She should have been flattered, but his cool certainty only infuriated her.

She was the daughter of Llygad ap Madoc, and this English lord must be made to accept that this plan of his was unacceptable.

“This will not happen.” She put all of her will and strength into her tone, and enunciated each word clearly, one by one.

He rose, unimpressed. “If I decide on this solution, it will happen, Nesta. You can be sure of that.”

He strolled toward her. She found herself backing up, as she had that day in the cottage. “I will deny you, just as Genith did.”

That seemed to impress him even less. He came toward her too confidently, too deliberately. Her caution rose to a chaotic pitch. She did not want him near her. She wanted him back in that chair, being the lord, not approaching her like this.

Her reaction raised her ire again. The real danger came not from him, but from the corner of her heart that had been weak to him too often. She stopped moving and dug in her heels. She would let him see what the daughter of Llygad was made of. Not silly, womanish stuff.

He came too close. So close that she had to look up at him. She did so, and let him see that she was not impressed either.

He touched her cheek. It was an enemy’s touch. The Marcher Lord’s examination of his future property. “It will happen, Nesta,” he repeated.

She pushed his hand away. “You would force this marriage on me? You did not with Genith.”

“It was never forcing the vows that stayed my hand with your sister, but forcing her to my bed. I do not think that will be necessary with you.”

He spoke with that cool certainty again. Her head almost split with fury. How dare he be so confident in his power to subvert her?

“I will not be willing. If you do this, you will have a cold, childless marriage.”

“You are so sure of your resolve? I am not. After all, I am the man you begged for.”

He touched her face again. He laid his palm on it, possessively. The rough warmth of that touch made her heart rise in a distressing, frightening way. His deep gaze summoned too many memories, dangerous in their allure. The armor of her anger began cracking. With one touch he had proven just how weak he could make her.

“If you force this, it will not be a true marriage. My heart will not be willing.”

“I will have a lifetime to win your heart, Nesta.”

The daughter of Llygad itched to scratch his face and pummel his chest. But another woman, the one who had looked in his eyes during the heights of passion, was incapable of ignoring what he was saying. Her heart lurched hungrily, hopelessly, at the notion that this man welcomed a lifetime with the King’s whore.