Page 6 of The Herald's Heart
CHAPTER TWO
She jerked her chin away and, from the corner of her eye, caught sight of the big bed. Fear numbed her ability to resist. She watched as he retied her wrists in front of her.
He lifted her over his shoulder and carried her to the velvet-draped bed, where he placed her on the thin rug beside one of the posts near the foot of the bed. She mentally rubbed her stinging backside and watched him fumble inside a sack that lay on a chest. What kind of rapine was this?
He pulled out a rope that he promptly wrapped round her torso, securing her arms to her body. He then tied the rope to the post, leaving enough slack that she might reach the screened chamber pot or lie down, if she wished. As if she could find comfort on the thin cloth covering the hard floor. Hmph. The man had no courtesy in him if he left a lady to shiver in discomfort on a scratchy rug that did little to soften or warm the floor planks while he sought his sleep on a cozy down bed. Of course, he thought her a peasant, not a lady.
Heavy cloth dropped over her head. Larkin sputtered and struggled to shake off the restricting wool. Her efforts were wasted. No sooner had he covered her than the man’s hands lifted the cloth, freed her face, and rearranged the wool around her for what little warmth the fabric might provide. His hands roamed across her body and legs. Larkin felt heat trail in the wake of his fingers. How could she possibly feel heat when the cold made her shake?
He lifted her head, and Larkin felt the down of a pillow behind her as he released his grip. The shadow cast by the bed obliterated all light, but she felt his breath on her cheek and knew he held his face close to hers.
“’Tis not my way to treat any woman with discourtesy. But you do not answer my questions, and your actions tonight resemble those of a thief. Tomorrow, perhaps, will be different. But know this, Mistress Ghost, you will never escape me. I always gain what I want, and what I gain, I keep.” He climbed into the bed and was soon snoring softly.
Larkin lay awake for a long time working at the knots and failing to loosen them, finally falling into exhausted slumber. Screams woke her, as they had nearly every night for the past seven years. She lay curled tightly against the dark, the fear, and told herself the screams were imaginary, an echo of the horror she’d suffered at mother’s death. But this night, the voice crying out in protest and denial was real and very audible. The rocks and bushes of her personal nightmare had become a hard floor and walls, and a deeper voice moaned against loss and pain.
Where was she, and why she was not abed? Moonlight streamed in from a high narrow window. She was in the solar of Hawksedge Keep. She’d come to search for the marriage box and been discovered. The man who’d caught her had tied her to the bed, apologized before making that odd threat, “What I want, I keep,” then gone to sleep. She’d heard his snores long before the ghosts of her past allowed her rest. Nay, I will not let fear conquer me again.
“Nay.”
Larkin’s body leapt at the voice that echoed her thoughts. Did those agonized cries come from her captor? She listened carefully.
“Don’t! Please, stop,” came his tortured whisper.
By the time she struggled to her feet, his voice had gone still. But she knew all too well the demons that hid in the silence.
One of the man’s arms lay on the bed against his side. His other arm lay across his waist. His jaw slacked open a bit. The firm lips issued the muffled snore. Moonlight fell across his brow and shoulders. He looked ... innocent. Fascinated, she swallowed her fears and stared her fill.
Ebon lashes fanned against his cheekbones. Her gaze drifted lower, past the sturdy column of his throat and the shoulders that could fill a doorway, to the gentle rise and fall of his chest. Pale, red-gold curls danced from one flat, brown nipple to the other and down his torso in an ever-shrinking spiral to slip beneath the linen. The narrow hips, so different from her round ones, tantalized her. She could see little more than the outline of long, lean legs covered by the bedclothes. But she recalled vividly the one sight she’d had of his naked form. Her face heated.
His head tossed, drawing her attention back to the blond locks and sculpted face. His eyes remained closed, but his lips moved. He pleaded with someone. Who?
She knew what it was like to have terror share her dreams. For seven years, she’d started awake in the darkest hours with no comfort to be found. He sobbed, and a lone tear escaped his eyelids.
She could not allow emotion to make her weak. He’d done her no kindness, tying her up and leaving her to sleep on the floor. Although, he had left her legs unbound, as well as giving her cover and a pillow when he’d no need to do either. What a strange mixture of the brute and the gentle. He claimed ’twas not his way to treat any woman with discourtesy. Oddly, she believed him, as much because of what he did not do, as because of the care he’d taken to give her some small ease. Still, safety demanded she keep her distance. She lay down, wrapped herself awkwardly in the cover, and waited for sleep once more.
She had ample cause to be wary of men. In the year since she left the abbey, the village males had tried to grope her body or kiss her whenever they could get her alone. She’d learned quickly never to be isolated with any of them. Yet here she was, alone with a stranger, and he’d neither groped nor kissed. Well she couldn’t be certain of the kiss, but he hadn’t tried to thrust his tongue down her throat as Wat the miller had—ugh.
She would act cautiously around her captor. As for her freedom, she would find a way to regain that, despite his threat to keep her.
• • •
The nightmare woke him. Talon lay still, sweating, trying to calm the mad fears of childhood beatings that overtook him in the night. Then through his lashes, he saw the woman standing by the bedside, her form a shadow against the moonlight.
He closed his eyes, not wanting to speak of the memories that haunted him. He felt the air stir as she moved. Her scent came near, battling the stench of the keep with the tang of sea and flowers. What was she doing? Was it possible that even here in this most lonely and dark hour, she offered comfort? No one had ever offered that.
A tear escaped him, and she was gone. ’Twas always so—show weakness and lose all life’s sweetness. A rustling noise told him she had returned to the floor.
He lay awake for quite a while, using her actions to push aside the nightmare words that even in his dreams, came with a fist or a kick: “Whoreson, you are not my get.”
Who was this woman who haunted Hawksedge Keep? What did she have to do with the earl’s disappearance? St. Swithun’s robe, ’twas beyond belief that Lady Rosham still lived, so why make the claim? And why did she fascinate him as she did? After all, she was just a woman.
His eyes opened with the dawn. He shifted in the bed and looked over the side at the woman asleep on the floor. She lay curled, shivering within his cloak, only her hair and face showing. He regretted having to leave her there, but sharing a bed with her, no matter how attractive she might be, wasn’t an option. He could have given up the bed to her, but even his chivalry had its limits. ’Twas enough that he’d resisted the temptation her body offered.
A delicate snore snuffled from her. Good. She was sound asleep. He rose and donned his chausses, then sought out the chamber pot behind the corner screen.
When he returned, he found her where he’d left her. One long-fingered hand peeked out, clutching the wool around her. A whiff of lavender knifed through the smell of the keep. He knelt, lifting away the cloak, seeking more of that sweetness. He ached with longing for the comfort he might have found with her.
He sat behind her, lowered his head, and nuzzled his face into her soft cloud of hair, trying to memorize the specific combination of scents she used. God’s bones, but she smelled good. Warm and yeasty, like fresh bread, and was there a hint of pansy among the lavender?
