by Lara Adrian
Damnation, but nothing made sense to him anymore. Not the past, or this surreal present that kept him running, forever in hiding. Nothing made sense to him at all, save the soft, warm feel of Ariana as she clung to him in the musty chill of the barn. She was the only thing he could trust, his light in a world of dark, unexplainable treachery. He cursed himself for having brought her into that nightmarish world. Now it was too late to turn back. They were in it together.
"Think no more on Silas de Mortaine," he whispered into the silkiness of her hair. "Think no more on any of this, my lady. You're safe now. I pledge it with my life."
With a gentle touch, he lifted her chin and bent to kiss her. It was brief, for he dared take no more than the smallest taste of her lips when he longed to hold her, naked and willing, beneath him. She responded as sweetly as ever, twining her fingers in his hair and pressing her soft curves against the rigidness of his body. There was a note of disappointment in her eyes as he drew away from her.
She reached for him again, and he caught her hands to kiss each one in turn. Reading the desire in her gaze--indeed, sharing it and trying his damnedest to resist it--he gave her a slow shake of his head. "It's late, and you've been through quite an ordeal. Tomorrow we head for the coast, and, with any luck, swift passage back to England. It will be a hard ride; you should be sleeping while you have the chance."
"I don't want to sleep. I don't feel safe unless you're holding me." She stroked his grizzled jaw. "Will you, please...I need you to hold me, Braedon."
Unable to deny her, he took her back in his arms and held her for a long time. Simply held her, until she began to sway sleepily in his embrace, her head dropping onto his chest as exhaustion rose up to claim her. When her limbs went loose, he scooped her up and brought her to the mound of straw that was to be his bed that night. He laid her down on his mantle and reclined beside her, covering them both with the blankets from his saddle packs. She curled into his body as she fell into a deep slumber, holding him tight in her sleep.
His light, he thought, his lips curving into a contented, if bittersweet, smile as he enveloped her in his arms. What a fool he had been to let Ariana throw open the door to his heart. Now that she had illuminated his life in so many ways, the darkness that awaited him once she was gone promised to be all the colder for her absence.
* * *
Ash and charred rubble crunched underfoot as Draec le Nantres was admitted into the keep of de Mortaine's castle in Rouen. The pitch torches, spitting in their iron cressets on the wall, scarcely banished the darkened gloom of the place, which seemed over-rife with the acrid tang of brimstone and smoke. He looked down, puzzling over the trail of cinders on the floor, which the meek, mousy little man who let him in was presently attempting to sweep away.
"Dear oh dear oh dear. What a mess, I tell you. A terrible, terrible mess."
Bent over his broom and bucket, pate tonsured like that of a monk, the man muttered further complaints under his breath as Draec walked past, heading for the great hall where he had been summoned upon his arrival at the castle. Across the wide expanse of the place, seated at the dais, was Silas de Mortaine. Golden-haired, fresh from a bath and draped in the finest silk-and-velvet robes, he stared at Draec over steepled fingers. Two large knights flanked him on either side like twin hounds of hell, arms crossed over their massive chests, dullish eyes fixed on Draec.
"Your impeccable timing seems to be failing you, le Nantres. I could have used you hours ago."
"All due respect," Draec drawled as he advanced farther into the hall, casually stripping off his gauntlets as he came to stand before his employer. "But the last I knew, my orders were to intercept a certain package en route from England."
"That package, mayhap?" Watching him closely, de Mortaine jerked his chin at a blackened lump of burnt leather sitting at the edge of the table before him. Draec glanced toward the charred pouch, then back at de Mortaine, frowning in uncertainty. "Go on, have a look inside."
Cautiously, knowing precisely what the satchel could not contain, he threw open the flap closure and briefly scanned the contents. "There's nothing in here but some old clothing and a handful of rocks. A pack of rubbish."
"A decoy, meant to distract me long enough to manage an escape," de Mortaine hissed, the venom in his voice acid enough to tell the rest of the tale.
"Kenrick of Clairmont has escaped?"
"His sister orchestrated a ruse, using that false satchel," he fumed, pointing a long finger at the charred bag as though he wished to command it to dust with his eyes.
"Clever girl," Draec remarked, thinking on the courage he had seen in the pretty blond the night he stole the true satchel from her at the inn. The one he had been dissecting in private on his own, cryptic note by cryptic note, ever since.
"The chit is a fool if she thinks she has succeeded," de Mortaine said. "More the fool, if she and her brother intend to use what he knows to aid them in going after the Chalice stone."
"Do you credit that to be their intention?"
"I'm not willing to take that chance, particularly when I know that they are in league with le Chasseur." Slowly, de Mortaine took a sip from a golden cup. "You do not seem surprised."
Draec shrugged, too late to pretend otherwise. He held himself still where he stood, careful to reveal nothing more of his thoughts to the probing gaze that watched him over the rim of the gilded goblet. "Braedon holds a grudge well, and who can resist the lure of the riches promised by the Dragon Chalice?"
"Indeed," de Mortaine mused, his cold eyes slitting to razors of warning.
"It was only a matter of time before le Chasseur came after it himself," Draec added. "If anything surprises me, it is that he survives to do so at all. We left him in a bad way that night."
"I don't detect a note of sympathy for an old friend, do I, le Nantres?"
"Not at all," he replied truthfully.
"Good. Because I want him dead this time--I want all three of them dead."
Although he had no taste for murder, Draec nodded in grim acceptance of his orders. He was no stranger to dealing death with his sword on the battlefield, but he had yet to stoop to delivering it in cold blood. Least of all, to a woman. Or to the man who rode beside him into those many battles, who guarded his back on more than one occasion when death likely had the right to claim him.
He had no wish to slay Braedon le Chasseur...but he would, if his old friend was fool enough to stand in his way of finding the Chalice treasure. If the Dragon Chalice truly held what its legend promised--life immortal, the power of the ages--Draec le Nantres meant to win it for himself. He might even be tempted to sell his everlasting soul, did he not already fear it had been forfeited to the blackhearted creature who leaned back in his ornate chair and summoned a trembling page to bring him more wine.
"Do you think they've gone to look for one of the Chalice stones?"
"Wouldn't you?" de Mortaine queried, measuring him with a slow glance.
Draec shrugged. "I might, if I thought I had a good notion of where to find it."
"Kenrick of Clairmont seems to think he does."
"And you believe him?"
"I can ill afford not to," came the slow reply. "His work for the Templars had merit, certainly. The pattern he uncovered was one I'd never seen before, although he spared me but the briefest explanation of his discovery. I would have paid him handsomely for his findings, but he refused. Not even torture was enough to loosen his tongue." A vicious curse snarled from between de Mortaine's gritted teeth and he slammed his fist down on the table. "By nails and blood, I need that second Chalice stone. I will have it!"
The page who had come to replenish his wine jolted at the outburst, spilling the fine claret over the edge of the cup. De Mortaine's chastising fist cuffed the youth on the side of the head. "Clumsy idiot. Begone--and fetch Arnaud on your way out," he added in a growl as the youth hastened away with his pitcher. De Mortaine looked once more to Draec, smiling thinly. "I like you, le Nantre
s. You have proven your worth in the past, but I need to know I can still trust you. I need to know I have your allegiance."
"Have I given reason to doubt?" he asked, but no answer seemed forthcoming.
In the meanwhile, the double doors of the great chamber creaked open and in scurried the monkish mouse from the entry hall. Still covered in soot and grime from his task outside, Arnaud nervously wiped his hands on his long robes, then offered an awkward bow as he approached the center of the room. "Yes, yes, my lord? How may I assist you?"
De Mortaine spared the obeisant man not even the barest glance of acknowledgment. "You see, le Nantres, unlike Arnaud here, you still have a purpose. You understand the value of efficiency."
"M-my lord?" stammered the little man. "Dear oh dear! Do I displease, my lord?"
"I can appreciate eager obedience," de Mortaine went on idly, all his focus trained on Draec. "But I cannot abide a bungler. Arnaud's sluggishness to inform me of the Clairmont woman's arrival in Rouen cost me valuable time. You will make sure it doesn't cost me anything more."
A gasp of panic sounded beside Draec as Arnaud rushed forward to plead his case before the dispassionate countenance of his master. "But--but, my lord! I vow to you--I brought you the news as quickly as I could! I tried--"
"You failed," de Mortaine stated blithely.
He looked to each of the two guards flanking his chair, and gave a slight nod of command. The knights moved in unison, vaulting over the table to pounce upon the quaking Arnaud.
Except they were no longer men at all.
There, in the blink of an eye, Draec found himself staring at the horrific sight of two large wolves, slashing and tearing in a blur of black fur and gnashing, lethal jaws. Arnaud's anguished screams rang high in the rafters of the hall, scraping Draec to his very marrow.
"God's blood!" he exclaimed, leaping out of the way of the hellish beasts and turning his disbelieving eyes on Silas de Mortaine, who watched the carnage with a mild smile curving his lips. "What the devil--?"
"Merely a demonstration, le Nantres. Perhaps an overdue one."
Draec's hand flew to his weapon. An instinctual urge to assist the helpless man, some ancient code of honor that he would have thought long dead, rose in him with a fury as he looked upon the annihilation playing out before him. He drew his sword, then realized Arnaud was already dead. But still the decimation continued. "By all that is holy," he ground out, scarcely able to mask his revulsion. "Call them off, whatever they are. For pity's sake--"
"Pity?" de Mortaine chuckled. "I have none. And you'd do well to remember that while you are hunting for your old friend and his companions. I want them found at once." A snap of his fingers brought the inhuman guards to heel. Restored to the semblance they bore at the dais, the two men, blood-soaked and panting, left the broken body of the little monk. They came to stand beside Draec, awaiting de Mortaine's command. "Assemble a riding party from the garrison. These good fellows here will also accompany you on your mission. I shall look forward to your successful--expedient--return."
Shaken more than he cared to admit by what he had just witnessed, Draec sheathed his weapon and accepted his orders with a curt nod of his head. But as he quit the great hall with de Mortaine's minions hard at heels, his heart was racing as though to explode. His hands were shaking as he shoved them into his gauntlets and shouted a brusque order for a squire to ready his mount.
For the first time in all his years of knighthood and combat, Draec le Nantres had finally gotten a healthy taste of real, breath-robbing fear.
Chapter 18
Braedon felt a cold edge of steel come to rest at his throat as he slept. He lifted his eyelids in the gloom of the barn, determining the source of the threat even before his gaze clashed with that of Ariana's brother. He did not have to reach for the dagger he had left nearby to know that it was already lost and quite neatly turned on him. Wheezing somewhat from his injuries, if undaunted, Kenrick of Clairmont leaned over the makeshift pallet, his offended stare sliding from Braedon's face to the slumbering young woman in his arms.
"If you're going to wake me to the taste of steel, you'd better be damned sure you have the strength to use it," Braedon advised in a low murmur.
The dagger pressed closer in answer. "Get up, knave."
Extricating himself from Ariana's sleep-heavy, languid embrace, Braedon moved out from under the warm blankets. In his wake, she shifted, cat-like and sensual as she slept on, her hands idly searching him out when he pivoted to the edge of the pile of straw. He retrieved his boots and pulled them on, thankful for the practicality of having decided to sleep in his clothes. Had he not, he felt certain Clairmont would not have afforded him the luxury of waking up to face his brotherly ire. He stood up and gave an obliging tilt of his chin.
"Outside," Kenrick ordered, brandishing the dagger as he followed Braedon out of the barn.
Dawn was barely a glimmer on the eastern horizon. Braedon strode a few paces away from the outbuilding and cursed the frigid cold that seeped through his tunic and into his bones.
"I know who you are," Kenrick of Clairmont said without preamble at his back the moment they paused in the yard. "Don't assume my mind is so dulled from my stay in de Mortaine's dungeon that I did not hear him call you Le Chasseur. Your reputation precedes you, Hunter."
"Does it?" Braedon turned around to face him, his breath steaming through his curved lips as he exhaled a sardonic chuckle. "Then I expect we have no reason to stand here freezing our ballocks off over lengthy introductions."
When he moved to brush past the younger knight, the dagger came up a bit closer, cutting off his leave. "I can guess how a mercenary blackguard such as yourself would be associated with scum like de Mortaine, but what business have you with my sister?"
Braedon eyed the blade with scorn, insulted more by its insistent, needless threat than he was by Clairmont's slurs against his honor. Had he a beautiful young sister who'd become enmeshed with a scoundrel like himself, he would be equally upset and eager to do harm. But he was too tired, and too damned cold, to suffer the intended intimidation any longer. "You can either use that blade, or sheath it. If we talk now, I won't do so staring down the length of my own weapon."
Reluctantly, with a glare that said this cool-headed man was as much soldier as he was scholar or saint, Kenrick of Clairmont lowered the knife. Lowered it, but held it tight in his grasp all the same. "I would have your answer, sirrah. How is it you find yourself in Ariana's company? More to the point, how do you answer to the way I found you with her on that pallet in there?"
Braedon decided to address the first part first. "You find me in her company for the simple fact that she asked me to be. She needed escort and transportation to Rouen to deliver your ransom. As I had a vessel docked in London, she hired me to bring her here...more or less," he amended, thinking back on the tangle of circumstances that bound them together that day he first saw her in the Queenhithe tavern.
Kenrick swore a particularly vivid oath. "Are you saying she ventured here to come to my aid without escort? By herself? Nay, Ariana is too sheltered--and she is smarter than that."
"She was coerced into this over your capture. The ransom demand specified she come alone to deliver your journals and papers to an appointed meeting place in Rouen. It would have been suicide, certainly. To her credit, she brought a guard with her from Clairmont, someone she trusted, but he was killed by some of de Mortaine's spies before she left London. She would have suffered similarly if I had not stumbled upon the altercation and intervened."
"God's blood," Kenrick muttered. "I cannot believe she would be so reckless as to attempt such a thing. And surely my father would never have allowed her--"
"Your father is dead," Braedon soberly interjected. "No doubt Ariana would have wished to bring you the news in her own time, but since you would drag me from my bed to have words, I reckon you need to know the facts."
The news seemed to take him aback, diffusing some of his virulence. "Ou
r father is...dead?"
"Of a weakened heart, some months ago. While you have been chasing clues and making mortal enemies over the Dragon Chalice, your sister had to remain at Clairmont, living in the shadow of your ghost. She has much to prove--to herself, at least, as your father perished without troubling to acknowledge his pride in her. She is devoted to her family, which has come down to you alone, and nothing would have kept her from seeing you safely home. Not even the peril of facing her own death."
Kenrick was frowning now, staring at him in astonishment. "She told you all of this?"
"I've come to understand quite a bit about your sister in the time we have been together."
"Together," Kenrick repeated, his previous bewilderment replaced by a sudden, visible bristling. Doubtless he could read the meaning that Braedon did not connive to conceal. "Is that all the explanation you will give me as to the apparent intimacy the both of you share?"
Now it was Braedon's turn to rankle. "In truth, I don't see how you are due a further explanation."
"I am her brother, sir. And with my father dead and gone, as you inform me, it would seem I am now the man responsible for securing Ariana's future."
"And I am the man who loves her," Braedon answered before he could bite back the confession.
"You love her?" Kenrick challenged, seeming disbelieving. "She is but a child--"
Braedon shook his head, chuckling. "As I said. You have been away from Clairmont a long time, Kenrick. Ariana is no child. She is a woman, full grown. The most courageous, enchanting--and, if I am being completely honest--the most perplexing woman I have ever known."
"And I suppose you are going to tell me that she loves you as well?"
"I am loath to flatter myself into thinking that she could."
