Conquer the Night by Heather Graham Page B

she couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, could only feel him move, his flesh, hot, wet, the power of his hold against her, the slick movement, the pulsing, beating, pain….
    He went as still and tense as a longbow; then heat seeped into her, filled her like a river, swamped her, and with it the pulse began again, a slow pain of memory. She wanted to hurl him from her, move him, yet he didn’t budge, and she was suddenly aware of his blue eyes, as invasive as his body, pinning hers. And there was no apology, just anger, and a single demand: “Why?”
    â€œPlease …”
    â€œWhy did you lie?”
    â€œPlease … oh, God, please—”
    â€œWhy did you lie?”
    â€œI knew you didn’t really want me! I thought that you would …” She closed her eyes and swallowed hard. “I thought that you would leave me alone.”
    He moved from her at last. She closed her eyes; her whole body seemed to continue to burn.
    â€œYou bloody little fool!” she heard him say quietly. “I thought you were goading me, challenging me. I believed that you were quite adept at what you were doing, that you were accustomed to your power, that you were tenacious, cunning—and had known half the men in the castle.”
    She rolled away from him, aware that tears were seeping from her eyes, ready to fall down her cheeks. Her back to him, she whispered, “What difference does it make? You wanted to hurt me, didn’t you?”
    He was quiet for a very long moment—so long that she was almost tempted to look back at him again.
    He rose and walked away from her. He seemed as restless as a tiger, sleek and powerful in his every movement, and still … caged. And yet he was the one who had made himself master here. He paused at the mantel and was still, staring at the flames.
    â€œI felt … obliged to take everything that was Darrow’s—including you. Did I want to inflict pain? No, not really!” he said very softly at last. “What I have wanted is to stop the anguish in myself, my dreams, the hauntings….” he said, and added bitterly, “Nay, what I really want is to kill Kinsey Darrow. I want him to die slowly—by flames.”
    There was a tremor in the very deep cadence of his voice. She winced, shivering, her back still to him. “I know that perhaps you can’t believe me,” she whispered. “But I’m sorry about your wife. So very sorry.”
    â€œMy lady, I have just violated you. You need not apologize regarding the fate of another woman at this moment.” He was quiet again; then he must have seen her shaking, for he rose and reached for her.
    â€œNo, I—”
    â€œI am taking you to the bed, nothing more—to the warmth of the furs.”
    Despite her instant and instinctive protest, he lifted her and carried her to the bed. She was so very sore, wounded to the core. She couldn’t have fought him then; she hadn’t the will. Her arms curved around his neck. His eyes held hers; she trembled still harder, suddenly aware now as she hadn’t been before of his great, sword-yielding strength, the perfect honing of his body, the way that he moved—against her, touching her. He was the enemy who had come to her house and invaded; and she should have been fighting still, slamming against him, protesting even his lightest touch with the last breath in her body.
    Her body remained in too much anguish.
    He ripped away the furs that covered the bed and slid her onto the smooth cool sheets before covering her in the furs once again. Shivering, teeth chattering, she drew the furs tightly to her chin.
    He studied her. She watched him in return, trying to keep her eyes glued to his and not let them fall to the portion of his anatomy that had so tormented her just moments ago. Then he slid into the bed beside her. She clutched the furs more tightly, ever guarded. But he kept his distance,