“What will we do once we reach Bridgerdon? I cannot go to Glidden. We know the arranged marriage was nothing more than a ruse. But did Glidden know that? Is he, even now, waiting for my arrival to wed me?” It was enough to horrify her. She absolutely refused to marry him, stranger or no.
He is not Elric.
At that thought, a riot of emotions stormed through her, bringing down walls she had carefully erected throughout her life.
Impossible! She could not want to marry Sir Arse. It was unthinkable. And yet…she had thought about it, even for a blink of an eye.
Mon Dieu, she was losing her mind.
“I think it best to discuss these matters with Tristin and Lord Harrington. They will know what to do.”
“How so?” she couldn’t help asking. What sort of power did the excommunicated Tristin or his father wield that would combat her uncle’s nefarious intentions? And what were his intentions? Surely her death was not the end of his plans, only a part of them. And that rankled—that he would see her murder as only a small piece of his grander plan, whatever it was.
“Tristin has many connections within the court, and Lord Harrington is close, personal friends with King Henry. While there is little the king would do to embroil himself in these matters, just having the king as a threat to use against Calleaux is enough to make him retreat. At least long enough for us to make a plan.”
“Plan for what? I will not marry Glidden and I will not return to my uncle’s keeping. Where in your plan is the part about my future? Where am I to go?” There was just too much to think about, and each of the decisions and potential dangers was another ton of bricks on her back. The weight felled her. Unable to hold herself upright any longer, she gave in to the exhaustion. She slumped back against Elric, wallowing in his strength, warmth, and the memory of his kiss.
I am so warm. My skin like fire. Certainly it is not for Elric. Even as she thought it, the heat began to spread over her face, down her neck, and to her chest. Her breath caught as the heat seemed to draw the last of her strength from her body.
Elric bent his head, nuzzling her ear. His breath caught in the whorls of hair along her cheek.
“Fear not, my kitten, I will keep you safe,” he drawled, his deep voice low and steady, licking along her blood veins like tongues of flame.
She hadn’t the words nor the strength to respond, so she remained silent. Her overheated body was encompassed by Elric’s large, stronger body, like a bulwark against the world.
She slumbered.
Stringer growled, clutching the hilt of his dagger as if he could strangle it, his other hand pressed against the wound in his side.
A wound. A wound. A wound. How was it possible that there was a wound in his side? He had never been wounded before. No man had ever succeeded in drawing his blood. He was invincible. Impervious. The fire of his rebirth having turned his flesh to impenetrable armor.
A wound. A wound. A wound. He lifted his hand and stared down at the sticky crimson and sickly yellow smeared on his palm and in between his fingers. It had to be a mistake. No one wounded Stringer Black.
He was the very devil, his humanity scorched from his body on the pyre of his father’s sacrifice.
The pain…it was also new. He’d never known this sort of pain before. It hurt to breathe, to move, and riding Digger had become a tribulation.
The worst of it, though, was that he had not succeeded in taking the head of Lady Minnette.
His failure rang through him like the discordant clanging of chapel bells, pealing through his head like a taunt from on high.
He should have watched to see the knight leave the area completely before he pursued his quarry into the cottage. He had been too eager, allowing his thirst for her blood to overcome his senses. He had observed the knight leave the cottage and retrieve his horse. His first thought was that the cowardly knight could no longer handle the pressure of escorting his charge.
He’d been a fool to think that any man would leave behind someone so ripe for the taking. Stringer could well remember the strong, rapid pulse of the woman’s heart as his hands wrapped around her throat. He could scent her terror. The sounds of her screams and whimpering had driven a nail of bloodlust through him, striking at the heart of him to make him bleed. For the first time in his abomination of a life he felt alive.
I was so close. Then that man returned, ruining what would have been the most erotic and delicious experience.
A wound. A wound. A wound. The bastard had hurt him, dared to sink his sword into Stringer’s flesh.
Not possible.
Sucking in a staggering breath, he pushed aside the nagging thoughts that whispered reprehensible truths in his ear.
Human. Human. Human.
He shook his head to dislodge the chanting voice. He focused on the woman. The one he should have killed the night before. Aye, he had cut her, slicing her arm deep, but he hadn’t had the opportunity to feel the thick, warm, sweet-smelling fluid coat his hands. He had been robbed of that pleasure, for now.
He would get his lovely back and, when he did, he would slaughter the bastard knight, gut him slowly as she watched, and then take the same blade to her. Her eyes would be wide, her body shuddering in horror, and he would witness the glory of true agony in its purest form.
As the group he’d been following continued on, he gave little thought to the new man. He was without armor, with a single dagger at his hip. He was broad but wiry, his muscles ropy rather than large as the knight’s were. He would be easy enough to dispose of if necessary.
A sneer curled his lips. More bloodshed was on the horizon, and he could not wait for the pain to begin. Their pain, of course.
Mounting Digger, Stringer left the cover of the grove of trees almost a half-mile back from the woman and her escorts. They were headed to Bridgerdon and, once there, it would be damned difficult to get to his lovely. Difficult but not impossible. He’d infiltrated castles before, especially the homes of arrogant lords who thought nothing of leaving their gates unlocked.
They are too soft in the belly, with more girth than grit. He wanted to chuckle at his wittiness but now was not the time for merriment. He was on the hunt, tailing his prey. He just needed a single vulnerability to strike.
And, with the Lord on his side, he was guaranteed whatever his black heart desired.
Elric’s grunt woke her and she sat up straight, blinking her dry eyes to wet them. Crying often turned her eyeballs to knots of sand in her sockets.
I fell asleep? Merde! I am so warm. Her belly twisted, the little food she’d eaten threatening to climb into her throat. What is wrong with me?
The arm around her middle tightened and she looked over her shoulder into Elric’s face. He was staring down at her, his eyes dark and unfathomable.
“Did you rest well?” he asked, his beautiful lips quirking.
She narrowed her eyes at him. She raised her chin and huffed. “You know, very well, that I did not. It would be better to sleep on a rolling boulder.”
Glenn snorted. How had she forgotten he was there? The burst of sound made Elric look away. Minnette nearly sagged with relief. Elric knew the power he wielded with his gaze, the golden depths both assessing and captivating.
“The lass has spirit,” Glenn remarked, and Minnette turned her head toward him. He was grinning, his handsomeness blinding. Heavens! Was there a member of the Homme du Sang that wasn’t as handsome as sin? “I like her.”
Minnette wasn’t prepared for the level of tension that exploded from the man cradling her.
“I suggest you keep your hands and thoughts to yourself, Fraser.” Elric’s deep voice carried a warning that any person with a brain could decipher. But that didn’t mean Glenn would heed it. Even now, the man was grinning like a fool, not a sign of fear or intimidation on his face.
“Och, aye, Commander,” Glenn drawled, pinching his lips in a poor attempt to dampen his smile. Minnette could see that these two men were close, probably mor
e than just simply friends. They jested with one another, beyond the bounds of what was safe, but there was also a closeness between them that created an unspoken bond. Despite their growling and goading, these two men would die for one another.
Something stuck in her throat, making the backs of her eyes burn.
She would never know that kind of closeness with anyone. Her own mother sent her away, her uncle tried to have her killed, and her aunt, her only other family, probably didn’t even know she had a niece. Aunt Nanette left France years before Maman married. And since the sisters never communicated with one another, Nanette was oblivious to the drama that had unfurled throughout Minnette’s life.
You do not even know if she still lives.
Suddenly, thoughts she should have considered before making her plan to escape Elric finally settled in her mind. She was so desperate to leave that she hadn’t even given thought to the fact that her aunt may very well be dead. She might not even still remain in Chatteris, if she even made it that far after she departed France. She could have died during the Channel crossing, or she could have died on the land journey before she even reached Chatteris. All she knew about her aunt was what her mother had said about her, and it wasn’t much.
What a fool she had been.
I am alone.
The aching desolation she had barely held at bay finally overcame her, barging past her defenses to lay waste to her heart. But she refused to cry. She had no tears left. She blinked back the few tears that had the audacity to form and she peered out over Bellerophon’s head at the countryside as they continued on toward Bridgerdon. The rolling landscape would sometimes flatten to create swathes of land for farming, and what wasn’t used for grazing or farming were forests of trees or fortresses of haphazard boulders draped in striking green moss. England was a beautiful country, a place she would have loved to explore.
She could have made a new home here.
But that was impossible now.
Her thoughts continued in this manner until she spotted the walls of Bridgerdon.
“I will ride ahead and let the men ken ye’ve returned,” Glenn announced before kicking his large black horse into a gallop. The man rode as though he and his horse were unearthly spirits cloaked in darkness, seeking out sinners to devour.
She shuddered at the thought and Elric took notice.
“Are you chilled?” he asked, the concern in his voice unwelcomed. He wasn’t allowed to be concerned about her. It was his fault she was headed back to Bridgerdon, wounded and exhausted, instead of being warm and rested with Harold and Ergud. No, that wasn’t fair. She couldn’t have stayed with the farmer and his surly yet hospitable wife. More than likely, she would have brought more than just two holy knights to their threshold.
The sensation of cold metal against her neck skittered through her. Non! It was just a memory. That man was gone. But if she had stayed with Harold and Ergud, that man, Stringer, would have found her there, and he would have done to them what he did to that person whose cottage he burned. From the look of disgust in Glenn’s eyes as he told the tale, the scene was hellish.
Stringer was a beast, without a soul, capable of committing terrible acts. He was a devil, pure evil, even though he spoke of doing the Lord’s work in killing her. He was mad. He had to be to think he had some sort of heavenly favor simply because he was doing the cardinal’s bidding.
As her body was overcome with tremors, Elric cursed and wrapped himself around her, leaning into her to hold her in place before spurring Bellerophon into a gallop. “Hold on, Kitten. We are nearly there.”
For the first time, she was glad Elric had left his breastplate off. It was secured over the horse’s backside like a sort of equestrian arse armor. Without Elric’s hard, cold breastplate against her back, she could allow his warmth to seep into her, and she soaked up as much as she could. But still, the trembling remained steady.
Her teeth chattering, she tried to speak but no words came out.
What is happening to me?
It must have been some trick of the mind because she blinked and suddenly she was in Elric’s arms and he was carrying her up a set of stairs along a torchlit corridor. It was a familiar corridor. He was taking her back to the room she’d had before.
Elric called to someone, commanding them to open the door to her chamber and then to fetch the bath, hot water, and the lady, Bell Heather.
Minnette whimpered when Elric laid her on the bed, the loss of his body heat and nearness left her bereft. She wanted it back. She wanted him back. She tried to raise her arms to call him back to her but her arms wouldn’t move. Elric didn’t spare her a glance before he strode from the room, leaving her needy and terrified and overwhelmed and alone.
Forever alone.
Once again, tears burned the backs of her eyes, but she turned her head away from the door to hide them from anyone who entered the room. She blinked, dislodging a few useless tears and, as her vision cleared, she spied her traveling trunk sitting against the far wall, closed.
She didn’t know why the sight of something familiar made her heart wrench. Perhaps, it was because she had thought, hoped, to never see it again. When she left it and all her belongings behind, she was so hopeful about heading south, meeting her aunt, and settling into a life of her own making. But that wasn’t to be. She was right back where she started. But this time, she had a reminder of her failure; a wound in her arm that was probably infected.
The shivers that racked her frame were probably the first sign of fever, which meant the pain and delirium were not far behind. Even as the thought occurred, a hazy sort of sensation filled her. She blinked, blinked again, but her vision remained clouded. She attempted to sit up, but her muscles could not be bothered to obey her.
Her mouth moved to cry out, but no sound would come. She was trapped in her body and it was getting warmer. So warm. Was the room on fire? Was she trapped in a furnace? Panic suffused her, churning the acid in her empty belly. She was thankful she hadn’t eaten because if she had, she was sure she would have purged it just then.
Voices, soft but urgent, murmured around her like ghosts, unseen but present. She felt a cool, gentle hand touch her forehead.
“She is feverish,” a soft, lilting voice said. She wanted to reply, to tell the voice that she was so hot, that she needed medicine, and the voice seemed to hear her unspoken plea. “She will need willow bark tea and cool compresses. Marla, fetch water from the well. It is the coldest, and bring me a stack of clean linens.”
Good. The woman knew what needed to be done. That meant Minnette could just let herself fall away. Non! She couldn’t let go, not yet. It terrified her, that darkness. That deep emptiness that called to her, coaxing her to shut her tired eyes and sink down into it.
“Elric,” the voice said. “Ye stay with her while I fetch the tea.”
There was a grunt in response. So, Elric had returned. He hadn’t abandoned her again as she had feared.
But he will abandon you soon. He has to get back to his duties, and his duties do not include playing nursemaid to a woman marked for death.
With that pleasant thought in mind, the tide of blackness that she had fought to hold back finally claimed victory.
She didn’t know how long she lay there, in the dark, listening as the voices spoke over her, into her, around her. The voices were sometimes soft, sometimes a deep rumble, sometimes the voices spoke about her, and sometimes the voices spoke to her. It was the deep, rumbling voice that spoke to her the most, though.
In the darkness, the voice tried to coax her away from the twilight of her senses. The voice told her she was brave, courageous, that she could not give in, that he would not allow her to leave him. Leave him? Where was he? Who was he?
Elric…
It was Elric, speaking to her in steady, hushed tones, pleading with her. Sometimes his voice broke, as if he were overcome with emotion. But that couldn’t be true. Elric didn’t care about her. He couldn’t. She was a naught
but a mission to him, one he could not fulfill because it was all a farce. Her uncle meant for her death.
Perhaps I should go, let the darkness take me. Something warm caressed her cheek, slowly sliding over her flesh, trailing tingles over her face, around her lips and down her chin. She couldn’t stop the moan that escaped her mouth. She felt half-alive, half-dead. But it was all dark, heavy.
“Minnette. Kitten.” There was Elric’s voice. There was a command in his tone. “You must wake up. You cannot leave me, Kitten.” She wanted to open her eyes and demand that he stop calling her that. She wasn’t his kitten, she was a woman, a woman who desired him more than was sensible.
“Elric,” another voice intruded. “Ye must rest, man. Ye can do little good fer the lass if ye’re dead on yer feet.” She recognized that voice. It was Glenn.
Elric grumbled something she couldn’t understand, but then the warmth of his presence was gone.
Non. Come back.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Minnette came awake with a start, her breathing ragged as she dragged air into her hyper-sensitive body. Sweat beaded on her chest, and her arms and legs were shaky. She blinked, her eyes unused to the glow of light after so long in the dark.
How long was I asleep?
The room was silent, the only sounds the crackling and popping from the fire in the hearth. She turned her head, her eyes taking in all that she could see through the bleariness. There was a figured, slouched in a chair beside the bed. Who was that?
Elric.
Throughout her time in the dark, she’d heard his voice, speaking to her, commanding her to come back. But she hadn’t gone anywhere. She’d been lying in the bed the whole time. Where did he think she would go? She had no family she could trust, no home.
Despite the lingering heat of her fever, her body was numb, the reminder of her utter loneliness was like ice in her veins.
She must have made a noise because the figure in the chair sat up quickly. A mere second later, he was kneeling beside the bed, his large hands holding Minnette’s.
The Fire and the Sword (Men of Blood Book 2) Page 23
