A Kingdom Of Dreams-Chapter 9

Wrapped in a bedgown of soft cream wool, Jennifer gazed out the tiny window of her bedchamber the next morning, her eyes roving over the wooded hills just beyond the castle walls. Shifting her attention to the bailey below, she slowly scanned the thick walls surrounding it, looking for some sort of escape route… signs of a concealed door. There had to be one; Merrick had one inset into its wall, concealed behind an overgrowth of bushes; as far as she knew all castles had one which the residents could use for escape should an enemy penetrate the outer defenses. Despite her belief that such a door must exist, she could see no sign of it, or even a crack in the ten-foot-thick wall that she and Brenna might squeeze through. Raising her gaze, she watched the guards moving ceaselessly along the wall walk, their eyes trained on the road and surrounding hills. The domestic staff might be slovenly and slothful and sorely in need of training and direction, but the earl had not ignored the castle's defenses, she thought glumly. Every guard was alert, and they were posted at twenty-foot intervals.

The earl had told her that her father had been notified that Brenna and she were his captives. That being the case, her father would have no trouble tracing an army of five thousand men to Hardin. If he meant to try to rescue them, then Hardin was no more than two days' hard ride—or a five-day march—from Merrick. But how on earth her father would be able to rescue her from such an incredibly well-fortified castle, she couldn't begin to imagine. Which brought her back to the same confounding problem she'd faced all along: It was up to her to think of some way to escape.

Her stomach growled, reminding her she'd had nothing to eat since before noon yesterday, and she turned away from the window in order to get dressed and go down to the hall. Starvation was no solution to her problem, she decided with a sigh as she walked over to the trunks of clothes that had been carried into her chamber this morning. Besides, if she didn't go down, she had no doubt that the earl would simply come fetch her, even if he had to break down her door.
She'd been able to soak in a wooden tub filled with hot water this morning, and at least she had the pleasure of feeling clean from her scalp to her toes. A dip in a freezing stream, she reflected, thinking back upon the last weeks, could not compare to warm water and a piece of soap.

The first trunk was filled with gowns belonging to the former lady of the castle and her daughters, many of which reminded Jenny of the lovely, whimsical style her Aunt Elinor preferred—the gowns ladies had worn with high conical headdresses and veils trailing to the floor. Although the gowns were no longer in fashion, no expense had been spared in the cloth, for there were rich satins and velvets and embroidered silks. Since all of them were too ornate for the occasion, and her position in this household, Jenny opened the next trunk. A gasp of sheer, feminine delight escaped her lips as she carefully removed a gown of softest cashmere.

She'd just finished smoothing her hair into place when a servant rapped on her door and called in a shrill, panicky voice, "Milady, his lordship bade me tell you that if yer not down in the hall in five minutes to break yer fast, he'll come up here and bring you down hisself!"

Rather than let the earl think she was yielding from fear of that threat, Jenny called out, "You may tell his lordship that I intended to come down and that I'll be there in a few minutes."

Jenny waited what she deemed to be a "few" minutes, then she left the bedchamber. The stairway leading from the sleeping chambers above to the great hall below was steep and narrow, just like the one at Merrick, designed so that, in the event attackers gained entrance into the hall, they would have to fight their way upstairs with their sword arm blocked by the stone wall, while the defenders would not be nearly so hampered. Unlike the one at Merrick, however, this one was hung with spider webs. Shuddering as she imagined the leggy inhabitants of those webs, Jenny quickened her pace.

Lounging back in his chair, Royce watched the stairs, his jaw hardened with resolve, his mind mentally clicking off the passing minutes until her time ran out. The hall was mostly empty, save for a few of the knights who were lingering over their cups of ale, and the serfs who were clearing away the remnants of the morning meal.

Her time was up! he decided furiously and shoved back his chair with a force that made the legs screech against the flagstones. Then he stood stock still. Coming toward him in a soft, high-waisted gown the color of yellow sunlight was Jennifer Merrick. But not the charming nymph he'd become accustomed to seeing. In a transformation that both unnerved and enthralled him, the breathtaking young woman coming toward him was a countess fit to take her place in the most glittering courts in the land. Her hair was parted at the center, falling like a shimmering, red-gold waterfall, waving over her shoulders and down her back all the way to her waist, where it ended in thick curls.

The V-neck of her gown accented her full breasts, then it fell gently over her graceful hips in a long train; wide sleeves were turned back into cuffs at her wrists, then allowed to drape from her arms to her knees.

Royce had the odd sensation that she had become someone else, but when she drew near, there was no mistaking those brilliant blue eyes or that entrancing face.

She stopped in front of him, and his decision to have her, no matter how much trouble she put him to, now became an unshakable resolution. A slow, admiring smile drifted across his face as he said, "What a chameleon you are!"

Her eyes snapped with indignation. "Lizard?"

Royce bit back a laugh, trying to keep his eyes off the alluring display of smooth flesh exposed by the neckline of her gown, and to remember how justifiably annoyed with her he was. "I meant," he said levelly, "that you are changeable."

Jenny was not unaware of the odd, possessive gleam in his gray eyes as they roved over her, but she was momentarily distracted by the disquieting discovery of how handsome and elegant he looked in a deep blue tunic of the finest wool that set off the muscular width of his shoulders, its full sleeves drawn tightly at the wrists and trimmed with silver threads. A belt of flat silver disks rode low on his hips, from which hung a short sword with a large sapphire in its hilt. Below that, Jenny refused to look.

It finally dawned on her he was looking at her hair, and Jennifer belatedly realized that she was bareheaded. Reaching back, she caught up the wide yellow hood attached to her gown and pulled it up and forward, so that it framed her face and draped in graceful folds at her shoulders as it was meant to do.

"It's lovely," Royce said, watching her, "but I'd prefer to see your hair uncovered."

He was bent on charming her again today, she realized with a sinking feeling; she found it easier to deal with him when they were engaged in open hostilities than when he was being nice. Forcing herself to confront only one problem at a time, Jenny concentrated on his suggestion that she uncover her hair. "As you must surely know," she replied with cool civility as he pulled out a chair for her, " 'tis improper for any but young girls and brides to be bareheaded. A woman is required to conceal her—"

"Charms?" Royce provided, his appreciative gaze sliding over her hair and face and breasts.

"Yes."

"Because 'twas Eve who tempted Adam?" he speculated, stating what he knew was a religious belief.

Jenny reached for a trencher of porridge. "Yes."

"It has always seemed to me," he mockingly observed, "that what tempted him was an apple, in which case, 'twas gluttony that caused his downfall, not lust."

Knowing how she had twice fallen into his arms after just such lighthearted discourse as this, Jenny absolutely refused to be amused or shocked by that heresy, or even to venture any reply. Instead, she broached another topic in a carefully civil tone. "Would you be willing to reconsider your edict that my sister and I are to be separated?"

He quirked a speculative brow at her, "Has your disposition improved?"

His infuriating, unshakable calm, combined with his arrogance, nearly choked her. After a long moment, while she fought to dislodge the word from her throat, Jenny managed to say, "Yes."

Satisfied, Royce looked round at the serf hovering near his elbow and said, "Tell Lady Brenna her sister awaits her here." Then he turned back to Jennifer, pleasuring himself with the sight of her delicate profile. "Go ahead and eat."

"I was waiting for you to begin."

"I'm not hungry." An hour ago, he'd been ravenous, Royce thought wryly; now the only appetite he possessed was for her.

Famished from her self-imposed fast, Jenny did as he suggested and took a spoonful of porridge. Soon, however, his thoughtful gaze began to unnerve her. With a morsel of food partway to her lips, she slanted him a wary, sideways look. "Why are you watching me?"

Whatever answer he'd been about to give was interrupted by the serf who came rushing up to Jennifer and burst out in alarm, "It—it's your sister, milady. She wants you. She's coughin' in a way what makes me flesh crawl!

"Jenny's face drained of color. "Dear God, no!" she whispered, already bolting from her chair. "Not now —not here!"

"What do you mean?" Accustomed to dealing with every sort of emergency on a battlefield, Royce calmly put a restraining hand on her wrist.

"Brenna has an ailment of the chest—" Jenny explained desperately. "The attacks usually begin with coughing, and later she cannot breathe."

She tried to tug free of his grasp, but Royce stood up and accompanied her from the hall. "There must be some way to ease her."

"Not here!" Jenny said, so frightened her words were jumbled. "My Aunt Elinor mixes an aromatic—she knows more about herbs and cures than anyone in Scotland—there's some of it at the abbey."

"What's in it? Perhaps—"

"I don't know!" Jenny cried, almost pulling him up the steep steps. "All I know is the liquid has to be heated until steam comes from it, then Brenna breathes it, and it eases her."

Royce pushed open the door to Brenna's bedchamber, and Jenny raced to her bedside, her eyes frantically searching her sister's ashen face.

"Jenny?" Brenna whispered, clutching Jenny's hand, then she stopped, her body racked with violent spasms of coughing that lifted her spine clear off the bed. "I-I'm sick again," she gasped weakly.

"Don't worry," Jenny soothed, bending low and brushing the tangled blond curls from Brenna's forehead. "Don't worry—"

Brenna's anguished eyes shifted to the threatening figure of the earl looming in the doorway. "We have to go home," she told him, "I need the"—another siege of shrill, hacking coughing gripped her—"need the potion!"

Her heart hammering in mounting fear, Jenny looked over her shoulder at Royce. "Let her go home, please!"

"Nay, I think—"

Beside herself with fear, Jenny let go of Brenna's hand and hurried to the doorway motioning to Royce to follow her out of the chamber. Closing the door behind her, so her words wouldn't further distress Brenna, she faced her captor, her expression desperate. "Brenna can die from this without my aunt's aromatic. Her heart stopped beating the last time!"

Royce did not entirely believe the blond girl was actually in danger of death, but it was obvious Jennifer did believe it, and equally obvious that Brenna was not feigning that cough.

Jenny saw indecision flicker across his hard features and, thinking he was about to refuse, she tried to soften him by deliberately abasing herself. "You said I am too proud and I—I am," she said, laying her hand on his chest in supplication. "If you will let Brenna go, I'll do any humble task you give me. I'll scrub the floors. I'll wait upon you—I'll cook your food in the kitchen. I swear I'll repay you in a hundred ways."

Royce glanced down at the small, delicate hand laid upon his chest; heat was seeping through his tunic, desire already tightening his loins—and that with only her hand upon his chest. He didn't understand why she had such a volatile effect on him, but he understood that he wanted her—he wanted her willing and warm in his arms. And to accomplish that, he was prepared to do the first truly irrational thing in his life: he was prepared to let his most valuable hostage go—for despite Jennifer's belief that Lord Merrick was a loving—if stern—father, some of what she'd said made Royce doubt that the man had any deep feelings for his "troublesome" daughter.

Jenny's huge, fear-widened eyes were riveted to his face. "Please," she whispered, mistaking his silence for refusal. "I'll do anything. I'll kneel to you. Please, you have only to tell me what you want."

He finally spoke and Jenny tensed with hope, too overwrought to notice the odd, meaningful note in his voice as he said, "Anything?"

She nodded vigorously. "Anything—I'll have this castle set to rights and ready to receive a king within a few weeks, I'll say prayers for you each—"

" 'Tis not prayers I want," he interrupted.

Desperate to reach an agreement before he changed his mind, she said, "Then, tell me what it is you do want."

Implacably he stated, "You."

Jennifer's hand fell away from his tunic as he continued without emotion, "I do not want you on your knees, I want you in my bed. Willingly."

Her relief that he was willing to let Brenna leave was temporarily overwhelmed by blazing animosity at what he was demanding in return.

He was sacrificing nothing by releasing Brenna, for he would still have Jenny as hostage, yet he was requiring that she sacrifice everything. In willingly surrendering her honor to him, she would become a harlot; a disgrace to herself, her family, and all she held dear. True, she had offered herself to him once before—or nearly so—but what she had asked in return would have saved hundreds—mayhaps thousands—of lives. Lives of people she loved.

Moreover, when she'd made that offer, she'd been half-dazed from his passionate kisses and caresses. Now, however, she saw with cold clarity what the results of this bargain would be.
Behind her, Brenna's coughing rose to a terrible crescendo and Jenny shuddered with alarm; alarm for herself and her sister.

"Do we have a bargain?" he asked calmly.

Jenny lifted her small chin, looking like a proud young queen who'd just been stabbed by someone she trusted. "I was mistaken in you, my lord," she said bitterly. "I credited you with honor when you said me nay two days ago—for you could have promised me what I asked, taken what I offered, and then attacked Merrick anyway. Now I see 'twasn't honor, but arrogance. A barbarian has no honor."

Even when she knew she was vanquished, she was splendid, Royce thought, suppressing an admiring smile as he looked into her stormy blue eyes. "Is the bargain I offer you so loathsome?" he asked quietly, putting his hands on her stiff arms. "In truth, I have no need to bargain with you at all, Jennifer, and you know it. I could have taken you by force any time these past days."

Jennifer knew that and, although her resentment remained, she had to fight against falling under the spell of his deep voice as he continued, "I want you, and if that makes me a barbarian in your eyes, then so be it, but it doesn't have to be that way. If you let me, I'll make it good between us. There'll be no shame nor pain for you in my bed—except pain I must cause you the first time. After that, there will be only pleasure."

Coming from another knight, that speech might have been enough to sway the most sophisticated courtesan. Coming from England's most feared warrior to an unworldly, convent-bred Scottish girl, the effect was devastating. Jennifer felt blood rushing to her cheeks and a weak, trembling feeling from the pit of her stomach to her knees, as she was suddenly assaulted by memories of his heated kisses and caresses.

"Do we have a bargain?" Royce asked, his long fingers sliding up and down her arms in an unconscious caress. It occurred to him he'd just delivered the tenderest speech he'd ever spoken to a woman.

Jenny hesitated an endless moment, knowing she had no alternative, and then she felt herself nod imperceptibly.

"You'll keep your part of it?"

Jenny realized he was referring to the issue of her willingness, and this time her hesitation was longer. She wanted to hate him for this. She stood there, trying to do it, but some small, insistent voice reminded her sensibly that, at the hands of any other captor, she would undoubtedly have suffered a far worse fate already than the one he proposed. A brutal, unspeakable fate.
Staring up at his ruggedly chiseled face, she searched for some sign he might later relent, but instead of finding an answer, she suddenly became aware of how far back she had to tilt her head to look at him and how small she was in comparison to his height and breadth. Confronted with his size, strength, and indomitable will, she had no choice, and she knew it. And realizing that made her defeat a little less painful, for she was completely outflanked and overpowered by a vastly superior force.

She met his gaze unflinchingly, proud even when she was surrendering. "I'll keep my part of the bargain."

"I'll have your word on it," he insisted when another siege of violent coughing drew her attention toward Brenna's chamber.

Jenny looked at him in surprise. The last time she'd offered her word to him, he'd acted as if her word meant nothing, which wasn't surprising. Men, including her father, placed no value on the word of a mere woman. Evidently, Lord Westmoreland had changed his mind, and that amazed her. Feeling extremely uneasy and slightly proud at this, her first chance to have her pledge sought and honored, she whispered, "I give you my word."

He nodded, satisfied. "In that case, I'll go with you and you can tell your sister she's being taken back to the abbey. After that, you will not be permitted to be alone with her."

"Why ever not?" Jenny gasped.

"Because I doubt your sister has paid enough heed to Hardin's defenses to tell your father anything. You, however," he added in a voice of amused irony, "were calculating the thickness of its walls and counting my sentries as we rode across the drawbridge."

"No! Not without you!" Brenna cried when she heard she was being taken back to the abbey. "Jenny must come with me," she burst out, her gaze on Lord Westmoreland, "she must!" And for one astonishing moment, Jenny could have sworn Brenna looked more frustrated than frightened or sick.

An hour later, one hundred Westmoreland knights led by Stefan Westmoreland, were mounted and ready to leave the bailey. "Take care," Jennifer said, bending over Brenna, who was cozily ensconced in a cart atop a mound of bedding and pillows.

"I thought he would allow you to accompany me," Brenna coughed bitterly, her accusing glance sliding to the earl.

"Don't exhaust your strength with talking," Jenny said, reaching behind Brenna and trying to plump the feather pillows beneath her head and shoulders.Turning, Royce gave the order, and heavy chains and weights were set in motion. Amidst a great clanking of metal and groaning of timbers, the spiked portcullis was raised and the drawbridge slowly fell forward. The knights spurred their mounts, Jennifer stepped back, and the caravan began moving across the drawbridge. Blue pennants emblazoned with the head of a snarling black wolf waved and snapped in the breeze, held by men at the front and the rear of the caravan, and Jenny's gaze clung to them. The insignia of the Wolf would protect Brenna until they reached the border; after that, if Lord Westmoreland's men were attacked, Brenna's name would needs be her protection

The drawbridge was being raised again, blocking Jenny's view, and Lord Westmoreland put his hand on her elbow, turning her back toward the hall. Jenny followed, but her mind was on those sinister pennants with their deliberately malevolent image of a wolf with white fangs. Until today, the men had carried standards displaying the king of England's coat of arms—gold lions and trefoils.

"If you're worried that I mean to extract immediate payment on your part of the bargain," Royce said dryly, studying her frown, "then you may put your mind at ease. I have duties to occupy me until supper."

Jenny had no desire to think about her bargain, let alone discuss it, and she said quickly, "I—I was wondering why the knights who left just now were carrying your pennant, not your king's."
"Because they're my knights, not Henry's," he replied. "Their allegiance is to me."

Jenny drew up short in the middle of the bailey; Henry VII had reportedly made it illegal for his nobles to keep armies of their own. "But I thought 'twas illegal for English nobles to have their own army of knights."

"In my case, Henry decided to make an exception."

"Why?"

His brows lifted over sardonic gray eyes. "Perhaps because he trusts me?" Royce ventured, feeling no compunction to enlighten her beyond that.

A Kingdom Of Dreams-Chapter 8

By the time they were nearing Hardin castle late the following day, Royce was no longer feeling quite so affable. Instead of enjoying her wit as he'd hoped to do, he found himself riding beside a young woman who responded to his teasing comments or serious observations with a blank, polite stare designed to make him feel like a court jester with bells on his hat. Today, she had changed her tactic. Now, instead of treating him to silence, she responded to any remark of his by asking him a question about things which he could not and would not discuss with her—-such as the date he planned to attack Merrick, the number of men he intended to bring with him, and how long he meant to keep her prisoner.

If her intent was to illustrate to him in the clearest possible way that she was the victim of brute force, and that he was the brute, she'd achieved her goal. If her intent was to annoy him, she was beginning to succeed there, too.

Jennifer was not unaware that she'd managed to ruin the journey for him, but she was not as delighted with her success as Royce supposed. In fact, as she scanned the craggy hills for some sign of a castle, she felt little more than exhaustion from the strain of trying to understand the enigmatic male beside her, and her own reactions to him. The earl had told her he wanted her, and he obviously wanted her badly enough to tolerate two days of rudeness from her, which was somewhat soothing to her battered pride. On the other hand, he did not want her badly enough to spare her kinsmen or her home.

Mother Ambrose had cautioned her about the "effect" Jenny might have on men; evidently, Jenny decided, the wise abbess must have meant her "effect would make them behave like hateful, tender, rude, unpredictable madmen—all in the space of one hour. With a sigh, Jenny gave up trying to understand any of it. She simply wanted to go home, or back to the abbey, where at least she knew what to expect from people. She stole a glance behind her and saw Brenna engaged in pleasant conversation with Stefan Westmoreland, who'd been acting as her escort ever since Jenny had been forced to ride at the front, with his brother. The fact that Brenna was safe and seemed content was the only bright spot in Jenny's dismal predicament.
Hardin castle came into view just before dusk. Situated high atop a bluff, it loomed like an immense fortress, sprawling in all directions, its mellowed stone walls lit by the sinking sun. Jenny's heart plummeted; it was five times larger than Merrick keep and it looked impregnable. Bright blue flags were flying from the castle's six round towers, proclaiming that the lord of the castle was expected to be in residence by eventide.

Their horses clattered across the drawbridge and into the bailey of the castle, and servants ran out into the courtyard to take hold of horses' bridles and make themselves useful to the new arrivals. The earl came around to lift Jenny down from her little mare, then he escorted her into the hall. A stooped, elderly man, who Jenny assumed must be the steward, approached, and Royce began issuing orders: "Have someone fetch refreshment for myself and my—" In the split second Royce took to decide on the right term to apply to Jennifer, the old steward took one look at the way she was dressed, and his contemptuous expression registered his own conclusion: Slut. "—my guest," Royce stated.

Being mistaken for one of the strumpets who traveled along with armies was the last and final indignity Jennifer could bear. Yanking her mortified gaze from the old man's scrutiny, she pretended to inspect the great hall while the earl continued issuing orders. He had told her that King Henry had only recently given him Hardin, and that he'd not been here before. As Jenny glanced about, her woman's eyes noticed at once that, although Hardin castle was huge, it was ill kept. The rushes on the floor had not been changed in years, cobwebs hung from the high, timbered ceiling like thick gray curtains, and the servants were slovenly.

"Would you like something to eat?" Royce asked, turning to her.

In a proud, angry effort to disabuse the old steward —and his entire staff of slatternly servants—that she was not what she appeared to be, Jennifer turned to the earl and coldly replied, "No, I would not. I would like to be shown to a chamber, preferably one somewhat cleaner than this hall, and I would like a bath and some clean clothing, if any of that is possible in this—this pile of rocks."

Had Royce not seen the look the steward had given her, he would have reacted far more strongly to her words and her tone, but having seen it, he kept his temper under control. Turning to the steward he said, "Conduct Countess Merrick to the chamber next to mine." To Jennifer he said coolly, "Be down here for supper in two hours."

Any gratitude Jenny might have felt at his deliberate use of her title was obliterated by her turmoil at the location he'd chosen for her bedchamber. "I'll dine in my chamber, behind a locked door, or not at all," she informed him.

This wholly unacceptable piece of public defiance before fifty gaping serfs, added to the rest of her behavior for the last two days, finally convinced Royce that a sterner reprisal was in order, and he provided it unhesitatingly. "Jennifer," he said in a calm, uncompromising voice that completely belied the harshness of the punishment he was about to deliver, "until your disposition improves, your visits with your sister are over."

Jennifer paled, and Brenna, who was just being escorted into the hall by Stefan Westmoreland, sent a pleading look first to Jenny and then to the man beside her. To Jennifer's amazement, Stefan spoke up. "Royce, your edict is as much a punishment to Lady Brenna, who has done nothing—"

He broke off at the look of icy displeasure his brother sent him.

Freshly bathed and shaven, Royce sat at the table in the great hall with his knights and his brother. The servants had laid out trenchers filled with watery venison stew which was growing cool. Royce's attention, however, was not on the unappetizing food; he was watching the narrow steps that wound down from the bedchambers above, trying to decide whether or not to go up there and drag both women down, for, in an amazing show of spirit, Brenna had evidently chosen to join in her sister's rebellion and had ignored the servants' announcement that supper was being served below.

'They can go without eating," Royce decreed finally and picked up his eating dagger.

Long after the trestle tables had been dismantled and stacked against the walls, Royce remained sitting in the hall staring into the fire, his feet propped on a stool. His earlier intention of bedding Jennifer tonight had fallen by the wayside in the press of dozens of problems and decisions that had required his attention almost from the moment he'd started to sup. He considered going up to her chamber now, despite the lateness of the hour, but in the mood he was in, he was more likely to subdue her rebellion with brute force, rather than gently seducing her. After experiencing the exquisite pleasure of the way she felt in his arms when she was willing, he was reluctant to settle for anything less.

Godfrey and Eustace walked into the hall, relaxed and smiling after a night obviously spent with buxom castle wenches, and Royce's thoughts switched instantly to matters of a slightly different bent. Glancing at Godfrey, he said, "Instruct the sentries at the gate to detain anyone who seeks admittance and to notify me."

The knight nodded, but his handsome face was puzzled as he said, "If you're thinking of Merrick, he can't gather an army and get it here in less than a month."

"I'm not expecting an attack, I'm expecting some sort of trickery. If he attacks Hardin, he risks having his daughters slain in the battle, either accidentally by his own men or—he'll assume—by us. Since an attack is unthinkable under these circumstances, he'll have no choice but to try to get the women out. In order to do it, he'd have to get his people in here first. I've ordered the steward not to employ any additional servants unless they're specifically known to be from the village."

When both knights nodded, Royce abruptly stood up and started toward the stone steps at the end of the hall, then he turned back, his brows knitted into a slight frown. "Has Stefan said or done anything to give you the impression he's developing an… interest… in the younger girl?"
The two knights—both older than Stefan—looked at each other and then at Royce, shaking their heads in the negative. "Why do you ask it?" Eustace asked. "Because," Royce said wryly, "he leapt to her defense this afternoon when I ordered the women separated." Shrugging, he accepted his friends' opinion and headed up to his bedchamber.

A Kingdom Of Dreams-Chapter 7

At sunrise the tents were dismantled and the sound of continuous, rolling thunder filled the air as five thousand mounted knights, mercenaries, and squires moved out of the valley, followed by heavy wagons groaning beneath the weight of bombards, mortars, battering rams, catapults, and all the equipment and supplies necessary for a siege.

To Jenny, who was riding beside Brenna, heavily guarded on both sides by armed knights, the world became an unreal blur of noise and dust and inner confusion. She didn't know where she was going, or where she was, or even who she was. It was as if the whole world was in upheaval and everyone had changed somehow. Now it was Brenna who cast reassuring smiles at Jenny, while Jenny, who had thought herself reasonably intelligent, found herself watching—hoping for a glimpse of Royce Westmoreland!

She saw him several times as he rode past her, and it was as if he, too, was a stranger. Mounted on a huge black destrier, and clad in sinister black from his tall boots to the mantle that draped his powerful shoulders and billowed out behind him, he was the most frighteningly overpowering figure that Jenny had ever beheld—a deadly stranger bent on destroying her family, her clan, and everything she held dear.

That night as she lay beside Brenna, staring up at the stars, she tried not to think of the ugly siege tower that cast its ominous shadow across the meadow—the tower that would soon be moved into place against Merrick keep's ancient walls. Before, in the valley, she'd glimpsed it among the trees, but she'd never been certain what it was. Or perhaps she simply hadn't wanted her fears confirmed.

Now, she could think of little else, and she found herself clinging desperately to Brenna's prediction that King James might send forces to help her clan in the battle. And all the while, some tiny part of her refused to believe there was going to be a battle. Perhaps it was because she could not quite believe that the man who'd kissed and touched her with such passionate tenderness could actually mean to turn around and, coldly and unemotionally, slay her family and her clan. In some gentle, naive part of her heart, Jenny could not believe the man who teased and laughed with her last night could be capable of that.


But then, she could not entirely believe last night had ever happened. Last night he had been a tender, persuasive, insistent lover. Today he was a stranger who was capable of forgetting she existed.

Royce had not forgotten she existed—not even on the second day of their journey. Memories of the way she'd felt in his arms, the heady sweetness of her kisses and tentative caresses, had kept him awake for two consecutive nights. All day yesterday, as he'd ridden past the columns of his men, he'd found himself watching for a glimpse of her.

Even now, as he rode at the head of his army and squinted at the sun, trying to gauge the time, her musical laughter tinkled like bells on the fringes of his mind. He shook his head, as if to clear it, and suddenly she was looking at him with that jaunty sideways smile of hers…

Why do you think I decided not to marry? he'd said.

Because no suitable lady has asked you? she'd teased.

He heard her muffled chuckle as she tried to look reproving: Do not ever attempt to dazzle your lady fair with your glib flattery, milord, for you haven't a prayer of success …
Based on what I know of you, I can only assume you'd toss the lady over your lap and attempt to beat her into submission …

He could not believe that one naive Scottish girl could possess so much spirit and courage. Royce tried to tell himself this growing fascination, this obsession with his captive was merely the result of the lust she'd fired in him two nights ago, but he knew it was more than lust that held him enthralled: Unlike most of her sex, Jennifer Merrick was neither repelled nor titillated by the thought of being handled and bedded by a man whose very name was associated with danger and death. The shy, passionate response he'd awakened in her two nights ago owed nothing to fear, it had been born of tenderness and then desire. Knowing all the rumors about him as she obviously did, she had still offered herself up to his caresses with innocent sweetness. And that was why he couldn't drag her from his mind. Or perhaps, he thought grimly, she had simply deluded herself into thinking that despite his reputation, he was actually like the virtuous, unsullied, gallant knight of her dreams. That possibility—that her tenderness and passion had been the result of some girlish, naive self-delusion—was so distasteful Royce angrily put all thoughts of her aside and firmly resolved to forget her.

At midday, just as Jennifer sank down onto the grass beside Brenna, about to partake of the usual fare of stringy fowl and a slab of stale bread, she looked up and saw Arik stalking toward them. He stopped directly in front of her, his booted feet planted at least a yard apart, and said, "Come."

Already accustomed to the blond giant's apparent unwillingness to utter more words than were absolutely necessary, Jenny stood up. Brenna started to do likewise, but Arik held up his arm. "Not you."

With his hand locked around Jenny's upper arm, he marched her forward past hundreds of men who'd also settled onto the grass to eat their Spartan fare, then he drew her toward the woods beside the road, stopping at a place where Royce's knights seemed to be standing guard beneath the trees.

Sir Godfrey and Sir Eustace stepped aside, their normally pleasant faces stony, and Arik propelled her forward with a light shove that sent her stumbling into a little clearing.

Her captor was seated on the ground, his broad shoulders propped against a tree trunk, his knee drawn up, studying her in silence. In the warmth of the day, he'd removed his mantle and was clad in a simple brown tunic with full sleeves, thick brown hose, and boots. He did not look nearly as much like the specter of death and destruction he'd appeared to be yesterday, and Jenny felt an absurd spurt of happiness that he'd evidently not forgotten her existence.

Pride prevented her from displaying any such emotion, however. Since she was completely uncertain about how she ought to act or feel, Jenny stayed where she was and even managed to return his steady gaze, until his speculative silence finally unnerved her. Trying to keep her tone politely noncommittal, she said, "I gather you want me?"

For some reason her question brought a mocking gleam to his eyes. "You're right."

Flustered by his odd, mocking tone, she waited and then said, "Why?"

"Now there's a question."

"Are—are we having a conversation?" Jenny demanded darkly, and to her complete confusion, he threw back his head and shouted with laughter, the rich, throaty sound echoing in the clearing.

Her face was a mirror of lovely confusion, and Royce sobered, taking pity on the innocence that made him laugh at the same time it made him want her more than he had two nights ago. He gestured toward the white cloth spread out upon the ground. On it were some pieces of the same fowl and bread that she'd been eating, along with some apples and a chunk of cheese. Quietly he said, "I enjoy your company. I also thought 'twould be more pleasant for you to eat here with me than to eat in an open field surrounded by thousands of soldiers. Was I wrong?"

If he hadn't said he enjoyed her company, Jenny might well have informed him that he was quite wrong, but she was not proof against that deep compelling voice telling her that, in essence, he had missed her. "No," she admitted, but in the interest of pride and prudence both, she did not sit down near him. Picking up a shiny red apple, she sat down on a fallen log, just beyond his reach, but after a few minutes of casual conversation, she began to feel perfectly relaxed in his company and oddly light-hearted. It never occurred to her that this strange phenomenon was the result of his deliberate efforts to make her feel safe from his advances, or to make her forget the abrupt and callous way he'd ended their preliminary lovemaking two nights ago, so that she wouldn't automatically rebuff his next attempt.

Royce knew exactly what he was doing, and why he was doing it, but he told himself that if by some holy miracle he were able to keep his hands off of her until he sent her either to her father or his king, then his efforts had not been wasted, for he was having a very pleasant and somewhat prolonged meal in a cozy clearing.

A few minutes later, in the midst of a perfectly impersonal discussion of knights, Royce suddenly found himself thinking almost jealously of her former suitor. "Speaking of knights," he said abruptly, "what happened to yours?"

She bit into her apple, her expression quizzical. "My what?"

"Your knight," Royce clarified. "—Balder. If your father was in favor of the marriage, how did you dissuade old Balder from continuing to press you?"

The question seemed to discomfit her and, as if stalling for time in which to compose an answer, she drew her long shapely legs up against her chest and wrapped her arms around them, then she perched her chin upon her knees and raised brilliant blue, laughing eyes to his face. Perched upon that log, Royce thought she looked incredibly desirable—a charming wood nymph with long curly hair, clad in a boy's tunic and hose. A wood nymph? Next she would have him composing sonnets to her beauty—and wouldn't that delight her sire, not to mention enliven the gossip at court in two countries! "Was that question too difficult for you?" he said, his voice sharp with self-annoyance. "Shall I try to frame an easier one?"

"What an impatient nature you have!" she replied sternly, completely undaunted by his tone.

Her words were accompanied by such a wellbred, reproving look that Royce chuckled in spite of himself. "You're right," he admitted, grinning at the outrageous child-woman who dared to lecture him on his shortcomings. "Now, tell me why old Balder withdrew."

"Very well, but it's most unchivalrous of you to badger me so about matters which are of a most private nature—not to mention excruciatingly embarrassing."

"Embarrassing for whom?" Royce asked, ignoring her jibe. "For you, or for Balder?"

"I was embarrassed. Lord Balder was indignant. You see," she clarified with smiling candor, "I'd never seen him until the night he came to Merrick to sign the betrothal contract. 'Twas an awful experience," she said, her expression as amused as it was horrified.

"What happened?" he prodded.

"If I tell you, you must promise to remember that I was much like any other girl of fourteen—filled with dreams of the wondrous young knight whose wife I would become. I knew in my mind just how he would look," she added, smiling ruefully as she thought back on it. "He would be fair-haired, and young, of course, his face wonderful to look upon. His eyes would be blue, and his bearing would be princely. He would be strong, too, strong enough to protect our holdings for the children we would someday have." She glanced at Royce, her expression wry. "Such was my secret hope, and in my own behalf, it must be said that neither my father nor my half-brothers said aught to make me think Lord Balder would be otherwise."

Royce frowned, a picture of the foppish, elderly Balder flashing across his mind.

"And so there I was, strolling into the great hall at Merrick after spending hours practicing my walking in my bedchamber."

"You'd practiced walking?" Royce uttered, his tone filled with a mixture of amusement and disbelief.

"But of course," Jennifer said gaily. "You see, I desired to present a perfect picture of myself for my future lord's benefit. And so, it would not do that I bolt into the hall and seem too eager, nor that I walk too slowly and thus give the impression that I was reluctant. It was an enormous dilemma—deciding just how to walk, not to mention what to wear. I was so desperate that I "actually consulted my two stepbrothers, Alexander and Malcolm, to get their male opinion. William, who is a darling, was away from home for the day with my stepmother."

"Surely they must have forewarned you about Balder." The look in her eyes told him otherwise, but even so he was not prepared for the sharp stab of pity he felt as she shook her head.

"Quite the opposite. Alexander said he feared the gown my stepmother had chosen was not nearly fine enough. He urged me to wear the green one instead and dress it up with my mother's pearls. Which I did. Malcolm suggested I wear a jeweled dagger at my side so I'd not be overshadowed by my future husband's illustrious presence. Alex said my hair looked too common and carroty and must needs be caught up under a golden veil and laced with a rope of sapphires. Then, after I was attired to their satisfaction, they helped me practice walking…" As if loyalty prevented her from painting an unflattering image of her stepbrothers, she smiled brightly and said in a determinedly reassuring voice, "They were funning me, of course, as brothers will fun their sisters, but I was too filled with dreams to notice."

Royce saw beyond her words to the truth and recognized the heartless malice in their trick. He felt a sudden, overpowering desire to smash his fist into her brothers' faces—just for "fun."
"I was so concerned about every detail being just right," she was saying, her face perfectly cheerful now as if she were laughing at herself, "that I was quite late coming down to the hall to meet my betrothed. When I finally arrived I paraded across the hall at just the right speed, on legs that trembled not only with nervousness but with the weight of the pearls, rubies, sapphires, and gold chains at my throat and wrists and waist. You should have seen the look on my poor stepmother's face when she saw the way I was attired. It was quite a garish display, I can tell you," Jenny laughed, blithely unaware of the pent-up anger building in Royce as she continued.

"My stepmother later said I looked like a coffer of jewels with legs," she chuckled. "She did not say it unkindly." Jennifer hastily added when she saw the black scowl on her captor's face. "She was quite sympathetic, actually."

When she fell silent, Royce prodded. "And your sister, Brenna? What had she to say?"

Jennifer's eyes lit with fondness. "Brenna will always find something good to say about me, no matter how shocking my mistakes or outrageous my conduct. She said I 'sparkled like the sun and moon and stars.' " A bubble of laughter escaped Jenny and she regarded Royce with eyes aglow with merriment. "Which of course I did—sparkle, I mean."

His voice harsh with feelings he could neither understand nor contain, Royce looked at her and said tightly, "Some women need no jewels to make them sparkle. You are one of them."

Jennifer's mouth dropped open in shock and she gaped at him. "Was that a compliment?"

Thoroughly annoyed that she'd actually reduced him to uttering gallantries, Royce shrugged curtly and said, "I'm a soldier, not a poet, Jennifer. It was merely a statement of fact. Go on with your story."

Abashed and confused, Jennifer hesitated and then dismissed his unaccountable mood change with a mental shrug. Helping herself to another bite of apple, she said cheerfully, "In any case, Lord Balder does not share your disinterest in jewels. In truth," she said, laughing, "his eyes nearly popped right out of his head—so entranced was he with my glitter. In fact, he was so bedazzled by my vulgar display that he passed only a cursory glance over my face before turning to my father and saying, 'I'll have her.' "

"And, just like that, you were betrothed?" Royce asked, frowning.

"No, 'just like that' I nearly fell into a dead swoon —so shocked was I by my first glimpse of my 'beloved's' countenance. William caught me before I fell to the floor and helped me onto the bench at the table, but even once I was seated and beginning to regain my senses, I could not tear my gaze from Lord Balder's features! Besides being older than my father, he was thin as a stick, and he was wearing—er—" Her voice trailed off and she hesitated uncertainly. "I ought not to tell you the rest."

"Tell me all of it," Royce commanded.

"All?" Jennifer echoed uncomfortably.

"Everything."

"Very well," she sighed, "but 'tis not a pretty story."

"What was Balder wearing?" Royce prodded, beginning to grin.

"Well, he was wearing…"—her shoulders rocked with mirth as she gasped—"he was wearing someone else's hair!"

Laughter, rich and deep echoed from Royce's chest, joining the lilting music of Jennifer's.

"I'd scarce recovered my senses from that when I next noted that he was eating the most peculiar-looking food I'd ever seen. Earlier, while my brothers had been helping me decide what to wear, I'd heard them joking between themselves about Lord Balder's desire to have artichokes at every meal. I realized at a glance that the peculiar-looking fried objects heaped upon Lord Balder's platter must be the food called the artichoke, and that was what led to my being banished from the hall and Balder crying off."

Royce, who already guessed why Balder had been eating the food which was purported to increase male potency, fought to keep his expression grave. "What happened?"

"Well, I was very nervous—stricken actually—at the prospect of wedding such a dreadful man. In truth he was a maiden's nightmare, not a maiden's dream, and as I studied him at table, I felt a most unladylike urge to shove my fists into my eyes and howl like a babe."

"But you didn't, of course," Royce guessed, smiling as he recalled her indomitable spirit.

"No, but 'twould have been better if I had," she admitted with a smile accompanied by a sigh.

"What I did was much worse. I couldn't bear to look at him, so I concentrated upon the artichokes which I'd never seen before. I was watching him gobble the things up, wondering what they were and why he ate them. Malcolm noticed what I was looking at and so he told me why Lord Balder was eating them. And that was what made me begin to giggle…"

Her wide blue eyes swimming with mirth and her shoulders shaking helplessly, she said, "At first I managed to hide it, and then I snatched a handkerchief and pressed it to my lips, but I was so overwrought the giggles became a laugh. I laughed and I laughed and 'twas so contagious even poor Brenna began to laugh. We laughed ourselves into fits, until my father sent Brenna and me from the hall."

Raising her mirthful eyes to Royce's she gasped gaily, "Artichokes! Have you ever heard anything so absurd?"

With a supreme effort, Royce managed to look puzzled. "You don't believe artichokes are beneficial to a man's prowess?"

"I—er—" Jennifer blushed as she finally realized how inappropriate the topic was, but it was too late to turn back, and besides she was curious. "Do you believe it?"

"Certainly not," Royce said straight-faced. "Everyone knows 'tis leeks and walnuts that are beneficial in such matters."

"Leeks and —!" Jenny burst out in confusion, and then she saw the slight movement of his broad shoulders that betrayed his own laughter, and she shook her head in smiling reproof. "In any case, Lord Balder decided—quite rightly—that there weren't enough jewels on earth worth having me as his wife. Several months later, I committed another unforgivable folly," she said, looking more seriously at Royce, "and my father decided I was in want of a stronger guiding hand than my stepmother's."

"What 'unforgivable folly' did you commit that time?"

She sobered. "I openly challenged Alexander to either take back the things he was saying about me or else meet me on the field of honor—in a local tournament we had each year near Merrick."

"And he refused," Royce said with somber tenderness.

"Of course. 'Twould have been disgraceful for him to do otherwise. Besides my being a girl, I was only fourteen and he was twenty. I cared naught for his pride, however, for he was—not very nice," she finished mildly, but there was a wealth of pain in those three words.

"Did you ever avenge your honor?" Royce asked, an unfamiliar ache in his chest.

She nodded, a hint of a rueful smile touching her lips. "Despite Father's command that I not go near the tournament, I persuaded our armorer to lend me Malcolm's armor, and on the day of the joust, without anyone knowing who I was, I rode out onto the field and faced Alexander, who had distinguished himself often in the lists."

Royce felt his blood turn cold at the thought of her galloping down the field, charging toward a grown man wielding a lance. "You're lucky you were only unseated and not killed."

She chuckled. " 'Twas Alexander who was unseated."

Royce stared at her in blank confusion. "You unseated him ?"

"In a way," she grinned. "You see, just as he raised his lance to strike at me, I threw up my visor and stuck out my tongue."

In the shocked moment of silence that preceded Royce's explosion of laughter she added, "He slid off his horse."

Outside the little clearing, knights and squires, mercenaries and archers stopped what they were doing and stared at the woods where the earl of Claymore's laughter rose above the trees.

When at last he'd caught his breath, Royce regarded her with a tender smile filled with admiration. "Your strategy was brilliant. I'd have knighted you right there on the field."

"My father was not quite so enthusiastic," she said without rancor. "Alex's skill at the joust was the pride of our clan—something I'd failed to consider. Instead of knighting me on the field, my father gave me the thrashing I probably deserved. And then he sent me off to the abbey."

"Where he kept you for two full years," Royce summarized, his voice filled with gruff gentleness.

Jenny stared at him across the short distance separating them, while a startling discovery slowly revealed itself to her. The man who people called a ruthless, brutal barbarian was something quite different: he was, instead, a man who was capable of feeling acute sympathy for a foolish young girl—it was there in the softened lines of his face. Mesmerized, she watched him stand up, her eyes imprisoned by his hypnotic silver gaze, as he walked purposefully toward her. Without realizing what she was doing, Jenny slowly stood up, too. "I think," she whispered, her face turned up to his, "that legend plays you false. All the things they say you've done—they aren't true," she whispered softly, her beautiful eyes searching his face as if she could see into his soul.

"They're true," Royce contradicted shortly, as visions of the countless bloody battles he'd fought paraded across his mind in all their lurid ugliness, complete with battlefields littered with the corpses of his own men and those of his foes.

Jenny knew naught of his bleak memories, and her gentle heart rejected his self-proclaimed guilt. She knew only that the man standing before her was a man who had gazed upon his dead horse with pain and sorrow etched on his moonlit features; a man who had just now winced with sympathy at the silly story she'd told of dressing up to meet her elderly knight. "I don't believe it," she murmured.

"Believe it!" he warned. Part of the reason Royce wanted her was that she did not cast him in the role of bestial conqueror when he touched her, but he was equally unwilling to let her deceive herself by casting him in another role—that of her knight in virtuous, shining armor.

"Most of it is true," he said flatly.

Dimly, Jenny was aware that he was reaching for her, she felt his hands close around her upper arms like velvet manacles, drawing her nearer, saw his mouth slowly descending to hers. And, as she gazed into those heavy-lidded, sensual eyes, some lambent protective instinct cried a warning that she was getting in too deep. Panicked, Jenny turned her face away a scant instant before his lips touched hers, her breath coming in rapid gasps as if she was running. Undaunted, Royce kissed her temple instead, trailing his warm lips over her cheek, pulling her nearer, brushing his lips down the sensitive column of her neck, while Jenny turned liquid inside. "Don't," she breathed shakily, turning her face further aside and, without realizing what she was doing, she clutched at the fabric of his tunic, clinging to him for support as the world began to reel. "Please," she whispered, as his arms tightened around her and his tongue slid up to her ear, sensuously, leisurely exploring each curve and crevice, making her shudder with longing while his hands shifted up and down her back. "Please, stop," she said achingly.

In response, his hand slid lower, splaying against her spine to force her body into intimate, thorough contact with his rigid thighs—an eloquent statement that he couldn't, and wouldn't, stop. His other hand slid to her nape, stroking sensuously, urging her to lift her head for his kiss. Drawing a shattered breath, Jenny turned her face into his woolen tunic, refusing his tender persuasion. When she did, the hand at her nape tightened in an abrupt command. Helpless to deny either his urging or his command any longer, Jenny slowly lifted her face to receive his kiss.

His hand plunged into her thick hair, holding her captive while his mouth seized hers in a plundering, devouring kiss that sent her spiraling off into a hot darkness where nothing mattered except his seductive, urgent mouth and knowledgeable hands. Overwhelmed by her own tenderness and his raw, potent sexuality, Jenny fed his hunger, her parted lips welcoming the thrusting invasion of his tongue. She leaned into him and felt him gasp against her mouth the split second before his hands slid possessively over her back and sides and breasts, then swept down, pulling her tightly to his rigid arousal. Helplessly, Jenny melted against him, returning his endless drugging kisses, moaning in her throat as her breasts swelled to fill his palms. Fire trembled through her as his hand forced its way between the waist of her heavy hose, shoving downward, cupping her bare buttocks and moving her tighter against the thrusting hardness of his manhood, crushing her against him.

Between the wildly erotic sensation of his hand pressed against her bare skin and the bold evidence of his desire pressing insistently against her, Jenny was lost. Sliding her hands up his chest, she twined them around his neck and gave herself up to his pleasure, stimulating it, sharing it, glorying in the groan that tore from his chest.

When he finally dragged his mouth from hers, he held her clasped against his chest, his breathing harsh and rapid. Her eyes closed, her arms still twined around his neck, her ear pressed to the heavy beating of his heart, Jenny drifted between total peace and a strange, delirious joy. Twice he had made her feel wondrous, terrifying, exciting things. But today, he had made her feel something else: he had made her feel needed and cherished and wanted, and those last three things she'd longed to feel for as long as she could remember.

Lifting her face from his hard, muscled chest she tried to raise her head. Her cheek brushed against the soft brown fabric of his tunic, and even the simple touch of his clothing against her skin made her senses reel dizzily. Finally she managed to tip her head back and look at him. Passion was still smoldering in those smoky gray eyes. Quietly and without emphasis he stated, "I want you."

This time there was no doubt about his meaning, and her answer was whispered without thought, as if it had suddenly been born in her heart and not her mind: "Badly enough to give me your word not to attack Merrick?"

"No."

He said the word dispassionately, without hesitation, without regret or even annoyance; he refused as easily as he would have refused a meal he didn't want.

The single word hit her like a dousing of ice water; Jenny drew back and his hands fell away.
In a daze of shame and shock, she bit down hard on her trembling lower lip and turned aside, trying numbly to restore order to her hair and clothing, when what she longed to do was run from the woods—from everything that had happened here—before she choked on the tears that were nearly suffocating her. It wasn't so much that he had refused what she offered. Even now in all her misery, she realized that what she'd asked of him had been foolish—impossibly mad. What hurt so unbearably was the callousness, the ease with which he'd brushed aside all she'd tried to offer—her honor, her pride, her body, at the sacrifice of everything she'd been taught to believe in, to value.

She started to walk out of the woods, but his voice stopped her in her tracks. "Jennifer," he said in that tone of implacable authority she was coming to loathe, "you'll ride beside me the rest of the way."

"I'd rather not," she said flatly, without turning. She would have drowned herself rather than let him see how much he'd hurt her, and so she added, haltingly, "It's your men—I've been sleeping in your tent, but Gawin has always been there. If I eat with you and ride beside you they'll… misinterpret… things."

"What my men think matters not," Royce replied, but that wasn't entirely true and he knew it. By openly treating Jenny as his "guest," he'd been rapidly losing face with the tired, loyal men who'd fought beside him. And not all his army obeyed him out of loyalty. Among the mercenaries, there were thieves and murderers, men who followed him because he kept bread in their bellies and because they feared the consequences should they dare to disobey. He ruled them with his strength. But whether they were loyal knights or common mercenaries, they all believed it was Royce's right, his duty, to throw her down and mount her, to use her body to humble her as the enemy deserved to be humbled.

"Of course it doesn't matter," Jenny said bitterly as the full force of her surrender in his arms hit her with all its humiliating clarity. "It isn't your reputation 'twill be slaughtered, 'tis mine."

In a tone of calm finality he stated, "They'll think whatever it suits them to think. When you return to your horse, have your escort bring you forward."

Wordlessly, Jennifer cast a look of utter loathing at him, lifted her chin, and walked out of the clearing, her slender hips swaying with unconscious regal grace.

Despite the fact she'd only looked at him for a second before she'd walked out of the woods, Jenny had registered the odd light in his eyes and the indefinable smile lurking at the corner of his lips. She had no idea what was behind it, she only knew his smile increased her fury until it completely eclipsed her misery.

Had Stefan Westmoreland, or Sir Eustace, or Sir Godfrey been present to see that look, they could have told her what it presaged, and their explanation would have upset Jenny far more than she already was: Royce Westmoreland looked exactly as he did when he was about to storm a particularly challenging, desirable castle and claim it for his own. It meant that he would not be deterred by the odds or the opposition. It meant that he was already pleasantly contemplating victory.

Whether the men had somehow glimpsed their embrace through the trees, or whether it was because they'd heard her laughing with him, as Jenny walked stiffly back to her horse, she was subjected to leering gazes and knowing looks that surpassed anything she'd had to endure since her capture.

Unhurriedly, Royce strolled out of the woods and glanced at Arik. "She'll ride with us." He walked over to the horse Gawin was holding for him, and his knights automatically went to their horses, swinging into saddles with the ease of men who spent great portions of their lives on horseback. Behind them, the rest of the army followed suit, obeying an order before it was given.

His captive, however, chose to flagrantly disobey an order that had been given, and did not join him at the front of the column when it moved forward. Royce reacted to that piece of tempestuous rebellion with amused admiration for her courage, then he turned to Arik and said with a suppressed chuckle, "Go and get her."

Now that Royce had finally reached the decision to have her and was no longer waging an internal battle against desire, he was in excellent spirits. He found the prospect of soothing and winning her while they rode toward Hardin infinitely appealing. At Hardin, they would have the luxury of a soft bed and ample privacy; in the meantime, he would have the undeniable pleasure of her company for the rest of today and tonight.

It did not occur to him that the gentle, innocent temptress who'd surrendered in his arms both times he held her, who'd returned his passion with such intoxicating sweetness, might no longer be quite so easy to soothe. In battle he was undefeated, and the idea of being defeated now, by a girl whose desire for him was nearly as great as his for her, was beyond consideration. He wanted her, wanted her more than he would have believed possible, and he intended to have her. Not on her terms, of course, but he was willing to make concessions—reasonable concessions that, at the moment, seemed vaguely to call for splendid furs and jewels, as well as the respect she would be entitled to receive as his mistress from all who served him.
Jenny saw the giant riding purposefully toward the rear of the column at the same time she remembered the laughter she'd seen on Royce's face when she left him, and the wrath that burst inside of her made her head pound.

Swiveling his charger in a tight circle, Arik reined in sharply beside her and coolly raised his brows. He was, Jenny understood with infuriated clarity, silently ordering her to ride to the front with him. Jenny, however, was so overwrought she was beyond being intimidated. Feigning complete lack of knowledge as to the reason for his presence, she pointedly turned her head and began to speak to Brenna: "Have you observed—" she began and broke off with a start as Arik deftly reached out and grabbed the reins of Jenny's mare.

"Unhand my horse!" she snapped, jerking on the poor little mare's reins with enough force to pull the mare's nose to the sky. The horse swiveled and danced sideways in confusion, and Jenny turned her pent-up fury on the invulnerable emissary of her enemy. Glowering at Arik, she hauled back on her left rein. "Take your hand away!"

Pale blue eyes regarded her with cold indifference, but he was, at least, forced to speak, and Jenny reveled in that tiny victory: "Come!"

Her rebellious eyes locked with his pale blue ones, Jenny hesitated, and then, because she knew he'd merely force her to do his bidding, she snapped, "Then kindly move out of my way!"
The mile ride to the front of the column was possibly the most humbling event of Jenny's young life. Until today, she'd been kept out of sight of most of the men or else flanked by knights. Now, male heads swiveled as she came abreast, and lewd eyes stayed riveted on her slender form as she continued past them. Comments were made upon her person, the general shape of her person, and the specific shapes of her shapes—comments of a nature so personal that she was sorely tempted to whip the little mare to a gallop.

When she reached Royce at the front of the column, he could not help smiling at the tempestuous young beauty who was regarding him with such blazing defiance; she looked exactly as she had the night she stabbed him with his own dagger. "It would seem," he teased, "that I've somehow fallen into disfavor."

"You," she replied, with every ounce of scorn she could put into her voice, "are unspeakable!"

He chuckled. "That bad?"

A Kingdom Of Dreams-Chapter 6

During the next five days, Jenny began to recognize the routine followed by the resting army. In the morning, shortly after dawn, the men arose and practiced with their weapons for several hours, making the fields and valley ring with the ceaseless, discordant clanging of sword against shield, broadsword against broadsword. The Wolf's archers, whose skill was legendary, practiced daily also, adding the twang of their bows to the clanking of metal on metal. Even the horses were taken out each day and drilled, their riders galloping them at breakneck speed in mock charges against imaginary foes, until the sounds of warfare continued to drum and echo in her ears long after the men ceased for the midday meal.

Sitting just inside Royce's tent, her fingers busily sewing at the blankets, Jenny listened to the endless clamor, trying unsuccessfully to keep her worries under control. She couldn't imagine how her father's army would survive when pitted against the finely honed "war machine" the Wolf had made of his men, not could she help worrying that Merrick keep would be unprepared for the sort of assault it was bound to receive. Then her worries shifted to Brenna.

She hadn't had more than a brief glimpse of her sister since the night of their ill-fated escape. Stefan, the earl's younger brother, was evidently responsible for keeping Brenna prisoner in his tent, just as the earl of Claymore had assumed responsibility for Jenny; however, the earl had forbidden the girls to be together. Jenny questioned him repeatedly about Brenna's safety and he'd replied with seeming honesty that Brenna was perfectly safe and being treated as a guest by his brother.

Putting her sewing aside, Jenny stood up and went to the open flap of the tent, longing to walk about. The weather was lovely for early September—warm during the day, though cold at night. The Wolf's elite guard—fifteen men whose sole responsibility was to Royce, not the army—were practicing on horseback at the far side of the field, and though she longed to walk outside in the sunshine, even that was forbidden to her by her captor, whose attitude toward her seemed to harden more each day. The knights, especially Sir Godfrey and Sir Eustace, who'd been almost polite before, now treated her like an enemy whose presence they were forced to endure. Brenna and she had duped them, and none of them were likely ever to forget or overlook it.

That night, after she'd eaten, Jenny again brought up the subject most on her mind. "I wish to see my sister," she said to the earl, trying to match his cool mood.

"Then try asking me," he said shortly "not telling me.

Jenny stiffened at his tone, paused to assess her predicament and the importance of achieving her goal, and after a meaningful hesitation, she conceded with a nod, and sweetly said, "Very well, then. May I see my sister, my lord?"

"No."

"Why in God's name not?" Jenny exploded, momentarily forgetting her meek pose.

His eyes sparked with laughter. "Because," Royce commented, enjoying sparring with her even though he'd decided to keep her at arm's length physically and mentally. "As I've already told you, you are a bad influence on your sister. On her own, without you, she'd never have imagination or courage enough to plan an escape. And without her, you can't consider leaving."

Jenny would have dearly loved to call him names that would have scorched his ears, but to do that would only defeat her purpose. "I don't suppose you'd believe me if I give you my word not to try to escape."

"Are you willing to do that?"

"Yes. Now may I see my sister?"

"No," he rejoined politely, "I'm afraid not."

"I find it amazing," she announced with magnificent, regal disdain as she slowly arose, "that you aren't certain an entire English army can confine two mere females. Or is it cruelty that makes you refuse me?"

His mouth tightened, but he said nothing, and immediately after supper he left and did not return until long after Jennifer had gone to sleep.

The following morning, Jenny was astonished to see Brenna being led toward the tent. The gray habits they'd buried near the stream were too filthy to wear and, like Jenny, Brenna was now garbed in tunic, hose, and high soft boots obviously borrowed from one of the pages.

After embracing warmly, Jenny pulled her sister down beside her and was about to launch into a discussion of possible means of escape, when her gaze fell upon a pair of men's boots that were visible between the base of the tent and the ground. Boots with the golden spurs that were forbidden to any but a knight.

"How have you fared, sister?" Brenna asked worriedly.

"Very well," Jenny answered, wondering which of the knights was out there and if whoever it was had been ordered to listen to what the girls said. A sudden, thoughtful look crossed Jenny's face and she added slowly, "In fact, had I known how well treated we would be amongst them, I'd not have attempted our foolhardy escape."

"What?" Brenna gasped, her face agog.

Jenny signaled her to keep silent, then she cupped Brenna's face between her hands and physically directed her gaze to the black boots just outside the tent. In the barest whisper, she said, "If we can convince them we no longer wish to escape, we'll stand a much better chance of getting an opportunity to do it. We have to leave, Brenna, before Father surrenders. If he does that, 'twill be too late."

Brenna nodded her understanding and Jenny continued, "I know 'tis not at all the way I felt when first we were captured, but to tell you truly, I was badly frightened alone in those hills the night we attempted to escape. And when I heard that wolf howl—"

"Wolf!" Brenna cried. "You said it was an owl."

"No, I'm almost certain as I reflect on it, that 'twas a horrible wolf! But the point is, we're safe here—we'll not be murdered or molested as I originally thought, so there's no reason for us to risk trying to escape and find our way home on our own. Soon enough, one way or another, Papa will gain our release."

"Oh, yes!" Brenna chimed in, when Jenny pantomimed for her to agree aloud. "I agree perfectly!"

As Jennifer hoped, Stefan Westmoreland, who'd been standing outside the tent, reported what he'd overheard. Royce listened with considerable surprise, but the logic behind Jennifer's apparent willingness to quietly resign herself to captivity was undeniable. Moreover, Jennifer's apparent willingness to quietly wait out her captivity was sensible, and so were the reasons she'd given her sister for her decision.

And so, albeit with some instinctive misgivings, Royce ordered the guard around his tent reduced from four to one, and that guard was Arik, who was there solely to ensure the captives' safety. No sooner had Royce given the order than he found himself stopping, wherever he might be in the camp, to look at his tent—always expecting to see a tousled mass of red-gold hair trying to creep from beneath it. When two days passed and she remained obediently within the tent, he reversed his other edict and told Jennifer she would be permitted to be with her sister an hour each day. And then he doubted the wisdom of that decision, too.

Jennifer, who knew full well the reason for these changes, vowed to watch for any further opportunity to strengthen the earl's ill-founded trust and thus lull him into further relaxing his guard.

The following night, fate handed her the ultimate chance, and Jenny took full advantage of it: She had just stepped outside with Brenna, intending to tell Arik they wished to stroll about the perimeter of the tent—the area they were now restricted to for exercise —when two things simultaneously occurred to Jenny: The first was that Arik and the Black Wolf's guards were more than twenty-five yards away, momentarily occupied with some sort of fight which had broken out among the men; the second was that, far off on her left, the earl had turned and was watching Jennifer and Brenna closely.

Had Jenny not known he was watching, she might well have attempted to flee into the woods with Brenna, but since she instantly realized he'd apprehend them within minutes if they tried, she did something much better: Careful to appear as if she had no idea they were being watched, Jenny linked her arm with Brenna's, and pointed toward the absent Arik, then she deliberately strolled away from the woods, obediently keeping to the perimeter of the tent as they had been told to do. In doing so, Jenny skillfully made it appear to Royce that, even without guards, she could be trusted not to try to escape.

The ploy worked magnificently. That night, Royce, Stefan, Arik, and the Black Guard gathered to discuss the plan to break camp the next day and begin marching thirty miles northeast to Hardin castle, where the army would rest while awaiting fresh reinforcements from London. During the discussion and the meal that followed it, Royce Westmoreland's behavior to Jenny verged on gallant! And when everyone had left the tent, he turned to her and quietly said, "There will no longer be any restrictions whatever on your visits with your sister."

Jenny, who'd been about to sit down amidst the pile of fur rugs, stopped in mid-motion at the unfamiliar gentleness in his voice and stared at him. Uneasiness coursed through her, inexplicable but tangible as she gazed at his proud, aristocratic face. It was as if he had stopped thinking of her as his enemy and was asking her to do the same, and she knew not how to react.

As she gazed into those fathomless silver eyes, some instinct warned her his offer of a truce could make him more dangerous to her than he had been as her foe, yet her mind rejected that notion, for it made no sense to her. Surely she could only benefit from a surface friendship between them, and, in truth, she'd rather enjoyed their lighthearted banter as she stitched his wound the other night

She opened her mouth to thank him for his offer, then stopped. It seemed a betrayal to thank her kidnapper for his leniency, to pretend that all was forgiven and that they were—well—friends. Furthermore, although she was relieved that she had apparently made him trust her, she felt ashamed for the trickery and deceit she'd used to accomplish it. Even as a little girl, Jenny had been forthright and open—an attitude which had oft landed her in disfavor with her father and which ultimately led her to challenge her unscrupulous stepbrother to a duel of honor, rather than trying to beat him at his own game of deceit. Openness and honesty had gotten her banished to the abbey. Here, however, she'd been forced to resort to trickery, and although all her efforts were being rewarded, and her cause was worthy, she felt somehow ashamed of what she was doing. Pride and honesty and desperation were waging a war inside of her, and her conscience was being assaulted in the fray.

She tried to think what Mother Ambrose would do in this situation, but she simply could not imagine anyone daring to abduct the dignified abbess in the first place, let alone toss her over the back of a horse like a sack of grain, and all the other things Jenny had endured since coming here.

But one thing was certain, Mother Ambrose dealt justly with everyone, no matter how provoking the circumstance.

The earl was offering Jenny trust—even a sort of friendship—she could see it in the warmth of his eyes; hear it in the gentleness of his deep baritone voice. She could not, dared not turn his trust aside.

The future of her clan depended on her being able to escape—or else being easy to rescue, for they'd surely at least try that before they surrendered. For that, Jenny needed freedom of the camp—as much as possible. Shameful or no, she could not be righteous and scorn his trust. Nor could she refuse his gesture of friendship without jeopardizing his trust at the same time, but at least she could try to return his friendship with a degree of sincerity and honesty.

Having decided that after a prolonged period of silence, Jenny looked at the earl and lifted her chin and with an unintentionally cool nod, she accepted his offer of a truce.

More entertained than annoyed by what he misinterpreted as her "regal" acceptance of his leniency, Royce crossed his arms over his chest and leaned his hip against the table, one brow arched in speculative amusement. "Tell me something, Jennifer," he said as she sat down among the furs and curled her shapely legs beneath her, "when you were in the nunnery, were you not warned to avoid the seven vices?"

"Yes, of course."

"Including pride?" he murmured, distracted by the candlelight glinting in the golden threads of her hair as it cascaded over her shoulders.

"I'm truly not proud," she said with a bewitching smile, well aware that he was undoubtedly referring to her tardy, rather ungracious acceptance of his truce. "I'm willful, I suppose. Stubborn, too. And headstrong. But not, I think, proud."

"Rumor, and my own experience with you, would lead me to think otherwise."

His wry tone made Jenny burst out laughing, and Royce found himself captivated by the infectious joy, the beauty, of it. He'd never heard the music of her laughter before, nor seen it glowing in her magnificent eyes. Seated on a pile of lush furs, laughing up at him, Jennifer Merrick was unforgettable. He realized it as clearly as he realized that if he walked over and sat down beside her, there was every chance he was going to find her irresistible as well. He hesitated, watching her, silently recounting all the reasons he ought to remain right where he was—and then with carefully concealed purpose, he did the opposite.

Reaching out he picked up two tankards and the flagon of wine from the table beside his hip, then he carried all three over to the pile of furs. Pouring wine into the tankards, he handed her one. "You're called Jennifer the proud, did you know that?" he asked, grinning down at her enchanting face.

Unaware that she was plunging lightning-fast into dangerous, uncharted territory, Jenny shrugged, her eyes dancing merrily. " 'Tis merely rumor, the result of my one meeting with Lord Balder, I suspect. You're called the Scourge of Scotland, and 'tis said you murder babes and drink their blood."

"Really?" Royce said with an exaggerated shudder, as he sat down beside her. Half-jokingly he added, "No wonder I'm persona non grata in the better castles of England."

"Are you really that?" she asked, puzzled and fighting down a sudden absurd surge of sympathy. He might be Scotland's enemy, but he fought for England, and it seemed grossly unfair if his own people rejected him.

Raising her tankard, Jenny took several sips to steady her nerves, then she lowered the heavy vessel, studying him in the glow of light from the tallow candles on the table across the tent. Young Gawin was at the opposite end, seemingly engrossed in the endless task of polishing his lord's armor with sand and vinegar.

The English nobility, she decided, must be very odd indeed, for in Scotland, the man beside her would have been judged an exceedingly handsome hero and welcomed into any castle where there was an unwed daughter! True, there was a certain dark arrogance about him; the hard, rugged contours of his jaw and chin were stamped with granite determination and implacable authority, but, when taken altogether, it was a boldly masculine, handsome face. It was impossible to guess his age; a life spent in the wind and sun had etched lines at the corners of his eyes and grooves beside his mouth. She supposed he must be much older than he actually looked, since she could never remember a time when she didn't know the tales of the Wolf's exploits. Suddenly it occurred to her that it was very odd indeed that he had spent his life in conquest, yet he sought not to wed and have heirs to inherit all the wealth he must certainly have amassed.

"Why did you decide not to marry?" she blurted suddenly, and then could not believe she'd actually asked such a question.

Astonishment registered in Royce's expression as he realized that, at twenty-nine, she evidently regarded him as being long past the age of eligibility for marriage. Recovering his composure he asked in amusement, "Why do you think I haven't?"

"Because no suitable lady has asked you?" she ventured daringly with an impertinent sideways smile that Royce found utterly bewitching.

Despite the fact that many such marital overtures had been made to him, he merely grinned. "I gather you think it's too late for me?"

She nodded, smiling. " 'Twould seem we're both destined to be spinsters."

"Ah, but you're a spinster by choice, and therein lies the difference." Enjoying himself enormously, Royce leaned back on an elbow, watching her cheeks pinken from the heady wine she was drinking. "Where have I erred, do you think?"

"I couldn't know that, of course. But I suppose," she continued after a moment's consideration, "that one hasn't an opportunity to meet very many suitable ladies on the battlefield."

"True. I've spent most of my life fighting to bring peace."

"The only reason there's no peace is because you keep disrupting it with your evil sieges and interminable battles," she informed him darkly. "The English cannot get along with anyone."

"Is that right?" he inquired dryly, enjoying her spirit as much as he'd enjoyed her laughter a moment before.

"Certainly. Why, you and your army have only just returned from fighting with us in Cornwall—"

"I was fighting in Cornwall, on English soil," Royce reminded her mildly, "because your beloved King James—who happens to have a weak chin, by the way—invaded us in an attempt to put his cousin's husband on the throne."

"Well," Jenny shot back indignantly, "Perkin Warbeck happens to be the rightful king of England and King James knows it! Perkin Warbeck is the long-lost son of Edward IV."

"Perkin Warbeck," Royce contradicted flatly, "is the long-lost son of a Flemish boatman."

"That is merely your opinion."

When he seemed disinclined to argue the issue, she stole a look at his ruggedly chiseled face, "Does King James truly have a weak chin?" she blurted.

"He does," Royce averred, grinning at her.

"Well, we weren't discussing his looks in the first place," she said primly as she digested this information about her king, who was said to be as handsome as a god, "We were discussing your ceaseless wars. Before us, you were fighting with the Irish, and then you were in—"

"I fought the Irish," Royce interrupted with a mocking smile, "because they crowned Lambert Simnel king and then invaded us in an attempt to put him on the throne in Henry's place."
Somehow he made it sound as if Scotland and Ireland had been in the wrong, and Jenny simply didn't feel well enough informed to debate the matter adequately. With a sigh, she said, "I don't suppose there's any doubt about why you're here, now, so near our borders. You're waiting for more men to arrive, then Henry means to send you into Scotland to wage your bloody battles against us. Everyone in the camp knows that."

Determined to guide the conversation back to its former, lighthearted topic, Royce said, "As I recall, we were discussing my inability to find a suitable wife on the battlefield, not the outcome of my battles themselves."

Glad for the change of subject, Jenny deliberately turned her attention back to that problem. After a minute she said, "You must have been to Henry's court and met ladies there?"

"I have."

In thoughtful silence, she sipped her wine, while contemplating the tall man reclining beside her, his leg drawn up, his hand resting casually atop his knee, completely at ease in a tent on a battlefield. Everything about him bespoke the warrior. Even now, at rest, his body exuded predatory power; his shoulders were incredibly broad, his arms and chest bulged with muscle beneath his dark blue woolen tunic, and the muscles in his legs and thighs were clearly outlined by the heavy, black woolen hose above his high boots. Years of wearing armor and wielding a broadsword had hardened and toughened him for battle, but Jenny couldn't imagine that such a life could possibly benefit him when he went to court, or even prepare him to fit in with the people there. Although she'd never been to court herself, she'd heard all sorts of stories about the opulence there and the sophistication of its inhabitants. Suddenly she realized how horridly out of place this warrior must look and feel in such a place. "You—you don't feel at ease with the people at court?" she ventured hesitantly.

"Not particularly," Royce said, distracted by the myriad emotions playing in her expressive eyes.

His admission struck her tender heart and made it ache a little, for Jenny knew better than most how humiliating and painful it is to feel out of place amidst those very people one most wants to be accepted by. It seemed wrong, unfair, that this man who daily risked his life for England was shunned by his own people. "I'm certain the fault is not with you," she said charitably.

"Then where do you suppose the fault lies?" he asked, a faint smile playing at the corners of his chiseled lips. "Why do I not feel comfortable at court?"

"Are we talking about your feelings when you're with the ladies, or with the gentlemen?" she asked, feeling a sudden determined urge to help him that was the result of one part pity, one part strong wine, and one part reaction to his unwavering gray gaze. "If it's with the ladies, I might be able to help," she volunteered. "W-would you like some advice?"

"Please, by all means." Suppressing his grin, Royce smoothed his expression into an admirable imitation of earnest gravity. "Tell me how to treat the ladies so that when next I go to court, I'll be such a success that one of them may agree to have me as a husband."

"Oh, I can't promise they'll want to wed you," she burst out without thinking.

Royce choked on his wine and wiped the drops from the corner of his mouth. "If your intention was to build my confidence," he said, his voice still strangled with laughter, "you are making a bad job of it, my lady."

"I didn't mean—" Jenny faltered miserably. "Truly, I—"

"Perhaps we ought to exchange advice," he continued mirthfully. "You tell me how a highborn lady desires to be treated, and I'll warn you about the perils of demolishing a man's confidence. Here, have more wine," he added smoothly, reaching behind him for the flagon and pouring some into her tankard. He glanced over his shoulder at Gawin and a moment later the squire laid aside the shield he was polishing and left the tent."Do go on with your advice, I'm all eager attention," Royce said when she'd taken another sip of her wine. "Let's assume I'm at court and I've just walked into the queen's withdrawing room. Gathered around are several beautiful ladies, and I decide to make one of them my wife—"

Shock widened her eyes. "You aren't the least bit particular, are you?"

Royce threw back his head and gave a shout of laughter, and the unfamiliar sound brought three guards running into the tent to investigate the cause. Curtly waving them away, he looked at her pert nose, which was still wrinkled with disapproval, and he realized he'd just sunk to an unprecedented low in her estimation. Swallowing down a fresh surge of mirth, he said with sham contrition, "I did specify the ladies were all beautiful, did I not?"

Her expression cleared and she smiled, nodding. "That's true, you did. I'd forgotten that beauty is what matters most to a man."

" At first 'tis what matters most," Royce corrected. "All right, then. What do I do, now that I've, er—singled out the object of my matrimonial intentions?"

"What would you normally do?"

"What do you think I'd do?"

Her delicate brows drew together and amusement teased the corners of her generous mouth as she surveyed him, considering her answer. "Based on what I know of you, I can only assume you'd toss her over your lap and attempt to beat her into submission."

"You mean," Royce said straight-faced, "that isn't the way to handle the matter?"

Jenny saw the humor lurking in his eyes; she burst out laughing, and to Royce it seemed as if his tent were filled with music. "Ladies… that is, wellborn ladies," she clarified a minute later with a look that clearly implied his past experience had probably been with females of quite another sort, "have very definite ideas of the way they wish to be treated by the man who wins their heart."

"Just how does a wellborn lady dream of being treated?"

"Well, chivalrously, of course. But there's more to it than that," she added, a wistful light shining in her sapphire eyes. "A lady wants to think that when her knight enters a crowded room, he has eyes for no one but her. He's blind to everything but her beauty."

"In that case, he's in imminent danger of tripping over his sword," Royce pointed out before he realized Jennifer was talking about her own dreams.

She sent him an admonishing look. "And," she said emphatically, "she likes to think he's of a romantic nature—which you obviously are not!"

"Not if being romantic means I have to grope my way into rooms like a blind man," he teased.

"But go on—what else do ladies like?"

"Loyalty and devotion. And words—especially words."

"What sort of words?"

"Words of love and tender admiration," Jenny said dreamily. "A lady wants to hear that her knight loves her above all else and that to him, she is beautiful. She wants him to tell her that her eyes remind him of the sea or the sky, and her lips remind him of rose petals…"

Royce studied her in appalled surprise. "You actually dream of a man saying such things to you?"

She paled as if he'd struck her, but then she seemed to dismiss the entire matter. "Even plain girls have dreams, milord," she pointed out with a smile.

"Jennifer," he said sharply, filled with remorse and amazement, "you are not plain. You're—" More attracted to her by the moment, he studied her, wondering about her allure, but it was more than just her face or her body that attracted him; Jennifer Merrick had a glowing gentleness that warmed him, a fiery spirit that challenged him—and a radiance that kept drawing him toward her with increasing power. "You're not plain."

She chuckled without rancor and shook her head. "Do not, under any circumstances, attempt to dazzle your lady fair with your glib flattery, milord, for you haven't a prayer of success!"

"If I cannot beat the lady into submission, nor cajole her with words," Royce answered, preoccupied with her rosy mouth, "I suppose I shall have to rely on my only other skill…"

He let the last word hang meaningfully in the air until Jenny, beguiled, could endure her fascinated curiosity no longer. "What skill do you mean?"

His eyes flicked to hers and he said with a wicked grin, "Modesty forbids me to name it."

"Don't be coy," Jenny chastised, so curious that she scarcely noticed his hand lifting to her shoulder. "What is it you do so very well that a lady would wish to marry you for it?"

"I believe I am quite good at"—his hand curved round her shoulder—"kissing."

"K-kissing!" she sputtered, laughing and simultaneously rearing back, dislodging his hand. " 'Tis beyond belief that you would boast of such things to me!"

'Twas not boasting," Royce countered, looking stung. "I've been given to believe I am quite good at it."

Jenny tried desperately to look sternly disapproving and failed miserably; her lips trembled with laughter at the idea of the "Scourge of Scotland" priding himself, not on his skill with lance or sword, but kissing!

"I gather you find that notion laughable?" Royce observed dryly

She shook her head so emphatically that her hair came tumbling over her shoulder, but her eyes were dancing with merriment. "It—it is merely," she said on a suffocated laugh, "that I cannot quite reconcile such—such an image of you in my mind."

Without warning, his hand lifted and curved round her arm, drawing her firmly toward him. "Why don't you judge me on it then?" he suggested softly.

Jenny tried to rear back. "Don't be silly! I couldn't—I can't!" Suddenly, she could not tear her gaze from his lips. "I'll gladly take your word on it. Gladly!"

"Nay, I feel I must prove it."

"There's no need," she cried desperately. "How could I possibly judge your skill when I've never been kissed in all my life?"

That admission only made her more desirable to Royce, who was accustomed to women whose experience in bed rivaled his own. His lips curved in a smile, but his hand tightened on her arm, drawing her inexorably closer, while his other hand lifted to her shoulder.

"Nay!" Jenny said, trying ineffectually to draw away.

"I insist."

Jenny braced herself for some unknown sort of physical assault; a whimper of terror lodged in her throat, but the next moment she realized there was nothing to fear. His lips were cool on hers and surprisingly smooth as they brushed lightly against her closed mouth. Stunned into quiescence, with her hands braced on either side of his shoulders, holding her rigid body away from his, she remained utterly immobile while her pulse began to race and she tried desperately to savor what it was like to be kissed and still keep her head.

Royce released the pressure of his hands just enough to let her lift her compressed lips from his.

"Perhaps I'm not as good as I once thought," he said, keeping his amusement carefully hidden.

"I could have sworn your mind was working the whole time."

Unnerved, alarmed, and thoroughly confused, Jenny nevertheless strove desperately not to struggle or do anything to upset the fragile balance of their tentative friendship. "W-what do you mean?" she demanded, acutely aware that his powerful body was now stretched out practically beneath and beside her in the most wanton fashion, his head upon the furs.

"I mean, would you say our kiss was the sort that wellborn ladies 'dream' about?"

"Please let go of me."

"I thought you were going to help me comport myself to the pleasure of wellbred ladies, such as yourself."

"You kiss very well! Exactly how ladies dream of being kissed!" Jenny cried desperately, but he merely regarded her with a dubious expression, refusing to let her go.

"I just don't feel confident," he teased, watching the little sparks of anger igniting in her incredibly blue eyes.

"Then practice on someone else!"

"Unfortunately, Arik does not appeal to me," Royce said, and before she could voice another objection, he swiftly switched tactics. "However," he said pleasantly, "I can see that, although threats of physical retribution have no effect on you, I've finally discovered what does."

"What," she demanded, suspicious, "do you mean?"

"I mean that, in future, when I want to bend you to my will, I'll simply kiss you into compliance. You're terrified of it."

Visions of being kissed—no doubt in front of his men—whenever she balked, rose to alarming prominence in her mind. Hoping that by speaking in a calm, reasonable voice, rather than heatedly protesting his statement, she could dissuade him from making her prove her claim, she said, " 'Tis not fear I feel, but merely lack of interest."

With a mixture of amusement and admiration, Royce noted her ploy, but it only added to his inexplicable determination to taste her response to him.

"Really?" he breathed softly, his heavy-lidded gaze fixed on her lips. As he spoke, his hand curved round her head, pressing inexorably downward, inch by slow inch, until his warm breath was mingling with hers, and then his gaze lifted, locking with hers. Insistent, knowing gray eyes captured frightened, beguiling blue ones, imprisoning them as he brought her lips down against his. A jolt slammed through Jenny's entire nervous system, her eyes closed, and his lips began to move on hers, thoroughly and possessively exploring each tender curve and trembling contour.

Royce felt her lips soften involuntarily, felt her shaking arms give way, her breasts coming to rest against his chest, the wild pounding of her heart. His hand, which had been holding her mouth pressed against his, lightened its pressure at the same time his lips increased theirs. Rolling her onto her back, he leaned over her, deepening his kisses, his hand shifting soothingly over her side and hip. He slid the tip of his tongue along the crease of her lips, seeking entrance, insisting that they part, and when finally they did, his tongue plunged into the sweetness of her mouth and slowly withdrew, then plunged again in blatant imitation of the act he was beginning to crave with dangerous determination. Jenny gasped beneath him, stiffening, and then suddenly all the tension flowed out of her as a shattering explosion of delight poured through her. Totally innocent of the sort of heated passion he was deliberately, skillfully, arousing in her, she was intoxicated by it, seduced into forgetting he was her captor. He was lover now—ardent, persuasive, gentle, wanting. Tenderness overwhelmed her and, with a silent moan of helpless surrender, she curved her hand around his neck, her lips moving on his with awakening ardor.

Royce's mouth became more demanding, his tongue seeking, stroking, while his hand slid restlessly up her midriff, caressing her breast, then down again, swiftly unfastening her belt and gliding beneath her tunic. Jenny felt the firm, sliding stroke of his callused hand against her bare breast at the same instant her lips were seized in a devouring kiss.

She moaned beneath the sensual onslaught, and desire exploded in Royce as he felt her flesh swelling beneath his palm, her nipple rising up proudly against it. He brushed his fingers lightly back and forth against the impudent tip, then he caught it between his fingers, rolling it between them. He felt her gasp of shocked delight against his mouth as her fingers dug convulsively into his shoulders, and she kissed him deeply, as if trying to return the pleasure he was giving her.
Startled by the tormenting sweetness of her response, Royce lifted his mouth from hers, gazing down at her flushed, intoxicating face while he continued to caress her breast, telling himself that in a moment he would let her go.

The women he had bedded never wanted to be seduced or handled gently. They wanted the leashed violence, the power and stamina that were part of his legend. They wanted to be conquered, subdued, taken roughly, used—by the Wolf. The number of women who had implored "Hurt me" in bed with him were too numerous to count. The role of sexual conqueror had been thrust on him, and he'd accepted it for years, but with increasingly frequent bouts of boredom and, lately, disgust.

Slowly, Royce took his hand from her swollen breast, commanding himself to release her, to stop what he had begun and stop it now. Tomorrow, he was undoubtedly going to regret having taken things this far, he knew. On the other hand, if he was going to have regrets, he might as well have something substantial to regret, he decided. And with some half-formed idea of allowing them both a little more of the pleasure they seemed to be finding together tonight, Royce bent his head and kissed her, while he spread her tunic open. His gaze drifted downward, riveting on the enticing banquet bared before him. Exquisite breasts, round and full, tipped with pink nipples hardened into tight-buds of desire, quivered beneath his gaze; her skin was as smooth as cream, glowing in the firelight, as untouched as new-fallen snow.

Drawing a steadying breath, he dragged his gaze from her breasts to her lips and then to her mesmerizing eyes, while his hand unfastened his tunic, pulling it out of the way so that he could feel those soft white mounds pressed against his bare chest.

Already seduced into near insensibility by the heat of his kisses, his gaze, and his wine, Jenny gazed dazedly at the firm sensual line of his lips, watching as they descended purposefully to hers. Her eyes closed and the world began to spin as his mouth seized hers with raw hunger, parting her lips as his tongue drove into her mouth. She moaned with delight as his hand cupped her breast, forcing it upward, holding it high, while he slowly lowered his bare, hair-roughened chest against it, and then his weight came down on her. His body half covering hers, he trailed sensuous kisses from her mouth to her ear, his tongue flicking into the sensitive crevice, then exquisitely exploring it until Jenny was writhing against him.

He shifted his mouth across her cheek to her lips, and his mouth began a slow, erotic seduction that soon had Jenny moaning low in her throat. His parted lips covered hers, forcing them to open wider until he captured her tongue, drawing it delicately into his mouth as if to sip from its sweetness, and then he gave her his until Jenny instinctively matched his movements and when she did the kiss went wild. His tongue tangled with hers, his hands shoved into her hair, and Jenny twined her arms around his neck, lost in the earth-shattering kiss.

His lower body lifted, his legs nudging hers apart, and he eased himself between them, forcing her into vibrant awareness of his rigid hardness pressing meaningfully between her thighs. Devastated by the raw hunger of his passion, she clung to him, stifling a cry of disappointment when he pulled his mouth from hers, then gasping with surprise as he lowered his mouth to her breasts. His lips closed on her nipple, tugging gently, then tightening, drawing hard on it until her back arched and shock waves of pure pleasure burst through every part of her being. And just when she thought she could bear no more, he tugged harder, wringing a low moan from her. The instant he heard it he stopped, turning his face to lavish the other breast with the same attention, while she ran her fingers through his thick dark hair, mindlessly holding his head pressed to her.

When she felt as if she would surely die of the pleasure, he suddenly braced his weight on his hands, lifting his chest away from her. Cold air against her heated skin, combined with the absence of his flesh against hers, pulled her partly from the mindless euphoria where he had taken her. Jenny dragged her eyes open and saw him hovering above her, his eyes hotly caressing her swollen breasts, their nipples proud and erect from his tongue and lips and teeth.
Panic—belated, lethargic—finally hit Jenny as the force of his demanding thighs sent desire spiraling up through her. He started to bend his head to her and, terrified that she had waited too long, she shook her head frantically. "Please," she gasped. But he was already lifting up, his body tensing, alert. A split second later, a guard called from outside the tent. "Your pardon, milord; the men have returned."

Without a word, Royce rolled to his feet, swiftly adjusted his clothing, and stalked out of the tent. In a daze of suspended yearning and confusion, Jenny watched him go, and then sanity slowly returned. Shame raged through her as she looked down at her disarranged clothing and tugged it back into place, running a shaking hand through her wildly disordered hair. It would have been bad enough had he forced her to yield to him, but he hadn't. As if some spell had been cast over her, she had wantonly, willingly joined in her own seduction. The shock of what she had done—nearly done—made her body tremble, and when she tried to blame him, her conscience refused to let her.

Frantically she began to think of things she could say, or do, when he returned, for as naive as she was, she knew instinctively that he would want to take up where they had left off, and her heart began to pound in fear—not of him, but of herself.

The minutes passed and became an hour, and her fear turned to surprise, and finally—blessedly—to exhaustion. Curled up in the furs, her eyes drifted closed, then snapped open what must have been hours later to find him standing over her.

Warily, she searched his hard, implacable features, her sleep-drugged mind registering that the "lover" who had left the tent, looked no more eager to continue his seduction than she was to have it begin again.

"It was a mistake," he said flatly, "for both of us. It won't happen again."It was the very last thing she'd expected him to say, and as he turned and walked swiftly out of the tent into the night, she assumed that must be his form of curt apology for what had happened. Her lips parted in silent surprise, then she hastily closed her eyes as Gawin entered the tent and lay down upon his pallet near the entrance.