidence . . .
No, the thought of rape had never entered his head.
Nor had he truly thought, even vaguely, of wanting her . . . until now.
And now . . .
Now he glanced at the wealth of red and gold curls tangling their length about them both. At the luminous turquoise eyes. He thought of how she had appeared before the fire, breathing heavily, full, rounded breasts heaving, her bared shoulders gleaming like alabaster. He thought of the feel of her flesh, like silk, the fine fragility of her bones, the long, wickedly lean shape of her legs.
Yes, he could want her. The pulse that grew within his groin was sure proof. He could want her with a passion that filled his limbs with fire, his blood with aching desire. She was as beautiful as a dream of Avalon. And it had been a long time since he had held any maid. With the last battles, with Henry’s pitiable death . . . it had been almost a month.
He could want her, he reminded himself with a sudden fury, but he would not. He would not want a cunning bitch who had surely been part of foul murder and theft . . .
Elise went as still as he for a moment, watching the dark emotions roil further clouds across his tense features. She bit her inner lip, scarcely daring to breathe, and praying that his words were true. Then the ignominy of her position once more assailed her, and she was infuriated anew that she had been brought so low as to be tossed about and scrutinized by a man she would love to see boiled alive.
“Get off—”
“Not quite yet, Duchess. Not quite yet.”
“No!”
She screamed, but could do nothing as he at last caught the fabric of her shift at the bodice and ripped apart its length. And thrashing beneath him for her freedom did little good. All she managed to do was bare more of her skin as the shift slipped from her writhing body.
And then, to her horror, she felt his hand moving over her.
Thoroughly.
Quickly.
His broad, calloused palm skimmed over her breasts to search beneath her arms. He shifted his weight, rolling beside her. Then his hand skimmed again with a chilling efficiency, touching her belly and hips, then sliding lower.
“No!” Elise raged once more as she felt his fingers upon the intimate and tender flesh of her inner thighs. She thrashed against his grip, bending, trying to kick again, but he checkmated each of her moves with one of his own, wedging his knee between hers to force them apart, and sliding his fingers along her thigh once more until he came to the golden triangle at the juncture.
Elise screamed with rage to no avail. She felt him touch her where she had never been touched before, and the invasion of her feminine privacy was an affront she would never forget. Just as being so entirely helpless was an indignity that would never leave her. She could not free her wrists, could not fight the strength of the muscled thigh that held her own apart, leaving his hand and eyes free to travel and invade where they would. She closed her eyes as a trembling seized her. She had never felt anything as acutely as she felt him. The weight of his sinewed leg, the dispassionate touch of his brief but determined search. So help me God in heaven! she swore silently. I will kill this man! But her vow meant little at the moment; it was nothing more than a ray of hope to sustain her.
Then, just as surely as he had held her, he left her, rising to his feet in one smooth motion. She heard him as he strode toward the corner of the room. For a moment Elise was dazed; the tremors of shock and black fury refused to leave her. She opened her eyes slowly and saw that he stood above her once more, a blanket in his hands. He tossed it upon her with a careless disdain.
“I will kill you for this myself one day,” she told him, meeting his eyes as she pulled the blanket to her chin.
He shrugged. “I would suggest, milady, that you do it soon. Thieves oft hang for far less than you have stolen. Should a court of law decide to go gently, as you are a woman, you will still be incarcerated within a strong tower.”
He turned his back upon her and returned to the fire, sitting upon the bench and warming his hands.
Elise realized that he had discarded her for the moment—as if she were garbage. Stripped her, searched her, and discarded her. If only she still had her dagger, she would gladly suffer the consequences to pierce through his skin just once and draw the blood of his black heart.
As she lay, still stunned and seething, he rose, and, as if he were alone, bent over the trunk by the left of the fire to forage through it.
Evidently, the cottage was oft and well supplied. From the trunk she saw that he drew a large drinking gourd and a leather-wrapped parcel. Still ignoring her, he sat back upon the bench and drank heartily from the gourd.
Elise chewed upon her lip, then looked from him to the door with such fierce longing that he must have sensed what was in her heart and riveted his eyes to her once more. She jumped when she heard him speak, turning to stare at him again with a scathing hatred.
“Don’t try it again, Duchess. I have decided to leave your judgment to the law, but truly, you weary me. If I have to come for you one more time, I will bind you hand and foot and gag you, too, to spare the ears the blade of your tongue.”
“You have decided to leave my judgment to the law?” Elise retorted in an angry demand, fighting tears once more. “Is that why you chose to grapple and strip . . . and search me?”
She was trying so very hard not to burst into tears, but still a huskiness caught in her throat, and the moisture glistened in her eyes, making the turquoise as stunningly brilliant as a perfectly cut stone. She was not seeking compassion, but somehow she saw that she had struck a chord within the dark knight.
“Milady,” he said gently, and without the usual mockery he held in his tone when he addressed her as “Duchess,” “this night I have seen much. I
have seen the body of a dead monarch stripped and desecrated, I have seen old and loyal friends lie in pools of their own blood, with their sightless eyes staring hard upon me. And I have seen your eyes upon me, too, filled with venom and hatred—and the acute desire to skewer me through. I have seen you cry that you are innocent, that you are the Duchess of Montoui, fresh from prayers for the dead. Yet while you cried your outrage and innocence, the evidence of your lie fell to the floor at your feet, concealed upon your person. Yes, therefore I stripped and searched you. But I have done you no harm. It was, perhaps, a kindness. Or would you have rather found yourself before a quickly formed jury of peers, then stripped and searched? You speak of dishonor, milady. At least here we are alone. Whatever decision is reached upon for your future when we return to the castle of Chinon, you will know that you will not be inspected so again—before a multitude of others.”
Elise felt her teeth begin to chatter. After all this, could there possibly be more to befall her? No, she would welcome the thought of Chinon. There would be those there who knew that she had been Henry’s friend . . .
But would they care? Would they all believe that she might have robbed the king, especially when this man could produce evidence? Evidence that they had all seen upon the king when they had cleansed and dressed his body and readied it for burial.
She lowered her head. She had to escape. Once she was free from this man and back at Montoui, there was nothing that anyone could prove against her. Her own forces were five hundred strong; and should Bryan Stede persist in his pursuit, it would be only his word against her own. And she would plead her case straight to Eleanor of Aquitaine, and Eleanor would understand.
And Elise could at last find revenge against this man . . .
It was a beautiful dream, one that salved the rage of humiliation that still burned within her.
But it was only a dream. Unless she could get away from him.
There was the horrible possibility that she would be judged guilty by the nobles at Chinon and find herself suffering some terrible punishment before anyone could step in to save her.
Blue Heaven, Black Night Page 7