Stroke of Midnight (Nightcreature #1.5)(24)

He could have taken her there and then. It was his right. No one would dare dispute it. He had wrought the victory. It was his right to claim whatever or whoever he wished. But he did not want her writhing beneath him in fright, only in ecstasy. To his surprise, he discovered that he didn't want to take her by force or fear, not here, on the fringes of a bloody battlefield. Nay, far better to seduce her slowly and gently on a bed of soft furs by candlelight.

It amazed him that he wanted her at all, knowing that it had been her father who had butchered his. Rage burned anew when Reyes recalled how Luis Montiori had taken his father's rich black pelt and then had the gall not only to line a cloak with it, but to boast to any and all who would listen of what he had done. The memory of Montiori's treachery cooled his desire as effectively as if he had plunged into an icy lake, leaving only the simmering coals of hatred and the ashes of revenge.

Putting the woman away from him, he took a deep breath. Rising, he grabbed her by the arm and lifted her onto his horse's back. Heedless of the fear in the woman's eyes, ignoring the tears trickling down her cheeks, he vaulted up behind her, took up the reins, and turned his horse toward the misty mountains of home. His men, drunk with the wine of victory, gathered up the last of the spoils and fell in behind him, eager to return home to bed their wives and boast of their victory.





CHAPTER 2


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Shanara had never been so afraid in her whole life. The arm around her waist was thick with muscle, unmoving, unyielding. Her back bumped against his chest from time to time. It, too, was hard and unyielding.

What was he going to do with her?

It was a question that plagued her on the long ride to his keep until, weary with fear and exhaustion, sleep claimed her.

Reyes felt the woman slump in his grasp. His arm tightened around her and he drew her closer, cradling her head against his chest, all too aware of her hips and thighs cradled between his. She was warm and soft in sleep. Once, she whimpered softly. He refused to be moved by it. Hardening his heart against her, he reminded himself that she was his prisoner and nothing more, a pawn in a dangerous game. He had sworn a blood oath to avenge his father's cruel death. It was a vow he would honor no matter what the cost. If her father refused to take her place in the dungeon, then Reyes would kill the girl and send her body back to Montiori a piece at a time.

The girl was still asleep when he drew rein for the night.

Holding her in his arms, he swung his right leg over his mount's withers and slid to the ground. Cradling her against him with one hand, he untied his bedroll from behind his saddle and spread the blankets on the ground for the girl. She murmured in her sleep when he put her down, but didn't awaken. He stared at her for a moment, then drew the covers up to her chin.

In a short time, fires were laid and food was being prepared. His men sat in small groups, sharing tales of old battles, or refighting the battle they had just won.

Reyes moved through the camp, taking time to speak to each of his men, commending them for their bravery, consoling the wounded, stopping to spend time with two of the men who he knew would not survive the night.

A short time later, the women arrived—a dozen whores and camp followers who made their living the best way they knew how. They followed him and his men whenever they rode out of the keep, setting up their gypsylike wagons on the outskirts of the camp.

Reyes allowed it because his men were, after all, red-blooded fighting men. Warriors all, after facing a day of battle where death might find them at any time, they had a need for a woman. It was more than the pleasures of the flesh that they sought. It was a reaffirmation of life. Sometimes he envied his men. Though tempted, he had never bedded any of the camp followers. He knew his men wondered why he never visited any of the wagons. Some thought he must be a eunuch, but he shrugged off such speculation as idle talk. He was not a man to indulge in meaningless copulation with a woman who was available to any man for the right price. If he mated, it would be for life. Cursed as he was, he dared not spill his seed wantonly.

He sought his bed when the fires burned low. The girl was sleeping soundly, one small hand tucked beneath her cheek, her lips slightly parted. He could see the shapely outline of her form beneath the thin blanket. He took a deep breath, drawing in the sweet scent of her skin and hair.

She is here. She is mine for the taking…

His body responded to the words moving through his mind.

Muttering an oath, he stalked into the darkness.



Shanara woke to the sound of rough male laughter and the smell of food cooking. Disoriented, she sat up, her gaze darting right and left. Where was she? And then it all came rushing back to her—the battle, the stink of blood and death borne on the early morning air, being captured by Reyes, who was known among her people as the Lord of Black Dragon Keep.

Where was he?

She saw no sign of him. Many of his men were gathered around a large campfire. She saw others moving back and forth between the wagons that surrounded the camp. No one seemed to be paying her any attention.

Taking a deep, calming breath, she threw back the covers, then gained her feet.

No one noticed.

As causally as she could, she walked toward the water wagon and took a drink.

No one paid her any heed. Nor did anyone seem to notice when she took a knife from a sheath someone had carelessly left lying on the ground. Tucking the weapon into the pocket of her skirt, she turned away from the wagon and headed for the darkness beyond the camp, hoping that anyone who saw her would think she was one of the camp followers seeking a momentary bit of privacy.