Blood Sword Legacy 02 - Master of Torment (21 page)

When he turned back to Tarian, he leaned against the thick door, a tight smile twisting his handsome lips. “The torment is beyond my endurance, Tarian. Give me what I seek.”

She settled back into the tub, and smiled like the vixen she felt herself. “If I do not, will you rape me?” Slowly he shook his head. “Then leave me.”

He shook his head again and pushed off the door and strode slowly toward her as if he were stalking a wary game bird. She ignored him and went about bathing herself. In a slow seductive motion, she lathered the sponge, and extending her right leg she set her toes to the edge of the tub. Leaning forward, in slow swirls she rubbed in the lather. When she was done with that leg, she washed the other in the same fashion.

She watched him watch her, and despite her need to torture him, her skin had warmed from more than the water. She sat up and arched her back, raising her arm and lathering it.

A sharp hiss of air from the knight made her skin flush warmer. She caught his brilliant eyes in the candlelight and smiled. “How does it feel, sir knight, to be so desperate for something you cannot have that it eats away at your innards?”

“Torturous,” he said thickly.

She smiled again and slowly stood. His eyes widened to the size of fists. As if she were alone, she lathered her breasts, and hissed in a breath as she ran the soft linen across her nipples. They were full, sensitive, and tight. Wulfson’s eyes narrowed. Slowly she shook her head, then lowered her hands to her belly and then to her thighs.

“Stop, Tarian,” he whispered hoarsely. “Stop, or I will not be held accountable for my actions.”

She smiled and reached for the pitcher of clean water, and in a slow pour she let it sluice down her body, washing away the thick, creamy lather. Wulfson stood as still as the walls that surrounded them. She stepped from the tub, only a hand’s-breadth from him, and reached for the folded linen just past him. Her bottom brushed against his thigh, and that was the spark that set him afire. He grabbed her by the hips and brought her naked against him, his hands not moving from where he touched her. Tarian gasped, but did not move. She felt the hot length of him against her back. He was as rigid as steel, and she knew he fought a tremendous battle.

And he was not the only one. Her passion for the man who held her against him equaled his. She leaned back into him, arching her back, and bit her lip to keep from crying out. Her thighs quivered, and she had never wanted anything as much as she did this man at that moment. But she could not. He would keep her abed all through the night, filling her time and time again.

At the thought a moan did escape her throat.

“Yield to me, Tarian,” he hoarsely whispered against her ear.

His warm breath stirred her more.

“I—I cannot,” she breathed.

He turned her in his arms and grabbed a hank of her hair, pulling it back and forcing her to make eye contact with him. “Cannot or will not?”

His other hand slid down her back to her bottom, where his fingers dug into her tender skin, pressing her harder against him. She squeezed her eyes shut and forced away the vision of him taking her, as he had that night almost a month ago, and replaced it with the dream of him plunging his dagger deep into her belly. She stiffened, and felt the hot onslaught of tears in her eyes. She shook her head and choked back a sob.

“Please, Wulfson, do not make this thing between us more than it can be.”

His face twisted in anger and passion, but she saw in his eyes that he understood. And that fact realized—knowing he knew as well as she that he could and would be the one to take her life should William insist on it—gave her the strength to move away from him. He let her go, and she wrapped the linen around her damp body.

“Please go,” she said softly.

He did without hesitation. When the door thudded closed behind him, Tarian sank to the floor, despair filling every part of her, her heart most especially. It grew so heavy with grief that breathing became difficult. Edith was there now beside her, and moved her into the great bed.

“’Twill all work out, Tarian,” she soothed stroking her cheek. “He will not kill the mother of his child.” She pressed her thin hand to Tarian’s belly. “In two months’ time you will feel the babe move.”

Tarian looked up to her nurse with watery eyes. “How do you know I am with child?”

“’Tis early, I admit, but you are showing the signs.”

Tarian sat up in bed and shook her head. “I feel no different.”

Edith smiled. “Don’t you?”

She shook her head. “Nay, I do not.”

“Is your fatigue normal? Are your breasts tender to the touch? And for the last two days you have pushed your morning trencher away.” She smiled. “But chiefly, your courses have not come this month.”

And while the thought of the child should have pleased Tarian, it did not. He had been conceived under the falsest of pretenses, and he would never know the love of his true sire. A heavy fatigue overcame her at that moment, and Tarian gave in to it. “Wake me in four candle notches, Edie. Then we will fly.”

Wulfson could not sleep. Every sound, every creak, every call of the owl had him on edge. He paced his room, and each time he turned it became smaller and smaller. Each time he looked to the tapestry he longed to slide past it and into Tarian’s chamber. To take her in his arms and make love to her. But she would not have him, and he could not blame her.

He cursed, he drank more wine than he should have, and when the skin was empty he found himself candle in hand standing behind the secret door to her chamber. He paced back and forth, his lust waging a colossal battle with his better judgment. Finally, he retreated.

He was up before sunrise, stewing in the hall, pacing amongst his snoring men.

As he stood staring at the hearth, he suddenly stiffened. He looked about and saw none of Tarian’s men. Gareth had
not been asleep across her door. His hackles rose. He flew up the stairway to the lady’s chamber and pushed open the door. “Tarian?” he called. Silence met him. He strode into the room, and her scent infiltrated his senses, but her mail and sword were gone!

A deep sense of dread filled Wulfson so completely he could scarcely breathe. And it had nothing to do with disappointing his king.

He turned and fled the room and hurried down the stairway, shouting, “Arise! Arise! To arms! The lady has flown!”

Tarian rode, literally, for her life. With her men behind her and Gareth at her side, she felt invincible should they run into anyone except Wulfson and his knights. As the sun broke over the eastern horizon, a hard chill bit her deep in her bones. Fear of what he would do to her should he catch up to them before they crossed the Welsh border terrified her. But even knowing what he was capable of did not ease the pain in her heart. Somewhere along the way, despite all that had transpired, she had grown more than fond of the surly knight.

Her belly churned in a way that made her want to retch. It was not from the babe, but from nerves, and sorrow and regrets. When they broke through the narrow pass that would lead to Briarhurst, the urge to retch overcame her. Not having the stomach to break the fast, Tarian bent over to the right of her saddle and allowed the dry heaves to rack her body.

“My lady,” Gareth called in the dusk of dawn, “do you ail?”

Tarian waved him off and shook her head. She spurred Silversmith to move faster. She could feel her captain’s
eyes upon her, and shame at her deed encompassed her. He would put the pieces together, and she did not know if she could face him. But she convinced herself the babe was her guarantee that she would retain what Malcor promised her. But most of all, the babe offered her best chance of surviving William’s wrath.

Stopping only once, they pushed their horses to the limit. By nightfall the beasts were blowing hard, and Tarian knew if they did not get rest soon they would be worthless on the morrow.

“There is the old Druid monastery several leagues ahead. A stream flows nearby; we will camp there for the night,” Tarian told Gareth.

When they approached the place, night had long since fallen. Since the monastery was rumored to be haunted by the Druids who were slain there centuries ago, there were rumblings amongst the men. But Tarian ignored them. Though centuries had passed since its abandonment, it was still intact. Some said the forest Druids saw it as a shrine of sorts, and during the dark time ventured from the wood and tended it.

A large Celtic cross rose ahead, a foreboding sentinel signaling to all who traveled close by that this was sacred ground. Instead of fear, a deep sense of serenity filled Tarian, and she knew she would be safe here.

The horses were tended to, the men fed, and the lookouts posted. They would be ahorse again long before the first rays of the sun announced the new day. But, tired as she was, Tarian could not find sleep. She tossed and turned on the ground, finding no position comfortable. Strapping on her sword belt, she lit a torch from the low embers of the fire and quietly moved toward the structure. She felt the
spirit of the place encompass her and carry her forward, in invitation to explore.

She pushed open the heavy wooden portal, the hinges creaking under its weight.

“My lady?” Gareth said from behind her.

She turned to him and smiled. Worry etched his face. He had aged ten years since their arrival at Draceadon. It felt like a lifetime ago. “Go back to sleep, Gareth, I am only slaking my curiosity. No harm will befall me inside.”

His lips pursed as if to argue, but he only nodded, and instead of going back to his bedroll he found a seat on a nearby old stone bench. She continued into the building, and that sense of serenity filled her again. She touched the torch to an ancient sconce on the wall and was relieved to see it ignite. She walked further into the place, and could just make out a stone altar at the far end of the room. Several stone benches, like pews, dotted the interior. High windows allowed the soft moonlight in. And though she did not have a relationship with God, she set the torch in an old metal floor sconce and sat down on the bench nearest it. She folded her hands and looked up and closed her eyes, and for the first time since she was a girl, she prayed.

Her tranquility was disrupted by the hoarse call to arms from Gareth. The thunder of hooves shook the ground beneath her. She sat perfectly still, and dread filled every part of her body. Gooseflesh erupted across her arms and down her back. Her belly quivered with nervous excitement, and even though she had stood and fought at York and Hastings, for the first time in her life Tarian felt the windy chill of death swirl about her.

’Twas Wulfson, and he was not there to complain that she had not said her good-bye.

Panic grabbed her with sharp claws, shredding at her insides. Fear, anguish, anger, and despair wrestled for dominance. She drew her sword and ran for the door.

She flung it open to find Gareth blocking her way and a furious Wulfson upon his black steed, his double swords pointed at Gareth’s heart. A quick scan of the camp revealed her men still on the ground where they lay, surrounded by armed knights.

“You will have to go through me, sir, to get to the lady,” Gareth said, his voice harsh and unwavering.

Wulfson’s face hardened to stone. “Do not be a fool, captain; we will reduce you and your men to scraps not fit for the hounds. Step aside.”

“You will have to slay us all! I will not return with you!” Tarian said, trying to step around Gareth, who refused to allow her passage.

“Lady Tarian, are you willing to sacrifice the lives of your men for what will in the end be a futile battle?”

“Do you think, Sir Wulfson, we are so cloddish that several of your sacred Blood Swords will not find their end here as well? Is that
your
wish?”

He shrugged nonchalantly. “’Tis always a possibility. Now hand over your sword, and you will all live.”

“Will we? Do you include me? Can you guarantee me my life will be spared?”

Turold threw his head as if answering for his master. “I can guarantee your life this eve,” Wulfson solemnly answered.

“But not tomorrow?”

He sat back in the saddle and eyed her cagily, then looked to Gareth. “I seek a private word with your lady, captain.”

“Nay!” Gareth cried.

Wulfson sheathed his double swords and dismounted, but he kept his hand on the hilt of his broadsword. “I give you my oath no harm will come to her by my hand or by any of my men.” He looked past Gareth to her, and Tarian felt her knees weaken. “A word.” He pointed behind her. “In private.”

Tarian wrestled with the request. He had given his oath he would not harm her, but more than that, her men would be spared, and she knew Wulfson de Trevelyn well enough to know that his oath was as good as done. She placed her hand on Gareth’s shoulder. “I will speak to him. I will shout for you if I need you.”

She backed away into the monastery. Wulfson followed and slammed the heavy door behind him and threw the bolt. When he turned to face her, she could see the furious glitter of his green eyes, and she knew a bone-chilling fear.

She raised her sword. “Do not proceed. Say what you must, then be gone.”

His lips twisted into a deadly smile and he moved toward her with the stealth of a wolf.

She took a defensive position and raised her sword. “I will kill you,” she whispered. And she thought she meant it.

He continued his path to her, not hesitating once in his step. He tossed his helm to the ground and pulled off his gauntlets, throwing them to land beside it. He unbuckled his double scabbards and continued toward her. He dropped them to the floor. Tarian backed up until a bench cut into the back of her legs. “I will not give you another warning. Halt!”

As Wulfson drew his broadsword, Tarian struck. With both hands she grasped the hilt of her sword and slammed
it against his hand, almost but not quite enough to knock the sword from his hand. He cursed, and although she had used the flat side of the blade it still cut him. He looked up at her and his eyes narrowed.

Tarian turned and hopped from one bench to another, running across them as Wulfson chased her. She turned to bring her sword down upon his when he swiped at her. She hopped high, the blade narrowly missing her ankle. Fury was in every inch of her. She swung a backwards glance as she hopped to the next bench.