Zena was taken aback. Why did Luke want her in his bedchamber? Did he think that she would lie with him after all he had done to her? She would prefer dying.
"What does he want? I'm not going anywhere," she protested.
Another blow landed on her shoulder. The maid caught a handful of her hair and gave a painful tug.
"Are you out of your tiny mind?" the maid asked with incredulity. "Who dares say no to the Prince? Come," she took her arm in an iron grip and dragged her out of the cell, up the stairs, and into the passageway above.
Zena was taken to a room where another girl was waiting. She was pushed pell-mell onto a stool and warm water was poured on her, once her dress had been taken off. Zena gasped as the water poured over her head, drenching her.
"Hand me the soap," the first maid told the second one.
The other maid, a slender girl with ginger hair, handed a bar of soap. Not the lye soap used by the servants, but one with the fragrance of roses. They rubbed her with vigorous strokes, till she felt as if her skin would fall out.
Once her ablutions had been done, she was rubbed with a cloth till dry. She was given fresh clothes to put on, a beautiful dress made of fine lace, revealing more of her slender figure than it covered. They pushed her down on the stool once again, brushing her hair till it shone, but leaving it flowing over her shoulders.
The maids scrutinized her face closely, turning her this way and that, and when they were satisfied, marched her up the stairs, down another passageway, and into the luxurious quarters of the Prince.
Knocking on a carved wooden door, they threw it open, then pushed her inside, closing the door after her.
Zena found herself in an ornately decorated bedchamber with the last man she wanted to lay eyes on.
She shrank back against the door as Luke stared at her with a naked hunger in his eyes. Her frightened gaze hardly took in the plush bed draped with silken sheets in the lightest of ice blue, and the flowers on the stand which made the air heady with their fragrance.
The wine rested on a bedside table on a bucket of ice, and candles burnt to give off a fruity aroma.
A look of hunger mixed with disgust flitted across his face as he saw the scorn in her eyes. He advanced on her, his stance menacing to say the least.
"Don't come near me," she uttered in desperation. How had she thought that she loved this hateful man? He was cruel and heartless, and not worthy of her feelings.
"Don't try my patience, Zena," he bit out, before putting a hand out and drawing her away from the door.
"Disrobe yourself, and get into the bed, Zena, or I swear to God, you'll rue the day you were born."
One look at his face, and she knew that he was talking in earnest. Something seemed to die inside her. Quietly, Zena shrugged off her robe, then walked up to the bed, pulling back the covers and getting into it. She lay like the dead, staring at the ceiling with a vacant gaze.
Luke got in beside her, after taking off his silken robe. For some moments, he just gazed at her body, then bent over her, putting his lips against her skin, his touch rough and angry.
Zena endured the excruciatingly arousing touch, not letting any reaction show in her body as he placed painful kisses against her sensitized skin.
Luke raised his head in frustration as she lay like stone, not reacting to his touch. He saw the lone tear which fell down her cheek. With a gentle hand, he brushed it off, kissing the path the tear had taken, then gathered her into an embrace.
His gentleness was her undoing. The tenderness did what the roughness couldn't. She capitulated to his sweet touch, returning them with her own ardor. All the bitterness of the last few days seemed to have vanished as they explored each other, hunger taking precedence over all other emotions.
Their coming together was as momentous as the first time, maybe more so, since now they knew what pleased the other. Zena felt the waves of rapture travel down her body, together with Luke.
For a moment, she lay there, savoring the feeling, as Luke breathed heavily beside her until his hand nudged her.
"Get dressed and leave," he said, harshly, scowling.
"Luke...." she started, scarcely believing her ears and eyes.
"Just go, Zena. You see, it did not mean a thing to me. Now leave," he said hatefully.
Zena walked down the stairs, and through the semi-dark passage leading to her cell. The guards looked up as she entered.
One of them rose to open the door of her cell, giving out a whistle as he saw her. Catcalls followed from the others, as did lewd comments.
Oh god! They knew where she had been, she thought, ashamed of herself. Why oh why, had she given in to him? Her self-respect was the one thing she had, but he had snatched that away from her. Love was meant to uplift you, make you happy, and not draw you into the depths of shame and despair. What kind of love was it?
She sank down on the floor, head resting on her arms, and let the tears fall. How could Luke be so tender at one moment and so hateful at the other? Did the beauty of their union mean nothing to him?
Zena sobbed her heart out, promising herself that she would throw him out of her heart, and knowing the futility of that promise.
Luke lay on the tangled sheets which still smelled of her, sweet and fresh like her. He drew in a deep breath, savoring that smell, trying to hold onto it as if by doing that, he could hold onto Zena.
What was it about her that made all his previous relationships fade into nothingness? None of his lovers had ever given him what she did, in her innocence. Why was he so beastly to her, then?
He had been as affected by their blissful union as she, until he saw her face, and recalled that she was Martin's daughter.
Martin, who was not only a traitor, but whom Luke had hated since boyhood. Martin, who had been the reason for the rift between his parents and the estrangement in their marriage. Martin, whom his mother had loved more than anyone else, even more than him.
He felt such a degree of dislike for that man that it made the bile rise in his throat. He had always been looking for an opportunity to pull him down, but Martin had never given him cause to do that. The man had always acted as if he was loyal to the Crown and cared about Luke himself.
His betrayal had not come as a surprise to him, and as a result, he had confiscated his estates. When he was told that Martin's daughter had begged for an audience, he had refused point blank to meet her. He did not wish to show any mercy to that man's flesh and blood, in fact, he had planned to execute them, father and daughter.
It wasn't until he had seen her that this hunger for her had gripped him, which he could not satisfy any other way. No woman, however beautiful, appealed to him. His body craved Zena, and her alone. Why did she have to be the daughter of the man he loved to hate?