“I do not need your help,” she hissed. “I want nothing from you!”
“Ah. But that is where we differ. I most definitely want something from you, Lady Maris. ”
Her heart leapt, and sweat sprang from her palms even as a rush of heat flooded her. His eyes were so very dark and hard, gleaming with something intent, indefinable, and the hard set of his mouth bespoke of little patience. His calm intensity unsettled her as Victor’s rough anger had not. She edged the dagger in warning. “What—what is it you want?”
“I want a great many things, Maris. ” He stepped into the pool of torchlight, drawing close enough that the dagger’s blade wavered near his shoulder. “But my greatest desire is to hear an apology on your lovely lips. ”
Suddenly, his hand shot out and closed around her wrist. Knowing the futility of struggle, she allowed the dagger to fall from nerveless fingers and it clattered to the floor.
She looked up at him, unable to speak…hardly able to keep her breath steady. He was close, so close and tall, broad and warm…familiar. She could even smell the clean, masculine scent of him above the scent of damp wool and clinging wood smoke.
“Come now, Maris, it cannot be that words have failed you. ” His smile was arrogant, then faded into bitterness. “On the last we met, you accused me of treason in the presence of my lord…and, on the time before that, you left me to die in a pool of my own leavings. ”
“I did not leave you to die,” she burst out, finding her voice. “I am a healer and I well knew what I did. ”
He quirked an eyebrow. “Oh, aye, of course that is what you say when faced with the other choice of admitting that you tried to kill me. ” He leaned forward, so near that she could see the blue and black flecks in his furious eyes. “Did I not risk my life to help you at Breakston? First you repay me by attempting murder…and then, failing that, by trying to see me hanged for treason. ” His fingers tightened around her wrist. “I should be praised for not choking the life out of you, woman. ”
“Leave me be!” She wrenched out of his grip. She could have fled, running down the hall away from him…but she did not. Nay, and Maris would never understand why she did such a foolish thing and stay.
“Leave you be?” he said. His voice had changed and he was looking at her with such intensity that Maris suddenly felt weak. And flushed. And…expectant. “Do you not think I’ve tried that simple solution?”
When he stepped toward her again, she found that she still couldn’t move. Her heart was in her throat, pounding sharply and rapidly while her breathing turned shallow.
“I’ve been waiting quite some time to exact my vengeance for the dirty trick you played on me at Breakston,” he said, holding her gaze with his, the scuff of his boot brushing her hem. “And since an apology does not seem to be forthcoming, I may have to demand a different sort of boon, my lady. ” His lips softened as he searched her eyes with his own. “Aye. I believe you owe me a boon. ”
“Dirick—”
“’Tis sweet to hear my name on your lips, Maris. ”
Then his hands were on her shoulders, pulling her to him. As their bodies collided gently, his arms went around her and Maris closed her eyes. The next thing she knew, he was devouring her mouth, tasting it as if he’d been without food for a fortnight. And as she slackened in his arms, and began to kiss him back, she felt the low rumble of a moan from deep in his chest as his arms tightened.
His rough, calloused hands tenderly smoothed over the sensitive line of her jaw, brushing their knuckles against her ear, trailing a fingertip down the sleek line of her neck and leaving a shiver in its wake. They plucked at the veil that covered her thick braids, freeing them from their confines and loosing them from the intricate plaits that held them prisoner.
Maris sighed against his mouth, against the warmth and sleekness of his kiss, the insistent delving and dancing of their tongues. He smelled of wine and smoke from the fire, of horses and leather, of wool and a tinge of sweat, of…maleness. She could not help herself, but reached to touch the thick, dark hair that had come loose from its leather thong and found that it was heavy and soft. With light fingertips, she tucked the lock behind his ear and allowed her hand to fall along his warm neck, where a pulse pounded strongly, and rested her palm on the plateau of his chest. The stone wall was cold against her back, and the heat from his body burning against her breasts, hips, and thighs. A sharp pleasant twinge surprised her when one large hand slid up to cup one of her breasts, closing over its firmness, to thumb over her thrusting nipple, to gently massage its heaviness.
“’Sblood,” he breathed into her ear, his words warm and rough. “How easily you make me lose my anger, lovely witch. And try as I may, as far as I travel, I cannot seem to banish you from my mind. ” He pulled away enough to look down into her eyes.
His gaze was hot and dark, and Maris’s insides fluttered, bursting into a sharp pang of pleasure and desire. “Dirick,” she managed to whisper before he pushed her against the wall again, his mouth covering hers.
This time it was she who pulled away, for the depth and strength of her response to this man frightened her. Maris stood motionless as her breathing began to slow, as the world around her began to come back into focus.
“You say you came to save me,” her voice was husky, “yet I do not know that the danger has passed even now. ” She turned, bending to pick up the veil lying crushed on the floor, stunned by the desire she’d felt…and afraid of what it meant. Even if it were more than mere passion, they could never act on it.
Thus Maris forced her voice into steadiness, hardness. “It was not so great a boon you asked, Sir Dirick Derkland. Oh, aye, I have learned your true name by now. Nay, it was no great boon you’ve taken, for I have been groped by no less than two other men…both of whom, verily, had more claim to do so than yourself. ”
He stepped back as if slapped. “I am well aware that I have no claim to you…nor—” He paused, then continued, “Do not misunderstand, nor do I wish to claim you. ” Dirick stepped aside, his movements rigid and his face dark. “I’ll not bother you with my presence any longer than to see you safely to your chamber. ” He bent to pick up the dagger lying harmlessly in the pool of light.
When he straightened, the fierce look in his eyes was enough to make her back away. All at once, those grey eyes glittered with an anger and hatred that she had never seen before. “What is it?” she breathed, her hand going to her throat as his hand shot out to grab her arm.
“Where did you get this?” His face filled her vision, fingers tight over her skin. “Tell me, where did you get this dagger?”
“I—’twas Papa’s,” she stammered, drawing as far away as his grasp would allow. “Release me. ”
“How did he come by it?” Dirick ignored her demand, staring at the silver handled dagger as if he’d seen a ghost.
Maris tried to jerk away, but her puny strength was naught against his ferocity, and this time, he was not playing. “I do not know! What is it to you?” she replied, becoming truly afraid. “You are bruising me, Dirick. ”
With an oath, as if he’d just realized his strength, he released her arm. Maris backed away, rubbing the spot he’d gripped, staring at him in horror. What had befallen him?