Lord of Vengeance (24 page)

His massive bronzed chest and shoulders glistened in the heat of the morning sun, well-defined muscles flexing and bunching with every twist of his slim waist, each thrust of his sword a deadly testimony to his agility and strength. Alaric was no match, and it soon became clear that Gunnar was not playing to win, but to teach.

Raina's belly fluttered at the sight of him, bare-chested and gleaming with sweat. A warmth began to spread over her and for the briefest moment, she imagined what it would be like to be trapped under all that power, to have him sweating and straining above her, rather than on the field.

Guilt inflamed her cheeks and she quickly blinked the ridiculous notion from her mind.

The warmth that had settled in her belly could not so easily be dismissed however, nor could she seem to tear herself away from the window and the action below.

* * *

Gunnar had finally agreed to spar with Alaric to assess the squire's skill with the sword. He was truly pleased to see that Alaric was progressing so well. Though his defensive skills were stronger than his offense, the boy was serious and eager to learn. His determination alone would prove to make him a promising opponent in the future.

“Ah!” Gunnar deftly avoided a jab to his right. “I see you have been paying attention to my lessons.” Their blades clanked as he deflected the blow.

“Aye, milord,” Alaric said, a bit breathlessly, as he regained his balance and parried Gunnar's thrust. “I am quite good, am I not?”

“You show promise.” Gunnar smiled at the youth's overblown confidence, deliberately swiping Alaric's mail-covered arm with his sword. “Though you still have a great deal to learn,” he said as the steel blade grated against the links of the youth's protective armor. When Alaric's attention flicked to his arm, Gunnar took advantage, his blade poised at the squire's now vulnerable chest. “Never assess your damage in the midst of battle, boy. 'Tis a sure way to die.”

“Damnation,” Alaric muttered in defeat. “Once again, milord? Please?”

“You are a glutton for punishment.”

“I will do better this time, milord.” Alaric removed his helm and wiped the sweat from his brow, his cheeks flushed with exertion. “I was merely warming up.”

Gunnar laughed. “You can scarcely breathe as it is. Another bout and I wager you'll drop dead of exhaustion.”

The knights around them laughed, egging on the light-hearted challenger. “Come now, milord. Give it a go. He'll not let up till he's flat on his arse!”

Alaric replaced his helm and squared his shoulders, his breath becoming more steady. “I won't give up.”

“Very well,” Gunnar relented with a smirk. He spread his feet and crouched, tossing his sword from hand to hand. “I find I am of a mind to teach you yet another lesson.”

“What lesson is that, milord?” Alaric queried, adopting a readied battle stance.

“A lesson,” Gunnar replied lightly, lunging forward to strike the first blow, “in humility.” The gathered knights laughed, goading Alaric on.

The mock battle began anew as student and teacher took turns dealing and avoiding blows. Steel met steel in a rhythmic crash for several minutes before Alaric, once again huffing and puffing, retreated to his side of the small circle.

“Do you give up?” Gunnar grinned, backing off the youth for a moment. While Alaric coughed, unable to reply, Gunnar planted the tip of his sword in the ground and leaned casually on the hilt. “Do you yield, young Alaric?”

“Nay,” the youth wheezed, bending over to catch his breath. He stood again and raised his weapon.

Gunnar readied his stance. “I must say, what you lack in sense, you more than make up for in fortitude.”

Alaric charged his lord, who dashed out of his path at the last moment, sending the youth stumbling forward nearly to his knees. He regained his balance and turned to charge again. Gunnar bent to meet his attack when a flash of pale green sendal in the window of his chamber caught his eye.

Had she been watching him?

In the second it took to ponder the possibility, Alaric's blade bit into his bare arm.

“Christ!” Gunnar roared.

Alaric threw his sword to the ground; tearing off his helm and casting it aside. “Oh, God!” he cried. “Milord, I did not intend--Oh, God!”

“'Tis just a scratch,” Gunnar grumbled, more upset at having been distracted by the thought of Raina's interest in him than at his squire having landed a blow. He clasped his hand over the wound and made his way into the keep to have it dressed. “Resume the practice,” he barked to his men.

Alaric followed at his side, spewing nervous apologies and curses at his own carelessness as the two men entered the tower and ascended the stairs.

* * *

Raina heard footsteps on the stairwell, but when the chamber door was thrown wide, she looked up from her mending with a start.

“Good heavens,” she gasped when she spied the blood seeping between Gunnar's fingers. She had stopped watching the men in the bailey and gone back to her mending when it became evident that they could continue sparring for the remainder of the afternoon. She had not been prepared to meet with this. Dropping her work and ignoring Gunnar's perturbed scowl, she was at his side in an instant. “What happened?”

“We were training in the bailey,” Alaric supplied, his brows knit with worry. “I struck milord--though I swear 'twas not apurpose!”

Raina showed her reluctant patient to a faldstool beside the hearth. “How bad is it?” Kneeling beside Gunnar, she glanced up to see his dark gaze fixed on her as she worked to loosen his grip on the wound.

“'Tis a scratch, naught more,” he growled, looking away from her at last. “I swear, you both act as if you've never seen a flesh wound.”

He removed his hand at Raina's insistent prying. The cut was clean and clotting already, but it was fairly deep and would likely need to be stitched to avoid festering and scarring.

Raina rose to retrieve her needle and thread and the cup of wine that sat beside the bed. Returning to Gunnar, she knelt beside him on the floor, then gingerly lifting his arm, she poured the contents of the cup over the cut. He tensed in her hands but his face remained impassive.

“I'm sorry,” she said, wiping away the blood and wine with a cloth. “I fear it needs stitching.”

She waited for his refusal, recalling that many of her father's knights often preferred to suffer out their wounds, gladly accepting horrible scars over the thought of stitches. Gunnar simply shrugged away her concern.

Gathering the wound closed as gently as she could, Raina poked the needle into the dark skin of Gunnar's arm, wincing in empathy. “Alaric's skills must be improving, to have landed such a blow on his teacher.”

“Oh, n-nay, milady!” Alaric sputtered at her praise. “'Twas through no great skill of mine, I trow, but rather that milord's attention--”

Gunnar shot his squire a silencing scowl. “The sun was in my eyes,” he grumbled.

“Oh,” Raina said, and went back to her stitching. When she spoke again, her tone was insightful, teasing. “You must be more careful in future, my lord. And Alaric, you'd do well to learn from this. My father always said that a knight can ill afford to lose his concentration on the battlefield.”

“Nay, milady,” Alaric mumbled.

“The both of you may cease your babbling now,” Gunnar interrupted. “Boy, fetch me a cup of ale. I grow thirsty and powerful tired of your presence.”

* * *

Alaric rose and hastened out the chamber. The door closed behind him, leaving Gunnar in uncomfortable seclusion with Raina. He watched her work on his wound; her touch so gentle, her every concentration on causing him no greater discomfort.

If she only knew the greatest discomfort came from her nearness and the lightness of her touch. It took great control for him not to seize her tiny hand and place it where her touch would do his body the greatest good.

If she but looked at him now, he knew it would be impossible not to take her. If, in those green-brown depths he saw a hint of surrender, he would surely be lost. He squeezed his eyes shut, praying she would finish quickly so he could get as far away from her as possible.

“Am I hurting you?”

He found Raina's face tilted up at him, her eyes boldly searching his. Fearing what she would find there, his gaze dropped to her mouth. That was a mistake. Her lips were moist and supple as her tongue darted out to wet them.

God, he wanted to taste of that mouth.

“Nay,” he finally managed to croak, the word just as much a command to himself as it was answer to her innocent question. Aye, she was hurting him he reckoned. The pain she caused was the sweetest kind, a longing unlike any he had ever felt in his life. A pain he was certain only her kiss could cure.

“I'm finished,” she whispered, mercifully turning her attention back to his gashed arm. When she dipped her head to bite off the thread and her lips brushed his skin for the briefest moment, he nearly bolted off his seat.

She looked up at him, her eyes registering surprise. Then she smiled. “Did you think I would bite you?”

He wanted to shoot back a clever remark, but to his infinite bewilderment, his voice was nowhere to be found. Instead he could only look at her, wanting nothing more than for her to flee, yet willing her to stay this close.

Closer.

She started to move away, and, seemingly of its own accord, his hand reached out to take her wrist. She hesitated, slowly lifting her head to face him, so close he felt her warm breath fan his skin. Her lips parted in silent protest but the invitation was clear in her eyes, in the way her arm relaxed in his grasp.

Before he could stop himself he was leaning forward, pressing his lips to hers. Christ, their softness far surpassed his memory. A groan curled up from his throat; his loins tightened in response to her pliancy, and he pulled her to his chest, his kiss growing hungry with want to consume her the way she had been consuming his every waking thought. When her hand came up to cradle his nape and bring him closer, he pressed into her, fighting the urge to take her where she sat.

The kiss deepened, rendering him near senseless with desire. He groaned and shifted on the stool, trapping her between his thighs.

God's wounds, he wanted her so badly....

A soft knock on the door went unanswered, then Alaric's tremulous voice sliced through the delicate veil that shrouded them from the rest of the world. “Milord? I bring your drink.”

Raina broke free of the kiss first, her eyes downcast as she hastily moved away from him to the far corner of the room. Gunnar gazed at her for a long moment, his jaw clenched, angered at the interruption and willing the boy away.

When Raina pressed a trembling hand to her mouth, he knew the moment had passed. “Enter,” he barked, his voice gruffer than he intended, roughened by passion unquelled. He shifted uncomfortably as Alaric opened the door and walked in with the requested ale.

The silence in the room was palpable, and Gunnar knew the boy would have to be a fool not to realize something had happened. “Forgive the intrusion, milord,” Alaric mumbled as he set the cup down beside Gunnar and cast a quick glance to the corner where Raina stood. “Is there aught else you require?”

Gunnar dismissed him with a curt wave and a shake of his head. When the door closed, he stood and examined his arm. “You make a better seamstress than laundress,” he said, offering a lame attempt at humor.

She did not reply. Nay, she would not even look at him. He had taken liberties he had sworn not to, had plundered her mouth and nearly forced himself on her despite his pledge to keep his distance.

He knew without turning around what caused her revulsion. Knew, because he got the same response from everyone who chanced to spy his back.

His scars.

He reached for the door, anxious to be away, not wanting to see the expression of horror on Raina's face.

“Gunnar,” she called softly.

He couldn't recall her ever using his Christian name. The sound of it, so tender on her lips, sent a tremor through him that he felt as surely as a bolt to the heart.

She wouldn't always speak his name with tenderness, he reasoned. The day would come, and soon, that she would spit it with the self-same hatred he once felt for Luther d'Bussy. He couldn't change what had happened, couldn't change who he was.

Chapter 15

If he sought to wound her, he had done so with expert aim. As if struck by a physical blow, Raina dropped to her knees in the center of Gunnar's chamber. Painful as it was, she supposed she needed a reminder of just what had brought her to this place, to his arms.

Her father...his supposed crimes.

Though she wanted desperately to deny Gunnar's claims, she knew now that he was not the sort of man to carelessly fling accusations. Whoever was responsible for the havoc wreaked on Gunnar's back, and indeed his soul, was the worst sort of monster.

Heartless, unconscionable.

She understood now why Gunnar hated with such vehemence, for she felt her own rage churn at just the thought of what he must have suffered. And to have lost his family...to be so alone.