She was terrified; he knew that, as did Chandra, but Mary just looked at him, mute, and shook her head.
“You are a lovely maid,” he said, and Mary realized then that he wouldn’t kill her. No, he would rape her.
His men were looking at Mary. Chandra could taste their lust; it weighed down the very air. They were focused on what their lord was doing and so it took but an instant for Chandra to free herself. She lunged at Graelam, trying to grab his knife from its sheath. He whirled about as she yelled at him, “Damn you, leave her alone!” He grabbed her, again slamming her back against his chest to take away her leverage, his arms wrapped around her. He had great respect for her fists and her knee. He said against her cheek, “You fight me like a madwoman. What is this? Is this why you do not wish a husband? This girl is your lover?”
She twisted her head to look up at him, and he saw the utter bewilderment in her eyes. “You will not touch her, Graelam. She is my friend.”
“Then tell me, where is your brother hidden?”
Chandra said nothing.
Graelam turned to Mary. “Where is the boy?”
Mary shook her head. She knew this man was the enemy. She had no idea how he had managed to take Croyland. He wanted Croyland’s heir. John had to be kept safe, kept hidden until all threat was gone. His safety was paramount—at least it was paramount in her world.
Graelam said to his men, “Take Lady Chandra and hold her this time.”
He lightly shoved her toward his men. Chandra kicked out at him, but her foot struck his armored leg. It was hard not to cry out because it felt as if she’d broken her toes. Then the men jerked her backward, twisting her arms, and she breathed hard through her mouth to control the sudden pain.
“God’s blood, you fools, don’t hurt her! Just hold her.” When Graelam was satisfied, he turned slowly back to Mary. “Take off your gown. Your first man will be Graelam de Moreton. Perhaps it is also a good thing for your lady to see what her future husband is about.”
Mary knew, oh yes, she knew what he would do. She whispered, “No, please do not, my lord.”
“Then tell me where the boy is.”
“You know I cannot.”
“Your gown, Mary. Take it off or I will have to rip it from you.”
Chandra yelled at him, cursed him, called him a coward, but he said nothing, merely watched Mary slowly remove her gown.
“Mary, no, don’t!”
“I must,” Mary said, her voice firm now, set. “The heir to Croyland must be protected. Do not, Chandra, plead for me.” Then she smiled at her friend, just a bit. “It really doesn’t suit you.”
She began to unfasten the soft leather belt at her waist.
“Graelam, no, you must not, no!”
He heard the fear in her voice, the impotent rage, but he paid her no more attention.
Chandra heard the men’s breathing catch as Mary slipped off her gown and her linen shift. She stood perfectly still, her eyes on the floor at her feet. Her body was white, newly matured. She was a pretty girl, soft, untouched.
Graelam stood back from her, deliberately studied the young body, waiting for Chandra to speak. But she didn’t. He saw that her eyes were tightly closed. He had been certain that she would break.
He didn’t really wish to do this, but now he had backed himself into a corner. Perhaps yet the maid would tell him. He sighed even as he began to remove his armor. It took him some time without the assistance of his squire. When he leaned over to unfasten his cross garters, he saw that Chandra was now looking at him, all of him. He raised a black brow in silent question.
She swallowed, but said nothing.
He stood straight, naked now. She closed her eyes against the sight of him. He moved toward where Mary stood, her head still down.
“No, damn you, no!” Chandra struggled against the men, struggled until her eyes were dark with pain.
“You have but to swallow your pride and tell me where your brother is hidden,” he said over his shoulder. “I have no wish for this. Nor does your poor friend here. Give over, Chandra, and tell me. Tell me and I won’t touch her.”
Chandra shook her head, beyond words. She looked at him n
ow, his body, hard and powerful, so dark he was, the hair black on his head and on his chest, and at his groin, and his sex, thrusting out, ready, just as she had seen her father’s sex, full and hard, and she’d hated it, hated the sounds he’d made, hated the sounds the woman had made. Not just one woman—there had been so many over the years, one of them even her own serving maid, only fourteen years old, who had told her later, a stupid smile on her face, just how grand her father was, how very deep he went inside her.