Honor's Players - By Holly Newman Page 0,27

of hair pins. Working swiftly before the mirror, she pulled her hair into a bun at the back of her head, When she was done she held her hands primly before her to study the effect. She saw a thin creature with bony features but large, luminescent eyes. The eyes bothered her, for they were her best feature and she did not want anything about her to look good. She shrugged slightly, watching the effect in the mirror. There was really nothing she could do about her eyes. Satisfied with her demure appearance, she descended the stairs to the library below.

St. Ryne was seated in a wing chair by the fire, a glass of wine dangling from his long fingers as he stared broodingly into the flames. He had not bothered to change and no further improvements had been made to the room. He glanced up only briefly, a twisted smile curling his lips, then turned back to his contemplation of the blaze before him.

“Come in, my lady wife,” he said softly as he stared into the flickering flames.

Elizabeth had sworn to herself she would be cool and remote, but his lack of courtesy in failing to rise when she entered and his sneering smile raised her ire, color flooding her cheeks. Eyes flashing, she came to stand before St. Ryne, her arms akimbo, hands on her hips.

St. Ryne looked up at her, raising his glass in mock salute. “Be merry, Bess!”

Despite herself, Elizabeth’s lips twitched, but she said angrily, “Are you already drowning your sorrows for the bad match you have entered into? Come come, my lord, it was at your insistence, not mine.”

“This house is a ruin,” he said abruptly.

Elizabeth blinked and cocked her head to one side as she warily observed him. “Yes,” she said slowly. “You have certainly let the estate fall into disrepair.”

“Not I. It was in this state before I inherited it. But it is perfect for my purposes,” he said, tossing off his glass of wine and rising to his feet in one fluid movement.

Elizabeth was so surprised by the suddenness of his movement that she involuntarily took a step backward.

“Afraid, Bess?” he asked, taking a step closer and smiling lazily down at her.

Elizabeth felt a strange lurching feeling in the pit of her stomach as she looked up into his face. Flustered for a moment, she strove to relax and speak icily to him in return.

“We were speaking of this manor, rather this excuse for a manor house. I understand you lived out of the country for a time; am I also to understand you have developed a taste for the barbaric, slovenly life style?”

“Blame it on the sun. It seems to be the catch-all for my sins.”

Elizabeth held herself erect. The only sign of her tension was her hands clasped tightly before her. “Not even that could explain them all,” she said scornfully, then gasped, “No!!” as he reached out for her, but his hands only rested on her shoulders to propel her around and before she could stop him, he ruthlessly pulled the pins from her hair until it fell down around her shoulders. As it fell, St. Ryne caught a handful of the silken stuff, then let it fall, combing it into place slowly with his fingers. His touch sent shivers down Elizabeth’s spine. She pulled sharply away, her color high and her eyes bright. To cover her confusion she lashed out at him.

“Don’t touch me!”

“Then don’t put your hair up,” he said, tossing the hairpins into the fire.

Elizabeth made an inarticulate cry and grabbed his arm to stop him, but was too late. She stared into the flames for a moment longer before becoming aware she still held his arm. She backed away swiftly, or would have had not St. Ryne caught her around the waist. She struggled to get away from him yet he held her firm. She knew his strength was superior to hers, and knew the futility of trying to break away; so she abruptly stopped and looked coldly up at him, hoping he did not notice her rapidly beating heart.

St. Ryne loosened his hold when he felt her struggles cease and to her surprise, let her go. With one long finger he tipped her chin up to him and smiled down into her rigid features.

“Don’t fight me, Bess,” he said softly, then dropped his hand and turned away toward his chair.

A knock at the door startled both of them. It was Atheridge, come to