Lord of Vengeance (25 page)

But her father?

What Gunnar said simply could not be true.
It could not.

Acknowledging her father's involvement in something so heinous would mean admitting that her entire life had been founded on treachery and lies.

It would mean that her father--the gentle, doting man who'd held her on his lap when she was a little girl, who'd kissed her childhood scrapes and soothed her tears all those nights when she wept for the loss of her mother--was in fact, a stranger. A deceitful impostor. And she could not credit that no matter how the doubt niggled her.

Besides, Gunnar was young at the time of the siege--what had he said it had been, some thirteen years past? Perhaps his child's view had clouded reason. Surely that had to be it.

And though her father had been unwilling to discuss his involvement or even his awareness of the crime with her before, perhaps having had time to think on it, he could now explain.

If only she could convince Gunnar to give him the chance to be heard.

* * *

Gunnar avoided facing Raina for the remainder of the day, even going so far as to organize a hunt with Alaric and his men despite the persistent threat of rain, so that he might be away from the keep for a number of hours. Fool that he was, he thought time away would keep his mind from wandering to her, from the thought of her in his arms.

But he saw her face at every turn, felt her softness in the brush of summer air, smelled her essence in the waft of heather rolling off the hills. The sound of his name on her lips lingered in his mind, fiercely stirring his loins with the promise of hearing her say it again, her velvet voice husky with passion. She was under his skin and in his blood, and he could not deny it.

More than once he had not heard his men speaking to him, and they had to repeat themselves. More than once his arrow went awry, and he missed the opportunity to fell easy game. Gunnar's mind was elsewhere, as it had been for the past few days, and finally abandoning the hunt to his men, he reined in his destrier.

He reached into a small satchel he wore tied to his baldric and withdrew the ring he had taken from Raina that first eve at the keep. So delicate yet strong. Beautiful and true. Like her...

His mother.

Gunnar's every memory of his mother had her wearing this ring. Often she told him the story of how she had come to have it, and how much it meant to her. His father had given it to her as a token of his devotion before he left for war, a promise that he would carry her love with him every day, a vow that he would return to dedicate his life to loving her and their son. And he had, she would tell young Gunnar with a wistful smile.

What he wouldn't give to look upon her gentle face again.

He enveloped the ring in his fist, holding it and her precious memory close to his heart. Luther d'Bussy had stolen the ring from her lifeless hand that day and then had the temerity to offer it to his daughter. He had taken a symbol of goodness and honor and attached to it a legacy of treachery and deceit. Not that Raina could be held responsible for the deed; she wore the ring with the same pride Gunnar's mother had, clearly treasuring the ring for its meaning to her, rather than its value.

Gunnar had reacted harshly when he'd spied the ring again after so many years, taking it from Raina without explanation, without apology. In truth, he had scarcely been able to think, let alone speak, when he realized he had reclaimed it at last. For so long he had alternately cursed and cherished its rugged mate, the ring his mother had fashioned for her husband upon his return home. The ring she had given to Gunnar upon his father's death and the one Merrick had returned to him just a few days ago.

The ring Gunnar would never allow himself to wear, nor could he bear to, until he had avenged his parents' murders.

It was unfortunate that in so doing, Raina would lose a father she so clearly adored. It pained him to think of her feeling any measure of the anguish he felt at losing his family. She would hate him for it, and rightly so.

But how she felt about him could have no bearing on his actions. It might have influenced him to repair his hall and respect her virtue, but this was different.

This was about collecting on a debt owed for too long, and he would not be swayed...least of all, by his emotions. Still, she had a right to an explanation, an apology.

Thunder rumbled overhead, drawing Gunnar's attention to the fast-darkening sky. Through the canopy of trees, heavy drops of rain splattered his face as the clouds rolled in. Placing the ring back in his satchel with the other, Gunnar stood in his stirrups, narrowing his eyes to search the woods for his men. In the distance, he heard Alaric's short whoop of victory and he headed in that direction.

“The only squeal I 'eard came from yer lips,” Burc grumbled, slicing the head off a blossoming weed. “At best, ye might 'ave clipped the boar's arse.”

Gunnar rode up to the group and reined in. “You men can finish the hunt without me,” he said. “I'm heading back to the keep.”

“Aye,” Wesley, his archer, agreed, securing his bow to his saddle. “The rains are coming and I've no desire to soak my bones chasing after phantom boars.”

“Nor do I,” Burc replied.

The opinion drew quick support from the majority of the men and they prepared to abandon the hunt.

“My mark was true,” Alaric maintained, “and I'm not coming in without that boar.” He looked to the crowd of knights. “Who is willing to wager I'm wrong? Surely there's one among you who isn't afraid of a few drops of rain?”

An insulted murmur traveled the group and Gunnar had to grin, for if his squire's aim with bow and arrow fell short, the lad knew precisely where to strike with his wit.

Alaric drew himself up in his saddle and went for the kill. “God knows, most of your ugly arses could do with a bit of water.”

“Is that so?” Cedric said, unwittingly taking up Alaric's challenge. “I, for one, would very much like to see the look on yer face when ye see that yer
boar
is naught but a bunny. Or, mores the like, a puny rat, skewered with your arrow.”

Another man laughed along with Cedric, agreeing that he too would like to witness the lad's humiliation.

With a knowing smirk in Alaric's direction and a slight shake of his head, Gunnar wheeled his mount around and rode out of the woods with Burc and several other men at his heels.

* * *

The foul weather had moved in quickly, carrying with it an uncustomarily cool wind. Rain slanted in through the open window of Gunnar's chamber, wetting the ledge and the floor beneath it before Raina hastened to push the shutters closed. Shivering from the dampness in the air, she stood before the fireplace, warming her hands as the door creaked open.

Gunnar entered softly, his hair wet, his mantle spotted with rain. “Are you cold?” he asked as his gaze lit on her. At her faint nod, he removed the cloak and cast it to the bed, then retrieved a log from the pile beside the fireplace and placed it on the hearth.

Dark, rusty-colored blood stained his sleeve where the cut in his arm had bled through, but he did not favor it as some might have. He seemed to take every adversity in stride, no pain seemed significant enough to give him any pause. Raina wondered what it must be like to keep all that pain bottled up inside. “How fares your arm?” she inquired softly.

He turned then, glancing over his shoulder to face her, as if startled to hear her voice. He shrugged. “Well enough, thanks to your expert mending.”

The room was dark, save the now blazing firelight, which danced in Gunnar's eyes as he stood beside her, his striking features cast in shadows that lent him a mythical quality. Strangely, in that moment, Raina could see the boy that Gunnar may have been, his fathomless eyes seeming to reflect the void of living alone, living without love.

She longed to place her palm against his cheek, to feel the rugged plane of his face, the crisp growth of whiskers peppering the jaw of the man whom that wounded boy had become.

Raina sat beside him, stunned at his gentle treatment of her, the way he traced his finger along the back of her hand so gingerly. She held her breath while he seemed to struggle finding his.

He spoke at last, looking into her eyes. “I wish to apologize to you for many things, not the least of which being the way I have treated you since you've been here.”

Raina didn't need an apology; she understood. But there was one thing she simply had to know. “Gunnar, those scars--”

He dismissed her concern with a wave of his hand. “They are unsightly and no doubt turned your stomach.” He chuckled, but it was a forced sound. “They are inconsequential.”

“But you said my father was responsible...Gunnar, you must be mistaken.”

He stood sharply and paced away from her. When he spoke, his voice was cool and flat, like the edge of a blade. “There is no mistake. It may not have been at his hand, but 'twas by his command.”

“'Tis impossible for me to believe--”

“You call me a liar, then?”

“I don't doubt that you believe my father responsible. 'Tis just that the man who could have done what you say he's done, has to be the worst sort of villain. Not at all like the man I call Father.”

“That doesn't mean he is innocent of the crime.”

“Perhaps not, but what if your memory is cloudy of that day? You said yourself 'tis been thirteen years. You could have only been a young boy then. Children's memories are often exaggerated--”

“What more do you require to convince you?”

“I don't need to be convinced,” she said, “but mayhap if you were to tell me what happened...exactly...I could help you to make sense of it.”

“It will never make sense,” he snapped, scowling furiously at her. He exhaled deeply and fixed his attention back on the fire. “I no more wish to dredge up the details than you will want to hear them.”

“Then perhaps if you had some proof--” she blurted.

Gunnar spun to face her, his expression screwed with affronted incredulity. “Proof? Proof that I was there and saw with mine own eyes how your father, Luther d'Bussy, sliced my mother nigh in two with his blade when she refused to become his whore? Proof that I was cut down by your father's man and left to die of my wounds?”

“Nay,” Raina covered her ears with her hands, trying to block out the horrible details. “Nay, 'tis not true.”

“You want proof?” he roared. “Here.” He jerked a small satchel from his baldric and pitched it at her. “Here's your damned proof.”

Long after Gunnar had stormed out of the chamber, Raina stared at the leather pouch, afraid to touch it, afraid to know what she might find inside. Perhaps she didn't want proof after all. Perhaps she would be wise to simply leave it lying where it landed on the bed. But still, the question begged an answer.

Could her father truly have been capable of these crimes?

Praying the satchel was empty, Raina hooked her finger through the leather drawstring and pulled it close. It felt light, its weight no more cumbersome than the material it was made from. But as she dragged it over a lump in the mattress, something small and metallic jingled in the bag.

Gooseflesh swept over Raina's limbs, a portent of a storm.

With her heart in her throat, she loosened the drawstring and poured the contents of the satchel into her cupped palm. The ruby ring her father had given her--the one that had so enraged Gunnar when he saw it on her finger--tumbled into her hand. Behind it came another ring, this one larger, fashioned unmistakably for a man but in the same design as hers.

Nay, not hers, she amended.

For these were clearly rings shared between a man and a woman. Symbols of a union between two people who loved each other, shared their lives. And the fact that her father had come to possess one half of the pair could mean only one thing. He
had
been at Wynbrooke that day.

Gunnar had been right. The ring was a family heirloom...

His.

Her father, who raised her to cherish the truth, to live honestly, had lied to her, offering the ring to her as a token of his affection, when it was rather evidence of his malice, his perfidy. Raina had been able to suppress her doubts until this. Until she saw the rings. Now shame swept over her in a wave that shook her to her very soul.

If her father had lied about the ring...what more had he been keeping from her?

Oh, mercy, but she had to find Gunnar, to tell him she was sorry...for everything. He had come to apologize for treating her unkindly, and she had smote him with doubt and questioned his character. Desperate to make amends, she fled the chamber and raced down the stairwell.

“Gunnar,” she called, dashing toward the sound of voices in the hall. “Gunnar!”

A handful of men seated around a trestle table halted their game of dice and peered at her inquisitively.

“Have you seen my lord?” she asked, heedless of the raised eyebrows and looks of surprise the men exchanged among themselves. “I must find him,” she pleaded. “Did he pass this way?”

“He did,” rasped a male voice from behind her.

Raina spun around to find Burc assessing her with drink-glazed eyes as he approached. He stank of stale wine and sweat, making her cringe inwardly with revulsion.

“Where is he?” she asked.

The knight shrugged. “He left.”

The sporting glimmer in Burc's eyes raised the hairs at the back of her neck. Clenching her fists at her sides, she made to walk past the knight. He moved into her path, cutting her short.