Conquer the Night by Heather Graham Page B

here; the man atop the tower above her head could see riders coming from any direction.
    The castle and the village had been duly subdued.
    And already the dead had been cleared from the courtyard; the wounded had been taken away to be treated. Morning had come, another day, a new day. Things changed, and things stayed the same. The merchants were at their business again—grateful they had been spared the last battle to plague them.
    Locked in the tower room, she had paced through the night, waiting, and at every little sound, jumping—certain that he was returning at last.
    She had paused before the fire and, unbelievably, drifted to sleep, then awakened once again with an ungodly feeling of urgency. She had paced like a fool, making no attempt to escape.
    But then, realizing the night was ending and day was coming …
    It had been time for sheer desperation.
    If she could make it down to the parapets below, she could make it to the courtyard from there, mingle with the bakers’ daughters and the fishwives—and disappear.
    So thinking, she dragged her hastily created escape sash from the bed. It consisted of linen sheets wrenched from beneath the rich furs on the bed, her torn undertunic, the tassels from the tapestries, and the towels that were always set by the washstand. Her overgown had been left in little better shape by her tormentor than the tunic beneath it, but she’d found one of her father’s old mantles to tie around her shoulders, and thus she could escape with both decency and some anonymity.
    She had carefully chosen the structure of the escape rope she had created, with the tassel cords at the top end to be tied around the legs of the heavy oak chair she had wedged by the window. When her knots were carefully completed—very carefully completed, for she didn’t intend to die in this endeavor—she took a deep breath.
    She started out the window, then looked up. She could see the top of the guard’s head, but he could not see her. The overhang protected her from his vision.
    Slowly, slowly, slowly … she started down the rope.
    It was painstaking—so difficult! She feared that one of the knotted garments would slip at any minute. She had to move more quickly … and yet so carefully. The day was chill; sweat beaded on her forehead.
    Another foot … another foot …
    And she could jump.
    She did so, landing softly, her knees buckling slightly, both feet on the ground. She paused then, eyes closed, hands against the cold stone of the tower. She was shaking, very afraid, aware that she might well have plunged to her death.
    But she hadn’t.
    She had made it.
    And she was almost free.
    And yet … what then?
    Don’t think about it , she warned herself. Don’t dare think about it, not now; just figure out how to leap down to the ground below, to join with the workers in the courtyard… .
    She opened her eyes. They flew wide. A gasp escaped her.
    He was there—the damnable, wretched, invading bastard so bent on her destruction. He was quite at his leisure, and had been watching while she struggled with a desperate and precarious attempt to elude him. He leaned against the wall quite casually, one arm across his chest, sipping ale, staring at her with his deep blue, ruthless gaze.
    She started to turn. His fingers snagged her hair, drawing her back. She met his deep blue eyes, his shaven cheeks beginning to show stubble. He was weary, drawn, and sarcastic, his deep voice pleasant—and biting.
    â€œHow very rude. You intended to leave without saying goodbye.”
    â€œAye, I’m afraid so. I didn’t know your whereabouts. So, now, sir, how very rude of you to detain me when I am so anxious to be away,” she replied, reaching for his fingers in an attempt to persuade him to let go of her hair.
    â€œSo you missed me, and wondered about my whereabouts. I’m so sorry. Seizing and securing a castle are