protection—or she takes a notion to
try to run—we'll be there to make certain she won't get far." The man's
matter- of-fact tone sent cold threads of fear down Ariella's back. "Then
it'll be up to you to make her see reason—or get her with child so she'll have
other things to think of, and they'll lose interest in her."
Lord
Lyon snorted, and Ariella shook at the thought that he might decide to
anticipate the marriage vows, given that bit of advice. "That'll happen as
soon as the blessing's pronounced," he replied
arrogantly. Then, before she could overhear anything else, someone shouted up
ahead and their horses trotted off.
Her
head spun with disconnected images and fears, making her feel sick with
anxiety. All she could do was cling with both hands to the edge of her cloak
and weep silently into the darkness.
But
by the time they stopped for the night, she had found a touch of courage
somewhere. Perhaps it had come from that overheard conversation—for if Lord
Lyon was afraid that her Faerie friends were following, well, perhaps they were!
She made up her mind that she would try to escape and take her chances in the
forest.
After all, I've nothing to fear from the
animals! she reminded herself. Only from humans.
So when Lord Lyon lifted her out of
the litter into the night-shrouded camp, she clutched the bundle of uneaten
provisions to her. Those, she would certainly need!
Silent,
she walked obediently behind him. Silent, she entered the tent. Silent still,
crouching on her bed of furs and blankets, she waited for the noise and voices
outside the tent walls to die out.
She
was cold and stiff by the time the last voices died and the flickering
firelight lending false warmth to the tent walls faded somewhat. Then, when everything
was quiet and even the crackle of the fire had turned to the hiss of coals, she
moved.
But
she did not raise the flap in the front of the tent. Instead, working
stealthily, she worked at the canvas at the back, until she pried up two of the
stakes holding it to the cold ground, giving her enough of a gap to squeeze
out.
She
raised the canvas—pushed her bundle of provisions out and followed it on hands
and knees—
And
found herself nose-to-toe with a pair of large, black
boots.
She
looked up; looking down at her was one of the coldest pair of eyes in one of
the stoniest faces she had ever seen.
The
man said nothing; he only continued to stare down at her. Her mouth went dry as
dust, and still he did not move. Finally, after a long, long time, she pulled
her head back into the tent, leaving her bundle of food behind. After another
minute or two, someone hammered the stakes she had pulled up back into the
ground with heavy, angry blows.
She
waited, sleepless, for the rest of the night, fearing punishment, anger, she
knew not what. Dawn crawled into the camp, gray and dingy; the noise of men
rousing began.
Then,
finally, the tent-flap jerked open, seized by a rough hand, and Lord Lyon stood
looking down at her. She started to shiver, teeth chattering in her fear.
He
held out a leather tankard. She stared at it.
"I think," he said, in a false,
warm voice, "That you are in need for your physik, my Lady." He
thrust the tankard at her.
"Drink,"
he ordered in a suddenly changed voice, a voice that warned that if she did not
drink, the brew would be poured down her unwilling throat.
With nerveless, shaking hands, half
spilling the potion, she drank, and she recognized the bitter taste. Lord Lyon
took back the empty tankard as she dropped it. A sudden dizziness overwhelmed
her.
Then
her eyes closed of themselves; she felt him lift her up and carry her, and she
knew nothing more until nightfall.
She tried to refuse to drink again, but she
was given no choice. After four dreadful days and nights, marked only by drugged
haze, chill, sick fear, grief, and a growing desperation, she thought there
would be no end to the horrible journey. Then on the fifth morning, she was
not
try to run—we'll be there to make certain she won't get far." The man's
matter- of-fact tone sent cold threads of fear down Ariella's back. "Then
it'll be up to you to make her see reason—or get her with child so she'll have
other things to think of, and they'll lose interest in her."
Lord
Lyon snorted, and Ariella shook at the thought that he might decide to
anticipate the marriage vows, given that bit of advice. "That'll happen as
soon as the blessing's pronounced," he replied
arrogantly. Then, before she could overhear anything else, someone shouted up
ahead and their horses trotted off.
Her
head spun with disconnected images and fears, making her feel sick with
anxiety. All she could do was cling with both hands to the edge of her cloak
and weep silently into the darkness.
But
by the time they stopped for the night, she had found a touch of courage
somewhere. Perhaps it had come from that overheard conversation—for if Lord
Lyon was afraid that her Faerie friends were following, well, perhaps they were!
She made up her mind that she would try to escape and take her chances in the
forest.
After all, I've nothing to fear from the
animals! she reminded herself. Only from humans.
So when Lord Lyon lifted her out of
the litter into the night-shrouded camp, she clutched the bundle of uneaten
provisions to her. Those, she would certainly need!
Silent,
she walked obediently behind him. Silent, she entered the tent. Silent still,
crouching on her bed of furs and blankets, she waited for the noise and voices
outside the tent walls to die out.
She
was cold and stiff by the time the last voices died and the flickering
firelight lending false warmth to the tent walls faded somewhat. Then, when everything
was quiet and even the crackle of the fire had turned to the hiss of coals, she
moved.
But
she did not raise the flap in the front of the tent. Instead, working
stealthily, she worked at the canvas at the back, until she pried up two of the
stakes holding it to the cold ground, giving her enough of a gap to squeeze
out.
She
raised the canvas—pushed her bundle of provisions out and followed it on hands
and knees—
And
found herself nose-to-toe with a pair of large, black
boots.
She
looked up; looking down at her was one of the coldest pair of eyes in one of
the stoniest faces she had ever seen.
The
man said nothing; he only continued to stare down at her. Her mouth went dry as
dust, and still he did not move. Finally, after a long, long time, she pulled
her head back into the tent, leaving her bundle of food behind. After another
minute or two, someone hammered the stakes she had pulled up back into the
ground with heavy, angry blows.
She
waited, sleepless, for the rest of the night, fearing punishment, anger, she
knew not what. Dawn crawled into the camp, gray and dingy; the noise of men
rousing began.
Then,
finally, the tent-flap jerked open, seized by a rough hand, and Lord Lyon stood
looking down at her. She started to shiver, teeth chattering in her fear.
He
held out a leather tankard. She stared at it.
"I think," he said, in a false,
warm voice, "That you are in need for your physik, my Lady." He
thrust the tankard at her.
"Drink,"
he ordered in a suddenly changed voice, a voice that warned that if she did not
drink, the brew would be poured down her unwilling throat.
With nerveless, shaking hands, half
spilling the potion, she drank, and she recognized the bitter taste. Lord Lyon
took back the empty tankard as she dropped it. A sudden dizziness overwhelmed
her.
Then
her eyes closed of themselves; she felt him lift her up and carry her, and she
knew nothing more until nightfall.
She tried to refuse to drink again, but she
was given no choice. After four dreadful days and nights, marked only by drugged
haze, chill, sick fear, grief, and a growing desperation, she thought there
would be no end to the horrible journey. Then on the fifth morning, she was
not
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