Destined for a King (13 page)

She opened her mouth on the verge of replying that she hadn't made up her mind yet, when she realized it was none of his affair. “You seem rather eager for the answer to that.”

“By the Faceless One, you were betrothed to a king.”

“I still am.” Let him make of that what he would. “Magnus may come to claim me yet, and in the meantime, Father has yielded the castle to Torch. He gave you a chance to leave if you would not follow him. If you did not go, he is by rights your lord.”

“And you would make him yours, would you not?”

“I must obey my betters just as you must.” Part of her was uncertain as to why she was defending Torch when Rand had the right of the situation, but there it was. In any case, she didn't need her father's retainers and guardsmen making her decisions for her.

“You there!” Calista could not see past the charger that Rand had been leading toward the yard, but she recognized that voice readily enough. Torch. “Rand, is it? Come along. We've no time to lose. The sun will go down soon.”

“My lady is here.”

“What? Why didn't you say so?” Torch pushed past both guard and horse to eye her from the top of her disheveled head to her booted toes. “Where in the name of the Three have you been?”

“I went for a ride. I had no idea it was forbidden.”

Rand still stood, reins in hand, looking from one to the other. His eyes glittered in the dim light. Too interested by far, that one. Torch glanced over his shoulder. “Put that beast away along with this palfrey and tell Hawk to call off the search.” His fingers curled about Calista's wrist, binding tight as a shackle. “You, my lady, will come with me.”

She ought to follow him, ought to get them both out of earshot of any of her father's men, but something inside her rebelled. No one had ever seen fit to manhandle her in all her life at Blackbriar. She didn't intend to start allowing it now. “Whatever orders you mean to give me, you can do it here.”

“I prefer to carry out this conversation in private, if it please you.”

She returned his glare. “Then unhand me.”

“In your chambers. Now.”

Calista nearly balked, but Rand's eyes narrowed at Torch's command. She wasn't about to begin taking orders from either one of them. She yanked her wrist out of Torch's grasp and preceded him across the bailey. As she passed, his men stopped to stare at her, their gazes weighing on her shoulders, but she held her head high, despite the burning in her cheeks, despite knowing how she appeared to them—a rebellious child in need of chastisement.

Across the great hall, up the stone stairs at its back to her tower chamber—with every step Torch's heavy footfalls thudded loudly in her ears. As did the oaken door when he closed it behind them.

“Where did you go that you saw fit to leave this keep without informing anyone?” he asked without preamble. Once again, she met his gaze. His expression was set, his arms crossed over the expanse of his chest. He'd donned mail and covered it with a tunic of leather. From head to toe, he looked every bit a mercenary and a marauder, every bit as ruthless as his reputation painted him, a man hardened by life beyond his years.
If his claim is true, his years number only a score and ten.
The lines at the corners of his eyes and on his forehead were etched far deeper.

“I went for a ride.” She crossed her arms in imitation of his stance. “I've done so often enough in the past without anything tragic befalling me. No one told me it was forbidden now.”

He looked away for a moment and raked a hand through his hair. He'd removed his gauntlets and held them clenched in his other fist. “Yet you must have suspected I'd prevent you from leaving. Or else you would have told someone, not to mention using the front gate. I ask you again, where did you go?”

“If you are concerned about me running to your enemies, I have not.”

“The Ironfist is not yet near this keep, or my scouts would have brought word. And when he comes, he will bring a host. I cannot have you wandering about the countryside unescorted.”

This level of concern for a mere ride was beyond her experience, but then the lands about the keep had always been relatively safe.
He is not used to safety.
The thought rolled over her as true. Based on what Brother Tancrid had told her, based on her experience as Jerrah, Torch had spent his entire life looking over his shoulder—berated falsely as a bastard, concerned someone might discover his true identity. Magnus may have made a show of burying a queen and a prince, but behind all that, his spies had spent years scouring the countryside for news, ever quietly, lest people ask too many questions and hit on the truth.

Fear. Magnus fears this man.
A shiver passed down the back of her neck.

“As long as you allow me a chance for a ride now and then, I can bring an escort with me.”

“You will not leave unless it's in my own company, or Kestrel's. And you cannot go with Kestrel now. He has left us, too.”

The statement hit her like a blow from a bludgeon. “What?”

“By all appearances, he has defied my order and gone after my sister when I need him here.” Torch stepped closer, filling her field of vision with his presence. “I can do nothing about that now. You've yet to tell me why you felt the need to sneak away.”

“I grant you, I preferred to ride out on my own today and suspected I would not be permitted to do so had you known of it. As for what I was about, I simply paid a visit to an old friend.”

“And who is this friend?”

“Brother Tancrid, one of the Acolyte order.” A Son of the Earth, whatever that meant.

“Acolytes? There are Acolytes here?”

“Not at Blackbriar, but near enough. When I was child, Brother Tancrid lived at the keep and taught me my letters and numbers. He also knew a great deal of history.”

Torch opened his mouth and closed it again, while a glimmer of understanding dawned on his face. “And you wished to ask him what he knew of the circumstances when Magnus stole the throne?”

“That, and I wanted to find out if there was any possible way you might prove your claim. Because even if you defeat Magnus, you will have to win over the other Strongholds. Their warleaders will want proof you are who you say you are.”

“And who is this Brother Tancrid that he should know so much of my doings and the events at Highspring Moor?”

“I did not think to ask. He's always…well, he's known. If you've heard of their order, you know they seek and preserve knowledge. He used to tell me the most amazing stories. I just assumed he'd know of this, and it seems he did.”

Torch went rigid, almost wary. “Then what did he have to say about this proof?”

“That there was none, at least that he was aware of. Magnus's claim was based on his father's marriage to his mother being legitimate, and since it came before your father was born, the throne passes to him. If he possessed proof enough to convince the others at the time and depose your father—”

“He did not depose my father. He murdered him.” His vehemence made her step back. He couldn't have remembered this. He couldn't have witnessed it, or he would not have been left alive to recount this tale now. And yet he spoke with the conviction of one who had seen.

“But the others did nothing to stop him. Were he in the wrong, the other lords would have risen against him.”

“Which did not happen, clearly. He held the power. He'd raised a large enough army that the remaining lords would not dare oppose him. Any who did could easily have been replaced by followers more faithful to Magnus's cause. I merely intend to right a wrong by visiting the same treatment on him.”

“And how will you convince them you're right?”

“Through this.” He reached behind his back and drew his sword. The rays of the setting sun glittered on its edges, making flames appear to dance along its length. “And where would a bastard such as I obtain a sword like this?”

“You might have won it in a tourney or taken it from another.”

“But there'd be witnesses in that case. This sword has not been seen for over a century. My mother took it out of the palace when we escaped. She kept it for me until I was old enough to heft it, and made me vow to avenge my father's blood with it. In the end, I shall need no more proof than Magnus. I will depend on the power a weapon lends me. A weapon, a host such as I might raise, and the will of the gods that right might lead me back to where I belong.”

A pretty speech, true enough, and it didn't come off as rehearsed. But would it be enough? In the end, they were mere words, but if his blade could back them up…Still, the cost would be high. He'd already lost a brother to this cause, and perhaps a sister as well.

“I suppose the question remaining now is, are you with me or not? Did your tutor tell you enough to sway your good opinion?”

“Brother Tancrid tells a fine tale, but he's always left the final decision up to me.” Or so she'd always felt, even if she was aware her tutor might have painted the facts with subtle hues to persuade her to one side or the other without her realizing. Still, she saw no reason why he ought to sway her to Torch's side.

As a smaller keep and one not easily defended through its natural setting, Blackbriar had always kept its position by relying on its stronger neighbors. Her father had depended on his allegiances for his defense. And shouldn't a maiden in her position do the same?

Which meant, logically, she ought to choose the man currently in power over a potential victor. Ought to, but her heart told her no, and nothing Tancrid had recounted to her this afternoon changed that position.

A known, one she could deal with, one honorable after his own fashion, over an unknown.

And she'd seen him with his men. She'd witnessed the mercy he'd shown his newly conquered subjects. Nothing about his reputation seemed true in light of what she'd seen of him. The only question still open was whether he was fit to rule, but he'd no more experience at ruling than Magnus had when he'd assumed power.

But he is fit to command. You have seen that.

“And have you reached a decision, my lady?” He posed the question lightly enough, as if the reply mattered not at all. But she knew it did. Even if his Stone and its visions ought to give him the confidence that her choice would turn his way. He ought to swagger, but none of his usual arrogance showed in his tone.

And that, more than anything she'd heard and seen since his arrival, swayed her opinion.

Torch found himself leaning forward, practically standing on his toes as he waited for Calista's reply. For some reason it mattered. Well, of course it mattered, but not on the expected grounds. Certainly, he wanted his intended bride to go along with his plans, to fit in with them willingly. It would make the upcoming days much easier if he didn't constantly have to convince her of seeing things his way. If he didn't constantly have to seduce her.

Not that he'd have minded that aspect. And he could still set aside some time for such things. Now, if necessary. Oh, yes.

But it shocked him how deeply he wanted her to voice her consent and become his bride. As if she believed in him and what he was attempting. As if she cared beyond the confines of her keep. As if she cared on a much smaller scale as well. As if she cared for him, the man.

And how long had it been since he'd had that? Outside his family, never. His mother, his brother, his sister cared for him on that level, naturally. His men, certainly, but that wasn't the same. They respected and admired him as a leader, as the rightful king. None of them cared for him the way a woman ought to care for a man.

The way his mother had loved his father. He only had her stories, of course, but somewhere on the fringes of his imagination he recalled deep, chest-wrenching sobs in the night. He'd waken to the sound to find darkness still enveloping the world and known his mother was mourning the loss of his father. He'd heard it as well in the way her voice softened whenever she remembered him, whenever she'd told her son about his sire.

And he recalled the way she'd gazed on her twin babies. He'd barely reached his sixth birthday when they'd arrived, but the look in his mother's eyes as she'd watched her babes sleep, the soft caresses of her fingers on their fat cheeks, the way she could study them for hours…Somewhere he'd known. This was her last connection to the husband she'd loved. Especially Griffin, to whom she'd secretly given their father's name.

Griffin. Damn it all. The thought reared up and plowed through his gut like a sword thrust. Their mother would be devastated when he told her the news. But when he did bear her that particular tiding, he'd accompany it with a gift—Magnus Ironfist's heart.

She deserved no less than that revenge. For as he grew, Torch came to realize how rare such a thing was. Lords and ladies made matches for allegiances, for power, to cement alliances, and if they could tolerate each other, it was considered a stroke of luck. Those who came to love were rarer still. Even among the lowborn, the kitchen wenches and stable boys eyeing one another with lust when their masters' backs were turned, even their affections often didn't last longer than a night's pleasure.

He'd observed. He'd experienced that sort of fleeting tenderness himself. But somewhere deep, he'd wanted more, even if he knew such an occurrence was unlikely.

But damn it all, if Calista accepted him of her own free will, accepted not just the alliance, but him, the man, that was a step in the right direction.

And he hadn't even realized how important it was until this moment.

Her shoulders lifted on an indrawn breath. “I will marry you.”

He released a stream of air. Somewhere in the back of his head, a rapid pulse beat—his own blood rushing through his veins, faster than usual.

“Why?” The gods help him, he had to know.

She raised her brows, and she turned her head to regard him from the corner of her eyes, as if she were afraid to give the wrong answer. “Because you've ordered it, and you're my lord.”

His heart dropped to somewhere in the vicinity of his stomach, where it lay like an overly rich meal, but he would not let his disappointment show. He moved
work harder on seducing her
higher on his list of priorities.

“Well, yes, naturally.” There, that sounded sufficiently casual. “And you're a good girl who always obeys her lord.”

Her lips parted, and a burst of laughter exploded from her. “If you want to believe that, I'll certainly not disabuse you of the notion.”

He raised a brow. Surprising, how easy it was to retreat behind a façade of nonchalance. “Oh, ho. This sounds like an interesting conversation. Are you trying to imply you've been naughty at times? Pray, tell me about them.”

Gods, he sounded like Steelsleet's younger son, who went through women faster than he went through his quarterly allowance.

“You've just caught me sneaking back into the keep, and you have to ask me about my other transgressions?”

The implication behind those words caused the smile to fade from his face. But she'd been a maid until last night. She couldn't have been slipping off to meet with lovers. “You've just confessed to meeting with a man who swore a vow of chastity. Hardly a high point on anyone's list of sins.”

She gazed up at him from beneath her lashes. “I think I'd rather hear about yours.” Gods, where had that throaty note in her voice come from? It streaked straight to his groin. “Perhaps we can compare.”

He placed a hand beneath her chin and tipped her face toward his. “I think that is something that is better demonstrated, don't you?”

Her lips parted, an invitation he couldn't have resisted if he wanted to. He hadn't brought her back here with the explicit intention of seducing her once more, but the moment his mouth fitted over hers, it was all he could think of. Their bodies fitting together as easily and as naturally as their lips. Hands, bodies, tongues all moving as one until their clothing melted away and they lay in a sated tangle on her bed.