Samantha James by My Lord Conqueror Page A

was undaunted. “Your lover again?”
    Something sparked inside Alana. “If you mean Radburn, he is not!”
    “So his name is Radburn. Well, Saxon, for your sake, I hope that you do not lie to me.”
    There was no denying the challenge inherent in his tone. Alana decided it wise to ignore it, for she sensed his present mood was dangerous. Masking her unease, she peered into his goblet. “Your ale is near gone. I will fetch more—”
    “Nay, Saxon.” Hard fingers caught at her hand. “Sit,” he commanded.
    Alana’s heart leaped. “Sit? But I cannot think why—”
    “Why else, Saxon?” His smile was maddening, his eyes pure frost. “I would have you near to gaze upon your beauty.”
    “To torment me, more like!” she muttered under her breath. Yet even as she spoke, those hard fingers curled more tightly about her own, and he was drawing her down—down—to sit on her knees before him.
    The hall was noisy, yet she heard nothing. Scalding shame poured through her. She was no fool. She knew what he was about. He meant for her to feel like a pawn, and so she did. His booty. His possession. Her chest ached from holding back her tears.
    Soon he began to toy absently with her hair. Alana wished fervently she had taken the time to braid it; she felt absurdly bound to him, as if he held her to him like a chain. Again and again his fingers slid through the silken strands. A burning resentment simmered inher veins, for it was somehow altogether too intimate, almost as intimate as the crush of his mouth upon hers.
    Just then there was a loud crash and a sharp cry from across the hall. Sybil had fallen. The heavy platter she carried went flying. Rivers of ale seeped everywhere. Alana half-rose, her only thought to help her sister.
    But Merrick’s fingers curling around her arm waylaid her. “No,” he said.
    Alana turned wide, dark eyes to his. “Please,” she said very low. “Let me go to her. She is unused to such hardship.”
    “She will learn,” was all he said.
    Alana’s breath came in sharply. “She will learn? Is this forever to be her fate then? To attend your men? To serve ale and wine and food?”
    Merrick’s lips tightened; he did not speak.
    “I find it odd you say nothing, Norman.” In truth, Alana was secretly appalled at her daring. “Did you not tell Sybil when your sister arrived from Normandy she would no longer be forced to serve your men like this?” Scorn lay heavy in her tone. “Is this how you Normans keep your word?”
    His gaze, cool and remote, rested upon her upturned face. “So quick to plead for your sister,” he murmured. A devilish brow rose high. “I wonder that you do not worry for your own fate instead, Saxon.”
    His power was uncanny, she thought darkly. With naught but the touch of his voice, he could cut like a blade. Alana’s vision shiftedto her knees. She linked her hands together on her lap that he would not glimpse their unsteadiness. Though her lips trembled, she made no effort to conceal the bitter bite from her tone. “You promised no mercy, Norman. And so I expect none.”
    All at once the air came alive with a seething tension. He wrapped her hair around his fist so that she was forced to tip her head back. And when she did, she was caught fast in a web of steely blue fire. “Were you to beseech sweetly, or implore gently, I might be inclined to prove myself a generous lord indeed.” His eyes were no longer icy cold, but heated and searing. They fell to her mouth and settled there. “Would you?” he asked softly.
    She stared at him through eyes that stung painfully. Desperately she sought to still the frenzied beat of her heart. This time it was she who said nothing. She would neither beg nor bargain with this arrogant knave!
    “No?” With a harsh laugh, he released her. “I thought not. So be it, then.” He leaned back. “Await me in my chamber, Saxon. I will be along soon.”
    Alana needed no further urging. She picked up her skirts and ran