Conquer the Night by Heather Graham

lifting a hand.
    â€œBring me ale.”
    She stood still.
    â€œMy lady …”
    â€œI am not your servant!”
    â€œServant? Nay, too kind a word. Slave, madam, better suffices for the moment. Bring me ale.”
    She strode across the room in an instant fury, forgetting the state of her clothing, and stumbled as her torn gown tripped up her feet. She cried out, falling. To her distress, he was instantly out of the tub, lifting her from the pool of her clothing. His wet naked flesh brushed her own. She was mortified, red as a sunset. His eyes pinned hers. Are you all right?”
    â€œLeave me be!” she whispered miserably.
    To her amazement, he did. He stood, striding back to the tub. His leg muscles were as taut as steel. His buttocks were more so. She looked away quickly, shaking, burning inside, wishing that she had simply leapt from the parapets.
    She heard him plunk back into the water. Then a moment later: “I’m still waiting for the ale.”
    â€œYou must wait until you rot!”
    He was silent for a minute. “What an intriguing person you are, my lady! One would think that you’d strive to please me in little ways to abate my obviously foul temper.”
    â€œAnd would it make any difference?”
    â€œNot a whit!” he assured her. “And still, one would think …” She was startled then to see something that was almost a smile curve his lips. “I am willing to share.”
    â€œYou, sir, are in good health and able; you could help yourself—and serve me as well,” she said with all the haughty disdain she could summon.
    â€œYou want me out of the tub again?” he inquired politely.
    No, she did not. Yet she was not in much better shape herself with her gown nothing more than tatters. She tried again to gather the pieces.
    â€œIt’s quite useless, you know.”
    â€œWhat’s useless?”
    â€œAny attempt at modesty.” She suddenly felt his eyes again. “You’ve been with many men….” His voice trailed suggestively. “Well, what difference is one more?”
    She should have managed to cast aside every last strip of garment remaining to her, walk boldly naked about. She couldn’t quite do it. But she did pour cups of ale for them both. She came as near the tub as she must and handed him his. She even managed a tight-lipped smile.
    Maybe she’d imbibed a bit too much ale already. She was feeling reckless, and perhaps had too much false courage.
    â€œWhat difference is one more? No difference at all except, sir, I always choose my lovers, choose them carefully. Great lord or stablehand, I choose only those who intrigue me.”
    He stared at her a long moment, shrugged and smiled with a certain amusement. “Slainte!” he said softly, imbibing all in a swallow. “You too, my lady,” he said gravely. “Take it all.”
    She stared at him hard and drained her cup.
    â€œI’ll take another. You must join me again.”
    â€œBecause I am so unappealing?”
    His smile faded. “Because you are not,” he murmured.
    Her eyes did not leave his. She walked back to the ale; poured his, then poured her own. She returned to stand before him. “Then … are you attempting to make this more palatable for me by forcing me to drink myself into a stupor?” she demanded.
    But sunk within the tub, his hard, cobalt eyes upon her, he shook his head—and drank again deeply. “No, my lady. I am trying to make it more palatable for me.”
    His words and manner were confusing, and yet … they could not have cut more deeply, and for that she hated him all the more. Here she was, about to face force and violence, and he was shuddering at the thought of it!
    Despite herself, she had never felt more …
    Insulted!
    â€œThen, perhaps, sir, if this is all so unpalatable , you should give up this quest to hurt Darrow! I’ve been with half the