Besieged And Betrothed. Jenni Fletcher
it, nothing special or terrifying. It was quite ordinary really...
No sooner had the thought entered her head than she forgot it again, startled by the pressure of his lips as they began to respond, gently and unhurriedly at first, then with a deeper, building intensity. For a few moments, time seemed to stop as she simply stood there, stunned, not knowing how to react, unable to draw back even as his tongue slid its way smoothly between her lips, teasing them open before taking full possession of her mouth.
Then instinct took over. She didn’t think, didn’t give herself a chance to consider as she responded in kind, leaning towards him as he wrapped his arms around her waist, drawing her so close that she could feel every line of his strong, muscular body. He even felt like a battering ram, she thought in amazement, running her hands over the broad expanse of his shoulder blades. If she’d taken a running leap at him from the far side of the room, he probably wouldn’t have budged. Not that she wanted him to. She didn’t know what she wanted any more. Was she trying to prove something? She couldn’t remember. What had started as a gesture of defiance had turned into something else entirely, though as to what it was...
All she knew was that she didn’t want it to stop. She’d never even imagined a feeling like it before, this hot, trembling sensation deep in the pit of her stomach, an ache and a need and a longing all at the same time.
He groaned against her mouth and she raked her fingers through his hair, kissing him back just as fiercely—fiercer, even—running her tongue along his bottom lip before twining it back around his. Tasting, exploring...
She froze, suddenly aware that he’d stopped moving. He wasn’t kissing her back any more. He was barely even holding her, his hands slackening and then falling from her waist as he took an unsteady step backwards. She raised a hand to her mouth, mortified by her own shameless behaviour, afraid that he was about to mock her again before the truth finally dawned.
The poppy was working.
She let out a ragged breath. How could she have forgotten about the poppy? She’d been so wrapped up in the moment, in the heady feeling of his body and lips against hers, that she seemed to have forgotten everything else, including how a chatelaine ought to behave! It was one thing to pretend to seduce him—quite another to be seduced right back. Now he was swaying precariously in front of her, staring at his feet with a look of such bleary-eyed confusion that she was almost tempted to grab his arms and steady him. Then he looked up again, fixing her with a stare that had nothing remotely mocking about it, and she tried to jump backwards instead.
Too late. She jerked in mid-air as his hand shot out and grabbed her wrist.
‘What have you done?’ His tone was menacing.
‘Let me go!’ She tried to wrest herself free, but his grip was too tight.
‘The wine, what was in it?’
‘I said, let me go!’
‘What was in it?’ He tugged her roughly back against him, against the same chest she’d flung herself at just a few moments before, though there was nothing welcoming about it now. They seemed to have gone from one extreme of emotion to the other.
‘Poppy.’
‘Poison?’
‘A sleeping draught.’
‘You drugged me?’
‘Yes.’ She felt an unexpected stab of guilt. ‘But don’t worry. The effects will wear off by tomorrow.’
He staggered and she caught hold of his arms. No matter what had just happened between them, she didn’t want him to fall and hurt himself. Not that she cared, she told herself, but he was no good to her injured. Even if, with the full weight of him in her arms, she didn’t know which of them was in more danger.
She stumbled down with him to the floor, inwardly rebuking herself for her own lack of foresight. She ought to have done this next to something soft for him to fall on to. Her plan had worked, and yet ironically she’d managed to trap herself beneath him at the same time. She wriggled furiously, struck by the uncomfortable impression that she was behaving even more shamelessly now than before. His whole body was pressed down on top of hers, leaving little to the imagination. Definitely not a position a lady ought to find herself in.
She gave a push born of desperation and finally managed to half-drag, half-roll herself away. Then she lay on the floor at his side, panting and breathless, studying his face with a confusing mixture of triumph and trepidation. But at least her plan had succeeded. They could discuss his surrender tomorrow, though before that happened, she’d better make sure he was tied up tight. After what she’d just done, the last thing she wanted was for him to escape. If he’d thought badly of her before, she dreaded to imagine what he’d think of her when he woke up.
She reached out and trailed a finger along the jagged line of his scar. It made him look dangerous and vulnerable at the same time—as it turned out he was. She’d bested him for the time being, but for how long? She bit her lip, struck again by the sheer hulking size of him, trying to fight off the discomforting feeling that she’d just made an equally huge mistake.
It was dark when he woke.
Lothar groped his way back to consciousness, opening his eyelids and wincing as a dull pain assailed the back of his eyeballs. Drugged. He’d been drugged. He felt groggy and leaden and stiff all over, the way other men claimed they felt after a night spent drinking. Now he knew what they meant—something else he could blame Lady Juliana for.
Lady Juliana. He swore under his breath. Clearly he’d misjudged the woman. He’d known that she’d been plotting something, that she’d wanted to capture him, but he’d followed her anyway, into the hall where she’d offered him some wine...
What had he been thinking? He must have been mad, following her simply because he’d wanted to help her. Because of her father? Yes and no. Yes, because he’d valued her father’s friendship, no, because there was something else about her as well, some other enticement that had lured him over the drawbridge against his own better judgement. It hadn’t just been attraction, though that had definitely been a big part of it. If he didn’t know better, he would have said he’d felt worried about her...
Felt?
He scowled so ferociously that a stab of pain lanced through his head and down his spine. Felt? He’d felt worried? Since when did he feel things? He’d spent years not feeling. He didn’t want to feel—not ever! Then again, he hadn’t wanted any wine either and look what had happened there. He’d broken one of his own rules by drinking it, letting himself be persuaded by a pair of familiar green eyes in a deceptively innocent face. He had to hand it to her—if he weren’t so livid with rage, at himself as well as at her, he might have been impressed. She’d managed to trick and to capture him, succeeding where the rest of Stephen’s army had failed. He’d barely taken his eyes off her since they’d entered the bailey, but whatever she’d slipped into his drink had certainly been potent. Not to mention long-lasting. Judging by the darkness it was night-time already, the only illumination provided by a few thin slivers of moonlight filtering in through gaps in the window shutters.
Window shutters? He strained his eyes to make sure he wasn’t imagining things. So he wasn’t in a dungeon, then. On the contrary, he was lying on something that felt suspiciously like a mattress. Not bad for a prison, though something about his position felt peculiar. He tried to stretch out, only to find that he couldn’t, and not just because of the numbness in his limbs either. By the feel of it, his wrists and ankles were tied together, bound up tightly with rope.
He paused for a moment, considering what to do next, then let loose a volley of obscenities, not bothering to keep his voice down. If Lady Juliana were close by, he hoped she could hear him. They were the very least he intended to say to her. He supposed he ought to be grateful that she hadn’t gagged him as well, but right now, gratitude was the very last emotion