The Taming (Peregrine 1)

“I could take the jewels,” he heard himself saying as he looked at her and remembered how alive she’d been last night. A sudden wave of desire overtook him, and he turned away before he touched her in front of his men.

“They are well hidden,” she said softly and put her hand on his arm. The same desire was also flooding her veins.

Rogan shook her hand away. “Take the thieving bastards,” he said gruffly, just wanting to get away from her. “In two weeks I will have the jewels and I will have taught a woman a lesson,” he said, trying to make light of the matter and not unman himself before his men. But a glance at his brother and his men showed they were not close to laughing. They were looking at Liana with deep interest.

Rogan cursed under his breath. “We ride,” he growled, moving toward his horse.

“Wait,” Liana said, running after him. Her hear, was pounding in her throat, for she knew that what she was about to say was greatly daring. “What do I get if I win the wager?”

“What?” Rogan said, glaring down at her. “You get the damned thieves. What else do you want?”

“You,” she said, hands on hips, smiling at him. “If I win the wager, I want you as my slave for one whole day.”

Rogan gaped at her. He was going to have to remove some of this woman’s hide and teach her how a wife should act. He didn’t say a word but put his foot in the wooden stirrup.

“Wait a minute, brother,” Severn said, grinning. He was recovering from his shock faster than the others. No one, including him, had seen but a few men and even fewer women challenge Rogan. “I think you should take the lady’s wager. After all, you can’t possibly lose. She’ll never find the thieves. We’ve been looking for months. What do you have to lose?”

Rogan, iron-jawed, cold-eyed, glanced at his knights and then at the peasants. He would win the stupid wager and he’d send her away before she interfered again. “Done,” he said, and without another look at Liana, he mounted his horse and started riding hard. His thoughts were black with anger. Damned bitch, she’d made a fool of him before his men!

His anger hadn’t subsided when he reached the castle. And once inside the gate, he sat on his horse to stare in disbelief at his men, his laborers, his women, all shoveling manure, sweeping, and scouring.

“I’ll be damned,” Severn muttered from beside Rogan as he stared at one old knight while he stuck a pitchfork into a four-foot-high pile of manure.

Rogan felt as if his own men were betraying him. He threw back his head and gave a loud, long, hideous war cry—and the people in the courtyard came to a halt. “To work!” he bellowed at his men. “You are not women! Work!”

He didn’t wait to see if he was obeyed, but dismounted and strode angrily up the stairs to the Lord’s Chamber, then to the private room to one side of it. This room was his and his alone. He slammed the door shut and sat down on the old oak chair that had belonged to the head of the Peregrines for three generations.

He sat, then stood abruptly and glared at the chair. There was a puddle of cold water in the seat, where someone had been scrubbing it. So angry he could barely see, he looked about the room and saw that it was clean. The foot-deep debris was gone from the floor, the spider webs that connected the weapons on the wall were gone, the rats were gone, the grease was gone from the table and chairs.

“I’ll kill her,” he said from between his teeth. “I’ll have her drawn and quartered. I’ll teach her who owns the Peregrine lands, who rules the Peregrine men.”

But as he put his hand on the door, he noticed a little table against the wall. He remembered seeing Zared’s mother use that table, but he hadn’t seen it for years. He wondered if it had been in this room all that time and he just hadn’t seen it. On top of the table, neatly placed, was a stack of precious, clean, expensive paper, beside it were a silver inkwell and half a dozen quill pens, the points sharp and ready for use. The paper and pens drew Rogan like a moth to a flame. For months he’d had an idea for a trebuchet, a wooden war machine that could throw large stones with great force. He’d been thinking that if it were built with two cranks instead of one, he could make the throwing arm much higher and get more power behind the stones. Several times he’d tried drawing his ideas in the dirt, but he hadn’t been able to make a line fine enough.

“The wench can wait,” he muttered, and went to the table and slowly and clumsily began to draw his ideas. He wasn’t as familiar with a pen as he was with a sword. The sun set, he struck a flint and lit a candle, and kept on laboriously drawing his design for the trebuchet.

Chapter

Eight

After Rogan left the peasants, it took a while for Liana’s heart to calm. She was certainly doing a poor job of pleasing her husband, wasn’t she? She could see his dark form, still wearing his wedding clothes, which were becoming greasier by the day, riding toward the castle and she wanted to run after him and apologize. It had hurt her to see the rage in his eyes. Perhaps it was better when he ignored her. Perhaps it was better—

“My lady, thank you.”

Liana looked down to see a thin, tired-looking peasant woman, her head bowed beneath her ragged hood as she took the hem of Liana’s gown and kissed it.

“Thank you,” the woman repeated.

The other peasants came to her and bowed down before her, and their groveling made Liana feel sick. She hated to see people as downtrodden as these. The peasants on her father’s land were fat and healthy, while these were gray with fatigue and ill health and fear.

“Get up, all of you,” she commanded, then waited while they slowly obeyed her, the fear increasing in their eyes. “I want you to listen to me. You heard my husband: He wants the thieves, and you are going to deliver them to him.” She saw the way their eyes hardened at her words. There was pride left in these people, a pride that made them protect the thieves from a hard master.

Her voice softened. “But first you are going to eat. You”—she pointed to a man who, if she had not intervened, would have a bloody back now—“go and slaughter the fattest cow on all the Peregrine lands and two sheep, then bring them here and roast them. You shall eat, because you have a great deal of work to do in the coming weeks.”

None of the peasants made a move.

“The hour grows late. Go!”

One man went to his knees, his face showing his agony. “My lady, Lord Rogan punishes any person who touches what is his. We cannot kill his animals or eat his grain. He keeps all of it and sells it.”