I got closer, crouched down, and waited, though it nearly killed me to do so.
Two of them dipped out a cup of the stew, and sat down, while the third went straight for the ale, a short distance away. Even as he drew the foaming brew from the spigot, I crept up behind the other two. A silent-slice, and the first one’s throat was cut along with his windpipe. The second never knew a thing was wrong until his mate’s legs began thrashing and the stew he’d held tipped to the ground. He glanced sideways, his eyes widened, and my hand covered his mouth even as my blade drove into the base of his neck, cleanly severing his spine. He did not move or breathe again.
His cup full of ale, froth spilling over his hand, the third man turned with a smile and started toward them, frowning when he glimpsed his comrades lying still on their backs. As he paused, squinting at them through the darkness, and then moving closer, I crept ‘round until I could come up behind him. I knew the instant he saw the blood, the second he realized death had visited his camp this night. For his body went taut and his head turned as if to shout to the others. But the sound never emerged, for my arm clamped tight ‘round his neck from behind, and my hands gripped his head and twisted hard. He went limp when his neck snapped. I lowered him to the ground, and he looked for all the world as if he were sleeping.
Then I turned toward that tent again, and the blood thundered in my temples as I moved quickly, quietly forward. If the bastard had touched Arianna, if his hands were upon my woman, his death would be slow.
Wrenching the tent flap open, I leapt inside, dagger drawn.
The woman before me was standing, naked except for the shift she was pulling on, over her head. The guard lay at her feet, his face frozen in a surprised grimace. He wore nothing except the dagger that protruded from his chest, and the blood that slicked his skin.
“Arianna,” I whispered, reaching for her.
Her head and arms poked through, and she straightened the shift around her legs, turning to face me. Not Arianna. Not her at all.
“Nidaba? But . . . but I thought–”
“Exactly what the bastards intended you think, no doubt,” she whispered. She gripped my hand. “Come, we must go before we’re found out.”
“But Arianna . . . .” I began.
“She is not here, Nicodimus. Come. Now. I’ll explain as we go.” And she drew me from the tent.
In silence we made our way from the camp. Nidaba led me to where the soldiers’ horses were picketed, helping herself to one as I quieted the others. I loosed the remaining mounts, and led them into the forest, before slapping their rumps and letting them run free. We raced quickly to where Black was tied, and were far away before we heard the shouts of alarm. Far enough away so I knew they would have no chance of catching us.
“Where is she?” I asked Nidaba.
She lowered her head. “Their leader took her, Nicodimus. His home is to the south, from what I was able to overhear. A keep called Kenwick. Do you know it?”
I did not. But it would not stop me. “Their leader,” I said with distaste. “Marten. The bastard has hounded me for the last time. I do not know this Kenwick, but I will find it,” I vowed. “And when I do, Marten will die.”
“He knew you would follow the others,” Nidaba said slowly. “So he sent them in the opposite direction, with me as their prize.”
I glanced at her quickly, for once forgetting my own anguish. “Nidaba . . . did they harm you?”
She averted her gaze. They were ordered not to touch me until I was safely in the dungeons of this . . . Kenwick Keep. I was to be delivered unharmed to a man called Dearborne, for what, I do not know.”
“They were ordered not to touch you,” I repeated, watching her face closely. “Was it an order they obeyed, Nidaba?”
For a moment, she was silent. Then she only whispered, “Most of them did.” She met my gaze and said no more. And I knew she would not. “This is far from the matter at hand, Nicodimus. There is something you must know. Arianna. . . .”
I closed my eyes as she paused, drawing a breath, sensing what was to come.
“She was run through,” Nidaba told me. “She experienced death for the first time, my friend. And likely revived to realize the truth.”
I closed my eyes against the pain that flooded my soul. “I feared as much. I should have told her.”
There is naught to be done about it now. She knows. And likely knows you did as well, and kept it from her. You should be aware of it before you face her again.”
“Why did he take her, Nidaba? Why, when I’m the one he wants?”
“I do not know, I only know he took her and rode south. If it were Arianna’s heart he wanted, surely he’d have simply taken it and been done with her.”
“A heart so young would be of little use to a Dark Witch as old as Marten,” I protested.
She nodded. “I have thought of that. And realized, Nicodimus, even before I knew who he was, that perhaps it is your heart he is after. Now I am even more certain. Arianna is simply serving as his bait. If you go after her at Kenwick, you will be walking directly into Marten’s trap. Just the way he wants you to do.”
I looked up sharply. “I’ve thought of that, as well. But if he wanted me to follow him to Kenwick, then why the ruse to lead me away?”
Nidaba shrugged. To give him time to prepare? To set this trap of his in such a way that there will be no chance for you to escape?”
I knew she was trying to warn me, to prepare me. To dissuade me from rushing headlong into disaster, perhaps even death. But it did not matter. Nothing would keep me from Arianna. Nothing.
“I have no choice in this. She is my wife, you know this, Nidaba. I must go after her.”
“Even if it costs your life?” she asked, softly, for she already knew the answer. “Even . . . if it costs you your immortal heart?”
“I love her,” I whispered, the confession draining me. Saying it aloud to Nidaba solidified the feelings in my heart. With the confirmation came the fear, more intense, more vividly real than before. Certain disaster awaited me, I knew it in my gut. Yet I was powerless to divert it. “Gods help me, Nidaba, but I love her.”
Closing her eyes, she nodded. “I feared as much. I . . . can only hope she’s worthy of that love,” she whispered.
“I only hope,” I said, my voice hoarse, “I didn’t wait too long to realize it. For though she loved me once, Nidaba, she could very well hate me by now.”
* * * *
HIS KEEP COULD have held Lachlan Keep twice within its solid walls. Huge blocks of chiseled rock towered high above the tall sturdy outer wall. Kenwick was a dark, dreary place. Large, but made of dark stone, with few ornaments and only a small number of torches for light. The gate itself seemed to have been built of entire tree trunks. Surely not even an army of men could gain access to such a fortress.
But could Nicodimus? Would he even attempt such an impossible feat?
Upon her arrival Arianna was given into the hands of serving girls, not one, but two of them. A few men lingered about the great hall. One who wore a dark robe with its cowl pulled over his head stood silent and watchful. He made her shiver, that hooded man.
“You are a lady, Arianna of Stonehaven, and as a lady you shall be treated,” Marten said, as he waved the serving girls closer.
“I am a prisoner,” she replied.
Marten lowered his head, and his eyes seemed saddened. “Tis my hope that will one day change. That you will grow to be happy here, Arianna. And that you will wish to stay. But until that day comes, aye, lassie, you are my prisoner.”
She shook her head firmly, tears burning in her eyes. “I will never wish to stay with you. My only wish is to be back with my husband again.”
One of the serving girls, the younger one, by the looks, caught her breath. Marten glanced up at her, a sharp reproach appearing, then vanishing in his eyes. He cleared his throat. These are your servants, Arianna. They will attend to your every need. Lydia and Kathleen.” He indi
cated each of them with a wave of his hand. Lydia was younger, with dark hair and eyes, and she reminded Arianna of the sister she had lost. Her beloved Raven. The thought gave her heart a painful twist. The other one was of her own dear mother’s age, she guessed.
Looking again at the hooded man, she asked, “And who is this?”
Marten said nothing, but the man moved closer, lowering his cowl to reveal a thin, aged face. “I am Nathanial Dearborne. I am Marten’s . . . spiritual counselor.”
Marten cleared his throat, and the old man moved away.
“Your lady is in need of a bath,” Marten addressed the servants. “And garments suitable to her station. I leave her in your care.”
Lydia came forward and curtsied before me. “Come, my lady. You look weary and worn. Let us tend you.”
Arianna glanced up quickly, and saw her first chance for escape. Surely the two women could not hold her by force. Not against her will.
Marten looked into her eyes, and seemed to read them. Without looking away, he lifted a hand behind him, crooked a finger. At once a burly man came forward, standing at the ready, weapons at his sides.
“You will attend the lady as well, Gorden. And dinna allow her out of your sight even for an instant, for she has yet to realize that this is her new home. Until she does, I fear she will bolt at the first opportunity. And does she escape, Gorden, I’ll have your head. Do you ken?”
Gorden nodded, his eyes flicking over Arianna briefly. She shivered at his cold glance. As if she were a possession to be guarded, or an animal in need of tending.
“I regret this is necessary, Arianna,” Marten told her softly, and he lifted her hand and brushed his lips across the back of it. She shuddered in revulsion. “Perhaps the day will come when it no longer is.”
She knew her disappointment showed in her eyes. Her hopes for escape crushed, at least for now. But she would not stop trying, nor stop seeking an opportunity. If she were patient, and cunning, one would surely come.
“It willna matter how many guards you place upon me, Marten. Nicodimus will come for me. Nothin’ will stop him.”
Marten spared her a pitying glance and stroked her hair, but she shied away from his touch. “Poor Arianna, clingin’ to false hope. But you’ll see soon enough that your husband will nay come for you. Because he doesna care. But I do, lass. I do.”
Turning away, she hurried off, unsure where she was going, only needing to be away from this man who spoke so horribly of her beloved Nicodimus. Lydia caught up, gripping her elbow gently and steering her in the right direction. “Come, my lady. This way.” And then leaning close, she whispered very softly, for Arianna’s ears alone. “Take heart. My dear mother used to say that true love always prevails. Dinna give up hope, no matter what Laird Marten says.”
Arianna glanced sideways at the girl, and sensed she might have found an ally here, in this strange, impenetrable prison. And perhaps, in time, a friend. Having one might make the short time she would be forced to spend here a bit more bearable. But there would not be much time, either way. For Nicodimus would come. She clung to that hope.
But when a full week had passed, with no sign of her husband, hope began to fade.
Each day she was dressed in fine, costly gowns, her hair styled in ringlets, and glittering jewels and gold adorned her fingers, her wrists, and even her earlobes. Gifts, all of them, from her captor. They felt to her like chains more than jewels, but Marten insisted she wear them. She dined in the style of royalty, seated at the high table, Marten’s table. Unlike Joseph Lachlan, this laird seemed to hold no fondness for eating among his clansmen, and his table stood far apart from theirs, all the way on the opposite side of the gray and somber great hall.
Marten’s table was near a hearth, where a fire always burned. No one else dined at the high table except for Dearborne. The man seemed to be considered of great importance to Marten. She was not certain why. The others sat away from that warmth, and if the evening were cold, and the men uncomfortable, it seemed not to disturb Laird Marten at all.
The chambers she had been given were large, but just as gloomy and dark as the rest of the hideous place. And always, wherever she went, her guard, Gorden, stood to one side of her, watching. Always watching.
His dark eyes watched her as she dressed, or undressed, or bathed. Lingering where they would, for as long as he wished. It seemed he had his master’s consent to ogle her.
Each evening, Marten came to her, and spoke for long hours of Nicodimus’s past deeds, all of them evil. And of Nicodimus’s longtime lover Nidaba, and the way he would touch her, and likely was spending every night in her arms. He would talk on and on, while she was forced to sit and listen to the details of the things her husband was likely doing with his lover, even now.
A dark cloud settled over Arianna as the days passed by, slowly, so slowly. Her hopes faded with each night that Nicodimus did not burst through the gates, sword in hand, to rescue her. She cried often. It seemed each time she did, Marten appeared there. As if someone were reporting her every whisper to the man. He would speak soft words, words of comfort, and make promises that he would one day end her terrible pain, mend her poor, broken heart.
At last . . . at long last, she realized the truth. Nicodimus was not coming for her, for if he were, he would have been here by now. But she could not stir a tender feeling for Marten, nor did she wish to do so. She could never love another as she did her Nicodimus, nor would she even want to. And she would not live her life as Marten’s possession, no matter how richly she would be kept.
Without hope, her mind seemed to sharpen. And at last, she was able to think clearly once more. Without Nicodimus to depend upon, a bit of the rebellious girl she had been stirred back to life in her soul. Stirred from beyond the depths of grief and shock that had, for a time, silenced her. And Arianna came to understand that she had no one to depend upon but herself.
Silently, she vowed never to forget that lesson again, nay, not for as long as she lived.
Secretly, Arianna began to plan.
She need only pretend. She need only convince Marten that her feelings had changed, and that she was willing to stay with him, to be his woman. And once he believed the lie, his defenses would relax. Gorden’s constant watchful eye would turn away from her. And that would be the time when she would make good her escape.
But she would need to be convincing. Marten was no fool, and would not believe easily. So she began slowly, offering him a slight smile when he spoke to her at mealtime. Forcing herself not to draw away when he took her hand, or touched her face. Even seeking him out once or twice in the castle, and claiming she had been lonely and wished his company. She asked him to tell her about her new nature as an immortal, and to explain to her the tingling jolt that rocked through her each time he touched her.
And finally, one day when they were alone in the great hall, Marten kissed her without warning. Arianna knew she would never have a better opportunity. She swallowed her revulsion, and linked her arms ‘round his neck, letting her body go soft, and parting her lips in invitation. She felt his reaction. His body hardened, and his heart hammered in his chest as he held her tighter, plundering her mouth in a way that made her want to retch. But she held her ground, refusing to let him see the truth. She pressed herself against him, closed her eyes, and told herself it was necessary. Necessary. She would do anything to get free of him.
Anything.
When at last, he lifted his head away, she breathed heavily and deeply, and stared deep into his eyes. “I have missed being held in a man’s arms,” she whispered.
His eyes filled with fire, he slid a hand up the front of her to cup her breast. And when she gasped in surprise and disgust, he took it to be a gasp of sheer pleasure. “Give yourself to me, Arianna. And I promise, you’ll nay miss a man’s touch ever again. For I will touch you often, and thorough, and well.”
She released all her breath. “Aye, Marten. Aye. Touch me. Touch me everywhere.”
His smile was one of victory, one of possession and ownership and pride. But also, one of doubt. “I am nay so certain I believe you, lass.”
Her confidence wavered, but she stiffened her resolve. “How shall I prove myself to you?”
He looked at her, his hot gaze roaming from head to toe. Then slowly, he reached out, and began unlacing the front of her gown. Panic made her heart race, but she only stood still, eyes closed. Whatever was necessary, she reminded herself. For her freedom.
His hands worked steadily, but slowly, so she had ample time to object. When the laces were loosed, he spread the bodice open still wider, and then clenching the fabric in his fists and giving a brutal tug, he tore the dress wider still. Her breasts spilled free, bared to his hungry stare.
He touched them, his hands cupping and squeezing them, his fingers closing on her nipples, and tugging at them. “I want you very badly, Arianna,” he said, his voice thoughtful as his hands worked, pinching her, kneading her. “Do you want me, too?”
“Aye,” she whispered.
“Then tell me. Make me believe you, Arianna. Convince me of this desire you claim.”
With everything in her, she resisted, and yet forced herself to speak the lies to him. “I want you, Marten. More than I’ve ever wanted any man.”
He smiled again, and bent his head and nursed at her breasts, first one and then the other. Arianna placed her hands at his head fast, instinctively, her intent to push him away. But she fought her heart and won. Instead she held him to her, tipped her head back, closed her eyes, and sighed loudly. Marten’s hand caught her skirts and pulled them up high on her thigh, and higher, baring her down below, and plunging his hand between her legs. He worked her there with his hand, rubbed her hard and fast with roughened, cold fingers, as his mouth tugged and his teeth nipped at her breast. And she whispered, “Please, Marten . . . please . . .”
A sound, a broken gasp, gave her to know someone else had entered the great hall. Mortified, she looked up quickly. And then her soul seemed to shatter, for Nicodimus stood in the open doorway, sword in hand, eyes . . . so tortured she couldn’t bear it. He only stood there, staring in anguish as Marten laved her breasts and drove his hand ever deeper.
Eternal Love: The Immortal Witch Series Page 54
