Free Carolyne Cathey by The Wager Page A

witch!"
    "Out,
Brigham!"
    "I only
protect you, Kyle.  Find another wench to bed.  I care for you too much
to---"
    "I said,
out!"
    The man glared
hatred at Eleanor as he pushed away from the wall.  Then something dangerous
turned over behind his eyes, a danger assuring such sadistic revenge that she
already felt dragged, screaming into oblivion.
    He straightened,
nodded, then strode from the chamber.
    Lord Kyle shut
the door and slid the bar into place.  He turned, leaned his back against the
wood, arms crossed, the image of suspicion.
    "Who are
you?  And what in Satan's den is that cursed dream?"

C hapter S ix
    " Y ou know who I am, Sire."
    "I'm not
certain I do." 
    Lord Kyle
strolled toward her with animalistic grace, halting an embrace away.
    Eleanor's pulse
quickened.  Did he mean to kiss her again?  Or throw her out?  Oddly disturbed
by the thought of leaving, she focused on his magnificent chest now shamefully
hidden by the blue cote.  Eleanor clenched her hands at her sides to keep from
touching him, in wonder if any male would affect her thus, or only Lord Kyle. 
    He lifted his
hands as if he, too, ached for contact, then he released a frustrated sigh and
gestured toward a chair.  "You will explain about the dream as we
sup."
    After assisting
her, he sat on the opposite side of the square table and gripped the handle of
the clay ewer, then paused, his gaze piercing, intense. 
    "You are an
enigma, woman.  You have an effect on me; I cannot explain the feeling, but you
draw an emotion from out of me I have never felt with any other female, not
even Cathryn."
    Stunned by his
admission, Eleanor watched him pour ale into her tankard, then his, her senses
heightened to memorize the moment.  The gurgle of amber liquid blended with the
hisses and pops of the fire, the patter of rain, the whine of the wind.  A
yeasty fragrance mingled with the smoke, rosemary, and lavender. 
    Scrutinizing her
as if for a solution, Lord Kyle replaced the container and picked up a morsel
of meat from the trencher, the drippings glistening on his fingers like oil in
sunshine.  He nudged her lips with the food. 
    "Open."
    Praying he
wouldn't hear the wild palpitation of her heart, she parted her lips and Lord
Kyle placed the bite on her tongue.  She tasted partridge, succulent, juicy,
and as with his kiss, she hungered for more.
    "When first I
saw you as you stood there all proud and defiant, I mistook you for a lady of
nobility who had fallen upon difficult times.  Your air, your demeanor, showed
a sense of pride not seen among peasants, and not even witnessed that often
among women in general.  You displayed no cowed image, no obeisance, and that
pleased me.  Ah, I see your surprise at that confession, but 'tis true.  I
admire your spirit . . . when you don't carry the defiance too far." 
    Eleanor opened
her mouth to speak, but he slipped in another morsel.  His rough fingers
brushed her lips and a peculiar sensation spiraled through her chest.
    "You are a
laborer.  Yet, you speak well, carry yourself as a lady, and hint of a
knowledge beyond that of a serf.  You talk of dreams.  And dragons.  Matters of
which you should know naught."  He watched her over the top of his tankard
as he took a gulp of ale, then wiped his mouth.  "You are steeped in
mystery." 
    She forced down
the bite of game bird, then spilled the audacious truth from her soul.  "At
the convent, I grew up around ladies of good breeding.  I have observed their
speech, their manner, and have tried to imitate.  I learned to read and to
cipher by paying heed to lessons while pretending to clean the chambers.  In
truth, I learned more than most ladies at the convent, yet, as you reminded me,
nobility comes not from knowledge and skills but from fortune of birth." 
    She took a sip of
tart ale to help her swallow the sinful pride and useless remorse.  Hoping he
didn't notice how she trembled, Eleanor chose a cut of partridge and held it
for him to