Nicole Locke - In Debt To The Enemy Lord

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You have a debt to pay. You owe me your life.'Anwen, bastard of Brynmor, has fought hard to find her place in the world. But she’s forced to rethink everything when she’s saved from death by her enemy Teague, Lord of Gwalchdu. Instead of releasing her, he holds her captive…Teague trusts no one. So with ominous messages threatening his life he must keep Anwen under his watch, no matter how much her presence drives him wild. And when passionate arguments turn to passionate encounters Teague must believe that the strength of their bond will conquer all!Lovers and Legends A clash of Celtic passions

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‘How could I take advantage of you? When it is you who have afforded me no courtesy, made me well, but allowed me no freedom, you who have provided food for me, but not the open air?’

He tilted his head. ‘Are you that innocent? I wonder. When I first saw you in the forest with your hair swinging and your paltry chemise giving me glimpses of your skin underneath, I couldn’t take my eyes from you.’

He took another step so that his feet almost touched the tub. ‘Then you were so sick, I thought you dead,’ he continued. ‘Ffion and my servants took care of your body, but still I watched, unable to leave you. I watched you, Anwen.’

She could not speak, could not breathe, her anger changing into something else. So she hadn’t been dreaming or mistaken.

‘It was you at night,’ she whispered, when she knew she should accuse him instead. How could it have been this man, this traitor, who comforted her?

‘Yes, it was me at night, my hand you held, my touch you sought when the pain was bad. While you recovered, I knew I could no longer simply watch you. So I stayed away.’

His eyes roved over her body until she blushed with heat. Until she was acutely aware of the cooling water, the brush of cold air in the room.

When he spoke next, his voice was like velvet. ‘You asked whether I can see your present state of undress. Oh, yes, I can see. I can see that although you cover yourself, in my mind you are still laid bare to me.’

Anwen’s blood turned to ice, then to flame; her skin prickled and flushed. The Traitor had comforted her, imprisoned her and now he was doing something else. Something that affected her body more than her anger, more than his care and capture.

His eyes gleamed black mercury as he continued, ‘You clamp your hands to your breasts, thinking that cloth covers you, but instead it outlines. Your breasts are like perfect globes waiting to be touched, silky wet from the water beading on them, just right for the heat of a man’s mouth. My mouth.’

She had no weapons against these words of his. None at all. Her anger had disappeared, only to be replaced by something hotter, more liquid. She could fight his care and escape his capture, but she couldn’t fight her own body’s response to this.

His eyes returned to hers and he seemed to war with himself before he asked roughly, ‘How can you take advantage of me, you ask?’ The sensuousness of his voice was gone, anger surrounded him and when his eyes locked with hers, she could only see cold stone. ‘That is what I intend to find out. Dress yourself and meet me in the Hall. I will have words with you.’

The door closed, but it took several more moments before she could react; her entire body was trembling. She didn’t want to know if it was from her anger, embarrassment, or the heat of his words, so she got out of the tub and briskly dried herself.

Why had she challenged him? It wasn’t as though she would ever win any battle with him. He was a man who commanded, not one to take commands. She was not usually so foolish.

What battle was it she wanted to win? She grabbed her clean clothes off the chair. It certainly wasn’t the one he had challenged her to. His crude words shook her. She was not so innocent she didn’t know what he was speaking of.

Yet, he hadn’t touched her. He had obviously used the words as retribution to her commanding he leave. He’d meant to embarrass her, but the words only humiliated her at first. Then other images came unwittingly: the images of his mouth on her breasts, his dark hair caressing her skin.

Perhaps these images would not have been so real if she had not remembered his touch so acutely. Yet he had touched her, at night, when there was no one but him. She had taken comfort in his hand, concentrated on the gentleness and strength through her pain. Now she remembered how his calloused thumb had slowly rubbed circles in her inner palm and wrist. The fact she could so easily imagine his touch elsewhere should anger her, frighten her...but she could summon neither emotion. They were destroyed by his words.

She needed to escape.

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