"No." Again, Tristan spoke quietly, but the menace in his tone reached to every corner of the hall. "I will make my vow. Just one."

The men who held him tightened their grip, but he did not need to move closer. His bride could hear him well enough. "You say that you will kill me, sweet, and chances seem fair that you will." The girl did not back down from him or change expression, but he saw her cheeks turn pale. "But know this, my lady. I will do you the same service." A gasp whispered around the hall. "This grave you mean to p.i.s.s on will not hold me. I will return from h.e.l.l itself to punish you for all your dear transgressions." She opened her mouth as if she meant to speak, but he spoke first. "I will kill you, darling," he finished. "That is my wedding vow to you."

Siobhan was trembling all over, more and more intensely as his words went on, and even Sean looked pale. Fool, she scolded herself in her head. This threat was no worse than she should have expected, no more plausible than the curses she had heard from his kind a hundred times before in battle. She should laugh, she knew. But those men had sounded frightened or angry; they had known they were cursing the wind. Tristan DuMaine believed every word he had spoken. "Fool," she whispered aloud to him this time, and her new-made husband smiled, a knowing, bitter smile that mocked her for doubting his promise.

"Finish, Brother," Sean said, no longer laughing. "Declare them man and wife."

Tristan barely heard him or the words the friar spoke. The church's word was meaningless, their ritual a farce. The truth was between this Siobhan and himself, the vows they had spoken from the black depths of their hearts. That was their marriage, the power that would join them. She was shaking now, a properly fearful little bride, and a new sensation seized him. She had called him her prize, had said she meant to use him once before she killed him. For a single moment's madness, he imagined he would let her do it, imagined how it would feel to take this wicked little rebel into his arms. He smiled down on her, the lazy smile that had made Clare's mother take him to her bed even when he had told her she would never be more than a diversion. What would it be like to break this little demon with kisses and bend her to his will? "I now declare you man and wife," the friar was saying. Siobhan saw her bridegroom's eyes change as he smiled, and she reached for her dagger again, expecting him to try to escape.

But he did not. "I thank you, Brother," he said, nodding, as gracious as a king in spite of the guards who held him fast. "Now may I kiss my wife?"

"You would kiss me?" She laughed. He hated her; he had shown her nothing but contempt. But suddenly she saw something else in those cold, green eyes, something wicked she had never seen before in the gaze of any other man.

"Oh, yes," he answered, his mysterious smile making her blush. "I would."

"I think not," Sean said with a laugh that sounded forced.

"Wait," she said, holding her brother back. "Why not?" She drew her dagger and held it to Tristan's throat. "Let him go." This was another challenge, she realized; the Norman meant to shame her, to prove she was a fraud. But he would not. Still holding the dagger between them, she leaned up and kissed his lips.

For a moment, she thought she had called his bluff indeed; he seemed ready to withdraw. Then suddenly his hands came up and closed around her arms, and his mouth on hers turned hard. Stop it! she wanted to shout as his tongue teased her lips, warm and sweet. He was her enemy; how dare he touch her so? No man had ever dared to kiss her this way, even when she'd wanted it; no man had ever made her knees go weak. The kiss broke for a moment as he pulled her body closer, lifting her off her feet to mold her form to his, his lips barely brushing her own. Then his mouth turned hard again, demanding, and her will seemed to dissolve. The hand that held no weapon clutched his shirt front, and her mouth opened to his.

"Enough!" she heard her brother shout, and his fist crashed into Tristan's head, knocking him away from her. Of all the men who might have done it, Gaston was the one who caught her as she fell back from her Norman husband's arms.

"Are you quite well, my lady?" he said with a mischievous grin as Sean punched Tristan again, catching his jaw to send him reeling backward.

"Of course," she said, pushing him away. Tristan had fallen into the rushes, and half a dozen of her brother's men had rushed forward to subdue him.

"Take him from my sight," Sean ordered, furious. "Take him outside and kill him."

"No," Siobhan said, moving forward. Tristan was smiling up at her, triumphant even as they held him down, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. Hot fury made her feel faint. "Not yet." He had sealed their vows of murder with a kiss, had meant to make a prize of her in front of her brother and his men, to prove she was a helpless maiden after all. But she would show him his mistake. "Take him to his bed-chamber and bind him to the bed." She made her lips draw back into a feral smile. "As I told you...I am not quite done."

CHAPTER 3

As soon as DuMaine was taken out, Sean led Siobhan up the stairs, out of the sight of the crowd. "Are you all right?" he asked.

"Of course," she answered, determined that it should be true. "Why should I not be?

He smiled. "My brave girl." He hugged her close, and she felt her heart grow calmer. "You did well."

"Many thanks." She would have liked to have been held a little longer, but he was already letting her go. "DuMaine is a b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

"Aye, love, he is," Sean agreed. "But you gave no ground." He touched her cheek. "I was proud of you."

"I should hope so." Just down the hall, she could hear the guards scuffling with her bridegroom, following her instructions.

"Normans don't just smell, you know. They taste horrible." "I don't doubt it." The sounds from the bedroom grew louder, and someone yelped in pain before shouting a curse. "So do you mean to bed him?"

"Of course not." She moved behind a column where she was still hidden but could see down into the hall. "But I will let him think I will for now." Gaston was standing by the hearth, talking to one of his own soldiers, but she noticed he kept glancing toward the stairs, smirking his nasty little smirk. "Let your friend, Gaston, think it as well."

Sean followed, a hand on her shoulder. "Why Gaston?"

"So he can tell his master," she answered. "Our own men care nothing for DuMaine's n.o.bility or marriage; that wedding was no more than a mummer's play for them. But Gaston..." She stopped, choosing her words with care. She hated Gaston, hated Sean's alliance with his master, the baron of Callard. But they needed it, at least a little longer. "Gaston is a Norman," she said at last. "He is your friend tonight, but if other Normans should come here demanding proof of this marriage, will he lie for us?" She turned back to her brother. "I doubt it."

"Gaston has just as much reason to hate DuMaine as we do," Sean insisted, rejoining the same debate they had been waging for weeks.

"Not so, brother. At least, I do not believe it." What she believed was that Gaston-or rather, the baron of Callard-would be as happy someday to have Sean out of his way as DuMaine. But she had learned already that this was a theory her brother did not wish to hear. "If Gaston thinks I have bedded this Norman, if the friar thinks it; if we have sheets stained with blood-"

"No one will say you and DuMaine were never really wed," he finished for her. Two of the men who had brought DuMaine upstairs came out of the bedroom, both of them looking worse for wear. Catching sight of Siobhan, one grinned, holding a rag to his bleeding lip.

"He is yours, my lady," he called.

"Lucky b.a.s.t.a.r.d," the second one muttered, making his companion snicker.

"Enough," Sean said with a scowl. "Go downstairs and find Bruce and Callum. Tell them I want them." Chastened, the men nodded, barely glancing at Siobhan as they pa.s.sed on their way to the stairs.

"Why Bruce and Callum?" she asked Sean, curious. The two men he mentioned were hardly his most skillful soldiers, nor were they pleasant company.

"Never mind," he answered, watching until they were gone. "How long do you suppose this consummation should take?"

"Not long, I shouldn't think." For a single moment of madness, she found herself remembering DuMaine's kiss to seal his vow, imagining what it might be like if she truly meant to do as she had promised. Would he want her, given the chance?

"Fine," Sean nodded, the sound of his voice driving this foolish thought away. "Go find someplace out of sight-"

"No," she cut him off. "I have to go in." She thought again of Tristan's smile of triumph after he had kissed her, and her face flushed hot with rage. She thought of the Norman knight who had chased her the night her parents were murdered, the first man she had ever killed. She could still smell his breath, still had nightmares of what he would have done if he had caught her. But now she was a woman grown. Now she would have her revenge. One of the castle serving women, Cilla, was coming up the stairs with a tray, and Siobhan smiled at her. "Come, Cilla," she said, heading for the door. She stopped and touched her brother's arm.

"I won't be long."

Sean caught her gently by the wrist. "Don't do anything foolish," he ordered. "Fright him if you will, but don't let him touch you."

"Don't worry," she promised. "I won't."

Tristan fought his captors like a man possessed as they bound him to the bed, so wildly that when his limbs abruptly stopped flailing, they a.s.sumed he was well and truly caught. Two of them left the room while two finished tying off his bonds. "Where's your cousin now, my lord?" one of them said as he finished. "Where is your royal blood?"

"Leave him be," the other answered, stepping back. "Can't you see he's beaten?" He smiled. "My lady will have no trouble with him now."

Tristan smiled back, surrept.i.tiously testing the slack in his bonds all the while. One good, strong jerk, and he thought he might break free. "Your lady, as you call her, is a s.l.u.t."

"b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" the first brigand shouted as the second drove his fist into his face.

"That was bravely done," a woman's voice said from the doorway. Both brigands turned as Siobhan came into the room, followed by an old woman Tristan recognized from his kitchen. "Striking a man when he is bound like a pig for the slaughter."

"He is a pig," the man who had struck Tristan answered. "He called you-"

"I heard what he said." In the dim light of the bedroom, her dark blue eyes looked almost black, and her skin glowed like moonlight. The shadows suited her, his demon of a wife. "And we will slaughter him." Her eyes met Tristan's for a moment, her mouth curling slightly in an almost-smile. "But not yet." She nodded to the old woman, and she came forward to the bed, carrying a tray.

"You see, old dame?" Tristan asked her as she set it down. "You see what your people have brought into your home?"

"Not my home, my lord." She wiped the blood from his face with a wet towel, her mouth set in a frown.

"Not your lord, neither, mother," one of the brigands piped up.

"Leave Cilla in peace," Siobhan ordered. "Both of you, go, attend my brother outside."

Neither of the men looked pleased, but they obeyed without questioning her. Siobhan gave Tristan a smile, then turned away to admire herself in his mirror.

"They will not leave you in peace," he said softly to the woman tending his wounds. With her help and the soldiers gone, he might still escape this trap. "They will raze this castle to the ground, destroy your crops, abduct your daughters-"

"And how will that be new?" She cut him off. He heard Siobhan laugh softly, her back still turned. "When have your king's men not done the same and worse?"

Across the room, Siobhan waited tensely for his answer. "When have I done worse?" he said at last, his voice so sad and gentle, she could hardly believe it was him speaking. She turned to find him looking up at Cilla, silently pleading. Realizing Siobhan was watching, her old nursemaid looked away, hurrying to fill a cup with water.

"I will pray for your immortal soul, Lord Tristan," the old woman said as he drank. "I will grieve for the little one you leave behind." She looked back at Siobhan again. "But I will not weep for your castle."

"Nor should you, Cilla," Siobhan answered, smiling at her. "Save your tears for my n.o.ble father, your rightful lord, murdered these twelve years past."

"Aye, Mistress Cilla, do," Tristan said, all the gentleness she had heard in his voice turning instantly to ice. "Had I known him, I might weep for him myself." His eyes met Siobhan's.

For a moment, she almost doubted herself, doubted the right of this man's death. He had not known her father; in truth, he could have been little more than a child himself when her home was attacked and destroyed. Then she thought of her cousins, their heads displayed to feed the crows, not by some long-dead stranger but by this man himself. For all his pretty words to the serving woman, he would have done no differently than the men who had murdered her father, given orders from his king. "Leave us, Cilla," she said, drawing her dagger and making herself smile. "My bridegroom is ready for me now."

"Yes, my lady." Glancing one last time at DuMaine as she picked up her tray, Cilla left them alone.

"What now, my lady harlot?" he said, the lazy drawl of his Frenchman's tongue seductive and mocking at once. "You should have had them strip me, think you not?"

"Not so, my pig s.h.i.t lord," she answered. He still doubted she meant to do as she had promised, and in truth, he was right. But she wasn't ready to let him be so certain. "I think I can manage well enough." She cut the lacings on his tunic with her dagger, laying it open with the point.

"You do that well, sweetheart," he said, his sneer making the endearment worse than his insults. "You must have had much practice."

She smiled, refusing to rise to the bait. "Not so much as you might think." She laid the knife aside to unlace his hose by hand. "I am still a virgin, after all."

His breath caught short as if he were trying not to gasp outright. "The h.e.l.l you are," he answered through a scowl.

"Do you doubt me?" His reaction pleased her, she found. He sounded almost frightened. "I am wounded to the heart." She let her eyes move over him as she had seen her brother and his men look over likely wenches, smiling without thinking as she did it. He was the prettiest man she'd ever seen, a carving of an angel made of flesh-those green eyes had likely seduced thousands in his day. Now they were watching her, bright with fury-wicked brilliance burned behind those eyes. His nose was over-large and slightly crooked, as if it had been broken once, and a tiny scar turned down the corner of his mouth. But these flaws only made him seem more handsome.

"What ails ye, love?" she asked him, aping the tone of a seducer herself. She opened his shirt, running a palm over his stomach, lean and beautifully muscled. "I thought you Normans liked this sort of thing."

"What sort of thing is that, Siobhan?" he asked, his voice roughened to a growl.

"Brawling and tupping at once." The sound of his voice speaking her name gave her a queer little shiver in her stomach. She traced a long, white scar across his side, the leavings of a wound that must have nearly been mortal. Her enemy was a great warrior, for all he was a wh.o.r.eson dog. "I thought rape was the great sport of your king and his retainers?"

"Aye, pet.i.te, it is," Tristan answered bitterly, fighting for his voice. If this seductress was a virgin, Henry was the pope. "But we prefer to be on top."

She smiled. "I see." She had rarely kissed a man in all her life, but now she leaned down and kissed the livid bruise her brother had left on his cheek. "Alas for you." She kissed another swollen bruise along his jaw, her hands sliding over his chest, and he muttered a curse, jerking his head away.

"Answer me one question," he demanded, fighting for control.

"Only one?" She raised her head to look at him, pure deviltry gleaming in her eyes. "By all means."

He made himself smile back, his brain casting about for some insult that would hurt her. "What perversity made you wear that gown?"

To his surprise, she laughed. "You do not like it, then?"

"I like the garment well enough." Such a beauty must surely be poisoned with vanity, he thought. Surely he could wound her through her pride. "On a proper la.s.s, it would be lovely. Its rightful owner likely looked quite fetching in it." "In faith, she did not." She sat back on her haunches beside him on the bed with her skirt pulled up over her knees, a shocking, unladylike gesture made more seductive by its very lack of grace. "She had thin hair and a face like a horse."

"Still, I imagine that it fit her." She was like some wild creature from an ancient tale, he thought, some nymph made to ruin the righteous. "It hangs upon you like a rag."

She frowned, looking down at herself. "My shape is not very womanly, is it?"

"A kind of woman's, I suppose." He let his gaze drift up and down her form, his mouth set in a sneer. "Does my plain speech offend you?"

"Your life offends me, husband," she answered, recovering her smile. "But you will mend anon." She leaned down, her face level with his. "I promise." She kissed him softly on the lips, drawing back as he moved against his will to kiss her back.

"Devil," he rasped as she sat up.

"So you have said." Her voice trembled, but her heart was cold. "But I think that the devil is you." She kissed him on the lips again, opening his mouth with her tongue as he had opened hers when they were wed. He truly thought she wanted him, the fool, that she would give herself to him, her enemy. She thought that he would fight her kiss, would try to turn his head away, but he didn't even do that. His mouth rose up to meet her kiss, becoming the aggressor, and she felt him go hard against her where she straddled him. " 'Swounds, sweet husband," she said as she broke the kiss. "Methinks you might want me after all."

He smiled, the hateful sneer she had learned to expect in the few short hours she had known him. Had he sneered that way at her cousins before he put them to the axe? "You forget I am a soldier, Siobhan. I can f.u.c.k anything if I must." She opened her mouth to answer, and his hand came up and clamped around her throat, the rope that held it snapping like a thread. "Sadly, I don't have the time."

She tried to gasp for breath but found none, her air cut off completely as she tore at his fist with both hands. She tried to grab the dagger she had left on the table, but she couldn't reach it, and bright points of light danced madly in front of her eyes. No! she roared inside her head, more furious than fearful. But in truth she couldn't make a sound.

"Playtime is over, pet.i.te," he said softly, squeezing harder, his thumb pressed over the pulse in her throat. "Time for lessons." He worked his other wrist free of its bonds, his skin raw and bleeding. " 'Tis a pity you won't live to profit from them." She fought against the darkness, swinging at him blindly with her fists, but his arm was much longer than hers. He grabbed the dagger easily with his free hand and held its point under her nose. "Shhhh..." Still holding her tightly by the throat, he cut the bonds on his ankles, then leaned closer, driving her stumbling backward as he stood. "What shall I do with you now?"

His grip was loosening; she was beginning to breathe. "Go to h.e.l.l," she tried to curse him, but the words came out a whisper. He had crushed her throat; her voice was gone.

"With you in my arms, little wife." He leaned down and kissed her forehead, breathing in her scent. He should kill her, wring her neck and leave her while he had the chance. She had sent the guards to her brother; he might even still escape. But somehow he couldn't seem to let her go.

"My brother will kill you." Every whispered word was like a jagged shard of gla.s.s ripped up her throat, and still no voice would come. "You cannot escape." She grabbed for the dagger, and he clenched his fist again, the world going black as he tossed the knife away.

"I require no blade, little devil." He sounded drunk, he realized, his words slurring together. She had bewitched him somehow, stolen his reason. But he could still be free. "I will rip you apart with my hands."

She felt his grip unclench, becoming a caress. "My beautiful Siobhan." The same queer thrill she had felt before shivered through her as he raked both hands up through her hair, lifting it to let it fall through his fingers. "Like silk." "Stop it!" She tried to slap his hands away, and he caught her by the wrists, driving her back against the wall. "Let me go!"

"Let you go?" he echoed. "But I thought you wanted to play." He brought his mouth down to hers slowly, holding her fast as she struggled. She could not fight him; she could not escape. He kissed her, and her knees went weak, her strength dissolving. His tongue pushed tenderly inside her mouth, warm and alive, and she allowed it. She welcomed it; she kissed him back, feeding on his mouth.

"Siobhan..." He spoke her name like a caress, as if they might have been lovers indeed. He was too strong for her, her murderer; she had no weapons left. He let go of one wrist to touch her cheek, and she tried to punch him in the face. But he was too fast for her as well; he caught her fist before it could make contact, covering it completely in his palm. "Little devil," he whispered with a smile. He should be trying to escape, she thought. Why did he not run? He was right; he could kill her easily. Why had he not done it?

"No," she whispered as he moved close to kiss her again, his lips barely brushing her own before they moved to her jaw.

"Sean..." She gathered her strength, holding her breath to use it in a single, tortured scream that felt like her throat was being ripped away. "Help me, Sean!"