Samantha James (13 page)

He almost hated her in that moment. Some dark, seething emotion seized hold of him.

“By the Cross, Saxon, I have done nothing to you that you should cower from me and weep! Have I hurt you? Abused you? Harmed you in any way?”

Alana shook her head. The muscles in her throat worked convulsively, but she could neither move nor speak.

“I have given you a far better home than your father,” he said harshly. “I have fed you far better. Given you a far warmer place to eat and sleep. I bid my own sister tend you as she would have her own son! You have come to no harm at my hand. Why then do you deny me?”

Alana curled her fingers into her palms. She had the awful sensation that were she to make but a single sound, the tears would fall and never stop.

Something snapped within him. He dragged her chin up. “Answer me, Saxon! Why do you deny me?”

“I-I do not deny you.” The breath she drew was deep and shuddering, the words torn from deep in her breast.

“Oh, but you do! Not with words or deed, but with this!” He swiped his thumb across her cheek. It came away damp with her tears.

Still she stood before him, trembling as if she were ill with fever. But there was something in her pose, a flash of hurt vulnerability. ’Twas then that the strangest notion flitted through his mind.

His fingers tightened on her chin. “How many men have you lain with, Saxon?”

Her voice was low and halting. “None but you have seen me…naked. None but you have t—touched me. I’ve lain with no man. No man…but you.”

“Ah, but you’ve not lain with m—”

Merrick stopped. His jaw locked. He stared down at her as if he sought to see to her very soul. Nay, he thought. Surely it could not be. Surely not…

“God’s wounds,” he said tautly. “Never tell me you are a maid!”

She did not. Yet neither did she deny it.

His hands descended to her shoulders. “Answer me, Saxon. Are you?” He gave her a little shake. “Are you a virgin?”

“Aye,” she said weakly. Her breath caught on a jagged half-sob. “Aye!” she said again and turned her face aside.

Sheer fury splintered through him. He dared not take her, not now, for then he would truly be the monster she believed. He was too angry, too full of resentment. Oh, not because she was a virgin. But because she cringed from him. Because her fear lay vivid in her eyes and she could not hide it. Because she looked at him as if she were utterly broken and defeated. Because she believed he was naught but a heartless beast who would use her without care. Without thought or feeling.

He released her, then snatched up his tunic from the floor. When he turned back to her, his eyes were burning.

“This changes nothing,” he said fiercely. “Nothing, do you hear? You will be mine…as Brynwald is mine.” He turned and strode from the chamber.

Alana sank down in a heap and collapsed into tears.

T
he day was endless, the night ever more so.

Alana longed for the sanctity of a place where she need never see anyone again. She had no desire to face the others. She still hadn’t forgotten how they had condemned her, both Norman and Saxon alike.

You fool no one
, whispered a voice in her mind.
’Twas him she had no desire to see again—Merrick
.

The hours passed in miserable dread, yet she yearned to reclaim them. Indeed, she had no doubt that the night would bring far worse…

Oddly, it was Genevieve who came to her rescue. She insisted that Alana come to table. But once there, she seated Alana between herself and Sybil. Merrick was already seated at the trestled table nearest the hearth. Alana braved but a single anxious glance his way. After that she dared no further, for she felt his gaze upon her like a brand of fire.

She ate and drank, she knew not what.
She spoke when prodded, though in the next breath she could have scarcely recalled what words passed from her lips. Rough male laughter rose and fell all around. Beside her, Genevieve was sweet and charming. Sybil smiled and talked and tossed her head, as if she were still indeed the lady of the manor.

Before long Genevieve excused herself. Alana was faintly troubled as she watched the woman glide smoothly across the rush-covered floor toward the bench where her brother sat, a strongly muscled leg thrust out arrogantly before him. Yet, save for the absurd notion of approaching Merrick’s table herself, Alana had no way of determining what would pass between the siblings.

Across the room, with a graceful swirl, Genevieve eased down beside her brother. She leaned close. “I thought, brother, that you were anxious to return here simply because of your new home and lands. ’Twould appear I was wrong, for I do wonder about you and the Saxon girl Alana. You look at her. She looks away.”

Genevieve did not doubt the truth of all she spoke. Since the instant Alana had entered the hall, Merrick’s eyes had scarcely left her. His gaze was for her alone. Indeed, Genevieve decided with satisfaction, she strongly suspected Merrick had taken no other maid to his bed from the day he’d captured Brynwald.

Now he smiled at her thinly. “I would remind you I am hardly the first man to take a peasant to his bed.”

Genevieve studied him. Regardless of the circumstances of Alana’s birth, she was not just another lowly peasant—not in Merrick’s eyes, and not in her own. Perchance Merrick was not yet fully aware of it, but in time he would be. Oh, yes, in time…

“Ah,” she said smoothly. “But you have not taken her to your bed, have you, brother?”

Merrick nearly choked on a mouthful of ale. Smothering a curse, he lowered his horn and bestowed on her a blistering glance.

“You meddle where you should not, Genevieve.”

She laughed. “Never, brother.”

“Always, sister.”

She laid her fingertips on his sleeve. “A word of advice, brother. Do not frighten her.”

His glare burned hotter. “Frighten her! Why, I have shown the wench every care! And the same can hardly be said of her!”

Genevieve’s eyes darkened. “Merrick, please. I do not speak in jest. If Alana is a maid then you must have a care—”

“I do know how ’tis done, sister! And long before you, I vow.”

At this Genevieve flushed. She’d heard tales of his lusty pursuits throughout the years. “That I don’t doubt.” She paused, then said slowly, “Nonetheless, I pray that you will listen and heed me. For if she fears the first time, and it meets her dreaded expectations, she will fear
every
time.”

He made no effort to shield the bite in his
tone. “I’ve had no complaints, Genevieve.”

Her gaze was anxious. “But no doubt you’ve taken no maids to your bed. You must be gentle. You must be tender.”

He scowled. “You trespass where you dare not, Genevieve! Tend to your business and I will tend to mine.”

Genevieve’s eyes were snapping but her tone was sweet. If he would be so blunt, then so would she! “’Tis not for my sake or even yours that I offer advice, Merrick. ’Tis for Alana, for she deserves better than to be tumbled like a common wench who will spread her legs for any and all.”

From across the room, Alana gazed at the pair. Sybil had gone off with Raoul several minutes earlier. Now, Merrick drew her gaze though she willed it not, though she wanted it not! Her heart trembled as she thought of all that had passed between them; of all that was yet to come, for she was achingly aware there would be no salvation from this night. Little wonder that she was nervous. Uneasy. Sweet heaven, she was terrified!

She didn’t want him to touch her, to command her. Yet she knew he would do both, for it was just as he’d once said. He was her lord and conqueror.

And she was his…His to command. His to possess.

Yet all within her was in turmoil. As much as she despised his control, she could not deny that never had he accused her of being a witch.
Nor had he condemned her. Nay, he had not scorned her, not for being different. For defying him, yes, but not for being different. Her heart twisted. If only he hadn’t been so angry when he’d left her! The very air had seemed to thunder and pulse with his rage.

And now, again he stared at her in that piercing way he had, his jaw hewn in stone. It was as if he stripped her down to her very bones, down to her heart and soul.

There was a gentle touch on her shoulder. She glanced up, startled, as Genevieve sat down beside her.

The other woman tipped her head to the side. “Do you never smile, Alana?”

Alana could not help it. Her gaze veered straight to Merrick. Their eyes clashed endlessly, hers dark and uncertain, his steady and dauntless.

Genevieve touched her hand. “He is truly not an ogre, you know.”

Alana thought of his hands, so lean and strong. The thought progressed further. She envisioned that hand on her body, ruthlessly thrusting her thighs apart that he might have his way…

She plucked at a fold in her skirt. “Methinks you see a different side of him than I have seen.” Her tone was very low.

Genevieve smiled slightly. “’Tis true he has little patience for those who cross him. ’Tis a trait common among men, I fear.”

Alana bit her lip. “He claims I try him as no other.”

Genevieve laughed, a genuine sound of merriment. “He says the very same to me, for I am very forthright. And many times Merrick dislikes it heartily.” She paused. “He is not a cruel man, Alana. In battle a knight does what he must to save his life and the lives of his men. But Merrick is a man who tempers his strength. He would never crush those weaker than he.”

Alana’s reply was swift and unrepenting. “He crushed my father. He crushed those who opposed him here at Brynwald.”

Genevieve’s smile faded. “’Twas battle, Alana, not slaughter. Had you seen men and women and children slain without cause or mercy, you would know the difference.”

Alana’s gaze sharpened, for there was something in her tone…“What?” she said faintly. “You have seen such a thing?”

“My husband Philippe was killed in just such a manner,” Genevieve said quietly. “We lived in a place called Marnierre, very near Brittany. A count nearby coveted Philippe’s lands. He entered our castle by trickery. And when darkness fell, his men stormed the walls and murdered all those within.”

Alana frowned. “But you and Simon were spared—”

She shook her head. “Simon and I were at my father’s castle in d’Aville. Had we been at Marnierre we would not have been spared.” She shuddered. “Never will I forget returning home to find such butchery. Never.”

Alana’s heart went out to her. Genevieve was too young, too beautiful to have known such heartache. “What happened then?” she asked quietly.

She sighed. “My father and my brothers would not let Philippe’s death go unavenged. They reclaimed Marnierre”—a wistful sadness entered her eyes—“but ’twas so different without Philippe! I—I found I could stay no longer. My brother Henri now holds Marnierre for Simon. When Simon is old enough to defend the lands and castle, Marnierre will be his.”

All at once Alana understood. Genevieve had come here to flee old memories that haunted her still. She was suddenly just as certain Genevieve still mourned her dead husband Philippe.

Alana knew not what to say, yet she felt foolish to not speak words of comfort. Gently she touched her hand. “I-I am sorry,” she said softly. “I did not know.”

Genevieve smiled slightly. “Of course you didn’t. How could you?”

Before long, Genevieve announced her intention to retire. Alana rose as well. Sybil was nowhere in sight, and she was reluctant to remain in the hall alone.

Across the way, Merrick’s gaze was dark and brooding as it touched upon Alana. He had kept his distance from her, unwilling to test either his temper or his patience. She made him feel the beast. He found it vastly irritating she had managed to convince herself
that he was little more than some foul creature dredged from the bowels of the earth.

He hadn’t wanted to go to William. But one did not spurn the summons of the man who would be king. And so he’d worried about her by day, and dreamed of her by the dark of the moon…He chided himself scathingly. Ah, but he’d played the role of fool only too well!

In truth, he did not understand his fascination with this barefoot wench. She was haughty as a queen one minute, vulnerable as a child the next. But what he’d told Genevieve was true—he’d shown her a care he’d shown no other. He had bided his time. He’d thought to give her time to grow used to him, to his touch. Time to accept him, to accept what would happen.

His eyes tracked her progress as she mounted the stair beside Genevieve. His fingers tightened on his horn of ale. A part of him was still stunned that she was a maid. Yet mayhap ’twas not so odd after all. Indeed, if the villagers thought her a witch, perhaps they’d been afraid to touch her. Or mayhap ’twas because of her father’s position. From what he had gleaned, Kerwain had readily claimed her as sprung from his seed.

Only now did he consider the implications of his startling discovery.
She was a virgin
. No man had touched her, save him. A surge of hot possessiveness shot through him, even as a slow burn ignited in his blood. It pleased him that she was a maid, he realized suddenly. Indeed, he thought
derisively, there was little about the wench that did not please him…save her adder’s tongue.

So what was he to do? Woo her? Her pride challenged him. Her beauty beckoned him. Was he to wait still longer to bed her? All that was male and primeval within him clamored against it. If he waited, the vixen would ever fight him, ever defy him!

It was then he spied the glow of slanted golden eyes beneath the bench where Alana had sat—her cat Cedric! Faith, but the wretched creature tormented him, even as his mistress tormented him! He shot to his feet. But already the animal was on his feet, arching his scrawny back. With a hiss and a yowl, the creature leaped away. An instant later, he was gone from sight.

Scowling blackly, Merrick started across the floor. Now that he was on his feet, his mind was made up, his choice made. By God, he would wait no longer.

He would have her…and he would have her now.

Abovestairs, Alana paced the length of the chamber and back, too nervous to sit any longer. Oh, but she’d have liked to bar the door against him—if only she dared! But alas, he came, and all too soon. Even before she heard the creak of the door, she was warned of his entrance by a prickly sensation that was all too familiar.

“It pleases me to find you still awake, Saxon.”

Alana spun around from where she stood before the hearth. Merrick’s presence was such that all at once the chamber seemed ridiculously small. His regard was steady and unwavering, but alas, her courage was not. Never had she felt so open, so exposed!

“Come here, Saxon.”

Alana could not move. Her legs felt wooden. Her gaze strayed to the bed then back to his face.

A dark brow arched in silent query, yet still she could not move. She despised herself for her spinelessness, for he made her feel foolish and cowardly and weak.

She swallowed the tightness in her throat. “I know that you are angry,” she said, her voice very low. “I have no doubt that you will chastise me. Indeed, I am prepared for it. Therefore, I ask but one thing. I care not what you do to me, but pray do not condemn Sybil because of me.” She spoke hurriedly, lest her bravado forsake her. “You won’t make her go back to serving your men, will you? Simply because you are angry with me—”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “Either way, I would remind you the choice is mine, Saxon.”

With her eyes she pleaded with him. “Please. Please do not.”

“Do you ask a boon of me, Saxon? If so, mayhap I would ask something in return.”

Her mouth grew dry, her palms damp. “And what would you ask?”

Oh, foolish question, that! His gaze dropped and lingered for a disturbingly long moment on her lips.

He smiled. “Methinks you know, Saxon.”

Aye, she did, and the very thought made her quiver inside. Her spine stiffened as he presented himself before her.

“So tell me, Saxon. Would you grant me this favor?”

Alana fell silent. She clasped her hands before her. How could she agree? Yet how could she refuse?

“What is it to be, Saxon? Shall I have all of you—or none of you?”

Alana’s tone reflected her bitterness. “You are my lord and conqueror. Do I have a choice?”

Merrick’s jaw tightened, but then he gave a short, biting laugh. “Nay, you need not answer after all. I see in your eyes that you would still refuse. And aye, you are right. I am your lord and conqueror, and you are mine.”

His arrogance roused her ire. “You, Norman, are a barbarian—”

“If I were a barbarian, I’d have already had my fill of you, Saxon. I’d have lain between your thighs and vented my lust—”

Hot tears sprang to her eyes. “As you will do now!” she accused.

Merrick swore beneath his breath. Her tears would not sway him, not this time. Yet his mood was eased by the fear she could not hide. Though her chin climbed aloft, her knuckles shown white with strain.