Lord Of Danger by Stuart, Anne (free ebook reader for android txt) 📗

trapped with the demon in the north tower. And Sir Thomas could or would do nothing for her. He would be mourning his fallen wife.

But she could do something for herself. She could climb on Arabia’s back and escape this place, and this time she wouldn’t come back. She could disappear into the thick forest, survive on nuts and berries and wild game if she were clever enough, and no man would ever touch her again.

Not even the man she longed to have touch her.

“Just let me change, dear Madlen,” she said sweetly, “and we’ll take the air.”

And Madlen was fool enough to take her at her word, nodding comfortably.

She awoke in his arms. She couldn’t move—her limbs felt bound by velvet ties, her head was stuffed with feathers, and her mouth tasted of rabbit’s feet. She opened her eyes and then quickly shut them again, as searing pain lanced through her skull. Even in the dimly lit tower room it was far too bright Even her teeth hurt.

She forced herself to breath lightly, slowly growing accustomed to her circumstances. He lay up against her side, warm and strong and oddly comforting, and one arm rested across her waist, possessive, protecting. He was wrapped in a fur coverlet. She could see his shirt lying on the floor and a sudden foreboding filled her. He slept on beside her, despite the lateness of the morning hour.

He looked like a different man when he slept. No monster at all, with his golden eyes closed, his thick lashes resting against his tawny cheeks. Without the force of his personality to cloud things, he seemed oddly vulnerable, something she would never have thought of Simon of Navarre.

And beautiful. She hadn’t realized it before, but his forbidding face had a kind of unearthly beauty. His cheekbones were high, his nose thin and strong, his mouth wide and surprisingly generous. If he weren’t so intent on terrifying everyone into submission he could have probably charmed them into doing his will.

The room was chilled, but no one had come to see to the fire. They probably didn’t want to interrupt the bridal couple in the throes of ecstasy. Not that Alys had been in the throes of anything, ecstatic or otherwise. She had slept like the dead, and her memory of the night before was filled with strange and incomprehensible dreams.

She glanced down at the bare arm lying across her body, scarred, muscled and strong. And then she realized that her glorious rose colored gown was tangled about her, pulled down to her waist, rumpled up to her hips. She turned to stare at him in shocked surprise but he slept on, oblivious to her reaction.

She was able to slip from underneath his arm. The rushes were damp beneath her feet, and she had no notion where her thin slippers were. She wasn’t about to look. Her head hurt her so badly she thought she might weep with the pain, and for some reason the sight of Simon of Navarre, sleeping so peacefully, so chastely in the bridal bed, wounded her deeply. If he didn’t want her, why had he married her?

Silly question. He’d married her for the settlement Richard had given him, for the power of being brother-in-law to his liege lord. He’d married her out of boredom and spite, most likely.

If only she had a similar excuse.

She’d married him because she wanted to. Because she wanted him. Because she was enchanted and terrified, fascinated and bewitched. She’d married him because she wanted him to kiss her again, to tell her he’d lied, and that she was beautiful. She’d married him because she’d fallen in love with the monster in the cave, and no amount of common sense could talk her out of it.

She needed to find her sister. She needed some of the comfort and wisdom she’d dispensed so generously to Claire; she needed to regain some of her distance. She had no illusions about Simon of Navarre—he was a cold, dangerous man. He would destroy her if he had to, even if he regretted it. He had more of a conscience than he pretended to have, but not enough to ensure her safety.

She tried to pull her gown around her, but the results were less than impressive. She couldn’t reach the lacing, her hair was an impossible tangle, and her shoes were missing. Her mouth felt bruised, swollen, and her breasts ached. She felt strange and damp between her legs as well, something the nuns had taught her to ignore. Her monthly courses must be upon her again, though it seemed as if she had just finished with them. She glanced back at the sleeping man with sudden doubt, but he didn’t move, seemingly innocent. He couldn’t have debauched her without her knowing, could he? He couldn’t have deflowered her while she slept?

In truth, she had no idea. She couldn’t remember a thing. Perhaps he’d done all he was capable of doing. Perhaps he really was less than a man, incapable of bringing her children, or the pleasure he’d talked about the night before.

But she didn’t believe it for one moment. Simon of Navarre was a trickster, a liar, a charlatan and a cheat. He was a man who did exactly what he wanted to, no more, no less. She only wished she knew what it was he wanted.

Her foot knocked against something in the rushes, and she bent down to pick up the jeweled goblet she had seen the night before. It was dented, as if someone had flung it against the wall, and there was a faint, sticky residue at the bottom of the bowl. She stared at it, trying to remember, but her aching head made her mind numb. She’d, held that goblet the night before, and he’d shouted at her. The rest was a blur.

She set the damaged goblet down on the table, lifted her skirts and ran from the room, ignoring her stockinged feet, ignoring the fact that