Chapter Twelve
Tye strode past the mercenaries guarding Claire’s chamber. Smoke wisped from the wall torches and filled the passageway with murky shadows; the acrid haze stung his eyes, but he welcomed the discomfort, for his whole body was wound tight with pent up tension…and unfulfilled desire.
Moments ago, he’d kissed Claire because he’d wanted to—and just because he could. He knew how to pleasure a woman with his lips and tongue, how to bring her to such an exquisite state of lustful craving, she’d whimper, moan, gasp, and plead for him not to stop. When haughty little Claire had pretended to be indifferent to him, had insisted they’d never kiss, had claimed to have already experienced the perfect kiss, his masculine pride had roared within him like a beast answering a challenger’s cry.
At first, he’d kissed her as a sheltered, highborn lady like Claire would expect of a suitor: with reserve and gentleness. He’d witnessed such kisses in the past, on the few occasions he’d visited noble courts, usually as a guest of his mother and her lover at the time. A small, foolish part of Tye had wanted to show Claire that while he wasn’t her equal, and never would be, he understood her expectations and what it meant to be chivalrous.
When she’d said his kiss wasn’t comparable to her perfect one, though… That had obliterated his desire to be gallant. The familiar driving need to vanquish, to excel, had risen within him, and he’d drawn upon his years of skill to give her a kiss she’d never forget.
He’d kissed her the way he’d seduce a courtesan or an experienced widow who knew the sensual games played out between men and women in the bedchamber—and Claire had bloomed in his embrace. She’d answered his sensual assault with an astounding passion he’d never expected.
Even now, he still felt her lithe body arching against him, her soft hair brushing his wrist, her eager sighs against his mouth. He’d aimed to remain in control, to kiss her until she yielded, eyes glazed, to whatever pleasure he offered next. Yet, when she’d kissed him back, his manhood had hardened with a hunger stronger and more urgent than any he’d experienced in a long time.
He was still rock hard. Bloody hell.
Halting in front of the doors to the solar, Tye dragged his fingers through his hair. What was wrong with him? A maiden’s kiss shouldn’t have aroused him this much.
He shoved open one of the solar doors. A few moments alone would help him regain control of his groin and clear his mind—
His mother, kneeling in front of a square of cloth laid out on the planks, looked up at him. “Tye.”
“What are you doing in here?” He slammed the door behind him, with enough force to warn her he wasn’t in the mood for verbal sparring.
Her fingers tightened on the cloth bag she held. “What is the matter with you?”
“Naught that concerns you.” He strode past her to the trestle table, where a servant had left a jug of red wine. He poured himself a goblet full and downed a large mouthful.
His mother’s gaze hadn’t left him. Her assessing stare traveled over him, and he glared at her, while glad that his tunic concealed the most pressing reason for his foul temper. His mother thrived on sexual gratification, but in no way was he talking sex with her right now, especially when he was so damned starved for it.
“You look like a tomcat that got his paw stuck in a door,” she said with a sultry laugh.
Tye downed more wine, letting the piquant liquid swirl in his mouth before swallowing. “If you say so.”
“I do.” Her laughter grated on his frayed nerves. “Order one of the maidservants to pleasure you. There are plenty about. They cannot deny you. Spend your lust and you will feel much better.”
Was that supposed to be good, motherly advice? Tye forced the wine down before he would choke on it. “There are more urgent matters right now.”
“More important than you enjoying your rights as lord of this castle? More important than establishing your authority here? I do not think so.”
With a thud, he set down his goblet. Hands on his hips, he glowered at her, still down on her knees on the planks. “You never did tell me what you are doing in my chamber. On the floor.”
Her ruby red lips curved into a smile of disdain. “Do not worry. I have not forgotten that the solar is yours. Once I am finished here, I will join Braden in the tower room we are using.”
Tye gestured to the bag she was shifting in her fingers; the contents rattled. “I am guessing, then, that you are here because of what is in that bag?”
She nodded. “I wanted to test my new rune stones.”
“Rune stones?”
“For fortune telling. I bought them a few sennights ago, to help me see how the future was going to unfold. Specifically, your future.”
Tye fought an impatient sigh. “Mother—”
“I needed some way to find the answers. My set of finger bones would have worked, but as you know, those were stolen from me at Waddesford Keep.”
He remembered those finger bones. Ghastly things. They’d been cut from the hands of French prisoners and given to his mother as a gift from a smitten suitor. She’d cured the bones, kept them in a bag among her most prized possessions, and claimed that casting them had given her insight into the days ahead. The bones hadn’t helped them triumph at Waddesford Keep and, truth be told, he’d been relieved when they’d disappeared. Now she was placing her faith in rune stones?
“Actions, not foolish stones, are going to see us win in the days ahead.”
She lifted one perfectly shaped eyebrow. Stones spilled onto the swatch of cloth. “I believe there is great power in this chamber. Your father was born in this room.”
Tye shrugged and drank more wine.
Annoyance tightened the set of her shoulders. “You do not care? ’Tis even more fitting that you will slay your sire at this keep. The circle of destiny will be complete.”
His mother sounded so certain, if not a bit addled in the head. As Tye raised the vessel to his lips again, his gaze shifted to the items on the cloth. “What in hellfire—?”
Studying the blanket, his mother’s right hand hovered, as though she assessed the pattern of strewn objects before her.
“Are those teeth?” Tye stepped closer, leaned down, and picked up one of the small bits of white bone, unable to tamp down a jolt of revulsion. The one in his hand was a back tooth, with a blackened patch of old, dried blood underneath. “Judging by the size, this belonged to a child.” His stomach rebelled. “I hope you did not cut this out of the gums of some poor little French boy.”
“Of course not,” his parent said. “They are your infant teeth.”
“Mine?” Tye laughed, the sound empty of any humor. Before he could caution the words, he demanded, “Did they fall out on their own, or did you wrest them from my mouth?” Surely he would have remembered that kind of pain, but then again, his mother was devious. She could have accomplished that particular goal in numerous ways if she’d wanted: drugging herbs, a swift blow to the head…
“You have to ask?” Shock widened her eyes. She blinked, as though fighting a rush of tears. “I would never hurt you like that.”
Tye steeled himself against a tug of remorse. His mother was a damned good actress; he almost believed her. Yet, in his heart, he knew she would hurt him if it served her purpose. ’Twas a foul thing to acknowledge about one’s parent, but he’d witnessed the depths of her cruelty many times over the years. Still, he perceived no guile when it came to the teeth. “Why bother to keep my teeth?”
“I did not save them all, only a few. I thought they might come in useful. Indeed, they have.”
“Useful,” Tye echoed. “In what way?”
“They help guide the stones.” Her expression turned intense and focused as she leaned closer to the blanket. A thoughtful sigh parted her lips.
Another object that had tumbled closer to the blanket’s edge caught his attention: a chunk of amber, containing a bee, locked forever in its resin prison. A glimmer of memory scratched th
e back of his mind. He picked up the amber, entranced by both the beauty and the grimness of the memento. “This was mine, too.”
“Mmm,” his mother murmured.
“Someone gave it to me,” Tye said. “I cannot remember who.”
“Nor I,” his mother said briskly. “Not that it matters.”
Turning the smooth object in his palm, he asked, “Why do you have this amber? Did I tire of it and no longer want it? Or—”
“I took it away. You were too attached to it. You were distracted, when you needed to concentrate on other matters.”
His fingers closed around the amber, the resin cool against the roughness of his palm that bore permanent calluses from wielding weapons. Anger crawled along the edges of his nerves. By her own admission, she’d taken away yet another possession that had been important to him, because she’d wanted to control his focus. What else had his mother kept from him that he might never know had happened or existed, because he’d been too young to remember?
His mother pushed back on her knees with a grunt and the pop of joints. “Do not think too long about that silly amber. ’Tis not important.”
“You are right. Still, I will keep it.”
“Why?” Mockery tainted her features. “’Tis a trinket. ’Tis of no use to a lord.”
“I like it. ’Tis reason enough for me to keep it.” Rising, he turned and set the amber atop the journal and letters he’d taken from Claire.
His mother cursed under her breath. Stones clattered. He glanced back to see her raking her fingers across the cloth, gathering up the items to put them away.
“Did you find out what you wanted to know?” he asked.
“The stones were unclear. I found it hard to concentrate. Next time, the path will be clearer.”
“If you say so.”
“I do.” She folded the cloth, tucked it into the bag, and then drew the bag closed. When she pushed up from the floor, he took her arm and helped her to her feet. “Now.” She patted his arm. “Go find yourself a wench. Several, if you wish. The bed is big enough.”
He grinned, but didn’t answer as she strolled out of the chamber. As the door shut behind her, he sighed. He hungered for only one woman, and she was not going to willingly lie with him any time soon.
The memory of Claire standing in her chamber, eyes sparking with both desire and fury, roused a fresh stirring of lust within him. He could go to her now, toss her down on her bed, and slake the heat in his loins. She couldn’t stop him. She might hate him for the way he made her yearn for his touch, but he could bring her pleasure.
Did he dare?
Was he a fool not to dare?
He downed the last of his wine and strode for the door.
Chapter Thirteen
Claire woke with a start. Her sluggish mind acknowledged her chamber was still as black as ink, as it had been when she’d blown out her candle to go to sleep. That meant ’twas still night. As her senses sharpened, she realized someone was standing beside the bed, holding a burning taper.
Tye.
Her eyes flew wide. Lying on her back under a mound of blankets to keep out the nighttime chill, she stared up at him, his face cast in pale gold and murky shadow by the flickering candle. The light, although weak, revealed he was still dressed in the garments he’d worn earlier.
What did he want?
“Do not scream,” Tye said quietly. “Agreed?”
She pushed up to sitting, hugging the blankets to her bosom. Her mind raced with explanations of why he was in her chamber. Every new reason was more unsettling than the last.
Was she wise not to scream? Even if she did, Tye might have told his men not to heed cries coming from her room.
Just because he wanted her to remain quiet, though, didn’t mean he intended her any harm.
Praying she wasn’t being completely foolish, Claire nodded.
Stepping away from the bed, he gestured to the chamber door. “Come.”
She was to leave with him. Was he taking her to another part of the keep, away from his men?
“Now?” she asked.
“Now.”
“’Tis the middle of the night.”
“Aye.”
“I am not dressed.”
His mouth flattened, and in that subtle shifting of his expression, she saw the weariness in his features. “Wrap yourself in a blanket. You will understand why soon enough.”
Her fingers pressed deeper into the warm bedding. She didn’t want to go with him. Kissing him that afternoon had proven that when it came to him, she had few defenses. If he kissed her again with the possessive hunger and devastating finesse he’d used before, he might shatter all the defenses she had left.
“Disobey me,” Tye warned, “and Lady Brackendale will suffer.”
He sounded so frightening, she didn’t dare to disobey. She pulled back the covers.
Tye’s gaze dropped to her breasts, her nipples round beads beneath the linen. She blushed, even as heat smoldered in his eyes. A muscle ticked in his jaw before he turned his back to her.
“Come now.”
“I…should put on a gown.”
Halfway to the door, Tye shook his head. “A blanket will do.”
“But—”
“Now,” he snarled.
At the same moment, a woman’s shrill cry carried in through the open doorway. The sound set Claire’s teeth chattering, for ’twas Lady Brackendale’s voice.
Claire scrambled out of the bed and pulled a blanket from among the bed linens. The thin, scratchy cloth wrapped easily around her body. She shivered, for the floorboards felt like sheets of ice beneath her bare feet.
“What has happened?” she asked. “Is her ladyship all right?”
Without answering, Tye strode out. She followed, almost bumping into one of the guards outside. The lout scowled at her, and she hurried on after Tye.
He halted at Lady Brackendale’s chamber and knocked three times. The door opened, revealing a mercenary whose grim expression was rendered even more frightening by a scar disfiguring his top and bottom lips.
“Lady Sevalliere is here to help,” Tye said.
The mercenary stepped aside, allowing Claire into the room. Candles burned on the nearest table, casting a hazy glow. Lady Brackendale sat on the edge of the narrow bed, a blanket draped around her shoulders, staring at the fire opposite. Her hands were clasped in her lap, her posture rigid with defiance. Yet, her focus seemed to be somewhere other than the present.
“Did she have a nightmare?” Claire asked quietly. Lady Brackendale had suffered from them since her husband’s death. The day’s events had been enough to give any occupant of the castle night terrors.
“The second time she disturbed me with her screams,” Tye said from the doorway, “I vowed I would either shut her up or kill her. Her lady-in-waiting was no help; she broke down in tears, so I sent her away. That is why you are here.”
Claire nodded, even as she felt his gaze upon her back. With the blanket draped around her, little of her body was exposed to his view, apart from her bare lower legs and feet, but her stomach still fluttered wildly, as if she stood before him naked. How shocking, and mortifying, and yet, of all shameful sensations, how incredibly thrilling, to think that a rogue like him would stare at her in that way.
Beware of the danger he poses to you and all you hold dear. Think not of yourself, Claire, but of helping Lady Brackendale.
Curling her hands tighter into the blanket, Claire forced calmness into her expression and glanced back at Tye. “Her ladyship will not bother you again.”
“Be sure she does not.” He spun on his heel and walked away. The mercenary followed and once outside, shut the door, leaving Claire alone with her ladyship.
“Lady Brackendale,” Claire said gently, crossing to the bed. She sat and took hold of her ladyship’s wrinkled hands. The older woman drew in a ragged breath, but did not stir from staring blankly at the fire.
“Lady Brackendale,” Clai
re said again, running her hand down the woman’s loosened hair trailing down the blanket. “Are you all right?”
The older woman blinked and then met Claire’s gaze. Recognition softened her ladyship’s features.
“Claire,” she whispered.
“Did you have a nasty dream?”
The older woman nodded and then looked at the chamber door. A violent shudder ran through her. “As I woke, a mercenary came storming into the room, shouting at me. He warned me not to scream again. He threatened…” She shuddered again. “Never mind. He did not hurt me, and you are here now. ’Tis a great comfort.”
“I will not leave you,” Claire promised, gently pressing her ladyship’s hands. “I will stay with you until dawn.”
“Thank you.” The older woman shook her head. “Having you here… ’Tis a kindness I did not expect of our captors.”
“Nor I,” Claire admitted. Yet, before she could ponder the puzzling kindness further, her ladyship drew her hands free and reached up to catch the blanket slipping from her frail shoulder. Ugly bruises marred Lady Brackendale’s forearm.
“Mercy!” Claire gasped. “Did you get those bruises when you were taken from the hall?”
“Aye.” Easing her age-spotted fingers under the blanket, her ladyship pulled down the neckline of her nightgown to reveal another purplish-red bruise near her collarbone. The injury would not be visible when her ladyship was dressed, but every movement, every brush of cloth against that tender skin, would cause her pain.
Angry tears burned Claire’s eyes. “How horrible! Who—?”
“Veronique,” Lady Brackendale said. “She wanted to hurt me, and she did, using the hilt of her knife. I am surprised she did not break any bones.”
“I am sorry,” Claire said. “The way she hurt you… ’Tis unforgiveable.”
The older woman smiled wanly. “I am still alive.”
“Did she hit you anywhere else?”
“Nay.” Lady Brackendale’s expression sobered. “And you? Are you all right? After that rogue summoned you to the dais, I feared you might suffer grave punishment.”
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