Blood Sword Legacy 02 - Master of Torment (13 page)

As her gaze swept back to the darkening bailey she noted among the torches not only many of Rangor’s men milling about but those of Morgan. She looked further and squinted, and saw Gareth and his men in full gear, and they too appeared as if they were about something.

She hesitated to go below and learn for herself what was about. Though she would enjoy nettling Rangor more than she had, she knew it would not be prudent to do so. He appeared then from the stable, a groom leading his horse, and beside the baron strode Morgan. They appeared to be in deep conversation. In unison they both looked up and caught her staring at them. She scowled but would not back away.

So the two plotted, did they?

“I will be in the hall, Edie, if you should have need of me.”

Before the nurse could utter a word, Tarian strode from the room and down the hall to the sound of Normans making merry. Silently she hurled several ugly epithets toward them and continued down the stairway.

When she breached the last step, every Norman eye in the hall settled on her, their voices trailing off to mute. As one they grinned, and she scowled. What had the chivalrous knight imparted to them? Heat rose in her cheeks.

“Do you gossip like a girl and tell secrets that are not yours to tell?” she demanded of Wulfson as she strode into the hall.

The men grinned wider. So, he had told them of their little tryst, had he? “Do your men make sport of the fact I nearly cut your heart out with nary a stitch on my back?”

When all eyes widened, Tarian flushed hard. “’Tis what you told them, is it not?”

Wulfson grinned and slowly shook his head. “I but extolled your prowess with bow and sword. Would you have me tell them of your other virtues I discovered this day?”

Her jaw dropped. But what she did not expect was to see his men turn scowls upon him. Wulfson raised his hands in mock surrender to them. “She was the one who insisted we disrobe and dry our clothes by the fire. I could do naught but obey.”

She strode toward him and punched him in the chest. He looked at her, stunned that she would accost him thusly. She did not care. “You knave! ’Twas not like that.”

Her hand smarted from the assault, but she would not have these men think her a wanton.

“How was it, then?” he asked boldly.

Her eyes narrowed and she stood her ground. “We were soaked to the skin, and your mail rusted. ’Twas the best way to preserve it. ’Tis not my fault you could not keep your eyes in your head or your hands to yourself!”

Wulfson chuckled and nodded. “I give you that.” He turned to his men. “I assure you, the lady made sure there was no other dalliance.”

Tarian held her breath and wondered why he skirted the entire truth. He turned back to her. “Does that confession please you?”

Hesitantly she nodded. “’Tis enough.” And for some ungodly reason, his preservation of her honor greatly pleased her.

“I saw Rangor and Morgan putting their heads together outside of the stable and their men assembled. What is about?”

“Rangor, as you know, prepares to leave here. Morgan refused to give up his weapons for the duration of his stay, and with no other option open to him and his men, he also is leaving.”

So, ’twas the Normans, her guard, and her guardian’s handful of men. She nodded her head toward the Norman leader. “Nicely done, Sir Wulfson. Nicely done.”

“Would you have them remain armed and take a chance they could spring at any time?”

“Nay, ’twas a compliment, not a mock. I do not overly trust the Welsh.” She looked up into his bright eyes. “Nor do I trust you. Would that I had more men, then you would have been given the same option.”

He threw his head back and laughed, his men joining in. “And thwart William?”

Setting her hands on her hips, she nodded. “Aye, your king cannot at his whim take what is not his.”

“England
is
his, milady. To ignore that fact is to set yourself up for a hard fall. As you would steer your horse to a specific place, steer your mind to William. He is strong, he is determined, and he will not be denied!”

She moved closer to him, their toes nearly touching. “Neither will I.”

“For a woman who has everything to lose and no way to keep it, Lady Tarian, you boast much,” Thorin said from behind her.

Tarian whirled around. “I do not boast! I but speak the truth. There is no reason for your king to interfere here! I have pledged my oath to him. What more does he want from any Saxon?”

“Guarantees,” Thorin said.

“My oath is not my guarantee?”

Thorin shook his head. “Your uncle gave his oath; he swore it on a relic, and look what followed.”

Tarian laughed at his comparison. “My uncle had no choice but to swear. Had he not, he’d be rotting in the bowels of a castle in Rouen. Do not compare me. The situations are not the same.”

“He would be alive, as would thousands of Norman and English,” Thorin defended.

“I can assure you, sir knight, as one who has spent time in a torturous dungeon, it is no life at all. I would rather die on the battlefield for what I believe than die a slow miserable death at the hand of a barbaric bastard!”

As she spoke, Tarian noticed the faces of each of the men around her close off and harden to hewn edges. Wulf
son grabbed her arm and turned her to face him. “William is a bastard, of that there is no challenge, but he is not a Barbarian.”

She yanked her arm from his grasp. “Do you call what he is doing to me now not a form of torture? We await your man for word as to whether I am to die! And if I am with child? He would take that life too?”

Wulfson’s jaw tightened, but Tarian pleaded her case, “Your king,
my
king, is not a man of compassion. I offer him all and he throws it in my face. I cannot win with him.” She moved away from the men and turned to face them all. “I will not hand over my sword for you to do the deed.” Her eyes touched on every knight in the room. “You too will suffer loss, I guarantee it!”

They stood, the Norman knights facing the lone Saxon woman, and she read in their eyes that they knew she spoke the truth. An impasse. She would lose her life, for they would not defy their king. She smiled then, and laughed when all of them reacted in surprise and stepped back. “Though Rangor swears it, I am not a witch. But I am a warrior, and determined to see my child grow to manhood.”

The knights remained silent. To break the tension, she cast an eye to Wulfson’s leg. “Do you have designs on a particular tree stump?”

“A tree stump?”

“You have not tended your leg.”

Wulfson shook his head, not overly concerned. “Nay, there has been no time with the day’s excitement.”

“Do you have the skill to sew yourself up?” Tarian asked, doubting that, even if he did, he would relish the chore. ’Twas painful no natter who held the needle.

“I will do it,” Rhys said, stepping forward. “I but need a sturdy thread and a needle.”

“Hah!” Wulfson said stepping back from the young knight. “I saw the botched job you did on poor Ioan last month. I will do it myself before I allow that ham fist of yours near me. Rest easy. Rolf will see to it when he finishes with the horses.”

“Come to my chamber and I will see it done,” Tarian said, exasperated, and wheeled from the men and proceeded back to her room. ’Twas not out of concern for the knight she offered to sew him up; nay, she would press her case more. In private. Nervous tension set her temper on edge, and her demeanor, usually amicable, was sorely tested. She felt as if she walked a narrow gap high above a churning sea.

She swung the door open with a clatter, forgetting Brighid. Edith started in her chair, dropping her distaff. Her sister’s maid dropped her own embroidery, and Brighid murmured something unintelligible.

Softly Tarian called to her nurse, “Where is the needle and thread?” Edith’s brow furrowed in question. “A man needs his leg sewn. Where is it?” Tarian asked.

Edith rose and walked to the great chest of drawers, and pulled the bottom one out. She reached in and extracted a flat basket. “Would you have me do it?” Edie asked.

“Nay, I will see to it.” Tarian moved into the room and took the basket from her. As she walked back to the chamber door she had left open, the knight appeared.

“Back to the hall if you please, my sister sleeps. I do not wish to disturb her.”

Wulfson stood silent for a moment not moving. “My chamber, if you have no objection, Lady Tarian. While I
have no great modesty, I don’t wish to be seated amongst the populace in the hall in just my braies.”

Tarian heisted for a moment. She glanced back over her shoulder to Edith, who had that same knowing smile on her lips as she’d had last night and this morn. Tarian whirled around. “Very well, but your door remains open.”

Wulfson stepped back and swept his arm for her to pass. “Of course.”

Tarian swept past him down the hall and stopped outside his chamber.

“How did you know ’tis where I sleep?” he mocked.

“’Tis the only other solar with a bed large enough to bear your weight,” she snapped back.

He smiled and pushed open the door and allowed her to stride through, and when she did, the night she spent there came flooding back as if she were reliving it. His scent filled the room. Spicy, with a hint of sandalwood and leather.

Good to his word, Wulfson did not shut the door, but his squire Rolf did as he entered. “Sir, I was told you were in need of me?”

The boy stopped short when Tarian turned to him. Perplexed, he looked to his master. “Sir?”

“Who told you I needed your assist?”

“Thorin, he said you—” Rolf looked to Tarian, who cocked her head and raised a quizzical brow. He had the intelligence to pinken under her sharp eye. He turned back to his master and swallowed hard. “He implied you might find a sword to your throat and that I should watch your back.”

Wulfson threw his head back and laughed with carefree glee. He slapped the boy on the back, nearly sending him across the room. “See to the Viking! I can fend for myself.”

Rolf hurried from the room, slamming the door solidly behind him. Wulfson turned to Tarian, who stood rigid near the cold hearth. “The Viking was right to send the squire. One wrong move from you, Norman, and you will find your throat slit.”

“As you did to Malcor?” His eyes glittered.

“Aye, as I did to Malcor.” She pointed to a short bench. “Strip down to your braies so that I may take a look.”

He nodded, and as he undressed, Tarian unpacked the basket. But she needed fresh water. She called for a maid in the hall, who set about bringing a pail each of warm water and cool water, and clean linens. When Tarian returned to the room, she noted the knight had indeed stripped to just his braies. He stood with his back to her, and she noted a weeping cut just below his right shoulder. She also noticed the deep scars of a lash. Without thinking what she did, she pressed a fingertip to one that crossed his shoulder blade. His body stiffened.

“How came you by these?”

“The same as you. A barbaric bastard.”

She traced her finger down to the small of his back where another deeper scar marred him. “This one?”

“Iberia, fighting the Saracens.”

She touched the raw wound of earlier that day, and he flinched. “You will have two more to herald your battle with the unruly Welsh.”

He turned, and his eyes swept hers. She reached up and pressed the palm of her hand to his chest, resting it on the scarred tissue. “Tell me true, how came you by this?”

“I told you. A reminder of who I am.”

“Who made sure you never forgot?”

“The man I was paid to destroy.”

“Did you?” He cocked a brow. “Destroy him?”

“Aye, with the help of my brothers. We all bear the mark.”

She reached up and touched the crescent-shaped scar on his chin. “And this?”

He grabbed her hand and slowly brought it to his lips. Instead of kissing her, he sank his teeth into her palm. She cried out and pulled away from him.

“My mind is weary and my body fatigued. No more questions from you.”

A servant knocked on the door, and, given permission, strode through the open door and set the bucket of steaming water on the floor next to the bench, along with a pitcher of cool water on the side table. Tarian dismissed her and pointed to the bench. “Sit. I will tend your shoulder first.”

From the moment she cleaned the wound to when she bit off the last thread after the last stitch, he did not move even a muscle. And her hand did not waver or shake. ’Twas easy, his back was to her. But when she steeled her body between his hewn thighs to get the proper angle to sew up the larger of the two wounds, she immediately felt his body stiffen and his manhood rise against her side. She steadied his thigh and looked up at him, the needle poised, to caution him against any movement, but the words stuck in her throat. His green eyes blazed and his nostrils flared, and she felt like a hare in the sights of a wolf.

“Sir, please, I cannot concentrate when you look at me thusly.”

“
I
cannot concentrate with you between my thighs thusly.”

“But—’tis the best angle.”

“So you are to say Rolf would have had to sit between my legs to adequately tend me?”

Heat rose in her cheeks. “I—he—no, ’twould have been awkward for you, I am sure.” She repositioned herself more toward his knees. “Let me sew the wound.”

He nodded, but his eyes did not waver from hers. Hastily she broke his gaze and set about the chore. As when she tended his shoulder, he sat perfectly still. But she felt the tension in him, and his erection had not subsided. Indeed, it had grown. When she bent down and bit through the last thread, his body flinched. But it was not from the pain of the wound. Slowly she sat up and did not dare move. Her heart thudded hard against her chest, and her breaths came out in short shallow bursts. Wide-eyed, she looked up at him. His intense gaze sent warm shivering waves of desire across her skin. When she pressed her hand on his thigh to steady herself, he hissed in a sharp breath.

He brought her chin up higher with two fingers. “Lady Tarian,” he said hoarsely, “you try my patience and my desire more than any woman I have encountered. I beg you, if you do not want to keep me at constant swordpoint, do not touch me as you do. I am a mere mortal and find you most difficult to resist.”