Lord of Vengeance (10 page)

“What message?” Nigel queried warily, the rustle of leaves announcing his movement from behind the tree.

“Tell him the Lady Raina has pledged me her life in exchange for his honor.”

Raina's breath caught in her throat. The scheming blackguard. “You have twisted my words,” she cried, spinning on her heel and meeting with Nigel's disbelieving expression.

Rutledge regarded her over his shoulder. “Do you wish to rescind them, milady?”

Damn him, he was testing her, trying her loyalty and trust. Raina caught her lip between her teeth; then, with icy conviction she replied, “Nay. I stand by my word. Will you?”

A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You have my word.” Turning to Nigel, he announced, “Tell d'Bussy I am willing to put his daughter's vow to the test. Should he meet me in ten days' time, alone and without his army, I will release the girl unharmed. But should his honor prove false when we meet, or should he send guards to seek me in the meanwhile, Lady Raina will forfeit her life.”

Nigel snarled. “Curse you, Rutledge. She's an innocent girl. I implore you, free her to my care, and I give you my word as a knight that the baron will meet you...on your terms.”

Rutledge's chuckle was sharp and surely meant to insult. “I have no use for your word. My interest is in d'Bussy alone. If he fails to appear on the appointed day, I shall consider it a testament to his lack of honor and his daughter will pay.”

“God rot your black soul if you so much as muss her hair--”

Rutledge laid his hand heavily on Nigel's wounded shoulder, drawing a pained hiss from him. “You're in no condition to make threats. We could settle our differences here, but I prefer a more sporting challenge. Rest assured, our time will come. Go now, and tell d'Bussy we will meet where it all began. He will know my meaning.”

Nigel glanced at Raina, then back to Rutledge. “I'm not leaving without her.”

“The lady has begged me spare your life, man, but I do so only because I can use you elsewise. Try my patience a moment longer and you force me to devise another means of conveying my message to your lord. Doubtless your corpse would prove an equally convincing statement.”

Raina stepped forward and Rutledge stopped her with a glance. “Nigel, go,” she pleaded. “He will keep me no matter what you do.” She leveled a scathing glower on Rutledge. “Without me, he knows he stands no chance of getting close enough to my father for his evil intent.”

“Your lady is wise, Nigel. I suggest you heed her.” He motioned to one of his knights. “Fetch these men a horse.” The man nodded, then dashed to retrieve Nigel's white stallion. “Nay,” Rutledge called to him, “not that one. A less spirited mount will suffice.”

“Son of a--” Nigel sputtered as the man brought forth one of the more sorry-looking beasts. “This nag will take twice as long to make the trip back to Norworth!”

“Then best you be on your way at once, for the both of you will be riding it.”

“What nonsense is this?” Nigel demanded, color rising to his face.

“Merely a reassurance that you carry out my orders and do not give in to the temptation to follow us. This way you should have just enough time to return to Norworth and get word to d'Bussy.”

“Thieving bastard.” Nigel's gaze slid from Rutledge to Raina and lingered as he regarded her for what she supposed could very well be the last time.

“Do not worry for my sake, Nigel,” she said, trying to soothe his regretful expression. “Tell my father that I love him and I will see him soon.”

Nigel seemed to look right through her, then said to Rutledge, “Mark my words, I will see that you pay for this...with your life.”

“I have already,” he remarked dryly.

In a matter of moments, Nigel and the other knight were mounted and on their way. Tears filled Raina's eyes as she watched Nigel depart. She sniffed, wiping at them angrily as leaves crunched behind her and she felt Rutledge draw near.

“Tears, my lady?” he queried softly. “Pray, tell me, not for him.”

Raina glared up at him, anger thickening her voice. “Aye, for him. And all the others your evil has touched, you heartless knave!” To her outrage, her shoulders sagged under the weight of his level stare. She buried her face in her hands, weary with fatigue and feeling altogether helpless and alone.

It took a moment for her to realize that Rutledge's hand had been smoothing her hair, now coming to rest lightly on her shoulder. She looked up at him, horrified that she should have allowed him to touch her, to comfort her.

She jerked her shoulder from under his palm. “Never lay your hands upon me again,” she seethed, mustering all the venom she could. “I've no need for your brand of consolation.”

“Bear this in mind as well, scoundrel,” she called after him. “The day you are dead shall be the happiest day of my life. I vow I shall shout with glee to hear the news!”

Spinning on his heel, he stalked back to her in two long strides. “And what then, my lady? Please, do not deny me the whole of your wishful fantasy. Will you wed Nigel? Bear the rotten fruits of his loins?”

“He had a choice...and he made it. Think on that when next you see him.” He released her arm and with a gentle brush of his thumb flicked a tear from the tip of her nose. “Waste no more of these on Nigel--or your father--for neither is deserving.”

Cursing herself for trembling under even his merest touch, she struggled to find her voice, holding fast to her anger. “How can you speak of worthiness? What honor can you claim?”

His brow creased. “None at the moment, my lady. As I told you at the tourney, 'tis honor I seek.”

“Nay,” she whispered. “You seek vengeance. You'll find no honor in that.”

He seemed to consider her comment for a moment. “Perhaps not,” he conceded, “but that I must find out for myself. So it would seem you are right. I have no honor. However, noble intentions aside, my lamb, had the tables been turned,
I
would never have left you in the hands of someone like me.”

Raina's cheeks flamed as she looked up into his face, which at the moment seemed to reflect no mockery, no malice. It was an honest remark, and one that left her shaken, unsettled. Without another word he simply turned and strode away, leaving her to stare after him in shock.

He beckoned a man to his side with a crook of his finger. “See to this mount's wounds and tether it behind me for the ride north. Tell the others we leave at once.” He turned back to Raina with a courtly sweep of his arm. “After you, my lady.”

Chapter 7

The woman had spirit, Gunnar had to credit her that. But she was also tired and the hours she had now been with him had done their share to batter even her hardy constitution. He supposed it was fatigue more than willing surrender that made her tread after him in silence, obeying his order to remount with nothing but a withered glare in his direction.

He pulled her up onto his destrier and had her ride before him, securing his arm about her waist and holding her closer than needed as they rode out of the clearing and onward, to what was to be their evening's shelter.

As the land stretched out before them and time dragged on toward dusk, Gunnar fought a desperate inner battle to ignore the closeness of his unexpected captive, concentrating instead on plotting his next move. To his consternation, however, the only move he could envision at the moment was bedding the woman, who, with every stride of his mount, bounced innocently against his fast-tightening loins.

The airy silk of her bliaut ruffled in the wind, occasionally leaping out to brush his wrist and arm. Her braid had since fallen out completely, leaving her hair fragrant and billowing against him. Her narrow waist nestled against the crook of his elbow, and he was powerless to prevent the image of its delicate curve from forming in his mind. She was a fascinating abundance of temptations, each one too fine for a man like him.

Spurring his mount, Gunnar angrily thrust the notion aside, telling himself it was the night wind and not her hair that smelled so deliciously of roses and honeysuckle, that the heat of anger and not the lifeblood of a vixen warmed her skin, searing his hand.

When her body finally relaxed against him and her breathing deepened in weary sleep, curiosity won over duty.

Like the thief he had been forced to become, Gunnar casually moved his arm from about her waist until it rode under the buoyant fullness of her breasts, stealing the opportunity she would surely never grant him. Then, breathing deeply of her scent, he closed his eyes against her softness, telling himself that the core of her appeal surely lay in the simple fact that he needed a woman.

Badly.

* * *

Wynbrooke lay cloaked in the inky blackness of midnight as they approached the ruined castle and nearly deserted village, but evidently the sight was still enough to make Raina's breath catch in her throat. Gunnar had felt her come awake sometime earlier, though she hadn't found cause to speak until now.

“Where are we?” she gasped, her thready voice filled with wariness.

He supposed it was an eerie, awesome sight on first glance--even in darkness--but it had been a long time since Wynbrooke had set his blood to ice.

At first he might have felt some trepidation, some dread upon looking at what remained of his home. He had, in fact, visited this place often to remind himself of why he was alive, his purpose on this earth. Countless times he'd come here and simply stared out from the shadows at the rubble and the desecration; a silent, contemplative observer, never approaching the keep, never making his presence known to the handful of people who remained in the village.

But for many years now, the sight of Wynbrooke did not shock him. It did not move him. Like the years of battle and staring death full in the face, this no longer had the power to disturb him.

And so, when Raina asked, “What is this place?” he answered her with complete lack of emotion: “'Tis your father's doing.”

He clucked to his horse and led his band of men forward, deliberately skirting the sleepy cluster of ramshackle, wattle-and-daub huts as he and the other men rode up the hill and through the open gate of the crumbling curtain wall.

Wynbrooke, being a modest keep, had just one bailey, a wide grassy courtyard where as a boy, Gunnar had chased chickens and later, young girls his age. A small stable flanked the far side of the bailey Gunnar recalled; now all that marked its existence were a few charred timbers and blackened stone. The mews were gone, the great hall, nothing but rubble--everything sacked or burned. Only the tower keep remained standing.

The place he had once called home was an abandoned and lonely pillar of thick gray stone.

Standing in the shadow of that grim monument, he felt Raina shiver in his arms and vaguely registered his men muttering under their breath about sleeping in a tomb. For an instant he felt a chill sweep over him. Night air, he reasoned, and dismounted without comment. He turned and gathered Raina into his arms, setting her on her feet before unfastening a rolled blanket from behind his saddle and handing it to her.

“Secure the horses in here for the night, then find yourselves a place to bed down,” he ordered his men, taking Raina's hand and starting with her toward the keep.

“You can't mean for me to sleep in this ruin.” Her voice was pleading as she shuffled behind him, scarcely able to keep up with his long strides.

“You'll be safe here.” He reached for the iron latch on the door, only to realize that the great oak panel had been smashed off its hinges. The blackness that greeted him at the top of the stone stairs was merely a yawning portal to a dank and musty room.

A bat took flight as they crossed the threshold, flapping over their heads and out into the night. Another quickly followed. Raina's startled yelp echoed in the cavernous chamber, and she buried her face in Gunnar's arm until the tiny creature had passed.

“Come,” Gunnar ordered softly and guided her farther inside, using a thin sliver of moonlight that shone in from a crevice to help him find the spiral stairs leading to the chambers above. He held Raina's hand tightly as they mounted the steep, circling steps, trying to batten down the queer tremor that began a steady rise in his chest with each advancing footfall.

Unbidden images sprang to life in his mind: the grating rasp of d'Bussy's sword, the wicked laughter, his mother's crumpled body, and the blood. Jesu, the blood. Grinding the heel of his palm into his brow did nothing to ease the pain throbbing there nor the guilt that chewed at his conscience.

“P-please,” Raina whispered from behind him, “I don't wish to stay here.”

His lips curved wryly and without humor in the dark. “The idea holds little appeal to me, either, my lady, but I reckon 'tis the safest place for us to stop and rest for a few hours.”

They crested the stairwell and Gunnar stalked toward the first chamber, his footsteps heavy under his purposeful gait. A sheen of sweat beaded his upper lip and brow as he neared the entrance, dread clutching his heart almost as strongly as Raina now clung to his hand.

“Wait here,” he said and moved to stand before the threshold, clenching his fists at his sides and steeling himself against what he might find within.

The door was slightly ajar, ironically so, as if the last occupant had departed quietly, without disturbance. He reached out to place his palm against the iron-banded oak panel, cursing himself for the way his hand was shaking and at the same time thankful for the darkness that concealed it from Raina's view. With little pressure, the door creaked open on its ancient leather hinges.