There were other things to note, but Rowena was so arrested by the sight of what looked like a pile of chains in the center of the bed, she did not notice the man standing on the other side of the bed, not until he came around it.
His very height proclaimed him, if his fine black tunic and chausses did not—and his mouth, aye, that thin, cruelly shaped slash. It took her a moment more to see the dark blond hair, not quite brown with its golden sheen, and then the eyes, silver and blazing with emotion.
Her own eyes grew enormous, the single word “You” formed on her lips without sound, and then merciful blackness rose up to engulf her.
“Here now,” John grunted as he caught her just before she hit the floor.
Warrick leaped forward to almost yank her out of the older man’s arms. He carried her to the bed and laid her out on it. One of her small hands came to rest on the chain beside her. She would feel it when she awoke. He smiled.
“I cannot imagine what caused that, my lord,” John said anxiously at his back. “She has been eating good.”
Warrick did not take his eyes off the flaxen-haired wench. “So you did pamper her? She has no rat bites to scar that smooth skin?”
John’s answer was a loud snort. Warrick knew his man. John was well known for his soft heart and gentleness with all creatures.
Warrick had been furious with himself after he had sent the order that John Giffard alone was to guard her. But he did not send another man to rescind it. He did not want her to suffer until he was there to make her suffer. And he did not want her small, delicate body shrunken with deprivation, not for what he planned. But mostly, he wanted no other man to touch her, at least not until he knew if she had been successful in her thievery. According to John, she had been.
“She is such a sweet, gentle lady, my lord. What did she do to warrant the dungeon?”
“Her crime was against me personally, so great I cannot speak of it.”
“Surely not!”
“You have let that pretty face fool you, John. She is naught but a greedy wench who wouldst do aught, no matter how atrocious, to see her ends met. She possesses a stubborn core of determination worthy of a man. She—” He stopped, realizing he was saying more than was necessary. He did not need to explain his motives to any man. “I have stripped her of the title she gained in wedding Godwine Lyons, so call her lady no more. And you need not concern yourself with her further. She will not return to the dungeon—for now.”
Warrick felt John’s need to argue, though he did not look back at him to see it. The man would be wise not to overstep his bounds this once, and John must have sensed that, for he quietly left the solar without saying anything more.
Warrick continued to stare at his prisoner, not even minding that her faint was denying him his revenge. He could be patient now that the time was finally at hand, though he had not been patient until now. Yet he had stayed away apurpose, knowing full well that he could not be here without beginning the revenge he had decided on. Only that would not suit. He had to know first if the wench had been successful in her greedy scheme.
Now he knew, and that doubled her crime against him. If he had thought to spare her even a little, which he had not, her breeding settled the matter, and brought his fury back with a vengeance. She carriedhischild.She had no right to it!
He had known the very moment she recognized him, had seen the fear that had caused her to faint. He had gloried in that fear. He had not been sure if she had recognized him in Robert’s borrowed armor in the bailey at Kirkburough. Now he knew she had not. But she did now. And mayhap by now she had learned what manner of man he was, had heard of his reputation for exacting utter destruction on anyone so unwise as to encroach on what was his. That he had never sought revenge on a woman before mattered not. He had only needed to decide what would be an appropriate retaliation for one of her sex, and he had had ample time to do that while he had searched for Isabella.
That had been a fruitless endeavor. When one of his messengers had returned to tell him that his future bride had not arrived at Fulkhurst, he had been thankful for a reason to delay his own arrival there. But searching for her had been an effort in frustration. There were simply too many different routes she could have taken along the way to Fulkhurst. Finally, he had left the matter of finding her to her father, who was certainly more upset by her disappearance than he was himself. Andthathad annoyed him, too, that it was more thoughts of this wench here that had plagued him the whole while, when he should have been concerned only with his missing bride.
She sighed, and Warrick’s breath held, waiting, willing her to open those large sapphire eyes. Her lips were parted. He remembered the lushness of them, remembered the hot feel of them against his skin whenever she had had to work harder at coaxing his body’s response. Her flaxen tresses were in two thick braids, one beneath her, the other curled across her breasts. He remembered those breasts, full and tempting, but never his to touch or taste, revealed to him only to inflame his senses, to aid in his defeat. He had them to touch now, and it was all he could do not to rip her gown open. But not yet. Not yet. She had to be fully aware of everything he did to her, just as he had been agonizingly aware of everything she had done to him.
She stretched, making a soft sound in her throat, then stilled, except for her hand. He watched the fingers of the hand that rested on the chains feel the cold iron links, watched the frown that creased her brow as she wondered what it was.
“A souvenir,” he explained. “From Kirkburough.”
Her eyes flew open, enormous eyes dominating her small oval face. She made another sound, as if she were strangling. Her fear was palpable, but it was too much, more like utter terror. He would be furious if she fainted again.
Rowena wished she could. God’s mercy, no wonder she had spent these weeks in a dungeon. It had naught to do with her properties. She was going to die, but not by mere deprivation as she had thought. She remembered this man’s hatred and knew he would probably torture her to death. She knew now why he had fought so violently against her rape of him. He was no villein to be in awe of her, but a powerful warlord, a man no one would dare treat as they had done. And Gilbert, that utter, utter fool, had not even known he had captured his worst enemy. Like as not Fulkhurst did not know who she was, either, or that it washisown worst enemy who had captured him.
A laugh bubbled up in her throat. She could not stop it. If she had not already lost her mind, she soon would. And he just stood there beside the bed, frowning down at her. Had she thought him handsome? A delusion. That mouth, those chilling eyes—he was a living nightmare, her nightmare, a man who defined cruelty with every line of his face.
She began to shake in reaction. He swore foully and brought his hand to her throat with firm pressure. Her eyes flared even wider.
“Do you faint again, I will beat you,” he growled.
Was that supposed to reassure her? But he released her and moved away from the bed. In self-preservation she watched him, but he only went to the cold hearth and stood there staring down at it.
From behind, he was not a monster, just a man. His dark gold hair was not really curly, yet it curled at his neck. It looked soft, though she had never dared to bring her hand that close to his face to touch it. His body was still appealing to the eye. She had known he would be tall, just not this tall. And he held himself so taut with emotion now, the tunic pulled tight across his broad back and shoulders.
Minutes passed, then more minutes, and he did not turn to look her way. Rowena stopped shaking and took several deep breaths. Her torture would not begin yet, not here in his solar. He had brought her here likely only to frighten her—and to gloat. The captive was now the captor.
“Have you calmed yourself, wench?”
