Conquer the Night by Heather Graham Page A

castle; you needn’t bother trying to ruin me as a bride. I am common, vile—absolutely filthy!”
    He studied his cup. “Half the castle?”
    â€œEvery stablehand,” she assured him. She should keep him drinking, she realized. He had to be exhausted.
    â€œEvery single stablehand?”
    â€œAlas, every single one.”
    â€œBut I thought you chose your lovers carefully?”
    â€œI carefully chose them all.”
    â€œAh, then! More ale, my lady! More—more!”
    He frightened her and infuriated her. And yet … there was something about him that made him a worthy enemy—although a man with whom she wished she were not engaged in such wretched combat. She suddenly felt her temper soar. Common sense be damned; survival be damned.
    This was not to be borne.
    â€œAle? More ale? You would have more, then fine! Aye, more ale, sir!” she exclaimed, seized with a reckless fury. She grabbed the container, determined to dash it and its contents upon his head.
    He was up like a flash of lightning, his hands snaking out and capturing her hard before she could elude him. He shook her like a rag doll, and the remnants of her clothing fell from her like autumn leaves from a tree before winter. Their naked bodies, sleek and wet, were suddenly together, and she had never felt such tension, nor felt so strange at the touch of a man’s eyes pinning her own. He held her as she gasped for breath to speak, yet she did not manage to do so, for she was suddenly plopped down before him in the tub. “Filthy, my lady? I have said that I will share. You must then bathe as well.”
    She tried to gasp a protest; she could not—because he was touching her. His eyes were suddenly hot as blue fire; the soap and his hands were suddenly everywhere, moving over her breasts, her hips, her abdomen, between her thighs. Where he touched, she quivered. She was furious and indignant.
    And she was burning.
    She tried to rise; he dragged her back down. His hold was rough, hard, powerful.
    His fingertips moved again over her breasts, stroking her nipples. The wicked blue fire of his piercing gaze seemed to seep through her, ignite her limbs. Chills and tremors swept through her. His hands moved again, deep below the surface of the water. She reached out to stop him. She touched his chest. Muscle constricted.
    His hands slid between her thighs again. His fingers were slick and ungodly intimate. She wanted to shriek, to scream. She tried to catch his hands, wind her fingers around him, stop him, press him away.
    Stop, no, cease, damn you, bastard… .
    The words that she wanted didn’t leave her lips.
    Breath escaped her, as worthless as her valiant attempt to stop his touch. She was shaking inside and outside, alive with a rage that swept like thunder with every brush of his fingers. It was anger, of course, that he dared touch her so, fury, fear—more—fire, simply fire….
    â€œWait!” she managed at last. It should have been a scream; it was a gasp, a whisper, a plea.
    And he did so, but she quickly realized that he hadn’t really heard her at all, or if he had, he did not mean to give way. He had halted only because he was up again, dragging her with him. She shrieked, clinging to his shoulders to keep from falling, and yet he meant for her to fall to the rug beneath them. Their wet, naked bodies came together and apart; she felt the muscled heat of his every movement and twisted, writhed. But he was pure speed and fierce passion, anger, and emotion. He was above her, then atop her—between her thighs. She became abruptly aware of the state of his arousal as she felt the hard length of his manhood against the intimate portals of her sex. Then she bit hard into her lower lip, trying to keep from shrieking aloud as he suddenly penetrated her, moving deeply, more deeply within her. She would not cry out, she swore, but the pain was stunning, shattering, then numbing;