Road Warriors (Motorcycle Club Romance Collection) (Bad Boy Collections Book 4)

by Faye, Amy

  He let out a long breath and sat back, let her poke and prod him. It felt absolutely normal—not sensitive or painful, no matter where she touched or how hard. Except when she used the point of her nail, which he squirmed away from, laughing softly.

  "What are you looking for?"

  "How is this even possible? You were nearly dead. I saw you. It kept getting worse, even."

  He shrugged. "It's a talent."

  It wasn't the answer that she wanted, but it was the only answer Gunnar had. He had thought the same as she had, and it was as surprising to him as anyone that he'd somehow kick-started his healing again.

  The thing that surprised him was that he didn't care whether it was back or not. If not, then he would be able to spend more time with Deirdre, more time excusing himself from doing what he needed to do.

  If he were healing again, then it was time to get back to work.

  Gunnar stood up and tested the strength of the ropes around his arms. They had tied him well, but with the fighting and nearly pulling his shoulders clean out of his body… they strained loudly as he pulled. With a little effort, he'd be able to get free.

  "What are you doing? You're not thinking of trying to go back now, taking over the band?"

  The smile Gunnar gave her was not in any way reassuring. She sputtered for a moment, stammering. Then she seemed to think of exactly what she wanted to say.

  "You shouldn't," she began, which earned a raised eyebrow from Gunnar. "It's too soon. They'll be raiding soon. You want to have a night on the road, when someone getting hurt won't damage the next days' raid. And—and such quick changes could certainly cause a rift in the group, between those who supported you, and who support him."

  Gunnar sucked in a deep breath and sat back down. She was right. He hadn't thought of any of that, and yet here was an outsider and a woman who was telling him the basics of his business. The giddiness of realizing that he wasn't worthless, not any more, it had driven him a bit mad with excitement.

  No, waiting was the right way to go.

  "But what about my wounds? Wouldn't they realize that I'm uninjured?" He leaned forward, so that they could speak without being heard outside. "If it were my decision, I certainly wouldn't leave myself with the prisoners. Like a wolf among sheep, no way."

  Deirdre nodded and considered it.

  "Couldn't you just lie down and pretend?"

  Gunnar's face split into a broad smile. "Not in the least! I'm terrible at pretending."

  "So… hm." She sat back, thoughtful. He watched her, entirely different thoughts on his mind. Thoughts that, he admitted, had nothing to do with pretending to be injured. Thoughts that had very little to do with retaking control of the band he had put together for this raid.

  "I could be re-injured," he offered finally, managing to pull his eyes away from her enchanting body. "If that helps."

  The look Deirdre gave told Gunnar that he hadn't been particularly helpful, but then she seemed to change her tune. She turned, reached behind her seat, and a moment later came up with a knife.

  "We take this," she said softly, "and then…"

  He took the meaning immediately, and nodded.

  "Definitely. Okay."

  He lifted his arms. When he didn't feel the knife stabbing into him he turned to her. The expression on her face was one he hadn't seen before. It seemed to happen more as he got to know her, the opposite of what he was used to seeing in women.

  They usually became easier and easier to predict, but Deirdre seemed to change and shift, so that predicting her moods was like trying to wrestle a snake.

  "I can't. What if I—"

  The knife slipped out of her hand and clattered to the ground.

  "We'll see how pretending goes, then," he said. He tried to make his smile warm and comforting, but he knew well enough that it probably hadn't worked.

  He picked the knife up, and considered for a long time whether or not to take it for himself. If he reclaimed control, then it would be meaningless to keep it. If he failed, then it would be taken from him. If he never challenged Valdemar, then what use would it be?

  Instead he leaned past Deirdre, her smell leaving his head spinning, and found the cubby where she had hidden the blade, and dropped it point-first down. She could grab it in an instant, if she had the need, and as he sat back Gunnar decided that it was well enough hidden. Even knowing it was there, he couldn't see it from the outside.

  She looked upset, practically panicking. What was he supposed to do in these situations? Gunnar frowned, tightened his jaw. There were things he knew how to do, and things he didn't, and dealing with women's problems—like it or not—were something he had no experience with.

  "What's wrong?"

  She gave him a wide-eyed look, as angry as any she had given him, but it slipped away as she was retaken by melancholy. Gunnar thought about pressing the matter, but then he decided against it. When she was ready to talk, when she wanted him to know what she was thinking, then she would tell him.

  Until then, he'd just wait and watch the road pulling slowly away as the sun started to dip toward evening.

  Fourteen

  As soon as she saw the gleam in his eyes, Deirdre knew that she had a problem. If she were to let him run off and fight, it didn't much matter whether she won or lost. If she were freed now, alone, what would be the point?

  She pushed aside the sting of being apart from Gunnar. She had more important concerns than love. How would she get back to her little hut? How could she? She'd be alone, and this far from home, it would take a week or more… if she ran into someone on the road, what would happen to her?

  She didn't need to wonder. It wouldn't be pleasant, and there wouldn't be much avoiding it. Hitting a man over the head when his attention was divided, that was one thing. But could she really fight someone off if he were committed to hurting her?

  She knew the answer without even having to think about it. She would be a dead woman, no doubt about it.

  No, an escort would do very well. And if there was one thing that she knew, it was that if he weren't so damn obsessed with all this fighting and killing, Gunnar would have made a perfectly good escort.

  He would protect her. He'd told her that, and she was surprised to find that she believed him, but that didn't count for much if he let her go alone.

  If he won, and he didn't let her go, or even if she chose to stay, it was only a matter of time. Could she go back to his home country with him? Not a chance, she couldn't speak the language, had no place in his society. What would she do, living in some foreign land, near foreign cities?

  Raise goats? Wait for him when he went raiding, hoping that he would be able to come back to her again this year? It was a hopeless idea, and it was immediately obvious how bad it was.

  And what if he lost? That would be worse. One duel, Valdemar might let him live, might think that he could be cowed into submission. He might have mercy on the man who had led him into the position he was in now.

  But not a second time, not when he realized that Gunnar was going to be a thorn in his side forever. Could she stomach the idea of letting Gunnar get himself killed? No, none of the options that she had at her disposal would work. Not one bit.

  She let out a breath and gave it some more thought. What, then? The arguments came easily. He should bide his time, choose a better one. The night before a raid, no—but the morning before, that could work. And besides, you don't want to split the camp right before a day of fighting, do you?

  He seemed to believe her, thankfully.

  But then she had tried to stab him, to make the image work. How deep would be safe? How quickly could he recover? She had no way of knowing, never had a good idea and now it seemed to be accelerating.

  It could slow back down, it could get faster—she had no way of saying. But she knew that it was dangerous to test it. She could kill him, if she pierced his heart. Or would that kill him? She had no way to be sure, but she certainly didn't want to take the
risk.

  If she didn't stab deep enough, he might heal from it long before anyone came to check on them, and make the whole thing a waste of time.

  The dangers were too numerous, and the thought of hurting him, it all added up wrong. She couldn't afford the risk, that much was sure. She dropped the knife and sat back.

  What was wrong with her? Deirdre had always been smarter than this. She thought things through, and she did what she had to do. It was all well and good that chickens were sweet little animals, but when she had to eat, she had to eat. Sweet animals be damned.

  But somehow things were different now. When she had made the decision it felt as if a weight were lifted off her chest, and she sat back down, the knife laying there between them. She sucked in a breath and watched out the back.

  If this was what it was like to care about someone, she didn't want it. She wanted back her stability, wanted to be able to think clearly. This, this inability to concentrate, and inability to do what she needed to do, it had to go.

  After a long time, well after Gunnar had hidden the knife back behind her, the sun started to set on another day and the caravan slowed to a halt. Gunnar laid down, pretending to be asleep. He was as poor an actor as he had suggested. He looked less like a passed-out, injured man than he looked like an actor pretending to play a corpse.

  So when a dark-haired Northman's head peeked inside to check on them, he took only a brief look before he turned to Deirdre with a bored look.

  "Is he alright?"

  She looked from the northerner to Gunnar and back, unsure how to respond. "He's still—"

  The Northman stepped up into the wagon and took the opposite bench. "Don't lie. He's fine, aren't you?"

  He nudged Gunnar's body with his foot, and Gunnar groaned too loudly and tried to roll away, but Deirdre could see that the illusion was broken. Everyone present knew exactly what was going on, there wouldn't be any fooling anyone.

  "He can tell you're faking, Gunnar, just get up."

  "Well," he answered gruffly. "I told you, I'm not very good at it."

  Deirdre didn't respond, because the dark-haired man was already speaking, saying something in their language that she couldn't make out. She could hear Gunnar's name at least once, and Valdemar's, but beyond that she could only guess.

  Then he turned to Deirdre. "Valdemar wants to see you. An update on how things are going with these three."

  From the way that he had reacted to seeing Gunnar unharmed, and the look she'd seen on his face when the duel had been fought, she took a guess. "Should I mention Gunnar's condition?"

  He raised his eyebrows and thought about it for a moment. "It would be bad if he realized you were lying. But worse things could happen. And besides, you never know. He might not be as fine as you think."

  He smiled a dark smile, and she could see his hand on his knife. Her eyes darted from the knife to Gunnar, deciding what he meant. Would he seriously try to hurt him, or was this another plot to keep up appearances? His voice broke her reverie.

  "You should go, she-witch. Valdemar is not the most patient man in our camp. He will appreciate if you go quickly." He bent down and loosened the loop that tied her rope to the bench support. "And don't get any ideas about running. Too many people would see you, you wouldn't get far."

  But, she was surprised to find, she didn't have any ideas about that at all. She had ideas about something else entirely.

  The field of flowers that the camp had decided to plant themselves in made a good distraction. No questions to bother with, no thoughts of what was going on when he wasn't around. No thoughts that he couldn't protect her if he couldn't see her. None of that.

  All Gunnar had to do was look out at the field of flowers and see the bright yellows and blues and reds that all mixed into the green of the grass and plants around them.

  He wasn't surprised that Leif had stayed here. He wasn't as talkative as Eirik, but he had always been prone to making his presence known when he wanted to know something, or wanted someone else to know it.

  Yet he waited a long time for Gunnar to turn and regard him. There must have been something wrong, because he was never this quiet. Never this patient. Finally Gunnar decided he'd waited long enough.

  "What is it?"

  "You'd better not let anyone else realize you're better. I don't think he'll let you take it back. He's too ambitious. Wants it too badly."

  "You think he has the support to stop me? Or split up the men?"

  "He has his supporters."

  "But would it split them up if I challenged him?"

  "Depends on if he lived, I guess. It might."

  Gunnar leaned back against the canvas wall and considered that. He was right, of course. The only answer was to get rid of Valdemar permanently, but it wasn't something he was particularly looking forward to.

  No, he'd much rather not do that. But it had to be done. "How bad would it be to let him keep it?"

  Leif looked at him, an eyebrow cocked. "Let him keep it? You're getting old, Gunnar."

  "Not forever, or even very long. You don't think he's too dangerous, though, do you? Too arrogant?"

  "Will he get anyone killed, do you mean?"

  "That's exactly what I mean."

  "No, not so far. We'll have to see. He doesn't exactly go running off in the middle of fights, either."

  The comment stung, but he deserved it. "I don't want to leave anyone to be put at risk. He's too arrogant, too aggressive. Always looking to fight. Valdemar doesn't like to take rests, doesn't like to wait. If he could fight from now until he collapsed from exhaustion, he'd do it," Gunnar said.

  The flowers were distractingly beautiful. Haunting. They made him think. What was the point of any of this? Why was he here, why had he brought his men here? So that they could all work hard to destroy places like this?

  And yet… he shook his head softly and tried to push the thoughts away.

  "Well, if you're planning on making your move, I would suggest that you do it after tomorrow morning's raid. He can't exactly protest, can he?"

  "Are we that close? I can't see anything out of this damned cart."

  Leif nodded pensively. "A few miles outside. Maybe an hour's march into town, I'd say."

  The raven-haired man stepped down from the back of the wagon and nodded to Gunnar. "Tomorrow, we'll fight, and then you can make your move. If you wait too long, I think you'll find fewer and fewer men want to take orders from someone who's been lollygagging in the back of a cart. Even—especially if it was with a girl like the one you're with."

  Gunnar smiled at the comment. Yes, especially with a girl like Deirdre. That was very much right. He watched the flowers, but now that he was alone the questions came back. What was she doing in there? What took so long? If she were giving a simple report, she would be out and back shortly. She certainly wasn't in Valdemar's tent trying to figure out how to cure his immortality.

  He immediately tried to push away the sting he felt at the thought. She could do whatever she wanted to do, and more than likely it had nothing to do with wanting. If she was doing… that, then she was doing it because she was doing what she had to do.

  But couldn't she have come to him for help? Couldn't she have asked him to solve her problems for her? He was as strong a warrior as any he had ever known, and certainly among the strongest she knew.

  Perhaps it was his failing as a warrior that had sent her away, but he doubted it. Even still, he didn't want to think too hard about it. Every thought that he had only seemed to lead to further frustration.

  When he heard footsteps coming around the back of the wagon, he let out a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding. Finally she was back. Would he ask what had happened, or would he pretend that he wasn't worried about it? Neither seemed particularly ideal.

  If he brought it up, then he looked pushy, even demanding, and she already clearly badly enough of him, whether she was attracted to him or not. He would do well not to make his situation any wo
rse than it already was.

  Yet, the question burned inside him just the same. He had to know, even though it was nothing. Even though she had just been told to go report, and she had gone as ordered.

  He'd made up his mind just in time for her to climb up into the back of the wagon, accompanied by another one of the men. One of Valdemar's, he reasoned, and it made good sense that he would be.

  Then another came, and another, until there were five men standing outside, and the one tying Deirdre's hands back down. Gunnar realized what was happening a moment too late as the man tying Deirdre turned and clipped him on the ear with an elbow.

  Gunnar's head was spinning, and the young viking took the opportunity to grab him round the waist and throw Gunnar from the wagon. His arms, still tied down, twisted wickedly and pulled agonizingly, threatening at any moment to pop out sickeningly.

  Then he was free and fell to the ground, rewarded with a stiff boot to the head, and another to his gut in a one-two rhythm. Another hit him, and another, the blows coming one after the other.

  The pain exploded behind his eyes, his mind starting to go blank as the hits kept coming. A normal man might have been dead by now, he thought. It was only because of his particularly unique ability to withstand abuse that he was even still able to breathe, that his entire ribcage hadn't been broken.

  He tried to fight back, for a moment. Wrapped his arms around one of their legs as it came kicking into his chest. He turned over, pulling the man to the ground, and then brought down his heavy hands, still tied together, on the boy's head. His nose exploded in bright red blood, streaming down his face.

  Gunnar ignored it and tried to bring his hands down again like twin hammers, but a stiff boot to the skull sent him sprawling back to the ground, and before he could grab another the boy was on his feet again, continuing the beating with blood continuing to streak down his face.

  He could feel his bones cracking, could feel his consciousness slip away. What was happening? Why? And what would happen to Deirdre?