On legs that felt oddly detached from her body, Ursula stumbled after them. She could not let him take the child into the night, into the cold. He would not survive without her, she was as certain of that as she was certain she would not survive without him. She thought of Henry’s face, how he would react when she told him that their son had been taken. He was a good man, as good as ever she had met. He did not deserve to be beaten by a coward like Lucas, and Lucas did not deserve the child he now tried to steal.
There was no weapon at hand, nothing but the splintered wood from the door. She lifted one chunk, studded with iron nails as thick as her thumb. Ignoring the blood dripping from her chin, she crept up behind him. The babe’s squalling was loud enough that Lucas would not hear her, and she silently thanked her son for having his father’s good sense. She only hoped that the rushes on the stone and the swaddling wrapping him would be enough to cushion his fall when she knocked the man carrying him out cold.
Aurelia looked up from where she lay on the ground, her eyes wide. Ursula looked from her to Lucas, who had almost gained the door, and hoped she would understand the message she tried to convey with her eyes. Get the baby, take him from harm.
Then, with all of her might, she brought her arms up over her head and smashed the chunk of oak and iron down on the back of Lucas’ head. He stumbled; for a terrifying moment she thought he might fall forward and crush the baby, but Aurelia shot to her feet and grabbed him, wresting him from Lucas’ arms. Faced with the option of releasing his hold to grab at his wounded skull, Lucas gave up the baby, and rounded on Ursula with a roar of fury. He swung one big fist, and she dodged the clumsy motion, but the next time, he caught her, his knuckles ramming into her cheek with such force that her teeth clashed together. Her face throbbing, she continued her backward retreat, watching as Aurelia scrambled out the door with little Henry.
They were gone. Her babe was safe. Aurelia would hide and help would arrive, and though Ursula knew it would be too late for herself, she rejoiced that her child was out of danger. He reached out and easily caught her, his hand gripping her shoulder and a handful of her hair. He dragged her to the ground beneath him, and for a panicked moment she feared that she knew what would come. He was not intent on ravaging her this time, and it was a small comfort as his hands closed over her throat and his thumbs pressed into the hollow between her collarbones.
She fought him for as long as she could, sinking her fingernails into his face and pulling hard, leaving long, bloody furrows down his cheeks and nose. She jabbed at his eyes and pushed at his shoulders, but he was so much stronger. Stronger still was the hate he bore her, giving him the strength to squeeze the life from her, undeterred by her efforts.
Then a snarl broke the air, and Lucas flew from her. She lay on the rushes, still gasping under the phantom pressure of Lucas’ hands, unable to move. There was a scream, and a horrible, frenzied tearing, and then Henry was at her side, pulling her into his blood-slicked arms and repeating her name over and over in broken sobs.
She tried to tell him that she was fine, that their son was safe, but her voice would not come, and she settled instead for lifting her hand to touch his face. Only then did she realize the reason for his despair. She must have looked half dead, with her face bloody and bruised, and her throat the same. She pulled in huge breaths, greedy for the air she had been denied. Finally, coughing, she managed, “I am fine. The babe—”
“I have him,” Aurelia called out, and then she screamed. Ursula struggled to sit up, and saw the mess their wolves had made of Lucas. Raf still prowled around the twitching body, torn practically in half. The man’s entrails spilled across the rushes in a bloody, glistening mass, and a wet gurgle choked from his throat.
Carefully propping Ursula up, Henry got to his feet and, with weary, exhausted steps, went to the door, where Raf’s iron leg lay among the shattered wood. He lifted it, tested the weight in his hand, and approached Lucas, who, despite his grave injuries, raised one hand in an attempt to prevent his own demise. Without a word, Henry brought the leg down so hard that it rang off the stone as it split Lucas’ head in two.
Beside the body, Raf changed his form, sitting naked and gore-covered on the rushes. He looked from Henry to Ursula, and then to his wife. As Henry strode across the hall and took his son from Aurelia’s arms, Raf said quietly, “We have news that we must discuss.”
Chapter Seventeen
The gray dawn that broke over Fallow Manor echoed the apprehension of the small gathering outside its new, reinforced door. The snows had long since melted, and yellow, sickly grass stood in a strange contrast of silver and gold with sky. A cart, loaded down with chests and tethered to an impatient ox, awaited its driver, who leaned heavily against the stone wall.
“Are you troubled by leaving?” Henry asked Raf, half-listening as the women made their goodbyes and Aurelia lamented that she would not hold young Henry again for some time.
“Not as troubled as my wife. Though I think she misses the babe more than the house.” He summoned up a grim smile. “I never thought I would return to Blackens Gate, Henry.”
“I wish I were going with you.” It did not seem right that his best friend should go and face the wolves with only a Frenchman as his second. But he did not want to take his son into that bleak place, at least, not until Raf had restored order and reformed the place. After Lord Canis’ death, most of his wolves had scattered. Those who remained loyal had stayed behind, barely controlled by Brujon’s efforts. They would obey a Canis, especially the one who had once wounded the betrayer, Roderick.
“I will send for you,” Raf promised. “When it is safe for you and your wife. For now, Sir Henry, you hold all the lands at my northernmost border. I trust you to manage them well.”
“Thank you. Genuinely, and from the bottom of my heart,” Henry said, clasping his friend’s wrist in a hearty shake. “I have every faith that you will bring these dogs to heel.”
“I should hope so, and before the summer ends.” The corner of Raf’s mouth twitched, as though he suppressed some emotion he was unsure of. “Aurelia is with child again.”
The initial surge of pride and congratulations died before Henry could voice them. It was clear, from the lines on his friend’s face, that he feared another poor outcome. “I will pray that you soon share my joy.”
Raf nodded, but he did not speak. He turned his eyes to the cloud shrouded sky. “I fear a change is on the wind.”
Henry arched a brow. “Greater than the ones we have already weathered?”
“I see your point.”
Aurelia came through the door, her dark green cloak bundled around her. “You will bring them to visit us, Henry?”
“Once it is safe,” he promised, turning to his wife and son standing in the door. Tears shone in Ursula’s eyes as she bid her friend farewell. Raf lifted his wife onto the cart and climbed up beside her. He snapped the reins and the petulant ox bellowed, but started forward.
Henry and Ursula stood for a long time at the threshold, watching their friends drive away. Though he could scarce believe the truth of it, Henry said, “I suppose we are the lord and lady of Fallow Manor now.”
“It seems so.” Ursula jostled the babe gently in her arms to soothe his fussing. “I would have been content with a cottage.”
“As would I.” He looked to his wife, pleased that the dark bruises Lucas had left on her cheek and throat had faded to a tinge of grayish-green. She spoke better, too, though the empiric that had come to examine her warned she might always speak with a certain hoarseness. He reached for his son, eager as always to have him in his arms. He pacified the infant’s red-faced squalls with one fingertip in his tiny mouth. “It seems there may be dark times ahead.”
“There may be, but we have survived dark times before,” she reminded him. She slipped one arm around his waist and leaned against him. “And come out the better for it.”
“I am glad you think so,” he chuckled.
She
did not laugh with him, her expression growing serious as she looked up at him. “I do not jest. I love you, Henry. For all you have done for me, and for our child. I will never be able to repay you.”
He kissed his son’s forehead, reveling in the sweet, milky scent of him. “You already have. And it has, truly, been my honor.”
Then he kissed her, long and slow, and guided her into their new home.
About the Author
The alter-ego of USA Today Bestselling Author Jennifer Armintrout, Abigail Barnette was born during a conversation with author Bronwyn Green, who encouraged Jennifer to develop an elaborate fantasy persona-- complete with nom de plume—under which to pen erotic romance. Abigail enjoys long naps in fairy-filled glades, running through corridors in tragically romantic haunted castles, and drinking goblet after goblet of spiced wine.
Abigail loves to talk to her readers and can be found at abigailbarnette.com.
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