Read Online My Rebellious Heart by Samantha James - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Samantha James
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only you." He drew her close within his sheltering embrace one last time, then released her with obvious reluctance. "Guard yourself wel , my love."
Her eyes fil ed with tears. "And you," she whispered. She watched as he spun around and swept from the hal , his mantle flying out behind him like a banner in the wind.
By some miracle she managed to hold back the sobs welling in her breast. But once she was alone in her chamber, a tear beaded down her cheek, then another and another. Like a rusty blade, a feeling of utter hopelessness pierced her chest. So much had happened, and in so little time! She dreaded the coming of dawn, for the morrow was hardly a day to look forward to. Barris would be gone and she knew not when she would see him again. And the Bastard Earl ...
By morning he would be dead.
Death, however, played no part in Thorne's plans. He had cheated it before—he would do so again. Sheer determination had stood him in good stead these many years. The need for survival was deeply imbedded within him, forged from those hellish days of his youth; he'd not have lived through his childhood without it. Nay, he was not
one to accept his fate so easily, for the wil to live was a powerful, driving force.
The desire for revenge was just as powerful.
His demand for a priest was little more than gut instinct. At the time, he'd had yet to form a clear-cut plan. He'd long ago dismissed the narrow window in the chamber as an avenue of escape, which meant he must go out the way he'd been brought in. If no opportunity presented itself, he would simply seize the moment and make his own.
A servant brought food. Two burly men-at-arms blocked the doorway while the servant hurried inside. Their expressions reeked of smugness— clearly they thought the meal his last. He held tight to a simmering resentment while one of them untied his wrists. He decided it best to bide his time—one false move and he knew they would make certain he met his end prematurely.
No one returned to bind his wrists.
The hour grew late. At length Thorne stretched out on the bed. Though he lay relaxed and un-moving, his every sense was unfailingly alert. The muffled noises from belowstairs grew fewer and fewer, until there was nary a sound. The house hold had retired for the night.
It was wel after midnight when the drumbeat of horses' hooves reached his ears. Moments later footsteps sounded in the passageway outside. Thorne swung upright on the bed The door was flung open. The hazy glow of a rushlight preceded a voice. "Lord Weston? The priest is here." Thorne recognized the voice as Sir Gryffen's.
A tal , thin figure shuffled past the old knight clad in a rough woolen robe, a deep cowl obscur ing his features. A disembodied voice emerge from deep within the folds. A clawlike hand we.
rily made the sign of the cross. "My son," he in
toned in a wooden monotone. "Repent and the mercy of the Lord shal be forever yours."
From the corner of his eye, Thorne noticed the heavy oak door begin to close. He rose to his feet in one smooth, fluid motion, Though outwardly calm, his muscles were already bunched and coiled, ready to spring forth at his command. Palms together in a gesture of humble submission, he started to sink to the floor before the priest.
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned/'—in a burst of strength and energy his knee shot up —"and no doubt wil sin yet again." The priest doubled over with a grunt; a two-fisted blow caught the back of his head and sent him crashing to the floor. Thorne glanced up in time to see Sir Gryffen rush through the door. He dove forward, the reflexes of a lifetime serving him well and true; his shoulder caught Gryffen square in the bel y. The old knight pitched forward without a sound.
His eyes glittering with the light of battle, he raised a fist high above the knight who lay sprawled at his feet. But the blow which would have put an end to the night's work was never to fall. Thorne hesitated only a split
Her eyes fil ed with tears. "And you," she whispered. She watched as he spun around and swept from the hal , his mantle flying out behind him like a banner in the wind.
By some miracle she managed to hold back the sobs welling in her breast. But once she was alone in her chamber, a tear beaded down her cheek, then another and another. Like a rusty blade, a feeling of utter hopelessness pierced her chest. So much had happened, and in so little time! She dreaded the coming of dawn, for the morrow was hardly a day to look forward to. Barris would be gone and she knew not when she would see him again. And the Bastard Earl ...
By morning he would be dead.
Death, however, played no part in Thorne's plans. He had cheated it before—he would do so again. Sheer determination had stood him in good stead these many years. The need for survival was deeply imbedded within him, forged from those hellish days of his youth; he'd not have lived through his childhood without it. Nay, he was not
one to accept his fate so easily, for the wil to live was a powerful, driving force.
The desire for revenge was just as powerful.
His demand for a priest was little more than gut instinct. At the time, he'd had yet to form a clear-cut plan. He'd long ago dismissed the narrow window in the chamber as an avenue of escape, which meant he must go out the way he'd been brought in. If no opportunity presented itself, he would simply seize the moment and make his own.
A servant brought food. Two burly men-at-arms blocked the doorway while the servant hurried inside. Their expressions reeked of smugness— clearly they thought the meal his last. He held tight to a simmering resentment while one of them untied his wrists. He decided it best to bide his time—one false move and he knew they would make certain he met his end prematurely.
No one returned to bind his wrists.
The hour grew late. At length Thorne stretched out on the bed. Though he lay relaxed and un-moving, his every sense was unfailingly alert. The muffled noises from belowstairs grew fewer and fewer, until there was nary a sound. The house hold had retired for the night.
It was wel after midnight when the drumbeat of horses' hooves reached his ears. Moments later footsteps sounded in the passageway outside. Thorne swung upright on the bed The door was flung open. The hazy glow of a rushlight preceded a voice. "Lord Weston? The priest is here." Thorne recognized the voice as Sir Gryffen's.
A tal , thin figure shuffled past the old knight clad in a rough woolen robe, a deep cowl obscur ing his features. A disembodied voice emerge from deep within the folds. A clawlike hand we.
rily made the sign of the cross. "My son," he in
toned in a wooden monotone. "Repent and the mercy of the Lord shal be forever yours."
From the corner of his eye, Thorne noticed the heavy oak door begin to close. He rose to his feet in one smooth, fluid motion, Though outwardly calm, his muscles were already bunched and coiled, ready to spring forth at his command. Palms together in a gesture of humble submission, he started to sink to the floor before the priest.
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned/'—in a burst of strength and energy his knee shot up —"and no doubt wil sin yet again." The priest doubled over with a grunt; a two-fisted blow caught the back of his head and sent him crashing to the floor. Thorne glanced up in time to see Sir Gryffen rush through the door. He dove forward, the reflexes of a lifetime serving him well and true; his shoulder caught Gryffen square in the bel y. The old knight pitched forward without a sound.
His eyes glittering with the light of battle, he raised a fist high above the knight who lay sprawled at his feet. But the blow which would have put an end to the night's work was never to fall. Thorne hesitated only a split
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