The YIELDING by Tamara Leigh Page A

sustenance.”
    “There are…foodstuffs in your pack.”
    “No more.”
    She did not care for this game. “I do not believe you.”
    “Come near and I shall show you.”
    She shook her head. “At the noo—” The remainder of the word slipped away, and she felt her lids flutter as she struggled to recapture it.
    “The nooning hour?” D’Arci supplied, derision in his tone.
    Grasping anger to right her words, Beatrix said, “At middle day , I shall bring you f-fish.” Lord, if only I could harness my anger better!
    “Then my jailer intends to cook for me?”
    “I do not. When your belly aches to pain, Lord D—” Gone again!
    “D’Arci.”
    Frustration stung her eyes. Why did she persist in conversing with him?
    “When it aches to pain, what?” he pressed.
    Thankfully, his condescension caused her anger to course. “Then you shall eat it as I do. Uncooked.”
    That quieted him long enough for her to make it to the rope where she was struck by a feeling she would never be free of Michael D’Arci. Wherever she went, he would follow, and one day she would fall to him. Aching to clasp the psalter she had left aboveground, she climbed the rope.

CHAPTER SEVEN

    Three days in this stinking pit. Three days waiting to catch her unawares. But she never came near enough. This day would be different.
    Drumming his fingers on the flint box, Michael looked to his lower leg. It was too soon to know how he would pass the remainder of his life, as a cripple or with two legs firm beneath him, but the pain had lessened and the spasming was nearing its end. Of course, what he intended might jeopardize—
    Curse the leg! If it needed to be set again, so be it. He glanced at the collapsed stairway that was of no use to him. However, the coil of rope found beneath Beatrix Wulfrith’s pallet was of certain use.
    Where was she? It was past the nooning hour and she had not appeared. Had she gone for more fish? He grimaced at the ripening scent that transcended the other foul odors marking his stay in the crypt. On the day past, she had come with fish wrapped in cloth and tossed it to him. He had tried to coax her nearer, but to no avail. Thus, he had asked her to refill the skin, the water of which he had emptied on the stone floor. It was late afternoon before she returned, and then again she had not spoken a word, even when she saw the fish was untouched.
    Twinged with regret at having shown contempt for her faltering speech, Michael frowned. For this—the shame that had shown upon her face—she held her words that might otherwise have brought her within reach. But his regret went deeper. It made him feel cruel to seek her unease by such means. Though impatience had made him speak for her, anger at his situation set the tone with which he had done so. Aye, cruel.
    He stopped on that. As she surely did not war over the cruelty dealt his brother, why did he? The woman had bled out Simon’s life then told he had ravished her!
    Struck by memories of the boy left behind seven years past, Michael closed his eyes. Twice, sometimes thrice a year, he had returned to the barony given over to their eldest brother, Joseph. Each time, the impetuous Simon had begged at Michael’s heels, seeking attention no others provided.
    Michael had given what he could, training his half brother at arms, challenging him at chess, talking with him late into the night—excepting the last time that Michael had returned before joining Duke Henry’s army. Simon had been absent, belatedly sent to the north to begin his squire’s training. Though it was needed for him to transition from boy to man, Michael had missed the brash youth, as had Simon’s fragile mother. She had wept on Michael’s shoulder at having lost the argument with Joseph to keep her only child with her.
    Not until Duke Henry gained the throne of England years later had Michael seen Simon again. When Christian Lavonne had awarded Castle Soaring to Michael—not only out of gratitude