Angie Arms - Flames series 04

by The Strongest Flames

  “You’re hurt,” Marcus’s voice broke through her thoughts as she stared at the couple. She turned quickly, her hopes and fears she was sure were mirrored in her eyes. Marcus gasped, and his hand came out as if he was going to stroke her face, but his jaw tightened and his gray-blue eyes darkened. “They hurt you?”

  The answer to his question was obvious, and Marcus did not wait for a reply. With lightning speed he drew his sword, turning away from her, went back inside the convent. Suddenly, Alena felt cold. Why couldn’t Marcus be happy to see her as Garrick was Ryann? Because she drove him away, or perhaps she had had too many men rutting on her. She was a whore, not worthy of another man’s love. Where did that leave her?

  “Let’s get you cleaned up,” Halvor said next to her. How could a man as large as him be so gentle? “This is my wife Jillian. She has a very gentle touch.”

  Alena could not believe it when the woman blushed. What was it with these people and their love? It wasn’t as easy as they made it look. In fact, it wasn’t easy at all. She numbly allowed them to lead her to the well, and Jillian went to work cleaning the dirt and blood off her.

  Marcus watched Alena move about the camp. Their camp was heavily fortified, because Warner was not among those at the convent. He was still out searching for Ryann, but he was bound to know by now everyone was safe and out of his grasp. Tomorrow they would arrive back at Scotts Manor, dig in, and make that bastard come to them. At least that was what Damien and Garrick planned. Marcus had to get away. Everything was eating at him, the nightmares, the gnawing hunger for Alena, the inability to protect her, and just being near her was a torture to his very soul.

  “Why would you not tell me my wife was in danger?” Garrick’s voice came from behind him. It was a voice Marcus knew well, it was a voice so cold and devoid of emotion, Marcus knew it hid rage.

  “Your wife is safe, is she not?” Marcus asked, his posture remained relaxed as he leaned in a supine position, his elbow braced on the ground supporting him.

  “I asked you a question.”

  Marcus looked up into a face devoid of any humor. It was amazing Ryann could find happiness there, at one time Marcus saw a brother.

  “I’m not in a mood for this,” Marcus warned.

  “I don’t care what you’re in a mood for, you will answer my question.”

  Slowly Marcus rose from the ground. He was taller than Garrick, broader, but never did he notice, because he allowed the Bastard in his head and believed, like everyone else, he was larger than life.

  “I wanted to get her back before you ever knew.” Marcus decided he would lay the truth out for him, show Garrick he was only human.

  “Do you think you can make decisions for me? That was my wife, you had no right leaving me out, putting her at risk.”

  Marcus shrugged.

  “I don’t know what is going on with you Marcus, but you’re done. I do not need you any more if you think you do not have to follow my orders.”

  “Done?” Marcus was thinking the same thing just moments ago, but to hear Garrick tell him, after everything he did for the man, was too much. “I was beside you when you were still eating maggots from a bowl. Now you decide after you got all your power and glory, you don’t need me anymore?” Marcus’s voice rose and anger flared hot within his breast.

  “You are not Lord, I am. I think you have forgotten that.”

  Marcus slowly shook his head. “No, I have not forgotten. I guess that is what I get for allowing a bastard to take over my family’s land, to be stabbed in the back.”

  Marcus turned away, but Garrick’s iron grip fell on his shoulder and spun him back around, before he was prepared for it. With lightning speed Garrick drew his fist back and planted it in Marcus’s jaw. Marcus’s head snapped back, and he was immediately ready to retaliate, but Garrick was far too fast. Marcus got a few blows in, but they seemed ineffective as the smaller man rained blow after blow down upon him.

  Ryann’s gentle voice stopped Garrick and just like that, the fight ended. Alena came to him, prepared to offer Marcus comfort, but he wanted none of it. He spun away from her and left the camp, disappearing among the ranks of the armies spread out around them. Later, he watched Garrick and Ryann foolishly ride away, bound for Scotts Manor.

  “What are you to Warner?” Grace spun quickly around, to see Damien standing behind her. He looked so much like his brother, at least the way Cyrille once looked. Despite their remarkable alikeness in appearance, Grace never felt for Damien what she did Cyrille. Damien was always too serious, too much a soldier. Cyrille was the one who enjoyed every minute of every day, and she envied him for that. He was charming to young and old alike, kind hearted, and was quick to smile. Grace did not think she ever saw Damien smile, not a smile that lit up his face as his brother’s once did.

  “Lord Damien,” Grace mumbled, offering him a curtsy. Her eyes immediately sought out Cyrille, finding him next to one of the fires, stick in hand, but his head was turned in their direction.

  “Cyrille told me who you are. I remember you being a little unorthodox in your behavior as a young lady.”

  Of course the straight Lord Damien would remember her propensity toward practical jokes on the boys, and her desire to wrestle and make mischief with them. That was until she noticed Cyrille, and all that changed. The mere sight of Cyrille made her want to turn into a lady, in the traditional sense. “That was a long time ago,” Grace replied.

  “For all of us,” Damien said. His face was open and friendly for a moment, before shuttering itself, and he was once again a commander. “What are you to Warner?”

  Grace hesitated as her eyes sought Cyrille again, who moved closer, and was within hearing distance. What could she say? “I was his whore,” she said, raising her chin a notch and looking at Cyrille.

  “Will he want you back?”

  “I betrayed him, he will want me dead.”

  “Then you will be bait,” Damien nodded.

  “No,” Cyrille said, stepping forward, his eye fell on Grace before returning to his brother.

  “I have made my decision,” Damien declared. He nodded to Grace then to Cyrille, before turning and walking away. Cyrille wanted to speak to her, Grace could see it in the way he studied her, the way he swallowed. In the end he turned and followed his brother.

  The night turned cold as the wind shifted, and a cold drizzle began to fall. Cloaks and blankets were brought out, but no one offered comforts to Grace as she sat alone by the fire she started herself. She was soon drenched and shivering, if not for the group, she would find shelter somewhere, but felt the desire to stay. A boy finally approached her, carrying a cloak. Awkwardly he bowed to her, clearly unsure if it was necessary, then held the garment out to her.

  “Sir Cyrille bade me bring this to you,” he said nervously.

  “But he will need it,” she protested, turning about to try to locate the hooded man. He was nowhere to be seen.

  “He was quite insistent you take it to warm yourself,” he said, thrusting it toward her again.

  Grace took it from his hands and unfolding it swung it about her shoulders. She marveled that Cyrille’s heat was still trapped inside the warm cloth. Pulling it together in front of her, she put it to her nose and inhaled the scent of him. The boy continued to stare at her.

  “What is your name?” she finally asked, letting loose of the cloth to fasten the clasp that would hold it around her shoulders.

  “Will Deveroux, son of Sir Roland Deveroux, Lord Damien LeForte’s commander.”

  “I thank you Will Deveroux, son of Sir Roland Deveroux.”

  The boy opened his mouth as if he was going to speak, but apparently had second thoughts, and offered her a quick bow and fled. A little later he returned with bread, a wine skin, and a blanket. He lay it down on the log she sat upon, then quickly fled without a word, not even waiting for a thank you.

  Cyrille returned to the camp and Grace watched him move about. With all the damage done to his
body, the chilling rain stiffened him. She could tell by the way he moved. The hood only served to hide his face, its dampness could only add to the problem of losing body heat. As she watched him move about, she found empathy. Once she was so sick everyone thought she might die. The winter was particularly harsh, everyone suffered that winter, no one had food or coins to offer, or even a roof to rest under. Each moment spent in the cold made her feel that much closer to death. The troupe did their best, and luckily it was good enough, they settled into a camp to allow her rest for well over a week. Perhaps in that time they could find themselves a warm place to sleep, but she made it to the point she could not travel. She did not have enough energy to raise her head, let alone trudge along with the rest of those she came to know as family.

  Cyrille paced, Grace suspected in an attempt to keep his body from stiffening more. He had no cloak to protect him from the chill. She must remember to add chivalrous to his list of qualities. Grace stood, tucking the blanket beneath her arm, and advanced on him.

  “Sir Cyrille,” she said hesitantly, as he moved away from her. It was hard to tell if he saw her, the hood cast too many shadows.

  Slowly he turned, and she felt the warmth of his gaze on her.

  “I thank you for your cloak. It is making all the difference tonight.”

  The big man still said nothing.

  “Will gave me the use of this warm blanket and I thought you would like to use it. It is only going to get colder tonight.”

  Grace did not think Cyrille would respond, but finally he spoke. “I will not take your blanket.”

  “Then perhaps you will join me by the fire.”

  Grace did not know how she knew, but Cyrille was ready to decline her offer.

  “Please.”

  Grace thought as surely as he stood studying her, Cyrille would decline, but finally he gave one short nod. She offered him a smile then turning, led him to the fire, moving slowly to accommodate his limping stride.

  Why didn’t Grace leave him alone? He had a good memory of her, not soiled by her pity or disgust, so he hated that she was here now. He wanted to remove his hood, but he couldn’t do it because there were too many among the army who would look at him with disgust. Grace would see, and she would begin seeing him as others saw him. He didn’t know why she couldn’t already see it. He hoped if their paths ever crossed again, it would be at his own keep, by a nice warm hearth when his muscles did not ache, and he did not feel as if every fiber of his being was going to drive him mad from the pain. But no, it had to be here, on this night, when he felt worse than at any time since he healed. She would soon see why he was a waste of air, wherever he found himself.

  They reached the fire. She stood to the side and motioned him to take a seat on the twigs and bark she gathered earlier, to make a barrier against the wet ground. There was no help for it. No way to get from his standing position to the ground with any kind of grace, or dignity. So he vied for the best option, which was to allow his body to pitch forward, catching himself before he hit the ground. He accomplished this, suppressing a groan as he twisted himself into a sitting position.

  “I could have helped you,” Grace said, making it obvious she saw his difficulty.

  Cyrille shot her a look that told her he did not appreciate the offer. She merely arched a brown brow at him and proceeded to sit next to him. The blanket she spread over them, then the cloak. She set with her side pressed to his side, and he felt the warmth from her body. He recalled the feel of her skin beneath his hands, her scent. Did the woman really have no clue what she did to him?

  “Tell me about Warner,” the words were out of his mouth as soon as they formed inside his head. He could kick himself. He did not care who Grace spent her time with. Why would he?

  Grace turned and stared at him for a moment, but Cyrille refused to look her way. “I will answer every question you ask me, if you remove your hood.”

  He gave it a great amount of thought. The desire to have his questions answered won out over his desire to retain some amount of dignity in her eyes. He slowly reached up, untied it, and pulled the cloth from his head. He laid it to the side, then turned his gaze on her.

  Pulling her hand from beneath the covers, she gently smoothed a lock of his hair on top of his head. “The King gave me coin to lay with Warner. It was a great amount. More than I ever saw. I didn’t do it for myself.” In her tone he heard her plea not to judge her. It struck him that was exactly what he wanted to avoid tonight, her judgment of him. “I needed it for a sick friend. But he didn’t lay with me that night.” She slipped her hands back beneath the covers and he watched her hands fidgeting underneath. “He liked to watch me dance. I recently learned, he would watch me dance then go out to kill.”

  “So you did not have sex with him?”

  “Once. I did it to keep him away from the Countess. I didn’t want him to hurt her.”

  “Often times we do things we do not want, for the sake of others.”

  Grace thought about it, her silence stretched on for several moments before she asked, “Do you think that makes us bad people?”

  What could Cyrille say? Whether he was obeying a king’s order, or she was doing it to save the Countess, he was still a killer and she a whore. “I hope the Lord will grant us mercy on the day we must answer for the things we have done.”

  “I think he must, or he would not allow mankind to fall into some of the things we do. He gives us trials, but he knows it is not always black and white.”

  Again silence took over between them. Cyrille was content to feel her warm and delicate body pressed into his. When the thought occurred to him he asked, “Because you went with Warner you have lost the troupe you travelled with?”

  Grace turned to look up at him, and nodded.

  “What does that mean for you?” His mind screamed at him to leave it alone. The less he knew of her troubles the better. It would make it easier to send her away.

  He felt her shrug again. “I will have to find employment somewhere else. I am tiring of the travel, nights such as this, colder, wetter nights even.” She shrugged again, “I don’t know.”

  Cyrille felt the urge to put his arm around her, but fought it like the strong knight he once was, winning the battle. They sat in silence together, listening to the steady fall of the rain, neither speaking what was on their minds. It was easier that way, Cyrille realized. Together they had too many questions, and together they had no answers.

  Chapter 20

  Scotts Manor

  Scotts Manor appeared abandoned. The forces Roland hoped would be there were not, he felt apprehension bordering on panic seize the beat of his heart, and twist it into an ache within his chest. The gates were barred but old Sir Michael, recognized him, and opened the manor to him. Only the house servants remained and no one could tell him where Damien and his army went, or when they would return. Scotts Manor was no more protected than the road they were just on. He wanted to push on to Kinsey, but Garrick was a part of the mass exodus out of the Manor. At least Emma had a warm bed here, if not safety.

  Roland led her to his old chamber. Warmth and the feeling of home flowed over him, seeing everything remained as he left it. Emma was exhausted. Perhaps he pushed them too hard, especially since it was an effort to get to safety, and there was none. That thought was bouncing its way around in his head for days. Why did he even get involved with her in the first place? He had no business becoming intrigued by the flame haired rebel, let alone taking her damn virginity. Getting her with child was the worst in the line of bad decisions he made with her. But as he pulled her cloak from around her shoulders, then bent and lifted her outer tunic over her head, he knew he had little choice in becoming involved with her.

  “Sit down,” he told her, the first words he spoke directly to her all day. She did so, tiredly sinking onto the edge of the bed. Roland bent and removed her shoes, taking a moment to rub her chilled feet. Then he stood and moved to the head of the bed, and pulled the co
vers down. She turned and crawled up to the top and slid under the covers. He tucked the warm blankets in around her shoulders.

  “Do you need a fire in the hearth?”

  Emma yawned as she shook her head. “No, I will be warm enough with the blankets. Are you joining me?”

  Roland stood to his full height and looked down at her. He wanted to do nothing more than to slip into the bed with her, pull her into his arms, and forget the danger, but he could not. “No, I’ve been away a long time. I have a few things to take care of first.”

  She studied him, her intelligent eyes told him she didn’t quite believe him. He knew if she was not so exhausted she would probably bring up the fact he was lying to her, something Lillian never questioned. He bent and kissed her, long and gentle, as if he would never have the opportunity again. He pulled away as she lifted her arms to lock around his neck. He turned and left the room.

  Roland spent hours pacing the walls and the halls that led him to his chamber and Emma. The danger wasn’t breathing down his neck, but he felt it out there, watching and waiting. As the sun faded from the sky he wanted to scream at it to come back, to not leave the landscape in the darkness, so it could hide out there. After darkness descended he felt himself torn. The wall needed protecting, but what if something was already inside the manor? What if something scaled the wall in the darkness and was searching the Manor for Emma? She could be in real danger while he stood on the wall. But if she was still safely tucked in his bed and he left the wall, it might give what was out there enough of a chance to get in. It might be one of the worst decisions of his life, ranking up there with letting the King’s men into his home, the day they took Lillian, so he remained on the wall.

  He heard them before he saw them. A horse, coming fast. He listened intently, straining to see the charging army in the dark. But it was only one horse. As it came closer he was able to discern it was alone. Then out of the darkness it came, like some glowing entity of legend, a light gray horse. For a moment Roland’s heart seized and bile rose in this throat. Much like he was against the King’s men, he would be impotent against this other worldly demon charging the Manor’s walls. Then he recognized Malik and apprehension fled. The Bastard. If evil lurked this man would drive it away.