Free LadyOfConquest:SaxonBride by Tamara Leigh

be addressing me properly.”
    She opened her mouth as if to argue further, closed it, and looked at the blood spreading across his tunic. “Do you intend to reach the castle alive, Maxen, we had best not dally.”
    In this, she was right.

    Two things Rhiannyn knew for certain. The first, that the only benefit of trading Dora for Maxen Pendery was that she lived—for now. The second, that she was alone in a world she had not realized was so heavenly before the Normans had crossed the channel and conquered her people.
    The curious commoners, the workers on the wall, the men-at-arms atop the gatehouse, and the knights summoned from the donjon all stared as their injured lord led his captive over the drawbridge.
    Head high, she fixed her gaze on Pendery’s back, refusing all the pleasure of seeing her cower. It was no easy thing with fear bounding through her, but anger—even hatred—helped.
    Remember your father and brothers, their lives brutally taken at Hastings, she silently counseled as she passed beneath the gatehouse’s portal. Forget not your mother’s death when the roof set afire by Normans collapsed upon her. Feel the terror of your flight into the wood when they sought to defile you. Imprint this moment on your mind—the humiliation to which Pendery subjects you, the chafing of your wrists, the hatred Normans and Saxons alike cast upon you. Remember, Rhiannyn, who is no longer of Etcheverry. Remember.
    Inside the inner bailey, she was presented with another challenge. Sir Ancel, eyes glimmering with satisfaction, nearly withered her resolve. Well she remembered his handling while he had overseen her stay in the dungeon, how he had beaten her and named her the foulest of things female. And now he separated from the other knights to step into her path.
    Forced to a halt, she resisted the strain of her lead and met his gaze.
    “Saxon whore!” he proclaimed.
    She sucked a breath. Saxon whore. Norman whore . Ever named, but neither was she. She was Saxon, and that was all, her virtue intact despite what any thought of her.
    Though Maxen Pendery was blocked from her view, she felt his gaze though Sir Ancel. Undeterred, she leaned toward the knight and returned the insult. “ Nithing!”
    Coward. It was one of the few Anglo-Saxon words he knew well. It had been shouted at the Normans during the battle of Hastings, and Rhiannyn had spat it at him when he had visited her cell.
    Knowing the edge to which she pushed him, she steeled herself for the blow. But though he drew his arm back, Pendery caught it, twisted it behind the knight, and barked, “Stand down!”
    Words sputtered from Sir Ancel, and his face flushed, but he had no means of reprisal. “My lord,” he grudgingly acceded.
      Pendery shoved him aside.
    For once, punishment was given elsewhere, and it stunned Rhiannyn. What did it matter if another struck her? Might there be a spark of humanity in The Bloodlust Warrior of Hastings? Or did he simply reserve for himself the pleasure of her suffering?
    “Ready yourselves,” Pendery ordered his knights. “We ride within the hour.”
    Rhiannyn pressed her lips to keep from crying out. Though she had prayed his injury would prevent him from going after Edwin and his followers this day, giving them a chance to flee, it was not to be.
    When he looked to her, she said, “I beg you, do not.”
    His eyebrows rose. “Begging is good. But ineffective.”
    No humanity. Not a spark.
    Forgoing the rope, he gripped her arm and pulled her toward the far tower of the gatehouse.
    She peered up the great stonework structure. Though its primary function was to guard the castle’s entrance, the towers on either side of the portal housed several small rooms intended for captives of higher status than those who were tossed in the cells beneath the donjon.
    Surely he did not mean to imprison her here when the alternative better served his revenge?
    “Maxen!”
    Pendery turned Rhiannyn with him, and she watched