Lord Of Danger by Stuart, Anne (android based ebook reader .TXT) 📕

left hand he caught Aidan’s knife-wielding wrist, twisting it until he heard the bones snap, until the dagger clattered onto the floor and Aidan gasped in pain and fury.

“Were you searching for something, Master Aidan?” Simon said softly, tightening the iron hold he had on Aidan’s slender neck. It would be a simple enough matter to crush the life out of him, leaving him to strangle on his own blood, and it would be no more than what he deserved. Simon had seen the corpses of the men and women whose throats Aidan had cut. Doubtless on Richard’s orders, but he was a young man who took pleasure in his work.

Simon was not. He had killed enough people to last him through this lifetime and the next, and he didn’t want even a pimple on the ass of humanity like Aidan of Montrose on what was left of his conscience.

“I mistook your room…” Aidan gasped, but Simon shook his head with a chilly smile.

“Don’t bother, Master Aidan. I know why you came, and I know who sent you here. You’ll have to report back to your master that you failed, and that I am greatly displeased with him.”

There was pure malice in Aidan’s eyes. “I don’t like failure,” he said, “and there’s nothing wrong with your right hand at all, is there? Lord Richard would be interested to know that, don’t you think?” With a superhuman effort he jerked his arms up, trying to break Simon’s hold, but he’d underestimated his opponent. The force of the ensuing blow sent him reeling back, toward the window that overlooked the courtyard.

Simon had released him abruptly. Aidan of Montrose made no sound at all as he went through the open window, and there was no terror in his face as he disappeared into the deep well of the night. Only acceptance.

Simon heard the distant thud as the body smashed against hard stone below. No one would be likely to find him until morning, and it would be impossible to tell where he’d fallen from. Richard would know, of course. And Richard would be warned.

He closed the wooden shutters, not bothering to look down into the darkened courtyard below. The wind was still strong, the room was chilly, and he felt that strange, empty feeling that came over him when he least expected it. If any man had deserved to die it was the murderous Aidan of Montrose. If his fear of Simon had made him clumsy, that was his own fault He wouldn’t be able to carry tales of the miraculous cure of Simon’s twisted right hand; he wouldn’t be around to try again.

If Simon had any sense at all, he would be rejoicing.

“Is he dead?”

Alys stood there, sleepy, her long plaits hanging down to her waist, her plain dress rumpled and disordered. He wondered how long she’d been watching.

“Undoubtedly.”

“Shouldn’t you check?”

“If he’s not dead now he will be before long. If I go down and find he still breathes, I’ll have to cut his throat, and I have no desire to get blood on my robes.” He kept his voice cool and unfeeling, hoping to shock her.

Alys of Summersedge didn’t shock easily. “You already have blood on your robes, my lord,” she murmured. “He must have hurt you.”

He glanced down at himself in surprise. Even in the dim light of the banked fire he could see the dark stain of blood against his side. He hadn’t even realized that Aidan had managed to cut him.

“I’ll have someone see you to your room…” he began, but she moved toward him.

“I’ll take care of you,” she said.

“I’m entirely capable of tending my own wounds.” He sounded disgruntled, but he didn’t care. He wanted her out of there, now. He wanted to patch his torn skin, to bathe the blood and the sin from his hands and body. He was hurting, and he wasn’t about to share his pain with anyone.

“Take off your robe, my lord.” Her voice was completely calm as she moved toward the basin and ewer, pouring fresh water into the bowl. There were clean cloths near at hand. But he wanted her gone from this place.

“I told you, I can take care of it. Even with one useful hand I can see to it, and if I need assistance I’ll have Godfrey attend me.”

She came up to him, setting the basin on the table. “You have two useful hands, my lord. I know it as well as that poor man did. Are you going to throw me out the window as well?”

“Don’t tempt me,” he muttered.

“I have done my share of nursing, my lord,” she said. “I’m comfortable with the human body. Take off your robe and lie on the bed and I’ll see to your wound.”

He gave her a cool stare. “The good sisters allowed you to tend men in the convent infirmary? And what were those men doing there?”

“There were no men, my lord. But a body is a body - I don’t see why such a fuss has to be made about it.”

She was trying to sound so practical. He found that even through the bleak mood that had settled over him he could be amused by her stalwart determination to tend his wounds, by her insistence that one body was much the same as any other.

If he were sensible he would ignore her, send her back to the tower room she shared with her sister, and take care of his own body. He was more than capable of stitching his torn flesh without flinching. He wondered if she was.

But he wasn’t feeling sensible. He was hot, angry, reckless. A man lay dead beneath his window, his side was bleeding, and a woman he wanted stood before him.

“As you wish,” he said abruptly, moving to the heavy iron candelabrum he used to light his work. He’d dowsed the flames earlier, but now he simply stuck the end of it in the glowing coals until the tapers ignited, throwing