He had missed her presence while in T’Diemn, missed her advice while in the southern highlands dealing with sly locals. More than that he had yearned to feel her warm, compliant body next to his at night, to sleep with her in his arms. He blinked. Where had these thoughts come from?
Furious, he turned on her. “Damn you Dhamfeer. Are you playing with my mind now, planting suggestions?”
Imoshen blinked, startled by the General’s sudden savagery. His face conveyed such anguish that she longed to convince him his thoughts were his own, but how?
“Of course not!” She snapped. But why should he believe her? “It wouldn’t be right—”
“You deny tampering with my thoughts before?”
“No. But that was done to prove a point. To tamper with your thoughts to change your mind wouldn’t be right.” She drew herself up, not deigning to cover her breasts. The damp undergown clung to her thighs and abdomen. “If you were having lustful thoughts they were your own—”
“Ha!” He stabbed an accusatory finger at her. “How did you know they were lustful thoughts?”
She bit her bottom lip to hide the smile which threatened to undo her. Now was not the time to mock him. Wordlessly she pointed.
He hastily covered himself with the drying cloth.
As he stepped from the bath, the cloth held securely in place, she couldn’t help but admire his long flanks and the curve of his taut buttocks as he turned his back, pointedly ignoring her.
His coppery, battle-scarred hands rubbed the cloth firmly across his chest. She wanted to feel those hands rub as firmly across her flesh, wanted to feel him clasp her with a passion that would ignite them both, banish all fear and doubt.
“You are angry with me.”
The firelight danced on his tall frame, illuminating the many small scars where old wounds had healed. She hated every one of those scars because they were evidence of his life before she knew him.
He wanted her, that was plain enough. What did she have to do?
Imoshen licked her lips. When she spoke her voice was almost hoarse. “I would not mock you.”
He gave a single grunt. It conveyed a world of meaning.
“General Tulkhan?” she breathed his name, her heart hammering with tension as she released the material of her underdress. It fell at her feet.
Mortally afraid he might reject her, she closed her eyes, unable to meet his. Naked physically and emotionally, she held her breath, heard his sudden intake of breath and braved his gaze.
The planes of his face were taut with need, his eyes twin fires of dark desire. Yet he stood there, rigid with contained urgency.
Did he want her to beg? Unable to speak, she took a step and put her hand tentatively on his chest. The fevered hammering of his heart leapt beneath her palm. With her other hand she caught his wrist and lifted his hand to press his palm over her own raging heart.
“Please.” The word was a whisper. It hung on the supercharged air between them.
“Why?” Desire and despair warred in his voice. “So you can control me as Reothe seeks to control you?”
Imoshen shook her head. “I wouldn’t . . . couldn’t do that.”
“You expect me to believe you?”
She could only nod.
With a groan he caught her to him.
Chapter Eight
Imoshen’s heart sang. She felt light-headed with relief. A delicious anticipation tingled through her limbs. The length of his hard thighs pressed on her legs, the heat of his arousal melted into her belly. His hands circled the small of her waist, lifting her to him.
Tears stung her eyes.
Blindly she searched for his lips, felt the graze of his unshaven beard on her cheek, then the heat of his mouth on hers. There was nothing tentative about his kiss. It was totally possessive, demanding. She reveled in it, in the knowledge that he wanted her despite his better judgment, because it was the same with her.
What did the rational mind have to do with this? It went beyond thought to a primal source deep within.
Her fingers wound through the damp silk of his long, dark hair. His mouth parted from hers. When he spoke his lips grazed hers, his breath caressing her skin. “Is it true?”
What was he talking about?
She shook her head, blindly seeking his lips only to have him clasp her face between his hands. His fierce obsidian eyes searched her features, as if to probe her soul.
“Is it true?”
“Is what true?” She wanted him at that moment more than life itself, could hardly think.
“Are you with child?”
She blinked, surprised by the question. “Of course. I told you so.”
A flash of something that might have been anger traveled across his face, then he bent to kiss her and she was lost in sensation. This time his passion was bruising but she met it with the white hot fury of her own.
When he raised his head she twisted out of his arms and stepped backward, wordlessly lifting her hand to draw him after her to the bed. But he stood unmoving, watching her as she slipped under the down-filled covers. Hugging the cool material to her chest, she looked at him expectantly, her body alive with anticipation.
Silent, unable to speak, she waited for him to come to her.
He prowled across the room, lean and dark, urgent. “Have you no shame? You were untouched when I took your maidenhead.”
A shiver ran through her body. She didn’t understand his anger.
A nervous laugh escaped her. “I want you. Why should I deny it?”
“Why indeed?” He gave a strange laugh and stepped toward her.
Relieved, she held the covers back to welcome him, drawing him down to her. The long length of his body met hers. Their legs entwined. Impatience gripped her. Feverishly, she guided him into her.
There was a sudden flash of pain but she ground her teeth rather than admit it.
“I hurt you?” He seemed startled.
She denied it. “No. Not much. Don’t pull away.”
He lay still in her, supporting his weight on his elbows. She wriggled under him, experimenting with the extent of her discomfort.
It was nothing compared to the thrill of having him like this.
But when she reached for his face and her lips met his, his manner had changed again. This time he was tender and she reveled in it, relaxing so that the pain of accepting him faded until it was swamped by the ever increasing excitement of her impending release.
This time he lingered with her, bringing her slowly to her peak. She forgot everything in the moment of their joining, forgot herself in him.
The power of their meeting left her breathless and dizzy. It was frightening to be so vulnerable to someone she didn’t really understand or know, someone who only recently was her enemy.
She watched as he slid from her embrace and knelt above her, inspecting the bedding. She sat up, not surprised to see that she’d bled again.
“It didn’t hurt as much as the first time.” She tried to reassure him.
He seemed stunned. “It’s true then. If you carry a child it’s mine.”
She looked at him curiously. “Of course it is.”
“How can this be?” His eyes searched her face.
She almost laughed. “A child is usually the consequence of what we did, unless the woman uses—”
He caught her shoulders. “You don’t understand. I’ve never fathered a child. I thought I couldn’t!”
Imoshen felt her skin go cold. So this was what the Aayel had seen—his secret shame, his one weak point. How cunning of the wise one not to tell her, for she might have doubted her ability to conceive.
Now the babe was a foregone conclusion.
He placed a tentative hand on her belly. “You are sure?”
She covered his hand with hers, touched by the wonder in his voice. She had meant to steal this child as a bargaining tool, but now she understood it was much more than that. It was the greatest gift she could give him.
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He seemed so hopeful but the healer in her had to temporize. “You will see your son born, unless I miscarry.”
The fire had fallen down to ashes. Imoshen lay nestled in the curve of the General’s body, listening to the soft rise and fall of his breathing. At that moment she felt tender toward him but more than a little indignant. He had suspected her of trying to pass off another man’s child as his own!
Now she understood his private bitterness.
Stretching against him, she felt him harden and nudge into the crease of her buttocks. He made an appreciative noise in his throat and she smiled. She was sure if she were to ...
A ragged shout made her heart falter. The sound came from the corridor, followed by the repetitive thud of booted feet. A woman shrieked.
Imoshen sat bolt upright, her heart thudding.
The General lifted his head, his dark eyes startled, hair wild over his shoulders. “What is it?”
“I don’t know.” She licked dry lips. “Soldiers in the hall outside—”
The door to the chamber flew open, crashing against the stone wall. Armed men poured into the room.
Tulkhan rolled out of the bed, running naked for his sword. Imoshen knew her dagger lay discarded by the cold bath. There was no time to reach it and they were outnumbered. Violence would not free them from these Ghebites. She did not recognize any as Tulkhan’s men.
Several men drew their weapons, preventing the General from reaching his. He cast a quick glance to her. Their position was hopeless and they both knew it.
Tulkhan straightened. “This is my private chamber. Explain the intrusion.”
The Vaygharian stepped forward, his eyes alive with malicious triumph. “Arrest these two by order of the king. They were plotting treason.”
“No!” General Tulkhan roared. But whether it was to deny the accusation or the knowledge that his half-brother had ordered their arrest Imoshen did not know.
“On what evidence?” she demanded, pulling a soft blanket from the bedding and wrapping it around her. Fear pounded through her veins, but she refused to show weakness as she stepped from the bed to confront her accusers. “There can be no evidence because the accusations are untrue!”
“You were convicted by your own words, both of you.”
The Vaygharian was enjoying himself. She could sense it oozing from him. He strode toward Imoshen but not near enough for her to jump him, or to fall within Tulkhan’s reach.
“The Dhamfeer withheld information. Her former lover, Reothe the rebel leader, was in the woods. Had she told us, we could have sent men out to capture him and his followers. His head would have been sitting on a pike on the battlements even now!”
Imoshen went cold with fear. Yes, she had withheld information which Tulkhan had unwittingly revealed, implicating her.
“I knew only that rebels had captured me, not how near their leader was,” she lied. “And you’re lucky you didn’t venture into the woods after Reothe because if you had, not one of you would be here to tell of it!”
The men stirred uneasily. Her conviction carried weight.
“A groundless charge!” Tulkhan stepped forward. Though he was naked the mantle of leadership was still visible in the set of his shoulders. Imoshen admired his assurance. The General was used to giving commands. Men were used to obeying him. Perhaps there was hope.
“Release the Princess. She is innocent of treason.” Tulkhan was firm but not strident. “As am I.”
“You deny you refused a direct command of your king?” the Vaygharian cut in swiftly, stilling the voice of reason. “King Gharavan ordered you into the highlands to hunt rebels—”
“And I refused,” Tulkhan agreed. “To go would have been to murder my troops. I gave a commitment to hunt the rebels in the spring—”
“Convicted by his own words. Arrest him!”
The shouts of Gharavan’s men drowned Tulkhan’s voice. Goaded on by the safety of numbers and weaponry against an unarmed, naked man, they surged forward.
Imoshen stiffened. She refused to fight them, but as it was they pawed her body on the pretext of subduing her. The blanket she held was torn from her so that she was clad in nothing but her long, pale hair. She refused to cower or plead when they pulled her toward the Vaygharian.
The General received worse treatment. Though he did not resist, their sheer numbers bore him down, arms were raised and the flat of their swords struck him. She wanted to cry out, but she held her tongue and ground her teeth.
It was just as well. She found the Vaygharian’s eyes on her, enjoying her anguish, feeding on her distress.
“Enough,” he said finally and they drew back, hauling Tulkhan to his feet.
The General was bleeding freely and barely able to stand. Even so, he straightened with painful dignity. “I demand to speak with my half-brother—”
“The king does not wish to be disturbed,” Kinraid cut him short. “Take them below and secure them.”
Someone shoved Imoshen between the shoulder blades so hard that she staggered forward, falling to her knees at the Vaygharian’s feet. The pain in her already bruised knees was sharp and immediate.
“You see,” he purred. “It grows easier to kneel before your masters.”
Hatred surged through her. What she wouldn’t give to hold a knife in her hands right now. He would be dead before his next breath. But then so would she and where would that leave the General?
Imoshen’s mouth went dry. What was she thinking?
It startled her to realize she had put Tulkhan before her people. They were her priority. She had to survive for the sake of Fair Isle and the child she carried, though in truth the babe seemed unreal to her at this moment.
The Vaygharian seized her arm, hauling her to her feet. His fingers caught in her long hair, pulling it so that tears of pain stung her eyes. She blinked them away, fiercely determined not to let him see even the slightest weakness.
He released her arms and, with his black-gloved hand, tilted her face to study her features. His eyes were level with hers and as she watched she saw his gaze darken with desire. Instinctively, she knew this was a man who liked to inflict pain, that it aroused him.
“Is it true what they say about the ‘pure’ Dhamfeer women?” he purred. “Well, General, is this celibate bitch as hot to bed as rumor has it? No sniveling pleas, no martyred silences, just hot thighs and eager lips.”
She would have pulled back but the men behind her pinned her arms.
Smiling slightly, the Vaygharian lifted his free hand and caught the leather covering the tip of each finger in his teeth, tugging until the glove slipped off his hand.
Imoshen stiffened as his warm, dry fingers brushed her breast, delicately tracing her nipple. To her shame her body responded and his smile broadened.
She hated him with every fiber of her being. Rage flooded her, blotting her vision. She wished him dead.
Sparks flashed before her eyes as if she were about to faint, but instead she realized they were the sparks of a raging fire. She saw the Vaygharian spin to face her, the flames at his back. He could not escape.
Panic flashed across his face, sheer terror. Then his features hardened. He turned and with a shout of despair leapt into the roaring fire.
A cry of horror escaped her and she stiffened, panting.
Her vision cleared to see the Vaygharian’s pleased face. Imoshen suddenly realized that he thought she was afraid of him and she smiled with the foreknowledge of her vision.
“Why do you smile?” he snarled.
“You will die by your own hand, in flames of agony,” she told him.
It was very satisfying to see fear tighten the planes of his face. His hand swung in an arc which she tried to dodge but her captors restrained her. His balled fist caught her in the side of the head.
Dimly she heard Tulkhan roar as everything faded.
Cold clawed its way into her bones. Imoshen shivered and fought the need to wake. Her head hurt. Fear slept l
ike an unwelcome twin in the back of her mind. To return to consciousness would mean a return to the real world of pain and . . . treachery.
It came back to her in a rush—the king, Tulkhan’s own flesh and blood, had betrayed him.
She lifted her head and winced. Mercifully it was dark, but terribly cold. Shivers wracked her body. Nausea roiled in her stomach. Fighting the waves of pain, she tried to focus on a dim gray shape in the darkness and felt around her.
Her fingers encountered cold stone. She was lying on a floor lightly sprinkled with stale straw. Something scurried away and she knew she’d had company.
A soft laugh escaped her—how ironic! She was a prisoner in her own dungeon. She must remember to have the place cleaned, the rat-dogs released and fresh straw sprinkled. It was even more ridiculous when she did not know if she would escape this trap.
“Imoshen?” the General hissed.
She stiffened. A wave of longing enveloped her. She wanted him to hold her, to tell her everything would be all right, even though she knew it wouldn’t.
“Imoshen, are you all right?”
She snorted.
And when he spoke she heard the answering smile in his voice. “Come closer.”
She crawled toward the sound of his voice, but her fingers met cold, ancient wood. Dragging herself upright she found metal bars and saw a dim shape beyond. They were separated by a passageway. So she would not have the luxury of warming herself in the General’s embrace.
“What time is it?” she asked, when she could trust her voice not to betray her.
“Near dawn,” he answered.
Something in his tone warned her. “What are their plans? A trial first then execution, or simply execution?”
She heard him chuckle softly.
“Imoshen?” Dimly, she made out his outline, pressed against the bars opposite her, and saw his hand waver in the space between them.
By thrusting her arm through the bars of her own prison she could just touch his fingers. Her shoulder ached abominably. Then she remembered how he had forced her to kneel to his petty king. Even that had not saved them.
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