The Conqueror

He raked a cool glance over her gown. “Happens you might be the one burned, Gwyn.”

Her eyes narrowed into thin, blazing slits. Curled around the stem of her wine goblet, her fingers turned white. Had the cup been a man, it would have died a gruesome death. “Me? Burned?”

“Are you to repeat everything I say?” he queried with just enough true curiosity to send her teeth clicking together.

“Then let us have you repeat what I say, Marcus, to ensure understanding,” she said in a low tone, practically snarling. “You will never have the Nest.”

He shook his head with a small smile, as if deigning to correct a child who had erred. “Nay, my lady, you misunderstand. I bethought your castle in need of reinforcements while you were away with so many of its knights.”

“You sent your army to the Nest for my protection?”

“In truth, Guinevere, you yourself did seem well protected, with a score of soldiers to hand. A resplendent display, may I say, upon your entry into the city. And a wise choice, to assure any who might wonder on the strength of Everoot, with its lord so recently passed away. Nay, indeed, my lady, you seemed well protected.” His mouth curved up in another smile. “’Twas your castle that was not.”

Her hands balled into fists. The goblet in her hand turned upside down, spilling a stream of wine across the floor that went unheeded.

“The peasants and fools were mightily impressed by the show of force you came to the city with,” he continued, then paused. “I was not.”

“Which means you do not think yourself a fool, Marcus,” she hissed, “but you err. I know what you intend to do and my king will hear of it.”

“Recall, Gwyn, he is my king too.”

That sounded distinctly like a threat. A crackle of tension jerked her head backwards an inch. Her lips barely moved as she replied, “I am certain King Stephen will listen to me.”

“Perhaps he has already listened to me.”

A buzzing started in the base of her skull. The room tilted slightly, sending the room and the contents of her belly at a distinct angle. “What do you mean? He has not agreed…he will not let you just take my land!”

His mouth curled up further in that disturbing smile. “Perhaps he would have me start with your hand.”

In undulating pulses came the wave, washing over her so loudly she couldn’t hear anything but its slow, throbbing beat. “What are you talking about?” Her words were whispered, scant.

He quirked up a brow. “Your hand. In marriage.”

The goblet clattered to the ground. “Never,” she whispered, backing away in horror. “Never, never, I would never wed you.”

“Not even if your castle were…at stake?”

“God in Heaven.”

“Of course, with my goodwill, lady, ’twould be a simple matter to see to your people’s well-being.” The smile dropped away, leaving his predatory eyes. “Which could be assured were my own well-b

eing being seen to. By their lady.”

“You’re mad.” She started backing up through the crowd. Startled faces peered down as they were brushed aside. “Whatever my father saw in you, ’twas a lie.”

“He saw an ally, Gwyn. One most unwise to cross.”

“I have sent my knights to fortify the Nest.”

“I know. Which leaves you here. With me.”

She threw her hand over her mouth, unable to believe this madness. All the blood ran from her face, racing down her body, until her knees wobbled. He watched her with hooded eyes.

Good God, he intended to wed her right here in London! He never meant to take the Nest by force, but by marriage. The siege had been a ruse to get her to do exactly what she’d done, leave her unprotected and at his mercy, never an overly large commodity in the best of times.

No, ’twasn’t possible! Was he that cunning?

The answer came swiftly: most assuredly. This, and more.