taken all of her will not to flee the chamber, the inn, and Alton altogether, leaving Braedan to whatever Fate intended for him.
But in the end, she’d stayed, knowing she was powerless to reverse this path she’d been set upon, determined to see it through, now, no matter what. For those cuts had convinced her as nothing had before that this brooding mercenary knight had spoken the truth to her about his purposes and his foster sister’s plight. The gashes had clearly been made with a sharp instrument of some sort, their placement chosen with an eye for producing the utmost discomfort in the victim.
Just the kind of wounds Draven would relish inflicting.
The hollow feeling that had settled in Fiona’s stomach swelled, and she held her breath against it. She’d done everything in her power to keep Kendrick de Lacy, LordDraven, from invading her thoughts again, but the disturbing torrent of memories kept streaming back. She had tried to escape him. Tried to tell herself that when she ran far away, changed her appearance, and resumed her old name, she would finally be free of his honeyed touches, his seductive charms—his brutal obsession with her and the fear it sent spilling through her veins.
But he was still there, like the gilded snake of Scripture, tempting, beckoning, and all the more deadly for his wicked beauty.
Braedan’s breath caught as he slept, his body stiffening and his head thrashing on the bolster for a moment, bringing Fiona to her feet again so that she might check on him. She pulled her stool closer to his pallet, leaning over and brushing her fingers over his brow. He was still cool.
Adjusting the blanket around him, she quickly inspected the bandaged wounds on his arms and chest, satisfied to see that they looked clean; he’d have scars, but nothing worse than the other marks his powerful body already bore from unknown battles of the past. She wasn’t so certain that Braedan would appreciate her knowing what she’d learned about him in the course of tending him, but there’d been no help for it. Tipping a fresh cup of the cooled, herbed wine to his mouth, Fiona forced a few sips past his lips, watching his throat move as he swallowed. After a little while his breathing calmed once more.
It was likely naught but a bad dream that had disturbed him, then .
Returning to her position at the hearth, Fiona resumed watching him, unmoving; the gray, predawn light in the chamber cloaked him in peaceful silence, hisdreams banished for the moment. But she couldn’t help wondering what images those nightmares had held, connected as they undoubtedly were to Draven.
Reaching up, she brushed her hand over her own scar, the one carved above her breast in the jagged shape of a heart, closing her eyes against the remembered pain and humiliation of that night. It had been an evil act, dark and sadistic. Draven’s patience with the women he selected and personally trained was legendary in the stewes , but that night his restraint had finally snapped, shifting to vicious retaliation. He had tied her down, then—he who had always prided himself on never needing to use force to bring any woman he wished under his complete control.
Aye, Draven was a man who’d savored his slow, deliberate seductions. Aided by his near-perfect face and form, he had always relished the game, turning the full power of his wicked charm on his chosen female prey until she lay panting and limp in his arms. Yet young as she’d been, Fiona had resisted for what she’d later learned was far longer than any other woman he’d known, unwittingly whetting his appetite for her. She had become his obsession, her introduction into carnal pleasures his only vocation.
And she’d succumbed, eventually. Given in to all that he commanded of her—even participation in the outrageous pretense that had ensured no other man but he would actually bed her. He had informed her of his decision to keep her for himself when her training was nearly
But in the end, she’d stayed, knowing she was powerless to reverse this path she’d been set upon, determined to see it through, now, no matter what. For those cuts had convinced her as nothing had before that this brooding mercenary knight had spoken the truth to her about his purposes and his foster sister’s plight. The gashes had clearly been made with a sharp instrument of some sort, their placement chosen with an eye for producing the utmost discomfort in the victim.
Just the kind of wounds Draven would relish inflicting.
The hollow feeling that had settled in Fiona’s stomach swelled, and she held her breath against it. She’d done everything in her power to keep Kendrick de Lacy, LordDraven, from invading her thoughts again, but the disturbing torrent of memories kept streaming back. She had tried to escape him. Tried to tell herself that when she ran far away, changed her appearance, and resumed her old name, she would finally be free of his honeyed touches, his seductive charms—his brutal obsession with her and the fear it sent spilling through her veins.
But he was still there, like the gilded snake of Scripture, tempting, beckoning, and all the more deadly for his wicked beauty.
Braedan’s breath caught as he slept, his body stiffening and his head thrashing on the bolster for a moment, bringing Fiona to her feet again so that she might check on him. She pulled her stool closer to his pallet, leaning over and brushing her fingers over his brow. He was still cool.
Adjusting the blanket around him, she quickly inspected the bandaged wounds on his arms and chest, satisfied to see that they looked clean; he’d have scars, but nothing worse than the other marks his powerful body already bore from unknown battles of the past. She wasn’t so certain that Braedan would appreciate her knowing what she’d learned about him in the course of tending him, but there’d been no help for it. Tipping a fresh cup of the cooled, herbed wine to his mouth, Fiona forced a few sips past his lips, watching his throat move as he swallowed. After a little while his breathing calmed once more.
It was likely naught but a bad dream that had disturbed him, then .
Returning to her position at the hearth, Fiona resumed watching him, unmoving; the gray, predawn light in the chamber cloaked him in peaceful silence, hisdreams banished for the moment. But she couldn’t help wondering what images those nightmares had held, connected as they undoubtedly were to Draven.
Reaching up, she brushed her hand over her own scar, the one carved above her breast in the jagged shape of a heart, closing her eyes against the remembered pain and humiliation of that night. It had been an evil act, dark and sadistic. Draven’s patience with the women he selected and personally trained was legendary in the stewes , but that night his restraint had finally snapped, shifting to vicious retaliation. He had tied her down, then—he who had always prided himself on never needing to use force to bring any woman he wished under his complete control.
Aye, Draven was a man who’d savored his slow, deliberate seductions. Aided by his near-perfect face and form, he had always relished the game, turning the full power of his wicked charm on his chosen female prey until she lay panting and limp in his arms. Yet young as she’d been, Fiona had resisted for what she’d later learned was far longer than any other woman he’d known, unwittingly whetting his appetite for her. She had become his obsession, her introduction into carnal pleasures his only vocation.
And she’d succumbed, eventually. Given in to all that he commanded of her—even participation in the outrageous pretense that had ensured no other man but he would actually bed her. He had informed her of his decision to keep her for himself when her training was nearly
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