by Wend Petzler
Struggling defiantly against the fire spreading down her back, Isabella harshly reminded herself, control the pain.
In her mind, she heard her father screaming at her. You are a weak female! You are nothing but a tool to be used to defeat my enemies. Well, she had defeated his enemies, and someday she would destroy the cruel, dead man who haunted her, too.
A sweet, round-faced woman hurried to greet them as they entered the spacious great hall.
"Bella.... “Halting in uncertainty, she stared at the unknown, tall knight who came to stand behind her mistress. When he removed his helm, thick, warm brown hair fell to his broad shoulders. When his amber eyes brightened in laughter at her continued stare, her eyes grew round as saucers.
Stiffening, Isabella felt Drago's unmistakable presence behind her. “Aggie, bring wine to my study.” Isabella made to leave when the older woman stayed her by placing a hesitant hand upon her arm. Unable to ask the question aloud in present company, Aggie's blue eyes were shadowed in concern. Squeezing Aggie's hand briefly, Isabella strode over to another set of double doors and opened them. Unbuckling the belt attached to the black leather, silver engraved scabbard, from around her shoulders, she took off her sword. The deadly-looking blade sang a steely song as she grasped the worn hilt and unsheathed her sword. Isabella lay it down on the mahogany desk, deliberately aiming the sharp tip at Drago.
Sitting down, Isabella ordered, “Take a seat, Drago. We have business to conduct.” Disrespecting his honorable rank of knighthood, she deliberately goaded him.
Irritated, Nicolas ground his teeth, refusing to rise to the bait. Sitting in the chair Ahmed provided, he smiled tightly. “Many thanks, Lady Isabella, for your kind hospitality to me and my men, especially under such circumstances we currently find ourselves a part of.” The words dripped heavily with sarcasm for Sir Brandon had thought of him and his men's comfort, not her.
Ignoring him, Isabella waved at Aggie to enter. The portly woman carried in a silver tray laden with a matching pitcher of wine and several glasses, setting it down on the desk.
Pouring the red wine into two of the glasses, she handed them over to Isabella and Drago. “My lady, if you have no further need of me, I shall see to our guests. We have many more mouths to feed and beds to find for tonight."
Isabella dismissed her housekeeper before drinking deep of her wine. Taking out a lacy handkerchief from under her chain mail, she wiped away the cold sweat gathering along her brow, feeling light-headed from the loss of blood she suffered. Getting a hold of herself, she arched her eyebrow and held her hand out. “Drago, I will have my letter now."
Clearing his throat in an attempt to curb the irrational desire to respond to her imperious tone, Nicolas rose to his feet, handing over the rolled parchment. Caught off guard when the color drained from her arresting features, he leaned further toward her. “My lady, are you ill?” Nicolas asked softly. Ahmed protected his back when the barbarian and the older knight rushed forward, alarmed by his question.
Shivering in response to Drago's smooth, sensual voice washing over her strained senses, she trembled in exhaustion. Focus! She straightened her shoulders and held her hand out to receive the parchment still in his grasp. “The letter?” Isabella coldly met his concerned gaze.
Scowling, he handed it over. Nicolas returned to his seat and retrieved his glass, watching Isabella motion to the barbarian and Sir Brandon to join her. When she broke the wax seal, for one horrifying moment Nicolas questioned if she could read until she appeared to scan the letter, then he grew alarmed when her eyes grew round in horror and disbelief, flying upward to spear him accusingly.
Jumping to her feet, Isabella snapped, “Have you any prior knowledge of the contents in the letter you delivered?” Her right hand tightened around the hilt of her sword.
Nicolas leapt to his feet, placing his hands flat on the smooth desktop, meeting the most beautiful, livid emerald eyes he had ever seen. “I have none, my lady. Why do you ask?” he questioned, distrustful at her obvious rage. When her men's apprehensive eyes flew to her then to Nicolas before hurriedly backing out of the way, he was unable to stand the suspense any longer. Nicolas demanded, “What does Edward say?” His fierce gaze clashed with her hostile one. Whatever the message contained, she blamed him and, by her fuming, it boded ill for him, too.
The livid woman swept the parchment around for him to read. Nicolas scanned the contents, halting at the word ‘marriage.’ Jaw dropping, his wide gaze flew to Isabella's. King Edward had decided it time for Lady Isabella to remarry, ordering her to take him, Nicolas Drago, for her husband. Grinding his teeth in frustration, he realized they had been maneuvered by the King of England!
Furious at Edward for interfering in such a despicable manner, especially when he knew the suffering and abuse she had endured in her youth from men sworn by honor to protect her, Isabella clenched her teeth from screaming her ire. Why had Edward picked now of all times to find a new husband for her? Now when her enemies demanded all her attention and not some high and mighty pretty boy from London whose honor and pride exceeded the needs of others less fortunate?
Hoping to scare the man away and give herself more time to plead her case before Edward, Isabella snarled, “When do you wish to get married?"
Stunned, Nicolas stared at her dumbly. Never having given marriage a serious thought, content in serving King Edward, he had to face the offer before him. The merits of marrying Lady Isabella were enormous. The up side, he became a baron, rich and powerful, an entire army at his command, but the downside saw him married to a woman who dressed like a man and rode a possessed piece of horseflesh named Lucifer!
Knowing she desired nothing more than to throw him and his men out, he called her bluff. “When do you wish to have the ceremony?” Nicolas waited for her reaction, praying she would back down and think things over. Uncertainty flushed her pale features then was replaced by a cold, calculating expression. Suddenly, he wasn't so sure of himself around this unpredictable female.
"Brandon, fetch Father Abraham. We wed in one quarter of an hour. Does that suit you, my lord?” Isabella spat, enjoying the brief satisfaction as Drago's tanned features paled. Brandon hurried from the chamber. Desperate to keep control of her temper, Isabella knew she had no other choice but do as commanded by the King of England, but it DID NOT mean she had to like it!
Isabella sat down and held out her glass to be refilled. Otto poured, a grin splitting a path through his heavy beard and directed his words to the stunned man, “Congratulations, Sir Nicolas!” His deep, accented voice seemed overly loud in the aftermath of her order. Ignoring the venomous glare Isabella threw at him, Otto extended his hand out to the wretched man she was about to wed.
The silence seemed to stretch on forever, broken by the huffing and puffing when a balding priest burst into the study. “My lady, Brandon says you are to be married?” Disbelief shone on Father Abraham's kind face.
"It seems our wise king has sent me a husband.” Isabella waved a finely boned hand toward Drago. “Father, you will perform the ceremony immediately. Drago, come with me,” she commanded, raging at being powerless for the first time since she came to rule Blood Keep. Unable to control her own future nettled Isabella sorely as she stormed out of the study. The increasing pain spurred her onward, reminding her that she was in real trouble. How the hell could she hide her injury from her new husband? One problem at a time, she grumbled, marching toward the Keep's chapel.
Sword gripped tightly in her right hand, she strode past the shocked priest and Drago whose face flushed red at being ordered about like a lackey. Word quickly spread of the blessed event. Knights scrambled to assemble while Isabella made her way across the bustling hall. Entering the small, plain chapel, she made the sign of the cross. Striding to the altar, she kneeled before the large, golden cross and planted the tip of her sword in the stone floor. Casting an impatient scowl at Drago, she grew annoyed by his obvious reluctance.
Cursing under hi
s breath about the mouthy female he was about to wed, Nicolas went down on his knees, covering her slender hand gripping the sword hilt with his much larger one. Glaring at her, he drew back at the regret clouding her beautiful eyes. Pity was an emotion he had not expected from Isabella, or such sadness. Or remorse. His gaze dropped to the sword they grasped and he was startled to see the detail astonishingly similar to the Demon Lord's. The hilt was fashioned in the shape of a she-demon's head, her sharp teeth exposed in a silent snarl. Emeralds were set for her eyes and winked maliciously at him in the candlelight. The hand guards were straight, but what gave him concern was the length of the blade. Many knights preferred longer lengths to prevent the enemy from getting too close. This blade was designed in proportion to its owner and was very much a deadly weapon. The Demon had gone to much effort to ensure Lady Isabella resembled him but why? Why did the infamous knight abandon his charge after five years? Who was Isabella's enemy to cause a knight to put a noblewoman in armor for her protection despite an entire army at her beck and call? His questions had to wait for another time, he had a wedding to attend—his own.
The priest hustled to stand before the seething couple and said a quick prayer, followed by a few blessings, a Hail Mary, and then spoke the vows binding them in holy wedlock.
The great Red Dragon was married!
Someone coughed from behind Nicolas, who stared blankly at the kind priest, confused. Father Abraham urged him for a second time, “You may rise and kiss your bride."
Taking her hand, he rose, halting when Isabella cried out softly, biting her fuller bottom lip, tears forming in her eyes. “My lady, are you hurt?” Nicolas whispered anxiously, concerned for her.
It was the moment Isabella dreaded. Try as she might, she could not summon the strength to stand. What will Drago do when he finds out? Helpless, she caught her new husband's perplexed expression. Worried for her? Dazed by the revelation, Isabella stared helplessly into bronze-colored orbs, drowning in the warmth of his concern. Finding her legs at last, she held onto him, slowly rising with his aid. Shaking her head, feeling utterly worn out and winded, she answered softly, “I am fine."
"My lord, you may kiss your bride.” Father Abraham urged the tall knight to complete the ceremony.
Facing her, Nicolas lowered his mouth to hers, amazed when she relaxed in his light grasp. Brushing against her lips tentatively, savoring their satiny feel, Nicolas patiently waited for Isabella to become accustomed to him. His manhood swelled when her sweet lips softened beneath his. Leaning into her, he barely heard the cheers from the gathered knights, enjoying the startling delicious feel of her mouth against his.
Raising his hands for silence, Father Abraham announced in a loud voice, “Baron and Baroness of Blood Keep, go with God's blessings."
The roar of men's voices reverberated through the small chapel, startling Isabella from the pleasure of Drago's kiss. Her eyes flew open in surprise at her response to a man whom she disliked intensely, a man to whom women flocked, begging for his mere attention. She detested those simpering wenches and the ease with which he conquered his way through her cousin's royal court. What in the world was wrong with her for allowing his kiss to bring any response from her?
Drowning in pools of emerald, intoxicated by the sweet taste of Isabella, Nicolas jumped when a large, meaty paw clapped him on the back.
In a booming voice, Otto congratulated the newlyweds. “To our little Baroness and her new husband, may Drago be man enough to handle her!” Otto laughed heartily when Isabella glowered at him.
"Hear, here!” The knights cheered, parting as the dazed couple made their way back to the great hall. Two, towering men stood apart from the crowd, one handsome and golden, the other dark and menacing. Both had eyes only for Isabella.
Regaining some of her composure, Isabella handed her sword over to the golden-haired knight. “My lord, may I present to you Sir Gabriel, Commander of the Black Knights.” Gabriel's sky blue eyes twinkled with amusement as he bowed to Drago.
"And Sir Michael, Commander of the Demons.” Michael's cold, black eyes measured Drago for a long moment before he, too, bowed to the new baron.
Nicolas inclined his head, frowning when the two knights flanked his new wife, the look upon their faces fierce and loyal. But to whom—Isabella or the Demon Lord? Placing a gentle hand under Isabella's arm, he guided her to the tables for refreshments before the evening meal.
Worried, Michael glanced quickly at Gabriel. They knew Isabella was in real danger of bleeding to death, having seen earlier the trail of blood mingled with water from her cloak's hem where she walked. Drago needed to be taken care of and soon.
Gabriel took matters in hand. Grabbing a cup of ale from a serving wench, he shouted, “Silence! I wish to make a toast."
When everyone's attention diverted to Gabriel, Michael slipped away, taking Aggie with him. Gabriel's voice carried over the excitement of the knights and servants conversing over the hasty wedding. “Lord Drago, I extend a hearty welcome to you and your men. We have fought side by side in service to our King, and we are honored to have our forces joined so. Here's to a long life and a fruitful marriage!” He raised his cup high before drinking the rich brew as did others around the many tables.
Setting down his cup, Gabriel bowed to an amused Drago. “Come, my lord, allow me to show you your new home before supper is served.” He motioned for Drago to follow him.
Noting the subtle maneuvering, Nicolas dropped his gaze to his bride, alarmed by Isabella's waxen complexion. He felt Ahmed's faithful presence behind him and was assured his friend was ever ready to protect his back. Michael and Gabriel wished him away from Isabella, but why? Perhaps if he cooperated, he might learn the truth of what had happened to her.
"Yea, let us be about. I wish to view my new holdings,” Nicolas arrogantly proclaimed, hoping to spur a reaction from Isabella. When it failed to spark her anger, he grew troubled.
Bowing low to his new wife, Nicolas turned and followed Gabriel. Outside the castle, he slowed his pace, seeking a private word with Ahmed. “What thinks you, my friend? How much leash should I allow them before we return to the Keep?” Nicolas pretended to be interested in the battlements.
"Lady Isabella's strength ebbs as she bleeds unchecked."
Nicolas’ anger grew at the mouthy woman's careless handling of her health. “Why did she not just tell us she was injured?” Was the young woman foolish as well as stubborn?
"My lord, I do not think she has lied to spite you. To show weakness, Lady Isabella loses control over her knights. Master, you know to rule a castle well depends on strength. To be a woman and rule, she needs to be invincible to her people.” Ahmed bowed respectfully to the proud knight he served.
"As usual, Ahmed, you prove wiser than I. Do you have your medicines handy?” Nicolas asked, circling back to the castle. Ahmed solemnly nodded, patting the leather pouch slung over his lean shoulder. “Let us see to my new wife."
Gabriel babbled on, hoping to give Michael more time. Glancing behind him, he saw Drago and his man disappear inside the Keep. “Damn!” Gabriel ran to catch up to the new baron before the man saw the horrific damage done to Lady Isabella.
Chapter Two
Barely able to acknowledge Drago's departure, Isabella's vision blurred, her mouth gone dry. Rising unsteadily to her feet, her legs gave out, and she crumbled to the floor, fainting. Shouts penetrated the darkness engulfing her. Strong arms wrapped around her, lifting her up against a solid wall of warm flesh. Her head lolled back, Isabella forced her unwilling eyes open, gazing up at a dangerous and swarthy face.
"Please,” she whispered hoarsely. “Please, Michael, let me go. I tire of fighting.” Tears brightened her pain-riddled eyes but did not fall.
"No! Isabella, you must stay with us!” A hard lump formed in his throat as he frantically strove to hold back the overwhelming terror of losing her. “Besides, who will keep me from beating up Gabriel if you leave us?” He tried using humor, his mind
shying away from the horrible, unthinkable thought of life without Isabella.
A slight smile lifted a corner of her colorless lips. “Yea, Michael, I cannot leave you to torment poor Gabriel."
Hugging the woman he owed his very life to, Michael ran up the stairs. Inside the spacious Lord's chamber, a hot fire blazed. Otto added more logs, ensuring no chill attacked Isabella in her weakened state. The Romans, in their creativity, had fashioned a six foot wide, eight feet long pool not far from the fireplace. Aggie turned an iron wheel, releasing water heated by copper pot reserves hidden behind the fireplace, filling the brass pool. She hurried to place a sheet on the Persian carpet before the fire, protecting the expensive rug. Michael gently set Isabella on her feet and began removing her armor.
Nicolas scanned the great hall, failing to find his bride or the intimidating knight, Michael. Halting a serving maid, he asked, “Where has Sir Michael gone?"
"Up those stairs, my lord, where lies the Lord's chambers.” Pointing to her left, she blushed, observing the handsomeness of the new baron.
Unmindful of the girl's warm perusal, Nicolas absently thanked her when Leo and his men entered the great hall. “Leo, I want you and my men to stay together. Something is amiss. By the way, I am married!” Leaving his men speechless, he and Ahmed dashed up the stairs.
Cautious, he approached the only door on the small landing. Ajar, he peered inside. The chamber was lit by a roaring fire in the fireplace. Isabella stood on a bathing sheet, wearing only a white linen shirt, exposing her shapely legs. Head bowed, her long, sweat soaked hair fell forward, concealing her unusual features. Otto placed his huge hands on her slumped shoulders, turning her around to face the blazing fire. Nicolas inhaled sharply. Once white, the linen shirt was crimson from her shoulder blades down to the curve of her buttocks. Blood mixed with sweat dripped from the hem, staining the sun bleached sheet at her feet. The pale wraith of a creature failed to resemble the fiery woman warrior he had met at the gate.
