had—what none would take from him, not even his father’s contempt. Or perfidy.
Traitor
…
It was that word that had brought down his father, and would bring down many more foolish enough to defy William. Like this rebellious Saxon staring up at him so mutinously, her hatred a palpable thing between them.
He drew in a deep breath and held out his hand. “Rise,
demoiselle
.”
When she gave a contemptuous shake of her head that sent a clutter of pale hair into her eyes and cascading around her shoulders, his tight hold on control wavered.
“Rise,” he repeated in a soft snarl. She did not move, but remained in her half crouch like a feral beast, a she-cat with wary eyes, poised for flight—or attack. How long did she think she could defy him without reprisal?
Bending, he yanked her up from the floor, holding hard when she tried to wriggle free. He caught her chin in one fist.
“Nay, do not think to flee. You are well snared, and must yield to me whither you will it or no.”
“Never!”
His grip tightened. White splotches appeared on her pale skin where his fingers pressed. “Yea, vixen—you will. You will swear to me, and swear to William, or your life may well be forfeit. Do not think the king will hesitate to see you undone, for he is not a kind man.”
“There is no need to tell me that—he is Norman, is he not?”
“And you think all Normans to be unkind.”
“Can you deny it?”
Luc almost smiled. “Nay. Nor would I want to. Kindness is a weakness when dealing with Saxons who forswear oaths.”
Ice-blue eyes turned even frostier, a hard-winter freeze that chilled him even as he forced her head back to look up at him. Her lips were trembling, and his gaze was inexplicably drawn to her mouth. Lush lips parted, revealing white teeth gritted in a faint snarl. It was a bristling show of defiance, like that of a startled kitten.
Luc released her chin and studied her until her creamy skin flushed with color, and her dark brown lashes lowered to veil wide eyes glittering with hostility. Even scratched and bruised, she was lovely. Earlier, with the unmistakable curve of her breast against his palm, his body had responded with a predictable tightening of his groin. It had been annoying that he wwould react so to a woman who had tried to kill him, though not very surprising. The heat of battle sent the blood surging, as did the heat of a female caress.
“Yield,” he said roughly, irritated further by his arousal. “Yield to me,
demoiselle
.”
In that moment, he didn’t know if he meant her to surrender to his authority, or to surrender her body. Never had he dealt with a Saxon woman with her long legs bare and tempting. And without her armor, her slender curves were easily discerned beneath the simple tunic that ended just above her knees; sandals laced to midcalf and leather bindings wrapped around bare legs and feet only emphasized her shapeliness. She was enticing in a primitive fashion, and he had seen more than one of his men eye her with lustful curiosity during the evening. It had prompted him to sit beside her with his hand on her shoulder or tangled in her hair, stating his ownership of her by the occasional touch on her cheek.
Now she rebuffed him with a contemptuous curl of her lips, the jerk of her chin upward, and the scathing rake of her glare—as if she knew well that he was not what he pretended:not new lord of this estate, but a son made bastard by his own father, spurned by his own blood.
Impulsively, his fingers twisted in the cloth of her tunic and he dragged her hard against him, driven to crush her rejection and the mockery in her eyes. Alarm quickly replaced her contempt, and his mouth curled in a satisfied grimace.
“Yea, well should you fear me. I’ve no patience for stubborn Saxons too foolish to yield when there is no other choice.”
Her fisted hands pushed futilely against his chest, and she struggled desperately in his grip. “ ’tis all Saxons have
Traitor
…
It was that word that had brought down his father, and would bring down many more foolish enough to defy William. Like this rebellious Saxon staring up at him so mutinously, her hatred a palpable thing between them.
He drew in a deep breath and held out his hand. “Rise,
demoiselle
.”
When she gave a contemptuous shake of her head that sent a clutter of pale hair into her eyes and cascading around her shoulders, his tight hold on control wavered.
“Rise,” he repeated in a soft snarl. She did not move, but remained in her half crouch like a feral beast, a she-cat with wary eyes, poised for flight—or attack. How long did she think she could defy him without reprisal?
Bending, he yanked her up from the floor, holding hard when she tried to wriggle free. He caught her chin in one fist.
“Nay, do not think to flee. You are well snared, and must yield to me whither you will it or no.”
“Never!”
His grip tightened. White splotches appeared on her pale skin where his fingers pressed. “Yea, vixen—you will. You will swear to me, and swear to William, or your life may well be forfeit. Do not think the king will hesitate to see you undone, for he is not a kind man.”
“There is no need to tell me that—he is Norman, is he not?”
“And you think all Normans to be unkind.”
“Can you deny it?”
Luc almost smiled. “Nay. Nor would I want to. Kindness is a weakness when dealing with Saxons who forswear oaths.”
Ice-blue eyes turned even frostier, a hard-winter freeze that chilled him even as he forced her head back to look up at him. Her lips were trembling, and his gaze was inexplicably drawn to her mouth. Lush lips parted, revealing white teeth gritted in a faint snarl. It was a bristling show of defiance, like that of a startled kitten.
Luc released her chin and studied her until her creamy skin flushed with color, and her dark brown lashes lowered to veil wide eyes glittering with hostility. Even scratched and bruised, she was lovely. Earlier, with the unmistakable curve of her breast against his palm, his body had responded with a predictable tightening of his groin. It had been annoying that he wwould react so to a woman who had tried to kill him, though not very surprising. The heat of battle sent the blood surging, as did the heat of a female caress.
“Yield,” he said roughly, irritated further by his arousal. “Yield to me,
demoiselle
.”
In that moment, he didn’t know if he meant her to surrender to his authority, or to surrender her body. Never had he dealt with a Saxon woman with her long legs bare and tempting. And without her armor, her slender curves were easily discerned beneath the simple tunic that ended just above her knees; sandals laced to midcalf and leather bindings wrapped around bare legs and feet only emphasized her shapeliness. She was enticing in a primitive fashion, and he had seen more than one of his men eye her with lustful curiosity during the evening. It had prompted him to sit beside her with his hand on her shoulder or tangled in her hair, stating his ownership of her by the occasional touch on her cheek.
Now she rebuffed him with a contemptuous curl of her lips, the jerk of her chin upward, and the scathing rake of her glare—as if she knew well that he was not what he pretended:not new lord of this estate, but a son made bastard by his own father, spurned by his own blood.
Impulsively, his fingers twisted in the cloth of her tunic and he dragged her hard against him, driven to crush her rejection and the mockery in her eyes. Alarm quickly replaced her contempt, and his mouth curled in a satisfied grimace.
“Yea, well should you fear me. I’ve no patience for stubborn Saxons too foolish to yield when there is no other choice.”
Her fisted hands pushed futilely against his chest, and she struggled desperately in his grip. “ ’tis all Saxons have
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