Through a Dark Mist by Marsha Canham Page B

feet.
    “Enough!” she cried, incensed beyond reason. “I will not sit here and endure such insults! Your logic is very sound, coming from a man who is both a traitor and a thief. I have no doubt you would choose the easier path to obtaining your goal, which only proves you are not who you claim to be. You are not Lucien Wardieu. You are not even a man! You are a corrupt and twisted shadow of a creature who has obviously decided that stealing a man’s identity and committing heinous crimes in his good name somehow satiates a petty need inside you to become more than what you are. You have no honour. You have no shame. I hope, nay, I pray for the real Lord Lucien to come into these woods and hunt you down! I pray he catches you and stakes you down on the ground, and leaves you there for the dogs and boars to chew away strip by bloody strip! Moreover, I pray … oh, how I do pray to be present when he does so, to have the privilege and immense pleasure of watching you die inch by gored inch!”
    She stood there, her face flushed, her chest heaving with anger. Not only the outlaw leader, but every man within earshot of her outburst—which included nearly all present in the pilgrims’ hall—had stopped what they were doing to turn and stare.
    The Wolf, in particular, was staring at the gleaming, jewelled eating knife she had snatched off the table and was holding in a clenched fist only inches from his nose. Half an eternity passed before he spoke, his tone silky, the words said with a quiet intensity that set off a roaring in her ears.
    “I met Sir Hubert de Briscourt some years ago in France. A fearsome warrior on the battlefield, he brooked no insult from any quarter, servant or noble. It is a true wonder then, that in three years of marriage, he was not once driven to strangle you to death.”
    Servanne’s lips were parted, the cool air giving ghostly substance to her rapid breaths. She stared down into eyes that were like banked fires, glowing and dangerous, apt to erupt at the merest provocation.
    “Tut the knife down,” he instructed calmly. “Or use it.”
    For a moment, her fingers tightened, and the knuckles glowed pinkish white. Then her senses cleared and her hand flexed reluctantly open, dropping the knife as if the hilt had suddenly become red hot. The sound shattered the absolute silence, releasing the tension everywhere but in the immediate area of the two principals. They continued to stare at one another over the resumed buzz of movement and conversation.
    “Never, ever lift a knife to me again, madam, unless it is done with firm intent”—his voice was so low she could barely hear it—“for you will not be so lucky twice.”
    Servanne believed him. Only a blind fool would doubt the savagery that lurked just behind the hooded, soulless eyes.
    “You are despicable,” she said, the words tight in her throat. “I pray to God I do not live long enough to hate another human being as much as I hate you.”
    “Sit down,” he commanded brusquely, “before the strain of all that prayer drains your strength and accomplishes your desire prematurely.”
    “I have no wish to sit down , sirrah. Not now. Not ever.”
    His jaw clamped ominously. “None at all?”
    “None.”
    “Very well, if that is your wish —” He stood abruptly, his patience snapped like a taut thread. “Sparrow!”
    A meek corner of the pale, elfin face peeped around Servanne’s skirts. “Aye, my lord?”
    “Have the table and stools cleared away. Lady Servanne will be remaining exactly where she is, by her own request. The night ahead promises to be a cool one, so by all means fetch a mantle and rug for the lady’s comfort, but under no circumstances is she to sit or lie down at any time without first seeking my express permission to do so. If she dares to attempt either, through stubbornness or feint, have her bound hand and foot and chained upright to the wall. Is that understood?”
    “Scoundrel!” Biddy gasped.