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

by Faye, Amy

  Gunnar drew a breath through his teeth and blew it back out. He tried not to imagine that night with Deirdre, but the thought just made him think of it more. His body was sensitive, every bit of him driving towards a realization that he didn't want to make.

  He didn't care what she wanted, per se. If she wanted to be free of him, then she might be able to have that. But he didn't care that she wanted it, he wanted her. He would keep trying to find her, would chase her to the ends of the earth if he had to. Wherever she was.

  But his thoughts turned quickly. That was, indeed, all she'd really wanted. He had taken her away—if he hadn't been so desperate for a witching woman to cure his immortality, then he would have left her alive. Would have saved the children, and the three women with her as well.

  There was nothing wrong with raiding, he thought. No, the strong got what they took. But killing women had always felt wrong, and he never liked to have to do it. He'd opened that door himself, and left it open for others to step in and do what he couldn't. What he didn't want to do.

  She had been clear from the first. She wanted to go home. To be free. She never wanted to be with him. She had given him what he wanted to get away.

  He sighed and turned over. He needed to sleep. His eyes stung with tiredness. Leaving her be was the right answer this time. She deserved her freedom. She'd earned it, after all.

  Thirty-One

  Deirdre's hips ached from the days she'd already spent riding, and she still had more to go. It seemed as if she'd been on the horse since forever, with only the one brief stop in her cottage, and now she was back on the road again with only a few short hours to soothe her aching bottom.

  She couldn't even rub them, since that would mean getting off the horse, and time was definitely at a premium. She needed to get to Norwich, and soon. Feeling better, it would take time. She barely had time to eat, even—it seemed like the minute that she let herself off the blue pony, she just had to lay down a second and she was waking up the next morning.

  Eating meant forcing herself to find food, meant struggling to keep her eyes open in spite of how tired she was feeling. She'd have rather just slept, but she needed to keep her strength, or she might fall off the horse in a moment of tiredness, and then where would she be?

  Nowhere near Gunnar, nowhere near Norwich, and nowhere near saving anyone. She'd be right back where she was, only saddle-sore and with seemingly endless exhaustion. It felt unnatural, even improper to be so tired, all the time. But she knew better than to pretend that she wasn't feeling it.

  Her teachers words echoed in her head: Your body is your most useful tool, and it will tell you when something's wrong. Don't ignore it, you're not going to get another. Well, she'd like to ignore it now.

  She was thankful for the clothes she'd brought. It drew a little less attention than being blood-covered and having her breasts practically hanging out, but for a little afternoon trying to help the locals, she hadn't needed to concern herself with suitability for the road. And of course she'd had all the buttons.

  It was what let her slip off the horse, tie it up beside the others, and walk into a little restaurant. Deirdre didn't have much money. Didn't have much need for it. But she had enough to get by, and with the way she was feeling a hot soup would go a long way to helping her feel much better.

  The woman who took her order was older, with looks that might have been attractive even as little as ten years ago, though she looked as if she had been in a downward spiral longer than that. She must have been a real beauty in her youth. The man behind the bar looked like her husband. He must have been proud to have such a pretty wife.

  She looked around the restaurant as they left. It was still strange to be out and in public like this. Without having to worry about what people would think. The place seemed popular, over half the seats filled well past noontime, yet too early for supper.

  Deirdre accepted the drink they brought and drank it down greedily. The water tasted foreign, and she had to admit that it was. Not the well-water she was used to, and not the canteen-water that she'd drank with the Northmen's camp. She drank it down greedily.

  The soup came out not long afterward, and she started to eat greedily, continuing to look around for anything that would signal some sort of change around her. Anything that meant she needed to leave in a hurry.

  Deirdre heard the door opening behind her, turned to look and see who came in. There was something familiar about the woman, but before she could place the woman's face, she had already turned on her heel and walked right back out. Deirdre watched her walk past the plate windows and down the road. Towards the road out of town. Where Deirdre had just come from.

  Brigid couldn't possibly be here. She'd been gone almost five years, she wouldn't suddenly be back with no explanation. Besides, it had been five years. It was probably just a woman who looked similar. But Deirdre couldn't shake the feeling that she knew exactly who the woman had been.

  There had been a short time where Deirdre thought that Brigid might come back. That she wasn't just leaving her student behind entirely. But after a year, without a single word, she'd realized the truth. Or, what she thought the truth was.

  She had left to go and die, or to find someplace else to live entirely. Seeing someone who looked very much like her teacher, five years older but still the same woman, and seeming to head towards their old home—it tore open old wounds that Deirdre didn't want to think about.

  Why had she left in the first place? That was the real question. If there was no way of knowing, there was no reason to worry. But what if Deirdre thought wrong? What if there was very much a reason to worry? She couldn't let herself get distracted.

  She needed to get to Norwich and see what she could do to help Gunnar. He had done so much for her, protected her so many times, that she couldn't just abandon him. Not even if it was what he'd asked her to do. She couldn't believe he was lying there on some battlefield.

  But even if she hadn't cured his immortality, what happened to a man who healed his wounds quickly, if his head were separated from his body? The answer seemed obvious. No need to ask herself. She took a deep breath. This wasn't a time for worrying or a time for panic.

  Did Brigid have some part to play in all of this? If so, why had she left? Why was she coming back now? And why had she left in such a hurry? The questions were too many, and the answers—there weren't any answers at all.

  There was one person who knew the answers to all the questions she had, and she had just walked out the door. If it had all been a big mistake, and that woman was nobody at all, she wouldn't have left like she did. Nobody in the place looked dangerous. Rather, they all had a very stable air of people who came here all the time.

  She was the only change, and though it was a bit of a leap to assume, she had to guess that she was the only reason someone would bolt out of the place.

  She could follow after. Even on horseback, she could easily guess which way her teacher would have gone. After all, it seemed as if she were going straight back where Deirdre had just left. It would only be a little while, and then she'd be able to ask, straight to Brigid's face, what had happened. Why she'd left.

  Deirdre dropped a shilling on the table, knowing she'd overpaid. Time was of the essence, after all. A second realization hit her as she walked out the door. She couldn't do both. She had to be in Norwich if she wanted to help Gunnar. Or she could head in the opposite direction and confront her teacher. Ask why she'd left her, why she had just abandoned her.

  She frowned. There wasn't any choice to be made. One of them was more important. She stepped back up onto the horse, adjusted her skirts, and got the horse moving again.

  The entire atmosphere was electric. Even the feet walking past seemed to have doubled, and the noise of hammering the scaffolding together wasn't going any more. Unless they were going to be released for good behavior—not likely—there wasn't much time left. Perhaps none at all. Perhaps they had waited too long.

  But t
he guard had become more and more serious about his job as time went on. As the finish line approached and he started to show signs that he might actually have some sort of future. There had been debates about what to do when he managed to stay sober tonight.

  They guessed that there would be a moment where their chains would be struck off, and in that moment they would make their escape. Instants before the executioner's ax fell. But it was not exactly the sort of contingency plan that anyone wanted to test. After all, it assumed that the English were fools.

  They had done their best to marshal defenses up to this point, but nobody had the resources to fight back. These city soldiers, though, they had been led well, and they had planned well. There wasn't any hope that they might slip up at the last minute, because they hadn't slipped up before.

  But the last moment is when everyone slips up, Gunnar thought. He looked over at the guard. He was alone, the thick doors barred shut. He led the scrawny teenage sneak-thief back into his cell. Or carried him, more like, since the boy seemed to be having trouble walking.

  A blue bottle came out of the cabinet, and suddenly every eye was on him. He might be able to keep himself sober enough to be afraid. But the night before they were executed? He wasn't going to get another chance. They let themselves hope that tonight would be the night that he looked drunk and stupid enough to risk entering the den of lions for a little bit of his sadistic fun.

  He took a drink, then another. Gunnar sneered. The man drank as if it were his job. No time to enjoy his liquor, nor revelry to join it. Just a man hurtling toward drunkenness. Tonight would be the night, whatever happened. He could already see it, and the others with him could see it as well.

  Just a matter of time, waiting and choosing when the moment was right. He stood up, the bottle hanging loosely in his hand, and walked the wall, inspecting each cell. As if he were looking for something, but Gunnar knew from looking at him that he was trying to intimidate them.

  Magnus seemed to recognize it, as well. No one signaled him to begin as far as Gunnar saw, but he began wailing out, a loud and particularly bawdy Danish drinking song. Magnus was no songbird, either. If he had to provoke the man's ire, that might be the right way to go about it. If Gunnar could get himself free, he might have put the beating on the boy himself.

  The guard shouted, his words already a little slurred. "Shut yer yap!"

  Magnus knew his game, though. No, he wouldn't begin to do that. Not until he'd gotten what he wanted.

  The guard rose from his little stool, his eyes screwed up and squinty in a way that he must have thought was intimidating. "Why, if you don't stop that—"

  He rapped the billy-club against the bars hard, as if to show what was going to happen to Magnus. That he didn't immediately start fumbling for his keys when he said it was a sign in itself that he felt something was off. That he realized deep down that he was out of his depth with these Nords.

  But after draining the bottle, every man in the prison was ready to have Magnus put on a spike, and the sadistic streak that gave the guard what little motivation he had started to spark. Perhaps just a little beating, Gunnar whispered to him. Just for a moment. After all, they're all chained up.

  He reached for the keys that hung at his belt and started flipping through them. His fingers fumbled a little with the slowed reactions of drunkenness, but it didn't take more than a few moments to find the key. It opened with a satisfying, well-oiled click, and the door swung open easily.

  Gunnar turned his head to check. Valdemar's hand clutched the ring that held their shared chain to the wall, and he had as much slack as he would ever have. He reached out, and with a surge of adrenaline and elation, he wrapped his free arm around the man's neck and yanked him back away from the door.

  "Turn him to me!" Valdemar was already reaching for the keys at the man's hips, before Gunnar could do anything more. He twisted the man roughly away to set him off-balance, and just as Gunnar had hoped he braced himself against it.

  The rapid switch in the other direction caught him completely off-guard, but to Gunnar's disappointment he stayed on his feet. A hard tug from Valdemar and the keys pulled free with a loud pop as the ring tore away.

  The guard had started to fight back already, and Gunnar covered his mouth. It would only take a moment to kill the man. But he needed a grip on him, needed to catch him 'round the throat, and the way that he twisted to get free, with only one hand…

  If he cried out, it would all be over. So he gripped with all his might on the man's mouth, using his chained arm as best he could. Valdemar tried keys desperately beside him, finally freeing himself and giving Gunnar use of his chained arm. He rapped the man on the head, hard. With a little luck, they'd be free and clear. If he hadn't hit hard enough, though, the man would be up and awake.

  There was no time to be certain. Valdemar was going down the line, unlocking chains. The thought crossed his mind for a moment. What if Valdemar left without unlocking his chains? He would be the only one left behind, or perhaps Eirik, Leif, and Ulf as well. But they were already free and rubbing their wrists where the iron bracelets had chafed their skin raw.

  Gunnar came last. He had been the linchpin of his plan. If they meant to betray him now—he steadied himself. No, he shouldn't assume. And with Ulf and Leif free, he would regret leaving Gunnar behind. The feel of the iron being removed was all the answer he needed. And then they were gone. Plenty of time to escape, he reasoned. Plenty of time.

  They had barely cleared the wall when he heard the cry go up. A smart guard would have made sure that they checked outside the wall. The worst-case scenario. They weren't far enough out to be sure of their escape, and it meant that they were the furthest thing from safe.

  Gunnar felt the weight on his shoulders. He had put these men in the position they were now in. It was his responsibility to see them safely home. He slowed his run. The others noticed and turned, still moving.

  "I'll stay behind. Someone needs to slow them. You go. Go home, don't worry about me. I'll find my own way."

  He could see the looks on their faces. No, none of them liked it. But they would accept it, because he wasn't going to change his mind. Then, silently, one by one, they turned and took off.

  Except Valdemar.

  "We'll stand together," he growled. "Two are more distraction than one, after all. To glory!"

  Thirty-Two

  The first thing she noticed was the smell. Norwich was like very little she'd seen before. Malbeck had seemed like it was perhaps too big for her, when she had lived her entire life in the little isolated cottage. The other little villages and towns she had passed through on the way here seemed positively cosmopolitan. Bright and new and strange.

  In her arrogance she had started to think that she had seen quite a bit. And she had, she had to admit to herself. She had seen quite a bit of the world. But this was something else entirely. She shook her head. What an idiot she'd been. The city must be the same, just a bit bigger, she repeated to herself. The assumptions that she'd made just showed how much of a country bumpkin she was.

  This was something very different from the oh-so-'cosmopolitan' towns she had been through. There was a massive gulf between a town with a hundred families and a city with a thousand or more. The walls pressed in against her, and the smell of human bodies overpowered the smell of nature. Even the animals were more prevalent here.

  And yet, in spite of the smell, it seemed to her to be the most fabulous place she'd ever seen. How was she supposed to compete with this? The place was so nice, after all. She took a deep breath. Nothing to lose her mind over, she chided. No reason to go crazy. And after all, she had work to do.

  As she got closer to the castle, the crowds that had already been oppressive became thicker still, until there was little she could do to avoid the bodies pressed in thick. There were people talking, and she heard snippets of conversation.

  "Right there," someone pointed at nothing in particular. "They killed a hundred people
with their bare hands, I saw it meself!"

  Deirdre didn't have to wonder who they must have been talking about. She knew a few people who were very definitely the type to kill a hundred people with their bare hands—but they were in irons, she added to herself. And a hundred people seemed extreme.

  "—a breakout of the prison, but they caught 'em, sure as you can say. We'll still have our beheadin'."

  Deirdre had stopped moving towards where they would no doubt have the entire thing set up, but the movement of the crowd naturally pressed her on, past the man and woman leaning up against the wall and chatting. Deirdre wanted nothing more than to stop and ask someone for the details, but she couldn't seem to find the space to stop and ask.

  So instead she just kept moving, as best she could. She took a deep breath and tried to calm herself. There was nothing to be worried about. She was as anonymous as she could get in this crowd.

  She felt the little bag she carried 'round her shoulder, slipped her hand inside. Her knife, smaller than some she had seen in the past month and a half but big for her hands, was still there. She wrapped her hand around it to calm herself, and pressed on.

  The crowd didn't part for her. But with her shoulder, she managed to split people apart, managed to muscle through the castle gate. To her right there was a large gap in the crowd, and she could see that there were guards every few feet—not quite pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, but close enough that anyone who tried to get through would quickly come to regret it.

  She swallowed hard. Whatever she was going to do, she'd have to deal with those guards, that much was certain. But how was she going to do it? She couldn't fight the way that Gunnar could. Nor the way that Ulf or Leif could, she noted. She had killed the one man, but it had been as much out of surprise as anything.

  If he'd seen her as anything other than a defenseless woman, if she had seen herself as anything other than that, then he might have been able to respond as quickly as he had to the other two in the cart with her who lay there still, no longer drawing breath.