The High Sheriff of Huntingdon by Anne Stuart Page B

guttural, unromantic sound, and she turned her face from the moonlit sky to stare a t him. He was asleep, obviously sated. She must have pleased him, at l e a s t a little bit. How could something that was so as tonishing, so cataclysmic, be mundane for him?
    Of course, he’d d o n e this a thousand times before. And suddenly Elspeth, who considered herself relatively m e ek and charitable, wanted to scratch the eyes from every woman who’d ever l ay beneath him. Starting with that brazen hussy who had been clinging to his arm when she first saw him.
    How had t h e prophecy g o n e ? White and black they shall combine . They’d certainly done that, in marriage and then in the fl e s h . Pure as snow, as blood-red wine . Not so pure any more. It had gone on with something about death a n d destruction, fire and thunder and rebirth.
    His head lay on her shoulder. He lo o k ed like a boy, innocent, unsullied. Not the creature of l e g e n d ary rages and awesome excesses. Simply a man. Her man.
    For however long he c h o s e to k e e p her. And w h e n he dismissed h e r she’d have little choice but to take her leave, go back to the haven of the Sisters of the Ever lasting Martyr, or wherever else he chose to send her. And she’d go meekly.
    Like hell she would! She’d been brought up to be dutiful; in this life she had little choice. When she’d prove n too willful, too intelligent for her father’s peace o f mind, he’d simply shipped her off to the convent.
    She wasn’t going to be dismissed again. She wouldn’t relinquish Alistair Darcourt without a fight. While she’d taunted him w i t h it, she had never actually believed him capable of killing her. After last night, it would be the only way he’d be able to be rid of her.
    His destiny, his prophecy, his curse . She was his. And she wasn’t going to l e t him go.
     
    The room was filled will the faint gray light of approaching dawn. Elspeth shivered, trying to burrow deeper into the soft furs, only to find them ripped ceremoniously from her.
    Her husband towered over h e r , dark, distant, clothed once more in black. “Get dressed,” he said in a lazy tone that she didn’t quite believe. “It’s time to go back to the keep.”
    She reached for t h e covers, but he jerked th e m out of her way. She had to content herself with wrapping her arms around her body. “I don’t have anything to wear,” she said in a husky, practical voice. “You ripped it off me l a s t night.”
    He looked momentarily d au n te d . He wheeled around, disappearing i n t o the outer room, and a moment later he was back, a blood-red dress over his arm. He tossed it on the bed, barely glancing at her. “It’ll be too big for you,” he said. “It must have belonged to my mother in her wild youth. It will h av e to do.”
    Still Elspeth d i d n ’ t move. She hadn’t expected ten derness or affection. Being brought back to the keep was almost more than she’d hoped for. But that didn’t mean she didn’t still long for something else.
    “Are you witless?” he demanded, deliberately trying to goad her. “Was the shock of last ni g h t too much for your delicate sensibilities? You’d best get used to it. I’m far from through with you.”
    She couldn’t help it. A smile wreathed her face. “Good,” she said fla t l y, reaching for t he dress, which lay across her bare feet.
    His hand caught hers, hauling her naked body up against his. He threaded one hand thro ug h her thick hair, holding her face still as he pressed her up a gains t his rich velvet clothes. “You’ve heard the stories, Elspeth of Gaveland. Only half of them are true. But that’s enough. I’m the son of the devil, in spirit if not in fact, and running away from me was probably the wisest thing you ever did. You just didn’t run far enough.”
    “Should I run now?”
    “I’d find you, ” he said flatly. “You’ll never get away.” And he pressed his mouth against her, a hard, possessive