Free Seize The Dawn by Shannon Drake Page A

is my sacred duty!" His face was close, very close. She should be longing to strike him. And she did, naturally. But she also held her breath, closing her eyes again, strange rivulets of fire tearing through her while she rued the wild tangles in her hair, the certain pallor of her cheeks.
    She opened her eyes. He was still there. Unnerved, she cried out in anger, attempting to strike him. "Leave me—" "Nay, lady, nay!" He caught her flying hand. His eyes never left hers. She trembled, gritting her teeth despite herself. "It's my place aboard this vessel. I intend to sleep here." She sucked in her breath. "But—" "I slept here last night as well." "What? Oh, you are wretched. So it's your duty to torment me? Then go ahead. Be aware, of course, that a tarnished heiress is not worth nearly so much as a pure piece of property, that you risk the anger of the French king—" "The anger of the French king? Are you that valuable?" he marveled, and she knew that he was mocking her. "Aye," she informed him icily. "Imagine that, lass!" His eyes skimmed down her length. "Who would have thought ..." His tone was light, but then his blue shadowed gaze met hers once again. "And what of the English king, m'lady. Do we risk his anger?"
    "That goes without saying," she informed him, fighting for calm and control. "Good," he said, dropping her hand, rising. "I may be forced to greater lengths than I had thought." She lay silent, wishing she had a sword at the moment— and two strong English soldiers to hold him down while she cut him up, since she wasn't quite so confident in her own abilities. He walked to the desk, found the carafe upon it, and poured himself water. He drank it reflectively, then took the chair once again, propping his feet up on the wood and leaning back. "I'm sure you'll improve as the illness passes," he mused. She wanted to throw something at him. She realized that she had just been told she wasn't appealing enough to be ravaged. Thank God, you idiot! Shut up and keep it that way! she implored herself.
    But she couldn't seem to do so. "DearGod!" she exclaimed. "Surely, the illness has wasted me tragically, since I've heard that your people are exceedingly fond of even sheep!" He had closed his eyes; he opened one, eyeing her casually. "The sheep usually look a lot better," he told her. "I do then," she whispered, "most heartily thank the Lord for good-looking sheep!" She managed to turn on her side, staring into the wall of the cabin, stunned that she could have gotten into such a discussion with this, of all men. A second later she nearly screamed, and almost leaped from her skin. No sound had warned her of his presence, not the slightest whisper of air. But he was there, by her side, whispering into her ear.
    "Alas, my lady, maybe you'll improve before we reach France." "I should rather die!" she informed him. "Alas, so would I! But duty calls ..." Her shoulders couldn't have been stiffer; the soft, barely concealed laughter she heard made it all the worse as he walked away from her again, and this time, for good. And yet . .. His fingers had lingered just a moment too long in the strands of her hair.
     
     
    Chapter 4
     
     
    Corbin Clarin had just sat down to a breakfast of delicious baked fish and fresh bread when the storm swept back into his life. Petite, dark-haired, sharp-featured, Isobel was attractive— as a deadly viper might be. She preferred London to Clarin, or even the great castle at York, perhaps because the Scots had been known to venture so far, or perhaps because she simply enjoyed the amusements to be had in London far more than the monotony of the north country.
    Corbin loved London himself, but he despised his wife, and he dreaded waking each morning among the king's court to wonder with just which courtier she had spent the previous night. He had long ago learned to find his own quest for love— or the pretense of affection—elsewhere.
    She walked into the great hall unannounced, drawing