Page 85 of The Saxon Lord's Unwanted Bride
He gave a mirthless laugh. “William listens to my counsel,” he said. “Even now, he questions his trust in Harald. Rest assured—your husband will fall. Wildstorm will soon be mine and you’ll return there—as my concubine.”
“I shall not.”
He squeezed her arm sending shards of pain through her bones and she groaned.
“Aye you shall, my dear. You must pay the price of denying me what was my due. I shall house you in the tower at Wildstorm, while I take a respectable woman for a wife. If you please me, I shall permit you to birth the child you carry. I pray that it’s a girl, for I’ll have much use for her if she’s as fair as her mother. If not, I’m sure in time you’ll furnish me with a daughter of my own to suit my needs.”
Mon Dieu—she could endure much herself, but if Ralph turned his disgusting attentions elsewhere…
“You won’t have my child!” She struggled against his grip. “Let me go!”
“Very well.” He released her. “Maeda!” he roared. “Bring the brat!”
“Not Alfred!” she cried. “Leave him alone!”
“Then you know what to do,” he said, “but be quick, for you try my patience.”
He lay back on the bed, savage hunger and lust glittering in his eyes.
“Come and serve your lord.”
She hesitated, her skin puckering with revulsion, then she approached the bed.
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a flash of steel. A small knife lay discarded on the floor, where Ralph had shed his clothes.
“Close your eyes, my lord,” she said.
His arrogance would be his downfall. Thinking he’d cowed her, he smiled, and closed his eyes. “I’m glad you’ve decided to be more—amenable, Eloise.”
She picked up the knife, then climbed onto the bed. Fighting the swell of nausea, she caressed his chest, running her hands over the planes of his muscles. A lazy smile crept across his lips.
“Good—very good…”
She would burn in hell for what she was about to do. But her soul was already tarnished. Dark stains of evil filtered through her like creeping vines, smothering her very being like a ruined building—once delicately crafted, but now crumbling to dust, fit to descend into hell.
She raised her arm, then plunged the knife into his chest—it glanced off the bones, jarring her arm. His hand flew up and gripped her throat. She swung the knife again and found a purchase, and he hissed with pain. He sat up, the momentum pushing her back and they rolled onto the floor.
“You’re mine!” he cried.
“I’ll burn in hell first!” She thrust the knife again, and drove it into his heart. He released her throat, and thrashed his arms, screaming as his lifeblood drained onto the floor. His movements grew less, words replaced by bursts of blood which dripped from his mouth until he jerked backwards onto the floor, uttering one last scream of rage before he lay still, save for the twitching of one foot.
She withdrew the knife, then thrust it in again and again, lifting her head up to scream at the God who had forsaken her—the world that had condemned her to hell. In the world of the living, she had never wielded power over her destiny, yet here, and now, she shaped her fate, sending into hell the man who had destroyed her childhood, her father and her marriage—a hell which she was surely destined for.
Footsteps approached from behind, and she saw three figures in the doorway—demons ready to claim her. But she wouldn’t go without a fight. She brandished the knife at them and screamed in defiance. If they wanted her, they must take her by force—for never again would she surrender.
Chapter 22
The skin at the base of Harald’s neck began to itch. Something told his warrior’s instinct they were not alone. He slowed his horse and waved Edwin over.
Most of the building had been destroyed, but the central part seemed intact. A narrow archway led into a courtyard, a dark gaping mouth beyond which Harald could discern, but not identify, rough shapes. Pieces of masonry, perhaps.
Rubble radiated out from the archway—remnants of a battle. Charred, blackened beams poked at the night sky—the ribs of a huge beast long dead, its carcass picked clean by scavengers.
Harald gestured to Wulfstan, who signaled to the rest of the company—a further six men—to fan out into a siege formation, covering the archway from all angles. A low hiss of swords drawing in unison whispered in the night air.
The men dismounted and Harald winced at the sound of their boots against the stones, magnified by the night. He approached the archway, axe raised in readiness. His skin crackled with anticipation. Not just a warrior’s instincts, but a man’s.
She was here.
