V

V

She lifted her chin, yet allowed herself to tremble once more. "Sir Stede, by what I have suffered at your hands so far, I hardly find you to be a man in whom I would care to confide." Elise fluttered her lashes prettily and took another long sip of the wine. It was an extremely potent drink, fruity and dry. She had been drinking wine and ale all her life, but this . . . this . . . was nice. It filled her with warmth. And with courage. False courage, she was aware, but desperately needed, nevertheless.

For a moment he was caught, caught by the firelight playing upon the wealth of her hair, by the soft whisper of her voice, by the plea within it.

"Milady, if you can say something that will clear you of the deed, please do so."

It was working! Like every other man, he could be veered from his course and led by the nose with little more than the effort of a false smile. Exuberance and warmth and a feeling of power swept through Elise and she determined to play her act. She stood, sweeping her blanket along with her chastely, yet swiftly assuring herself that a calf was innocently bared.

"I would gladly speak to you, Sir Stede! 1 would have spoken to you from the first had you not behaved so . . . crudely."

She said the last with such an aching hurt in her tone that she almost believed herself. And though Stede stood with an elbow rested upon the rough mantel, his ever-raised cryptic brow still high, she saw that his eyes were opaque, shrewd still as they appraised her, but perhaps betraying the shadow of doubt.

He did not bow down to apologize, but from him, the response was almost as gratifying.

"Milady, you know full well why I acted as I did."

"You were angry, yes, and . . . understandably so." She had to turn from him to utter such a fantastic lie, but even her swift shift to stare into the fire with her head bowed low was to her credit. He was silent for several seconds, then reminded her, "Duchess, you have yet to say anything that sheds light upon the situation."

She braced herself for the climax of her performance, stiffening her spine beneath the blanket and casting back her head so that the profile of her chin was high.

"I would rather die a thousand deaths, Sir Stede, than reveal my true reasons for being where I was known!"

That much was true. And she would rather die than have the real reason known. But the lie she was about to tell would surely suffice; and should it ever spread, it would not be believed.

She expected that he would swear to silence, but his voice was a soft drawl as he warned her, "Duchess, it is possible that you will die."

She felt him come near her, but he merely swept the gourd from her hand and drew from it as he straddled the bench, then opened the leather-bound satchel he had taken from the trunk. She heard a loud crunch and turned to see that he had bitten into a large, very fresh and very red apple.

His eyes were upon hers—expectantly.

"This cottage is very well supplied!" she exclaimed, just managing to keep the irritation from her voice.

"Yes, it is," he replied pleasantly, sweeping his hand to arc the room in the firelight. "With Richard always at our heels, we dug in immediately at Chinon. I built this place with Marshal—and two of the men who died tonight. We kept food and wine aplenty at all times, as the hunting to feed the army was important, and so was sanctuary, should we find ourselves caught in demon weather such as this night's storm. Apple?"

He tossed the fruit toward her. Elise, instantly aware that she would lose her blanket if she reflexively caught it, smiled sweetly, and allowed it to bounce to the floor.

Not that she had anything at all left to hide from the man. But she would assure herself that he would never touch her again—unless it was to her design.

Still smiling, she lowered herself gracefully with her blanket about her and retrieved the apple.

"We have all night, Duchess," he told her quietly.

Elise turned toward the fire once more, holding her apple. For a second she felt absurdly hot, as if the fire burned within her. The flames leaped and crackled and the room spun. She stared at the apple in her hand, then bit into it, and for some absurd reason she thought of the Bible, and of Eve, taking that first bite of fruit that led to original sin . . .

She shouldn't have drunk so much of the wine, she realized. It had given her strength, but now it was numbing her mind, and creating a world of shadows when she needed so badly to make every play correctly. Needed to convince this man that she had known Henry well, and had reason to secrete away a single small treasure.

"I was his mistress," she blurted out suddenly.

She heard the startled intake of breath that followed her brash statement, and then she heard an utter silence. She longed to turn to see the effect of her words upon the man, but if she did anything other than hang her head in feigned disgrace, she would lose the impact of her shamed appeal.

"Mistress!"

The single word was like a whip against the wind.

"Aye," Elise whispered, trembling.

"Henry was far too ill—"

"At the end, yes," Elise murmured. "At the very end. And . . . and I had not seen him in months . . . but . . ."

At last she allowed herself to spin around, and she slid gracefully to her knees at his feet, imploring him with eyes as vast and brilliant as a crystal sea. She placed her hand tentatively, delicately, upon his thigh in gentle supplication, and fought not to withdraw it as the heat seemed to burn her. And then she was struggling not to smile, for she felt the quick shudder her touch elicited, and was pleased that she had judged the foolish weaknesses of the male so accurately. "Sir Stede, I have trusted you with my life to say these words, for should this truth be known, I would be forever tarnished and ruined. But I loved Henry, as God is my witness, I loved him! The ring had a special import between us; I did not think that he would grudge it to me!"

Her speech was good, she knew. Passionate, and ringing with a certain sincerity. There was much that was true within it.

He stared at her, and his jaw stopped its movement over the apple piece he chewed. His eyes narrowed, as dark and dusky as the midnight blue of the storm-filled sky. Then he touched her, smoothing her hair from her temple to her neck. Elise curved her lips into a slight smile that she hoped was enchanting and instinctively nuzzled the silken softness of her cheek against the rough texture of his palm—as a kitten sought warmth and sympathy on a cold night, so would she. Surely even ruthless knights knew that children, small animals, and young women craved gentle care and chivalrous protection!

With a sudden movement he tossed the apple into the fire to hold her head to his with both hands.

"Henry's mistress ?" he repeated in a husky demand, and in it, Elise could read a multitude of his rapid-fire thoughts. He had softened, melted like steel in the craftsman's blaze. She was no longer a murderer; no longer despicable. And he was experiencing a certain regret for having labeled her so and treated her so roughly . . .

Not half so much regret as you will feel when I am free and you discover that I am capable of avenging the wrongs done against me, she thought.

His face lowered toward her. She felt again the strength in his hands, yet it was a trembling strength, and the touch more a caress than an imprisonment.

"You . . . loved . . . the king?"

There was a strange inflection upon the word, but it did not alarm Elise, as she assumed he was merely assuring himself that her emotion was real.

"Passionately," she replied, meeting his heated indigo stare.

But Bryan Stede was not, at the moment, in the least concerned with emotions—or with the king he had so faithfully served.

He was thinking only that the girl was no innocent maid; that if she had known a lover's touch and been long deprived, she would need feel such a touch again.

And that the heat of the fire that roared behind him seemed to have become a part of him, ripping, tearing, consuming his blood, consuming his mind and his thoughts. The wind that whipped furiously beyond the cottage walls fanned and fed the fire until it was a storm that burned heated and blue and golden and red. Anger, desire, passion, and loss . . . all exploded within him. He had to have her. The weeks of tension and warfare, exhaustion and deprivation were overcome by the simplicity of that fire; the basic need of the warrior and the male within him clamored as wildly as the wind for the succor of an interlude of physical pleasure and forgetfulness.

"Duchess . . . the king is dead."

"I . . . I know . . ." she murmured in sudden confusion. "And I . . . I believe that you loved him, as I did, and that is why I beg that you not drag me back as a thief and—"

"Nay, lady, I will not drag you back as a thief."

"Thank you, Sir Stede, thank you—" Elise began, but she cut off as he stood abruptly, his hands sliding to her shoulders to bring her to him. She saw that the indigo of his eyes had burned to a smoldering flame, and that his features were again tense, with a pulse ticking against the hard corded muscle of his neck.

"Nay, lady, I will not drag you back as a thief. I will give us the tempest of this night, and we will fill the voids within one another as the rain rages past."

"What . . . ?" Elise murmured, her confusion growing ever vaster, until she at last recognized the blue flame burning ever more intensely in his eyes.

Desire. Naked, elemental desire.

He was not thinking of her as a kitten, or as a child. Nor was he thinking she needed sympathy or protection . . .

"Sir Stede!" she protested, fighting the web of the wine and the spinning room and the hot steel touch of his hands upon her. "I was Henry's mistress—not a common harlot—"

He laughed. "I take you for nothing common, Duchess, believe me!"

Elise stared at him with wide eyes, her position suddenly coming threateningly clear to her. Whereas she had assumed herself the spider spinning the web, she was suddenly the fly caught within it. She had sauntered boldly forward, and too late realized that she had fallen into the entanglement of his strength.

You have played the fool! she raged silently to herself. Her mind raced for the words to remind him that he took no woman by force, yet in the fire of his eyes she knew he thought not of force, just of passion, and that he believed she would welcome his tempest in her loneliness and loss . . .

Dismay, and a sense of belated wisdom, came to her. She was so accustomed to being in control. She had known her father well, and she knew Percy well. With them, she could tease, she could cajole; she could take a game as far as she so pleased—and still call a halt that would be instantly obeyed. But Stede was no admiring gallant. He would never allow a woman to play a game, to tempt a man and walk away.

But he would not force her! She had to think, and speak quickly, convince him that she made a plea for his sympathy and nothing else . . .

She opened her mouth, but the time for words had passed. She was mesmerized, her eyes locked with his. Then she no longer saw the fire, for she felt it as his mouth seared down upon hers.

She didn't know if it was pleasure or pain; she was only aware that it was the greatest shock her body had known. Too stunned to protest, she felt only sensation breaking through the fog of her confusion and dismay. He was the sensation. The sound of his heartbeat against her breast thundered like the night, and the steel of his body was not cold at all, but molten, enveloping her with his heat. His mouth was firm upon hers, and its demand was hungering, but persuasive. The brush of his cheek was slightly rough, and the stroke of his tongue against her lips was, again, pure fire. He invaded her mouth fully, and the sheer masculinity of him was such that she was overpowered before she could rally her wits to fight. Deeper and deeper he kissed her, until she was clinging to him not to fall, until the breath was taken from her body, until all spun about her until there was nothing but the roaring fire and the raging wind.

It was a kiss, she tried to tell herself, somewhere in the misted regions of her mind. Nothing more than a kiss. She could not allow herself to believe . . . to accept . . . that she had made a mockery of her determined plan to win him sweetly to her cause—with no repercussions. It was still just a kiss . . .

How often had she been like this with Percy—glad to play, glad to test her power? How often had they broken off, laughing, Percy swearing that he could not guard her honor were she to tempt him so? But just as she wondered with growing excitement herself what it would be like to allow him to love her further, she knew that he would step back, breathing heavily, his heart racing, and vow that they would have to marry soon. She was the one in control, and despite amusement and wonder, Percy knew that she would not have him until they were legally wed. A kiss, to tempt and beckon, but that was all. They had shared so many kisses . . .

But never like this. Never this rage of heat and smoldering fire. Never this power that sent the world spinning and reeling to the tempest of the storm. Percy had never been steel, overwhelming, breaking down barriers, commanding her will.

Only a kiss . . . to taunt and beckon. To make a man want more, to enchant him. So that when he stepped away, he would fall all over himself, forgetting all but to be gallant and to please . . .

A kiss . . . no more.

But this was not Percy; it was Bryan Stede. Swept into his spiral of hunger, she could not combat the force of his arms, she could not twist away from his lips . . . could not fight the mercurial heat of his invading tongue. She clung to him merely not to fall . . . yet she realized with a shivering fatality that it would seem that she beckoned him ever onward.

His hands moved upon her shoulders and the blanket fell to the floor. When he drew his body from hers, she was clothed only in the lustrous length of her hair, which fell like silk upon the velvet of her skin. Her eyes beheld his, wide and dazed, and he fell ever more into a trap of legend and myth, beauty and fantasy. Tendrils of red and gold wisped about her fine features, and waved over her breasts. They fell like a cloak to feather sweetly along her hips and thighs. The perfection of her form again swept over his senses; the high, rose-crested breasts, the narrow waist, invitingly curved hips, and long lean flanks—all in unmarred ivory . . .

"Nothing common . . ." he said softly, and again stepped toward her.

His words were like an awakening clap of thunder, and Elise instinctively stepped backward, stretching out her hand in reflexive self-defense.

She doubted bitterly that he had noticed; he was upon her again so quickly, sweeping her into his arms as if she were no more than air.

"Stede!" she at last gasped out, yet she still could not struggle from the spider web of strength that held her, and the shock of the response she had elicited continued to numb her wits, no matter how she fought to clear them. "Stede!" She brought her hands against his chest, but it was like pressing against armor. His urgent stride brought them quickly to the low-framed bed of goose feathers, and she no sooner felt that softness beneath her back than she felt his hardness atop her. He still wore his dark tunic, yet it seemed to grant no barrier between them; his length burned against her as his sinewed weight kept her easily captive.

"Stede!" Elise began again, but his fingers threaded through the sides of her hair, and she had but a brief glimpse of the intense desire burning darkly in his eyes before his mouth once more claimed hers.

Again there was the shock, rippling like bolt after bolt of lightning throughout her. And the air . . . the scent that came to her, not perfumed, but musky, clean, but threateningly male. Her teeth were parted by the hungry force of his assault; she hadn't even the power to work her jaw as his tongue leisurely delved into the deepest recesses of her mouth, leaving her with no choice but to parry with her own . . .

Desperate instinct brought her hands against him, but she could find no hold with which to wedge them apart. It was all so fast . . .

So smooth, so swift . . .

This was not what I intended! she shrieked inwardly, but she couldn't speak, for he had effectively silenced her; she couldn't strike out at him, for now her arms were trapped by his. She tried to kick him, but when she raised her leg, she found that she had abetted him all the more, for his weight wedged fully between her thighs, and his tunic was pulled high upon his hips, leaving her position far more perilous . . .

Darkness seemed to fall around her. A darkness lightened only by a single torch of flaming fire. The rush of the wind was all about her, robbing her of all else but the moment, and the storm of sensation. Somewhere, in that darkness, she knew that he was the fire, the only light that could come to her now. Muscled steel and burning flesh. Lips that demanded and scorched, hands that began to play upon her, running along her body, to stroke her breast, to find her thigh, and gently force it to accommodate his form. She felt his touch, an intimate caress. Light, but as experienced as the firmly persuasive kiss that continued to imprison her in silence. Then she felt the force of his body, the power of his male sex as he began to shift against her . . .

Steel, she thought, near hysteria. This was truly steel. Heated, strong, alive . . . and pulsing with life and demand. For a moment primal fear stilled all else. He would kill her; tear her asunder; rip her apart with the strength of his blade . . .

Something else came to her. Would he know that she hadn't been Henry's mistress, or could he be deceived? Could a man be deceived—

Fire! Streaking into her, piercing with a full and potent accuracy that was white lightning, rendering her slender form to stunned shudders as the lightning filled and filled her. A sensation of burning, exploding pain that was so great, Elise at last managed to tear from his passionate kiss, inadvertently burying her head against his shoulder to draw blood from her lower lip to keep from screaming out. The wind was a part of her, piercing into her, raging throughout her. Ceasing, like the eye of the storm, then slowly whistling, rising, buffeting to a tempest once more. Elise tried desperately to keep her tears in check.

Stede! How she despised him, and now . . . now he was a part of her, inside her. He knew her more intimately than she had known intimate could be; he claimed her inside and out. He was part of her, and with each of his powerful strokes, he filled her ever farther, taking her so thoroughly that this possession would forever be a brand upon her, and she knew she would never forget him or these moments of tempest as long as she lived . . .

The pain subsided, but not the feeling of fire. She was shocked that her body should so give to his, that although her heart and mind had not truly assimilated what had happened, her body had instinctively adjusted to primal ritual. She clung to him, her nails digging into the shoulder of his tunic, but her form moved to the heated rhythm of his, absorbing his masculinity. She was not going to die, or be torn apart. And . . .

There was promise about it, promise in the flames, in the roar of the wind. Something . . . if she just reached for it. Something that was sweet, that filled her senses along with his intimate touch. Something that promised of starlight and beauty, and a soaring ride acrest the wind. If she allowed it . . .

No! This was not Percy! It was Stede, and for all his lean, muscled splendor, he was a beast of the night. Now he had taken everything from her and she was left to cringe against him as he imprinted his will upon her for all eternity. Stroking, holding, touching . . . and then . . .

Groaning, low and guttural, and falling hard against her.

Flooding her with himself, even as he left her . . .

The winds died; the glow of the fire ceased.

Elise bit into her lip again, and when she strained swiftly to curl away from him, he allowed her.

Rage roiled within her now. Rage and bitterness. She wanted nothing more than to be away from the man whose damp and powerful form still lingered far too near. She wanted to cry and scream and rail against God, and it was all the more bitter that she couldn't allow herself to do so, for she was still his prisoner. If she remained perfectly silent, and played out this final role, he might at least free her, or she might still escape . . .

She felt him shift again, raising upon an elbow to rest his head upon a hand. And stare at her. And completely eradicate her last hope with his first words.

"Henry's mistress, eh?"

She cringed.

"Henry's mistress, and the Duchess of Montoui?" He laughed aloud. "Aye, milady! And I am King of the Night Wind! What do you take me for, Duchess! An inexperienced idiot?"

The tone was soft and pleasant—so soft and pleasant that the taunting mockery within it drove her nearly mad. She spun about, and her rage spewed forth.

"An idiot? Oh, no, Sir Stede! I take you for an arrogant bastard and an unmitigated liar! Your honor is as false as your tongue. Vulture, snake, most vile of beasts—"

"Speaking of tongues," he interrupted her harshly, and she saw the dangerous narrowing of his now clear indigo eyes, "yours, milady, will definitely be your downfall. How did I lie?"

"That you can ask!" Elise shrilled, trying to pull her hair from beneath his form, then meeting his steady gaze with the furious clash of her own. "Rape! You wouldn't think of it! Force—you wouldn't use it—"

His free hand bolted out to catch her chin, threatening to crush the fragile bone. "Duchess, you came to me—on your knees, I might remind you. You didn't resist."

"Resist!" The tears at last stung her eyes, but rage kept them from falling. "How could one resist you! You came after me like a stallion at rut, abusing and tormenting and brutalizing—"

"Hold your tongue, Duchess, I warn you!" he thundered. His eyes simmered to a dangerous black, and his expression darkened. "You were not abused, tormented, or brutalized. Had you not lied to me, I could have eased the pain. Yet, had you not lied to me, we would never have reached such a point. I am sorry for your pain, but it is quite natural—I hear."

"You hear? Oh, God! So help me, Stede, there will come a day when I will cut you in pieces, feed you to the wolves . . ."

He stared at her as her harangue continued, his jaw hardening. The virago now spewing venom upon him was a far cry from the seductive maid who had knelt so sweetly at his feet. She had proved herself to be a liar once more, yet he was overcome with guilt, and irritated that he should be, furious that she had put him in such a position. His knowledge of her circumstance had come far too late for him possibly to withdraw and leave her intact, and so all that passed was of her own making. She hadn't cried out, and hadn't given way to tears, and somehow that, too, worked upon his sense of guilt, perhaps because he had to admire the courage that kept her fighting, just as he could not regret that he had possessed her—in fact, had been the first to do so. Without meaning to give, she had been a sea of sensuality. She had brought the storm of his emotions to a sheltered harbor of satisfaction, eased his tensions, received his fever and his seed.

And now become a harpy once more. Just when his physical gratification had combined with his long stretch of lack of sleep to bring him to total exhaustion.

"Stop!" he snapped. "I've had all I'm going to take from a lying, conniving little thief!"

She did stop speaking; she drew in a sharp intake of breath, and her cheeks paled as the brilliant fury faded from her eyes.

"I . . . I am not a thief . . ."

The words were barely a whisper, touching a chord of pity within his heart. Whatever he said to her, he keenly felt his own part in her misery, and although he could not change what had been, he was sorry for her. And she was still beautiful. More so now, as she tried to draw her hair about her to cover herself, like tattered remnants of her pride and innocence.

"Don't fear, Duchess, I have no intention of seeing your pretty neck severed—now. Your soft, sweet speech has too enamored me. I'll see to your welfare, just as your ‘lover'—the king—would have done."

"What?" Elise gasped out, then followed his meaning. "I'd rather lose my head a hundred times than endure such a—"

"Bestial rutting?" he supplied with polite and cryptic sarcasm.

". . . with you again. A most decent description!" Elise lashed out in quick anger.

His quick laughter did little to ease her anger or dismay. "'Tis the first complaint I've ever had," he told her, grinning easily. "But I doubt that you should describe it so for long. Since I was unaware that you fought me, it would surely be true heaven to bed you when you felt the true heat of passion. I doubt, too, milady thief, that it would take you long to learn the heights of passion and desire. You were created to grace a man's pleasure, sweetly sensual even when the bedding was all a lie."

She stared at him for a moment as if he were truly insane, then heard the grate of her nails against the bedding. "I swear to you, Stede, as God in heaven is my witness, I'll—"

"I know, I know," he said, the strong sting of exasperation and impatience deep in his voice, "you'll skin me alive, feed me to the wolves, and so on. But for now, Duchess, I suggest you shut your mouth—or take a strong chance of finding a gag about it. I wish to get some sleep."

She was silent for a second, again giving him that stare that labeled him a lunatic.

"Just like that?"

"What?"

"You're going to go to sleep just like that? You abducted me, threw me about, ravaged my person, and ruined my life—and you're going to go to sleep?"

"Precisely."

"Son of a—"

He moved like lightning, clamping a hand over her mouth, and leaning dangerously near once more. "I warn you, and I warn you, Duchess, yet you persist in testing me! One more word, a scream, a cry, a whisper, and the tatters of your shift can quickly become a gag and bounds. Or . . ."

Elise stared wide-eyed and belligerently into the dusky orbs of indigo, noticing that when he stopped speaking to grin wickedly, his smile could change his countenance. His birthright had been a handsome set of features; the years had added power and ruggedness. Yet when he smiled, there was a hint of youth about him, and Elise was bitterly certain that many a maiden would find him devastating beyond measure. His physique, she well knew, could not be more finely honed or muscled; and his arresting height and dark blue eyes could surely draw tremors of fear upon a battlefield, as well as tremors of longing from the smitten hearts of women . . .

"Or . . ."—His grin broadened, and she felt a disturbing flutter within her own heart—". . . if you are so determined to keep me from sleep, I would not wish to waste the time."

Elise felt her breasts suddenly swell firm against the expanse of his chest; they both felt the rose crests instinctively harden as he pressed his chest against her. Even through the fabric that covered the rippling muscles of his chest, she felt the flesh with her own. Her cheeks reddened with horror as he shifted and used his hand to slide between them, finding the fullness of her breast and the tempting peak of the betraying nipple to massage each gently. His palm, calloused and rough, moved with a disturbing tenderness, and even as she sank into a sea of helpless outrage and humiliation, she felt that touch throughout her. Her body suddenly seemed empty without him; a hint of the fire scorched through her in little ripples . . .

He laughed again and rolled from her. "Go to sleep, Duchess, before I have a chance to set myself up for more lectures on brutality."

It was too much. Even knowing she would lose, Elise was ready for battle. She spun about, managing to bring her palm in cracking contact with his cheek. His laughter died as he gripped her arm, twisting it to force her to her back once more. "I'll try to understand that one, Duchess. But you are too late now for protest and indignity; too late to avoid my eyes on your nudity; and too late to begrudge my touch on that which I have already had. Go to sleep, and leave me in peace. I promise I will care for you as well as any king, and I will save you from the gallows or sword."

"I would rather die—" Elise whispered, her defenses draining as her strength gave out.

"No—I also promised that you would not. In the years to come, you will know that your life is far more valuable than any consort between a man and a woman. Rest, little vixen. It will all look better in the morning. And don't try to escape me. I wake with the rustle of the wind."

He lay down beside her once more, keeping an arm about her waist, and pulling her close. Elise heard only the now soft crackle of the fire, and the gentle whisper of the dying wind.

"I assure you, Stede, that I will never be a consort of yours! Not even should hell below freeze. I will shortly be another's wife; and you will be called to answer for this abominable outrage—"

"Shut up, Duchess . . ."

The voice held deep and husky warning. Elise closed her eyes and pursed her lips tightly together. No more impotent threats! she told herself. Wait . . . wait . . .

Seconds passed, and then long minutes, during which she felt nothing but misery. Then she heard his deep, even breathing and she chanced twisting her head to see his face.

His eyes were closed; his features relaxed. She bit her lip, willing herself to remain still.

Not yet.... Not yet . . .

She was sure he did wake with the breeze, his senses acutely attuned from the moment he opened his eyes. But he was truly exhausted. He had dozed so quickly. If she just gave him time to fall into a deep, deep sleep . . .

She closed her eyes again, now willing time to pass quickly. She hated his touch upon her; the hand so casually upon her bare waist, the arm that draped against the edge of her breast. She hated that he lay beside her so easily when she felt so vulnerably naked; she hated that he assumed such an intimacy with her.

And she hated that he had been inside her, hated that she felt his mark within and upon her still.

Hated his strength, and his power, and the masculinity that had so overwhelmed her.

Hated the fact that this night had changed her so.

She had been the fool, all along. Life had sheltered her; Henry had nurtured her to believe herself powerful.

Tonight she had learned she could be defenseless, that all her wiles had led her to enter a battle with the weapons of a child . . .

She had expected him to behave like a man. And he had. But she had not realized that there were certain men who could not be goaded or beguiled—except to their own means.

It was a hard lesson. Bitter and hard And the seeds of vengeance would still simmer and grow within her. Prayerfully, when she did meet Stede again, she would know fully well the man she was up against. Never would she underestimate such a man again.

Elise's thoughts raced through her mind again and again as she waited. Waited until the fire burned low in the hearth, and the wind gave up its hold on even a whisper.

Then she slipped carefully from beneath the hold of his arm. Waited again. Slid her weight slowly from the bed.

Still he slept.

If she hadn't hated him so, she could have felt a sympathy for the exhausted lines of his face, only now beginning to ease. She might have admired the warrior's frame, at ease, but still so vital.

If...

She came upon the remnants of her tattered shift and tunic, and she wanted to scream aloud. They were proof of the night, just as the male scent of him that still lingered about her, as the life fluid that clung to her thighs, as the memory still burning betwixt aching joints that ached as if they had been torn asunder . . .

She could not scream. Her hurt and fury would have to be taken with her; at another time and in another place she could find privacy to vent her rage and lick her wounds.

Her clothing was almost useless, but she slipped quickly into it. Her cloak, at least, was encompassing, and only a little damp now. As she swirled it about her, she noted Stede's hose and boots, and his cloak. On impulse, she picked them up, nervously watching him all the while.

His mantle . . . it was laid upon the table near hers. She took that, too, and glanced longingly at his sword. What a lovely thought to imagine she might slide it through his gullet—or hack off the surging, invading steel of his masculinity!

She didn't touch the sword. Experience had taught her to stay as far from him as possible.

It was a pity, too, that he hadn't bothered to doff his tunic and shirt. She would have loved to have left him as stripped and vulnerable as she had been. But . . . at least he would have to see his way back barefoot and on foot.

She glanced at his form once again, feeling another sweep of fury ride over her so hotly that she began to tremble. No . . . he hadn't even bothered to remove his tunic . . . she had been the one to be totally stripped and vulnerable. Stede . . . Stede had merely been in a fevered hurry!

Swift sport had been his only concern, and when that had been achieved, he'd had the despicable arrogance to turn to her and tell her that she had not resisted.

Her eyes looked longingly to his sword; but a heated argument within her own mind at last convinced her that she would rather leave him alive than risk awakening him if she should falter in either her aim or resolve.

Just as she was about to leave, something glinted, a streak of blue fire from the bench, catching and crystallizing the glow of a low-burning ember.

It was the ring.

Her father's sapphire ring.

She strode quickly to it and picked it up, slipping it onto her middle finger. The fit was loose, but it would stay.

She had paid a high price for the ring, a very high price. Bitterness welled within her, but she was not about to leave it behind now.

She watched Stede as she opened the door carefully, and barely breathed as she closed it behind her. Then she gnawed at her lip as she hurried around back and found his massive destrier beneath the cottage overhang, protected from the storm by the shelter of an enclave.

Could she control the massive warhorse? she wondered desperately. She would have to . . .

Thankfully, the horse was still bridled. His saddle had been removed, but she would rather try her luck without it anyway. She would cling low to him, giving her commands with her thighs and heels, and hopefully convincing him that she was in complete control.

Elise whispered soothingly to the stallion, gripped the bundle of clothing she had taken, and breathed a prayer as she dug hard at his mane to swing herself over his back.

She made it. She nudged her heels into the stallion's flanks, and to her joy, he responded.

Without gazing at the hunter's cottage again, she turned and rode into the night.