Samantha James Read Online Free PDF Page A

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    “ O n your feet, Saxon.”
    His eyes were as cold as the seas. His tone brooked no denial. Alana gingerly obeyed. Her knees were quaking so unbearably she feared she could not stand. The leashed violence she sensed in him frightened her beyond measure. What was it Aubrey had said? They say he is a warrior ’twould as soon sever a man’s head from his body as look at him . Alana shivered. Gauging his mood this very moment, she could well believe it.
    He bent low to retrieve the dagger, this time taking care not to turn his back on her. He weighed it in his palm, running his thumb over the bejeweled hilt. He slipped it into his belt, then leveled on her a gaze of blistering intensity.
    “You talk about the thieving Normans. But perhaps ’tis you who are the thief. Who did you steal this blade from, Saxon?”
    Alana maintained her silence. ’Twould do no good to tell him. He would only brand her a liar.
    His jaw clenched. “Were I you, Saxon, I would test my temper no further. Now tell me—whose is this dagger?”
    Alana knotted her hands together to still their trembling. Summoning her courage, she lifted her chin. “’Tis mine,” she stated coolly. “’Twas given me by my father.”
    “Your father!” He gave a shout of laughter. “Lady, you would take me for a fool of the highest order. The dagger could only belong to a man or woman of some wealth.”
    “Aye,” she agreed heatedly. “My father!”
    “Kindly enlighten me, then. Who is your father?”
    Alana clamped her lips together.
    He swore beneath his breath. “The truth, Saxon, and I would have it now!”
    “Surely you would know him, Norman.” Her tone was scathing. “The lord of Brynwald died beneath your sword.”
    “What! Do you mean to say your father was Kerwain?”
    “Aye!”
    “Your father died in battle, aye. But he did not die beneath my sword.” His eyes scraped over her. “And I have seen Kerwain’s daughter for myself. She did not wear tattered hides to bind her feet, but boots of the softest leather. Her bliaud was not little more than rags, but cloth of the finest weave.”
    Alana straightened her spine, painfully aware of her wretched appearance. “I am no thief,” she said feelingly. “You asked for truth. I gave you truth. ’Tis none of my concern if yourefuse to recognize it!” Somehow she mustered what little pride and dignity she’d managed to retain. “And now, Norman, will you grant me leave to return to the village?”
    “Nay, Saxon, I will not.”
    Alana had already half-turned. Startled, her gaze flew back to his.
    “You heard me well and true. You may not return to the village.”
    Alana fixed wide eyes upon his face. He was well pleased with himself; she could see it in his half-smile.
    “Nay,” he went on. “Instead you will come with me.”
    Alana’s mouth was dry as parchment. Her lips scarcely moved. “Where?” she whispered.
    “Why, to Brynwald.”
    “Brynwald!” She could not hide her shock. “For what purpose?”
    He smiled then, a thoroughly dangerous smile. Alana’s hand went to her throat. A staggering horror shot through her. He meant to punish her for her insolence, she thought vaguely. She knew it as surely as night followed day.
    “Perhaps you will scrub floors. Help the servants in the kitchen. Tend the animals in their pens. Why, you might even serve my knights”—his wicked smile widened still further—“in their nightly pursuits.”
    Tears of fury glazed her eyes. “Nay! I-I will not be your slave!”
    “There is no disgrace in servitude.”
    “There is disgrace in serving you!”
    His jaw clenched hard. “Indeed,” he said coldly. “How so?”
    “You are a Norman!”
    “Aye, I am a Norman. A Norman who is now your lord and conqueror. Accept it, or live to regret it.”
    Bitterly she cried out her despair. “Have I no choice in this?”
    His tone was arrogant through and through. “A choice? Of a certainty, wench. My choice.”
    So he said…and so it