Page 10 of Her Dark Seduction
“Make no sound if you wish to live.”
An arm coiled round my waist, pulled me back against a large body and dragged me to one side into an alcove. My captor’s body was unyielding and my struggles only made his grip tighten.
“Do as I say, you fool. What do you think those men will do to you? They have little regard for a woman wandering about at night on her own, be she servant, whore, or their Lord’s latest wife. If you continue to resist, I shall hand you over to them. Do I make myself clear?”
I nodded. The authority of the lady of the castle had little weight against drunken, lust-fueled men. Upon my marriage, I had ceased to exist in the eyes of the world as anything other than the replaceable property of Lord Mortlock.
We waited until the footsteps passed by. The shouts of laughter increased. Had they discovered me, I would not have been escorted back to my room. My husband’s men were a murderous and crude lot.
The door slammed shut, muffling the voices. My assailant let me go, and turned me to face him. Vane Sawford. He held a finger to his lips, but I needed no instruction. Muffled laughter and cheering came from behind one of the doors, mingled with the excited shrieks of a woman. A man, giddy with lust after the services of a whore, would not stop to question whether the next woman in his path were willing or not.
He took my arm and led me back to the staircase, turning not up, to my chamber, but down, to a small room on the floor below. He pushed me inside, before releasing my arm and closing the door behind him. The light of a single candle revealed sparse furnishings—a small cot in the corner, two chairs and a desk. I was in Sawford’s bedchamber.
He turned to face me, his eyes cold and dispassionate. I lifted my head, staring back defiantly. His expression shifted, and a spark of fire flashed in the depths of his pupils, radiating outward. He drew slowly nearer, his eyes on me constantly. I backed away until I felt the stone wall against my back. He matched me step for step until his body touched mine. A slight smile curled on his lips as he placed his hands on the wall either side of my shoulders, pinning me in place.
He dipped his head toward mine. His warm breath caressed my mouth, and I inhaled the aroma of spices and masculinity. I had only to lift my head a fraction to meet his lips. He brushed his mouth against mine, and my skin tightened in response. He drew back, and I whimpered in frustration. I was a woman starved, my tormentor denying me what my body craved. I tipped my head up, unable to think of anything save those lips. He smiled triumphantly, holding his mouth tantalizingly close.
“I will only kiss you if you ask.” His voice was thick and intoxicating.
I shook my head but, as he drew closer again, I parted my lips to receive him. In the battle between my mind and body, the balance of power was shifting.
“Ask.” His voice became more insistent. I shook my head again, trying to ignore the sensation threatening to control my body. I felt weightless, as if the world was melting around me. My surroundings began to disappear. The cold air, the hard stone wall, the sounds of laughter in the distance slipped away until only one thing remained. Him.
“Then take me, lady” he whispered. His gentle voice broke through my mental defenses, and my bodily desires triumphed. With a small sound of defeat, I reached up, curling my fingers in his hair, pulling him closer to me. I pressed my lips against his and waited to feel him push me away. I needed a connection with someone—anyone—in this oppressive, lonely place.
A low, primal sound rumbled in his chest, and he pulled me hard against his body, forcing my mouth open with his tongue, ignoring my cries. I tried to move, but he was too strong. He pushed me until I fell on the cot, his weight crushing me. Unable to fight with my limbs, I used the only weapon I had and forced my own tongue into his mouth, relishing the taste of him—of spiced wine. I wanted him, wanted to give myself to him, though I belonged to Mortlock. Lord save me.
I felt the cold air against my legs before a burning, stinging sensation ripped between my thighs. I tore my mouth away from his and cried out. He gripped the hair at the back of my neck, forcing my head back toward him and silenced my cries with his mouth. His kisses grew gentler as I surrendered to him, my body willing. The pain faded and was replaced by another, lighter sensation. He was stroking my forehead much like my mother, and later Harwyn, had done to calm me. It was such odd behavior, for any man, that for a moment, I forgot my fears, until the candle in the room hissed, plunging us into darkness.
“The candle!” I cried out, panic swelling in my throat.
“Shhh, you’re safe.”
I might have imagined the words; they were spoken so softly. Reassured by his strength I clung to him as the darkness thickened around me.
He kissed me again, almost reverently, whispering incoherently. Then he moved. The pain increased with each movement of his body. I squeezed my eyes shut, holding on to his arms. His muscles rippled beneath my fingers, and his breathing grew harsher until he released a deep groan and fell on to me. He wrapped his arms around me, and I held on to him, vaguely aware of a warm sensation spreading between my thighs.
I lay still in his arms, listening to his breathing growing steadier. Eventually, he moved away. I heard the sound of a flint being struck then saw the flickering light of a candle.
“Get up.” His voice was cold. I sat up and pulled my skirts down, overcome with shame. My thighs were smeared with blood, as was the bed sheet.
I controlled my voice and spoke equally as coldly. “You are in no position to give orders after what you have done to me.”
He gave a low, mirthless laugh. “You asked me to, remember?”
“I did no such thing.” The indignation in my voice could not disguise the lie on my lips and he knew it.
“Aye, madam, you did, with your body as assuredly as you would have done with your voice. My stained sheets will make a fine keepsake.”
“How dare you!” I cried. “Lord Mortlock…”
“My lord will listen to the counsel of a trusted employee over the tattle of a woman. ’Tis better he knows not you are now soiled goods. I’m sure I do not have to remind you of the penalty for adultery.”
Death by fire.
In a fit of madness and desire, I had reached out to Sawford and, in doing so, had thrown my worth away. As a bride, my maidenhead was the only value, other than my dowry, which the world placed on me. Years of schooling and Maman’s nurturing had taught me to protect my virtue and never succumb to my desires. Yet, in a fleeting moment I had destroyed it all. He had only to tell my husband of my sin and I would share Maman’s fate.
“Maman,” I whispered. My throat tightened and I struggled to breathe, bending over in physical pain. At that moment, I hated him more than I thought it possible to hate another living soul.
