The Lethal Flame (Flame Series) (4 page)

“Who did this?” she asked standing on her wobbling legs.  She pointed a bloody, shaking finger at the horridness of a dying man having his throat cut.  Had he pleaded for his life?  Of course Alec hadn’t.  He had been brave, defending Keri time and again against those people who hated and feared her.  She had loved him once, before Bryson had turned any love for men into a repulsive memory. 

“I did,” The-man-on-the-gray-horse responded without hesitation.  “My horse,” he called to a young squire waiting nearby.  She stared at him while he looked at her calmly.  She wanted to rip his eyes from his head, to see his throat slit as he had done to Alec.  When her fists began to ache she was shocked to find herself beating on his killer’s chest, the tears flowing freely down her cheeks and he had let her.

When his horse was brought to him he plucked her from himself and settled her on the front of the saddle.  With a quick volt he was behind her.  She could feel his thighs flex as he controlled the horse with his legs.  He pulled her onto them, in his lap and she could feel every muscle movement underneath the cloak he secured around her before he pulled the horse toward the gate.  Her back was braced by one arm as he cradled her in his lap.  Her legs draped over one side of him so she felt surrounded by him.

“Burn it!” his deep voice rumbled overtop her head.  She wanted to look back, to see Alec, to see all those other men who had stood by her over the years.  But mostly she wanted to turn back time, back before Bryson had come into her life destroying it.  To the time she practiced the art of war with her friends and she foolishly thought that one day she would marry the great knight Alec and they would live happily ever after.  But if she looked back she would only see the bodies of her friends lying in the dirt.  Instead she turned her head into The-man-on-the-gray-horse’s massive chest and cried.

Chapter 2

The lady slept in his arms until dawn.  The sleep was disturbed often by nightmares but it took little to quiet her without waking her.  As soon as Phantom came to a halt overlooking Staward she was immediately awake, looking about herself.  Her gaze fell on the walls some distance away then looked up at Damien. 

Her appearance was far worse in the bright light of day than it had been in the torchlight of the dungeon.  Her rich locks of hair were in bad need of washing with dirt and blood clinging to them.  The cuts across her shoulder and chest were turning an angry red while her fingers and wrists were beginning to swell.  Her light brown eyes looked up at him accusingly, knowing he would do here what he did at Langley. 

He glanced away from her gaze and at the keep that would soon be under their attack.  It was not as well fortified as Langley.  He guessed he could be inside the walls before dark.  The woman shifted in his lap and his arm clamped a little tighter around her but he did not look down at her preferring to stay focused on the task at hand.

Damien kicked Phantom into a run.  The big horse charged forward and a battle cry came up from the men around him.  Artillery was in position and he ordered the barrage that began against the walls and the people who took cover behind them. 

“Stand together!” he ordered his men as the foot soldiers prepared to attack the walls and attempt to scale them.  “Victory will be ours as it has been this entire journey.  Fight hard, die well, but stand together and we will win!”

He felt the woman in his arms shudder as he carried his speech.  He raised his sword, Phantom half reared beneath him as he pivoted and charged toward the walls of the castle.  With an arm clamped across her thigh he kept her from falling from the saddle as he leaned over her, protecting her from the arrows raining down on them from above.  Reaching the wall he turned again and raising his sword his scream, “Stand together!” brought on the army.  They charged at them, and they were caught in the maelstrom as the screams tore the air. 

Damien called for the ladders and artillery to concentrate on weak positions, for one contingent of soldiers to fall back while fresh ones he ordered forward.  All this he normally did from the ground, leading his men but today he stayed on his horse, with Lady Keri secured in his arms.  The battle moved quickly and long before he estimated the gates were pushed open and he charged forward, Phantom leaping the fragments and they entered the courtyard.  His sword slashed to the left, then the right time and again with the Lady Keri clinging to him while she tried to keep herself modestly covered.  It had been quite the strategic move taking her clothes off.  Any struggle would leave the woman naked in front of all his men.  He might be the one in charge but men were still men and he guessed she would not be foolish enough to struggle. 

Finally the battle ended and the noise began to dwindle as prisoners were gathered.  Give him a battle any day, it was what was expected of him next that haunted him at night when he closed his eyes.  He slid from the horse, reaching up and plucking Keri easily from the saddle.  She followed eagerly for any tug on the manacles only aggravated her wounds.  He could hear it in the intake of breath and feel the wobble in her step all the way to his end of the chain.  How he wished this errand of the king’s was over with and he could collect on the king’s promise and spend the rest of his days trying to forget what he had done.  What would he do with the Lady Keri?  The widowed Lady Keri echoed inside his head.  “Do you dare raise your swords against your rightful king?” Damien demanded an answer as he moved among the soldiers that had been captured.  The sight of the prisoner he drug behind him kept drawing their attention despite their precarious circumstances.  He knew it was the shock of seeing what he must have done to the woman.  The blood caked to her, the large manacles that could hold a man like him dragging against her arms, the utter look of defeat surrounded her as she tiredly kept up with him.  He gazed at her for a moment, she was such a tiny creature his cloak fell all the way to the ground, her bare feet poking out from underneath.  He hated the monster he had become.  He looked away quickly.

“Who among you accepts Richard as your sovereign king?”

Some grumbles came up from the small group gathered but too many were John’s supporters here.  Already his squire, Edwin was directing the making of quick gallows.  One by one the men were dragged there and it was Damien’s kick that ended their lives as he pushed the blocks from underneath them.  By the time they were all dead the lady was shivering beside him.  He could see her out of the corner of his eye, her gaze turned up toward the last man who swung from the rope.  Then those eyes were on him and he could feel the heat of them, the hatred for him.  He was the man who could kill without batting an eye.  He met her gaze and dared her to judge him.

“Prepare the master chambers with a bath!” he ordered Edwin before turning to Cyrille.  “We stay here until dawn, secure the walls.”

“What of the men?” Cyrille asked, in his deep gravelly voice.

“Tell them to see to their duties and the feast, and then they may have their recreation.”

Damien kept his men in close check, including his brother.   He had denied his men the spoils of war throughout the journey, but he was feeling the disquiet growing in the ranks and knew this was the night as they neared the end of their journey he would have to turn them loose.  For Cyrille the spoils of war was usually his only chance for a woman, not even the whores liked to lay with him because of the scars. Not that Damien had made him go without the entire time.  He had provided a servant or two along the way, even the virgin daughter of one of the Lords.  That one did not end well and she had killed herself, fearing she carried Cyrille’s child afterward.  The ignorant bitch, he thought now with disdain.  His brother had been sent ahead before the drama had played itself out and he did not know of the young woman’s death.  It would be a death that would lay heavy on him so Damien chose to keep it from his brother and ordered those there that day to do the same. 

Damien tugged on the chains he held wrapped around his hand and a small hiss came from behind him.   He ignored it.   He didn’t need the accusation in her eyes to make him feel bad for the hangings.  She followed closely, the chains clanking between them as he mounted the
steps into the hall.  Women scurried about, preparing the hall for the usurpers with the fear of death hanging over them.  

He stopped and watched them.  They cast weary eyes toward the woman in chains.  She couldn’t possibly look any more bedraggled but their stares made her straighten and return their gazes with open disdain as if she was the regal lady in her own keep.  He noticed some of the women’s glances were hostile and he stared them down challenging them to continue with their malice.  The Lady who looked nothing like a lady at this point was obviously his prisoner and the lack of clothes made it appear as if she was his whore as well.  But she held her head high and stared those women down glare for glare.  He didn’t know why but he found pride in his lady prisoner. 

He searched the women for one that would be to Cyrille’s liking.  He tried to give him all that he could, reward him for his courage, reward him for carrying the scars that had been meant for him.  He found the tall redhead in the kitchen.  Her dress bespoke of a peasant but her height was impressive and he could only imagine how long her legs were underneath her clothes. 

“Bring clean linens and medicines to the master chamber now,” Damien told her.  The blue eyes boldly raked over him and a sensuous smile creased her becoming face before she turned away to do his bidding. 

He turned and yanked the Lady behind him, her feet rushing along the corridor to keep the pressure off her hands.  Edwin stood outside the doorway of the master chamber and servants hurried out carrying empty buckets.   “Your bath is ready,” he said stepping away from the door for Damien to enter.  “Send for Cyrille,” he ordered then led the Lady into the chamber and around it, ensuring she could not escape out a window or another door.  He moved back to the center, the steaming water of the large tub looked inviting.  He released the Lady’s chains.  “Post a guard at the door,” he told Edwin to ensure if the Lady attacked him she would still not be free.  If she had the strength to summon he thought angrily at himself for the way he was now treating women.  Were his sins ever going to end?

The door closed behind Edwin as he left the chamber.  Damien turned, pulling the key from his pocket and motioned for the Lady to come to him.  Despite he held freedom in his hands it appeared as if she hesitated.  “Come here!” he commanded her sharply.

She walked to him but he saw defiance in her eyes as she met his gaze.  “Give me your hands,” he told her meeting her glare with a sneer.  She raised her hands and he looked down at them as they shook.  Was she frightened of him?  He looked at her face but her attention was directed to the iron cuffs he held in his hand, to the big hand holding her tiny one.  She was witness to what he was capable of.  He had just slain her husband yesterday, along with her lover he strongly suspected.  His eyes started travelling back to her hands from her face but became ensnared midway.  With her hands before her she had nothing to hold the cloak together.  It had fallen open to reveal the inside curves of her breasts and for a moment all he could do was stare.  His eyes travelled further down, seeing her stomach her thighs and what lay between.  The hands before him were swollen, the raw skin and wounds inflamed.  He refocused on the hands and lifting the key gently unlocked them, opening them and allowing her to pull her hands out at her own speed.  She did so with a hiss her arms sagging when they came free.  He laid the chains to the side refusing to feel remorse for the damage he had done to her.

He turned back to the Lady and quickly plucked the cloak from her shoulders.  He could no more stop his perusal of her body than he could stop his own breath.  She had the curves of a woman whose hips were ripe for child bearing and her breasts were full and would fit perfectly in his hand.  Her brown eyes glowed as she looked at him, waiting for his next move.

“The bath is for you,” he said knowing she had caught him looking and he couldn’t help but smile for her body was a pleasure to look upon.  He laughed at her defiance.  She stood before him with her head stubbornly raised a notch and stood proudly as if she let men look at her naked body every day.  When his eyes locked back with hers he saw hate in them.  Her hands extended in front of herself she turned and walked to the tub.  He watched the sway of her hips, the rounded cheeks of her ass he wanted to cup in his hands and feel them lift her weight and settle her in his lap.  He watched her gently step into the tub.  She stood in the water facing him, watching him.  His eyes travelled back over her body, settled on her upper legs, her inner thighs as they opened and she sank down into the water with a groan.  Her breasts were only partially covered by the water as she settled her hands into the steaming liquid.  A hiss escaped between her clinched lips, her eyes tightened closed as she threw her head back to keep from crying out. 

A
knock sounded on the door and Damien bid the knocker enter.  Cyrille crossed the threshold closing the door behind him.  He came forward pulling the gauntlets from his hands but the gray hood he wore remained on as his eyes moved to the tub.  His brother liked the woman in his tub because Damien felt him tense seeing her there.  He did not handle desire or any other emotion that involved another human being well.  The subject of Cyrille’s perusal glared openly at them her hostile stare directed at both men. 

“How are things?” Damien asked drawing his brother’s attention from the naked woman.

“The walls are secured…” he began but the knock on the door interrupted him.  Damien bid them enter and the redhead came in carrying a basket and armload of linens.  She hesitated when she saw Cyrille but came further into the chamber. 

“Put them there,” he pointed to the table at the foot of the large bed.    

She moved to it and sat her bundle down.  “Will there be anything else my lord?” she asked and her eyes showed she was more than willing to do more for him. 

“Yes,” he said walking to his brother’s side.  “This is my brother Cyrille and you are to entertain him for the night.”

“Why does he wear the hood?” she asked wearily and speaking to Damien as if she could just ignore his brother.

“They hide the scars he received bravely in battle,” Damien replied irritably.

“Can he speak?” she asked her voice sounded close to panic.

“I can speak,” his brother’s gravelly voice bit out. 

The servants face whitened and she shook her head no.  Cyrille moved quickly toward her and grabbed her arm.  Damien did not know if it was an attempt to secure her or to reassure her.  She did the unexpected and grabbed his hood with her free hand and yanked it from his head.  Damien thought she might faint but instead she began screeching uncontrollably then turned and fled the room.  Damien didn’t see the scars so much on his brother’s face for he still saw the kid he once was, the handsome young man whose charismatic spirit had the women flocking to him.  Now they ran in fear or cringed in horror when they looked at him. 

He could see the effect the girl’s actions had on him but his brother was good at hiding it.  They glanced toward the tub and saw although the lady had seen the scars and the reaction of the other woman she had already dismissed the drama and was doing her best to ignore them now.
  Her reaction surprised Damien. He was pleased by it, but also felt anger that she would be the one he would offer his brother.  His brother’s stare had shown his interest and her lack of reaction had only interested his brother further.