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

“It would probably be the wisest course,” she said with great calm. “But you won’t do it.”

“Why not?”

She smiled then. A very small, utterly bewitching smile, one that put to a lie the notion that Alys was the plain sister. He stared at her, momentarily, dangerously lost “Because, my lord, you are not nearly as heartless as you devoutly wish to be. Despite your best efforts to prove otherwise, you are an honorable, caring man. You would no more murder a helpless woman than you would fly.”

He stared down at her, and in the distance he could still hear the screams of the dying, the crackle of the fire as it consumed the old building thousand of miles, thousands of years away. “I thought your sister was the witless one,” he said harshly. “If you have neither brains nor beauty, what’s to recommend you?”

He watched the color drain from her face. There was more than one way to kill a woman, he thought distantly. You could lure her into thinking you saw her true worth, and then mock her.

Alys of Summersedge sat back on her heels, no longer touching him, staring up at him in shock and dismay.

He wanted to reach out and draw her back to him, to pull her arms around his bare, scarred waist and kiss the pain from her eyes. But he did nothing. Knowing that that was the crudest thing of all.

Godfrey was too wise and knowledgeable a servant to simply barge in, or even disturb him by knocking. But Simon knew he was there, and he rose from his chair, careful not to touch the young woman who was still kneeling on the floor, her head bowed.

One look at Godfrey’s face told him that Aidan of Montrose had been found. “Take Lady Alys back to her room, Godfrey,” he said in an even voice. “Make certain no one sees you—there’ll be enough gossip as there is.”

Godfrey’s mournful face was too expressive as he nodded. Alys was struggling to her feet, but Simon made no move to assist her. Afraid that if he touched her he wouldn’t be able to let her go. After a moment’s hesitation Godfrey went to her side, offering her his strong arm as she struggled with the trailing skirts of her ugly, hateful dress.

He should have torn it off her. He should have slaked his lust in her soft young body; he should have taken her again and again until he was blind and weary of it and her. Taken her as the gypsies did, taken her as the Arabs did. Taken her with dark teeming lust and cruel, tender love.

Instead he’d wounded her, deliberately, and the wounding hurt him most of all.

At least she would leave him alone. She would no longer look at him out of hopeful eyes; she would be wise enough to be wary of a dangerous man such as he. He didn’t move as she came towards him. The wound in his side had stopped oozing blood. The rest of his scarred body was thrown into relief by the crackling fire, casting his face in shadows. He stood over her, and he knew that he terrified her, and he rejoiced in it.

Except that she stopped, despite Godfrey’s best efforts to lead her away. She stopped in front of him, and he expected to see the shimmer of tears in her eyes. They were clear and determined.

“Simon of Navarre,” she said in a calm, stern voice. “You are a very wicked man. But you’re not getting rid of me so easily.” She had the absolute temerity to reach up on her tiptoes and brush a soft kiss against his set, grim mouth. And then she was gone, leaving Godfrey standing there, astonished and amused.

“Get after her!” Simon snarled. “That should have convinced you she hasn’t the sense a baby chick has. See her safely to her room or I’ll…” He couldn’t think of a proper threat, she’d managed to addle him so completely, and Godfrey simply grinned, damn him, before he took off after her.

The room was silent at last He could still smell the flowery scent she used. He could still feel the warmth of her lips against his. The wisest thing he could do would be to have Godfrey bring him a willing serving wench to rid him of his lust, but, he reminded himself yet again, his random lie had ruled out that particular notion. He was trapped in his celibacy.

And she still didn’t know the answer. Hell’s imps, of course she did, he mocked himself. She saw him far too clearly, saw past his sorry attempts at evil, past his subterfuges and fancies. But she hadn’t seen Aidan of Montrose’s body smashed into a lifeless pulp on the flagstones beneath. She hadn’t seen the charred corpses of the women of Constantinople. She still had no idea how evil men could be.

And he was a man, there was no denying it One who had done more than his share of terrible things. There would be no forgiveness from a merciful God for sins of such magnitude. And Simon would be damned before he would forgive God for creating a world where men could commit such atrocities.

He moved to the window and pushed the shutters open again. Torchlight illuminated the scene beneath the tower. Aidan of Montrose hadn’t fallen as far as Simon had hoped, and there was little doubt from which window he’d plunged. One of the servants looked up to see him standing there, watching, and he quickly crossed himself. They all feared and hated him, exactly as he wanted them too. This would only solidify their beliefs.

He had earned their hatred. He had earned his own. Stepping back, he pulled the shutters closed once more, and Alys’s pale, shocked face swam in his mind’s eye. And he took his strong right hand, tightened it into a fist, and slammed it into the fresh wound in his side, bringing it away covered