The Prize by Julie Garwood Read Free Book Online

conquered."
    "I will never be conquered."
    The mighty boast was thoroughly ruined by the quaver in her voice. He noticed it, too. The rude man had the gall to smile. Her shoulders straightened in reaction.
    Royce gave her hand a hard squeeze before finally letting go. Nicholaa started to turn away. He stopped her by grabbing hold of her chin.
    He forced her face up, then leaned down until he was just inches away from her. "Don't inconvenience me again."
    He didn't raise his voice above a whisper when he gave that command, but his tone was hard enough to truly infuriate her. She pushed his hand away from her chin, then moved to one side so he could get a clear look at her brother.
    "Do you actually believe I care if you're inconvenienced or not?" she asked. "My brother lies near death because of your greedy, land-hungry leader, Duke William. Had he left England alone, Justin would still be whole."
    Royce turned his attention to her brother. The first thought that came into his mind was that the Saxon soldier really was near death. His complexion was as white as the blanket covering him. Beads of perspiration covered his brow. His hair was the same white-blond as Nicholaa's, but that was the only similarity between brother and sister.
    Royce couldn't see any injuries, because the blanket covered the big man from neck to feet.
    He judged the soldier to be young from the lack of wrinkles at the outer corners of his eyes and the few scars on his face. He remembered then that the Saxon informant had told him Justin was a year younger than Nicholaa, and from all appearances, she was a very young woman.
    So the Saxons also sent boy warriors into battle. Royce suddenly felt very weary. He shook his head in an effort to clear it while he kept his gaze on Justin. The brother's sleep was fitful. He wore a frown that suggested demons were racking his nightmares. Royce found himself affected by the sight of such obvious torment.
    Nicholaa saw the concern in his eyes. He'd tried to hide his reaction, but he hadn't been able to. She was surprised, confused, too. Shouldn't he be gloating?
    "When he's awake, he prays for death," she whispered.
    "Why?"
    He sounded genuinely perplexed. Nicholaa realized he couldn't see Justin's affliction. "My brother's left hand was severed in battle."
    Royce showed no reaction to her announcement. "He could still live," he said after a long minute. "The injury could heal."
    She didn't want him to be optimistic. She wanted him to feel guilty. She took a protective step toward her brother. "You might have been the one who did this to Justin."
    "Yes."
    His easy acceptance of such a foul deed took her breath away. "You feel no remorse?"
    He gave her a look that suggested she'd lost her mind. "Remorse has no place in a warrior's mind."
    He could tell from her expression she didn't understand what he was saying. He patiently explained. "A war is like a game of chess, Nicholaa. Every battle is like a well-thought-out move on the board. Once it begins, there shouldn't be any emotion involved whatsoever."
    "So if you did, in fact, injure my brother—"
    "That's highly doubtful," he interrupted.
    "Why?"
    "That isn't how I fight."
    He wasn't making any sense to her. "Oh? What is it you do when you go into battle if you don't injure your enemies?"
    He let out a sigh. "I kill them."
    She tried not to let him know how appalled she was. The man acted as though they were discussing the week's mass schedule, for all the emotion in his voice. His callous attitude made her stomach burn.
    "Your brother was injured near Hastings and not in the north as I was informed?" he asked, drawing her attention again.
    "No, Justin wasn't in the battle near Hastings," she answered. "He was felled at Stamford Bridge."
    Royce couldn't contain his exasperation. The confused woman had her enemies mixed up in her mind. "I'm Norman, Nicholaa, or have you forgotten that fact?"
    "Of course not."
    "The battle at Stanford Bridge in the north was waged