Dark Champion #2

Chapter 16

B eauclerk’s green-eyed hound,” said Warbrick, and spat. “And the Treasure of Carrisford.”

Imogen felt blind terror grab at her, and fought it. “What are you doing on my land, Lord Warbrick?”

“Looking for a little reparation. For me, and for others. You are so eagerly sought, Lady Imogen. Does it please you? Don’t be bashful, my lord. Come forward.”

Imogen couldn’t think what he meant, until the Earl of Lancaster was urgently hustled forward. He was in mail, with a rich silk surcoat, every inch the mighty warrior except that he looked flustered and even frightened.

What on earth was going on?

She glanced in confusion up at FitzRoger. He was giving away nothing.

She realized it was strange that Warbrick was not in mail, but had greasy stained leathers stretched over his bulk. He hardly looked as if he were on campaign.

She turned to the Earl of Lancaster. “My lord, what are you doing here?”

Lancaster’s eyes shifted and he made no reply.

“He was waiting for you,” said Warbrick with a shallow smile. “After he took care of your escort with poisoned wine, you were supposed to be easy pickings.”

“You were supposed to take care of FitzRoger,” spat the earl. “Ten men you had, and here he is, hale and hearty.”

“You said none of his escort would be fit to ride.”

Imogen glared at Lancaster. “You toad! You were responsible? You tried to kill FitzRoger! Do you think I would marry you even if I were free?”

Warbrick laughed and hooked his thumbs into his massive, studded belt. “You, Lady Imogen, will do as you’re told. Listen to your fate. You will marry the earl, and I will have your treasure. With your wealth behind us, Beauclerk will soon be a landless wanderer again.” His eyes moved over her, finding every gap in her torn clothing. “But before I make off with the treasure of Carrisford, I intend to enjoy the Treasure of Carrisford.”

Imogen stepped back, closer to the graven statue that was FitzRoger. But what could even he do against so many?

“By the thorns, you will not!” blustered the earl. “Our bargain was clear, Warbrick. She’s mine. Bad enough she’s been polluted by one man.”

Imogen wondered if she could sow discord between these uneasy allies. “My Lord Lancaster,” Imogen said clearly, “you should know that when Warbrick took Carrisford, he intended to wed me.”

“What?” Lancaster turned on the bigger man.

Warbrick laughed again, belly shaking. “ Marry you? Are you still so naive after days of the Bastard? What point in marrying you with Beauclerk at my throat? But I certainly intended to enjoy you. There’s particular pleasure in hearing a frightened virgin scream as you broach her. Such a delicate, sheltered morsel would have been sweetly terrified...”

He dropped the false bonhomie, and his piggy eyes narrowed. “But you escaped me, you little bitch. You’ll pay for that. Escaped and took the secret of your treasure straight to Cleeve. You won’t do that again.” He took a couple of menacing steps closer to Imogen. “Beauclerk moved on Warbrick Castle today and I hardly had time to escape. I need all the gold I can get.”

Imogen stepped back, pressing against FitzRoger. His hands came strong about her arms, bracing her. “You can have it,” she said. “All of it. Just let us go.”

“Us?” Warbrick asked in mock astonishment.

“FitzRoger and me.”

“You prefer the Bastard to Lancaster?” He dug an ungentle elbow in the angry earl’s ribs. “There’s one in the eye for you, my lord earl.”

“She’s besotted,” snarled the earl.

“So it would seem.”

“I’ll teach her better. She needs a few lessons.”

At last FitzRoger spoke. “If we are contesting possession of Lady Imogen, perhaps we should fight over it.”

“No!” It was both Imogen and Lancaster together.

Warbrick laughed. “Bastard, you amuse me! By all means. But win or lose, I take my share of the Treasure.”

Imogen closed her eyes in terror. She knew he did not refer to the gold.

Could she survive it? She knew in logic that if the act did not physically kill her, she should be able to survive and put it behind her, but she didn’t think she could. And she knew FitzRoger would not live and let it happen. She could feel the tension in him from staying calm during this exchange.

For him to interfere just now would achieve nothing, but it could not be easy.

The particular pleasure in hearing a frightened virgin scream as you broach her.

And she certainly was a frightened virgin.

She didn’t realize she was clinging to FitzRoger until he gently put her aside. She opened her eyes to see him take a shield on his arm.

The earl was in armor, doubtless prepared to ride after the king, but he did not look warlike. Imogen felt a hint of pity for him, but only a hint. She didn’t understand the whole of it, but he had betrayed her castle and tried to kill FitzRoger.

It was quite possible that he had killed her father.

Had her father refused Lancaster’s suit?

If so, she thought suddenly, it could have been because her father was already considering an alliance with FitzRoger. She had thought that if they met, they would like one another.

Who was to say they had not met?

For the first time she wondered about the death of Gerald of Huntwich. So many convenient deaths. Had Lancaster had a hand in all of them? And apparently to gain her, not the treasure, judging from the bargain he’d struck with Warbrick.

But then she knew with bitter certainty that Lancaster had intended to cheat Warbrick, just as much as Warbrick had intended to cheat the earl.

Lancaster was still protesting. She saw that there were some men of his among the soldiers, but they were outnumbered and too terrified to interfere.

Lancaster was about to die, and they all knew it, but how would it help her and FitzRoger?

Warbrick drew his sword and poked Lancaster in the back. “Fight, my lord earl, or I’ll spit you here and now.”

“You can’t do this,” the earl raged. “Kill the man and have done with it. What benefit to you to let him fight?”

“What benefit to me in killing him outright? You were of use to me, Lancaster, because your doctor could drug the garrison and open Carrisford to my men once Lord Bernard was dead. That was all you ever had to offer. Your man failed to secure the heiress, though. She was supposed to be drugged in her bed, waiting for me.”

Imogen gasped at the net that had almost entrapped her.

“I never guaranteed that,” blustered the earl. “You let her slip through your hands! And again today I did my part. It wasn’t my fault his men didn’t drink the wine....”

“Whatever happened, I have her now, and she’s going to lead me to her treasure.” Warbrick smiled at Imogen. “I think she’ll do it more eagerly to save FitzRoger than she will to save you. Won’t you, my little chicken?”

Anything to save FitzRoger. “Yes.”

“And you’ll lie with me willingly to save him, won’t you?”

Imogen heard the sob that escaped her, but she said, “Yes.”

FitzRoger turned his head and looked at her. There was no expression on his face, and yet something flashed between them.

He turned back to look past Lancaster to Warbrick. “Take the treasure, Warbrick, and leave England, and I will not pursue you. Do more than that and you will die in agony.”

Warbrick sneered. “Crow, cockerel. You have no spurs.” He poked Lancaster viciously in the back. “Fight!”

The earl yelped and drew his sword. Eyes wide with fright, he staggered forward.

It took longer than it should have, and Imogen was afraid FitzRoger was weakened, but then she realized he was spinning it out to make the earl suffer. He was a great deal angrier than she had thought, but no angrier than she should expect.

He despised treason, and he would let no one tyrannize those under his protection.

But still, what could he do about Warbrick, one man against so many?

Would help come?

They were so close to Carrisford, and surely FitzRoger’s men must be out searching.

She prayed, not about the fight in front of her, but about the fight to come. She would give up her treasure willingly—that treasure she’d bargained and tussled over—just to have FitzRoger safe.

But could she give up her body to Warbrick and live?

The earl was gasping and desperate, his arms and legs both weakening. He had not given up hope, though. His glazed eyes sought desperately for the careless moment that would allow him to snatch victory from death.

Imogen knew such a moment would not come.

To her, FitzRoger seemed to have all the time in the world when he finally executed his opponent. His sword swung in a mighty blow against Lancaster’s neck, breaking and half severing it, so the man crumpled like a well-stuffed doll to the ground.

FitzRoger seemed hardly stirred by it all, but Imogen could tell by a subtle awkwardness in his arm that he was in pain, and possibly weakened. Doubtless the wound was bleeding again.

“Dull, that,” said Warbrick. “I’d heard you were good, and for once rumor does not lie. I wish I could try you.”

“I’d welcome it,” said FitzRoger with a distinct edge.

Imogen saw the temptation flash in Warbrick’s eyes. He was a fearsome warrior, and he doubtless thought he could defeat FitzRoger by might alone. She prayed that he would take up the challenge, for with him dead they had a chance.

But he said, “The treasure first. I need you alive to make sure the little heiress does my bidding. Give up your sword now, Bastard.”

FitzRoger made no move to obey.

Warbrick said, “You won’t tempt me to fight you now. My men will disarm you. You may kill some, but they’ll do it, and relish damaging you. Then there’ll be less chance for you if I do decide to let you fight me later. Perhaps fight for your wife’s virtue.”

It was a callous piece of bargaining, and hollow, but there was little choice. FitzRoger tossed down his sword.

“Good,” said Warbrick. “Now, we have a man of yours captured by Lancaster’s soldiers, one who knew something of the passageways. We need him no longer, I assume. How else would you have sneaked into Carrisford if Lady Imogen hadn’t told you the ways?” Warbrick looked around. “Then we have the earl’s men.”

Imogen saw six men turn pasty white. With reason.

“Kill them,” said Warbrick.

Imogen cried a useless protest. As the killing started she covered her face and was pulled into FitzRoger’s arms. She could hear, though. She heard the screams, and the babbling cries for mercy, and the callous laughter. It was as if she were back in the damp passage at Carrisford listening to the sack of her home. It was as bad or even worse now, for the death was all around her, and the smell of it was heavy in the air.

She wanted to hide. She was willing to die if it were only quick.

She heard Warbrick say, unmoved, “Now, we must wait for dark. Fulk. You said there were caves nearby?”

“Aye, my lord. An hour or so.”

“Then we will go there.”

Despite her resistance, FitzRoger firmly moved Imogen around and she knew it was time to face Warbrick again. Her head was filled with mist, and her limbs were water. She stared at him hopelessly.

Warbrick looked her over. “Still not accustomed to death, Lady Imogen? You should be when you are the cause of it. A beautiful woman is nothing but trouble. Your husband here has doubtless learned that. You should smile at me, girl! I have saved you from one unwelcome suitor.” All the time, his eyes assaulted her, as if she were already spread for his invasion.

She stepped back into the strength of FitzRoger and he put his hands strong on her shoulders.

Warbrick grinned. “I love to see a woman in fear, and we’ve hardly started yet.” A beefy hand moved toward her, but halted. “No, it is not time for that. You see,” he said, and touched her cheek in a macabre caress, “I have control when I need it.”

His eyes flicked over her head to FitzRoger’s. “And what of you, My Lord Bastard? Without Beauclerk, last and landless son, you are nothing, and Beauclerk will soon fail. Robert of Normandy will be king here, and he has promised my brother lordship in the west. England will be our hunting ground, with none to say us nay. But war is costly and we need the treasure.”

He laughed, rocking back on his heels. “I’m going to plunder both your treasures, Bastard, and watch you squirm. Will you kill her first? You should, shouldn’t you? When will you kill her? Will you kill her too soon, unnecessarily? Perhaps you’ll be rescued. What a pity to only have a corpse to kiss. Or will you wait too long and hear her scream to you for death?”

Imogen felt FitzRoger’s hands tighten to the point of pain before he regained control.

Would he kill her?

If he didn’t, would she wish he had?

Warbrick reached out and seized Imogen’s tunic, dragging her to him. She felt FitzRoger’s grip resist for a moment, then release her. She cried out as Warbrick pulled her against him, the smell of old blood and dirt all around him. But then he spun her off to another man. “Lig. Ride with her in front and with your knife at her face. If he gives any trouble, any trouble at all, slash her. But don’t kill her or I’ll roast you.”

Imogen fell stunned into the thin man’s arms, knowing neither threat was empty. Her gaze locked with FitzRoger’s for strength. There had to be something they could do!

There wasn’t.

He held her eyes calmly. His look didn’t promise anything, and yet it steadied her. He was only human, as was she. They would do what they could, and if he could, at the last possible moment, he would give her the gift of a swift death.

They rode back along the ways to the caves. The route was different, but not by much, and Imogen marked it as if that were a purposeful thing to do.

Her guard, Lig, kept an arm tight about her, and his sharp blade glinted in the corner of her eye, but other than that he ignored her. She knew, however, that he would slash her without hesitation even at a false alarm.

The hills and the caves came as a welcome destiny, though Imogen had no reason to think things would improve here. At least she didn’t think Warbrick would rape her here; he must know that one way or another she would be useless to him then. Hope, slender hope, would keep them dancing to his tune.

There were other torments, however. He could torture FitzRoger and still keep him alive enough to bargain with.

They watered the horses at the stream before climbing up to the caves. They had fodder with them, and the horses were settled with guards in one of the larger caves, one of the ones that honeycombed together.

If they were put in one of those caves, Imogen could find a way through the linked spaces to freedom. She knew the caves well.

Warbrick inspected and chose the cave they had used before. “In here,” he said. “It does not link with any of the others. Mark my kindness.” He leered at them. “I put you together for a few brief hours. Will you enjoy one another one last time, or has terror sapped your manhood, Bastard? I don’t mind. It’s nothing to me who’s gone before once a woman’s broken to a man.”

They were thrust into the gloom. “There are four guards at the entrance,” said Warbrick, “each knowing hell is mild compared to my vengeance if they let you slip. I will come for you at dark. Meanwhile,” he sneered, “I wish you joy.”

Then they were alone. Imogen fell into FitzRoger’s arms and he encompassed her. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m failing you.”

She pulled back a little. “One man against thirty? What are you supposed to do?”

His lips curved slightly. “Perform a miracle?”

“Well,” she said, trying to match his tone, “if you can...”

He touched her face gently, thoughtfully. “I had one not quite miraculous transformation in mind,” he said softly.

“What?” But she knew.

“Virgin into wife.”

“Here?” Her eyes were growing used to the gloom, and she looked around at the stone walls and earth floor. She could see the silhouette of one guard blocking the door.

“Not ideal, I grant you, but...” He cradled her head in his calloused hands and she felt the slight unsteadiness of them. “I’m not sure I can kill you, Imogen. I’ll hope you can survive. But I’ll die to protect you—”

“I don’t want you to!”

“Can I live?”

“Can I?”

He held her close.

“If you can, Imogen, I want you to live. Warbrick is right—in this I am a coward. If I were going to kill you, it should be now, but I cannot do it. By the time all hope is gone, it will be too late.”

She put her fingers over his lips. “Don’t. Don’t speak of it. And you’re right. If we’re to die, I want it to be as your wife.” She didn’t add the other—that if she was to be raped by Warbrick, she would rather it not be as a virgin. She still had hope that Warbrick would bargain her willingness for FitzRoger’s life, and she’d pay, though what would come of it afterward, she couldn’t imagine.

His face lightened as if they were not in peril of their lives. “Then I intend to remove my mail, foolish though it may be.”

“How long do you think we have?” she asked nervously. She might want it, but it seemed a mad thing to be doing.

“Long enough. There’s a few hours before dusk.” He glanced at her and grinned. “Let’s hope they don’t intend to feed us.”

Amazingly, that summoned a laugh from her, and she felt lighter. “Should I undress?” Imogen asked, hands already at her girdle.

“No. If we are interrupted, the last thing we want is for you to be naked.” Then he added, “Perhaps the tunic.”

She slipped it off, still well covered by her kirtle and shift. “But...”

“We’ll manage, Ginger. This isn’t what I wanted for you, but it is all we can be sure of. For now,” he added. “Perhaps one day I can love you as I want.”

She knew he didn’t believe it.

She pondered the word love , but it was just a word to him, she decided, describing an act, not an emotion. Perhaps, in this situation, it was as well.

Love would weaken him.

She helped him off with his mail, and saw the wound had bled a little, but not too much. The other gashes looked healthy. He was so healthy it seemed impossible that he might die within the day....

She put her hand on his chest, drinking in the living strength of him, feeling the beat of his heart. For this moment, they were alive and together, and they would celebrate it. “What should I do?”

He drew her to the back of the cave, some twenty feet from the entrance. “It’s as well I always planned this with you on top,” he said, as he subsided to the floor and pulled her on top of him.

Imogen sprawled there. “What? Why?”

“Why not?” he murmured lazily, and kissed her.

Everything disappeared: the damp, the gloom, the guards, the danger. There was just FitzRoger’s hard body beneath her, his arms around, and his mouth soft and welcoming beneath hers. She plundered him for sensation, tasting him, stretching him. When his mouth escaped to roam around her neck, she arched up and felt him hard beneath her hips.

“Now?” she gasped.

“Not yet, my hungry virago.”

He ripped the front of her kirtle.

Imogen gasped.

Then, under her astonished gaze, he slid down her loose shift so her breasts were exposed, held up by the bands of cloth. Her nipples were rosy and already standing proud.

“More precious than any treasure,” he said softly, and drew her body down. His mouth was hot, and for a moment, gentle. Then he sucked hard. Imogen cried out and clutched at him.

“Hush,” he said, half laughing. “You’re a noisy bed partner, but if you make too much noise they’ll want to come and watch.”

She didn’t think that was a joke either.

“What’s going on in there?” called one of the guards, his black shadow blocking out the trace of sunshine.

“We’re talking,” said FitzRoger a bit unsteadily. “Is that a crime?”

“You, woman,” the guard growled. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” said Imogen, stifling a giggle.

“Then keep talking. I don’t want him slitting your throat when I’m on guard.”

“What?” Imogen exclaimed as the guard retreated.

“You heard the man,” said FitzRoger, and she could swear he was amused. “Keep talking or he’ll be back to check that you’re alive.”

“Lord save me,” she muttered. Her mind was blank to all but his body, and his mouth tormenting her. “I can’t do this!”

“I have great faith in you. You can do anything.” His tongue teased the tip of her breast in a way that sent shivers through her.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said desperately, “that we could have colors on the walls in the hall.”

FitzRoger laughed softly and his mouth settled on her breast again.

“Pink, perhaps, or yellow. Something bright... Oh, Sweet Heaven .... Flowers! At Cleeve too.”

“Over my dead body,” he muttered, and turned his attention to the other breast.

“Hangings!” Imogen said desperately. “We had.... Oh, my .... We had silk ones from Florence, you know.”

His skillful teasing of her breasts fractured thought. “They were... FitzRoger! They were... They were...” A wave of intense pleasure finally rendered her speechless.

“Silken treasures,” he prompted, easing her away a little. “Very beautiful, like you.”

“Very beautiful,” she repeated weakly, and sought him in the shadows. “Like you.”

Humor crinkled his eyes. “If your Florentine hangings were only as beautiful as I, Imogen, you were cheated.” He moved her gently to straddle his thighs, pushing up her skirts in a stroke of his strong, callused hands.

“You are beautiful—”

But his fingers had found her most sensitive flesh and she melted into dizzy silence.

“Keep talking, Ginger.”

She gulped. “You’re enjoying this!” she hissed.

“Yes. Aren’t you?”

A shuddering spasm passed through her. “You’re mad.... Wine!” she said loudly. “We need wine! Lots of wine!”

“Lots and lots of wine. And honey. Up on your hands and knees for me, sweet honey.”

She rose up so his mouth could reach her breasts while his hand stroked between her thighs.

“What else do we need?” he asked between licks. “Herbs, spices? You’re very spicy. Fruits? Melons come to mind. And oranges. Oranges from Spain. You taste sweeter than the sweetest orange....”

“I love oranges,” she gasped. “So juicy. FitzRoger, I need to kiss you.”

“Not yet,” he replied, and teethed her.

Imogen just managed to swallow the cry of pleasure. “I can’t not cry out when you do things like that!” she protested. “It’s not fair.” Her hips were moving against him. She was aching deep inside.

“Oranges,” he prompted as his fingers slid toward the ache.

“They’re... Oh! ” She sucked in an enormous breath. “Don’t! Don’t stop! They’re orange!”

“They’re orange,” he agreed as breathlessly as she. “And you’re juicy. Now it’s time, Ginger.”

“Thank the Lord.”

“And you’re going to do it.”

“What?”

“In case you still have any problems about this.” He unfastened his linen drawers to expose his erection. “Take me into you.”

Imogen looked at it wide-eyed. It seemed rather larger than she remembered, and rather larger than she could comfortably contain.

But an ache inside said otherwise.

She put her hands around him and the heat startled her.

The movement she caused startled her too, as did his sucked in breath.

She hesitated. There was a big problem here.

She hated to admit it, but she whispered, “I don’t even know where it goes.”

He closed his eyes briefly. “You don’t know your own body?” He took her right hand and placed it between her thighs. “Slide your fingers back. You’ll find the place.”

She slid her fingers back through what felt like cream, and paused. “Oh, it feels almost as sweet as when you touch me there!”

“Remember that if I’m away.”

One of Father Wulfgan’s more mysterious warnings finally made sense. “But that’s a terrible sin!”

“But one you’re least likely to be caught at. Come on, Ginger.”

She heard the urgency in his voice and could feel the tension in his body between her legs. It was echoed in the need that thrummed in her. She moved her fingers farther and her body told her she had found the need he could fulfill.

“Found it?” he asked unsteadily.

“Yes.”

“Now take me, and put me there.”

Imogen put her hand around him to guide him. Her hand was slick now from her own juices and slid against his rigid heat, so she moved it around him. She felt the quiver her touch caused, and looked at him in wonder. Even in the gloom she could see his hot need.

She could do this to him, and she delighted in it. She explored him with her hand, gently, and then, remembering Wulfgan again, impulsively ducked and licked up the length of him.

His whole body heaved beneath her, almost throwing her off.

“Imogen!” he gasped. “Another time, yes?”

“But you like that?” she asked, grinning.

“Yes, I like that.” It sounded as if his teeth were gritted. “But take me into you. Make me your husband, Ginger.”

She laughed shakily at that and rose up to guide him into the place that hummed in readiness. As soon as he began to fill her she gasped at the tightness.

“You’d better say something,” he whispered.

“I want this,” she said quite clearly, wanting to tell the world. “You can’t know how much I want this.”

“Oh yes I can,” he muttered, causing her to laugh again.

“You are rather big, though,” she said as she eased carefully down. “Are all men... ? Oh.” She froze.

“It’s for you to do, Imogen.”

There was pain. Real pain. She could feel the barrier and it was going to hurt to go any farther.

She pushed down gently and the pain grew, so she stopped.

“I don’t know...” she said anxiously. “I’d hoped it wouldn’t be like this, this time....”

He reached up and pulled her down for a kiss. “Would you rather I do it?”

It became a test. “No. I can do it, but cover my mouth. I’m afraid I’m going to cry out.”

“Bite me,” he said, and put his hand edgewise between her teeth.

Imogen set her teeth against his flesh and reared up a bit to push down. The pain blossomed, but she kept pushing. The pain just got worse, but she wouldn’t stop even though there were tears running down her face. She pushed and pushed even though she thought she could not bear any more pain. Then with a small explosion of agony, the pressure broke and left only a burning soreness.

She tasted blood and realized she had bit him. She hastily released his hand. He sucked it. “That certainly hurt me as much as it hurt you,” he said almost soberly. “You must have had one of the toughest hymens in Christendom. No wonder you made such a fuss before.”

Imogen was just sitting, full to bursting with him, rather sore, and miserable. She felt a kind of triumph, though, that she’d gone through with it, and knew that if she’d been under him, it would have been worse. She’d have screamed and blamed him. “It’s not like that for everyone?”

“I don’t think so. Is it very bad?” His voice was controlled, but Imogen could tell it was hard for him to just be lying there. She could imagine from last night, from the pleasure without the pain, how he felt.

“I’m all right,” she lied bravely, moving, trying to adjust to the pressure inside and the soreness that remained. “What now?”

He pushed up so he was sitting against the wall and brought her legs behind him. The pressure eased a bit.

He began to touch her again, and kiss her, to suck at her and pleasure her, even as his hips rocked gently. She could sense the awesome control in him, the tension, and she almost wanted to beg him to do it, to release that pressure before he exploded.

And yet she feared it. Feared more pain.

Tears ran again.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, touching her cheek. “We’d better talk again anyway.”

“I’m not doing this right, am I?”

“You’re doing wonderfully, but we’re going to have to finish it. Try to come with me, dear heart.”

She didn’t know what he meant, but he began to move her hips around him. At first she tensed from the soreness, but then it eased a little and she saw what she was doing to him.

She moved on her own despite the discomfort, watching him, loving him, wanting to give him this in case there was no tomorrow.

He closed his eyes and stretched back, but his hand found her, and touched her again so she shuddered around him.

“Christ’s wounds,” he muttered, and pressed harder.

They were supposed to be talking, but she couldn’t. She could scream, though. She wanted to scream. She couldn’t. That would bring the guard in for sure. She thrust her own knuckles in her mouth and moved faster, watching his every reaction.

He was gasping, his head moving restlessly.

Was it wrong for her to rejoice that here, at this moment, he was not in control at all?

He clutched at her and thrust up into her.

His eyes opened and she was sucked into them, lost in them. She felt his seed burst deep inside her and choked onto her knuckles.

Then he relaxed to stillness, and she settled against him. She knew what he had meant the night before. She was left unsatisfied, but she had loved giving him that pleasure.

Then he pulled out of her, and rolled her onto her back in the dirt. His mouth caught her cries as his hand carried her forward and into a madness of her own. She shattered, more violently than last night, shattered to the point of agony and destruction, beyond the point intent would take a sane person. She was left weak, trembling, and dazed in his arms.

“Oy, you in there! I told you to keep talking.”

“Oh, shut up!” shouted Imogen. “I’ll scream if he tries to kill me, all right?”

“You need a fist in your mouth,” grumbled the guard back, but he left them alone.

FitzRoger was helpless with silent laughter beside her. Imogen thumped his chest. “What’s so funny?”

“At this moment, everything.” He gathered her into an embrace more tender than she could ever have imagined. “I can at last die happy.”

That brought her back to reality. “Well I’d rather not,” she said, pulling out of his embrace severely. “It seems to me you are falling apart, FitzRoger.”

“Am I?” he said, sitting up and hugging his knees. He was tousled and still happy. She hardly recognized him.

“Will it always be like this?” she asked.

“I hope not. I want to make love to you slowly and gently, in peace and security. If we sacrifice a little of the wild pleasure for it, I’ll be content.”

Imogen looked down at her tattered skirt. For the first time she wondered what she looked like, but it didn’t seem important. “Do you mean that?”

“You think I want to love you always in a damp cave in peril of our lives?”

She looked up. “Do you mean love?”

He sobered. “Ah,” he sighed. “Imogen, I don’t know. If such a thing exists, it is not familiar to me. You are very precious to me. I will guard you with my life.”

“You’d have married me if I’d been a hag,” she accused again.

“Yes.”

“You’d have guarded me with your life.”

“Yes.”

“You’d have consummated the marriage.”

“Yes. But probably rather sooner.”

Imogen gazed into his eyes and crawled into his arms. “I’m getting scared again.”

He held her. “Try not to. It doesn’t do any good.”

She shook her head against his chest. “We have to make plans.”

“Do you have any plans?”

“Yes.” She moved back purposefully. “We’re going to go through the passageways...” Then she remembered what this meant to him. “Oh.”

“Oh,” he echoed. “I’m trying hard not to think about that.”

“It doesn’t do any good to be scared,” she repeated back at him mischievously.

“I could probably take my mind off it quite well by beating you.” But there was warmth in his eyes and he wasn’t denying his frailty.

“The guard would think you were murdering me.”

“But when he found I was just blistering your skin, he’d cheer me on. You heard him. He doesn’t approve of saucy women.”

Another gurgle of laughter escaped her. “Oh, stop it. I don’t want to laugh just now.”

“I want to make you laugh.” But then he sighed. “Go on, then. What plan have you come up with, my virago?”

“Warbrick doesn’t know it yet, but he’ll never fit into the passageways.”

“True,” he said with interest. “Will he trust any of his men in without him? Yes, because there’ll only be the one way out for them.”

“So, we’ll have a better chance.”

He shook his head. “He’ll keep me with him as warranty of your good behavior. On the whole, I’m grateful.”

“You can’t be!”

He met her eyes. “The fear, Imogen, is overwhelming. Death seems light by comparison.”

“But you went in after Renald....”

“Yes, and it’s probably the bravest thing I ever did. As it was I made a short distance on my feet, then crawled, shouting until they came back for me.”

Imogen just stared at him. She would never have believed he would open himself to her like this. She couldn’t think what to say, so just placed her hand over his.

“I wanted, desperately, to crawl out again,” he said, “but I think they thought I’d fall down the cliff. Which was probably true. Renald did the kindest thing, and knocked me out. They didn’t dare leave me in case I came around, so they carried me and I still have some bruises to show for it. I came around before the end but managed not to go mad by keeping my eyes shut and telling myself I was in a large bright hall. As soon as I was out, I was vilely sick.”

“I know,” she said gently. “Some of the servants saw you.”

Amazingly, he flushed. “I’m surprised I have any credit left.”

“They just thought you’d eaten something bad.”

“And you?” he asked. “What do you think?”

“Am I supposed to think less of you?”

He pulled her closer and kissed her. “I am very fortunate in my wife. Now, listen to my plan.”

“Yes?”

“Warbrick will have to divide his forces. You will presumably lead the way for the men who go into the passages to get the treasure, and he’ll send his more experienced and trusted minions. If you can persuade them to do without a light, or if you can kill the light, you should be able to slip away from them in those passageways. I presume you can find your way in the dark?”

“But...” Then Imogen decided not to mention rats. If he could go into the passageways—certain terror—she could risk rats. “Yes I can. But you’ll still be in Warbrick’s clutches.”

“At least one of us will be safe, and you can alert Renald.”

“Then what?”

“Then you and Renald think of a way to rescue me,” he said lightly. “I have great faith in my virago. I have a few suggestions, though...”