Heather Graham Read Online Free Page B

crying out again …
    Burning in the flames.
    He rose above her, entered her. His fingers entwined with hers at either side of her head as the fullness of him thrust into her, deeper, deeper still, deeper again. She closed her eyes, yet felt his fierce gaze upon her, and opened them again.
    “Lest you forget me …” he whispered.
    She could never forget. Never, never.
    Not this tempest, not this fire. Not the man, tension and steel above and within her now, not this reckless beat and thrust, climbing, thundering, demanding …
    Sweet, mindless pressure spiralled within her. Honeyed pleasure doused her body and soul even as she felt his last shuddering thrust impale her, the stream of his seed fill her. She closed her eyes tightly, dismayed by the hot tears that threatened to spill as he moved away from her.
    Already, he was rising.
    Tonight he had come for her.
    But her fate had to be decided. Come the daylight, he had to ride to battle, and she was a traitor.
    It was war. As it had always been, from the first time they had met. Aye, she had known him forever. Perhaps she had loved him just as long. Been his enemy as long.
    Alas, no!
    Longer.
    For war had begun before they met, before she was even born.
    And thus their roles had been cast.

Part I: To the victor …

Chapter 1
    The Castle of Aville
    Fall, 1336
    “I KNOW HOW TO breach the walls,” Adrien MacLachlan said.
    No one heard him. Edward was in a rage. Sweeping his great mantle behind him, the towering Plantagenet king shouted again in fury. “By God, this is madness! I, Edward, the warrior king, cannot breach walls held by a woman!”
    Around his campfire, the king’s most illustrious knights held silent against his wrath, deeply frustrated themselves. They were muddied, weary, bloodied, and cold. It had seemed a simple enough measure to take Aville, a small fortress situated on land within Edward’s own duchy. A fortress held by Lenore, daughter of the late Comte Jon d’Aville, a second cousin to the Valois king.
    It was rumored that the French king hid within the walls, and thus, King Edward’s preoccupation with taking the fortress, despite the countess’s talent with boiling oil, flaming arrows, and other methods of defense.
    “Can’t someone give me advice?” the king demanded.
    “Sire!” Adrien cried. “I know how to breach the walls.”
    Edward, hearing the boy at last, spun around. His ward, the Scottish lad, stood at the entry to the tent.
    The boy was just ten, but he was already tall and showed great promise of strength in the breadth of his shoulders. His golden eyes were steady and shrewd, and along with his growing prowess with arms, he had a keen desire for knowledge, spending many of his free hours with his head buried in books. He also showed great courage, Edward thought, to come upon this gathering at his tender age—and offer advice.
    “Ah, the Scots lad is going to advise us!” Brian of Perth groaned angrily. He was in a foul mood, having received a burn on his shoulder that day. “Get on out of here, lad!”
    “Wait!” the king commanded, his cold blue gaze putting Brian in his place. “The Scots have been known to teach us many a lesson! Come in, boy. I’ll listen to any piece of tactical advice at this time!”
    Adrien MacLachlan stepped into the center of the circle, closer to the fire. He kept his head high, his shoulders straight, aware that he must give an impression of wisdom and strength far greater than his years allowed. His father had taught him well.
    “A poor man, even one with noble blood, must be a strong one, boy. If you would survive these troubled times, my lad, I would create a great warrior of you. Most importantly, impoverished men — aye, even defeated men, such as ourselves! — must excel, and thus, in the end, become the victorious. Never accept defeat, my son. Not when you fear a stronger opponent. Not when you have taken the first blow. Never surrender, for the only surrender there can be is