“Why did you bring me here? I wish to see Llywelyn.” ‘Twas a pity she could think of nothing else to say; he’d surely believe her a simpleton.
Besides, her questions were for his master, she reminded herself. And she didn’t know if even Llywelyn could provide the answers she sought.
What would she do if he couldn’t? She had nowhere to go, no one to turn to. Llywelyn had to hold the key; beyond that, she refused to consider.
Ian leaned back against the rough wooden panels of the door, crossing his arms as he watched the woman, seeking some clue to her purpose here. He found her persistence astonishing. But then again, it took an immense amount of determination to do what she’d done this night. The idea of a woman attempting—and nearly succeeding—to scale the walls of Dolwyddelan was mind-boggling.
However, he hadn’t brought her here to admire her tenacity. Or anything else about her, he reminded himself as he remembered the feel of her tall, slim body slung over his shoulder. He rubbed his back against the door, as if that would wipe away the lingering sensation. “Tell me who you are and why you wish to see him.”
“My name is Lily.” A trace of pain tinged her features, so fleeting he almost thought he’d imagined it. “Just Lily.”
Her composure disturbed him. Didn’t she realize the threat he posed? He couldn’t recall the last time a woman had remained so calm while in his chamber. By Christ, even those he’d invited here generally quaked like frightened geese in his presence.
This woman presented a challenge, one he’d take on gladly. He’d never met anyone he could not break.
“What business could you possibly have with the mighty Llywelyn?” he asked, glancing at her threadbare garments with insulting deliberation. He noticed how they clung to her soft curves, and forced his gaze back to her dirt-smudged face. “He has no need of a filthy villein to warm his bed.”
She gasped and took a few steps toward him. The candlelight hit her full in the face, giving him his first clear look at her and illuminating her tangled fall of hair.
‘Twas her expression of outrage that caught his eye. He straightened and pushed away from the door. Perhaps all women looked thus, but he’d never noticed. By the rood, something about her face seemed so familiar, it caught his breath.
And her hair, pale copper, the color shining forth like a beacon…
What trickery was this?
He captured her chin in his hand once more, his fingers as harsh as his voice. “Where have you come from? And what do you here?” He snatched the branch of candles off the table and brought them closer. “Who are you?”
For the first time since he’d pulled her from the curtain wall, she appeared frightened, and he could feel the fine tremor running through her. “I told you. Lily.”
Her voice shook, too. Good. Mayhap he could use her fear to get what he wanted. He set aside the candles and tightened his hold. “Lily who? You must have more name than that. Who are your people? Where do they live?” He tugged at her until the heat of her body reached him through his linen shirt. “How could they permit a woman like you to wander the countryside alone?”
She shoved at his hand, to no avail. Her strength was no match for his. But she paid no heed to that fact—he began to doubt she was even aware of it. “Why should I tell you aught? My questions are for Llywelyn, not some lackey.” Ignoring his tightening grip, she curled her fingers and raked at his face with her nails. “I demand you take me to him.”
“She-devil,” he snarled as he jerked his head to the side—though not far enough. Twin streaks of fire trailed down his left cheek. “You demand?” He grabbed her arms and forced her back until her legs pressed against the bed frame. “Don’t you know who I am? Have you not heard of Llywelyn’s Dragon?”
Her gaze darted toward the bed, and her resistance increased. “Answer me,” he snarled, shaking her.
“Stop! Leave me be!” she shouted. Renewing her struggles, she squirmed against his hold.
“Damn you.” By Christ, did she think he meant to bed her now? All he wanted of her was answers. The heat rising in his blood meant naught. Any man would react thus, to feel a woman’s softness pressed to his flesh.
But he would not let her go—not yet In this battle of wills, he would yield nothing.
Cursing, Ian wrapped his arms about her and pulled her flush to his body. Their eyes met, the heat of their breath mingled between their lips. He fought the urge to lower his mouth to hers, to close the hairsbreadth separating him from sweet temptation.
Suddenly the fight seemed to leave her. She slumped against him, lowering her head until her hair veiled her face. “I cannot tell you who I am, milord…because I do not know.”
The feel of strong arms surrounding her, and the steady beat of his heart beneath her cheek, broke through Lily’s sorrow. Horrified, she pushed herself away, swaying until she found her balance, her breath coming in sobbing gasps.
Her captor—the Dragon—stood staring down at her. She couldn’t read his expression in the wavering light, but she doubted he planned to ease his lust upon her. He’d had ample chance just now, had that been his intention, but he’d let her move out of his hold. He’d sounded angry, almost puzzled, though why that should be his reaction, she did not know.
Chest still heaving, she stepped back. Her gaze never left him as she considered what to do.
Aye, she had heard of Llywelyn’s Dragon. Who had not? He was legend among the village folk near the abbey. Even the sisters, their voices filled with a kind of fascinated horror, had been known to discuss the deeds he’d done in Llywelyn’s name. In truth, she’d thought him to be older, although his size and strength proved no surprise.
And the aura of power she’d felt in his presence… Yes, she could believe this man capable of every exploit attributed to him—and more. And yet she did not fear him.
When had she become such a fool?
His eyes measured her, examining her face with such intensity she feared he could see her very soul. Why should he stare at her thus? She tried not to squirm, but couldn’t keep from swiping her sleeve over the hated tears filling her eyes.
“Why have you come here?” the Dragon asked, his voice calm now, the smooth sound an invitation to answer him.
Lily knew better than to fall into that trap; the abbess had used the same technique, usually as a prelude to some horrendous punishment. “I am sorry, milord. Where I’ve come from would mean nothing to you. ‘Tis your master I must speak with. Only he can answer my questions.”
He headed for a wooden chest beside the bed before she finished speaking and slammed the lid open with scant regard for the delicate carving adorning the piece. The tunic he chose was the same deep emerald shade as his eyes. She looked away when he tugged the garment over his head, unwilling to fall victim once again to the power of his gaze.
He snatched up the scabbarded sword leaning against the coffer and belted it about his trim hips. “You will not talk? So be it, then. Mayhap a night spent in the cellars will loosen your tongue.” The expression on his face had her backing away, but he grabbed her by the arm. “Who knows? You might even get the chance to speak with my ‘master’—if I’m of a mood to plead your case.”
But the harshness in his eyes before he snuffed the candles warned her there was little chance