Lord Of Danger Stuart, Anne (classic fiction .TXT) 📖

how much he unnerved her. She was used to a calm, ordered life. He set things on end, wickedly so.

“Ah, but life is full of possibilities. Full of change,” he said. “Maybe you’ll poison me and run off and become Queen of the Gypsies.”

He startled a laugh out of her. “That’s more likely what Claire would do. I would suffer in a martyred silence, hoping a plague would carry you off. And besides, I don’t like horses. Gypsies always have horses.”

“I’m notoriously resistant to plagues,” he said. He was too close to her. He was wearing black chased with silver, and he was warm. Strong. Distressingly strong. “And it would take rather a large amount of poison to even slow me down. Why don’t you like horses?”

She considered lying a sin, not to mention a waste of time. She was a very poor liar. “I’m afraid of them.”

“Why?”

“I was almost trampled to death when I was very young. I don’t remember much of the circumstances, I only remember the huge creatures surrounding me, their hooves flashing. I was only four years old but I still remember that day.”

“Four? Wasn’t that the age you were taken from your mother?”

His knowledge appalled her. In the ensuing years she’d tried to separate those two occurrences, even though they were inextricably entwined. The horsemen, chasing after her mother as she tried to escape with her only child. The rough hands that had ripped her from her mother’s arms, only to drop her in the midst of the angry, restless horses.

“You know far more of my history than I would have expected, my lord,” she said, trying to keep the resentment and pain from her voice. “I cannot imagine why you should be concerned.” For sixteen years she’d worked very hard at carving a calm, safe life for herself. Now in a few days’ time that life had been shattered.

“Knowledge is power, and I set a great store by power. I like to know things,” he said, his voice low and oddly appealing. It danced across her skin like a warm summer breeze, and she wanted to shiver, to shake it away, even as she wanted to bask in its warmth.

She looked up at him, keeping her gaze level and fearless. “And I like privacy in some matters.”

He touched her. He’d kept his twisted hand hidden, though she wasn’t bothered by the sight of it, but he lifted his strong, good hand and brushed it against her cheek. It couldn’t be called a caress, more an odd act of claiming. She froze, helplessly aware of the unexpected beauty of that one hand, the long, graceful fingers, the narrow, well-shaped palm. A clever, well-made hand, gifted with talents.

“You will be my wife,” he said. “You will have no secrets.”

“Will you?” It was an outrageous question, and another man would have beaten her for it.

But Simon, avowed monster that he was, merely smiled. “Always, Lady Alys,” he murmured. “Always.”

Chapter Six

Sir Thomas du Rhaymer stared down at his hand. It still amazed him that she’d managed to draw blood - he would have thought his hide was thicker than that. The wound was small, and on any other occasion he would have ignored it. But knowing it had come from her, from her sharp white teeth, made it burn.

As he would burn, in hell, for the thoughts he was having. Richard and his wizard knew human nature far too well. He was a man who’d lived a cold, celibate life for years, but he was a man with eyes to see beauty, a mouth to taste it. For three years he had been impervious to all womanhood, including his bewitching, errant wife. And now, suddenly, he was vulnerable. Wanting.

It merely gave impetus to his determination, he told himself, climbing the broad stairs with a deliberate pace. The best battles were the fiercest, the most hotly contested. The battle for his immortal soul would doubtless be a monumental one, and with the stakes so high, he shouldn’t expect it to be easy.

But neither had he expected to be lured by a vain, tempestuous beauty. Or touched by her as well.

He’d become a dour, disapproving soul, and he knew it His squire had told him that, with the tactlessness of youth, and Thomas had accepted it willingly enough. Until he’d met Gwyneth of Longmead he’d been a reasonably simple, straightforward man. A dutiful son, a dedicated squire, a worthy knight who served his liege lord. But his lust for Gwyneth had shaken him, and her betrayal had shattered him. He’d built his life back, a steady, simple life devoted to God and Lord Richard, and now a new siren had come to tempt him again.

As long as she continued to hate him he was safe. And he had few delusions on that score. He was a good ten years older than she was, battle-scarred and hard, and he had every intention of keeping it that way. It was fortunate she was such a lively, high-strung creature. It was child’s play to infuriate her, and that fury would distract her. She would never even realize he had an errant, sinful thought about her. The small, high, perfect breasts that pressed against her soft green gown. The glowing eyes, full of mischief and anger and unexpected humor. That mouth that had closed over his wrist and bitten the hell out of him.

He would be cold, and hostile, and he would be safe. She would never think twice about him, except to hate him.

And he breathed a deep sigh of relief as he mounted the stairs to the solar of Richard the Fair’s sisters.

Married, Claire thought, not for the first time, pacing the room in barely controlled rage. She heartily pitied his poor wife. He must have made her life a living hell. Doubtless he beat her, often and severely. Doubtless she’d been sensible enough to run from him before his brutish temper resulted in her untimely death.

She had no