He wanted to vomit, to curse, to rail at himself for being such a bloody fool. He said nothing, merely rose and began to pull on his clothes.
He heard Nan call out to him, but he ignored her. He strode to his bedchamber and flung open the door. Kassia was not there. He called out her name, hating the fear in his voice. She was not in the keep. He ran toward the stables, knowing well that she could not simply ride away from Wolffeton, for the porter would never raise the portcullis or lower the drawbridge for her. The postern in the eastern wall! His blood froze in his veins as he remembered how he himself had shown Kassia the hidd
en entrance into Wolffeton. Her mare, Bluebell, was gone. He drew a deep steadying breath, knowing that she had only minutes on him, and quickly drew on Demon’s bridle. He swung himself onto his destrier’s broad back.
He saw her quickly enough, riding along the cliffs, her mare’s pace frantic. He yelled her name, but she did not slow.
He leaned down close to Demon’s neck and urged him forward. The mare was no match for the powerful destrier.
Kassia heard the pounding hooves behind her. She didn’t look back, for she knew it was Graelam. She dug her heels into Bluebell’s sides, her sobs echoing with her mare’s labored breathing in the still night.
Graelam tried to grab the mare’s reins, but Kassia pulled her sharply, jerking her so close to the edge of the cliff that Graelam felt his blood turn cold. He dared not crowd her. He kept pace until the ground evened out, then turned Demon sharply toward the mare and grabbed Kassia about her waist and lifted her off Bluebell’s back. She fought him, struggling wildly, hitting at his chest with her fists. He pulled Demon to a halt, pressed Kassia tightly against him, and jumped to the ground.
“You little fool,” he muttered, tightening his hold about her slender ribs. “God’s bones, you could have killed yourself!”
“I don’t care.”
He eased her back to look into her face. He expected tears, waited for her to plead with him. To his utter surprise, she drew back her foot and kicked him in the shin. He grunted with the sharp pain.
“You test the fates,” he said, his voice low and calm.
She said nothing, merely stared up at him.
“Did you really think to escape me? By yourself? Have you no wits at all?”
“What could have happened to me, my lord?” He felt her stiffen, felt her draw herself up. “Mayhap brigands would have caught me. What could they have done to me? Beat me? Rape me? Cut my throat?” She shrugged, looking away from him, out over the white-capped sea.
“You saw me in the weaving room.”
She cocked her head, her eyes wintry. “Aye, I saw you.” She heard him draw in his breath, but continued in a deadly calm voice, “Forgive me for interrupting your . . . pleasures.” She shrugged again. “At least it keeps you away from me.”
“You . . . angered me,” he said.
She looked at him searchingly. “Will you send me home, my lord? Back to Belleterre? ’Twill still be yours. My father would not renege on your agreement.”
“No!”
“Why not? You care nothing for me.”
“You are mine,” he said very softly, “and what is mine I keep. Never again try to escape me, Kassia, else I will lock you away.”
Unbidden, the image of Graelam thrusting into Nan rose into her mind, and she felt such fury that she felt she would choke on it. She drew back her hand and slapped him as hard as she could.
“Now you will either kill me or let me go,” she hissed, her voice breaking with little gasps.
No woman had ever struck him. One man had, once, long ago, and he had died very quickly. She was so small, so fragile. He could kill her with one blow. He did not move. “You will bend to me,” he said finally, very quietly. “Aye, you will bend to me, for I am your master and your husband.”
She stood stiff as a stone before him, her silence defiance.
“Come, Kassia,” he said, taking her arm quite gently. “We are returning to Wolffeton before my men mount a search.”
She knew she had no choice. If she struggled with him, he could simply subdue her with one arm.
As she rode beside him back to Wolffeton, she felt the maze of anger and shock recede from her mind. Dear God, what had she done? She did not want to be a prisoner; she did not want him to beat her. She ran her tongue over her dry lips.
“What will you do?”
He heard the thread of fear in her voice. She will bend to me, he thought. But he hated her fear.