Samantha James (3 page)

But he said not a word. He made not a move. Alana opened her eyes to find him watching her, an odd expression on his face. She went utterly still as he released her hands, only to strip the gloves from his own.

A roughened fingertip scaled the length of her throat, then skimmed the parted fullness of her lip—as lightly as a feather. Then it dipped low and down the arch of her neck till it rested there at the neckline of her bliaud. She was stunned that he would touch her so, for she was half-afraid he might tear the clothes from her body and take her then and there as the soldier had ravished Hawise.

Yet this was more a caress. Her mind began to churn so that she could scarcely think. So close to him, he was more frightening than ever. His jaw was square and rugged, his mouth harshly carved below the jutting blade of his nose. His eyes were startlingly light against the darkness of his skin, a pale translucent blue. But there was no cold in those eyes, not now. There was only a glittering heat that made her go hot inside, then icy cold.

Her heart leaped, apace with her pulse. His gaze had fallen to her mouth; she could feel the moist heat of his breath upon her cheek. Surely he would not kiss her, she thought in panic.
Nay, surely not…

“You are the victor,” she cried. “You, Norman, not I!”

A terrified sound escaped her. Certain he would ravage her mouth with his, she twisted her face away.

He rolled away and got to his feet. “You offend me,” he said with a twist of his lips. “You would admit defeat rather than suffer a mere kiss?”

Alana scrambled to her feet. Her chin came up at his mockery. “A kiss from a Norman”—she made no effort to hide the bite in her tone—“indeed, a Norman swi—”

The fierceness in his expression stopped her dead. “Do not say it,” he growled, “for I vow this time you’ll live to regret it.”

She did already, Alana thought shakily. He stared at her challengingly, as if he expected some scathing retort. When such was not forthcoming, he turned away.

Alana surveyed him warily. Her hand slid inside the fullness of her sleeve, where her dagger was strapped to her arm. She had not forgotten it, but there had been no time to use it. It would have been futile to try against Raoul, with so many others present to thwart her. A shiver wracked her as she thought of her dream—it seemed impossible that the dark knight was here before her now! Ah, but Merrick was no demon in disguise. No specter of the shadows. He was but a man, flesh and bone and blood…

She slipped the blade from its berth. Clutching the finely honed handle in her palm, she hid it behind her in her skirts. Her mind raced; her mouth grew dry. Could she do this? Mother of Christ, she truly had no desire to kill this man. But if she could wound him, she might be able to flee.

She waited until he bent to retrieve his gloves from the ground. His back to her; it spun through her mind there would be no better time.

But Merrick spied the glint of steel from the corner of his eye. With the reflexes of a warrior, he whirled just as she raised her hand, poised to strike.

He caught her by the hand. His fingers closed about her wrist with merciless intent. She fought him more fiercely than ever; they tumbled to the ground once more. For the second time in as many minutes, he lay heavily atop her form.

His grip was unrelenting. He squeezed until her grasp began to loosen, then he snatched the dagger from her palm. Her regard was scorching, her outrage forged as deeply as his own.

He’d meant to teach her a lesson here, and by God, so he would. She would not be free of him so quickly—or so easily. If she would not yield her anger, so be it, but she would yield to him nonetheless.

“Curse you,” she burst out. “Curse you to Hell, Norman!”

A dark anger swept over Merrick. His anger burst into flames. In fury and frustration he stabbed the blade into the earth beside her head.

By God, the wench had just sealed her fate.

“
O
n your feet, Saxon.”

His eyes were as cold as the seas. His tone brooked no denial. Alana gingerly obeyed. Her knees were quaking so unbearably she feared she could not stand. The leashed violence she sensed in him frightened her beyond measure. What was it Aubrey had said?
They say he is a warrior ’twould as soon sever a man’s head from his body as look at him
. Alana shivered. Gauging his mood this very moment, she could well believe it.

He bent low to retrieve the dagger, this time taking care not to turn his back on her. He weighed it in his palm, running his thumb over the bejeweled hilt. He slipped it into his belt, then leveled on her a gaze of blistering intensity.

“You talk about the thieving Normans. But perhaps ’tis you who are the thief. Who did you steal this blade from, Saxon?”

Alana maintained her silence. ’Twould do no good to tell him. He would only brand her a liar.

His jaw clenched. “Were I you, Saxon, I would test my temper no further. Now tell me—whose is this dagger?”

Alana knotted her hands together to still their trembling. Summoning her courage, she lifted her chin. “’Tis mine,” she stated coolly. “’Twas given me by my father.”

“Your father!” He gave a shout of laughter. “Lady, you would take me for a fool of the highest order. The dagger could only belong to a man or woman of some wealth.”

“Aye,” she agreed heatedly. “My father!”

“Kindly enlighten me, then. Who is your father?”

Alana clamped her lips together.

He swore beneath his breath. “The truth, Saxon, and I would have it now!”

“Surely you would know him, Norman.” Her tone was scathing. “The lord of Brynwald died beneath your sword.”

“What! Do you mean to say your father was Kerwain?”

“Aye!”

“Your father died in battle, aye. But he did not die beneath my sword.” His eyes scraped over her. “And I have seen Kerwain’s daughter for myself. She did not wear tattered hides to bind her feet, but boots of the softest leather. Her bliaud was not little more than rags, but cloth of the finest weave.”

Alana straightened her spine, painfully aware of her wretched appearance. “I am no thief,” she said feelingly. “You asked for truth. I gave you truth. ’Tis none of my concern if you
refuse to recognize it!” Somehow she mustered what little pride and dignity she’d managed to retain. “And now, Norman, will you grant me leave to return to the village?”

“Nay, Saxon, I will not.”

Alana had already half-turned. Startled, her gaze flew back to his.

“You heard me well and true. You may not return to the village.”

Alana fixed wide eyes upon his face. He was well pleased with himself; she could see it in his half-smile.

“Nay,” he went on. “Instead you will come with me.”

Alana’s mouth was dry as parchment. Her lips scarcely moved. “Where?” she whispered.

“Why, to Brynwald.”

“Brynwald!” She could not hide her shock. “For what purpose?”

He smiled then, a thoroughly dangerous smile. Alana’s hand went to her throat. A staggering horror shot through her. He meant to punish her for her insolence, she thought vaguely. She knew it as surely as night followed day.

“Perhaps you will scrub floors. Help the servants in the kitchen. Tend the animals in their pens. Why, you might even serve my knights”—his wicked smile widened still further—“in their nightly pursuits.”

Tears of fury glazed her eyes. “Nay! I-I will not be your slave!”

“There is no disgrace in servitude.”

“There is disgrace in serving you!”

His jaw clenched hard. “Indeed,” he said coldly. “How so?”

“You are a Norman!”

“Aye, I am a Norman. A Norman who is now your lord and conqueror. Accept it, or live to regret it.”

Bitterly she cried out her despair. “Have I no choice in this?”

His tone was arrogant through and through. “A choice? Of a certainty, wench.
My
choice.”

So he said…and so it was.

As Alana soon discovered, he was not a man to trifle with. He commanded that she walk before him. He followed close behind, high upon his warhorse, a black steed who pranced and pawed the air, as devilish looking as his master. They had nearly breached the edge of the forest when the notion took root…Nearby was a place where the trees grew low and thick in number, so thick that man or woman might dart between them, but such a feat with horse and rider was impossible. Hope flowered within her breast. If she could flee…

She soon wished she had not.

He caught her with consummate ease, snatching her high onto the saddle before him. Alana fought a surge of panic, for she had never learned to ride. And though she strained to hold herself stiffly that they might not touch, he would not allow it. His arm hard about her waist, he dragged her back against him, so close she could feel his every breath as if it were her own.

It was near vespertide when they arrived at Brynwald Keep. Passing through the wooden palisade, he did not stop until they were well within the walls of the keep. The moment he brought his warhorse to a halt, Alana managed to slide to the ground. She fell heavily, scraping her hands and bruising her knees, but she cared not. All she wanted was to be free of his hated touch.

Despair rode heavy on her heart. Only this morn she had told Aubrey she wished to come to Brynwald, that she might assure herself Sybil was safe and well. But not like this, never like this…

She shivered, though not from the chill of the air. She couldn’t help but recall her dream. She prayed it was a vision that would not come to pass, that it was not a vision of the future—
her
future…

Yet she had fallen into the hands of the very man she feared above all others…and all through her own folly.

With a start she realized Merrick had dismounted. She felt his eyes upon her like the prick of a knife. He tossed his reins into the hand of a thin youth. The lad possessed the same dark hair and winged brows—his son, mayhap? The question had no more than hurtled through her brain than strong fingers grasped her elbow.

“This way, Saxon.”

He led her across the muddy yard. Horses and Norman soldiers milled about, though she glimpsed several faces she recognized
—the stablemaster and the laundress, and a few others as well. None deigned to look her way. With hunched shoulders and downcast eyes, the atmosphere was subdued and severe. There was none of the good natured jostling that would have been present but a sennight past. What laughter there was came from the Normans.

Glancing to the side, she saw several knights openly leering. One elbowed another; he whispered something and the knight let out a gust of laughter. Alana’s cheeks burned. She dared not look at Merrick. No doubt they thought she had lain with him.

He nudged her up the steps that led into the hall. There a blazing fire burned in the hearth at the far end. Still more knights gathered at the trestled table that dominated the length of the hall, and against the benches lining the walls.

It was then she spied Sybil. She was just about to head through the doorway that led to the kitchens, housed in a separate building from the great hall. Alana gave nary a thought or care to the man at her side, but darted across the floor.

“Sybil!” she cried. “Sybil!”

Sybil spun around. Disbelief flitted across her features.

“Alana! Whatever—”

“Oh, Sybil!” Alana embraced her fiercely. “I was so worried about you! I did not know if you were alive or dead!”

Sybil opened her mouth but before she
could say more, a shadow fell over them. Alana knew, even before she turned, who had stepped behind her. Her spine rigid, she turned to face him.

He ignored her and addressed himself to Sybil. “You are acquainted with this wench?”

Sybil dropped her eyes. “Yea, milord. This is Alana.”

His gaze now rested on Alana. “So her name is Alana.” A half-smile curled his mouth. “Well, my lady, my knights caught her hunting in the forest though the villagers had been ordered to keep to their huts. She would surely have slain me had I not divested her of her dagger in the nick of time. Then she told me an outrageous tale—that it was given her by Kerwain, that she is his daughter.”

Though Alana longed to lash out that it was true, she pressed her lips together. Let Sybil tell him. Mayhap then he would believe her.

Sybil bit her lip. For the longest time she said nothing. Her uncertainty made Alana glance at her sharply, for this was so very unlike her. And indeed, it struck her that for once Sybil was not so very haughty. Her ivory cheeks were smudged with dirt, her wimple slightly askew. Spots of grease darkened the front of her bliaud. Wisps of hair emerged from her braid. Never had Alana seen her so untidy.

“Milord,” she said at last, “’tis no tale. She is my half-sister, the elder by two months.”

Merrick’s brow darkened. “The elder by two months! How can this be?”

“Kerwain sired both of us. But my mother was Rowena, who died in the fray. Alana’s mother was Edwyna, a peasant from the village. Alana was not raised here in the keep as I was.”

Once again Alana felt the probe of those icy blue eyes. She met his gaze cleanly, making no effort to hide her smoldering disdain.

A dark brow rose high. “So you are not legitimate issue.”

Now it seemed Sybil was only too anxious to speak. “Nay, milord. She is not.”

He held her gaze a moment longer. Alana held her breath, for though his eyes did not free her, his expression betrayed no hint of his thoughts. At last he gave a curt nod. “Go with your sister and see that you make yourself useful,” he ordered. “I will decide your fate later.”

It was in Alana’s mind to disobey flagrantly, to deny him to the fullest. Oh, but he was an arrogant beast! And though ’twas not in her nature to be so surly, she could not help it. They seemed to strike sparks off one another. But she sensed she had tested his patience to the limit, and might not be so lucky again. She spun around, though not without a last, challenging glare.

In the kitchens, preparations for the evening meal were underway. Sybil handed her a knife, and they began chopping cabbages and onions. Smoke from the fire pits hung thick in the air. Alana peered through the haze at her sister.

“They say he has made slaves out of all
those who survived,” she said, her voice very low.

Sybil sighed. “’Tis true,” she admitted. “He captured those who would have fled. We were given a choice—serve him or be imprisoned.”

“And what of you?”

Sybil’s golden brown eyes fell. “I was given the same choice,” she said quietly.

Alana cried her outrage. “But you are the lord’s daughter!”

Sybil shook her head. “He is lord now and I have little choice but to obey,” she said sadly. “None of us do. The Normans will not be ousted. ’Tis said that Duke William has taken all of England for his own and proclaimed himself king.”

Sybil was far more accepting of her fate than Alana had expected. Alana peered at her suspiciously. “He has beaten you, hasn’t he? Oh, the wretch! Sybil, I will—”

“Nay, Alana, he has not. Indeed, he has told me that when his sister Genevieve arrives from Normandy, I will no longer toil in the kitchens as I do now. I will then serve as her maid.”

Alana sniffed disdainfully. ’Twas impossible not to notice Sybil’s chafed, reddened hands. Sybil was not used to hard work, as she was. A lady’s maid would surely have an easier time of it.

“Why must you wait? Why can you not serve his wife?”

Sleek, dark hair fell forward, shielding the small, secret smile that crept across Sybil’s lips. “He has no wife.”

“But…I saw a lad who must surely be his son, for he had the same winged brows—”

“His nephew Simon. He fosters as Merrick’s squire. Merrick’s sister Genevieve is the boy’s mother.”

After that, they both turned back to their work. But though her hands were busy, an aching heaviness tugged at Alana’s heart. And yet, some small measure of comfort filled her heart. Her father had now joined her mother to live with the angels above; mayhap they were together in heaven as they could not be on this earth. And though she mourned her father’s death, at least Sybil was alive.

And while there was life, there was hope.

The next hours passed in a blur. The Normans took their supper and the sisters served them. Alana made countless trips from the kitchens to the hall bearing great platters of food and ale. Her arms and shoulders ached from the weight; Sybil looked just as drained.

The Normans were a thoroughly unruly lot. She tried to dodge the greedy, grasping fingers that tugged at her skirts and bosom yet was not always successful. She longed to slap their hands away, yet she did not dare for fear of finding herself clubbed to the floor. She had watched in horror as one poor girl spilled a tray of sweetmeats at the feet of a burly soldier and suffered that very fate. Alana gritted her teeth and sought to ignore them.

The night grew old and torches burned low. She was on her way to fetch more ale when her elbow was firmly seized. She found herself
spun around nearly full circle. With a gasp she recognized the knight she had first encountered in the forest—Raoul.

Gleaming black eyes roamed her face and body, brash and bold. His regard made her skin crawl. “Tell me, my lovely one. Did Merrick please you?”

She strained to free herself. “Let me be!”

He caught her narrow waist and tugged her close. “’Tis whispered by all the Norman maids that he’s endowed like an ox—and with the stamina of one, too! ’Tis why they swoon at his feet. Ah, but I would have pleased you far better, had you let me.”

Alana could not help it. Her gaze veered straight to Merrick, who sat at the high table. He was staring straight at them, the slant of his mouth grim and unsmiling. Glancing back over his shoulder to see where her gaze resided, Raoul scowled. When he realized their exchange had not gone unobserved, he freed her, but not before he pinched her arm. “We shall see, eh?”

With a sigh of relief, Alana scurried away. As the night marched forward, she cast more than several anxious glances toward Merrick, but he paid her no heed. As for the Normans, their appetite for food was exceeded only by their greed for drink. Yet little by little the roar of voices and boisterous laughter that filled the air began to thin. At length, many of the Normans stumbled away. Others lay slumped at the table or sprawled on the benches that lined the walls. Drunken snores filled the air.
Alana paused, slowly lowering a pitcher of ale to the table. It struck her then…