"My Lord," a thin man with a shock of white hair appeared in the entrance to the study.
"Jean-Claude," Leonn de Angel acknowledged his footman without glancing up, his quill flowing across the page in stark, bold script without pause.
"de Lauriers' man requests an audience. He believes he has something that is of great interest to you."
"Ah," Leonn murmured, resting the quill in the inkpot and leaning back in his leather chair to observe the servant patiently awaiting his orders.
Picking up his ruby encrusted dagger, he fingered the sharp tip. A sudden smile flicked across his face, a strange mixture of triumph and hatred.
"Show him in," Leonn ordered.
Jean-Claude bowed and silently departed to return a short time later with a man at his heels.
de Lauriers' man was dark as night, a fact which was further emphasised by the black leather breaches and vest. A long sword swung from his hip, the only weapon visible to the eye.
Leonn rose gracefully to his feet, easily the tallest man in the room. "Cain," he greeted. The black man bowed. "Stand up, there is no formality between us. Especially after knocking you on your ass on the practice field."
White teeth flashed momentarily in the dark face before he nodded in acknowledgement.
"What brings you to my door?" Leonn asked, folding his arm across his broad chest.
"My lord sends a token of his gratitude for your continued support." No more was said of the betrayal of one of de Laurier's closest aids that played a pivotal role in his father's death six-month's earlier.
"Such gifts are not necessary between friends," Leonn replied. "However, please convey my deepest gratitude to your lord for such an unexpected gift."
Cain nodded before striding to the door and barking out an order. A man quickly appeared carrying a young maid.
Leonns's amber eyes narrowed as they slowly moved over the unconscious form, taking in the cloud of scarlet that hid her face from view, the simple gray gown and the pink toes that peeked out from beneath the voluminous hem.
Leonn bid the man to place her on the low leather couch near the stone fireplace, his face impassive. Both Cain and Leonn remained silent as the man gently laid the tiny form on the couch before turning to leave.
"This is Isabella Margerite d'Alsace, the only living child of Count Fredrich d'Alsace," Cain said finally after the man had left.
"Isabella," Leonn murmured, testing the sound of her name on his lips. The daughter of the man responsible for the brutal slaying of Leonn's father. His hands clenched at his sides at the thought of victory so close at hand.
"I've had my men scouting England and France for traces of her existence for the past six months, with no trace of her," Leonn said, finally dragging his gaze from his prize. "Where did your men discover her?"
"A convent in the French Alps, my Lord," answered Cain. "A novice willingly gave over the information in exchange for her freedom."
"Freedom from the convent or from you?" Leonn inquired silkily.
"Why the convent, my lord. A right willing wench when she got the hang of things."
"And the girl?" Leonn asked with a casualness he was far from feeling.
"Untouched by my men. She yet claims to be a virgin."
"We shall see." Leonn slid open a draw and flipped the lid of a heavy silver box. He withdrew a pouch and tossed it to Cain. Leonn knew Cain and his men would be paid by de Laurier, but they had accomplished what his had not, and for that they deserved to be richly rewarded.
"You are most generous, my lord," Cain murmured, his astonishment at the Leonn's generosity quickly masked. "My men will no doubt be equally gratified."
"My servant will escort you and your men to the kitchens. Cook will see to your needs."
Cain bowed, realising he had been dismissed, and quickly departed.
Leonn moved to sit on the edge of the large mahogany desk, his arms crossed before him as he gazed thoughtfully upon his captive. She lay motionless on the couch, her fragile wrists bound with cloth. The fingers were long and shapely, the nails perfect pink ovals. Glossy scarlet waves hid her face from view, and Leonn's eyes traced the silken fronds where they fanned over the small peaks that rose and fell in soft, even breaths. The rest of her figure was a mystery, hidden beneath the heavy folds of her gray novice's attire.
Leonn moved silently toward the unaware creature. Her beauty, or lack of, was irrelevant for his purposes. She would succumb to his touch, willingly or not, and carry his bastard in her belly. And when the timing was right, she would be the bait to lure her murderous father from the depths of his hiding place.
Kneeling beside the couch, he withdrew his dagger and grasped her bound wrists in one large palm and effortlessly sawed through the cloth. Guessing her legs to be similarly bound, he pushed up the heavy gray skirts to reveal surprisingly dainty ankles and sliced through the bonds. Intrigued, he ran an exploratory hand up over the smooth creamy skin to circle her knee. When she did not move, he tugged her unresisting creamy thighs apart, intent on discovering the mysteries of his unconscious captive. His palm glided along her soft inner thigh, drawing the heavy cloth as he went. Intent of discovering on whether the crowning glory at the apex of her thighs matched the fiery scarlet mane, he was startled from his intense perusal by the sudden snap of her knees together, capturing his hand in the silky prison of her thighs.
~ * ~
Pretending to be unconscious while the man cut her bonds to all her nerve, and she almost fainted from shock at the feel his hands delving beneath her skirts. Never before in all her nineteen years had a man dared to touch her so brazenly. Unable to observe his movements through her tangled scarlet mane covering her face, she had laid passively while with slow, furtive movements her fingers closed around the small knife she had hidden in the loose folds of her sleeve.
As the intrusive hand snaked up her inner thigh, she knew she had to strike before the slight tremor his touch caused gave away her conscious state. She snapped her thighs together, seeking to trap his hand there as she blindly brought the knife down, intent on doing as much harm as she could with her obscured vision.
He swore as the blunt knife caught him, and his free hand seized her wrist in a crushing grip, twisting it painfully so that tears of agony welled in her eyes. His other hand wrenched from between her legs as the knife fell unheeded to the fur rug, ripe with the colour of fresh blood.
"Traitorous bitch," he muttered as his fingers tangled in her mane, tugging her head back in an unyielding grip, causing her to whimper in pain.
"Let go of me," she gasped. His only response was to tug harder. Stormy green eyes, swimming with tears, met fiery amber ones.
"You will learn to obey me," he muttered furiously. "I will not tolerate disobedience. I have ways of punishing you that will have you begging for mercy."
At that he let her go and she cringed back into the leather cushions, trying to keep as much distance as she could between them. The fierce determination and hatred blazing out of a face more beautiful than a fallen angel burned into her memory like an imprint.
He picked up the bloodied knife and rose with cat-like grace to his feet. She watched in fearful breathlessness as he moved away from her, tearing at the rich fabric of his sleeve. She knew who he was from the awed whispers around the band of men that had wrenched her so brutally from the safe haven of the convent at sword-point, and kept her bound and drugged as they traveled speedily to the southern regions of France. Leonn de Angle, the Golden Lion.
"Merely a scratch." He curtly informed his unsympathetic captive. She eyed the distance between the couch and the door with trepidation. Could she?
"Yet your disobedience cannot go unpunished." She blinked, focusing wide green eyes on the tall man with unusual burning amber eyes set in a tanned face framed by the fall of long straight golden hair. She was unable to the heated look in his eyes as he gazed down at her tiny, defenseless figure as he muttered those words. "Stand up," he ordered. When she didn't move, he said very quietly, "now."
Something in his tone of voice alerted her to the impending danger should she dare refuse him, and she slid slowly and unsteadily to her feet. Only when she stood defiantly before him, her slender frame draped in the enveloping folds of her gray novice's gown, her stormy green eyes staring fixedly at a point beyond his shoulder, did he speak again.
"Take off your clothes."
The breath caught in her throat, and her eyes slid to his in shock. When she simply stood there aghast, he closed the distance between them and grasped the neckline of her gown and tore the fabric with a rendering rip, exposing the rosy tips of her breasts clearly visible through her thin wispy chemise. Using both hands this time he ripped the heavy material to the hem and roughly pushed the cloth from her shoulders so that it fell in a tattered pool at her feet.
