Beneath a Midnight Moon - By Amanda Ashley Page 0,70

snickers of his guards, the occasional caress, wondering how women who sold their favors to strangers endured such intimacies.

He felt a deep sense of revulsion at being touched against his will. It galled him, being forced to endure the lewd stares of the Interrogator’s men, having to listen to their coarse suggestions, knowing he was at the mercy of his guards, of the Interrogator, because, in his present form, he was smaller, weaker.

Late at night, when he was certain of being undisturbed, he transformed into his own shape. Resuming his own form was like slipping on a pair of old boots—comfortable and familiar.

In his own shape, Hardane prowled the confines of the small storeroom restlessly, hour after hour, his mind filling with images of Kylene. She had become the most important thing in his life. She was his woman, his wife. He longed to hold her in his arms once more, to feel the warmth of her body against his own.

Kylene. She was never out of his thoughts, his dreams. Once, he had imagined that he heard her voice pleading with him to return.

He kept track of the days as best he could. If his calculations were correct, they’d been at sea twelve days.

If his calculations were correct, they would reach Mouldour on the morrow.

And now it was night and the Interrogator had come to see him again, as he had each day, his expression smug, his ice blue eyes cold and unwavering.

Hardane stood with his back to the wall, his hands bound behind him, waiting, wondering what lay in store for him once they left the ship. Nothing good, he mused, judging by the look on the Interrogator’s face. Somehow, he would have to escape his captors before they reached the Fortress.

“I had thought to execute you upon our arrival at Mouldour,” the Interrogator remarked. He crossed the floor until he was less than an arm’s length away from the woman he’d been sent to destroy. “But now . . .”

His eyes narrowed as he caressed her cheek. The skin was smooth and soft beneath his callused fingertips and he felt a sudden stirring in his loins. Surely, now that he had her away from Hardane of Argone, there was no need to dispose of her immediately.

Hardane jerked his head back to avoid the Interrogator’s touch. “But now?”

“You would be wise not to annoy me, my lady,” the Interrogator warned.

Reaching out, he caught Kylene’s chin between his thumb and forefinger and gave it a cruel squeeze.

“Your life is in my hands, madam. I can let you live, or I can execute you now in any manner that amuses me.”

Knowing it would be foolish to provoke the man, Hardane kept silent.

An oath escaped the Interrogator’s lips. Insolent wench, he thought, and then, because she refused to cower, refused to beg, he slapped her hard across the face, taking perverse pleasure in the bright red stain that blossomed on her cheek.

“You might spend the night thinking of the last time you were a guest in the Fortress,” the Interrogator suggested.

Hardane’s eyes narrowed as he remembered the brutal whipping Kylene had endured at the hands of the Executioner.

“I see you’ve not forgotten the feel of the lash, or my promise to see you dead. Perhaps in the morning you will be more agreeable,” the Interrogator mused. He placed his hand on Kylene’s shoulder, let it slide suggestively down her arm, the back of his hand caressing her breast. “You might even think of some way to convince me to allow you to live.”

“Don’t count on it.” Even as he spoke the words, Hardane knew it was a mistake, but some inner devil forced the retort past his lips, perversely determined to have the last word no matter what the cost.

Fury blazed in the Interrogator’s ice blue eyes. Hardane reeled back as the Interrogator struck him across the face with the short crop he habitually carried.

The blow laid Hardane’s cheek open almost to the bone, splattering blood in the Interrogator’s face and over the walls.

Incensed that the man would strike a woman in such a fashion, his cheek burning with pain, Hardane spit in the Interrogator’s face.

“You’ll regret that,” the Interrogator promised as he wiped Hardane’s blood and spittle from his face. “I’ll flay the skin from your body an inch at a time, madam, and then, if you’re lucky, I’ll let you die.”

With a smug smile, the Interrogator opened the door and left the room.

Hardane waited until the Interrogator’s footsteps had receded,