The Conqueror

“What did I tell you before?”

“When, before?”

“London. The inn.”

She looked at him sharply. “That was no inn.”

His eyes grazed down to travel over her bodice, down her skirts, then back up. “What did I tell you, Guinevere?”

She took a full minute to swallow. Good Lord, he had told her a hundred wicked, carnal things.

“You…you said many things.” She gestured distractedly to his belt. “But then you were not standing with a sword at your side.”

His hands moved. He unbuckled the belt around his waist. It clattered to the ground, taking with it the sword, dagger, and falchion notched in the banded leather. And there, standing still as still as could be and without a weapon on him, danger shimmered off him in waves.

“Now, again, Guinevere: what did I tell you?”

She felt a shower of heat rain down her belly. Her gaze was pinned on the arsenal of blades flung across the floor. “You said I had naught to fear from you.”

“And so it is.”

“And my men?” she asked, stepping backwards and tripping over the hem of her skirt. She righted herself and backed up until her spine was against the wall. “They must believe there is much to fear. What did you say to Jerv and Fulk?”

“I did but tell them what it meant to have my home back. And what I would do to those who opposed me.”

“Good Lord, Pagan. You might just as well have popped their eyes out and been done with it.”

“They were a bit wide-eyed.”

Her eyebrows flattened. “They are good men, loyal, and do think the world of me. If you made a threat to them—”

He took a step closer, his body radiating heat. Chills shimmered over her body like a fever. Then he slammed a palm against the wall beside her head. She jerked to attention. “I made no threats, lady.” He put his other hand on the wall, so she stood between his outstretched arms. “I shall tell you what I told them: The

castle is mine, you are mine, as is everything within. If you sport with me, you will get burned.”

“You dare threaten me?”

He looked at her coldly, his eyes glittering. “You have seen nothing of what I dare, lady, nor what I have lost. You are a sheaf of wheat. And I have not threatened you,” he corrected in a low voice. “I have explained my position.”

“Too good, my lord,” she said in a cold, clear voice. “Now hear mine: I did not wield a blade in battle, so have not yet fought. Do you think to squash me like a bug, be forewarned: I sting, and carry a venom the likes of which you’ve not seen in Normandy these long years.”

She ducked beneath his arm and stumbled away. A sheaf of wheat? That was what London had meant? She suddenly felt as if she’d had too much to drink and wanted to retch.

He was watching her, his eyes unreadable. “I have not forgotten the pests of England, lady. They have been in my mind for some long time.”

“You mean my father,” she spat.

“I mean your father. And you.”

“Me?” she practically shrieked. “Me? What of you?”

“Me?” The look on his face was almost comical. “What?”

She threw her hands in the air. “Oh, mayhap, the army you drove before you?”

“To regain my home, lady,” he returned in a low voice. “For my home, I would drive a chariot of hell.”

“That I well believe,” she spat. “For you and yours, you would do all the things we none of us should do, and the rest may rot in hell. Know this, Pagan,” she vowed, her words trembling with too many emotions to name, “you cannot threaten me, nor cow me. And I do not bend.”