upon you, not to mention the vindictive wrath of the old queen. Think, my darling. Randwulf de la Seyne Sur Mer is more than just another name, another pennant to mount on your walls. He is the Scourge of Mirebeau, a knight of unblemished repute and legendary skill. Would it not be better to be known as the Dragon who slew the Black Scourge in honourable contest, rather than a desperate man who slit the throat of his brother in a jealous rage?”
De Gournay’s body tensed at the touch of Nicolaa’s hands. She laid her palms flat on his back and splayed her fingers, kneading the iron-hard muscles with a sensual reverence that triggered icy shivers of erotic sensation throughout her own voluptuous body.
“He has won his reputation because few have had the training to counter a man guided by the hand of Lucifer. But you, Etienne … you learned your own unparalleled skills with him as a sparring partner. You know how he sits a horse. You know the balance, the weight, the strokes he favours. You know the moment he chooses to raise a lance or sword. You know his strengths and his weaknesses. God’s love, you benefited from the same knowledge once before; it was only by the devil’s luck he survived. Tomorrow he will have no such luck. Tonight, tomorrow, the luck is all ours.”
De Gournay breathed deeply, expanding his chest to the limit. “I want him to suffer. I want no quick or easy death for him by sword or lance.”
“A well-placed blow will give him into your mercy” Nicolaa assured him, “the mercy of hot irons or dulled knives, whichever you prefer. Once he is carried from the field, he is yours for as little or as long as you want him.”
All vestiges of the handsome, golden knight were lost behind a mask of cold fury as he rounded on Nicolaa with a snarl. “You and he made a son together, Nicolaa. Could it be there is some small part of you hoping for compassion? Is that why you argue for a delay?”
“I told you once before, I would have dashed Eduard’s brains out on the first convenient rock had you not stayed my hand from doing so! I will do it now, here, in front of you if proof is needed of my loyalty.”
De Gournay reached up and clutched two fistfuls of black hair, twisting and pulling it tight enough to distort the shape of Nicolaa’s cheeks and eyes.
“What else would you do for me?” he asked cynically. “What else, Nicolaa?”
“Anything! Ask anything, and it will be done.”
“Blood, Nicolaa,” was the savage response. “I want blood!”
With her eyes glazing over in the heat of passion, Nicolaa backed out of his grasp and turned stiffly to a small table just out of sight beside the doorway. The blade of the knife glittered as she raised it; light from the fire and the candles flared along the steel as she pressed it to her breast. The glitter changed from silver to crimson as she carved into the whiteness of her own flesh and drew the poniard down toward the nipple.
The cut was an inch long and half as deep before Wardieu cursed and knocked the knife out of her hand. Her cry was muffled beneath the brutal crush of his lips and the blood streaming from the wound smeared his flesh as he grasped the edges of her tunic and tore it from her body. He grunted as her nails gouged jaggedly into his shoulders, but no amount of pain or protest deterred him from sweeping her into his arms and carrying her, naked and thrashing, to the bed.
Shocked, sickened by all she had heard and seen, Servanne stumbled blindly out of the wardrobe and ran through the small anteroom. She was almost clear of the stifling gloom, almost free of the guttural rutting sounds that followed her from the lighted sleeping chamber, when her foot caught on an edge of stone and she was flung headlong into a rack of polished steel swords.
22
Servanne opened her mouth to scream, but managed no more than a harsh gasp before a roughly callused hand was clamped forcefully over her lips, sealing them. An arm circled her waist, catching her a split second before she made contact with the rack of weapons. Hauled up hard against a man’s body, she was partly carried, partly dragged through the outer doors to the square stone landing.
“Make a sound and we