Claiming Her (Renegades & Outlaws) (26 page)

For a moment, he was utterly silent, completely motionless, except that the arm holding hers down was shaking with…fury. Then, soft and menacing, he whispered by her ear, “You want to fight, Katarina?”
 

His voice was silky smooth and cold, like wine laid in ice.

Oh
no
.

“
D’accord
.” He pushed up and strode away from her, across the room. “Let us fight.”

“What…?” She scrambled out of the tub, water streaming from her body, grabbing for her chemise, tugging it on. Its linen length clung to her wet curves, her hardened nipples, her trailing, knotted hair.

He grabbed her sword belt off the table, sheathed her blade into it, and tossed it over. “Put it on.”

It clattered into her hands, ropes of leather and steel. She fumbled for it. “Aodh—”

He grabbed his own belt, which he’d tossed onto the bed, and slung it around his hips. Her heart both sank and sped up, until it felt as if it was hammering a thousand beats a minute, down in the pit of her belly.
 

“Aodh,” she whispered.

“What?” He was curt, his head bent to buckle the belt. One of his arms was dripping wet, the cobalt sleeve sticking to his roped forearm.
 

“I do not think—”

“Do you not?” Oh, his Irish accent was thickening; fury was flowing. “What is the problem now, Katarina? Can you not fight openly, in the light of day? Or
will
you not? Only subterfuge and dark shadows for you, is that it?”

Her fingers tightened around the leather. “You know naught of the choices I have had to make.”

“I know a few.” Striding over, he dropped to his knees and, shocking her into silence, buckled her sword belt around her hips, then got back to his feet, and retreated a few steps, his hand resting at the hilt of his own sword, waiting for her to draw on him.

“Oh, Aodh,” she exhaled, helpless. Her chest felt cold, her brain frozen.

“You’ve a fire to fight, lass. Let’s burn it out.”

“Someone might get hurt,” she protested

“People are already getting hurt, and there’s a world of it to come.”

Her throat was dry, making it difficult to form words. “I mean here, in this room.”

Something flickered in his gaze. “I’ll never hurt you.”

She straightened. “I meant you.”

He laughed.
 

Her hand touched the hilt of her sword. “I have been trained, you know.”
 

“Have you?” He tapped his fingers on his belt, then shrugged. “You’ll not be as good as I, Katy, but that is not the point, is it?”

She drew her sword from its scabbard.

He smiled and drew his own.

“You might be sorry, you know,” she said, an echo of her earlier words as she began to move about the room. He turned with her.
 

“I doubt it.”

They circled each other, parrying, testing each other as they moved. She stepped forward, and he backed up as they took a circuit around the room. He gave the table a hard shove with his hip as they passed by, pushing it out of the way, and as he did, she lunged forward, gave her sword a little flip up, nudging his aside.

With a surge of power, he tightened his hold and let the movement lift his sword up and around, a glinting arc of steel, then brought it back down again to hit her away, but she’d already danced backward.

“You’ve some talent, lady,” he said as he swiped his sword northwest, a flashing move.

“I know, my lord.” She swept around in a clockwise arc, out of the way of his blade, and returned her sword to its original position, lethally level, tip pointed at him.
 

They moved about the room, Aodh setting a rhythm that matched her mood. She took regular swipes at him, left, right, backing him up in predictable motions, then, when she used the natural flow of their parry to make a swift lunge forward, he stepped to the side, out of the way.
 

“
Contratempo
, Katarina,” he murmured as she stumbled forward.

She righted herself at once, blowing hair back from her face with the grace of a cat. His blood fired.
 

She was made for this.

“What is this word?” she demanded, circling him again.

“I created a rhythm, you fell into it, then I disrupted it.
Contratempo
.”

“I shall recall that to mind.”

“Do.”

“And pray, sir, who taught you such things?”

“The Corporation of the London Masters of Defence.”

Her gaze flew to his, then snapped back to the sword. “That is a great many words. I know what none of them mean.”

“Aye? Well, you needn’t use words, lass. Just look.” They parried.
 

“You are five stone heavier than I.” She punched off his parry and backed up. “Most of that between your ears.”

“You are paying attention to the wrong thing, Katarina. You keep watching the tip of my sword. Watch me—my posture, the grip of my hand; be
aware
of my sword.”
 

“That sounds like trickery.”

He laughed. Katarina frowned. He was laughing a great deal. Under other circumstances, she would welcome such lightheartedness. As it was, he was pointing a sword at her, so it rather unnerved.

“Drop your shoulders,” he instructed. She bashed away his blade. “They’re way up here, by your ears. And bring your elbows in.”

“Oh, hush up,” she muttered as they circled one another. Her face was bright, gleaming with sweat and energy.

They moved around the room, advanced sharply to engage, then retreated. He wasn’t toying with her per sé, but he could have ended this thing anytime. The reason he had not was because he was an insufferable, arrogant
mule
and he wished to torment her with this little drama as a metaphor for their larger struggle.

Still, she admitted, brushing back her hair, it
did
invigorate.

“Do you intend to make some point by this display?” she demanded, tucking loose strands of hair behind her ear as she bobbed to the left.

“What point could I possibly be making?” His tone was so dry, it could ignite.

“It escapes me,” she assured him.
 

“Come, lass, disarm me.”

She scowled. “You
are
making a point.”

“If you detect one, far be it from me to disagree with a lady.”

She tossed her head, flinging back her hair, and stepped to the left, moving her sword in a backswing arc.

He stepped to the side and deflected it lightly away rather than engaging, then swept free and slid his feet backward.

“Aye, you
are
good, Katarina.”

“I know.”

A loud crash broke the silence of the room as he kicked a bench out of the way.

“Who trained you?”

“Just the boys.”

He grinned. “The boys, is it?”

“Wicker.” She paused. “And Walter gave me a few tips.”

He laughed.

She lunged.

*

DOWN IN THE BAILEY, Cormac and Ré were returning from the barracks, where they’d conducted yet another fruitless session with the Rardove old guard, all of whom were younger than they. Striding across the bailey, they glanced up at the high tower as they passed beneath.
 

Two of the hinged windows were pushed open, and there were tinkling sounds and faint smashes, coming from within…was that metal? Or glass? And then…a male laugh?

“What do you think is going on?” Ré inquired grimly.
 

Cormac stopped and listened, then scratched his chin. “Sounds to me like a swordfight.”

“That’s what I thought, too.” Ré started walking again.
 

“You dinna think he’s
fighting
with her, do you?”

“He might be doing anything. He’s already done things I’ve never seen him do before.”

“Well, there’s a frightening thought, isn’t it, seeing as the list of things Aodh’ll do is long and notorious.”

“I know.” Ré was silent a moment. “Son of a bitch.”
 

A shout disrupted the continuation of this considered opinion. Another rider had just returned.

*

“YOU LOOK GOOD, lass. Your chemise…” Aodh swiped his free hand down the front of his body. “All wet.”

She gasped, but there was nothing to be done. “I hate you.”

He laughed.

“Moreover, the queen will hate you.”

“Some days, the feeling is mutual.”

She eyed him suspiciously. “What does that mean?”

“Some days, I’m not too fond of the queen myself.”

“Of course you are not fond of her,” she said warily. “What do you mean, ‘fond’? You do not know the queen.”

“Aye, I do.”

“You
know
Elizabeth, Queen of England and Ireland?”

“She’s the one.”

Her mind, torn between his words and his sword, rebelled. “But…how? In what capacity do you
know
her?”

“Councilor.”
 

“Councilor?”
 

He shrugged. “One of them. Member of her court. Friend.”

Slowly, her jaw dropped. “You cannot…that is not possible…what you say…no.”

“Aye.”

The single word was more compelling than an argument. “In what
manner
? In what way, did you…” She waved her sword ineffectually, so stunned she could hardly speak. “For how
long
?”

His lips pursed. “Nigh on sixteen years.”

“No.”
It was barely a breath. She stopped moving her sword and simply stared. “You are lying. I do not believe you.”

“Well, that’s a shame, for I am telling the truth.”
 

“But, I… Why didn’t you tell me?”
 

He stopped too, his sword motionless. “What difference would it have made?” he asked in a low voice.
 

“Oh, Aodh, it means
everything
.”

“To you?”

“To the queen.” Katarina knew very well what happened to the queen’s favorites when they did a thing that even
hinted
at betrayal.
 

When her mother had been accused of being a witch, a maker of the ancient dyes of Rardove, and priest harborer, her husband, Katarina’s father, had stood surety for her. Claimed her innocence to the queen’s representative in Dublin, and then to the queen herself.
 

The claims had meant nothing; indeed, they may have doomed them both even more in the queen’s eyes, if for no other reason than jealousy. The way they saw it in England, an Irishwoman had stolen the queen’s captain, then bewitched him, then turned him
Catholic
.
 

Even a hint of disloyalty could doom a man.
 

Aodh had more than hinted. He had stolen a castle.

Oh, this was
much
,
much worse than she’d thought. An Irish warlord rebelling was a matter of course. But one of the queen’s favorites?

This was treason on a high scale.

Aodh would be dead before Elizabeth finished giving the command. Lashed to a table, his body cut open, disemboweled while still alive, then his arms and legs half-severed and tied to horses…

She actually bent forward, sickened by the thought. She did not think she could survive that.

Oh, curse him, he had
ruined
her.

“Aodh,” she said in a cold whisper. “This is terrible. The queen will destroy you.”

“You’re concerned for me?”

“I’m
horrified
for you.”

With a twist of his wrist, he spun his sword and wrenched the blade from her grip. It tore free and clattered to the ground and he moved in, flinging his sword away as he came, driving her back to the wall. He drew up in front of her and put a hand on the wall on either side of her head, his arms stretched out straight.
 

“Aodh, this is madness.” She touched his jaw with trembling fingers. “Are you not even
frightened
?”
 

He skimmed a hand down her ribs, his hand catching on the damp chemise before he hooked it around her waist.
 

“I have been through fire, Katy. I have no fear left in me. It all burned away when I saw my father’s body torn limb from limb. Whatever happens will happen. I will not shy away.” He brushed his beard-roughened cheek across her soft one. “This, right here, now, between you and me, ’tis meant to be.”
 

She leaned her head forward until her forehead touched his. “I do not know what to do with you. You are mad.”

“Aye, mad. Join me.”
 

She gave a broken laugh. “I cannot.”

His head came up a bare inch. “You keep saying that, but most things are indeed a choice.” His voice was a low rasp. “Not a fine one, nor a pleasant one, not the one we thought we’d have, or that we wanted to have, but a choice, nevertheless.”