Читать книгу Heart Of The Dragon - Sharon Schulze - Страница 10

The feel of strong arms surrounding her, and the steady beat of his heart beneath her cheek, broke through Lily’s sorrow. Horrified, she pushed herself away, swaying until she found her balance, her breath coming in sobbing gasps.

Her captor—the Dragon—stood staring down at her. She couldn’t read his expression in the wavering light, but she doubted he planned to ease his lust upon her. He’d had ample chance just now, had that been his intention, but he’d let her move out of his hold. He’d sounded angry, almost puzzled, though why that should be his reaction, she did not know.

Chest still heaving, she stepped back. Her gaze never left him as she considered what to do.

Aye, she had heard of Llywelyn’s Dragon. Who had not? He was legend among the village folk near the abbey. Even the sisters, their voices filled with a kind of fascinated horror, had been known to discuss the deeds he’d done in Llywelyn’s name. In truth, she’d thought him to be older, although his size and strength proved no surprise.

And the aura of power she’d felt in his presence… Yes, she could believe this man capable of every exploit attributed to him—and more. And yet she did not fear him.

When had she become such a fool?

His eyes measured her, examining her face with such intensity she feared he could see her very soul. Why should he stare at her thus? She tried not to squirm, but couldn’t keep from swiping her sleeve over the hated tears filling her eyes.

“Why have you come here?” the Dragon asked, his voice calm now, the smooth sound an invitation to answer him.

Lily knew better than to fall into that trap; the abbess had used the same technique, usually as a prelude to some horrendous punishment. “I am sorry, milord. Where I’ve come from would mean nothing to you. ‘Tis your master I must speak with. Only he can answer my questions.”

He headed for a wooden chest beside the bed before she finished speaking and slammed the lid open with scant regard for the delicate carving adorning the piece. The tunic he chose was the same deep emerald shade as his eyes. She looked away when he tugged the garment over his head, unwilling to fall victim once again to the power of his gaze.

He snatched up the scabbarded sword leaning against the coffer and belted it about his trim hips. “You will not talk? So be it, then. Mayhap a night spent in the cellars will loosen your tongue.” The expression on his face had her backing away, but he grabbed her by the arm. “Who knows? You might even get the chance to speak with my ‘master’—if I’m of a mood to plead your case.”

But the harshness in his eyes before he snuffed the candles warned her there was little chance of that. Her heartbeat unsteady in the sudden darkness, Lily let the Dragon lead her from his lair.

Ian crossed the courtyard as the rising sun cast a rosy glow over the gray walls of Dolwyddelan. Icy puddles crackled beneath his boots, the perfect accompaniment to the wind whipping around the battlements.

He loved the brisk air, the cold serving to stoke the fire in his blood. It thrummed through his veins, lent energy to his steps as he descended the stairs into the vaults below the keep.

The promise of battle with a certain mysterious fierymaned stranger had nothing to do with it.

The guard snapped to attention beside the cell door, then grinned his thanks when Ian dismissed him to break his fast abovestairs.

Ian shook his head at the young man’s hasty retreat. No doubt he’d been bored to distraction standing here through the night, but perhaps ‘twould teach the lad patience. That virtue was sadly lacking in most of the hot-tempered warriors who had gathered behind Llywelyn’s banner.

He’d do well to control his own impatience before he unbarred the door and met with his captive once again. Last night, somewhere between the curtain wall and his chamber, he’d lost his usual impassive demeanor.

And try though he might, he hadn’t regained it in the hours since he’d left the elusive Lily locked behind this door.

Taking a lantern from the hook beside the door, he removed the bar from its brackets and entered the cell.

Lily sat up, shielding her eyes from the light. She leaned back against the damp stone wall and tried to ignore the way straw from the small heap she’d slept upon poked through her clothes. Although she knew she should stand—courtesy required it, not to mention the fact that she hated to have him tower over her—a night spent curled on the hard-packed dirt, after her midnight climb, had left her so stiff she could scarcely move. “Good morrow to you, Dragon,” she said, infusing her voice with the strength her body refused to supply. “Have you word from your master?”

“I am Lord Ian ap Dafydd of Gwal Draig.” He closed the door behind him and hung the lantern from a peg in the rafters. Three steps brought him across the narrow cell to stand at her feet. “No one calls me Dragon—to my face.”

Did he give her his full name—and the name of his home—apurpose, to show her own lack? Rage and hurt overcame Lily’s aches and brought her to her feet without pain. A glorious surge of power straightened her backbone and lifted her chin until she looked him in the eye. “I have never feared to be different, Lord Ian of Gwal Draig. I shall call you Dragon.” She brushed straw from her clothes with apparent unconcern.

She expected him to do something…anything. For reasons she’d rather not examine too closely, she welcomed the chance to cross swords with him once again. Lily braced herself for the storm.

But he did nothing, nothing at all, if she discounted the slight gleam in his eyes. Did she see a challenge there?

‘Twas a trick of the flickering light, more like. Lily bit her lip. She needed him to react, to lash back at her. Otherwise she’d never be able to sustain enough fire in her blood to do what she must. But his disregard of her meager show of defiance sapped her mettle. Fresh pain throbbed to life, making the simple act of standing torture. Shivers racked her, beyond her will to ignore.

Still silent, the Dragon left the chamber and returned with a three-legged stool. “Here, sit before you fall.” He slammed the stool down and, grabbing her by the shoulders, pushed her onto the seat.

She closed her eyes and rubbed at her arms, certain she’d bear the imprint of his strong, callused fingers for days to come. But he’d spared her the indignity of collapsing at his feet.

Rough wool settled over her shoulders and startled her into opening her eyes. The warm folds of fabric enveloped her in her captor’s scent. She tugged the cloak more tightly around her body and tried to ignore the sense of solace his unexpected gesture brought. It wouldn’t be wise to feel grateful to him, to owe him anything. Who could tell what the Dragon might demand in return?

“Are you ready to talk today?” he demanded, his voice gruff. He leaned back against the wall with complete disregard for the cold, slimy stones and folded his arms across his chest. “I’m curious. Why must you see Llywelyn? What is so important that you’d risk your life to get to him?”

Lily fought the seductive slide into comfort as the cloak warmed her body. Within her mind raged a furious debate. Should she tell him? Sweet Mary, she knew little enough herself. But she’d heard it said that the Dragon had Llywelyn’s favor—indeed, even his trust. He could help her, if he wished.

“Is Llywelyn even here?” The question had haunted her through the night. Until then, she hadn’t allowed herself to consider that her efforts might be for naught. The guard she’d spoken to—the one who’d refused her admittance to the keep even as he laughed at her request to see the mighty prince—had told her Llywelyn planned to stay at Dolwyddelan for a sennight more. But given his reaction to her, he might simply have been amusing himself further at her expense.

Lord Ian looked at her as if she were mad. “Do you mean to tell me you don’t know? I thought your actions foolish before, but now—” He shook his head.

“Just tell me,” she cried, rising from the stool and gathering the mantle about her. She wanted to pace, to move, but the chamber was too small and his cloak too long. She sighed her frustration. “Please.”

“Aye, he’s here. But I doubt he’ll see you. His labors begin with the dawn, and continue without cease until the sun is set. In the evening he makes time for nothing but merriment.” Did she detect scorn in his voice?

His face told her nothing, but what did his opinion of his master matter to her? She had run Llywelyn to ground at Dolwyddelan, climbed the curtain wall and survived. Relief weakened her already shaky knees. She plopped down on the stool. “Saints be praised,” she said, smiling.

Ian stared. Her smile transformed her face, and her green eyes appeared lit from within. Although dirty streaks still covered her cheeks, she looked happy. And beautiful.

Christ on the cross, had he turned into a besotted fool? He shifted his gaze to the narrow beam of sunlight streaming through a slit high in the wall. Somehow, this woman had addled his brain.

But he refused to give in to the temptation she presented. The image of a strong, unified Wales rose in his mind, the shrine he worshiped above all others. He’d likely given up all hope of heaven, of family and a life of his own, to attain that goal. A mere slip of a woman would not keep him from it.

He’d ignored far more compelling distractions, he reminded himself as he forced himself to look at her again.

Her smile had disappeared. Perhaps God’s light still shone upon him, after all.

“Would you plead my case, milord?” she asked. “It truly is important. I’d never have tried so hard to see him, otherwise.”

What harm could there be in it? Christ knew, she’d shown more valor than many a noble warrior. She’d earned her chance to speak—to him, at least. “I’ll hear what you have to say.”

“Thank you, sir.” Lily settled herself on the stool, her spine straight as an arrow, despite the fact that she had to ache like the devil. “I searched for the prince for more than a fortnight, though it seems as though my quest had gone on forever.”

“Where have you come from?”

“I’ve lived in the abbey of Saint Winifred all my life. My mother and I were boarders there.”

“What is your mother about, to permit you to wander the countryside alone?” He began to revise his initial opinion of her. No one of low degree boarded at an abbey, especially an abbey as wealthy as Saint Winifred’s. And her speech carried the refined tones of the nobility. His wits had gone begging. He should have noticed that immediately.

“My mother is dead, milord, this month past.” She made the sign of the cross. “May God grant her peace.” She closed her eyes, sadness etched upon her face.

Perhaps grief at her mother’s death had confused her, sent her upon this senseless journey. “Surely you must have family,” he said, ignoring the way her eyes had filled with tears—-just as they had last night. “Someone must have paid the abbey to keep you. The Church’s charity doesn’t stretch that far.”

Lily shook her head and met his gaze. She believed what she told him, he could see it. And no cloud of madness or confusion tainted the clear emerald of her eyes. “The abbess, Sister Maud, swore my mother was the only family I had. And that our board had been paid, and would continue to be paid, by a benefactor unknown to her.”

“Surely the bishop—”

“I sought him out first of all, once I’d escaped the confines of the abbey.”

“Escaped? They had no right to hold you,” Ian said. The more she told him, the less he understood. Nothing she’d said made sense.

She stood up, slipped his cloak from her shoulders and placed it carefully on the stool. “There are many ways to hold someone close by without making them a prisoner, Dragon. The sisters never locked me up. They simply made certain I had no opportunity to leave.” A winsome smile lit her face. “But I used their own ways against them. All my life they sought to school me to patience. So I bided my time and lulled their suspicions. Eventually a chance arose and I took it.” She laughed. “I truly doubt they care that I am gone—I’ve been a trial to them since I first learned to speak.”

He could imagine it. “What did the bishop say?”

She paced the narrow confines of the cell before she replied. “I never saw the bishop himself. But his clerk assured me the bishop knew nothing about my situation. And I could scarce return to Saint Winifred’s to question the abbess. I’d never get away again.”

When would she come to the point? He could have growled with frustration, but he pushed the feeling deep. If only he had patience, he’d learn what he wanted to know—sooner or later.

But he had more important things to do than listen to a mysterious young woman recount her meandering tale. “How does Llywelyn fit into this? He isn’t a patron of Saint Winifred’s, I know that for a fact. And I doubt even he has the power to force the bishop to tell you anything.” Straightening, he crossed the room and stood before her. “What is it you want from Llywelyn?”

“I think he knows who I am.”

Ian shook his head in disbelief and bit back a laugh. “Do you think the prince so powerful he knows all— and everyone—within his domain? I cannot believe God himself has such dominion.”

Lily looked at him as if he, and not she, were the fool. “While my mother lay close to death, I could swear I heard one of the sisters ask another if they should send word to Llywelyn. When I mentioned it to the abbess, she turned my question around and never gave me an answer. That way she did not have to lie, if it were true. Sister Maud prides herself on her honesty,” she added, her voice scornful.

She held her hand out to him in supplication. “My mother was all I had, though she rarely knew me. I have nowhere else to turn, milord, and nothing left to lose. I am tired of being alone. All I want is to find some place where I belong.”

That, he could understand. It did not bother him to be on his own, but he also had his sister, Catrin, and his cousin Gillian, to turn to when he tired of his own company. And Llywelyn was his kinsman, as well as his overlord.

He chose to live a solitary life. Lily didn’t have that choice.

“Is there anything else I should know? Your mother’s name, at least—you must know that.”

“Nay. Everyone called her ‘milady.’ I never heard her name.” She sighed. “You must understand—she lived in a world all her own, a world filled with people who didn’t exist. I believe ‘twas why she’d been sent to the abbey. No one wanted to care for her, most like. But she wasn’t mad, just filled with sadness. No one could lift her from it”

Something inside Ian recoiled at the lonely life Lily had led and the matter-of-fact way she spoke of it. He couldn’t imagine a childhood spent without a mother’s love. And it didn’t sound as though the sisters of Saint Winifred’s Abbey had spared any affection for Lily. His parents had been everything to him; he would have done anything to save them, if he could. Their loss was a pain he buried deep and refused to expose.

Perhaps he could help her. “I will do what I can for you.”

She reached out and took his arm in a firm clasp. “Thank you. You have no idea how grateful I am, milord.”

He looked down at her hand. He liked the way it felt, far too much. So he did what he had to to make the feeling go away. “I make you no promises. Llywelyn may not wish to hear what I have to say. He has little time to waste on one person’s petty concerns.”

She released him immediately. But the wounded expression in her eyes lingered, long after the warmth of her touch faded from his arm. “I understand. And I appreciate whatever you can do, sir.” She turned and picked up his cloak. “I’ll bother you no further,” she said, holding the bundle out to him.

“Keep it.” He crossed the room swiftly, feeling as if he’d kicked a helpless animal. “You need it more than I.” Cursing under his breath, he jerked the door open and made good his escape before he did something even more gallant.

And more stupid.

Lily huddled within the welcoming folds of the Dragon’s cloak and struggled yet again to recall any snippet of information useful to her quest. She’d racked her brain on numerous occasions over the course of her journey, but so far, she could remember very little.

Her life at the abbey had consisted mainly of endless days of stultifying boredom. The only child among the few boarders, she’d counted herself fortunate when an elderly noblewoman enlisted her help to spin or sew. Rarer still had been the chance to venture beyond the cloister walls into town. The games the village children played in the meadows, running and shrieking with joyous abandon, were as foreign to her as the sight of a man of fewer than fifty years. Other than their elderly priest, she’d seen men only from a distance. The sisters had been careful to keep her close by on their infrequent forays into the village.

She’d been astounded by the size and strength of men when her travels took her into a town, alone. And their crude suggestions had shocked her, though not for long. But she didn’t fear them, a fact that surprised her. Indeed, she found nearly everyone she encountered a refreshing change from the occupants of the abbey, with their regimented lives and devotion to duty.

In a way, this journey was the embodiment of a childhood dream. How many times had she lain in the grass, staring at the birds flying overhead and envying them their freedom? She’d always known a whole new world existed beyond the abbey walls. Now she had the opportunity to explore it.

There had been a gatekeeper at the abbey years ago, a very old man who’d traveled far and wide. He told her of lands and people different from any she’d ever known. His brief stay at the abbey shone as a rare bright spot in her memory. She’d never forgotten the tales he’d shared with her.

If the Dragon couldn’t help her, perhaps she’d make her way south, to Pembroke or Manorbier. Each castle had its own town, of a size she could scarcely imagine. Strangers from foreign lands came there to trade, bringing with them news of places far beyond her ken.

Though she knew that for many the cloister provided a safe haven, to her it had been a prison. She’d never return, no matter what she had to do to survive.

The sound of the bar thumping against the door startled her. Her heart pounding wildly, she stood and tossed aside the cloak. Had the Dragon returned so soon?

The door flew open beneath the force of two brawny men. Before she could do more than gasp, one entered the cell and grabbed her roughly by the arm, while the other stood guard in the doorway.

He pulled her arms behind her and bound them with a coarse rope. “What are you doing?” she asked. Already her shoulders throbbed with pain, so tight were the bonds. “Did Lord Ian order this?”

“Ye’re to come with us,” the guard said. “Don’t give us trouble, missy, else ye might get hurt.” He wrapped a musty rag around her mouth and tied it behind her head.

He gave her a shove to start her moving. Her feet slipped in the loose straw, and she scrambled for purchase, stumbled and almost fell on her face. Her burly escort saved her from that fate, but her arms felt wrenched from their sockets.

For the first time since the Dragon hauled her up the wall, she felt afraid. Her guards set a hellish pace. She tried to keep up, but they made no accommodation for her shorter legs as they hauled her through a maze of dark, winding corridors. The filthy gag made her cough; the fear in her throat made it almost impossible to breathe.

The ground sloped downward, the hard-packed dirt grew uneven. The distance between torches grew so great that she could scarce make out the walls. For all she knew, this might be the passageway to hell itself.

Her arms numb, Lily struggled to find her way, a task made more difficult when the hallway narrowed. One of the men continued to shove her ahead of him, pushing her into the rough-hewn stones whenever the walls curved.

Suddenly he jerked back on her bonds. Lily bit back a groan; her arms still had feeling, after all. Cruel hands dug at the knot holding her arms, then jerked the gag from her mouth before spinning her about and thrusting her into the shadows.

She landed on her hands and knees. The impact sent unbearable pain through her already aching body. But she found her footing and crawled to her feet “Wait!” she cried. “Where have you brought me?”

Silence was her only reply.

Then metal clanged against metal, and the darkness became complete.