Jenni Fletcher - Besieged And Betrothed

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.

Chapter Six

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 he was feeling. If—when—he got out of this, he’d find a way to pay her back in kind!

A swell of desire coursed through him, the more potent for being so unexpected, bringing his tirade to an abrupt end as the thought of tying her up brought to mind a very different scenario, not to mention a far different response to the one he’d anticipated. He was still furious with her and yet his mind was beset by a confusing array of impressions—the feeling of velvety soft lips against his, of a supple body in his embrace, of spiralling tendrils of hair in his fingertips and the soft pant of breath on his neck. What the hell?

He heaved at his bindings, venting two very different types of frustration, but they held tight. Whatever she’d given him must have been even more powerful than he’d thought, making both his thoughts and senses run riot. The image of her in his arms was surprisingly detailed, right down to the silvery sparkle of raindrops in her hair, and so vivid that it seemed less like a dream than a memory, though it couldn’t be. In which case, what had happened? He dragged himself up to a sitting position, straining his memory for clues. His thoughts were still hazy, but he had a vague recollection of enjoying her company, even of feeling sympathy when she’d talked about her father. She’d argued, too, squaring up to him over the question of Stephen versus Matilda with a spiritedness that had taken him by surprise. Not many people ever dared to argue with him, and the fact that she hadn’t been intimidated—not enough to back down anyway—had been oddly appealing. His desire for her had certainly been real, more real than anything he’d experienced in a long time, as if there were more behind it than just a physical response, though as to what he’d done about it...