by Beth Mikell
“Let me go!” Tears she tried hard to hold onto, fell.
He pulled back, lifting her chin, and forced her to look at him. “Never.”
She hated showing him any weakness. His eyes blazed, fierce and wicked, and she could not look away. Goose bumps pricked her flesh, her attraction to him deepening. She never would have found him handsome before, but everything around her faded.
The strong lines of his face plunged her into pleasure, from his prominent nose to his succulent lips. Brenna ached to run her fingers over his beard and draw his lips close. She wanted to taste the squeezing arousal pitting against her belly, and her mouth watered with anticipation. In some way, he had fused himself to her beyond all repulsiveness. She was persuaded by his strength, his scent, and how he could make her feel. Brenna wanted him outside modesty and her better judgment.
She struggled, pounding against his chest with her fists. “Please, let me go,” she breathed, but he was stronger.
He chuckled, swinging up in his arms, and he strode for his horse.
“My sister…” she began, chewing her bottom lip, searching for Linnea in the muted evening light.
“Spare me your sisterly concern, my lady. She is fine, which is more than I can say for how you will fare,” he said, crossing over logs and snow-tipped terrain.
“Please, do not harm her. She is not strong enough,” Brenna pleaded with a strained voice, her defeat plunging her into desperation.
****
God, Darrius nearly softened at her supplication. He stopped, staring into her beautiful face. The graceful turn of her sad expression sent a breathless havoc singing through his veins. He ached to press his lips to hers and succumb to the swelling desire flushing his insides. She was sultry, stunning, and potent, amazing him every moment he came near her.
Clenching his jaw, he fought the heavy desire penetrating his inner defenses. “Touching, but unnecessary. If I were you, I would concentrate on your own fate, my lady. It is something that you will never forget.” Part of him regretted his words, but God’s teeth, he was so furious with her. He had not the time to chase after her and her invalid sister. They were the most troublesome females he had ever encountered. How was he supposed to complete his mission when he was always tripping over them?
****
As Gunther mounted his horse, another knight blocked Brenna from bolting. Within seconds, she was lifted into the saddle, cradled in her husband’s arms. She closed her eyes against the vision of his bearded face. She tried to block out the world around her, yet his warmth seeped into her chilled body. Shaking, Gunther pulled her closer and she did not resist.
The light faded and Brenna could not see Linnea as the horses left for Dorling. In the time it took for them to travel on foot, they reached the keep easily. The portcullis was lifted and all the riders cleared the entrance.
Gunther reined in his mount and handed her down to one of his men, and then he dismounted. Without ceremony, he took her by the hand.
Upon their entrance, servants cowered into the shadows, wisely sidestepping their lord and lady as he dragged her up the winding, dark stairwell. His face was averted, but she knew he was angry. Between the tightness in her chest and the pounding headache hammering behind her eyes, she knew her rebellious nature had crossed several lines.
What would he do?
Her trepidation only increased as he kicked the door open, yanking her ungraciously within the solar. With unhurried movements, his gaze seared her, raking her with fury. A strange heaviness hung in the air, something percolating and hungry. The warmth of the chamber nipped at Brenna’s icy skin and a hot bath steamed before the warm fire. She longed to succumb to its lush depths.
Gunther yanked off his gauntlets, bolting the door. “Get undressed and get into the bath,” he commanded, his cold eyes hooded as he took unhurried steps toward her.
Stunned, Brenna glared at him. “No, my lord.” She shrank away from him as he neared.
He smirked, stopping inches from her. “It is either the bath or suffer the consequences.”
Brenna lifted her chin in a bold challenge, huffing a breath and meeting his eyes. She folded her arms. “Nay! It is always suffer this or suffer that! You forget Lord Gunther, I was raised by a man who found only pleasure in suffering. Do your worst,” she spat nastily.
He scooped her up in his arms, dumping her into the steaming bath water. She sank into the warm depths, coming up gasping for air. “How dare you!” She pushed the soggy material of her dress out of her face.
Gunther bent down, grabbing her head between his hands. “I tire of your endless resistance, my lady,” he whispered. “You will learn to obey me.”
She blew out a rush of air, sending a spray of water into his face, while her hands frantically searched for the knife sheathed at her back. Elation smacked her as she found the handle and pulled it free. Brenna moved the knife closer to the water’s surface. “What will you do, my lord? Humiliate me? Torture me? Get it over with or leave me,” she spewed between clenched teeth.
He smiled. “Bold words, my sweet, but your temper is ineffective on me.”
“It is unfortunate you believe so.” Brenna brought the knife up and out of the water, slicing it through the air. She grazed his torso. Blood came back from the flashing blade.
Gunther jumped back in surprise. “You little witch,” he hissed, lunging forward and grabbed her wrist that held the knife. He dragged her up out of the water, and in one fluid motion, he flung the knife from her hand, and sent it spinning to the other side of the room.
Brenna fought at his hands, but he was stronger. He yanked at her gown, the sound of fabric disintegrating under his violent force. Gunther jerked the mantle off, and her gown followed. Brenna brought her arms to cover her breasts as humiliation washed over her.
His hands settled on her shoulders. “Naked and alone, my lady,” he said, shaking her slightly. “Never fight me. It is not a game you shall ever win.” He let her go. Turning away, he gathered up his mantle, gauntlets, and the knife he had flung from her grasp only moments ago. Gunther stopped at the doorway, and he looked at her over his shoulder. “It will be a cold day in hell before I let you out of this room,” he bit out, slamming the door.
Closing her eyes against the sharp sound, Brenna heard the unmistakable sound of a key turning in the lock. She was now a prisoner—courtesy of herself.
****
Entering a random chamber, Darrius slammed the door, and the force rattled through the icy room. He would be damned if he stayed with her tonight. Besides wanting to kill her for such arrogance, he wanted her. He wanted her with a dangerous desire that frightened him. His blood pounded hot in his veins at the thought of holding her, of touching her.
His control had snapped and he tore her clothing from her body like an animal. The vision of her sensual curves made his body tighten from the sweetness of her beautiful breasts to the rosy hue of her nipples. His eyes had grazed the dark triangle of curls at the apex of her thighs, and he drew a deep breath. His body shook with rigid need, his hard length demanding attention.
Perhaps he needed a willing whore tonight.
However, the thought repulsed him. He wanted the woman he chased after today. The woman who was like earthy sensuality and passionate. She smelled of spring with silky, dark hair and lips—enough!
He wanted her and no one else. There he admitted it. But at what cost? He wanted the woman who tore his anger to shreds, yet opened a new door of passion he never knew existed.
Darrius remembered the cut Brenna had inflicted and he looked down at the torn flesh. Nothing serious, he mused. She had more fight and more bravery than some knights in battle. He admired her courage. Gunther most likely would have killed her tonight and personally, he could understand why. Her constant refusal to accept some authority, code, or convention proved the hardest test of his control.
He would let her sulk for a while and wonder her fate. Alone.
However, his con
science greeted him and his mouth flattened in displeasure as the words of his king reminded him of his duty, “… marry her then. Protect her. Mind you, it will be a marriage in name only. Once this trouble with the barons has been stamped down, I will have her married to Sir Robert of Chevington. This must end, Darrius. I need loyal marcher lords, not devious mongrels who seek to overthrow me.”
The king’s words were clear and concise: he wanted Lady Brenna safely preserved for Sir Robert of Chevington. But Darrius changed everything. He defied his king and country for something he could not understand. Danger surrounded Brenna and he would be the only one who could protect her.
For the first time, the Imperial Arm wanted something beyond revenge or missions. He wanted the fire of a woman who excited him, who tormented his body beyond tolerance. A woman with sable-brown hair, green fathomless eyes, and ivory skin that smelled of lavender. He was tortured by her gracefulness, and her defiance, yet intrigued by her fierce strength and spirit even more. He wanted to be warmed by her heat, only for himself. He knew he was powerless to control the ache of possession raging through him.
Darrius wanted to be claimed by his little mourning dove.
****
Brenna stared up at the stone ceiling thinking of Linnea, and of Gunther. Numbness stole over her whole body. The inner fire that glowed at the start of this venture died out long ago, replaced by a dark depression. She was ashamed of dragging Linnea out into the freezing cold, wounded and feverish. The horror of holding her sister’s shoulders while she succumbed to sickness still haunted her. Tears trailed down her cheeks at the memory. Blame choked her and she thanked heaven Gunther had been lenient with her. He had been angry and he had stripped her, but she had attack him with a knife.
His anger had not been misplaced.
Her guilt dismissed everything, heaping pain and heartache on her shoulders, threatening to crush her. God, her senses were so raw. There was no fight left in the tunnel of her heart. No burning desires except for a man whose anger found fault with her wrong and whose lips tasted right by desire. As Brenna continued to recline on the bed, the quiet of the empty room provoked her more than a thousand angry voices. She felt her anger dying out for Gunther.
A key turned in the lock and Brenna jolted upright on the bed. Maude came in with her breakfast accompanied by one of Gunther’s knights—the one called Angus. He guarded the door with a stern look.
Brenna took a few steps forward as Maude set the tray on the table, yet turned to leave without a word. Panic set in. “Maude?”
The young handmaiden looked at her mistress. Her solemn expression reflected her unhappiness.
“Please? How is my sister?”
Maude shook her head, turning her eyes toward the large knight in the doorway.
Angus cleared his throat. “I am sorry, my lady, she may not speak with you. I will ask yer question to Lord Gunther, if that is yer wish,” he said with a thick Scots brogue.
Brenna shook her head, blinking back tears. “No, thank you,” she said, not wanting anything from her husband. Pride still had a stubborn bloom within her.
They left and same repetitive moment recurred over the course of a week. Meals delivered, but not one word regarding Linnea. Lord Gunther did not come to see her either. Brenna thought she would choke on her aloneness. Her husband’s choice of torture became worse than beatings or cruelty. There was nothing to do but worry.
She tried to embroider, but the cloth failed to hold her attention and her heart grew heavier with each passing day. Brenna spent many hours looking out the window, waiting and watching. She questioned what sort of man Gunther could possibly be. He was not what he appeared. Where was his crude, unstoppable behavior? How could a man make sunshine out of kisses, yet make her anger condense beyond seething? There was no answer save the silence of her chamber.
The seventh morning brought no refreshing change. She had spent most of the night awake and thinking of Linnea and Gunther, or asleep dreaming of powerful arms and feathery kisses.
As the chill of the room seeped into her body, she brought her hands up to rub her skin. She dressed in a dark blue gown, and the color reminded her of Gunther’s eyes. She shook her head to clear the thought. How could she entertain such a feeling for him? He had shown anger, yet shown control. He had shown violence, yet shown tenderness. He had shown greed, yet compassion. He was so different. Could she welcome this change? At least if he was only one kind of man, Brenna would know what to expect out of him, but Gunther constantly changed in personality, and his dangerous demeanor frightened her.
As the battle warred within her, Brenna only found contradictions within her husband. Maybe she should be grateful he was not acting like the violent cur from the first days after her arrival. Each thought only tormented her further, her mind falling more into confusion.
One thing Brenna knew for certain, she could not continue down the path of unhappiness, even if that meant aligning herself to Gunther. His power and control bespoke of endless strength that would outlast her. She only knew her husband would continue to keep her locked within her chamber if she insisted on defying him further.
She padded over to the window, looking out into the horizon, feeling nothing but emptiness. Hearing the lock turn in the door, she did not bother to turn around.
Chapter 7
Darrius searched for Lady Brenna and found her at the window. He hesitated a moment before bolting the door. He silently came to stand behind her. He drew close enough to smell her hair, and he longed to reach out and caress the fine silk between his hands. “Brenna.”
Slowly she faced him, lifting her chin up to look into his eyes—her eyes that haunted his dreams.
Darrius forgot to breathe. He had spent nights in torment… wanting her… needing her, yet he refused to give in to his desire. The more he pushed her away, the more he was drawn to her. Slowly, he raised his hand, caressing the delicate softness of her cheek. He wanted her as no other: man to woman. No barrier. No lies. No revenge. No mission.
Only them.
“Would it be all right if I spent this moment being warmed by you, little dove?” His hand moved to cup the back of her neck.
****
His deep, velvet voice caressed his endearment with softness, melting her pride. Brenna wanted to detest him, to shrink from him, but she was drawn to him. It was a nameless, unstoppable emotion. She needed him, and she could not fight its force, though she ached to. She enjoyed his touch, so tender and soft.
Brenna stared up at him, lured. He appeared almost too magnificent, his male, musky scent enticing her. His hair was brushed his shoulders in dark waves, his eyes stared into hers with something haunting she could not name but enjoyed. It was if tenderness tipped his gaze, a sweetness she never felt in all her life. His trimmed beard intrigued her, her palms itching to caress over his face and indulge in its texture.
She swayed closer to his body, yielding to him. She had never touched love except for her mother or sister, but this was more. She ached to know what was set before her: a desire to want, a desire to give, a desire to… love. Such a powerful feeling shocked her and Brenna shook her head in a silent plea, aching to find the answers to her misguided understanding.
However, he pulled away from her, yet Brenna caught his hand, holding it between her hands. “Nay, warrior.”
A muscle leaped in his cheek, his expression turning grim. “I will not force an action so repulsive upon you, my lady. It is not what I want or desire.” He pulled his hand from her. “Once was enough.”
Brenna drew a sharp breath. “You mean the first time...” she said, trailing off, looking away from the intensity of his eyes. She was embarrassed by his reference to their wedding night.
“Aye, the first time,” he said with a harsh growl.
She shrugged. “Perhaps that is normal, my lord, I have no idea,” she murmured, meeting his gaze again. “I can only thank you for...” She hesitated. “For sparing me a public humiliation my fa
ther demanded.”
He shook his head. “The disgrace is not yours, but mine. I know you still suffer from that, little dove. Forgive me.”
A fresh sting of tears threatened to fall, and she could not verbally respond. Who was this man that showed so little compassion for her the first moments of her life here, yet now treated her as a real man with honor. Like someone she could respect. Trust him? Loathe him? What was she to do?
He did not give her time to answer, gathering her in his arms, and she did not protest. The hard wall of his chest comforted her and made her feel safe. She sucked in a deep breath of his scent, treasuring the safeness he gave her. Somehow, she would give anything to feel this way forever.
In the whisper of a second, he tipped her chin up, brushing his lips across hers.
She shivered as he pulled her closer, and pleasure shot through her veins. A fire stirred deep in her belly. He teased her lips open, tickling her face with the brush of his beard and she moaned softly. Slowly, his tongue slipped through her lips, caressing her with a sensual flutter. A quiver rippled over her.
Brenna pulled back, gazing up at his bewitching mouth. Mesmerized. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she looked deep into his eyes. She stared at the warrior who held her so gently in his arms, a man who haunted her thoughts and her awakening desires. She wanted him. She wanted him with a desperation beyond madness or comprehension, even against her own judgment. She needed him with a force that sang through her heart.
However, her pride would not allow what her heart demanded. Fear claimed her. Brenna could not relent until she was sure of him, and sure of herself. God, her thoughts warred within her. The man held her destiny within the palms of his hands and controlled not only her life but Linnea’s. She felt alive and on fire, but she could not give over to her desires.
“No!” She jerked out of his arms. “I cannot.”
****
Darrius walked over to the fireplace and clenched his hands at his sides. He tried to stamp down a wild hunger. He could hear her uneasy breathing in the quiet of the room. “What may I do, Brenna? Why do you continue to fight me?” he whispered without a touch of anger.