into his drink had certainly been potent. Not to mention long-lasting. Judging by the darkness it was night-time already, the only illumination provided by a few thin slivers of moonlight filtering in through gaps in the window shutters.
Window shutters? He strained his eyes to make sure he wasn’t imagining things. So he wasn’t in a dungeon, then. On the contrary, he was lying on something that felt suspiciously like a mattress. Not bad for a prison, though something about his position felt peculiar. He tried to stretch out, only to find that he couldn’t, and not just because of the numbness in his limbs either. By the feel of it, his wrists and ankles were tied together, bound up tightly with rope.
He paused for a moment, considering what to do next, then let loose a volley of obscenities, not bothering to keep his voice down. If Lady Juliana were close by, he hoped she could hear him. They were the very least he intended to say to her. He supposed he ought to be grateful that she hadn’t gagged him as well, but right now, gratitude was the very last emotion he was feeling. If—when—he got out of this, he’d find a way to pay her back in kind!
A swell of desire coursed through him, the more potent for being so unexpected, bringing his tirade to an abrupt end as the thought of tying her up brought to mind a very different scenario, not to mention a far different response to the one he’d anticipated. He was still furious with her and yet his mind was beset by a confusing array of impressions—the feeling of velvety soft lips against his, of a supple body in his embrace, of spiralling tendrils of hair in his fingertips and the soft pant of breath on his neck. What the hell?
He heaved at his bindings, venting two very different types of frustration, but they held tight. Whatever she’d given him must have been even more powerful than he’d thought, making both his thoughts and senses run riot. The image of her in his arms was surprisingly detailed, right down to the silvery sparkle of raindrops in her hair, and so vivid that it seemed less like a dream than a memory, though it couldn’t be. In which case, what had happened? He dragged himself up to a sitting position, straining his memory for clues. His thoughts were still hazy, but he had a vague recollection of enjoying her company, even of feeling sympathy when she’d talked about her father. She’d argued, too, squaring up to him over the question of Stephen versus Matilda with a spiritedness that had taken him by surprise. Not many people ever dared to argue with him, and the fact that she hadn’t been intimidated—not enough to back down anyway—had been oddly appealing. His desire for her had certainly been real, more real than anything he’d experienced in a long time, as if there were more behind it than just a physical response, though as to what he’d done about it...
He shook his head in disbelief. No. Even if he had been enjoying her pretence of seduction—a little too much, perhaps—he would never have taken advantage of her in that way. He’d never touched any woman who hadn’t wanted him to and he refused to believe that any drug would have affected his behaviour so completely. The very idea was abhorrent. He wouldn’t have touched her, wouldn’t have kissed her, not unless... He blinked as another, even more surprising idea popped into his head. Not unless she’d thrown herself at him first...
He gave a hollow laugh, rubbing his wrists together behind his back in an effort to work his fingers loose. Now he was definitely imagining things. The last thing she would have done was throw herself at him, more’s the pity. The thought of finding out what those cherry-red lips tasted like was certainly tempting, but she was unlikely ever to offer him the chance. His current situation was proof enough of that.
He’d barely reached the conclusion before the door opened and the woman herself appeared, bearing a beeswax candle in one hand and a wooden cup in the other.
‘Lady Juliana.’ His lip curled at the sight of her. ‘Good of you to remember me.’
‘It would be hard to forget with all the noise you were making.’ She put the candle down on a coffer, though she didn’t look at him. ‘Your men can probably hear you on the other side of the moat.’
She kept her eyes cast downwards as she approached the bed, walking so slowly that he would have assumed she was doing it on purpose to taunt him if she weren’t so obviously exhausted. She looked even more tired than she had before, still dressed in the same nondescript brown tunic she’d been wearing in the rain, though she’d covered her hair with a cream-coloured headdress that only made the rings around her eyes look larger and darker by comparison, almost like bruises. Even so, the subtle sway of her hips was causing a definite physical response in his body. Damn it, what was the matter with him?
He dragged his gaze away from her hips and back towards the window. If he wasn’t mistaken, the thin sliver of sky between the shutters appeared to be lighter than before. Hadn’t she slept all night, then?
‘Your hospitality’s somewhat lacking, my lady.’ He pushed an unwonted flicker of concern aside, glaring at her instead.
‘Then you’ll be pleased to hear that I’ve brought you some ale. Poppy makes you thirsty.’
His scowl deepened ferociously. That was true. His throat felt red raw, though the thought of accepting another drink from her gave him definite pause.
‘You’ll have to forgive me being suspicious.’
‘Why would I drug you again? You’re already tied up.’
‘Really? I’d forgotten.’
She gave a weary-looking shrug. ‘You don’t have to drink if you don’t want to.’
He shot her a look that would have made grown men quail, though she was too busy stifling a yawn to notice. The sight made him doubly angry. Bad enough that he was her prisoner—she didn’t have to act as if he were an inconvenience as well! Even if she had been pacing the battlements all night, she could at least have the decency to pay him a little more attention.
‘How do you expect me to drink when I’m tied up?’ he challenged her.
‘Here.’
She held the cup to his lips, bending at the waist and stretching her arms out in an apparent attempt to keep the rest of her body as far away from the bed as possible. If it hadn’t been for his own position he might have found such a bizarre posture amusing, though as it was he was too thirsty to care. After a moment’s hesitation he drank, keeping his eyes on her face the whole time, though she kept her own studiously averted, blinking so rapidly it looked as if she were struggling to stay awake.
‘Am I keeping you up?’ He moved his mouth away, making his tone as scathing as possible. ‘Perhaps you need to go to bed, my lady.’
‘I can’t.’ She put the cup to one side with a look of relief. ‘You’re in it.’
‘What?’
He was so surprised that for a moment he actually forgot to scowl. Instead he looked around, reappraising the room in the flickering candlelight, finally noticing the tapestries on the walls and the small trinket boxes set on a table by the bed. Definitely not a prison, but what on earth was she doing, putting him in her bedchamber? He wasn’t easily shocked, but he could only imagine two types of woman who would drug a man and then tie him up in their bed—ones who were either extremely innocent or extremely experienced. Under the circumstances, he wasn’t sure which alarmed him more.
‘This is your chamber?’
‘Yes. I had my men carry you up. I thought you’d be more comfortable here.’
‘Comfortable? Tied up?’
‘Apart from that.’
He let out a shout of laughter, anger and shock turning to incredulity. ‘Your father always said you were one of a kind. I’m starting to think he was right.’
‘What do you mean?’ Her eyes shot to his face, meeting his for the first time since she’d entered. ‘My father told you about me?’
‘He said he had a flame-headed firebrand for a daughter. Foolishly I thought he was exaggerating.’
‘Truly? He said that?’
He