“Speak, woman, what are you trying to say?”
“How soon until you…you take my head in exchange for his?”
Reyes blinked at her. “Is that what you think I’m going to do?”
“Are you not? You said my life would be forfeit if my father did not surrender to you.”
Reyes snorted. “I may be a monster but it is not my habit to slay women or children.”
She stared at him, feeling suddenly dizzy with relief.
Reyes pulled her into his arms to steady her. Had she truly thought he would take her life if her miserable cur of a father refused to surrender? Reyes knew he would as soon cut off his own hand before he raised it in violence against her. He spat into the dirt. He had known all along that Montiori would never sacrifice his own life for that of his daughter, or for any of his children. Still, he had hoped that Montiori would fall for his bluff, that some spark of fatherly devotion existed in the man. He should have known better. His bluff had failed. To his regret, the finger that his physician had amputated from the diseased hand of one of the serving women had not fooled Shanara’s father.
He frowned thoughtfully, his mind forming and dismissing a dozen ploys and then he smiled. Of course! He knew exactly how to avenge himself on his enemy. Why had he not thought of it sooner?
Shanara looked up at him, obviously confused by his sudden change of mood.
“I have a better way to avenge myself on my enemy,” he remarked. “A way that cannot fail.”
“You mean to go to war against him?” she asked in alarm.
“No,” he said quietly. “I mean to marry his daughter.”
Chapter Eight
Shanara stared up at him. “And which of my father’s daughters do you intend to marry, my lord?”
A slow smile curved Reyes’ lips. “The one in my arms, of course.”
Numbness gave way to trepidation. She could not deny that she was attracted to Reyes, or deny that the prospect of staying here, as his wife, was far more appealing than returning to her father’s keep. But in the next heartbeat, trepidation turned to despair. She could not marry Reyes, could not conceive a child that would carry the same curse as its father. Not so long ago, she had been certain he would never marry.
She twisted out of his grasp. “Nay.”
“Aye. You will be my bride within a fortnight.”
“But why? You do not love me!”
“Your father’s witch cursed me. Perhaps your father will reconsider my offer when he realizes the curse will now fall on his own kin.”
“And on yours, as well!” she exclaimed in horror. “Would you be so cruel as to condemn your own son to the kind of life you lead?”
He recoiled as if she had slapped him. Did she truly think he would get her with child, that he would condemn a son of his to the life he led? If so, so be it. Let her think what she would.
“My life is not as bad as it once was.” His gaze slid over her body, his dark eyes hot and hungry and filled with desire.
“Nay!” she exclaimed. “I will not marry you. I will not allow you to use me or any son we might have to avenge yourself on my father.”
“You will be my wife or my enemy,” he said coldly. “The choice is yours.”
She squared her shoulders, her eyes flashing defiance. “I am already your enemy!”
“Are you?” he asked.
His voice, no longer cold, was as warm and seductive as honeyed wine.
She lifted her chin defiantly. “I will take my own life rather than marry you.”
“We shall see. Make whatever preparations you need. We wed in a fortnight.”
