Lord of Vengeance

by Lara Adrian

  Even now, in his sleep, he felt the rush of anger, the impotence of his threat. D'Bussy had merely smiled--then, and in the thousand nightmares since--hooking one side of his mantle around the shiny hilt of his broadsword. “You are no lord,” he said. “You are a child, and a pitiful weak one at that. I am lord here. Your father was my vassal, and now that he is dead, you, your mother, and Wynbrooke are mine to do with as I please.”

  And the baron had issued a challenge: “You want to kill me, do you not, boy? Aye, you want to shred me to ribbons.” He chuckled, spreading his arms wide. “Come, then, test your mettle.”

  As happened nearly every night since that fateful day, Gunnar met the challenge, each time hoping he would indeed run the tyrant through, bury his sword deep in the baron's rotund gut and watch as he fell to the floor in a quivering, bloody heap. But his dreams were never any more kind than reality had been: He charged d'Bussy, heard his mother cry out from behind him, felt the swipe of the baron's mail-covered arm and the sudden, surprising weightlessness of his father's weapon, then heard the humiliating clatter as it fell to the floor.

  Within moments the baron's men had Gunnar restrained, captured in a guard's crushing embrace as the baron advanced and withdrew a small dagger.

  “Not only are you weak, but stupid, too,” he said on a sour cloud of spiced wine. “Mayhap a reminder of your foolishness is in order.”

  Bravely, his mother rushed forward to his defense. “Nay!” she cried. “Please, milord, do not harm my son!”

  With a smile that said the interruption was merely a postponement of their confrontation, the baron turned away from Gunnar. “I did not come with intent to harm, Lady Eleanor. Quite the contrary. I've come to offer you a place in my home...as my wife. You see, my own dear Margareth departed her life just yestermorn, through a dreadful misfortune.” The baron heaved a sigh. “Poisoned herself, the silly, hopeless creature.”

  Gunnar's mother gasped, bringing a hand to her mouth but she couldn't hold back her broken sob. It was no secret that the two women shared a fondness for each other.

  “You should take my coming here as a great compliment, Eleanor,” the baron continued. “Despite my own sorrow, I am thinking of you, of your welfare.”

  She scoffed bitterly. “Would that you had thought of my welfare before you murdered my husband--”

  “Murdered? Nay, Lady, 'twas your husband's error that killed him. Your blame should rest on him, not me. For a skilled warrior, he made a careless mistake.”

  “Do you forget, Baron? I was at the tourney. I saw with mine own eyes how my husband fell. He made no error, save trusting your sense of sport.”

  The baron's voice was thin, lethally soft. “Have a care that you do not make his same mistake, my lady. I am growing weary of our game and would have your answer now. Do you come with me willingly, or nay?”

  “Never.”

  “Have you any idea what I am offering you?” the baron questioned incredulously. “Any inkling of the privileges you would have as my wife?”

  “They pale in comparison to their price,” Eleanor had answered and a guard cleared his throat, not quite masking his chortle.

  “Your sharp tongue doesn't suit,” the baron hissed. “However, 'tis a malady I'm certain can be corrected with time...and discipline.”

  Gunnar saw the defiant tilt of his mother's chin, heard himself moan in anticipation of what was to come.

  Nay, Mother!

  “As you corrected Margareth's maladies, Baron? I suspect she preferred an agonizing death to the life she endured under your heavy hand--”

  “Bitch!” d'Bussy spat, recoiling his arm and striking Eleanor with his gauntleted fist so hard, she crumpled to the floor.

  Oh, God, nay!

  Gunnar bucked against the man who held him, and somehow, broke free of his hold. He charged the baron, empty-handed but ready to tear him apart for hurting his mother. D'Bussy turned, drawing his sword from its scabbard.

  Gunnar froze, his gaze transfixed on the arcing blade as the glint of polished steel split a ray of sunlight and blinded him. He sensed movement beside him, then felt the vague, fleeting caress of silk on his face. Time ceased as the blade fell in a smooth, sweeping motion. His mother's cry for mercy echoed in the small chamber...and fell forever silent.

  Murderer!

  The baron had laughed upon seeing Gunnar's mother lying at his feet in a pool of blood, the short bark of amusement and disbelief raising the hair on Gunnar's nape and jerking him into action. He should have lunged for the baron, should have fought with all the rage he felt, battled on to his death. Instead he ran, gave in to his fear and fled like a coward, leaving his mother there, alone.

  D'Bussy.

  He would make him pay...make him sorry...make him dead.

  Aye, he thought.

  Make him dead.

  Gunnar heard his voice curl low and deep around that comforting idea and he came awake at once, righting himself to a sitting position with his back against the wall. His eyes flew open and met with the troubled gaze of his captive, blinking at him from much too close a proximity for his liking.

  “What are you staring at?” he growled.

  “You were having a nightmare,” she said softly, moving away from him as if she had just awakened a viper. “You--you said my father's name.”

  “What of it?” he replied with icy dispassion, but inwardly he cursed himself for falling asleep and letting her witness the effects of one of his frequent night terrors. It shamed and enraged him that he could not control his thoughts while he slept, plagued him to no end that d'Bussy came back to haunt him night after night in vivid detail, leaving him awash in sweat and sometimes out of his bed and thrashing on the floor by the time he roused.

  He ground the heel of his palm into his temple in an effort to chase away the headache blooming there. God only knew what he'd said or done during this episode. Damnation, and in front of her, no less.

  “How you must hate him.”

  Gunnar scrutinized her, looking for a trace of mockery, any hint of amusement caused by seeing him at his most vulnerable, his weakest state. But the soft gaze looking back at him held no sarcasm, no malice.

  “Aye,” he answered at last. “I do.”

  She pressed her lips together, busying her hands with a loose thread on her gown. “I'm sorry,” she whispered. “I'm sorry that you believe my father capable of such horrid acts...and I'm sorry it pains you so.”

  Something stabbed him in the chest, nearly driving the air from his lungs and leaving him dazed, startled. Shaken. All at once, he realized that sharp-edged something was an emotion, a feeling for another person that seemed so foreign to him, so rusty with disuse.

  Affection.

  He felt it looking at her now, seeing her sympathetic expression, hearing the queer sadness in her voice. And the very idea that he felt anything but disdain for d'Bussy's daughter enraged him to death.

  “Damn it, I don't want your pity,” he barked, his clashing emotions making his voice sound all the more savage.

  She frowned. “But I--”

  “And I don't need your concern.”

  With that, he came to his feet and grabbed his mantle from the floor, upsetting the kindling which scattered at his feet. He could not stay here--with her--another moment. He needed to be home, where he was in control.

  Where he could lock her away and damned well forget about her until it came time to trade her for her father.

  “We're leaving,” he commanded, stalking across the room when she stood up and blinked at him in confusion. “Gather up that blanket and the food and come with me. Now.”

  She bolted into action, snatching up everything and scurrying past him through the open door and into the corridor. “I despise you.” She turned to face him at the top of the stairs, her voice thick, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I should have left--”

  She stopped abruptly, catching her lip as if she'd just let out a secret and Gunnar suddenly re
alized that the chamber door was wide open--as it had been when he'd awakened from his nightmare. He scowled, puzzled, and more than a bit annoyed. God's wounds, she could have easily escaped while he slept.

  She could have gone...and yet she'd stayed. At his side.

  “Aye. You should have, my lamb,” he agreed softly, wishing now with every fiber of his being that she had.

  * * *

  Rutledge had obviously tired of her presence and had no wish to share his saddle with her. After gruffly directing his men to their mounts, he made Raina ride Nigel's stallion, tethered to his own black steed. He spared her neither a word nor a glance in the hours that stretched on into dawn, acknowledging her only when she pled a moment's privacy to relieve herself.

  With dark, hooded eyes, he watched as she lumbered back out of the bracken, Cedric leading her by the elbow as if she would actually consider fleeing on foot. She met Rutledge's intense stare with one of her own, marching to her mount and refusing Cedric's offer to assist her up into the saddle.

  She failed in her first attempt, her cumbersome skirts and bare feet no great help in mounting the big destrier. Of course Rutledge's unflagging observance of her didn't help matters, either.

  She tried again, stepping into the stirrup and hefting herself up with a grunt of exertion. Surely not the most graceful of acts, but grace must fall second to pride, she reckoned and flung her leg over the beast's broad back. Settling into the saddle, she shot Rutledge a withering glare and hiked up her chin. He merely chuckled, turning about in his saddle to lead them forward once more.

  Mercy, but she loathed the man! Staring at the back of his head for what seemed hours, Raina decided to amuse herself by counting off his many flaws, beginning with the most irksome. First on the list was arrogance, and he had been gifted with an abundance of that. He was also stubborn and prideful, overbearing and broody, morosely serious and short on patience most of the time. And, lest she forget, possessed of a grossly inflated sense of his own appeal.

  His raven hair was too long and wild, his features much too sharply hewn to be pleasant. He scarcely smiled despite the fact that his teeth were enviably white and straight, and even though he had provided her with meager amenities when they'd stopped for the night, she doubted he had a charitable bone or a pinch of kindness in his body.

  His body.

  Here she struggled to find fault, save that he looked strong enough to snap her in twain with his bare hands, big enough to crush a woman if he had cause to lie down upon her. An image of him, prone, atop her sprang to her mind and with it came a sudden heat that crept into her cheeks and spread to points shamefully lower.

  Stop thinking about his body, she silently admonished herself, and went back to her list.

  Rude, bullying, arrogant--had she already used that one?--maddening, infuriating, despicable....

  The sight of a small tower keep looming off in the distance cut short her musings and spared her the irritation of soon exhausting what she had thought to be an endless inventory of Rutledge's shortcomings.

  At his signal, the riding party broke into a canter, drawing closer to the keep. While the men other than Rutledge hooted their greetings to the handful of soldiers posted on the battlements, Raina quietly took in the sight of what looked to be her captor's lair.

  Morning had just begun to peek over the horizon, painting the sky in rosy, pastel streaks and haloing the squared tower and its aged, crumbling curtain wall with a warm, welcoming glow. A fine mist blanketed the ground at the base of the castle's craggy hill, lending an ethereal quality to an otherwise modest abode, in need of repairs and tucked away in a quiet, forgotten corner of the north country.

  The land surrounding the keep sprawled out before her in a breathtaking mix of yellow and white wildflowers, patches of pale indigo heather and lush, green grasses--everything kissed with dew and sparkling in the early morning light. This place was so different from the bustle and noise of Norworth.

  It was peaceful here, tranquil and undisturbed. Not at all what she might have expected of Rutledge's home.

  Her prison, she amended quickly, tamping down any further fanciful notions before they had a chance to take root. This inviting land and its cozy-looking keep were naught but illusions, like Rutledge himself had proved to be. Acting first as her protector, then her champion, before his true, dark nature had been revealed at the tourney. If she were clever, she would be looking for means of escape, not romanticizing what was likely stolen property, confiscated through the rogue's misdeeds.

  Before she had a chance to consider flight or any other method of escape, the group of them ascended the hill and rode through the yawning portcullis of the gatehouse, into the bailey. That the old iron grate was operable surprised her, but it was, and it rattled closed on their heels, the resounding thump of metal hitting earth irrefutable testimony that her hopes of escape now lay trapped on the other side.

  While his riding companions walked their exhausted horses to the stables, Rutledge hung back, letting them move on before he turned to Raina. “'Tis not Norworth by any means, but I trust you'll not be too uncomfortable here.”

  Raina smiled weakly with surprise, thinking his observation sounded curiously like an apology. Before she could consider the notion any further, a lanky youth appeared from around the corner of the keep, his straight, coppery hair cropped at the shoulder and hooked behind his ears.

  “Greetings, milord,” he shouted, racing forth enthusiastically to take Rutledge's reins as he dismounted. “Did you meet with success, milord? Spare no detail, I beg you! Is the blackguard baron dead at last? Did he squeal when you stuck him, like the swine he is?” The lad's questions came one after the other, his voice brimming with ardent--if not morbid--interest.

  Raina gasped, appalled. “For mercy's sake. What barbarism have you taught this boy?”

  As if he had just noticed her, the youth's green eyes lit on Raina and a flush filled his freckled cheeks.

  “Alaric,” Rutledge said. “This is Lady Raina, the blackguard baron's daughter.” He was trying to hold back a grin, but Raina could see the amusement in his eyes as he came toward her and pulled her from the saddle. “She will be in my charge for the next several days.”

  “D'Bussy's dau...” The youth's narrow face flamed a deeper red. “Begging pardon, milady,” he said with a quick, respectful bow, then smiled shyly and took her mount's reins. “We've never had a guest at the keep.”

  Rutledge cleared his throat. “Whether or not the lady shall stay on as our guest remains to be seen, Alaric. Cease your gawking now and go, water these horses before they perish of thirst.”

  Dipping his head and murmuring a hasty, “Aye, milord,” the boy exited to carry out the order. Halfway to the stables, he glanced back at Raina and nearly tripped in the process.

  “My squire,” Rutledge explained, nodding at the lad's retreating form. “His appreciation for female beauty is exceeded only by his fealty to me, so do not think to beguile him into your confidences.”

  “Beguile him?” Raina retorted, more angered by his implication than she was swayed by his compliment. She tread after him with little choice as he grasped her by the hand and headed toward the keep. “I was thinking no such thing,” she insisted hotly. “And I'm growing quite weary of you and your ceaseless suspicions.”

  From behind them, someone let out a low, malicious-sounding chuckle. “The wench 'as a sharp tongue, lord. Too 'igh and mighty fer 'er own good, if ye ask me.”

  “I didn't ask you, Burc,” Rutledge growled, turning and smoothly putting himself between Raina and the approaching man. This burly knight was the one she had caught leering at her several times during the ride from Norworth. He had seemed impervious to her glowering earlier, but now, under his lord's level glare, he flinched, unable to hold his gaze.

  When Rutledge clasped Raina's hand tightly in his, ready to escort her into the keep, Burc's voice rose to a coarse, bitter challenge. “Ye promised us a good, bloody raid and all
the plunder we could carry out of Norworth Castle. What we got was empty bellies, arses sore from days of riding...and 'er.” He inclined his head in Raina's direction, then as if an idea had suddenly struck him, he smiled--a discolored and decaying smirk bleeding through his unkempt beard. “'Course, seeing 'ow she's all what we carried away, may'ap we all ought to take a piece of 'er!”

  The other knights had come out of the stables just then and they chuckled, making jests of their own, though none matched the venom in Burc's suggestion. His face remained mirthless, his beady, porcine eyes trained on Raina.

  “Touch her,” Rutledge warned with icy calm, “and you die. Make no mistake, Burc. The same goes for any one of you men. As long as she is here, this woman belongs to me.” His hard, stormy gaze flicked over his shoulder to Raina. “I protect what is mine.”

  With that, he pivoted on his heel and yanked her to his side, stalking across the bailey and up the short steps leading into the shelter of the cool, dark keep. He fairly dragged her past the great hall and up the stairwell, his grip on her unrelenting.

  “I am not your property,” Raina fumed in a hot whisper, trying desperately not to stumble as she struggled to keep up with his long, purposeful strides.

  He stormed down a narrow corridor and flung her into an open, empty chamber, slamming the door behind him with force enough to rattle her teeth. Two steps forward and he was standing before her, clutching her arms in his strong hands and nearly shaking.

  His voice, however, was calm and lethally soft, his issued order lacking any emotion whatsoever. “Never challenge me in front of them, never contradict what I say, do you understand?” At her mute nod, his scowl softened. “Men like those mercenaries belowstairs have no use for insolent females--particularly those of noble birth.” His dark gaze held hers for a heartbeat then slid away. “Neither do I.”

  He released her arms and eased off, his attention now focused on a battered pair of wooden shutters that hung askew on the chamber's only window. He walked past her and grabbed the iron latch holding them closed, gave it a yank, and made a surprised-sounding chuckle when it came off in his hand. “This place will likely come down around my ears one day,” he muttered, tossing the rusty ring into the corner of the room before drawing open the shutters.