He was but two steps within the chamber, and already it was filled with the power of his presence—fiercely vital, dynamic, and bold. The very air around them seemed charged and alive, like a sizzling bolt of energy. All this and more she felt ... and bitterly hated him for it.
Shana swung her feet from the mattress but remained where she was, venting on him her anger. "What do you want?" she demanded.
He smiled politely. "After your solitary day, I thought you might be in need of some company."
"Not yours, milord!"
Thorne checked the urge to snatch her to him and shake her senseless. He'd thought by now she might be more resigned to her situation—clearly she was not.
"I presume you are hungry, princess. Actually, I thought I'd invite you below to share dinner with the others."
Her smile was as false as his. "An invitation, milord? Surely I need not remind you I am hardily a guest here."
His tongue was ever glib, ever smooth. "Oh, but you are, milady. An unwilling guest, mayhap, but a guest nonetheless."
"Guest or not," she said sweetly, "I fear I must decline. I have no fitting gown to wear, you see. Your choice of wardrobe, milord, was meager indeed." She flicked a hand toward her gowns, which still lay on the end of the bed. "Those will not do."
Thorne's smile turned icy. Her behavior was wearily predictable. The lady, it seemed, was never agreeable. She would argue about night and day, light and dark. She was, he decided, naught but a disdainful, spoiled child turned vain and selfish woman.
"I regret that our hasty departure precluded seeing to your trunks, princess. I will see that the matter is remedied. In the meantime, I suggest you make do with what you have—that which you consider meager would be a veritable blessing to another less fortunate." He straightened. "I will return in ten minutes. Were I you, I would be ready."
He was angry, and furiously so. She saw it in the way his expression rained fire on her, and heard it in the way the portal slammed shut with a bang. All at once, feeling chastened and suddenly very small because she had behaved so pettily, she decided it best to do as he said. She changed into a gown of dark velvet trimmed with gold about the sleeves and with a rounded neckline. She had just finished replaiting her hair when the door swung open once again.
The earl stood there. His eyes, distantly assessing, swept the length of her. But all he said was, "The others await, princess. I suggest we delay no longer."
Shana bit her lip and stepped gingerly forward. "Oh, I doubt they are eager to see me. Methinks I'll likely be stoned," she muttered, not entirely in jest.
She had not meant him to hear, but he did. "Why, show them your charm, princess, the sweet side of your nature."
Though she said nothing, the delicate line of her
lips tightened ever so slightly. "What!" Thorne exclaimed. "You have none?"
Somehow she bit back the retort that sprang to her lips, while he merely laughed.
"Milady, never let it be said that I spoke ill of you."
Shana clamped her mouth shut and preceded him down the narrow stone stairwell. He clearly delighted in baiting her, but she resolved not to let him goad her.
He was right, though, when he said the others awaited them. She quickly spied the high table, where Sir Geoffrey and half a dozen others sat. They were engaged in lively conversation, but no sooner did she and the earl set foot in the hall than their voices dwindled, until an odd hush prevailed. One by one their attention swung to the couple in the doorway. Color rose high and bright to Shana's cheeks; with no covering for her hair, she felt curiously exposed. But what was far worse was the knowledge that each and every one of those present knew in whose bed she'd spent the night.
A hand splayed wide at her back, the earl gently nudged her forward. Though it was totally illogical, she was glad of his presence at her side; it lent both courage and a curious protectiveness, a protectiveness she did not shun. But she was left feeling wholly bereft when he seated her next to Sir Quentin, then strode to the head of the table. At a signal from him, a procession of servants began to stream in from the kitchens. The talk renewed little by little. Also little by little she ascertained that the glances sent her way were not hostile and sullen as she'd expected, but guardedly watchful.
The meal progressed. She partook lightly of the dishes she accepted, keeping to herself and paying scant heed to the hum of voices in the air. It gave her a start when she chanced to look down the table and discovered Lord Newbury's attention full upon her. He was regarding her with a leering expectancy.
She was soon to discover why. "Lady Shana, 'twould seem to me that you might make our plight far less trying were you to name our foe the Dragon."
Up until now, the earl had ignored her. Now, she realized, he surveyed her keenly. A tingling awareness swept through her, knowing he watched her.
She raised her head and glanced back at Newbury. " 'Tis my understanding," she stated calmly, "that no one knows his identity—save the Dragon himself."
"But you're Welsh, milady, just as the Dragon is!"
Shana laid down her fork and faced him fully. "You clearly think otherwise, Lord Newbury, but I assure you my knowledge of the Dragon does not exceed yours."
"But you are Llywelyn's niece no less! Surely you're privy to information the common people are not!"
She bristled, unable to hide her scorn. "My father and I lived a rather sheltered existence at Mervven ! have not seen my uncle Llywelyn for years. But even if I did possess some knowledge of the Dragon—and were I to tell you—would you truly be so foolish as to believe me?"
Newbury did not answer, at least not directly. He whispered something to his companion; they both laughed bawdily.
Sir Quentin, who was seated on her right, leaned close. "Pay him no heed, milady. Newbury's opinion of himself swells loftier than Langley's outer walls, but he is naught but a bag of wind most times—and a disagreeable one at that."
His interruption was a welcome one, his attention not so unwelcome, for his expression was sympathetic but not pitying. "You are most kind. Sir Quentin," she murmured.
'Twas solely because of him that the remainder of the meal proved less an ordeal. His manner was genteel and pleasant, with none of the harsh coldness present in both the earl and Newbury. He was quick-witted and quietly engaging, so that by the time the page removed their trenchers, she was disposed to smile at something he had said. The earl had moved to a place further down the table to speak with a man there. A chance glance at him and her smile was swiftly quelled. It was unsettling to find she claimed his unwavering regard, and if the cool chill in his eyes were aught to go by, he was clearly less than pleased.
Though she was annoyed that she allowed him to discomfit her so, she could not help it. Her gaze cut sharply away. Uneasiness compelled her to reach for her wine goblet, only to find it gone.
Sir Quentin jumped to his feet. "The page must have taken your wine along with your trencher. Here, I will fetch another."
She shook her head. "There is no need, truly—
He was not to be dissuaded; indeed, he was already on his way across the hall. She tracked his progress until he disappeared behind several knights, willing herself not to look again at the earl, that he might yet watch her. Yet in the end, she could not help but succumb ... he was not there.
"Sir Quentin appears most entranced with you, milady."
The sound of his voice at her ear nearly sent her bolting from her chair. To her shock his hands slid beneath her elbows; she was bodily lifted from her chair. Sanity returned once she was on her feet. She tried to wrench away but his grip tightened to a point just short of pain. Shana fumed when he began to lead her from the table.
They halted in the shadows, beneath a towering buttressed arch. He turned to her, a dark brow arched in that imperious, arrogant manner she so thoroughly detested. "What would your betrothed say, princess, were he to see you dallying with another man?" The question was easy, almost whimsical, as his glance tra
veled meaningfully from her to Sir Quentin and back again.
Shana bristled. "Dally is your choice of words, my lord, not mine."
White teeth flashed in that dark face. "What would you call it then, princess?"
"I was but being civil, my lord earl—a trait of which I am sure you know little! And Barris is well aware of my feelings for him—nay, my love for him!"
"Ah. So 'tis a love match then."
"Aye!" she affirmed coolly.
"I will not argue your alliance with your betrothed," he said smoothly. "But you are under my protection, milady. I might remind you of that."
He had yet to release his grip on her arm. Shackled though she was, her tongue was not so impeded. ''Your protection, milord?" Her voice was sweet as honey, but her eyes were snapping. "I was under the impression I was your prisoner. Who, I wonder, will protect me from you?"
Who indeed? Thorne echoed caustically. In truth, he'd have taken the greatest of pleasure in renouncing her as the ugliest hag alive. She wore no adornments, not even a veil. Her gown fell in smothering folds about her body—it was neither elegant nor rich, the forest green color unremarkable. Her profile was cold as marble, the soft line of her lips pinched tight in disapproval. She was fetching, indeed, he realized, but not the most beauteous creature he'd ever seen. She certainly was not the most sweet-tempered!
But there was something nonetheless, something that made him want to snatch her against him and taste anew the velvet softness of impudent lips, the lithe firmness of her frame, pliant and yielding against the strength of his. Perhaps it was that regal pride of hers, the fiery spirit beneath the surface; it beckoned a man, made him long to tame it.
He offered a scathing smile. "Oh, you need not worry on that score. You see, princess, I dislike soiled goods."
He had shamed her. A perverse pleasure shot through him as crimson flooded her face, until her cheeks were the color of flame. The next instant she straightened her spine, the light of battle in her eyes. But he had no chance to pursue this engagement of words and wit any further, for at that moment a tremendous commotion was heard from across the hall.
"He will see me, by God!" a man shouted. "Or he'll rue the day he chose not to rob me of my life!"
Shana gasped. She knew that voice! Even as the realization poured through her, someone shoved through the battery of men that flanked the entrance. Shana gasped, convinced both eyes and ears played the cruelest of tricks on her ...
For the tall, shaggy-haired figure now striding toward them was none other than Sir Gryffen.
Chapter 8
The earl had lied. For a timeless moment, that single thought remained etched in her mind. Even as joy and relief burst through her, a ready anger ignited. She whirled on him. "You bastard!" she choked out, in fury and pain. "You let me believe you murdered him, when all the while you knew he lived!" With clenched fists she leapt forward, pounding and clawing with all the fire born within her.
Her fists did no more than wring a grunt from him. Hard arms encircled her and she was lifted from her feet. He thrust her at Geoffrey, who was quick to present himself at his friend's side.
"Here!" Thorne thrust her roughly at his friend. "Take her to the tower while I attend matters here!"
Screaming her ire, Shana was rudely—crudely—carried away amidst whispers and stares. Sir Gryffen tracked her progress with anxious eyes, but made no move to follow. At a signal from Thorne, the hall began to empty.
"Your lady has been neither beaten nor starved," he said sharply. "Were I you, old man, I'd be more concerned with an explanation for your presence here!"
Though Gryffen's spine was rigid, he spoke with quiet dignity. "Methinks you need no explanation, milord. I swore an oath to Lord Kendal that I would protect Lady Shana with my very life ... and so I shall."
Thorne gave a harsh laugh. "What! And so you go where your lady goes, eh?"
Sir Gryffen showed no signs of backing down before the fierceness of the other man's glare. "Aye, milord. I surrender myself to you that I might be with my lady." So saying, he withdrew his sword from his scabbard and laid it at the younger man's feet.
Thorne paid scant heed to the weapon that lay between them. He glowered at Sir Gryffen, less than pleased by the old man's appearance. "What possessed you to seek out your lady here at Langley?" he demanded.
"We knew you had escaped, milord, just as we knew you had taken our lady with you. 'Twas obvious you would return here."
"Did not her horse return to Merwen? Did no one search for her and find her cloak by the river?"
"Aye, milord. Her mount returned and those who discovered her cloak crossed themselves and prayed for her soul, even as they cursed you to hell and back for taking the life of our beloved lady."
"So you did not come for your lady after all— you did not realize she was here! You came to seek vengeance in her name!" Thorne started to chuckle his satisfaction.
Gryffen shook his head. "Nay, milord," he stated evenly. "I came because I knew you would bring Lady Shana here."
Thorne s smile vanished. "How? How could you know this when you believed her dead?"
"Not for long, milord." Gryffen was utterly patient. "While the others mourned, I searched for her body—"
"I might have weighted it with stone!"
One shaggy brow arose. "Would you, milord? Would you have taken the time when you knew not how soon your escape would be discovered? And why then would you have been so careless with her cloak if you wished to hide her death?"
Thorne scowled. "You knew it was a trick!"
"Not for certain," Gryffen admitted. "Leastwise, not until I saw her—" no sign of a smile smoothed the lines about his mouth, but for an instant the light of amusement shone in his eyes, "saw and heard that voice I know as well as my own." The light faded as he tapped his temple. "You spared me, milord, when you might easily have slain me. And—praise God—you have spared Lady Shana."
Thorne scowled, for the man's conviction was galling. He was furious and disgusted, both with the old man and himself. He'd thought himself so clever, yet this old man had seen through him like a gossamer mist!
He set his hands on his hips. "So you think me merciful, eh? Your lady thinks me a butcher who slaughtered her people," he challenged. "Tell me, old man. Do you share her opinion?"
For the first time Gryffen appeared uncomfortable. "I pray I do not make the mistake of misjudging you, milord," he said slowly. "You may be cruel, but are you needlessly cruel? I think not—I pray you are not. And from your own lips, I heard you declare that the sacking of Merwen was not of your doing. And so it seems I have no choice but to accept your word in this."
Thorne's lip curled. "Why should you? You know nothing of me. And your lady thinks I am guilty."
"I have lived far more years than either of you," Gryffen stated quietly. "And I have learned to trust here, my lord, as milady has not." He laid his palm over his heart. With a slight shake of his head, he added, "But mayhap 'tis not so much a matter of believing you innocent, as believing you are a man who would not hesitate to claim such a deed—no matter how dastardly—as his own."
Such uncontested belief made Thorne both suspicious and uneasy. Was this naught but a ploy by the man to gain his trust?
He stabbed a finger at the old man. "Then know this, old man. Your lady is my prisoner, as are you. I have not mistreated her as yet, but T would remind you she has scarce been here a day! As for you, some time in the dungeon will do you no harm. Mayhap, if I am feeling lenient, I shall free you a few days hence."
Gryffen lowered his eyes. "When you do, I ask only that you permit me to watch over Lady Shana, even if it be from afar. I will cause no trouble, milord, this I promise."
"See that you keep it," Thorne snapped. "For I can make promises, too, old man, and I promise your lady will pay the price should you prove treacherous!" He snatched up Gryffen's sword, strode to the door and bellowed for a guard.
Moments later he marched up the tower st
airs, his mood as sour as rancid wine. To think that the old knight had followed his lady here, like a hound trailing along at the heels of his master! Thorne could not understand such devotion to the lady in question; he balked at the obvious reason—surely neither loyalty nor love had played a part in it. More likely the old man had felt honor bound to her father, and thus bound to keep his vow.
It was with no little amount of trepidation that he entered his chamber. He half expected some deadly missile to fly at him from the shadows, but she merely fixed stormy gray eyes at him from her post near the window. Unfortunately, she wasted no time loosing that vile tongue of hers.
"I am curious, milord. Does the priest still live? Or did you lie when you claimed you murdered him, too?"
He offered a wicked half smile. "Milady," he said lightly, "Your memory fails you, for never did I claim to have murdered the priest—'twas you who assumed that I did. And as for Sir Gryffen, I merely told you I left him beside the priest. Never did I say I killed either of them."
Shana fought to control her spiraling temper. She was immensely relieved that neither man was dead, but far surpassing her relief was her resentment over the agony he'd let her suffer.
She turned to face him fully. "Where is he now?"
His smile was wiped clean. "In a place where I can be sure he poses no threat. I am not so foolish as to set him free to lead your people back here!"
"Such a brave knight that you fear an old man." Shana hurled the taunt unthinkingly.
His tone lent the sharpness of a blade. "No man is harmless, princess—save a dead one."
All color bled from her face. She watched as he sat on the bed and pulled off his boots. He had spared Gryffen once; would he do so again? She wished she could be certain, but alas, the ruthless cast of his profile lent her no ease. He was, she realized, not a man to toy with.
She clenched her hand hard to keep it from trembling. "Gryffen has done you no harm," she said very low. "Indeed, milord, if anyone has wronged you, 'tis I."
There was a burst of harsh laughter. "On that, you are right, princess!" It faded when he raised his head and spied the worried fear in her eyes. "Sweet Mother Mary!" he growled. "He is in the dungeon, princess, not dead!" He watched the fear in her gaze turn mutinous. "What! Will you not appeal to my mercy? Oh, but I forget. According to you, I have none."
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