My Lord Savage. Elizabeth Lane
memory of his searching fingers, hard and rough through the fabric of her shift, brought a surge of heat to her cheeks. She’d had no choice except to let him touch her, Rowena reminded herself. But that did not in any way excuse her from responding like a cat in heat. What could she have been thinking? That he wanted her? That any man could want her? What rubbish! He had wanted nothing except the key to his prison. Failing to find it, he had flung her away like a piece of tainted meat.
What had she expected? In the name of heaven, what had she wanted? Rowena inched forward, her face burning with shame in the darkness. Behind her, where the savage stood, there was nothing but silence.
Her shoulder scraped against a wall, and in the next instant her groping feet found the bottom of the long stairway. Sick with relief, she toiled her way upward, one hand clutching at the cold stones for support.
Eternities seemed to pass before she emerged into the corridor on the ground floor of the house. The shadows were more familiar now but they gave her no comfort. The very walls mocked her folly as she fled across the great hall and stumbled up the stairs. Reaching her own chamber, she bolted the door, flung herself into her bed and hastily drew the curtains. Even then the laughing demons would not be shut out. Rowena lay hot-faced and quivering beneath the covers, waiting for the mercy of dawn.
Black Otter fingered a corner of the quilt the woman had pushed through the bars of his cell. It was a wondrously fine thing—thick and soft, its covering smoother than doeskin. The fabric still smelled of her body—a pungent, flowery aroma that was nothing like the scent of his own people. Raising it to his nose, he inhaled deeply. The odor flooded his senses, awakening a spark of heat in his groin. He frowned at the sensation. Was he so woman-hungry that the very scent of this tall, pale creature could rouse him to desire? If that was so, he was even worse off than he’d thought.
Flinging the quilt down with a snort of self-disgust, he turned his attention to the bread. The loaf was fresh and soft beneath its crisp outer crust. Black Otter was starving, but he kept a tight rein on his appetite as he broke off one small piece and tasted it. Like the water, it might have to last him a long time.
The bread was light and chewy in texture, a far cry from the dense, flat maize cakes he had eaten all his life. But the flavor—yes, it was good. More than good. It was all he could do, in fact, to keep from bolting the entire loaf. But Black Otter was a disciplined man, his will tempered by experience. He ate only enough to dull the edge of his hunger. Then he wrapped his body in the quilt and settled himself against the wall, still clutching the bread to guard it from the rats.
The woman had brought him this gift of food and warmth, he reminded himself. She had come alone, at great risk, to do him the first kindness he had known in this strange land.
He remembered her moon-white face in the flickering candlelight, her large, cat-colored eyes wide with fear. It had not been easy for her to come to him—he had not made it easy. But even when he’d done his best to frighten her, she had not lost her courage. For that she had earned his grudging respect.
And he was not ungrateful for her gifts, Black Otter mused as he sank deeper into the softness of the quilt. Gratitude, however, was not the same as friendship. All whites were his enemies, this tall, strong-minded female among them. But if ever the chance came for vengeance he would remember this night and, perhaps, let her live.
He had resolved to not sleep, but as the warmth crept into his aching body he felt his eyelids grow heavy. The woman-musk scent of the quilt stole around him, awakening subtle urges in the depths of his body. He remembered touching her through the thin cloth, his fingertips tracing the long curve of her waist in search of the keys. If his hand had moved higher—or lower—would he have discovered her to be like the women of his people? Would his fingers have found the quivering softness of her breasts, the moist, secret cleft of her womanhood? Would her breath have caught and quickened at his touch?
Black Otter exhaled, pushing her image from his mind. Such careless thoughts would only do him harm. They would lull his spirit, causing him to lower his guard and miss the chance that would surely come. For such a lapse, he would never forgive himself.
He stared into the darkness, striving to fill it with the faces of those he had loved and remembered—pretty Morning Cloud who had died in his arms; their children, their friends, all of the people who made up the big, warm extended family of the village. He would return, Black Otter vowed. No matter what he had to do, no matter who he had to hurt, he would return.
His eyelids were growing heavy again, and the quilt was as soft and enfolding as a woman’s arms. Black Otter was drifting deeper, and he knew he could not battle sleep any longer. The white woman’s aura seeped like perfumed smoke through his senses. He smelled her, tasted her, and saw her dark-rimmed eyes in the candlelight. He heard her breathy gasp as his fingers touched her flesh.
As he sank into slumber, hers was the last image he saw.
“By my faith, have you lost your mind?” Sir Christopher confronted his daughter across the breakfast table. “What in heaven’s name were you thinking last night?”
“That our prisoner was in need of some common kindness.” Rowena willed herself to meet her father’s angry eyes. She knew better than to deny what she had done last night. Her quilt had already been discovered in the savage’s cell.
“The creature is dangerous, Rowena. He could have hurt you, even killed you!”
“As you can see for yourself, he did neither. I came away from the encounter quite unscathed.” Rowena avoided glancing at her wrists, which bore small, dark welts where the savage had jerked his chain around them. She had chosen a gown with long, lace-edged sleeves that covered all but her fingers. Her father did not need to know everything that had happened.
“This time you were fortunate,” Sir Christopher snapped. “But the savage is not to be trusted. You’re to have nothing more to do with him, and that’s that!”
“I suppose I should respect your wishes,” Rowena answered quietly. “But I am the only person in this place who has treated him kindly. You may discover that he trusts no one else.”
Sir Christopher cursed under his breath, swallowed his ale too quickly and broke into a fit of coughing. Rowena was on her feet at once, sprinting around the table to pound the old man between the shoulder blades until his raised hand signaled that he was all right. As the coughing subsided she bent closer, pressing the tankard toward his chapped lips. He waved her away.
“Don’t fuss over me!” he grunted. “I’m a man, not some ancient dotard who needs to be fed and wiped.”
“That I know.” Rowena sighed as she reined back the impulse to dab a bead of spittle from the end of his jutting chin. Only then did she notice the folded letter, its wax seal already broken, lying next to her father’s plate. A groan escaped her lips as she recognized the oddly back-slanted handwriting.
“Not Edward Bosley again! What does he want this time?”
“Need you ask?” Sir Christopher crumpled the letter between his arthritic hands. “The wretch is out of money again and asking for a handout! Just because he married your mother’s younger sister and worried her into an early grave, he thinks he’s entitled to bleed me dry!”
“Tell him no,” Rowena said. “If it were up to me, that’s what I would do.”
“Even if he were to inform you that he could find no more work in the theater and as a consequence his landlord was about to throw him into the street—in which case he would be forced to come and take shelter with us?”
Rowena sagged against the side of the table, remembering Edward Bosley’s last visit. “How much does he want?” she asked.
“Twenty pounds. For now.”
“And twenty pounds again next month, I’ll wager. Very well, I’ll see that the money is sent.” Rowena returned to her chair and forced herself to take a spoonful of porridge. “Now, about the savage, Father—”
He scowled up at her, eyes narrowing sharply