Captured by the Dark Lord Read online

  He watched her steadily a moment. “In your heart you know I do not lie. But hear this: I pledge on the eternal damnation of my soul, your father has been released. In time, I will release you to go to him ... once you have performed a service for me.”

  Her pulse sped at the feel of cool metal gripping her arm, at the firm set of his lips. She could not deny his words--he spoke the truth. She sensed no life but her own here, not her father, not Beast. She was alone with this man--this death knight or whatever he chose to call himself.

  She felt bereft at the loss of her father’s presence, but it was what she’d wanted after all—for him to be safe at home. She was young enough to handle the stresses of enslavement—her father could not.

  Bianca sighed, pulling her arm free of his grip. She was at his mercy then, until he had what he wanted. “So be it. But I ask a boon. Lift your helm. I would see the ... man ... whom I would call master and know his name.”

  A corner of his mouth lifted, almost a smile, but far too cynical to be pleasant. In an old courtly ritual, he lifted her hand and bowed low over it, pressing cool lips against her skin. “As you wish Lady...?”

  “Bianca,” she said softly, watching as he straightened and reached up to pull the helm from his head.

  He removed it and tucked it under one arm, regarding her boldly. Her heart froze at the deadly beauty of his eyes. Deep set, they were a piercing blue as dark as the vast depths of the ocean. He seemed to sense her stricken state and took advantage, allowing his gaze to roam down her body with sinful deliberation. The intensity of his gaze swept over her with near physical sensation, heating chilled flesh with effortless ease.

  Briefly, her thoughts turned chaotic, carnal. A vision flashed in her mind of two bodies writhing in ecstasy, of covering his naked flesh with the silk of her hair and the wet heat of her mouth. Just as suddenly, the vision cleared and she was freed from temptation.

  Something of the past? Was she picking up on the thoughts in his head, or had he planted a seed inside her own mind? She couldn’t know, but knew with a certainty that he wished only to strike a nerve. It was obvious that he meant to toy with her in whatever way he pleased until he had gained his objective.

  He impressed her as more than what he seemed, an enigma, a contradiction of forces bound inside one tumultuous soul. His eyes reflected that strange quality, as though his existence was a torment to himself, and inexplicably, her heart reached out to him. She pulled herself from the brink of folly before it was too late, before she could lose what good sense she still possessed.

  “What are you called?” she asked, disturbed to hear the almost breathless quality of her voice.

  “Damian Alessandro,” he said, and smiled, though it did not reach his eyes. It was as if no joy could penetrate his shell.

  She regretted her brashness in coming alone, but knew she’d had no other choice. The men-at-arms would have never allowed her within miles of this accursed place. With that thought, Bianca remembered suddenly that she’d failed to retrieve her things from the pouches on Beast. She turned away, kicking herself mentally for not removing them when she’d stopped.

  Beast was long gone by now. “My things.... I have nothing.” Her words lodged in her throat. “Not even a farewell from my father.”

  She felt the heavy press of his hand on her shoulder. “I will tend to your every need ... until you give me what I desire.”

  Chapter Three

  Damian had thought the old man exaggerated her qualities. Instead, he’d hardly scratched the surface of the truth. Thick, rich locks pooled over her shoulders like ink, emphasizing the paleness of her skin and the fragile, blue lacework of veins pumping life through her body. The delicate bones of her face formed classical lines, and her smoky eyes were prominent, enigmatic, and kind. But her appeal was more than physical—despite her loveliness. It was an inner light that drew him inexorably to her, that pricked the blackness consuming his soul.

  Long had it been since he’d encountered a woman of pure heart, and she tempted him in ways he’d not imagined. Inside something stirred, a sensation he had long forgotten, and denied, through the centuries. For what was desire but a fuel, an emotion of energy and vibrancy ... the creation of life ... and no part of his existence.

  Damian tightened his hand on her shoulder, no more feeling her flesh than he could the air stirring his hair. His only sensation existed in his mind’s imaginings, a torment to what still remained of his sanity. He could not feel her, could not smell her hair, nor taste her skin, though the temptation was there, nevertheless.

  A temptation to appease the sudden, fierce longing, to resume his human form and take her was near overwhelming ... to lay her on the ground and splay her legs wide, sink his turgid flesh deep within her and feel the liquid heat consume him in a riotous, fiery passion--

  Abruptly, he tore himself from the thoughts, removing his hand from her shoulder and the enticing appeal to do what he should not. He could not risk it. He had but one night in a hundred years to recapture a single moment of life, to resume his human flesh and feel the world as a living being. The promise of it had been his only solace in these dark years, the only thing keeping him from utter madness. An unwilling woman could not satisfy his desires, and the torment of having slaked his lust but for so brief a time would send him over the edge of sanity when it was torn away on the morning as his curse returned full force.

  No, he must see her merely as a means to an end. For he was tired of this existence, weary of the yawning blackness teasing him with blessed oblivion but never nearing his reach. Death had remained elusive for longer than he cared to remember.

  She turned to face him, piercing him with a stare of shaky confidence and expectancy. “What do you wish of me, my lord?”

  He tried to smile, to set her at some ease. “You must call me Damian.”

  She nodded, and feathery strands of hair blew across her face, clinging to her lips. She brushed them away, a simple, sensual gesture that captured his attention fully.

  “Very well then. When would you like me to begin my service to you?” Bianca asked.

  She was eager to be gone. He could not blame her. The ways of the living were lost to him. “Any time you are ready to be free,” he said.

  “What must I do?”

  He narrowed his eyes, studying her. This was what he wanted, what he’d sought for years and given up hope of attaining. Those that knew of the curse had long since crumbled to dust and been reabsorbed into the earth. He couldn’t expect her to know or suspect ... and yet his hope flared anew in her presence. If only she were willing to use her power for him. “I require you to ... heal me.”

  Bianca frowned. A look of doubt passed across her face, lightening the smoky gray of her eyes. “You are immortal, are you not? I don’t understand....”

  He turned from her, unable to face the condemnation he knew would show in her eyes once the truth was revealed. It should not matter to him. His feelings, he knew, had vanished with his humanity, but she’d broken through his armor of ice somehow. If she saw him as he truly was, no more than vacant armor and a translucence of flesh, she would run from him in terror. How ironic that he looked akin to the necromancer he had destroyed.

  “I am accursed. This form is but illusion alone. Beneath this armor, lies only the shell of my spirit. You must heal me with your touch, as you banished the cold when you laid fingers upon my breastplate.”

  She hesitated, and he could see her uncertainty in her face. “I do not think I can.”

  Damian faced her, his jaw tight with anger. He should have realized she would try to elude him. “If you want to gain your freedom, you will.”

  “Perhaps if I knew the curse--”

  “It is nonsense. The curse has no meaning or purpose other than to drive one insane. It is the blow he struck me which keeps me in bondage.”

  She sighed softly, shook her hair back from her shoulders. “Very well then. If ‘tis an injury....” She reached up to to
uch his face and he pulled back abruptly.

  He’d not been touched in so long. A painful longing reared, and he fought to control it, to bring the beast inside down.

  “It must be done,” she said softly. He nodded slowly, his eyes wary, and allowed her to cup his jaw in her palms. “You’re cold,” she whispered and closed her eyes, concentrating.

  Damian watched as a slight crease marred the space between her arched eyebrows, studied the dark sweep of her lashes and the movement of her eyes behind her lids. He could not feel her as he wanted and dared not hope, but it rose without his urging, defied his will. He could not doubt it when he felt the pang of disappoint as the red glow from before failed to reappear. She suffered no pain as she held his face. Something was wrong.

  Slowly, she opened her eyes and looked at him, dropped her hands to her sides. “There is naught I can do. You are beyond my talents.”

  A cold, deadly anger fueled the rage he’d held in check, a fury unleashed by the hope dangled before him then snatched away. She had not tried. He could not see how her touch could have banished the icy shell surrounding him before, yet she now lacked the power to free his spirit from captivity.

  Fire flashed in her gray eyes, and she pulled back from him as if stung. Then he knew. Knew in that moment that she refused to heal him out of spite. He’d not harmed her father. There had been no other way to entice her to come. He knew in her heart she didn’t believe he deserved to be healed, that he was a monster ... ever the death knight. If she had thought he deserved mercy, she would have been able to give him what he wanted so desperately.

  He whirled away from her, unable to stand the scorn in her eyes. A growl of rage and agony poured from his throat, filled with the agony and longing he’d pent-up for centuries. Winds and flame rose with his voice, battering the hall, flames reaching toward the ceiling as the banners ripped to shreds in the teeth of the wind.

  Distantly, he recognized her sharp cry of fear, heard the soft patter of her feet on the stonework.

  She would not leave him.

  The heavy outer door slammed shut before she could reach it. She hurled herself against the door, her fists knocking against the wood. A hollow ringing sounded in the hall from her pounding. He crossed the short distance in seconds, clamped his hands on her shoulders and made her face him.

  “You cannot leave,” he said, his voice a hiss of sound through his tight jaw. “Until you heal me, you will remain.”

  She blanched, shocked that he touched her, her eyes wide with fear and desperation. He knew these emotions, had become a master at evoking them in all who ventured close. He knew terror had dulled her mind and she had not listened to him. He shook her slightly.

  She blinked, as if waking from a nightmare, then trembled when she realized it was real. She tore at his hands, frantic. “Never! I’ll never help you!” she screamed and fought him feebly, her hair a wild, tangled mass, whipped by the blasts of air his fury had aroused.

  For a moment, he felt pity and nearly released her from Helmskeep, but then he angrily banished such weak emotion. He would have what he wanted, even if he should be damned for all eternity for corrupting an innocent. His dues had been paid. If she’d once been pure of heart, the evil infecting his soul had surely penetrated hers. It mattered not. “You will not go until I have what I want.”

  “NO!”

  He released her and she pushed away from him, running to the windows. They were out of reach, but she could not have escaped through them regardless. He controlled this castle, these lands. Nothing happened here unless he wished it.

  Breathing erratically, she gasped in frustration and ran away, back through the hall, disappearing into one of its many branches.

  “Try all you like,” he whispered to the empty chamber, regret sharp and piercing, “you can no more escape than I.”

  * * * *

  As Bianca fled through the halls, flames leapt to life in bronze sconces as she approached. Certain at first, that she’d discovered someone she could appeal to for aid, she ran faster, calling out for help. Finally, however, breathless and dejected, she had had to face the truth. She was alone in this wretched place with the death knight. She’d discarded the useless hope that a person ran before her lighting the candles, just out of reach--someone who could help. A silly thought it was, for a foolish, naive girl. Damian Alessandro controlled this castle and everything in it. Even the windows and stone seemed to obey him, for escape hovered always just out of reach. Sometimes the windows’ sills seemed but an inch distant, but if she found a table to stand on, they remained elusive, as if always rising beyond the reach of her arm.

  She couldn’t go back and face him. He’d terrified her, not as a death knight, but as a soul in wretched agony. She’d failed for the first time in her life, failed to ease another being’s suffering. Her own body had echoed that cry of anguish, and she could not bear it a moment longer.

  The halls twisted, ending in inexplicable places, and turning in opposite directions, guiding her to some unknown destination--perhaps back to him. Finally, after what seemed hours, and her hope of escaping had given out, she came to a door at the end of the hall.

  Weary from frustrated tears and her flight, she opened it, caution gone in the wake of exhaustion. Inside laid a sumptuous feast for the eyes, a delight to her worn senses. She rubbed her eyes, not believing what she saw, but still it remained.

  A bed draped in ruby and gold brocade encompassed nearly one entire wall and extended far into the room. The bedcovers were turned back as though she was expected, revealing crimson silk sheets and mattresses stacked as high as her waist. Several gowns lay across the fine spread: an emerald trimmed in silvered lace with a train that spilled onto the floor; a deep indigo with ivy embroidery in pale cerulean; a third of gold, barely visible beneath the others. A fire burned merrily in a small hearth, and beside it, a tub of steaming water sat ready for her bath.

  Her scalp and skin itched from the sweat and tears she’d shed in her frantic race to escape and her travels. Her dark gray gown felt heavy, dirty, and somber, as if all her sorrow and hardship could be peeled away just by removing it.

  The temptation was too great to be ignored. Bianca stepped inside and closed the door behind her. On a table beside the bed, a silver platter sat, gold filigree coating the edges like lace. Atop the platter lay several plates, each more tempting than the last: one of sliced meats in thick juices; another of cheeses, white, yellow, and some marbled with blue veins, others a creamy paste to spread upon fresh, dark bread; still another plate held fruits; and another brimmed with cakes topped with wild berries and stiffened cream. She could hardly assimilate the delicious scents of food teasing her senses and the delicate fragrance of rose petals floating in the bath.

  Bianca was past the point of caring if dark magic had conjured the room and its contents. If he thought to seduce her with food, bath, and gowns, he was wrong. Nothing he did would change the fact that she could not heal him.

  But she was of no mind to spite herself and allow his efforts go to waste.

  Testing the water, she discovered the bath was still too hot, so she sat on the edge of the bed and sampled the choice bits of food. Mulled wine warmed her throat and heated her from the inside out, and her nerves mellowed.

  Full and sated, she stood and untied the lacings on the sides of her gown enough so that she could pull it over her head. She dropped the hopelessly soiled dress on the floor, then shrugged her shift off her shoulders. The thin shift followed the gown, and she stepped from the pile.

  She shook her hair out, stretching her muscles, then walked to the tub, eager to wash the grime away.

  “Is all to your liking, my lady?”

  Bianca whirled around and screamed, covering her naked breasts and womanhood with her arms.

  Damian stood near the bed, watching her.

  “Get out!” she screamed and shook her hair forward for more coverage. She could reach for a bath linen, but then he would see some
thing she’d rather he didn’t. How could he have entered? She’d heard nothing, not the opening of the door, not his footsteps, or the creak of his armor--nothing!

  He raked his gaze down her body, and her skin flushed under his perusal as if he touched her. “I assure you, Lady Bianca, I have not the appetites of a mortal man. Your virtue is safe from me.”

  His gaze rested lingeringly on the blossoming curve of her breasts before moving up to settle on her face. His face remained impassive, but there was a glint to his eyes she’d not seen before. It was sufficient to make her doubt his words, and despite his earlier actions, a flash of heat suffused her insides and caused her skin to prickle with awareness. But perhaps it was merely the wine that made her react so.

  Bianca swallowed and closed her eyes, counting to ten before opening them once more. Still he stood there, watching her, not recognizing--or perhaps unwilling--to take her hint to leave her room.