Claiming Her

She stood cold beneath it.

Ripping his mouth away, he clamped his fingers around her face, held her mouth just below his, and growled, “Katarina, do not make me do this.”

“Do what you must. As have I.” Their mouths were so close, her hair was fluttering from their softly enraged words. “No,” she whispered again. “I say no.”

With a roar of rage, he backed up, then leapt off the dais as if she were a rolling fire and he had to move fast to get out of the way. He strode halfway across the empty hall with its bright fires burning, calling out, “Ré!”

No reply. Everyone had escaped farther away.

Abruptly, he spun on his heel and came back for her. Fear now joined the glorious rebellion, and she scrambled backward as he came toward her, his gaze fixed.

“Aodh,” she exhaled in terror.

He took her by the arm and propelled her out in front of him, off the dais, across the hall, bellowing as they went, “Ré!”

There was a brief moment of silence, then came a distant voice, very low: “Son of a bitch.” From all corners of the castle came the sound of men and boot steps, hurrying toward the hall.

A group of soldiers appeared at the top of the stairwell that led down to the hall. Aodh flung himself away from Katarina and backed up, as if he could not trust himself to touch her any longer, leaving her standing alone in the hall, his men at the far end.

She stood straight and tall between them all.

The blond-haired barrage of a warrior looked between her and Aodh. He seemed to give her the faintest of nods then turned to Aodh. “My lord?”

Ah. He’d reverted to a respectful title in view of his master’s fury. Something to learn from those who knew Aodh Mac Con better than she. Too late now.

“Take her

ladyship to the high tower,” he commanded, his voice like ice, like winter, so cold it was impossible to believe his mouth had been so hot on her body just a few moments ago. “Lock her in.”

Ré nodded. His face showed no emotion.

“Collect the rest of her household. Round them up, servants, hen maids, clerks, get them all. Lock them up.”

She spun so fast, her hair, loosened by his attentions, whirled around her shoulders. “Aodh, you cannot—”

“What?” His question sliced her words off like a blade. “What can I not do? I can do anything, Katarina, and you cannot stop me. Rardove is mine. I need nothing from you.”

He strode away, toward the stairs, buckling his sword belt on. He leapt up the stairs and strode past his men without a word, out into the cold black night, without cloak or hood.

Katarina was led by yet another soldier to yet another tower, even higher than before.

Chapter Fourteen

FURY FUELED her ascent up the circular staircase, flanked fore and aft by Aodh’s soldiers. They stepped out onto the landing of the high tower and young Bran, heretofore the closest thing she’d had to a friend, glanced at her uneasily as he unlocked the door.

With an indignant squeal of iron hinges, it swung wide. Darkness unfurled like a tongue.

Part of the original castle built in the twelfth century, the high tower had been designated a bedchamber for guests many years ago, then forgotten entirely when the guests disappeared. With walls five feet thick and an oak door four inches, the high tower was a testament of medieval power. No drafts here.

No luxuries either; the tower had escaped most of the renovations that had swept the rest of the castle over the centuries. In fact, it had become a bit of a storage room.

A huge, pitted oak table was pushed up against one wall, benches atop it and chairs pushed carelessly beneath. On and around the table, sat crates of old bottles and bolts of fabric and the butt ends of candles that had yet to be remelted, all the various odds and ends that inhabited a marcher castle in constant flux on the edge of war.

A small hearth had been added at the turn of the last century, and a few old tapestries were pinned unevenly across the walls. A recessed cistern in the far wall held fresh water, and a large, canopied bed dominated the room, a twist of linen hanging from the ceiling above it to keep out drafts. Otherwise, there were few comforts.

That suited Katarina well; she wanted no comfort. She wanted to bite him. Gnash Aodh Mac Con in her teeth, for having unleashed such dangerous passions. She’d spent years tempering herself, and in one day, he’d undone it all.

The barrage of a captain stayed by the door, watchful as Bran escorted her inside. He lit oil lamps that hung off wooden beams, casting wary glances her direction whenever her restless pacing took her behind him. Shadowy light rolled through the room, but when Bran crouched before the small hearth and made as if to light that as well, she pointed at the door.