Samantha James Read Online Free Page B

not a move. Alana opened her eyes to find him watching her, an odd expression on his face. She went utterly still as he released her hands, only to strip the gloves from his own.
    A roughened fingertip scaled the length of her throat, then skimmed the parted fullness of her lip—as lightly as a feather. Then it dipped low and down the arch of her neck till it rested there at the neckline of her bliaud. She was stunned that he would touch her so, for she was half-afraid he might tear the clothes from her body and take her then and there as the soldier had ravished Hawise.
    Yet this was more a caress. Her mind began to churn so that she could scarcely think. So close to him, he was more frightening than ever. His jaw was square and rugged, his mouth harshly carved below the jutting blade of his nose. His eyes were startlingly light against the darkness of his skin, a pale translucent blue. But there was no cold in those eyes, not now. There was only a glittering heat that made her go hot inside, then icy cold.
    Her heart leaped, apace with her pulse. His gaze had fallen to her mouth; she could feel the moist heat of his breath upon her cheek. Surely he would not kiss her, she thought in panic. Nay, surely not…
    “You are the victor,” she cried. “You, Norman, not I!”
    A terrified sound escaped her. Certain he would ravage her mouth with his, she twisted her face away.
    He rolled away and got to his feet. “You offend me,” he said with a twist of his lips. “You would admit defeat rather than suffer a mere kiss?”
    Alana scrambled to her feet. Her chin came up at his mockery. “A kiss from a Norman”—she made no effort to hide the bite in her tone—“indeed, a Norman swi—”
    The fierceness in his expression stopped her dead. “Do not say it,” he growled, “for I vow this time you’ll live to regret it.”
    She did already, Alana thought shakily. He stared at her challengingly, as if he expected some scathing retort. When such was not forthcoming, he turned away.
    Alana surveyed him warily. Her hand slid inside the fullness of her sleeve, where her dagger was strapped to her arm. She had not forgotten it, but there had been no time to use it. It would have been futile to try against Raoul, with so many others present to thwart her. A shiver wracked her as she thought of her dream—it seemed impossible that the dark knight was here before her now! Ah, but Merrick was no demon in disguise. No specter of the shadows. He was but a man, flesh and bone and blood…
    She slipped the blade from its berth. Clutching the finely honed handle in her palm, she hid it behind her in her skirts. Her mind raced; her mouth grew dry. Could she do this? Mother of Christ, she truly had no desire to kill this man. But if she could wound him, she might be able to flee.
    She waited until he bent to retrieve his gloves from the ground. His back to her; it spun through her mind there would be no better time.
    But Merrick spied the glint of steel from the corner of his eye. With the reflexes of a warrior, he whirled just as she raised her hand, poised to strike.
    He caught her by the hand. His fingers closed about her wrist with merciless intent. She fought him more fiercely than ever; they tumbled to the ground once more. For the second time in as many minutes, he lay heavily atop her form.
    His grip was unrelenting. He squeezed until her grasp began to loosen, then he snatched the dagger from her palm. Her regard was scorching, her outrage forged as deeply as his own.
    He’d meant to teach her a lesson here, and by God, so he would. She would not be free of him so quickly—or so easily. If she would not yield her anger, so be it, but she would yield to him nonetheless.
    “Curse you,” she burst out. “Curse you to Hell, Norman!”
    A dark anger swept over Merrick. His anger burst into flames. In fury and frustration he stabbed the blade into the earth beside her head.
    By God, the wench had just sealed her fate.

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