Romancing the Rogue

by Kim Bowman

  Marek groaned.

  “Marek?” Ronan gave his brother’s face a light slap. Marek winced from the sting, and Ronan sighed with relief. “By the gods, the son of a bitch is breathing! Help me get him up!”

  With utmost care, the men lifted Marek from his would-be grave and carried him to the infirmary, not far from the walls of Cairn.

  It was there Marek would spend the next five days, fighting high fevers and body chills as his wounds were irrigated and treated. Many of the women had taken it upon themselves to care for those who had survived the battle. Several, in fact, had taken a liking to Marek, taking turns nursing him back to health. As soon as he had regained consciousness, Marek quickly learned flashing them his roguish smile could get him far with extra food and fresh water. He had even overheard two younger girls fighting over whose turn it was to change his bandages.

  His men kept Marek informed of every detail during their visits. He’d learned a large funeral ceremony occurred several days after the attack. Connell, when approached, denied he ever received a warning from the riders and gloried in his triumph over the Engels. Ronan told him of rumors that Lord Westmore had fled with his nobility to the Crossroads to recover circulated throughout the village walls. Some insisted he was dead, that he had fallen not far from Cairn after fleeing, too mortally wounded to continue. Still, four days later his body had yet to be found, so his death couldn’t be proven. Learning that Westmore could possibly still walk the lands angered Marek the most.

  ~~~~

  Ronan rarely left his brother’s side. He chided those who tended to him as if he were a callous old woman with nothing better to do than order them to find olive leaves and black-weed to pack in Marek’s wounds. “You’re quiet, brother. What bothers you?” he asked during a moment of silence.

  “’Tis nothing, really. Don’t worry about me, Ronan, although I thank you for all you have done. I couldn’t have had a better nursemaid looking out for me.”

  “If you weren’t battered like a rag doll, I would cuff you.”

  “There’s nothing bothering me, Ronan. Nothing of importance and nothing a few drinks cannot cure.” Marek shrugged off his brother’s concern, filling his mouth with a piece of bread so he wouldn’t have to continue with the conversation.

  “We leave in the morning. You should rest.” Ronan nodded in farewell.

  As he made his way to leave, Marek called out behind him. “I saw her, you know… there, in the village.”

  “What?” Ronan stopped in his tracks to turn toward his brother, his brow furrowed with confusion. “Saw who?”

  “In the rubble. She kept me alive.”

  “Who?”

  “Brynn.” Saying her name aloud sent shivers up his spine, as if he spoke of the dead. Perhaps he was. Maybe that was why she appeared before him. She was singing with the gods and had been able to protect him in spirit form.

  “That is impossible.”

  “I saw an angel, of that I am sure.” Maybe it hadn’t been her, but someone had comforted him during his struggle for life. Perhaps only in the afterlife would they be together again.

  “You were on the edge of death, Marek. There was no one.”

  “I’m sure of it,” Marek snapped. How else could he still be breathing if it weren’t for her? He sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Thank you for the visit,” he added, changing the subject. “Forget what I said, Ronan. It must have been the fever. Sleep well.”

  “Goodnight, Marek. I will fetch you at dawn.” Ronan ducked into the darkness.

  Marek collapsed on his pallet. Perhaps he had more injuries that weren’t so visible to the eye.

  He stretched the tightness in his shoulder, seeking a comfortable position for the long night ahead. Sleep never came easily for him, now less than ever. Endless thoughts were a constant river flowing through his mind. He thought of Brynn, of her infectious smile and the delicious taste of her kiss. He mulled over the idea of Lord Westmore presumably dead, and immediately pushed the thought aside. Perhaps Westmore thought him dead at this very moment. Rolling, Marek shifted his weight, relieving the pressure in his chest. The cold shock of metal touching warm skin diverted his attention to the charm still strung around his neck. It had been the first thing he had checked for, even before limbs, when he had regained consciousness. Marek pulled the cord over his head to hold the charm in his palm. He brushed his thumb over the engravings before drifting off to dream.

  Morning welcomed daylight all too soon. A chill numbed his weakened muscles, making an early rise a struggle. His shoulder throbbed from overuse and a dull ache enveloped his chest.

  “Out of bed early, are we?” a sweet voice echoed from just inside the threshold. One of the women who favored Marek perhaps a bit too much had arrived to see to his wounds.

  “My men and I ride for home this morning. We’ve been gone far too long.” Marek foraged his surroundings for his boots.

  “Your wife must be missin’ a handsome thing like you, eh?” she teased, dipping her cloth in the bowl of water she carried. “Come now, sit up so I might take a look at you.”

  Deciding to hold his tongue, Marek helped the woman remove his tunic. The water felt like chunks of ice as she pressed the rag to his shoulder, scrubbing flakes of dried blood from his tender skin. His muscles seized, sending a wave of nausea through his weary body. “Damn it, woman!” he cursed, pulling away from her coarse touch.

  She apologized, continuing with the cleansing before wrapping a bandage around his wound, across his sculpted shoulder, and down his middle. “Some of us have heard you are heading to the Crossroads to find Lord Westmore.”

  “Where have you heard this?” Marek asked, stunned from the bit of news. The idea hadn’t yet come to mind.

  “Everyone is speaking of it — the warrior who gave Lord Westmore that nasty cut is going to challenge him to the death for control of Archaean territory. I assume that great warrior is you.” The woman fluttered her sultry eyes. Her fingers lingered on his bicep until Marek removed her hand.

  “Stay on task, woman, I cannot stress this enough. Hurry and dress the wounds. I must leave soon.”

  “Oh.” The woman pouted, arching her plump lips like a child. “There’s no harm in waiting a few more days. The others and I were hoping we might be able to… once you were healed enough, I mean… join us for…” She giggled, a seemingly sudden embarrassment overcoming her words.

  “Trust me.” Marek rolled his eyes. “What you want is never going to happen. You would be disappointed, especially with a man like me.”

  “Oh, I find that hard to believe.” The woman plopped down the extra bandages and trudged away.

  Standing to wriggle his way back into his tunic, Marek heard horses.

  Ronan plodded through the doorway. “Are you ready?”

  “In a moment, just let a man fetch his boots, will you?” The thick leather slid on easily, hugging his feet and calves like warm winter gloves. After latching them tightly, Marek rose and slid the scabbard Ronan handed him in place. Marek hissed as the leather conformed to his body, tightening over his wounds.

  “We found your sword not far from where you fell, but…” Ronan lingered behind Marek.

  “Where the hell is my horse?” Marek bellowed from outside the infirmary.

  “Marek, most of the mounts were taken when the Engel left. I’m sorry, I know how much—”

  “That son of a bitch!” Arran was just an old battle-driven horse of no consequence to anyone. “He stole my horse — that bastard stole my horse! I’m going to cut his heart out, I swear it to the gods I am!” Marek kicked a nearby rock out of frustration, nearly tripping himself. For the next few tense moments, Marek proceeded to curse every vile word imaginable until he could no longer think of any more that would describe just how angry he was.

  His men snickered but waited until his tantrum was through before helping him up on a spirited young filly for the journey home.

  Nothing felt right abou
t the horse. Her paces were off. He couldn’t find his seat as the saddle didn’t fit her properly. The replacement just couldn’t measure up to his old friend Arran. He scolded the filly throughout his long trek homeward, asking her what he was going to do with such an untrained horse if a battle arose and caught him unawares. Would she know the correct action to take? “No,” he informed her. She was terribly small and thin and he reminded her of that fact whenever they crested a hill. “You are not fit for battle,” he would growl. The filly snorted and swished her cream tail, swatting a fly from her flanks as she trotted alongside the others, oblivious of his maddened tirades.

  ~~~~

  “Are you sure he didn’t take a hit to the head?” Gavin questioned Ronan, riding up alongside his mount. Glancing over his shoulder, he spied Marek, deep in conversation with his unresponsive horse. “He’s not right in the head.”

  Ronan could only laugh. “He’s been through much — perhaps it’s the fever?”

  “Perhaps he’s just gone mad,” corrected Gavin.

  “Aye, me thinks you are right.”

  “We both know he’s going after that Engel shit.” Gavin arched an eyebrow.

  “He’ll want to get his precious horse back, I know that much.” Ronan turned to glance at Marek as well.

  “He’s gonna get his wee self slaughtered if we let him go off by his lonesome. Well, he has gone mad, to be sure. I’ve seen mad — and Marek is far beyond that.”

  Ronan sighed, running his palm across the back of his neck.

  “And you know he’s damn well going to do it…” hinted Gavin.

  “I know, and that’s why we’re going with him,” replied Ronan. “Let’s just let him recover a bit before we go putting ideas in his head.”

  “That’s what I wanted to hear! The crazy bastard needs us!” Gavin’s loud laugh echoed through the trees. Birds took flight at the disruption, disappearing into the horizon.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Hunted

  Only seven Archaeans returned home just before the most beautiful sunset of the season nestled down to bed below the trees. Too many tears were shed from grief for those who didn’t return. Murron gripped her sons tight, overjoyed they were safe. After slapping Marek for causing her so much worry, Murron coddled her son and saw to his wounds as any concerned mother would do. She fed him hot stew and fetched him blankets when she believed he might have a chill. Before long, Marek couldn’t keep her away. She woke him several times during the cool nights to make sure he wasn’t hungry or that he was warm enough or still breathing if she could not hear him turning in his bed.

  When Marek could no longer stomach another moment of her pampering, he ventured outside to bide his time elsewhere. He needed to work his arm before his muscles grew too weak, but no one would spar for fear of reinjuring him. Going mad from boredom, Marek convinced his men into exchanging blows with him after a good deal of deliberate coaxing and monetary bribes. At first he tired easily with even a wooden sparring sword, but after much needed practice and a few too many ales to numb the pain, Marek was finally able to pin Ronan. They cheered and celebrated over his personal victory, jumping and tackling each other like young boys.

  “Well done, Marek. I think you need to rest.” Ronan wiped his brow, winded by his brother’s match. “I almost had you, though.”

  “I think he needs to get pissed.” A devious smile formed on Gavin’s lips as he swung his arm over Marek’s shoulder. “Our boy is back, lads.”

  “A nice, thick lager sounds mighty fine right now.” Marek forced himself to smile, trying his best to hide the pain welling under Gavin’s grip.

  ~~~~

  “Mother, you should have seen Marek this afternoon. He was amazing.” Ronan praised his brother’s accomplishments while helping Murron tidy the kitchen after the evening meal.

  “I suppose this means the lot of you will be leaving me here again.” Murron heaved a sad sigh, peeking at Marek through an open window. He sat quietly in a wooden chair resting its back against the croft, rocking on the hind legs while staring blankly at the sea.

  “That is entirely up to Marek. We have all agreed to ride with him.”

  “Keep him alive, you mean?”

  “More or less.” Ronan had never seen his brother so lost. With Nya and Ewan gone, there was nothing left for him to live for. Marek’s day to day activities varied from ale drinking contests to sitting on that little wooden chair gazing with glazed eyes toward the sea as if he was expecting something, or someone. “He has no purpose, mother. He was born a great warrior — he was a father and husband. Now all of that has been taken from him. What has he left to do but sit outside and drink?”

  “He hasn’t been the same since you returned. His demons haunt him more than ever, I fear. Take him, Ronan. Take your brother to kill this Engel. Only then will the gods give him peace.”

  “He’s weak. He has grown weary, and his spirit is clouded by a woman. Pretty little thing, though. Almost took her for myself.”

  “The one who mended your arm?”

  “Aye, but I fear you already know this. Therefore, this conversation is going nowhere,” Ronan teased Murron, giving her a wink.

  “Oh, let an old woman amuse herself.”

  “A matchmaker are you, Mother? I don’t believe your tricks will work on your son this time as well as they did the last.”

  “What? Me? Play tricks on my own sons? Whatever put that idea in your head, my boy?” Taking a broom from a corner, she swept the floor in lazy circles.

  “Why will you not spread your charms this way once in awhile?” poked Ronan as he finished tidying the area he diligently scrubbed.

  “Oh, I’m just waiting for the right lass for you, my son. Do you not know you are my favorite?”

  “As it should be.” Ronan smiled, cradling his mother’s head with his palms to kiss her forehead.

  “What are you two chatting about in here? Mother, help me with this, will you?” Marek struggled to remove his tunic.

  Murron helped pull it from his arms. “Does it still bother you?”

  “Aye, a bit,” he replied.

  “Look, Marek.” Ronan removed his own tunic. “We have matching scars. That should amuse the ladies, eh?”

  “I don’t need disfigurements to amuse a few tarts,” Marek shot back, flexing his chest muscles at his mother.

  “Oh, you two — always in competition. First it was over strength and swords, then women. All I ask for is a few grandchildren before I wither away and die, is that too much to ask?” As soon as words were spoken, Murron covered her mouth with her hands and glanced to Marek. “I’m so sorry. I did not—”

  “’Tis all right, Mother. You meant no harm.” Marek touched her furrowed brow with his lips and kissed her goodnight. “Go to bed. I have business with my dearest brother.”

  Murron gathered a few items that needed replacing to their proper spots. “Goodnight, my sons,” she called out behind her. “Blessed be the gods that keep watch this night.” She disappeared through a curtained threshold to her boxed bed.

  “Blessed be the gods,” they repeated. The childhood prayer slipped off their tongues without thought.

  ~~~~

  Marek climbed the wooden rungs of the ladder to the loft. Two beds they had used as children were nestled under the rafters. “Do you remember when Father first put these beds up here? They seemed bigger than we would ever be. Now look at us… two grown men still sleeping in our boyhood beds with our legs hanging over the ends like giants.”

  Ronan laughed, following Marek up the ladder. “The gods forbid that any woman should see where we do our bidding. I remember when you broke your arm chasing that horse of yours and Father and I had to hoist you up the ladder with a rope because you could not climb up yourself. You kept—” Ronan let out a loud belly laugh as he recalled the memory.

  “I kept falling down the ladder, I remember,” interrupted Marek. “And you were of no help, always pushing me off the rungs.” />
  “Mother feared you were going to break your other arm, and you ended up sleeping with her instead. Father was none too pleased.”

  Marek kept silent, reminiscing of the past and how less complicated everything seemed back then.

  “So what is it that you wanted to talk about, Marek? Heading to the Crossroads?”

  “How did you…”

  Ronan relaxed on his bed, tucking a pillow beneath his head. “You are my brother. I know you better than you know yourself. So what is this plan you have been brooding over for… oh, all season now?”

  Marek stared at the beams above. “Well, I’m not sure exactly what to do. On one hand, I want to storm in with swords flying and pipes blaring and kill them all in one giant rush, but on the other hand…”

  “You want him to die a slow death and rot in hell for what he did?”

  “Aye, that’s about right.”

  “The lads and I think we should take just a few men and ambush the son of a bitch before his army grows again. If our people don’t start standing up to him, all the clans are going join in arms with him. We cannot let that happen. Of course, we have just a bit more motive than some others, but it will be fun either way. What do you say?”

  “I would say it sounds as though you have already thought this through.”

  “Do you feel you are ready?”

  “Enough.”

  “We’ll get together with the lads tomorrow and make plans. Now let us discuss what we are going to do about your woman problem.”

  “What woman problem? I have no woman to have a problem with.”

  “And therein lies the problem. We need to get you one.”

  “I don’t need any more headaches, so I respectfully decline.” Marek sighed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

  A snicker broke the awkward silence. “Oh, but they are so much fun, dear brother.”

  “You’ve been running with Gavin for too long, Ronan.”

  “Well, who else was I supposed to get on with while you were drunk and mad?”