Samantha James (4 page)

She had not seen Merrick for some time now. There was no one to see. No one who would know should they choose to leave…

Sybil came up to her, smothering a yawn. “We need not stay any longer. I’ve been given a pallet in the servants’ quarters belowstairs,” she said with a grimace. “You may take the one next to me.”

“You are right,” Alana whispered in an odd voice. “We need not stay any longer.”

Sybil glanced at her sharply.

She seized her sister’s hands. “Sybil, there is no one to see if we should choose to flee this keep! No doubt the sentries are as sotted as the rest of these men.” Excitement gathered ripe and full in the pit of her belly. “We can escape from the Normans—from Merrick! There is no better time than now!”

Sybil’s gaze swept the hall. “Merrick is not here,” Alana said with a shake of her head. “No doubt he’s gone to seek his bed.”

But Sybil was uncertain. “Alana,” she began. “I am not certain that—”

“Sybil, think! Do you want to remain a slave forever?”

A brief spasm of pain flickered over Sybil’s face. “Nay, but…Oh, mayhap you are right.”

“I am, Sybil. But we cannot delay any longer.”

“But—where would we go?”

“It does not matter! Perhaps to York. Oh, don’t you see? I would free you of this
Norman’s yoke—I would free
us
. Now hurry. By the time they awaken, we must be long gone.”

Hope flared in Sybil’s dark eyes. She nodded. “They took most of my belongings,” she said quickly, “but I managed to hide several trinkets in my pallet. If we can spare but a moment, I will fetch them. We may need to barter them later.”

Together they hurried down the narrow, winding stairway. Most of the servants were long since abed. Sybil weaved her way to the back of the damp, dank room toward her pallet. While she hunted for her treasures, Alana waited in the passageway outside.

Soon she appeared. “I am ready,” she announced breathlessly.

Alana tugged her forward. “You lead the way,” she whispered. “You know the keep better than I.”

The hall was dark and shadowed; the last embers of the fire burned low. Those within slept the sleep of the dead. Still, Alana cast a worried eye over her shoulder. Luck was with them, for no one followed. Her heart pounded. Her breathing hastened. The wide arched doorway to the yard was but a few paces distant. They were almost there…

All at once Sybil stopped short. Alana caught herself from barreling into her in the nick of time. She made a sound of dismay. “Sybil, do not stop! We must hurry—”

“I think not, Saxon. Nay, I think the two of
you will go nowhere this night—or any other night, for that matter.”

Alana froze. The beat of her heart grew silent and still. Bitterly she bit back a cry of frustration. God in heaven, it was him—Merrick!

He filled the doorway, his booted feet braced wide. Bareheaded though he was, the top of his head nearly touched the timbers. Alana’s mouth went dry as parchment. His eyes were steely blue and glittering; it was as if the very fires of Hades leaped within their depths.

“I am curious, ladies. Whose plan was this?”

Sybil was only too willing to give up her sister. “’Twas her idea, milord. I would never have done so were it not for her!”

“She is right,” Alana said quickly. “Do not blame her.”

His lips tightened to a thin line. He spoke but one word to Sybil. “Go.”

Sybil fled as if the hounds of Hell snapped at her heels. Though Alana longed to fly along with her, she remained where she was, secretly quaking inside. She had tried to escape him, and no doubt Merrick would not take such a thing lightly.

“So. You brew trouble already. Tell me, did you truly think to flee?”

The mildness of his tone did not hide his anger. Alana’s chin climbed high. By God, she would show no fear, not before him, nor any other Norman.

“Yes!”

“You could flee to the ends of the earth, and I would find you, Saxon.”

“And what then, Norman?”

His eyes darkened. “And then,” he stated grimly, “you would wish that I had not.”

A chill ran through her. Alana did not doubt it. His tone, like his expression, was utterly unyielding.

In that instant, she hated him as she had never hated anyone, for his arrogance knew no bounds. “I tell you now, Norman, I will not grovel and beg for mercy, for I know you would have none!”

“Mercy?” His tone was cutting. “Lady, you live. Your sister lives. There are many among your people who live. Only those who raised their blades against us died. And I tell you, Saxon, that your fate—and your sister’s—could be far worse. You might find yourself beneath a master far more cruel than I.”

When Alana made no reply, he smiled tightly. “Your eyes smolder, Saxon. If you could slay me with them, I do believe I would even now lie cold in my grave. ’Tis a good thing you no longer have your dagger.”

A surge of recklessness shot through her. “Then know this, Norman. You
stole
my dagger but I am also well skilled with bow and arrow.”

He merely inclined his dark head. “A warning,” he acknowledged coolly. “Well, here is one for you, Saxon. I will tolerate no further attempts to escape me. Should that occur, I promise—nay, I
vow
you will regret it.”

Alana bristled.
Damn
his Norman hide! If he meant to kill her, why did he prolong her torment?

“Damn you,” she said fervently. “Why couldn’t you have stayed in Normandy? If not for you, my father might still be alive!”

His jaw clamped tight. “I understand that you mourn him, Saxon, yet many of my people died as well. All is not as it was before, and it will never be so again. ’Tis just as I told you this morn. We are the conquerors and you the conquered. That is the way of the world, and the ways of men. You must accept us or risk more bloodshed.”

“Accept you? Never!” she cried. “So if you would kill me, then do it now!”

He laughed as if she’d said something vastly amusing. “I think not, Saxon, for we are not finished, you and I. And I can think of many more pleasurable things to do to you than kill you.”

He moved then, walking in a slow circle around and around her, until at last he stood before her. They were so close—
too
close. Her heart leaped wildly as he stood there unmoving. And all the while his eyes took brazen liberties no other man had dared. It was as if he stripped her utterly bare…

A horrified inevitability filled her mind. She knew then, she knew what he intended…When next he touched her, it would not be with just the stroke of his eyes. Nay, ’twould be with the power of his hands.

Her own had grown icy cold. Hiding them in her skirts, she swallowed a sick feeling. Somehow she managed to force words past
the stranglehold in her throat. “Please,” she whispered. “What do you want of me?”

He smiled as if he knew her every thought, her every fear. “I think you already know, Saxon.”

Her fingers clutched her skirts. “Nay,” she said faintly. “You cannot—”

That devil’s smile widened ever so slightly. “But I can,” he said softly, “for I have claimed Brynwald Keep. I claim all that Kerwain once held. And now…now I will claim you, Saxon.”

H
e was angry, and fiercely so. Alana sensed it with all she possessed. And though he hid it well, she knew that he despised her. What was it Raoul had said? His grating voice echoed in her mind.
Endowed like an ox—and with the stamina of one…

Waves of alarm shot through her. Icy fingers of dread crawled up her spine. To lie with this fierce, angry Norman…He would not be gentle. She could still feel the imprint of his body hard and heavy upon hers. Images of Hawise, bleeding and broken, flashed through her mind. How could she stand it…

Yet how could she stop him?

To run would be futile. Her first two attempts had taught her so. Yet what choice did she have?

She spun around and bolted. But he was quick, so agile he caught her easily, his arm hard and strong as he whirled her around.

Alana’s cry was a blistering curse. “Leave me be, you cursed Norman!” Her fists flashed
out toward his chest, but she struck not a single blow. Instead she felt herself tossed upon one broad shoulder like a sack of grain. He strode forward, taking the winding stairway abovestairs two at a time. Alana’s head whirled; his shoulder drove the very breath from her lungs with every step. She was giddy and light-headed when at last she was lowered to her feet once more. Blindly she flung out a hand to steady herself. Not until her fingers closed around masculine, hair-roughened forearms did she realize she had reached for him—her tormentor yet! She snatched her hands back as if she’d been burned.

His laughter stung. Straightening her spine, she glared at him, then deliberately turned her face aside. A huge bed strewn with furs dominated the opposite wall. A dull shield and wicked looking sword lay propped in the corner. The chamber was utterly masculine…utterly his. With a sinking flutter she realized he had brought her to his bedchamber.

A roaring fire had been lit in the hearth. Struggling hard to maintain her composure, Alana instinctively moved closer to its warmth.

She whirled when she heard a bolt slam down across the wide oaken door. A jolt went through her as she saw that Merrick had turned back to her. He surveyed her with hands braced against his hips, his posture so arrogantly masterful that she felt a sizzle of anger all through her.

Through some miracle she managed to raise
her chin bravely. “Have you not had your fill of unwilling Saxon maids, Norman?”

His slow-growing smile was maddening. “Did you know me better, you would know I’ve no need to take by force what can be won with honeyed words and lips—and indeed, with far more pleasure.”

Alana’s lip curled. “Ah, yes. Raoul told me how all the Norman maids swoon at your feet. But if indeed I should do so, know this, Norman—’twill be in disgust.”

His smile remained, but his eyes had gone utterly cold. Still, when he spoke, his tone was almost pleasant. “Lady, were I you, I would consider what course you pursue. For indeed, I might well be tempted to show you how very wrong you are. Indeed, it might prove quite a challenge to show you what untruth you dare speak.”

He was right. She didn’t realize that to taunt him was to tempt him. Nervously she moistened her mouth with the tip of her tongue. Wisely, Alana said nothing. Warily she watched as he crossed to a small square table across from the hearth. A flask of wine had been placed there, and he poured a generous measure into a chalice. He picked it up and drank deeply. As he lowered it, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, staring across at her all the while.

In truth, Alana was thoroughly unnerved. Her father had been a kind, soft-spoken man; he was firm when the occasion demanded it, but never cruel. And though the men in the
village were sometimes coarse and irreverent, they were farmers, not soldiers. But Merrick…he was a warrior through and through. She sensed a hardness in him—a ruthlessness that was somehow frightening.

Slowly he approached her. Alana stiffened as he came near. He did not stop until they stood but a breath apart. A faint alarm seized her then, for she was struck anew by his size. He was so tall her head scarcely reached his shoulder. The level of her gaze rested squarely in the center of his chest. He made her feel small and feeble—and helpless in a way she liked not at all.

“I would make certain I understand, Saxon. If you were to find yourself locked fast in my embrace, you would feel only disgust?”

Her chin came up. He stood so close she was forced to tilt her head to meet his gaze. “Aye!” she said heatedly.

He raised a brow. “Let us be honest, Saxon. I am not so very ill-favored. Indeed, I am scarcely a leper. Why, there are many who find me quite appealing.”

Alana gasped. Oh, but she had never encountered a man so boastful! She spoke unthinkingly—and quite recklessly. “You say you are no leper. Well, I say you are no prize either!”

The makings of a smile dallied about that hard mouth. “Ah,” he said lightly, “but I suspect you may well be a treasure indeed. So come now. ’Twas but a kiss I craved earlier. ’Tis but a kiss I ask now.”

“Ask?” she cried in outrage. “’Tis not in
your nature to ask, nor even to demand. You Normans take what you would have. And ’tis not a kiss you seek but far more! Well, know this, Norman. I will not have you. Do you hear, I-I will not have you!”

Their gazes tangled furiously. His lips hardened into a grim line. His eyes blazed blue fire. Yet to Alana’s surprise, he said nothing. She gave a silent sigh of relief when he retreated back to the table. There he reached again for his chalice, then turned back to her. His words were not what she expected.

“The war is over,” he said easily. “William will bring peace to the land. I suggest we put aside our enmity as well.” He raised the chalice high in a mock salute. “To Normans. To Saxons. To a union of the two…indeed, a coupling methinks should begin this night.”

Alana gaped. Oh, but he was cruel to taunt her so, and when she thought his mood had eased…She could not help it. Her eyes skipped to the door.

He smiled—oh, a demon’s smile, in every way!

Alana swallowed, her mouth as dry as parchment. She could feel the heat of the fire, warm upon her back. Yet in all her days, she could not think when she had been so utterly cold inside, as if her veins were rivers of ice.

Then all at once he was there before her. She jerked as strong hands descended upon her shoulders. Alana stood like a captive doe, waiting for she knew not what.

His cold whisper touched her cheek. “I am
a man of patience, Saxon, but you test mine sorely.”

His smile had vanished. His jaw might have been hewn of oak; his expression was hard and unyielding. She made a curt, jerky movement, as if to wrench herself away.

His hands slid swiftly down to clamp around her hips. “Be still,” he hissed.

Alana’s heart leaped to her throat, for the air was suddenly seething. He held her fast, yet though she was bound tight within his embrace, there was naught of hurt in the way he held her. Yet she hated the way his eyes raked boldly over her, as if he stripped her naked…With naught but the touch of his eyes he leisurely sampled what his hands would soon claim.

His touch seemed to burn her flesh, both inside and out. Those devil hands swept up the incline of her ribs…and lingered. Her breath came in sharply, for his thumbs hovered there, at the swelling peaks of her breasts. Did he touch her nipples—or was it but her imagination? Hot shame roiled within her.

She made a choked sound low in her throat, a plea of desperation. “Do not do this,” she whispered. “Please do not.”

If anything, his expression grew ever more hard. The arms tight around her back were suddenly like iron manacles. He spoke through lips that barely moved. “You will not run from me again, Saxon.”

His gaze was starkly commanding. Shaken beyond anything she had ever experi
enced before, Alana found herself incapable of speech, of even moving. But alas, he mistook her silence for rebellion.

He gave her a little shake. “Are you afraid of me, Saxon?”

“Nay!” she cried.

The word emerged quickly enough. But her eyes gave the lie to her claim. They were huge, wide and dark, endless pools of deep green. Merrick felt his anger recede, only to be replaced by something else, something far different…

It was impossible to touch her like this and feel nothing. He found it no hardship at all to see beyond her ragged clothing to her beauty. Her lips were parted, as softly pink and moist as an English rose. Desire pierced his middle like the shaft of an arrow. All that was hotly primitive and male surged high within him. He was acutely aware of the feel of her in his arms. She was so slight his fingertips nearly touched at the base of her spine. So small. Almost defenseless…

Grimly he reminded himself that for all she was poor and ragged, the wench was scarcely humble. Nay, she was far too proud for her own good.

Oh, he knew he would not take her, not now. But it gave him a measure of satisfaction that
she
did not know that. He smiled as he saw the fear leap high in her eyes. Though she sought to mask it swiftly, her efforts were in vain.

Ever so slightly, his grip on her waist tight
ened. “You say you will not have me. Well, I say this, Saxon. If I so chose, you would even now lie beneath me. You know that, don’t you?”

She did not dally this time. “Aye,” she said jerkily.

He released her. “As it were, I am weary and would seek my bed for the night. Were I you, I should do the same.” With that, he picked up a pile of furs from the bed and tossed them at her.

Alana caught them instinctively, still uncertain what he expected of her. He paid her no heed, but proceeded to tug his tunic over his head—it fell to a careless heap at his feet. She stared numbly as she caught sight of his chest, wide and covered with dense, dark curls. Now his hands were busy unlacing the leather thongs that cross-gartered his chausses. She bit back a gasp. Sweet Jesu, surely he would not strip naked! But it appeared he would not stop…

Nor did he.

Her jaw had gone utterly slack. His waist was incredibly narrow, his arms were corded and lean. As he bent and peeled hose and drawers from his legs, his back was one long arc of sleek bronzed flesh. It flitted through her mind that his body was one of both power and grace. He straightened then, affording her a glimpse of brazen male virility.

Her heart seemed to stop. He turned and crawled into the bed. Her breath tumbled out in a rush.

He rose up on an elbow. “You’re welcome to take your place beside me in this bed. I’m feeling generous tonight, and so I will leave the choice to you, Saxon.”

Only then did Alana realize she still stood mutely, the pile of furs clutched in her arms…A tide of heat and color crept into her cheeks; she was thoroughly embarrassed that she’d been caught staring so openly.

But at his words, she spun around and dropped to the floor, her heart apounding. There before the hearth she curled herself into a ball and dragged a fur over her head. From across the chamber came a burst of low, masculine laughter.

Then all was quiet.

Alana trembled and shivered, though the chamber was warm and not at all chill. Desperately she sought to calm the throbbing tempo of her heart. She was still aghast at the obvious—that Merrick had chosen to let her be. Oh, but she had been so convinced he had brought her to his chamber to make quick work of her ravishment!

Instead he had granted her a reprieve. Why, she did not know. Nor, she decided shakily, did she care to know or even guess, for she was not yet ready to discount his threat to do the very same! What was it Aubrey had said of him?
They say he is spawn of the devil—a warrior ’twould as soon sever a man’s head from his body as look at him
.

It was not in Alana’s nature to trust easily—and Merrick her enemy yet! She warned
herself to be cautious. Aye, he had not yet revealed the demon he surely was. But she did not trust him. She
dare
not trust him.

So it was that his presence across the room lent her no ease, and such thoughts would not cease. They twisted and turned throughout her mind like an aimless path. And though she thought to sleep not a wink, soon her body relaxed. And sleep she did, quite deeply…and dreamlessly.

A watery sunshine seeped through the shutters when Alana awoke the next morning. She lay there a moment, assailed by an odd sense of the unfamiliar. Then all else fled beneath the keen onslaught of memory. With a gasp she lurched to her knees, still clutching a fur to her breast.

Her haste was for naught, for she found herself quite alone. Arising rather stiffly, she rubbed the ache in her back, casting a disgruntled glance at the bed as she did so. Of course the lofty wretch had claimed the comforts of a soft mattress for his own, even as he had claimed Brynwald for his own. Yet perhaps she could count herself lucky—a cold stone floor was far preferable to sharing a bed with that Norman beast!

She smoothed her clothes, then attended her personal needs. After washing from a small basin, she shook her hair free, then combed through it with her fingers. She did not braid it again, but tugged it over her shoulder and left it free. She paused, uncertain what Merrick
expected of her. She was heartily glad he was not present, and in truth had no desire to seek him out. She had no desire to anger him if her presence was demanded elsewhere; nor did she want him to think she cowered here in his chamber. Her mind so inclined, she was about to venture without when the portal opened.

Merrick stood outlined in the doorway, a tall and powerful frame garbed in dark wool. Alana instinctively stepped back as he stepped within.

He wasted no time looking her up and down. “Ah, you are awake and just in time, too.” His tone was as hearty as his smile—and just as false. “Why, I began to think you intended to laze abed throughout the day.”

Alana was just about to let loose a scathing retort when he stepped aside. A tall, lanky youth followed him in, the one she had seen yesterday who resembled Merrick so strikingly—his nephew, Simon. Folding her hands before her, she watched as the lad crossed the floor to place a tray of food atop the table. Though she smiled faintly at him as he passed, he paid her no heed.