CHAPTER TWO #4
“He has practiced treachery against the Scots in the most heinous ways!” Patrick said, joining the group.
“You must listen to me and think about what you have said yourself! Scotland has followed a hereditary line of kings for centuries—a bloodline longer and truer than that of the English. But when Alexander died, and the Maiden of Norway so soon after him, we needed to go back a few generations to determine the right man for king. The regency, the guardians of the realm, were afraid that we might have faced civil war.”
Forgetting her rather precarious situation, Kyra felt her temper flare to meet the argument. “Oh, which you would have! Look at your own barons! They change sides with the fickle nature of the wind!”
“Lady Kyra.” Jay who seemed the most reasonable of the wild men, addressed her again.
“Our king—crowned king, would-be king—sits in a London prison while Edward tries to fill Scotland with Englishmen governing the castles, with Englishmen given the ancient lands of different men who refuse to bow down to a would-be conqueror.”
“Well-spoken!” Ragnor applauded.
“Aye, and we shall drink to that!” Patrick cried.
They were a frightening enough assortment: young men, hardy, well muscled, with both strength and determination. Yet none seemed stronger or more determined than the one facing her.
Arryn smiled, watching her, a smile with no humor. He stepped forward and picked up the tankard once again. Right before her, he pressed the tankard of ale into her hands. She felt the strange power of his eyes upon her, and knew the way that he studied her, with thought and purpose.
“Ah, but then, what does this conversation mean? None of this matters to you anymore, my lady, though we are always grateful for any comprehension of our cause. The castle is no longer yours; freedom is no longer yours. You still try to defend them, but you have cast your fate with devils, madam, and with them, I’m afraid, you must reside in hell.
Your anger and pride are sadly misdirected, for, because of the king and the men you would so ardently defend, your own fate is to be used, abused, and perhaps left to the buzzards, though, despite the wrongs done the fine fellows here, we’ve yet to commit murder in the same fashion as the men you are so determined to follow.
So drink with us, my lady. Come, come, drink with us!
We drink to Scotland. Scotland, my lady.
We are in Scotland!” He smiled, and still no warmth touched the blue of his eyes.
He pressed the tankard of ale toward her once more.
A knife protruded from the meat upon the table. She made a sudden, wild, reckless dive across the table after it, securing the utensil in her fingers before he wrenched her back and all but broke her wrist to force her to release the weapon.
“You’ll not get out of your fate by plunging such a weapon into your heart, madam. And you would definitely go to hell for suicide, wouldn’t you, lady?” he demanded, his fingers firm around her wrist, the hard length of his mail-clad body close and cold.
And still she could feel the fever of his heat from within.
She tossed back her hair, narrowed her eyes. “I had no intention of plunging it into my own heart; it was yours I intended to pierce!”
A cry of amusement, bravado, and warning arose from the heathen warriors who surrounded them.
Arryn wrenched the knife from her, his eyes never leaving hers. “Drink with us!” he insisted harshly. “Drink to Scotland, and a Scottish king! Ah, come, my lady. With us—would you drink with us, drink this? An oladh sibh seo?”
Her fingers wound around the cup. Seized by fear, fury, and frustration, she tossed the contents of the tankard into his face.
Unfortunately, there was not much left in the tankard, and he managed to avoid the toss as if he had expected it.
Ale flew into his face, but only droplets, and he wiped them aside, staring at her with his eyes glittering with pure fury before he pushed her back—then abruptly threw his shoulder against her midsection and tossed her over his back.
His men let out calls and guffaws once again as he strode with her across the hall, but he paused, turning back.
“Jay! Can you watch her now within a tower and not fall prey to her wiles? There’s business more important than tending to Darrow’s woman for the moment! ”
“Aye, Arryn! She’ll not escape me again!” Jay said, following behind.
Dazed, afraid, humiliated, Kyra attempted to fight her position.
But he moved swiftly, his steps fleet upon the stairway.
He reached the second floor and started for the stairs to the eastern tower, and she thought again that he knew the castle—knew it well.
Seconds later he was pressing open the door to the master’s quarters.
She was suddenly set down.
Staggering, she found her balance and whirled around.