The Red Cross of Gold I:. The Knight of Death (56 page)

“I’m sure she’s around somewhere,” Valentino
shrugged. “I guess we’ll just wait for her to come back. I want to
hear her explanation as to why she did not tell me that you were up
here. We’ve been chasing around the hills all day looking for my
horse.”

Apparently, she was not overly worried about
being alone with him and he wondered if she had already summoned
her watchdog. He was certain that Merry had not had the opportunity
to speak to Cecile since their return. A twinge of panic stabbed
his stomach next to the other wound. If Cecile had not seen her,
where had she gone? Where was Beaujold by now?

“You should have kept riding, cowboy.” She
eyed him casually when he fell silent. “I have your friends… all of
them.”

“All of them?” He raised both eyebrows. How
many had come? He remembered at least four. Maybe five. It was very
difficult to maintain any semblance of control as he sat staring at
her.

“Yep. All four,” she told him smugly.

He felt somewhat relieved to know that the
Knight of the Sword was not still at large, looking for his
head.

“You know that Merry still thinks you’re as
neat as cherry cheesecake,” she said.

“I wasn’t aware of that.” He managed a smile
for her. “Cherry cheesecake. Sounds wonderful.” Ironically his
stomach chose that moment to growl.

“But I know better,” she said, narrowing her
eyes. “You are an assassin and a rapist. And you will leave her
weeping or dead. Probably all the same to you.”

He drew in a sharp, involuntary breath.

“I know a lot more than you think I do,” she
continued. “You remember that I told you that I would die for Merry
in an instant?”

“Yes,” he answered and tightened his grip on
the sword, wanting desperately to make it happen for her.

“I believe that only something drastic will
show her what you truly are,” she said and reached into the pocket
of her slacks. She pulled out the small ceremonial dagger she had
worn for the ceremony the night before. It looked remarkably like
the one the Saracen woman had used to kill his Brother in
Jerusalem, definitely of Eastern design. He shook off the image of
the woman lying dead on the tiled floor in a growing pool of dark
blood. “I have been studying the exploits of the Templars during
the Holy Wars. I have read all about the atrocities committed in
the name of your God. Atrocities committed by men like you,
Chevalier Ramsay. How many women have you killed, Sir Ramsay? A
dozen? Two dozen? Or have you lost count?”

She twirled the point of the knife against
the tip of her index finger, mesmerizing his beleaguered mind.

“You are allowing your imagination to exceed
your capacity for understanding,” he told her lightly. Her words
were not helping the situation, which was growing more and more
desperate. He could not afford to lie still and wait for Maxie to
show up.

“You're right. My imagination most likely
does not do you credit,” she said. “You were not the gentlest of
lovers when I came to your bed. I would say it was more like rape
than a normal sexual encounter. And to think I wasted my virginity
on the likes of you!”

His eyes widened. What the hell was she
talking about? He blinked at her and she laughed.

“Oh, I see,” she said and her face took on an
expression of disbelief mixed with amusement. “You thought I was
Merry. Well, I fail to see what she finds so attractive about you.
I thought it was quite disgusting. Perhaps she is just living out
some ludicrous fantasy. She gets all her ideas from those stupid
romance novels. Tall, dark strangers with long hair and equally
long peckers, living in big, old drafty houses in the middle of
nowhere and her playing the part of the innocent young orphan
seduced by the big old, bad old peckerhead. Yeah, I know all about
those stories.” Cecile smiled ruefully and leaned toward him
slightly. “She keeps them in the coat closet under the
galoshes.”

His mind flashed back to the strange
encounter she was referring to and everything fell into place. She
had tricked him and made a fool of him and this revelation only
added to the rage growing in his head. He felt his face flush and
nausea washed over him momentarily. How dare she defile him with
her filthy accusations and lilting superiority? She knew nothing of
him. Nothing of what he had seen. Nothing of why he had done what
he had done. Nothing of duty. Nothing of war. Nothing of honor. And
she had stolen something sacred from him! Sacred? He closed his
eyes and shook his head. Perhaps sacred was the wrong word, but she
had stolen it none-the-less. She sat twirling the little blade,
looking smug and self-satisfied. All of this was her fault. She had
killed Anthony, or had him killed, just to serve her own greedy
purposes. And perhaps the dagger she handled so carelessly now in
front of his eyes was the very weapon she had used. History was
repeating itself and he would not stand for it. He would not permit
it.

“The company of women is a dangerous thing,”
he said more to himself than to her.

She turned suddenly and put the blade against
his throat. “Is this how you killed them? Did you cut their
throats?”

He looked at her blankly at first, unblinking
and then reached up with his right hand to take hold of her wrist
and slowly, deliberately twisted her hand around in a manner in
which it should not twist. She dropped the knife to the floor.

Like taking a bottle from a baby, with very
little additional effort, he yanked her completely across his body
onto the bed on her back, ignoring the pain that the jarring caused
him. Before she could cry out, he was up on his knees with the
golden sword lying across her neck. She stared up at him in shocked
dismay and touched the edge of the blade gingerly with her injured
hand.

“Perhaps it is your fantasy that you speak of
and not Merry’s. Is this what you wanted when you came to my bed
uninvited?” he asked her. “You asked me then if I like things
rough? You have no idea, lady.” He slid back in the bed and put the
point of the blade against her chin. She opened her mouth and he
nudged her chin ever so slightly with the blade. “Shhh! Now take
off your clothes.”

She closed her mouth and squeezed her eyes
shut, shaking her head minutely.

“It’s not a request, Madame,” he said.

“Get off me, motherfucker!” she cursed him
through gritted teeth.

“Not what you expected, is it?” he asked.
“Things have a way of working themselves out, do they not? Now, off
with the clothes. I’d do it myself, but we don’t have time.”

“Fuck you!” she hissed, but began unbuttoning
her blouse with shaking hands. She wiggled out of it, keeping
herself carefully below the blade, then held the blouse clutched in
front of her. She was wearing a decidedly manly safari blouse and
hiking shorts. She wore no bra, but instead a small undershirt of
thin, stretch material.

“Drop it on the floor.”

“Ass hole!” she cursed him again, but
complied with his instructions.

“Foul language will not help you, lassie. No,
no, don’t stop there,” he told her. “Go on with it.”

She slipped out of the flimsy black tanktop
and dropped it over the side of the bed with the blouse, still
keeping her eyes closed.

“Hmmm. Not bad in the light,” he said more
gently. “All right. Now these. I see you are in the Sir Valentino
mode today. Let’s see if you have all the equipment to go with the
attire.” He flicked the brass, military style belt buckle with the
tip of the sword and moved back a bit, allowing her to slip off the
shorts while he pulled off her sandals and dropped them in the
growing pile on the floor.

“Almost done now,” he resisted the urge to
laugh at her as she began to cry. “No tears!” he said with mock
surprise and nudged her chin again with the blade. “No crying. Real
men don’t cry.”

She sniffled and opened her eyes.

“A brave Chevalier does not cry,” he told her
again. “Now the rest.”

She pushed her cotton briefs down and finally
dropped the last bit of her pride onto the floor with them.

“There now,” he told her and pretended to
inspect her critically while she cursed him. “I must say I am
relieved, Miss Valentino. Now, there is nothing left between us. We
are truly equal and there is only the one thing left to do. It
seems that you have the lock and I have the key, no? The one thing
you were so concerned about. Didn’t you tell me yourself that I
possessed some key or something?” He glanced down at himself and
was greatly relieved to find that he was not prepared to carry out
the ‘key thing’.

She opened her mouth to speak again and he
fell on her bodily, quickly covering her mouth with one hand,
leaving the cold, golden sword between them. It served as a most
apt substitute for the one thing that was thankfully missing
between them. He could feel the cool blade against his skin. “Don’t
you want to know what it is like? Don’t you want to know what it is
really like?” He caressed her ear with his lips. She shook her
head. “No? But you’re sober now and I’m in the mood for love, not
war.”

He raised up again and looked down at her.
“You should have cut me into little pieces when you had the chance.
Be careful what you wish for, Chevaliere Valentino, you might get
it.”

The disgusted Scot climbed out of the bed and
wrapped his discarded towel around himself before sitting down
wearily on the edge of the bed. He winced in pain, closed his eyes
and took several deep breaths to calm himself against the flood of
pain and emotion assaulted his mind. The golden sword felt heavy in
his hands as he pushed the dagger about with it. “I should do us
both a favor and kill you here and now. Make the crime complete.”
He was in a better frame of mind now to deal with anyone who might
come through the door, not to mention a better position and he was
certainly glad that Merry had not chosen the wrong moment to
return.

He had beaten the rage this time and he knew
in his heart that it was the first time he had ever overcome the
uncontrollable urge to kill once he had passed a certain point.
Valentino had no idea how fortunate she was to be alive. The
realization that he was indeed some kind of monster made his
stomach churn.

“You’ll have to come back some other time,”
he told her over his shoulder. Turning his back to her was the
height of insult. “Get out before I truly lose my temper,” he said
quietly.

Valentino bolted from the bed and reached for
her clothes. He slapped her hand away with the side of the sword.
“Uh, uh. Leave them. I may want to wear them myself.”

She paused momentarily and then ran from the
room, trying to cover herself with her hands. He jumped as the door
banged against its frame with a resounding thud. He pushed her
discarded clothes under the edge of the bed. No need to start
rumors at this late date.

He didn’t care what she did or where she
went. He was ruined. His life was a complete wreck. She was right.
He was a murderer and a rapist. Nothing could ever change that. He
had to get back where he belonged before something happened to
Merry. Something he could not prevent. Easing himself back on the
bed, he drew the hilt of the sword up to his chest, clasped both
hands over the hilt and crossed his feet, closed his eyes and tried
to imagine what it would truly be like to be dead. He felt that his
life was over and wondered if he would even resist, should anyone
come now to kill him.

“Let their eyes be darkened, that they see
not,” he spoke the words of the scripture aloud to the empty
room.

((((((((((((()))))))))))))

The big house was strangely quiet as Maxie
entered the side door and made his way through the kitchen and down
the hallway past the library. The door was open and he stopped
briefly, wondering where Valentino was. The sound of sniffling and
the crash of some object being thrown across the room made him
decide against going inside to see who was there. Most likely
Valentino, throwing things was another of her famous trademarks. He
had other things on his mind. He would finally get the chance to do
what he had wanted to do, although it wouldn’t be that dipshit
Ramsay. It didn’t matter. This other one looked and acted enough
like him to serve the same purpose. Maxie hefted his favorite
shotgun in the crook of his arm and walked quietly down the hall
toward the stairs.

It had not been easy taking the three idiots
from the basement up to the old fallout shelter on the hill. The
ugly one had scared him shitless with his ranting and raving. The
only reason he had agreed to do it was the promised bonus from
Valentino’s generous checkbook, along with her promise not to
interfere with his plans for the Italian. Knocking out the young
one and making the other two carry him had made the odds more even,
and now he could relax a bit knowing they were out of the house.
There was no way they could escape from the limestone cavity carved
in the hillside behind the house. The chains on the big door had
almost given out as he’d struggled to lower the slab into place,
effectively cutting off their only exit. The old bomb shelter
tunnel had been pitch black in, making it seem more like a cave and
he hated caves. The wiring, plumbing and ventilation systems had
long fallen into disrepair and nothing worked anymore. Better them
than him.

He made his way quickly to the third floor
bedroom where Dipshit II waited for him, an ugly smile fixed to his
face as he stepped into the hallway. The tattooed wonder was almost
to the service stairs when he brought up the shotgun and shouted a
warning at him.

Dambretti stopped and threw his hands up,
before turning slowly to face him. He had taken too long
apologizing to the lady for tying her up. She had refused to tell
him where Mark Andrew was hiding and judging from her condition,
Ramsay had suffered some serious injuries and could very well be in
need of Simon’s services, but the young woman had refused to
cooperate.