A Knight's Seduction Page 6

  She trembled while he worked. His attention was on her arm, but he felt her gaze on his face, a stare of silent challenge. He’d expected her to protest his search, but to his surprise, she’d said not a word. She must have decided the easiest and fastest way to deal with the unpleasantness would be to endure.

  Despite her silence, anger and fear defined the closeness between them. He couldn’t blame her for being afraid—he’d anticipated such a reaction from a maiden who’d never been touched by a man, especially one as thoroughly, unapologetically experienced as he was.

  What he hadn’t expected, though, was the way she’d make him feel. Touching her, even through the fabric of her gown, was akin to a form of torture. Her flesh was supple, her garment’s luxurious cloth as soft as a woman’s bare thighs. As if that were not torment enough, she smelled luscious—like honey and milk blended together. He wanted to draw in a long breath and savor her. As his hand traveled to her shoulder, stray strands of her glossy blond hair brushed the backs of his fingers. Pure, unfettered lust rippled through him.

  He sensed the narrowing of her eyes, the question forming in her mind. Refusing to meet her stare, he lowered her arm, freed his fingers, and moved to her other shoulder. Fine wool whispered under his fingertips.

  She cleared her throat. “Once you have searched me, and found for yourself that I do not have any weapons, what will happen to me? And what of Mary?”

  His fingers trailed over the embroidered hem of her sleeve and her wrist. He thought of delaying his answer, at least until he’d finished with her. If he told her that her life wasn’t in danger, she might do something rash. The threat of death was an effective means of control. Yet, she was still trembling, and as much as he wanted her to obey him, he saw no sense in keeping her such a heightened state of fear.

  Finally meeting her gaze, he said, “You will be my hostages.”

  “Hostages.” Relief softened the word. “You are not going to kill us, then.”

  “I see no reason to kill you.”

  “Well. That is good news.”

  Tye fought a grin; instead, he scowled, with enough menace to ensure she continued to comply. Setting both of his hands on her shoulders and moving them inward toward her bosom, he said, “Of course, if you disobey me, or try to escape, I may change my mind.”

  Her ribcage expanded beneath his palms as she drew in a sharp breath. Her posture tautened, as if she expected his hands, sliding down through her cleavage, to slow their inspection, spread wide, and close over her plump, round breasts.

  God’s teeth, ’twas exactly what he wanted to do. She’d mold perfectly into his hands, and when his thumbs grazed her nipples, she’d sigh, mayhap even moan, and her eyelids would flutter…

  “Is Lady Brackendale safe? Is she also a hostage?”

  Tye snapped his focus back to his task. Annoyance swept through him. He shouldn’t be so easily distracted by a fetching pair of breasts, especially those of a lady who was likely a virgin and who’d never bare her body for anyone but her wedded husband. “She is,” he said.

  “As your hostages, what will be expected of us?”

  “That will depend.”

  “On what?”

  He shot her a frosty look. “How well you listen to what my men and I tell you.”

  A frown furrowed her brow. “And?”

  “Your value as a hostage.”

  “You mean, whether I am from a wealthy family or not? If I am, will you demand an extortionate ransom?

  “You ask a lot of questions, Kitten.”

  “If you were in my position, would you not want to know what is going to happen? ’Twould be foolish not to ask.”

  He shrugged. “True.”

  “You said you weren’t going to kill us,” she went on, as if her questions required explanation, “but there are countless other things, some quite awful, that could befall us—”

  “Also true.” Tye dropped to his knees before her.

  “Oh! Goodness. W-what—”

  “Hold still.” Their gazes locked as his hand slid under the hem of her gown. “’Twill go faster.”

  “Nay! I…I do not have a knife. I swear!” she said, sounding panicked. Another warble of protest broke from her, but he pushed aside the layers of garments to reach her leg. Like Mary, she wore silk hose beneath her gown.

  Tye swept his hand up her calf. Even her clothes smelled like milk and honey. His jaw clenched, tightly enough to cause him pain. Good. Pain was familiar. Pain he could tolerate. The torment Claire caused him? That might drive him to do something very, very unwise.

  He’d just lifted her skirts higher to bare her right knee—a shapely knee at that—when a cry broke from behind him.

  The mercenary grunted. “The other lady’s awake.”

  “So I heard.”

  “Claire!” Mary gasped.

  Tye concentrated on Claire’s slender legs, his palms gliding upward. The sooner he finished his search, the better.

  “Mary, do not worry. I am all right,” Claire said with more calm in her voice than he’d expected, for she was quivering beneath his touch. The way she’d quiver if you caressed her, coaxing her to spread her thighs for you , his wicked mind pointed out. He forced aside the tantalizing thought.

  “His hand,” Mary said. “’Tis inside your gown.”

  “Aye, but—”

  “On your leg!”

  How easy ’twould be to touch that secret part of her, that naughty voice in his head taunted . She’d never let you touch her there otherwise. You are so far beneath her noble rank, you are naught to her.

  The pain in Tye’s jaw intensified. A muscle jumped in his cheek as his fingers slid higher, wanting to touch more of her. Wanting…

  The furious swish of wool came from behind him. Mary had scrambled to her feet. With one last sweep of his hand down Claire’s left leg, he dropped her gown and pushed to standing. He nodded to the mercenary to lower the sword from Claire’s throat.

  Tye pointed at Mary. “Move to the wall. Beside Claire.”

  Her bosom rising and falling on quickened breaths, Mary glared at him. Yet, she did as he’d commanded. When she reached Claire, she threw her arms around her friend and they embraced. Mary sniffled as though she might dissolve into tears.

  Tye ignored a tingle of remorse, gestured for the mercenary to stand guard at the chamber door, and then strode toward the linen chest. He sensed Claire’s gaze upon his back, but resisted the urge to turn and meet her stare. He still hadn’t finished in this chamber, and there was the rest of the castle to secure. In no way was a woman going to stand in the way of his victory.

  “What a miserable ordeal you went through,” Mary whispered. “How dare that ruffian feel around inside your skirts.”

  “I am fine,” Claire whispered back. “He thought I might have a hidden dagger, ’tis all.”

  “He did not hurt you? Nor the other thug?”

  “Nay.”

  “I am glad.” Mary sighed, the sound laden with guilt. “I am sorry for fainting. I did not mean to.”

  “I know,” Claire soothed.

  Tye halted in front of the linen chest and lifted the lid. A waft of Claire’s scent drifted up to him, and he fought the hot lick of desire in his loins.

  “What happened while I was oblivious?” Mary asked. “Did they search me in that awful way, too?”

  “I am afraid so—”

  “How completely awful ! Who searched me? Was it… him? ”

  Tye felt both of the women’s stares boring into him. Refusing to acknowledge their scrutiny, he turned the heavy chest sideways and dumped out the contents. Silks, linens, shoes, a
nd other items poured onto the floorboards.

  A pile of folded papers, bound with a silk ribbon, skidded to a stop near the toe of his boot. Love letters? A lady as beautiful as Claire no doubt had suitors, even a betrothed. He fought a ridiculous, unwanted stirring of jealousy and bent to pick up the bundle.

  “Stop!” she shrieked. Hurried footfalls came up behind him.

  The papers firmly in his hand, Tye faced Claire, standing a few paces away. She looked torn between scratching his eyes out and succumbing to tears.

  “How dare you? Those are my belongings.”

  “Everything in this castle belongs to me now.”

  She sucked in a furious breath, drawing herself up taller. “Not true.”

  “Claire.” He fully expected her to retreat. Grown men had fled when he’d used that tone of voice.

  Brave little kitten, she stood her ground. “Only the lord of a castle can claim all within belongs to him,” she said. “ You are—”

  “—Wode’s new lord. As of today.”

  “You have not proven your right to rule here. Not to me. As far as I know, not to Lady Brackendale or anyone else within this fortress. Therefore, what you have done here in my chamber is a violation .”

  He laughed. “You should know by now that I have no shame. Or must I prove it to you again? Mayhap in an even more direct manner? I am more than willing to do so, milady.”

  Chapter Six

  Claire clenched and unclenched her hands and struggled not to lunge at Tye. What arrogance! What boldness. Never had she met a man who dared speak to her in such a shocking, disrespectful manner. And to treat her treasured things as though they were his to do with as he wished?

  Unforgivable.

  “Claire,” Tye said, his tone a warning.

  She glowered at him. Aye, she feared him, and even now, her heart jumped in her chest like a frightened frog. However, when it came to Henry’s letters, Tye had pushed her too far.

  The insolent curve of Tye’s mouth mocked every hope she’d ever had of keeping her missives from Henry hidden from him. Seeing that precious bundle in his hand made her want to scream. They were her letters, filled with sweet words and heartfelt confidences written for her alone.

  True, she had secretly shared Henry’s letters with Mary. After he’d been killed, Claire had lain on her bed, read them over and over, and trailed her finger over the neat lines of ink, while remembering his face the last time he’d seen him—and, of course, his kiss. She and Mary, huddled beside her, had both wept, and some of Claire’s tears had fallen on the parchment to blur the ink. The rogue before her, though, didn’t need to know what Henry had written, or to see the proof of her anguish in the random ink smudges.

  Tye might have declared himself lord, but that did not give him the right. Lord Brackendale, who’d had the right, would never have taken such a liberty, out of respect for her.

  The fury accompanying that thought convinced her to step forward and stretch out her hand. “I would like my letters.”

  Tye didn’t move. “No doubt you would.”

  She drew a breath shaking with rage. “Those letters are private and personal. They were written by my betrothed, who died a few months ago.”

  “Ah. I am sorry to hear—”

  “What he wrote is of no use to you.”

  “I do not know that yet.”

  “I assure you—”

  “Your plea is quite convincing, Kitten. However, since I hardly know you, I would be foolish to trust you. I will find out for myself whether there is information of value or not.”

  “What can you possibly hope to learn from my letters?” she demanded.

  His cloak stirred as he nudged the heap of her belongings with the toe of his boot. “Who knows what I might discover? Secrets about this castle and the people living here. Secrets about you.”

  “I have no secrets.”

  He chuckled, a rough, earthy sound. “Everyone has them, Kitten, although not everyone is willing to admit to them.”

  His booted foot moved again. Garments shifted. Shoes tumbled. His sly gaze slid to her, before he shoved the letters into the leather bag at his hip and picked up another packet of missives that had emerged: letters from Johanna. Lying beside them was Claire’s dagger, still in its leather sheath.

  He held up the knife. “You do have a dagger, after all.”

  “Not bound to my leg,” Claire bit out. “As I told you.”

  Laughing, he pocketed the knife. Then he bent and snatched up her bag of jewelry, just visible beneath her favorite dandelion-yellow gown. He picked up a leather-bound journal, found its pages were blank, and dropped it back to the planks.

  A frustrated groan burned her throat, rising in volume as he kicked aside an inlaid box in order to see what lay underneath. “Do you have to treat my belongings in that way?”

  “I must be sure you do not have any more weapons among your finery.”

  “Or jewels,” she said tartly.

  “Or jewels,” he agreed. “What about coins? Do you have a bag of those as well?”

  Claire refused to answer. She did have a small bag of silver, but she was certainly not going to help him steal it.

  Her reluctance didn’t seem to bother Tye. He nudged several folded chemises, clinging together, to reveal another leather-bound journal, the one in which she’d penned her tale of the knight that Lady Brackendale had so enjoyed. There were other adventures in there too, that she’d written with Mary in a quiet corner of the garden, with no one about to hear them giggle and squeal with delight: silly, romantic stories about lonely maidens being rescued by gallant heroes and falling in love. She and Mary had spent two days writing one scene about a hero and heroine kissing, inspired by her wonderful kiss from Henry. Even as she desperately prayed that Tye wouldn’t be interested in the journal, he leaned over and picked it up.

  A moan broke from her, the sound echoed by Mary. “Please,” Claire said.

  “You do not want me to look at this book?” Tye’s eyes gleamed. “Why not?”

  If she told him what was in the journal, ’twould only make him more intrigued. Fighting the flush racing over her skin, she merely shrugged.

  “What is in these pages, Claire?” Tye’s thumb brushed the strip of leather tied in a loose knot that kept the cover closed. “Did you write personal musings in these pages? Did you share thoughts and dreams you never thought anyone else would see?”

  Her blush deepened.

  “Did you reveal secret desires?” His words trailed off on a seductive hiss.

  She fought the shiver trailing like a forbidden caress down her spine. ’Twas not fair that his voice should wreak such havoc upon her. In truth, her writings weren’t that scandalous, but she’d rather he didn’t read her stories, especially the one about kissing. The act of kissing was, after all, two people sharing a pure, glorious, ever-after love. He would only mock her for what she’d written.

  She folded her arms and met his stare with one of silent mutiny.

  He chuckled. “My, my, Kitten, you make me even more curious. I look forward to settling back with a goblet of wine and reading—”

  “Enough!” Claire snapped.

  “—every page.”

  “Oh, God,” Mary croaked. Her eyes bulged, as if she might choke on her dismay.

  Never before had Claire felt so vulnerable. The urge to plead with Tye, to beg him not to read what she’d penned, welled inside her. Yet, ’twas exactly what he wanted: for her to grovel. She would rather eat every page of her journal than give him that satisfaction.

  As she discreetly dried her sweaty hands on her skirts, she heard several people approaching. The mercenary
at the doorway moved out into the corridor, his sword raised.

  Claire met Mary’s gaze. Judging by Mary’s expression, she was clearly hoping for a dramatic rescue, but Claire refused to indulge in even the briefest flare of excitement. From all she’d seen, Tye’s assault had been too quick and too complete for Wode’s men-at-arms to have had a chance of winning the battle.

  The mercenary returned, followed by three more rough-looking thugs. Their cloaks and chain mail armor were stained with blood. Fighting the pain of loss—heaven only knew how many of Wode’s loyal fighters had perished in the battle—Claire looked back at her garments scattered on the floor.

  “Milord,” a mercenary said.

  Tye swept past Claire. His earthy scent, of leather and horse and crisp morning air, teased her, and she fought the unwelcome temptation to watch him walk away, his strides full of command. Instead, she knelt and began to gather up her belongings. Mary dropped down beside her to help.

  “What news do you bring?” Tye asked, his voice seeming to fill every part of the room.

  “The bailey is secure,” a mercenary answered

  “Good.”

  “There are wounded prisoners, milord. You asked us to summon you—”

  “I did.”

  Claire sensed Tye’s gaze upon her. Ignoring him, she pulled the inlaid box over beside the silk gown she’d folded.

  She continued to fold as Tye strode up behind her and halted. She knew ’twas him. She felt him, his presence brazen and demanding. He stood just to her left, watching her every move.

  Mary, her eyes wide with apprehension, followed Claire’s lead and continued to straighten the items before her.

  A defiant smile tilted Claire’s lips. Tye might expect her to look up and acknowledge him, but she wouldn’t obey. He didn’t control her will. He didn’t deserve her respect, and he’d never have it.

  As she straightened back on her heels, adding the chemise to the folded pile, the warning creak of leather sounded beside her. Before she could scoot away, his fingers closed under her chin and tipped it up.