Lifting her eyes, she looked around her father’s private chamber. No one had made use of the room since his passing, but Gwendolen had nevertheless instructed the servants to come in and dust once a week, and change the bed linens, for she’d wanted the room prepared at all times for her brother’s return. Now it seemed she’d had it prepared instead for her enemy. And for her own deflowering.
She crossed to the bed, where sunshine beamed in through the leaded windows and cast bright squares of light on the crimson coverings. The book her father had been reading lay open on the table beside the lamp. No one had touched the book, nor had anyone moved his shoes, which remained exactly where he’d left them, beside the bed, on the night he died.
Gwendolen looked down at them. They were well worn and formed to the shape of his feet.
What was it about a man’s shoes that made it seem as if he were still alive in the world, and would eventually come home? They were concrete evidence of his existence, she supposed—a part of his physical being. They reminded her of his courage and strength.
She knelt down and ran a finger over one of the leather toes and resolved that she, too, would continue to be brave. No matter what happened, no matter what her conqueror did to her, she would not fall apart. She would not succumb to the power he’d wielded over her in the hall just now, when he’d sealed their bargain with a kiss. She had been caught off guard, that was all, and it would not happen again. Next time she would be prepared for his touch, and the sensations it aroused, and would not become spellbound. Let him come now, and she would fulfill her part of the bargain with courage, dignity, and decorum.
Footsteps sounded in the corridor, and a key turned in the lock. Her conqueror entered the room, and she suddenly found herself wishing that destiny was not paying such close attention to her lofty aspirations.
She rose to her feet.
“I told you to wait for me in bed.” He gestured toward her with a hand. “Yet, here you stand before me doing the opposite. Are you simpleminded, lass? Or just inept when it comes to following orders?”
“I am the daughter of a great laird, not one of your minions.”
“But you are soon to be my wife.”
“Soon, perhaps,” she replied. “But we are not yet married, nor will we ever be, if you continue to behave like a savage.”
With a steely note of warning in his eyes, he watched her move farther away from the bed. “Did you not learn anything in the hall just now? I won’t be pushed, nor will I tolerate a disobedient wife.”
“And what are you going to do with me if I defy you? Beat me? Kill me? That won’t get you the child you want.”
He regarded her with increasing interest. “There are a dozen ways I could have you on your back in an instant, lass, whether we’re married or not, and none of them will be gentle or chivalrous—so I suggest you mind that sharp tongue of yours.”
She turned to the window, feeling desperate again. “Haven’t you had enough violence for one day? Besides, wouldn’t it be more pleasant for you if I were willing, and eager?”
God help her, she was scraping the bottom of the barrel now.
He strode forward, slowly. “Nowthatsounds intriguing. How eager would you be? Give me an example.”
He was too clever, too intuitive, for he must have known she didn’t have the slightest clue how to convey “eagerness” once he began the dreaded deflowering. The question knocked her off balance completely.
“Come now,” he said. “Don’t be shy. How eager will you be when I begin to unlace you?”
She wet her lips and felt her insides begin to tremble again. “That depends on how merciful you are.”
She was rather proud of that shrewd deflection of the question.
“And how gifted an actressyouare.” He strode closer, his heavy broadsword bouncing lightly against his hip, and she had to steel herself against the daunting impact of his approach. He was tall and mighty, and the perfection of his golden features had a way of distracting her from his more degenerate intentions. She found herself gaping up at those soft full lips and intense blue eyes, and wondering how such perfection was even possible in the human form—villainous or otherwise.
“I’ll be frank with you,” he said, touching her cheek with the back of a finger. “Merciful or not, I’ll be having you in my bed, so you may as well part with any foolish hopes that I’ll be easily manipulated or deterred by your precious innocence, or your feminine charms, bountiful as they may be. I won’t be sympathetic to any begging or pleading, either. You’ll not weaken or outwit me, nor will you soften my heart with these futile attempts at distraction. There’s not really much of a heart there to work with, you see, so don’t bother to waste your time. Just submit, and accept that this is the way things are. I’ll not be rough or cruel to you—as long as you remember not to cross me—and you may even find you enjoy certain things.”
“Certain things? Like what, precisely? Your knife at my throat each night?”
Something flickered in his eyes—something she had not seen before—and she wondered if he was amused.
“That’s a bit dramatic,” he said. “I think you might be making too much of my weapons. But don’t be troubled, lass. I’ll put them away when I make love to you.”
“Make love? Is that what we’re going to call it?”
“Would you prefer I use another turn of phrase? I’d be more than happy to, though you don’t strike me as the type who likes to say ‘shag’ or ‘f—”
“Enough! Please!” She backed away, and stumbled over her feet. “Let’s just not… Let’s not call it anything. I’d prefer not to speak of it at all.”
His eyes glimmered with renewed interest as he followed her across the room. “Why not?”
