Conquer the Night by Heather Graham

must reside in hell. Your anger and pride are sadly misdirected, for, because of the king and the men you would so ardently defend, your own fate is to be used, abused, and perhaps left to the buzzards, though, despite the wrongs done the fine fellows here, we’ve yet to commit murder in the same fashion as the men you are so determined to follow. So drink with us, my lady. Come, come, drink with us! We drink to Scotland. Scotland, my lady. We are in Scotland!” He smiled, and still no warmth touched the blue of his eyes. He pressed the tankard of ale toward her once more.
    A knife protruded from the meat upon the table. She made a sudden, wild, reckless dive across the table after it, securing the utensil in her fingers before he wrenched her back and all but broke her wrist to force her to release the weapon.
    â€œYou’ll not get out of your fate by plunging such a weapon into your heart, madam. And you would definitely go to hell for suicide, wouldn’t you, lady?” he demanded, his fingers firm around her wrist, the hard length of his mail-clad body close and cold.
    And still she could feel the fever of his heat from within.
    She tossed back her hair, narrowed her eyes. “I had no intention of plunging it into my own heart; it was yours I intended to pierce!”
    A cry of amusement, bravado, and warning arose from the heathen warriors who surrounded them.
    Arryn wrenched the knife from her, his eyes never leaving hers. “Drink with us!” he insisted harshly. “Drink to Scotland, and a Scottish king! Ah, come, my lady. With us—would you drink with us, drink this? An oladh sibh seo? ”
    Her fingers wound around the cup. Seized by fear, fury, and frustration, she tossed the contents of the tankard into his face.
    Unfortunately, there was not much left in the tankard, and he managed to avoid the toss as if he had expected it. Ale flew into his face, but only droplets, and he wiped them aside, staring at her with his eyes glittering with pure fury before he pushed her back—then abruptly threw his shoulder against her midsection and tossed her over his back. His men let out calls and guffaws once again as he strode with her across the hall, but he paused, turning back. “Jay! Can you watch her now within a tower and not fall prey to her wiles? There’s business more important than tending to Darrow’s woman for the moment!”
    â€œAye, Arryn! She’ll not escape me again!” Jay said, following behind.
    Dazed, afraid, humiliated, Kyra attempted to fight her position. But he moved swiftly, his steps fleet upon the stairway. He reached the second floor and started for the stairs to the eastern tower, and she thought again that he knew the castle—knew it well. Seconds later he was pressing open the door to the master’s quarters.
    She was suddenly set down.
    Staggering, she found her balance and whirled around.
    A fire already burned in the hearth; fresh linen stretched across the large bed, and the smell of clean rushes on the floor mingled with the fresh breeze that drifted through the high tower windows, as the tapestries that covered them had been pulled back. He had ordered this place prepared, she thought, and in little time. There were no servants present, this had all been done with remarkable speed and competency.
    Naturally, she thought suddenly. He had come here as the conqueror—he meant to take the master’s quarters. And he had already told her what her fate was to be: used, abused—and left for the buzzards.
    She turned again quickly to find him staring at her. The strangest quickening and tension seemed to seize her limbs. But she was the lady here. And she had endured the taunting in the great hall below because she had gone there with a purpose—to find out about Father Michael and Capt. Tyler Miller.
    â€œLook, sir—you are misinformed, misguided, and, I’m afraid, totally ignorant on many issues. And