White Lion's Lady Page 6

  “Someone here to see ye, m'lady,” laughed the guard.

  He stepped aside and Griffin's silhouette filled the doorway. He looked even bigger to her than he had before, grim and ominous, now that she was seeing him in this new, truer, light. His dark mantle swirled around his muscled calves as he stepped over the threshold, the spurs on his boot heels gleaming in the torchlight that spilled in from the corridor behind him. There was a feral look about him, a hard gleam in his eyes as he stared at Isabel from across the short span of floor that separated them. His tawny hair was windblown, hanging in reckless spikes over his brow and shoulders. His sculpted mouth was set in a line of grim determination, his squared jaw tight and unforgiving.

  Even from where she stood, her slippered feet crushing the dried rushes on the floor, the backs of her thighs pressed against the bed, Isabel could sense the air of resolve that radiated off of him in waves. Heaven help her, but she was looking at a man capable--and fully certain--of getting precisely what he wanted. She swallowed hard and sidled a wary step to her left.

  “Leave us,” he instructed the guard.

  Isabel flinched at his calmly voiced command. The door closed with a soft groan, sealing Isabel in to meet her fate like a helpless Daniel, alone in the lion's den.

  “W-what do you want?” she stammered, her voice rising in fear. “Why have you come here?”

  “Shh,” Griffin hissed. “Don't be frightened.” He spread his arms as he came toward her, his feet a trifle sluggish, palms exposed in a seeming show of peace. “I'm not going to hurt you.”

  Isabel's heart was pounding like a drum. Had he come to take his use of her as Dom had offered? She wondered, panic rising in her breast. No. Her mind struggled to deny the terrible thought. Griffin would never hurt her. He would never stoop to something so vile as rape.

  But this was not the Griffin she thought she once knew, she reminded herself, her feet inching away from him of their own accord. This was not the same person she had idolized as a hero--the one person whose honor she had believed in all these years.

  She did not know him now, this man who reeked of ale and smoldering anger. He was a stranger to her. Worse than a stranger, he was her enemy, no less a threat to her well-being now than Dom himself. Perhaps more, because her heart so dearly wanted to trust him, even now.

  “You have nothing to fear, my lady. Just do as I tell you and everything will be all right.”

  He nodded slowly as if he had no doubt that she would obey, stepping closer. Then he reached for her. Isabel turned on her heel as he seized her by the shoulder, his big hand clamping down on her like a vise. She cried out and lunged away sharply, but he held firm, curling his strong fingers into the neckline of her gown. The seams of the fine silk garment popped under the strain, tearing open at the neck and sleeve. He was undaunted. In the space of a heartbeat he had changed his grip, latching onto her arm and pulling her to him with a firm tug.

  “Damnation, woman, stop fighting me!” he grated harshly beside her ear.

  But Isabel screamed instead and threw herself forward. Blessedly, his grasp gave way, drink no doubt hindering his senses. Freed of his hold, Isabel fell to the floor on her knees in the rushes. Behind her the door to her cell creaked open.

  “Help me, please!” she cried in desperation, but it was only Dom's guard, a hard-eyed man who glanced in dispassionate silence from where she sat, trying to hold together the rent shoulder of her gown, then to Griffin, who stood over her, breathing hard, fists clenched, a solid wall of dark intent.

  “Do you mind, man?” he growled at the soldier. “I think I can manage to do this on my own. Why don't you take a walk for a couple of hours? I'll fetch you back to your post when I'm through here.”

  The guard grinned appreciatively and closed the door. His booted footfalls retreating down the corridor, Griffin turned his attention back to Isabel. He held out his hand. “Come up off the floor, my lady.”

  Isabel shook her head. “Stay away from me.”

  “We haven't a lot of time to waste,” he told her matter-of-factly when she refused to budge. “The less difficult you make this, the better.”

  She could hardly believe her ears! That he would stand there so arrogantly, advising her to cooperate with him while he defiled her, outraged Isabel beyond comprehension. “I would rather die first,” she declared, then vaulted to her feet and made a headlong break for the unguarded door.

  He caught her around the waist and flung her backward onto the bed. The sudden impact of hitting the mattress stunned her, but not nearly so much as the feel of Griffin's body when he placed himself atop her in that next moment, trapping her beneath him.

  “Mayhap you'd prefer to sulk in this chamber until Dom is ready to ship you off to God only knows where,” he suggested tightly, his eyes flashing in the dim light of the candle that sputtered at her bedside. Isabel scarcely registered his comment. She struggled under Griffin's pinning weight, fighting with all she had even though she could sense the futility of her efforts in every hard plane of muscle and bone that held her prisoner against the mattress.

  “Dom promised me a healthy reward for you,” he drawled, his voice low and full of resolve. “If he won't deliver on that vow, then I shall collect it through another means instead.”

  “No! Don't touch me!” Isabel cried, bucking and thrashing. He held both her wrists locked in his steely fist, leaving her little defenses to use against what was certain to be a brutal, degrading attack. But when she expected him to descend on her with the full drunken force of his lust and violence, he began to ease off of her. He stilled suddenly, staring at her exposed neck and heaving bosom.

  “What the devil?”

  She flinched as if struck when he reached down in that next instant, frowning, distracted now by something he saw. The medallion, she realized, feeling the weight of the cold metal where it lay against her flushed skin. Panting, still tensed for flight, Isabel watched Griffin's expression change as he lifted the bronze half-moon-shaped disc up toward his face, his reaction going from surprise, to confusion . . . to recognition.

  “Izzy?”

  His momentary hesitation was all the opportunity she needed. Teeth clenched, lips flattened in a sneer he might have mistaken for a smile, Isabel arched her back off the mattress, and, with every ounce of fury she could muster, kneed him squarely in the groin.

  He drew in his breath sharply and collapsed atop her, his face diving into the space of mattress above her shoulder. With surprisingly little effort, Isabel pushed him over onto his back and scrambled away, triumphant as her feet touched the rush-strewn floor and carried her swiftly across the room toward the door.

  He groaned on the bed behind her, muttering an incoherent oath. “Izzy,” he gasped, his hand feebly groping for her and catching only a handful of air. “Isabel, please. Wait.”

  “Why?” she shot back with a haughty bark of sarcasm. “To give you another chance to molest me?”

  “God's wounds, lady,” he croaked, still doubled over in apparent misery and struggling to drag himself up off the bed. “It wasn't my intent to steal your virtue--I came to take you out of here! I mean to take you to Montborne.”

  Chapter 6

  Head swimming with pain-induced, spinning shards of blinding light, Griff peeled open one eye and saw that the lady actually had paused. Standing at the door, hands fisted at her sides, she stared over her shoulder at him, frowning. “Why should I believe you?”

  He levered himself to a sitting position, wincing when the more tender part of his anatomy shifted with the movement. “What other choice do you have?” he hissed.

  Her answering laugh was filled with scorn and a good measure of suspicion. “I am to trust that you came up here tonight because you had a change of heart? That now you suddenly wish to help me get safely to Montborne? I am not so great a fool.”

  “'Tis as I told you,” he said, regaining the normal use of his voice now that his pain was finally subsiding from piercing agon
y to a dull throb. “Dom reneged on his word to me. I was to be paid for my efforts and now I have every reason to suspect that is not going to happen.”

  She threw him a haughty glare. “You will pardon me if I do not sympathize with your apparent dilemma, my lord.”

  Griff chuckled at her spunk, albeit somewhat weakly, for the jolt of renewed pain it brought to his body. “If Dom won't reward me for your capture,” he told her, “surely your betrothed will do so for your return.”

  “The only suitable reward for a rogue of your ilk is a trip to the gibbet,” she retorted smartly.

  “Perhaps,” Griff admitted. “But I think once Montborne hears how I delivered you out of Dom's clutches, he'll be more than willing to see me compensated.”

  “How can you be so sure?” she challenged. “For all you know, he may find you no less a criminal than Dom himself. How do you mean to convince him to absolve you?”

  “I won't have to convince him, my lady. You will.”

  “I will do no such thing!” she gasped, facing him now in her outrage, hands on her hips. “I will not aid you in this further plan of extortion!”

  Griffin got to his feet, serious now. “Aye, my lady. You will.” She backed toward the door, one hand slipping behind her, no doubt searching for the latch. He shook his head knowingly. “Even if I allow you to flee this chamber, do not be so foolish as to expect to escape the castle on your own. You'll never make it out of here without me, let alone make it to Montborne.”

  She was breathing hard, lip caught between her teeth, brow pinched as she contemplated her options. Griff watched her like a hawk, anticipating her every movement, ready to spring if she made even the slightest overture to run. She stared at him, wounded, her gaze blazing in plain contempt. “I despise you, Griffin of Droghallow. I wish I'd never laid eyes on you.”

  He shrugged as if her declaration did not sting him in the least. “Have we an agreement, Izzy?”

  “Don't call me that,” she told him quietly. “You haven't the right to call me familiar.”

  Standing there in the dim light of the chamber, petite and trembling, she was once more the sweet, terrified girl Griffin had rescued from danger some ten years before. Except that now she did not tremble out of fear for a raging forest beast, but out of fear and loathing for him. He tamped down the queer feeling that realization brought with it, telling himself it should not matter what she thought of him. She meant nothing more than a means to an end, his passage to a boon that would be the foundation to his future.

  “I am going to take you out of here,” he told her sternly as he met her at the door. “And unless you'd prefer to deal with Dom, you are going to do precisely what I tell you to do--without question. Understand?”

  The fact that she did not refuse him outright was consent enough. Griff took her by the hand and opened the door a crack. He peered out to make sure the corridor was clear, then stepped over the threshold with Isabel in tow.

  As late as it was, the tower stairwell and labyrinth of hallways were empty, most of the castle folk having hours before taken to their pallets. But the implication of safety did not slow Griffin's pace. Indeed, it only made him move all the faster, using the fortunate circumstance to its fullest advantage. He guided Isabel down to the main floor of the keep, past the great hall with its sea of occupants; the trestle tables that lined the chamber during the day were now stacked against the walls, clearing the floor for the bulk of the garrison and dozens of servants who slept there each night on thin pallets of straw.

  A few of those common folk stirred, some taking their pleasure with each other despite the lack of privacy. Griff hastened past the wide arched entryway, tugging Isabel's arm when she peered inside and paused, letting out a shocked little gasp at the mingled groans of carnal pleasure that sounded from within. They were nearly to the keep's exit when Griff heard footsteps pad along the corridor in front of them. With no time to spare, he turned to Isabel and grasped her by the shoulders, pushing her into a shadowy alcove of the hallway.

  Then he kissed her.

  It was a deep kiss, accompanied by the full press of his body, a maneuver primarily meant to conceal the both of them from whomever approached. Griff was not prepared for the bolt of lust that shot through him the instant their lips met. Nor, it seemed, was Isabel. Her startled cry of protest when he seized her had dissolved into a soft, throaty mewl as his mouth brushed over hers, the resisting push of her hands at his chest all but melting away, her fingers now curling into the loose fabric of his tunic.

  She was sweetness and untried passion in his arms, an intoxicating mix that his body responded to with swift, urgent need. He dragged her further into his embrace, covering her lips with his, all but lost in the sensual pleasure of the moment.

  Through the fevered thud of his pulse, he heard the approaching footsteps, closer now, as the person padding down the hallway rounded the corner and drew up short.

  “Sir Griffin?” a female voice gasped. “Saints, milord! 'Tis late to find you down here!”

  With more reluctance than he cared to admit, Griff broke the kiss. He said nothing at first, did not even acknowledge the interruption, his mind too rattled to conjure any manner of reply. He stared down at Isabel, unsure what had just passed between them even though his every fiber and muscle was taut with keen and certain awareness. He nearly had to shake himself to focus on his surroundings, to wrestle sense enough to deal with the present situation.

  That present situation came a few paces forward, attempting to peer around Griff's shoulder in curiosity. “Who's that with you--is it Tess from the kitchens?” She gave a saucy little giggle. “Mayhap milord would be better pleased with the both of us together.”

  “To your pallet, Meg,” Griff ordered gruffly, his voice coarse and thick with arousal, his head still bent to hide Isabel from prying eyes, his gaze fixed on her and hungry with want.

  The servant girl obeyed with nothing more than a disappointed sounding huff. Griff listened as her feet scuffed down the corridor toward the great hall. He waited to hear they were alone once more, willing his heart to cease pounding in his head so he could think of something other than the compellingly moist invitation of Isabel's mouth.

  “Let's go,” he said, taking her by the hand.

  Satisfied that the keep had fallen back into silence, he resumed their flight, his brisk stride chewing up the remaining space of corridor that separated them from escape.

  Outside, the bailey was quiet, the wall-walk vacant save for the handful of guards on night watch. With a measured air of purpose that dared anyone to question him, Griff descended the stairs leading down into the courtyard. Isabel followed along, forced to take two quick steps to every one of his. He led her to the stables, silencing the old horse master with a pointed stare and a dismissive nod of greeting.

  Griff's destrier was stabled in one of the far stalls. The huge gray steed neighed and tossed his head when he saw his master approach, the beast's nostrils flaring as if he smelled insurrection on the wind. With a warning to Isabel to mind her distance from the animal, Griff saddled him and led him out of the berth.

  “What about Felice?” she whispered suddenly. “I can't just leave her here.”

  Griff doubted very much that, were the tables turned, Isabel would receive the same consideration. “The woman is none of my concern, but if you see fit, make arrangements to fetch her once you are safe at Montborne.”

  She seemed mollified somewhat by the suggestion, nodding as she followed him out of the stables. “Shouldn't we take two horses?” she asked. “We might make better time riding separately.”

  Griffin shook his head. “Taking one mount out at this hour will cause suspicion enough. Besides, I think it wiser if we rode together.”

  He did not miss her look of disappointment, despite the fact that she likely tried to hide it under her scowl. Would she have tried to abandon him on the road? He hoped not, for a woman traveling alone on remote northern byways would not get f
ar without inviting trouble.

  At the moment, they had trouble enough of their own, he decided as he mounted the gray then hoisted Isabel up into the saddle with him. On the battlements near Droghallow's gates, one of the guards took notice of their presence in the bailey. Lance in hand, he said something to the man watching the yard with him, waking the knight with an ungentle nudge.

  “Open the gate, Roger,” Griffin commanded, turning Isabel's head into his chest and wrapping the edge of his mantle around her shoulders. “Don't show them your face,” he whispered in a voice only she would hear.

  “Is that you, Griff?” asked the gatekeeper, peering down from his perch.

  “It is. Open the gate, will you?”

  “Dom gave orders that no one was to leave tonight without his say-so,” the guard replied, looking somewhat unsure in his refusal yet making no move to comply.

  Before him, clutching his waist in a death-grip, Isabel drew in her breath. Griffin could feel her anxiety, and, in truth, he shared it. The only way out was through those gates. Staring up at the guards, he cursed vividly. “Dom said no one was to pass?” he said, more accusation than question.

  “That he did, Griff.”

  “Well, would that he had mentioned that fact before he woke me with orders to deliver this woman back to her cottage in the village before her husband found her missing.” He noted the guard's reaction, seeing the look of doubt come over the man's face. Griff pulled his mount's reins and made to wheel it around and head back to the stables. “Fine by me,” he said with arrogant disregard. “Let Dom ferry his own whores to and from his bed.”

  “Wait,” the guard called after a moment. “I wager Dom would trust you before anyone else in his service. If you say he sent you out, that's good enough for me, Griff. I'll open the gates.”

  “'Tis about time,” Griffin drawled as the portcullis was raised and he and Isabel rode beneath the heavy iron grid.

  He rode in the direction of the village only until he was certain the guards on watch could no longer see him, then he veered his destrier off the road, headed toward the dark cover of the woods. Griff noticed that the horse's gait had begun to falter slightly after they traversed a rocky patch of ground. He slowed the beast to investigate the trouble, bringing him to a halt once they were safely ensconced in the forest.