Prisoner of My Desire by Johanna Lindsey Read Free Book Online

his vengeance, which was always swift. Thieves and outlaws, however, took anyone for whatever they could get. They did not care if they captured knight or merchant, lady or fishwife, and torture of one kind or another was swift to come if they did not get what they wanted. He had taken the keep of a robber baron once, and even he had been sickened by what he had found in the man’s dungeon—bodies that had been slowly crushed under heavy stone, naked bodies hung by their thumbs with smoke-blackened skin, some with feet nearly burned off, all deadbecause they had simply been forgotten by their tormentors once he had laid siege to the keep. And this was no mean hut or forest floor, nor even the inn where he had been taken. Stone walls meant a keep. A petty lord, then, and just as bad as a petty thief.
    Warrick opened his eyes again, ready to ignore the pain in his head to see what he could of his soft prison. He lifted his head and saw her there at the foot of his bed—and decided he had died, for that could only be one of God’s angels, made perfect in the afterlife.

Chapter 7
    Rowena was still glaring at the door that had closed on Gilbert when she heard the chains creak and looked back at the man on the bed. His eyes were shut, he lay perfectly still, but she sensed instinctively that he was now awake. She had not looked at him closely before, had not seen him as much more than a male body, a large male body. He lay flat on his back without a pillow, while she stood several feet beyond a mattress that was as high as her waist. She still could not tell much about him from this position. Then his head lifted, his eyes riveted her to the spot, and she stood perfectly still, forgetting even to breathe.
    The gray of his eyes was more silver, soft and luminous in his surprise. Even with the gag dividing his face, she could tell it was a handsome face, the features well defined and—arrogant.What made her think that? The broadness of his cheekbones? That hawklike nose? Mayhap that sharply squared jaw, thrust out more because of the gag. She had to be mistaken. Arrogance was a trait of noblemen. Arrogance in a serf would get his back whipped raw.
    But this serf did not lower his eyes or look away in the presence of a lady. Bold he was, or still too surprised to recall his place. But what was she thinking? He could not tell she was a lady, when she wore her bedclothes. But then she realized he certainly could, for her white shift was of the finest linen, soft and nearly transparent, it was so thin. Her bedrobe was that rare velvet of the East, given her on her fourteenth birthday by her mother, sewn by her own hand.
    A by-blow, then, as Gilbert had said, and apparently proud of it. And what did she even care what he was? She could not care—he was to die. But first she was to give him her maidenhead—oh, God! How could she? Fool, how could she not when her mother…?
    She wanted to sink down on the floor and cry. She had been raised gently, with love and care, the cruelty and harshness of life kept at bay. It was difficult for her to see her life now as real, because it was so alien to her. She was supposed to take this man, in truth, to rape him. How? In anger she had told Gilbert she needed no help, but she did, for she knew not the first thing about begetting children.
    There was no longer surprise in his eyes. They were now—admiring. Was that good? Aye, ’twould be better for him did he not find herrepulsive. She was glad of that at least. And he was nothing like her husband. He was young, clean, even handsome, his skin smooth, his body firm—nay, nothing at all like her husband. Even the gray of his eyes and the blond of his hair were different shades than Lyons’ had been, the one lighter, the other darker.
    She had the strangest feeling she could read his thoughts through his eyes, for she imagined a question there now. Had he been told why he was here? Nay, likely not, since he had been senseless until moments