Stuart, Elizabeth (21 page)

"I
sought to take your life and you are angry... and rightly so," she said
softly. "Use me as you will. Punish me. But by God's mercy don't take out
your anger on the man you have below."

Richard
felt a sudden flicker of interest. He gazed narrowly at Elen. Her blue eyes
were pained and anxious. She tugged nervously at a strand of hair, then shoved
it over her shoulder with an impatient movement of her hand. It was obvious she
cared for his prisoner—she cared a great deal. It was a weapon he had not
counted on.

His
thoughts turned bitterly on how he might use the knowledge. He had returned
from this short campaign still furious with both himself and the girl. He had
been far too soft on her, allowing himself to let down his guard with an enemy
he should have distrusted instinctively. And she had used his softness and his
desire, playing him for a fool. She was as treacherous as the most conniving of
her race, only far more dangerous because of her seductive beauty.

She
was just like Jeanne. His beautiful stepmother had used her face and body to
bewitch his father until the man could see naught save what she desired him to
see. He hadn't even noticed the bitch was destroying his own son.

Richard's
fingers clenched convulsively. He had been a boy determined to succeed, and
that boy had prevailed. He had triumphed in spite of Jeanne and his greedy
half-brother, or perhaps because of them. They had driven him to harden
himself, to become stronger than they. But God, he hated devious women!

He
stared at Elen, determined she would find him soft no longer. "That man
led the ambush yesterday," he said harshly. "He attacked me with the
ferocity of ten demons. Though not the prey I sought, he is a rebel leader and
I was pleased to take him." He shrugged his shoulders as if suddenly bored
by the conversation. "But this discussion is pointless, Elen. The man's
wounds will most likely be his end. And if they aren't, I'll be pleased to show
you how I reward rebels."

Staring
at Richard's impassive countenance, Elen faced the final, full bitterness of
defeat. She could not fight Richard—God had cursed her with this frail woman's
body that could not match her enemy for strength—and there were no more tricks
to try. She moved across the floor toward him, swallowing against the tight
constriction in her throat. If she had to beg, she would do it. Let Richard
mock her if he chose. There was nothing left to do.

"The
man you hold. He... he is my uncle," she got out. "He has helped care
for me since I was a babe. If he heard the story your men put about, he would
have risked all to save me. He is no danger to you. By the mercy of God, let
him live!"

Richard
lifted his eyebrows in wry amusement. "No danger to me? You've obviously
not seen the man with a sword, Elen. He's a bit more proficient with the weapon
than you."

He
was mocking her and she longed to strike him. Instead, sliding slowly to her
knees, she bowed the head she had always held so proudly. Praise God her father
had not lived to see her thus! "Please, Richard... I beg of you."

Richard
merely stared at her, unmoved.

She
took a deep breath, swallowing hard. "M-my lord. Grant me the life of my
uncle, I beg of you." The words were difficult—she thought she must choke
on them, and a burning ache in her throat warned of pressing tears. "At
least let me see to his wounds. I will ask for naught else, I'll cause no
trouble. Anything you ask of me, I will do, I swear...
anything!"
she
cried out. "Only grant me his life."

Richard
frowned. A moment ago, he had wanted to see the girl beaten and begging before
him, had thought of little else these last few days. But now the sight of her
pleading touched him. Merciful heaven, what did he want?

The
answer came on a wave of unreasoning anger. God help him, he still wanted her.
He was more a fool than any man he knew! "Get up," he snarled. "
Get
...
up!"

Grasping
Elen's arm, he jerked her roughly to her feet. "A convincing performance,
but pray pardon me if I don't believe you this time. You gave just such a
performance last week, and I near lost my life!"

Jerking
the girl close, he forced her chin up with unrelenting fingers. "You
forget, sweetheart, you have nothing to bargain with. You will do exactly as I
wish because you must—because you've no other choice. I can force you to my
bidding any time, and I suggest you remember that. My mistake came in showing
you the same courtesy I would offer a civilized woman of my own country. I
forgot you were simply a beautiful savage. But I won't make the mistake
again."

He
slid one arm about Elen's narrow waist, drawing her hips to press suggestively
against him. How in heaven's name could he still ache for her? How could he
still desire this woman so he could think of little else even now when he was
so weary with fighting and blood his very muscles screamed with exhaustion?

The
answer to his dilemma was simple enough and any other man would have sought it
long hence. The girl was an enemy who had twice sought his end. She deserved to
die for her treachery, but he would be merciful. He would simply enjoy the use
of her until the fire left his blood, then send her from his sight. She had no
hold on him save that of thwarted desire.

He
twisted her face up closer to his. "You see, Elen, I don't have to ask
anything of you. From this time on, I will simply take what I want without
regard to your feelings. Do you understand?"

Elen
felt the hate rising up inside her like a physical ache. Richard's arms
tightened around her, crushing her against him. His mouth lowered slowly to
hers and the kiss was far worse than she'd expected. He did not tease her into
acceptance this time, but coldly forced her lips to part for his in a vivid
demonstration of his power to use her.

She
forced herself to stand straight and unresisting in his arms. If she struggled,
she told herself, he would only enjoy hurting her more.

The
kiss continued—brutal, punishing, a pledge of his treatment to come. But from
nowhere, the memory of the intensely pleasurable way Richard had kissed her
before swept through her and the threatening tears crowded close against her
lids. There was no comparing Richard's treatment today to that incomprehensible
thing that had happened in his arms before.

When
he finally lifted his head, Elen felt bruised and shaken. Slowly she opened her
eyes. "I hate you, Richard Basset," she whispered, staring up into
his sun-bronzed face. "I will hate you with the last breath in my body.
And never will you make me beg for anything again! Never! If there is a God in
heaven, I will see you pay for what you've done."

"You're
confused, Elen," Richard remarked coldly. "The payment must be yours.
And you are about to render up a full accounting for your treachery."

"My
treachery?" She shook her head. "You dare speak to me of
treachery?" She gave a near-hysterical laugh. "My father and brother
are dead because of you—murdered at Builth at the hands of English soldiers so
mad for blood, they couldn't content themselves with simply killing their enemies.
No! They must needs hack brave men to pieces and behead helpless corpses!"

Her
voice rose shrilly, and she realized she was rapidly losing control. "My
mother died after Builth from cold and starvation in the mountains where we
fled. The mountains where you drove us to hide out like wild animals. And my
friend died in childbirth there, unable even to scream out her agony because we
stuffed rags between her teeth, fearing her cries would bring you down upon our
camp.

"And
this month... this month I am turned seventeen, Richard," she continued in
a flood of bitter words she could not stem. "This month I would have wed a
man I have worshiped for so long as I have memory. But you ended that
dream—you, Richard! You took his life at Builth!"

Elen
had lost the battle for composure and tears coursed hotly down her cheeks in a
torrent she made no effort to restrain. Catching Richard's powerful hand, she
pressed it to his sword hilt. "With this hand and this sword you ended
everything I dreamed of a lifetime ago. Go on, finish it!" she shouted.
"Let Owain die untended in a dark hole in the earth. Go on, make an end of
us all. Punish me for my treachery if that's what you want! I cannot fight you
any longer. You have proven your might. Go on, it's easy for you! So easy for a
brave, honorable knight
of England."

Jerking
away from Richard's loosened grasp, she moved blindly away from him to the
opposite wall. "My God, you sicken me! You English all sicken me,"
she bit out. Then the last vestiges of control slipped away, and she crumpled
to the floor in a flood of hysterical sobbing.

Richard
stared at Elen and then at his hand. He was stunned by the hatred that had
spewed from the girl, but he was even more amazed by her tears. Elen had never
wept, not even when Giles had held a burning knife to her flesh.

Moving
slowly across the floor, he bent and lifted Elen into his arms. She tried to
push away. "Leave me be," she choked. "For God's sake, either
slay me now or leave me be!"

"Hush,"
Richard murmured. "Hush now. I'll not hurt you." He strode to the
bed, easing her down onto one side so that she lay facing him. Her gaze held
his, her great tear-filled eyes brimming with accusation, her sweet, ripe mouth
red and swollen from his bruising kiss. Remorse filled him. He had come perilously
close to being the savage he so despised in others, to treating her as the
women of his own people had once been treated by conquering Norman soldiers.

Reaching
out one hand, he stroked the damp tangle of hair back from Elen's face,
suddenly wishing he had met her earlier, that they might have known each other
before so much lay between them. With a heavy sigh, he drew the bed fur around
her shaking shoulders.

"We
are at war, Elen, your people and mine, and I am only a man—not a god," he
began softly. "It is difficult to judge right and wrong in war...
impossible in the heat of battle. All my life, I've been trained to fight and
kill, and I'm judged good at it. And may God forgive me, I even enjoy the
testing of my strength and wit against another. I make no apologies for what I
did at Builth. I killed many men who strove to kill me. If they had been
stronger, I would have fallen and you would not now be cursed with me." He
drew a deep breath. "But when I found men mutilating corpses, Elen, I hanged
them. That I promise you. When the battle is over, honorable men forget their
savagery."

His
right hand rested against her throat, his thumb gently caressing her
tear-stained cheek. "No, Elen," he repeated, "I make no apology
for Builth. But out of my own misplaced pride, I have wronged you now. Forgive
me if you can."

He
stared at her a moment, but the girl didn't speak. Suddenly he longed to be
away from the hatred and accusation in her eyes, to be outside in the cleansing
wind and fresh air. With one last glance at the huddled figure on the bed, he
hurried from the room, ignoring the curious stares of the guards outside the
doorway.

When
Richard entered the hall a few moments later, his men were busy eating and more
than a dozen still sat waiting to have their wounds tended by the overworked
castle leech. He moved through them in a daze, his mind still wrestling with
what had happened above.

From
his youth, he had prided himself on being fair to his enemies, on refusing to
take advantage of those weaker than himself. But wound his pride and he could
descend to the status of savage as quickly as the lowest soldier.

Giles
caught his arm. "Richard? What is it?"

Richard
shook his head, barely taking note of his friend. "Let be. I'm going
outside for a walk."

"A
walk? You're so exhausted you're stumbling now." Giles's grip tightened.
"It's the girl, isn't it? The wound isn't healing. Don't tell me you found
her worse than before!"

Richard
shook off his friend's hand. "No. I suppose it's healing. I didn't think
to ask." Turning, he headed once more for the door. Simon sprang up to
follow, but Richard gestured him away. "No. I desire no company. But
Giles..." He looked back at his friend, and pointed at Owain, saying,
"Have
that
wounded prisoner carried upstairs. And see the girl has
anything she needs to tend him."

Frowning,
he ran a weary hand through his hair. "The man's name is Owain," he
told Giles in a strained voice. "And I only pray he lasts the night."

For
some time after Richard left, Elen continued to sob out her grief. All the
months of pent-up bitterness and frustration, the fears she had tried so
desperately to hide, came pouring forth in a torrent of soul-cleansing tears.
She was alone, so terrifyingly alone.

And
no matter her determination, she was utterly helpless. She had done naught to
help her people nor could she move Richard concerning Owain's plight. And now
she couldn't even control her own wretched tears. She was ashamed of such
weakness, especially before her enemy. Her father would have laughed at her for
one of those "weepy-eyed females" he so despised.

But
what did it matter? Her father was dead, and soon Owain would be too.