“Silvanticus?”
He met Sir Hirion’s gaze over my head. “Have you found Ealdine?”
“Aye, she was bound and gagged in the dungeon, but otherwise untouched.”
“Good.” He finally lowered his eyes to my face. Nothing of Bryn lingered in his expression or demeanor. I began to wonder if Bryn had truly been a phantom of my fancy. Instead, Silvanticus dominated his form, assertive, authoritative, and comfortable speaking with Sir Hirion as a comrade. His cool azure eyes scanned my body as though assessing a horse, a far cry from the approachable and plain-speaking Bryn. Emotion flickered in his eyes only when he spotted the scrape on my cheek.
“Are you well?”
“Bruised, but whole.”
He frowned at me. “Rotate your arm.”
I complied, wincing as the strained muscles and tendons protested use. Once I moved it in a full circle, he nodded.
“We need to speak, but not here.”
Offering me his arm like a courting knight, he bowed slightly. I accepted.
“Sir Darian?” Silvanticus turned to one of his knights. “Deal with this mess.”
Sir Darian nodded and began barking instructions.
Silvanticus led me out into the courtyard with brisk efficiency. Nodding acknowledgements to the greetings of those we passed, he strode across the practice yard to the barred garden door. With ease he lifted the heavy wood free and pulled the door open to guide me through. I stepped into the familiar confines of the tower garden.
Tension encircled my chest. It felt as though my ribs crushed my lungs. I forced each breath, relaxed and even. What did he intend? Which man wished to speak to me, Bryn or Silvanticus? My head spun with questions and shock. I pressed my hands to my eyes and struggled to slow the whirling thoughts.
Distantly the click of the latch registered, but my thoughts demanded my attention.
Verdon poisoned by his own hand. My gut knotted as anger, fear, and sorrow brawled within me. Anger at his crime, fear at what the future might hold, and sorrow at the lost chances his death would create. Nothing he would have done, if he lived, would change the past and our father’s murder, but it felt strange for it to be over. Then there was the problem of Silvanticus.
“Verity, look at me.”
I didn’t. “Who are you?” I demanded.
“Your betrothed.”
“No, I meant are you Lord Silvanticus or Bryn Wolfe? You cannot be both.”
“Why not?”
I dropped my fingers from my eyes. “They are two different men, hardly alike.”
“Both are parts of me. Your father understood.”
“You speak of my father as though he was your own,” I accused. The familiarity disturbed and comforted simultaneously.
“In many ways he was a father to me as well. I told you I fostered here, under him.”
I waved away his words. “That does not make you his son.”
“True, but he intended I should be. We were betrothed from birth.”
“Why didn’t I know?”
“He said you weren’t ready. Yet, he asked an oath of me. Should he die before our marriage, I was to make my claim and remove you from your brother’s control as swiftly as possible. He knew of Verdon’s capacity for cruelty.”
My eyes closed against the pressure of tears. Father hadn’t forgotten to provide for me after all. I drew air cautiously through my mouth. Silvanticus’ hand closed over my good shoulder, warm, tangible, and grounding. I lifted my face.
He examined my features. “I learned to love you through your father’s eyes. He spoke of you constantly, your passion for life, your spirit when facing an obstacle, and your deep abiding sense of honor. I fell in love with you long ago. When I first set eyes on you, though, I knew I was lost. Might I at least cherish hope that one of my two parts has won your heart?”
My heart warmed beneath the overt hope in his gaze. From his right eye, Bryn’s honest regard looked back me.
“Why did you wear the patch?”
He shrugged, lifting of only his right shoulder. Tears filled my eyes again at the familiar movement. Thankfully, his attention wandered for a moment. I blinked away the moisture before he could note it.
“To make you see me more clearly and not see at the same time. Dreamer that I am, I desired your love despite the circumstances. I hoped to win your heart with my heart, not my exterior facade or my power or even my close relationship with your father. Thus I posed as a scarred former soldier in service of myself. As Bryn, I had little power, prestige or…”
“…constraints.” I finished for him, mindful of his past compliments. Many of them were not the words of a cultured nobleman. “What is your true name?”
“Brynson Wolfe, Earl Silvanticus.”
I peered up into his face. The lines, sun and age traced, ran deep. His mane of dark brown and gray hair was very akin to a wolf. Yet, his indigo eyes reflected a gentle soul so different from his exterior. My hand rose to touch his face, much like he had touched mine the last time we stood thus.
“Who named you Wolfe?”
“My mother. Why?”
“She must have possessed foresight to name you so fittingly.”
He grinned.
Dropping my hand, I asked the question burning in my mind. “Do you truly love me?”
“I asked you first.”
I frowned at him.
He sighed, before paraphrasing himself. “Has Bryn or Silvanticus hope of winning your heart?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Should I ask which version is ahead?”
“You know.”
Stepping close, he caught me to him with one arm, buried his other hand in my hair, and kissed me long and deep. Knees weakened, I swayed. His arm tightened, trapping me against him. When we finally surfaced, breathless, he leaned his forehead gently against mine.
“Does that answer your question?”
I nodded before laying my head against his chest. Ear pressed over his heart, I savored its beat.
“So, will I need to wear mail on our wedding night?” His fingers worked at my ruined braid, gently freeing the few trapped strands.
“Only if you don’t allow me to keep my father’s sword.”
“It is yours. What do you intend to do with it, my love?”
“I will give it to our first born.”
“A wise idea.”
The last curl of hair escaped and the binding fell away. His calloused fingers caught in my hair, massaging the back of my neck. I pressed closer to him, relishing his touch. Aye, this was where I belonged.
“I almost lost you and I don’t wish to come so close again, my love. Say you will marry me tonight.”
I leaned back to meet his imploring gaze.
“Yes, Bryn, I will.” Stretching up on tiptoe, I sealed my pledge with a kiss.
“It cannot come soon enough.”
###
About the Author
As a mother of three small children, Rachel Rossano dreams of new stories among the chaos of diapers and sippy cups. Then she writes as fast as she can during naptimes and after the little ones are tucked in for the night. She draws from a long history as an avid reader and lover of books. Usually she writes fantasy novels that masquerade as historical, but she recently spent time in the science and speculative fiction genres.
Connect with Rachel Rossano online:
Twitter: http://twitter.com/@RachelRossano
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Rachel-Rossanos-Rambles/240421865704
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Blog: http://rachel-rossano.blogspot.com
Discover other titles by Rachel Rossano at Smashwords
Book One – The Theodoric Saga
The Crown of Anavrea
http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/83328
The Mercenary’s Marriage
http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/83328
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Book One – The Theodoric Saga
The Crown of Anavrea
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The Mercenary’s Marriage
Book One – The Theodoric Saga
The Crown of Anavrea
By Rachel Rossano
Chapter I
Eve covered her head and crouched low in the raspberry patch. She concentrated on not making a sound. The blare of the horn and the cries of the hunters faded. Lowering her hands, she strained her ears. Not even the echo of their crashing in the distance remained. The birds stayed silent, but considering the recent ruckus, they might have all fled.
A groan broke the unnatural silence.
She froze and listened, heart in her throat. A pained, male grunt came from about three feet to her left. Cautiously she turned her head. A stranger stared at her through the tangle of bushes between them.
A wild mess of brown hair fell over his dark blue eyes as he regarded her in alarm. Sweat plastered the hair to his forehead. He observed her with more of a feverish glaze than true understanding. Pain etched lines about his eyes.
He opened his mouth as if to speak, but then shook his head. Falling forward, he then rolled onto his back and lay still.
Eve hurried to untangle the thorns from her tunic.
Free at last, she crept out of the patch and approached him. Fear and instinct screamed she should flee. Instead she paused. If she stopped to help him, she would be beaten. Her master warned her to stay away from the king’s men.
Well, the king’s men or not, the pursuers were gone. As their prey, he could hardly be one of them. Was he worse?
She inched forward and a twig snapped under her knee.
“Go away and leave me be,” he ordered.
“What will become of you?”
He stared into the sky above the trees. “My pursuers return.” His chest still heaved from his recent exertion. “I die.” Restlessly, his hand clenched and released at his side as though he was fighting the urge to run.
“I know of a place where you can hide.” She watched his lean form for a reaction. “It is nearby.”
He stopped moving. Finally, as though sensing she would not leave, he spoke. “Come over here. I want to see you.”
She crept to his side. As soon as she drew close, she could see the source of his pain. A shallow gash ran across his left arm above the elbow and an even more serious injury marred his right leg above the knee. The leggings, torn and caked with a combination of dried and fresh blood, trailed filth in the wound. She was calculating how she could slow the bleeding when he commented.
“You are only a child.”
She brought her eyes to his face and bit her tongue. This was not the time to argue her age. She returned to assessing his injuries.
“If you are wondering whether or not I am able to walk, stop.”
“I will help.” She met his eyes with a cool determination that left no room for doubt.
After a moment, he broke her gaze and returned to staring at the sky.
“What if I want to die?”
She was still thinking about the best reply when she grew aware of his scrutiny. Their eyes met. “Why would you?”
His lips compressed as he swallowed his reply. Instead, he offered, “I understand I do not have a choice.”
He resisted as she reached for his wounded arm.
“You need to promise me something first.”
She frowned and didn’t reply.
“If we are spotted or do not make it into hiding, you must kill me.”
She looked away from the pleading and pain in his eyes. “I promise.” Her voice was barely audible, but he seemed satisfied. Thankfully he did not ask her to say it again. She concentrated on ripping strips from her chemise. It made her nervous to repeat a promise she didn’t intend to keep. Kurios, don’t make me keep the promise, she prayed.
She bound his leg and arm. After numerous false starts, they managed to gain their feet. He towered over her by a good foot. His injured leg threatened to give out, but otherwise he could easily support himself on his other limb despite the obvious loss of blood. The weight he draped over her shoulders made it clear she wouldn’t have been able to budge him on her own.
Conversation was reduced to grunts of pain or effort. Eve began to consider the seriousness of her decision. Mridle wasn’t going to allow her to nurse this man. There was no possible way to do it without his knowledge. Escaping her master would be the only way she could care for this man. And if the stranger persisted in his fatalistic outlook, she might not succeed. She shook the thought away. He must live, Lord. He must live.
The usual three-minute walk took them forever. Dusk dimmed the sky when they finally reached the broken-down door of the old shed.
The last steps were brutal. A few feet from the door, his good leg gave out. Eve could not carry all his weight. She stumbled under the sudden shift, tripped, and came down painfully on her knees in the mud. Realizing that he might crush her, the man rolled to the side and landed on his back in a small patch of grass. After his stifled cry of anguish, they fell silent. She waited until her knee ceased throbbing before she crawled over to where he lay.
“I will go in and clear a place for you to lie down before we try to move you again.”
He nodded his agreement. He had no breath to speak.
She moved as fast as her sore muscles allowed and stumbled inside. A hermit’s shack, the one-room structure did not offer much comfort. A fireplace took up most of the right wall. A small cupboard-like lean-to added for storage hid behind a rickety door to the left of the hearth. Leaves and bugs littered the floor and swaths of spider webs rustling with carcasses filled the room. Movement among the clutter and the rotting window coverings did not help her first impression. The only thing resembling a bed crouched along the length of one wall. In essence it was a wooden shelf with an old straw mattress on it. She pulled off the decaying mess and, using her skirt, she brushed off the bugs. Now came the harder part.
Upon returning outside, she almost cried at the sight of him. He managed to prop himself against the wall. In this position, he dozed. Every line of his body screamed discomfort.
Gently, Eve woke him. Together they got him to his feet and through the door. He fell onto the hard pallet. She winced as his face contorted in pain. She knelt near his shoulder to work on making him more comfortable. The gash in his arm needed stitching, which required thread. She glanced at the single window. Twilight veiled the sky and there was much to do.
“What is your name?” His voice wavered so weakly she barely heard him. She met his eyes, dark and glassy with pain and fatigue.
“Eve.”
With a shallow, bitter laugh, he said, “How ironic.” Then, as if the strength to fight unconsciousness drained from him, his eyes closed, and his head rolled to one side.
For a frantic moment Eve feared she had lost him, but his weak pulse reassured her. She watched his chest rise and fall and tried to decide what to do next.
Available on Smashwords
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The Mercenary’s Marriage
By Rachel Rossano
Part I
“There is nothing on this one.”
Darius purposely turned his face away from the man who spoke. He hated the necessary collecting of the spoils after every battle. As he rose from his crouch, he scanned the room.
Spotting the king, Darius strode toward him.
“Have they searched every room?” King Simon Jenran of Braulyn asked as Darius approached. The question was directed to the two soldiers who had just arrived.
“No,” the older of the two answered wearily. “Just the women's apartments.”
“Then keep looking; we must find her,” the king instructed. Dismissing the pair with a wave, he turned to face Darius.
/> “Nothing?” Darius asked as soon as the king's attention was focused on him. As he watched his liege’s face, Darius noted the lines deepening around his master's mouth. King Jenran had aged ten years in the past eight months.
“Nothing.” The king frowned. “They have not finished looking, but my guess is they will continue to find nothing.” He walked to a nearby chair and sank into it. “Has justice been served?” He nodded toward the corpse Darius had been examining.
“Dead,” Darius informed him. And dead too soon, he added silently. The outcome of this siege was disappointing. Two months spent traveling north and then six months of sitting on their hands. The experience would drag on any warrior. All the time spent in attaining a goal, only to be routed at the last moment with an archer’s arrow.
“He died instantly,” he added after a pause. The king nodded. Darius did not have to add the rest. They both knew who released the arrow that killed the man: a young man, green with inexperience. It was over and nothing would bring the man back now.
Darius waited as his master thought. The king's bloodshot brown eyes stared off into space. Darius was beginning to think the king had fallen asleep, when he suddenly spoke in a low voice so only Darius could hear. “She was still here this morning.” Straightening in his chair, the king continued. “Gwendolyn and her women left a trail only a few hours old.” The king met Darius' eyes.
A movement caught the edge of Darius' vision, but he did not acknowledge it. Jenran continued, “If we can determine which direction they took, we might be able to overtake them.”
Casually nodding his agreement, Darius swept his gaze across the room. Speaking so only his master could hear, he added, “We have an observer.” The man was crouched behind one of the tapestries along the walls. Both exits were two or three hiding places from the hidden man’s position.
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