Rising Fire (6 page)

“Can you hear my thoughts?” she asked, putting a short distance between them. “Who are you?” In truth, she should be showing him respect and not nay-saying him, but she wanted to know. He was unlike any man she'd ever met.

“I am William, the king's man.” He bowed slightly to her as though she was worthy of such regard. “I come to meet with your lord.”

“He is not yet returned,” she blurted out.

In spite of her father's warnings not to speak of Lord Hugh to outsiders, she just had. Did he hear her thoughts
and
control her speech? His mouth curved into a smile then, easing the masculine sharpness of his features.

“I suspected as much,” he said. “Where is your father?”

Brienne glanced over her shoulder and in the direction of their cottage and the smithy. “He is working in the smithy now.”

“Ah, so he made the weapons you brought in your wagon?”

Finally gathering her scattered wits about her, she did not let the words leave her mouth. It would be unwise to be caught speaking to a stranger, let alone giving him information about anything that involved Lord Hugh. He was not tolerant of those who spilled his secrets or spoke unwisely about him.

“My father is there, if you wish to speak to him.”

The warrior, for that was what he was, turned and
looked back toward the woods and then at the village as though deciding which path to take. When his foot took a step away from the village, her heart ached.

She needed to ask him . . . She wanted to speak to him. . . . She wanted to know . . . everything. If he left now, Brienne knew she would never discover why his presence seemed to strengthen her powers when no one else's ever had.

Except for Lord Hugh, her true father.

“Will you return?” she asked.

“I have business with your lord,” he said, nodding. Then, with a quick glance over her shoulder, he disappeared into the thick copse of trees faster than she thought a man could move.

The crunching and crackling of leaves behind her told her of another's approach. Now she understood William's hasty leave-taking—he did not wish to be seen here. Puzzling over it, Brienne turned and watched as James made his way to her.

“Are you well, Brienne?” he asked. “My mother said you left hastily when she spoke to you.”

“I am well. I will apologize for my rudeness,” she said.

He took a step closer and towered over her. Taller but thinner and not as muscular as the warrior who'd stood with her, James did not upset her feelings or cause the heat to blossom within her.

“She did not speak of rudeness, she but worried over you.” He lifted his hand and lightly placed it on her arm. “As I do, Brienne.”

A fortnight ago, even earlier this day, she would have welcomed his touch and his company. Now, though,
everything in her world had tilted and changed. She had changed. Now . . .

“I spoke to your father, Brienne. He said I may court you.” The hope she heard in his voice, full of promise and a shared future, made her stomach tighten. “If you consent, we could be married in the spring.”

James tilted his head down and touched his mouth to hers. It was a warm and gentle kiss. He canted his head, and his lips pressed against hers until she opened to him. A slow, tentative slide of his tongue into her mouth startled her. He drew back in response.

“So, will you, Brienne? Will you take me as your husband?”

As his brown eyes searched hers for an answer, she considered that only a fortnight ago, he would have been the perfect husband for her—the son of the miller marrying the daughter of the blacksmith. They would live in the village with their families, as generations had before them.

A perfect match.

Except that she was not the blacksmith's daughter. She was the get of one of the most powerful and terrifying lords in Scotland, who'd recently taken notice of her. She held some power within her that allowed—nay, pressed—her to control fire. The burning place on her arm flared then, reminding her of the unknown and that this possible future as the wife of James, Dougal's son, was simply not possible. As she tried to choose the right words that would kindly dash his hopes, he shook his head.

“I am not pressing for your answer now. I know you would speak to your mother and father now that the
offer is made to you. Take some time to consider how good a marriage we would make.” James took a full pace back and smiled at her.

All she could do was return it in silence.

“I must return to my father now that I know you are safe,” he said, leaning in for a quick kiss. “I will seek you out later.”

With those brief words of farewell, he was gone, striding back along the path toward his family's cottage.

Brienne stood in the dappled shadows, watching the wind move the branches above and around her. So much had happened this morning, and she was no closer to answers than she had been when she'd opened her eyes on this new day. All she had now were more questions and more doubts . . . and a marriage proposal. She shook her head at that, for her answer to James was the only thing of which she was certain.

Glancing around the clearing, she shook off the confusion and decided she must return to her errands. Mayhap by doing those tasks and daily chores that were part of her everyday life, she would begin to find her path in all the uncertainty. Taking a deep breath and letting it out, she put one foot in front of the other and forced herself back to the path.

The skin on her arm, two flames dancing and burning without destroying, reminded her that, regardless of her wishes on the matter, nothing would ever be the same again.

H
e stood in the shadows, planning the death that would visit the man who'd touched her. Who'd kissed her. Who'd whispered to her. His sword drawn and ready, William blew hard against the urge to walk into the clearing and kill the one who dared so much.

She was his.

His to touch.

His to kiss.

His . . . to claim.

His vision narrowed, and red ringed the edges of it. His body strengthened and broadened, his muscles elongating and tightening until his garments felt too small. He breathed hard and deep, preparing for battle, and the hand that clutched the sword appeared larger, as though it were not his own. Then the sword became as one with him and his focus sharpened onto only one thing—making certain that no man left his scent or mark on the woman destined for him.

His.

He'd taken one step back out of the thick copse that hid him before his control overruled the possessive
compulsion that nearly forced his hand. Shaking off the stranglehold of pure fury that raced in his veins and pumped his heart hard and fast, he watched as the young man escaped the death he did not know was coming for him.

Then she left, walking back along the path that led to the center of the village.

Though the skin on his arm ached and burned, his gaze and his head began to clear. Then a wave of shudders racked him as whatever had fueled his rage dissipated and left him. His own body returned and the red tinge left his vision, allowing him to notice the cool breeze rustling through the trees around him. Now, when he lifted his arm, the sword appeared to be a separate thing, the weapon he'd always known it to be.

Not an appendage to his body.

His knees buckled and he landed hard, shaking and trembling, as though he'd not eaten in days. Sweat poured down from his brow, trickling over his face and neck and under his garments, as it did after a battle or a strenuous training session with his men.

But he'd done none of that. Had he?

Rubbing the back of his hand across his forehead, William wondered if he was getting ill. A fever? Some contagion that caused the strange changes in his body and mind? He must return to his men. There must be an explanation. One that made sense. One that did not seem too close to the king's peculiar claims.

Oh God! Was the same madness that claimed his father's reason now taking his?

Pushing to his feet, William retraced his path back through the darkest part of the forest to their camp.
When he broke through the trees, his men stared at him in silence.

“What happened?” Roger asked as he approached. Glancing behind William, he stared into the forest. “Were you attacked? Are you being followed?”

As William expected, the three formed a line and drew their swords, expecting an attack at any moment. They'd fought many times before, and he welcomed their presence in any battle. But this was not one.

“Nay.” He waved them off, walked directly to the stream just at the edge of their camp, and drank the cold, fresh water. He even splashed some of it on his face and neck. He hoped it would cool whatever fever controlled him, but the shaking would not desist. “No one comes. I was not attacked,” he said, standing before them. “If I did not call out to you, why would you think that?”

The three looked at one another and then back at him, disbelief etched on their faces.

“Did you see the girl?” Gautier's gaze narrowed. He stood more at ease now. “Or did her father see you?”

“The girl,” he replied, choosing not to lie about it. Pushing his hair out of his face, he shrugged.

Gautier nodded to Herve then; for them this was a simple thing—if they lusted for a woman, they sought her and eased the itch. Roger motioned the two of them off and walked up to William.

“You look like bloody hell, Will. What happened?” he asked in a low voice. “You look as though you've seen the devil himself.”

“I am beginning to understand the king's strange behavior and suspicions.” That admission eased something
within him. “Something is going on here, something I have never encountered, Roger. I am part of it, as the king said, but now you and the others are as well.”

“I do not understand,” Roger said. He walked a few paces back to the camp and brought back a skin of wine. After taking a long drink from it, he offered it to William. “Something like treason? Or”—he paused and glanced around before whispering—“some madness? Surely not witchcraft or deviltry?” Roger made the sign of the cross over himself after saying the words. “And the girl is part of it?”

“I am part of it. And, aye, the girl. I could see something was different about her when I first looked upon her. Just now, while speaking to her . . .” He shrugged, not knowing what to say or how to explain the change that had happened. “When someone approached, I left. Then I watched, and I . . . lost control of myself somehow,” he admitted.

That's how it had felt to him—as though someone else had taken over his body, changing it, changing him. Only at that last moment had he regained control and stopped the young man's death. He shivered against the heat that yet filled him.

“Sweet Jesu, man! Did you take her? Did you kill her or someone?”

“Nay,” he answered. Shaking his head, he knew that whatever had happened had occurred so he could protect her, not threaten her.

Roger asked nothing else, which suited William, for he had little or nothing else he could say in reply to queries. In battle, William was skilled, strong, and ruthless, but he always controlled his actions and the path
he took when fighting. Just a few minutes ago, he'd felt like a madman, ready to kill for no reason.

Though his control had returned, William could not rid himself of the suspicion that this was but the first strange incident and that many more dangerous incidents would follow in his quest for the king. Peering over the rolling lands just beyond the forest's edge, he knew he and his men were not safe.

“Send Herve to Gifford to find out what he can about Lord Hugh's whereabouts,” he said, handing the skin back to Roger. “And send Gautier for the rest of the men. They should travel in small groups so they do not draw attention.” When Roger nodded, he continued, first pointing to a place higher on a nearby hill. “We will move our camp up there. Better to see the whole of this valley and easier to defend ourselves.”

“Defend?” Roger stared at him. “You think we will be attacked?”

“Aye.”

William
knew
they would be. He could see it in his thoughts, the waves of men pouring from the keep and out into the forest and running up the hill at them. No, not men . . . Though they resembled men, there was something almost inhuman about them.

He could also not determine the time or the day of his vision; he knew only that they would come. “Aye, we will be attacked.”

He spent the next few hours making a list of supplies and discussing the weapons they would need. Two of the men waiting outside Dunfermline were experts at the long bow and would be sorely needed in the coming battle. Battles.

William had gold from the king and could buy the weapons they needed—and that might be the course of action he would take. First he needed his men in place. Then he must determine Lord Hugh's plans.

And he must discover the reason why the young woman Brienne was so important to him.

Later, when the sun was high in the late-February sky, he and Roger moved their camp higher on the hillside.

Suddenly it made sense to William: This was more than just the king's quest. There were other players in the game that was unfolding around him. He just could not see his place on the board yet.

*   *   *

The fire hummed inside of her, whispering its call, its invitation, quietly and testing its bounds. She could not ignore or resist it now that it had awakened. Though Brienne carried out her daily tasks over the next days, her thoughts drifted to the extraordinary exchanges she'd had with both James and the warrior William.

James had never kissed her in spite of his obvious affection for her. His proposal and her father's permission had emboldened him to take such an action now. A pang of sadness pierced her, as she knew that she would never marry him. The words she would use to tell him eluded her, but that did not change the result or the disappointment she would see in his eyes when she did.

William had not returned to the village. Gavin had warned her with stern words to avoid the strangers. He'd reminded her of what could happen to women caught outside the village by strangers. He begged her to stay within the well-worn paths and among those
she knew. And for all his concern and warnings, Brienne watched along the shadows and at the edges of the village for any sign that the outsider had returned.

After she'd finished her chores, Brienne walked along the stream, feeling the fire push at her control. What would happen if she let go? Would she truly be able to create fire? Could she control it as she had in her father's smithy? Would it do her bidding?

Searching for a secluded spot where she would not be seen, she decided to test out this new power. As she crept along the water's edge, she saw him. He knelt there, scooping water in his hands and drinking it. His brown hair hung down, hiding his face from her, but she remembered his fierce gaze and his pale blue eyes. After her father's words of warning and her mother's plea to remain close, Brienne knew she should be wary and probably afraid, but all she noticed was a shameful amount of curiosity—about the man, his purpose, and the world from which he came.

“Good day,” he said when he'd turned and noticed her. Standing, he shook off the water from his hands, wiped them on his cloak, and nodded to her. She noticed how he towered over her, though not as much as James did.

“Good day,” she replied. Glancing around the area, she saw no one else. He was alone.

“You are looking for the others? My men?” he asked. She nodded. “They are not here.”

His gaze did not waver, and a small shiver of excitement and nervousness pooled deep within her. No man ever stared at her in this manner or took more than a sidelong glance at her. Oh, her father could meet her eyes when they talked, and her mother as well, but
few others in the village dared. Brienne's molten gaze was something she had inherited from her true sire, and everyone who'd seen him knew it.

Could he sense it?

“I must get back,” she began, lifting her hand in the direction of the village behind her.

“So soon, demoiselle?” The word spoken in such a soft tone seemed strange coming from such a large and dangerous warrior. Then he continued. “I did not mean to frighten you away from whatever task brought you to the stream. I will go.”

“Nay. Stay,” she said, shaking her head. What she wanted more than anything was to talk with him. Talk to someone whose life was from outside Lord Hugh's demesne and control. Yet she could not say such a thing to him, knowing he had business with Lord Hugh. “I was but walking before helping my mother with our supper.”

“Very well,” he said, turning back to the water and dipping his hands once again.

Her feet would not move. In spite of the warnings, she wanted nothing so much as to remain here and speak with him. Part of her wanted to speak with him about Lord Hugh, while another part knew the dire consequences that could happen to her or, worse, to her family, if she did. Brienne doubted that being his natural daughter would stop Lord Hugh's hand if raised in retribution. She shivered at the thought.

“Are you chilled? Here now. Come into the sun and out of the shadows,” he said. Reaching out, he took her hand and tugged until she took the few paces out from the cover of the trees to where he'd crouched at the
water's edge. Then he tugged the edges of her cloak together. “Better now?”

She nodded, knowing it was a lie. She never suffered the cold and wore a cloak only to avoid questions and inquisitive glances. She never had felt chilled, now that she thought on it. Closer to him, the fire inside her grew even more, swelling and pushing against her limits. Every step toward him made it intensify and strengthen.

Brienne gritted her teeth and clenched her fists, hoping to keep it within. If she had doubted she could bring forth fire without a hearth or pit, she did not do so any longer. It was there, barely contained, barely restrained, waiting for a slip in her grasp. She dared not.

She dared not.

“Why are you not at the keep?” she asked, trying to distract the heat within her from its purpose. “If you have business with Lord Hugh, surely you would be welcome there.”

He wiped his hands against his trews and tunic and met her gaze. “Lord Hugh knows not of my visit or my business yet. I did not wish to ask for the hospitality of his house until he arrived.”

She sensed that those few words, that short admission, cost him much.
Does he think me a risk?

“Aye, it is not my custom to speak of my matters with others.”

“How did you know? Can you hear my thoughts?” she asked. Then, gasping at her words, she covered her mouth with her hands.
Why did I say that to him?

“Not hear them so much as sense the questions you have,” he said, shaking his head. “I cannot fathom how it happens either.” He glanced at her, and his eyes
narrowed. “Nor why I need to tell you things I should not as well. Why do you draw me as surely as if you call my name?”

He touched her hands first, lifting them away from her face, and then he outlined her cheek and jaw with only a finger. She lost her breath, for it was the lightest of touches, but it held the power of a blow. His eyes never left hers as he turned his hand and let the back of it caress her cheek.

Now the heat pulsing through her body had nothing to do with the fire she controlled. This heat came from a growing ache in her core, her breasts and skin. It was a different kind of heat, and he leaned in closer and touched his lips to hers.