Samantha James Read Online Free

belongs in the pen with the rest of the sows!”
    For an instant Merrick could scarcely believe his ears. Such audacity—and from a peasant yet!—was not to be endured. Sheer fury hardened within him. By God, she was either a fool, or very, very brave…
    In truth, Alana was neither. She was frightened half-out of her wits. What madness possessed her that she would dare taunt this knight who haunted her dreams?
    He sat his mount with arrogant pride, a powerful figure garbed wholly in black. A mantle of wool swept across his shoulders, emphasizing their width. Unlike his Norman brethren, his hair was not tonsured; it swept heavy and dark along his head, like the sky at blackest midnight. But unlike the English, most of whom wore beards, he was clean-shaven, the line of his jaw square and ruthless. His skin was bronzed from wind and sun, like worn leather.
    A low murmur went up among his men. With but a look, he commanded silence. And as the silence ripened, so did Alana’s unease. She watched as he dismounted, clearly taking his time, making her wait for she knew not what, the beast! And all the while, not once did he take his eyes from hers. They were like pale blue frost, those eyes. He approached with silent footsteps, possessed of a surefooted grace.
    Alana fought against the urge to run screaming into the forest, for he seemed bigger thanever. It was not her imagination that proclaimed his shoulders broad as a sword was long. And he was taller than any man she’d ever seen, taller even than Radburn, one of her father’s most valued men-at-arms.
    He stopped before her, so close her feet were planted squarely between his. He touched her nowhere, yet he was so close she could feel the rise and fall of his massive chest with every breath he drew.
    She didn’t move, though instinct clamored she do just that. Deep within her breast, she knew that her father had not shown weakness in battle despite this fierce opponent. Nor, she decided with perhaps more valiance than prudence, would she.
    Though she was inwardly quaking, boldly she met his regard.
    “Thrice now, you have called me a swine.” Softly though he spoke, there was no disguising the edge in his tone—nor the threat he now posed. “By God, woman, I have killed many a man for much less. And you will call me lord, Saxon. This I promise. By God, this I vow.”
    A reckless daring arose to the fore.
    “I will call you what you are, a Norman dog!” she cried. “You speak of peace. Yet you Normans know nothing of peace, only of war and killing! You are thieves, all of you. Thieves of land. Of lives. And I will not obey you, Norman. Nor will I obey your law. I spit upon you, all of you!”
    Only when the deed was done did Alana realize she had gone too far. Only then, ashe slowly wiped the spittle from his cheek, did it strike her how incredibly rash she had been…
    He seized her with such startling quickness that she cried out. Belatedly she recognized the violence in his features—oh, but she had spoken unwisely once again! He needed no weapon to slay her; he had only to wrap his fingers about her throat and squeeze the breath from her body. It struck her then…his hold was not brutal, yet there was no mercy in it either.
    “I did wonder,” he said softly, “if you were truly so brave. Or merely foolish.” He paused. “It seems I have my answer.”
    Sheer panic wedged in Alana’s breast. She pounded against his chest. “Let me go!”
    “Not yet, Saxon. ’Twas you who started this game we play”—a hard smile creased his lips—“but I will see it ended, this I promise you.”
    Slowly he released her. “Mayhap I should cut out your tongue, Saxon.” His gaze swept over her with brazen insolence, lingering on the thrust of her breasts beneath her bliaud, and then the secret feminine place where her thighs met. ’Twas as if he saw all that lay hidden beneath her clothing.
    He smiled, a smile she knew instinctively did not bode well for her. “Or