Savage (Bad Boy Romance) (Cocky Bastards & Motorcycles Book 4)

by Faye, Amy

  Gunnar sprawled to the ground, scrambling to his feet as quickly as he could as the Englishman lunged out of the low house. His blade was already back, the swing already beginning. Gunnar was not the fastest in the camp, but he had learned more than enough to turn the blow aside.

  He was already readying his response when he felt the jab into his side. Right under his shield arm. Until the last moment, Gunnar hadn't noticed, and then it was too late.

  He'd wanted his hand to appear empty, but the Englishman held in his second hand a small dagger, and he'd driven it all the way to the hilt in Gunnar's side. He could feel the same sense of deflation, the same wheezing that he had felt, all those years ago. He knew instinctively that he'd had his lung punched through.

  Gunnar tried to ignore the pain; he wasn't going to go down without making an accounting of himself. He reached up and grabbed the man's head with his shield-hand, pulling him close as his sword drove through the man's torso.

  Then the energy sapped out of him, and the both of them slumped to the ground. Gunnar spit out the bitter herb that Deirdre had given him to chew. If it would work, it had already done its job.

  With what little remained of his strength, he pushed the English body off of his legs and tried to stand. There was more fight to be had. But his foot slipped on the stone street.

  Why wasn't his leg working properly? Had he simply forgotten how to use it? What was wrong with him? He took a grip on the windowsill above where he'd fallen and pulled himself up. With a tentative step, he decided he could move. A second step sent him to the ground. The blade fell free from his chest, the blade clanging on the ground.

  Was this what dying felt like? His vision started to dim. If it was, if that was what he was fated for, then he welcomed it. Welcomed his entry into Valhalla. Death during a raid—how else could a warrior choose to go?

  The blood that pooled under his chest was hot and wet, and it seemed to stain everything it touched. If Valdemar wanted the band, then one of them had to go. That was how it would be. Well, perhaps it was better this way.

  Gunnar's vision dimmed, what little energy he had left flowing out the hole punched in his side. And then, all at once, his vision was black, and he wasn't thinking anything at all.

  A voice echoed in his ears, somewhere in the distance. "Gunnar!"

  He tried to open his eyes, but he couldn't. What was the point? He was already dead. He'd felt himself dying, felt the last vestiges of strength leaving his body. Felt his lungs emptying themselves even as he tried to fight for breath.

  A second voice. Further away, indistinct.

  Something pulled on his arm, and then his other arm, and the hard, cold stone pulled away from his face. Was this what it felt like to be taken away by the Valkyries? What were the voices he heard? Why could he not open his eyes?

  He fought to open them, fought to see himself leaving the battlefield, carried in the arms of battle-maidens. Finally he did, but the brightness blinded him. Gunnar had to close his eyes to make the pain go.

  His side hurt, badly. What was this? How was he supposed to feel about this? He tried to breathe, felt the same wheezing leak that he'd felt before.

  He opened his eyes again, saw the ground moving below him. His feet dragged behind on the hard pavement, but he wasn't being pulled away from the ground.

  He forced his head to turn, the effort almost too much to bear. A man's face. Leif. Eirik on the other side. They'd taken him by his arms, pulled up onto their shoulders, and they carried him.

  Was he alive? How could that be possible? He had seen men take wounds like his. They lived for minutes. He breathed in the smell of smoke and burning around him. Whatever had happened, he had missed a lot. The raid, as far as he could tell, was complete.

  And somehow, what must have been at least a half-hour after taking a wound that killed men in minutes, he was still alive.

  Eight

  The sight of Gunnar walking back to the camp, even as he leaned on the shoulder of the shaven-headed Northman, brought out all the wrong feelings in Deirdre. She should've been excited. Elated, even, knowing that she would get her freedom.

  Instead, all she could think was that she was the one responsible for this. That she'd given Valdemar exactly the cure that he had wanted, and now it had worked out exactly wrong for him.

  If she was lucky, then she would be set free. If she wasn't, and something told her that she wasn't, then she would see everything falling down when he realized that the herbs hadn't done a damn thing. She'd set him up, and though she hadn't bothered to try to find out how he'd done it, Valdemar's plan had had failed to kill him.

  If it were just the poison working its way through his veins, he could make it hours—days, weeks, even, if he were particularly sturdy. But he'd be weakened quite a bit.

  A thought flashed through her head. What if he didn't die? What if he healed from it, entirely? What if he was just taking his sweet time in healing? She hadn't given either of them what they wanted, and she had used the only idea that had come to her.

  She closed her eyes and tried to think quickly. How could she turn this to her advantage? It was hard to think when her thoughts only ran over and over again how dead she was if she were suspected. He wouldn't have any trouble with it, and certainly wouldn't hesitate. She would have her head neatly separated from her shoulders.

  That was how they dealt with traitors, right? And she had betrayed him, sold him down the river to a man who was obviously his rival. Treason if she'd ever seen it. She shivered and tried to forget about it. There was nothing to worry about right now.

  Deirdre slumped back against the post and tried to ignore the pain in her shoulders, waiting for the answer to what she was going to do.

  The shaven-headed man carried Gunnar past her, to the tent. A dark-haired man a few paces behind stepped up and cut her loose. "He's hurt, you have to come with us."

  She was in luck. Whether they knew or not, they had apparently decided that she had a use after all, in saving Gunnar's life. As she followed behind, working the soreness out of her shoulders, she watched him.

  He was walking almost entirely on his own, she saw. His knees gave way every few steps, the only sign that he was suffering at all. His back was straight, and he was moving only a little slower than normal, to her eyes.

  As they laid him down on his bedroll, though, she could see from his face that he was putting up a mighty effort to keep his appearances up. He was suffering more than he wanted to let on, and it was probably a struggle to move every step. Every breath he took, he winced.

  "You have to heal him," the dark-haired one repeated.

  Gunnar said something to him in their northern tongue, and he stepped back. Then he turned to Deirdre. "You've done what I asked of you, and now it's my turn."

  A commotion outside the tent made her turn on her heel, watching as Valdemar stepped through, his shirt stripped and lines of sweat crossing the layer of dirt and dust on his skin. He looked at the four of them in turn, before finally speaking out loud.

  The words weren't familiar, but she could tell from the reaction that he wasn't saying anything nice. The shaven-headed man had to hold the dark-haired one back as he nearly threw a big, powerful fist.

  She turned to see Gunnar pushing himself up, wincing as he put weight on his arm. She could see the wound, now, a big red hole. The edges were puffy and already she could see the infection setting in. He grabbed a sword from the ground as he stood, and a shield.

  Then he gritted his teeth and set his shoulders and walked out of the room.

  "What is going on?"

  The dark-haired Northman stormed out, nearly pushing Valdemar as he went past, and then the shaven-headed man answered.

  "Valdemar says he has claim to command with Gunnar injured. And I'm afraid he's decided on a duel for it."

  "He's hurt," she said, confused. How on earth could they fight a duel when one of the participants had a hole in his chest?

  The man looke
d at her for a long moment, considering. Then he nodded.

  She didn't wait on the shaven-headed Northlander any longer. She ran after Gunnar. He would die if he fought now. There was no way that he could win, but all for some sort of silly pride he was going to get himself murdered. What sense was there in that? She took a deep breath and tried to think.

  Could she heal him? Certainly, but not in the next few minutes. The most she could do would be… what?

  She racked her brain as she caught up to Gunnar, who had pulled up a makeshift chair and now sat, his eyes more focused than she had ever seen him. He looked as if he were about to go to war, not as if he had just been stabbed.

  "You can't do this," she said softly.

  His eyes turned to her. "I can not avoid it."

  "You're hurt."

  "Yes."

  "You'll die if you fight, you can't do this."

  "If I will die, then I will die fighting."

  "At least let me tend to your wounds. Numb the pain, at least."

  "Then do it," he said. His voice was hard, not anything like the man that she had grown used to over the past week.

  She frantically tried to think of something she could do. She might be able to apply belladonna. It could have a numbing effect, if she used the right amount. She folded her pouch of herbs out and looked through them.

  In an ideal world she would have had so much more time to do this, enough time to be safe and accurate, but she didn't have the comfort of time. She needed to have this done before he decided it was time to march to his death.

  She tore the leaf, then again, and again, until she had a pinch of finely-shredded pieces, and rubbed it in the wound. Gunnar, to his credit, kept silent as she applied it, though she knew that it must have hurt.

  Then he looked at her, his expression serious. "I will free you. I promise that, but I can't do that if I don't have authority. Do you understand?"

  Deirdre nodded, the need to think quickly and everything going on around her creating a growing panic. She was dead, she was absolutely dead, and it was her own actions that had condemned her to the fate that she was now going to suffer.

  Gunnar put his hand on her shoulder, and then walked past, his sword at the ready.

  The sword in his hand felt heavy, but Gunnar ignored it. It still hurt to take in breath, and the wound in his side hadn't healed up half as much as he'd hoped that it might. But he couldn't let that get to him, either.

  If it came down to it, he'd have to kill Valdemar, and he'd have to do it without hesitating. Without worrying about the consequences. Either that, or he would be at serious risk for losing himself. There was more experience on his side, quite a bit more in fact. But that meant nothing if he were fighting at half-strength, trying not to hurt him "too badly."

  The moments stretched thin as he waited for Valdemar to join him. The challenge had been implicit in his declaration that he had control of the raiding party, and Gunnar had gone the extra mile, declaring that he'd be waiting in the middle of camp.

  The wait wasn't quite cowardice—yet. But if he were another few minutes, Gunnar thought, he could fairly claim an easy victory. There was no way that the rest of the men, even the youngest, would accept the commands of a man who wouldn't even show up to a simple duel.

  That wasn't to be, though, to Gunnar's severe disappointment. He pushed through to the middle, hefting a shield. It was an unusual sight, his carrying a blade and hefting a shield on his left arm. He must have been unused to it, but it would have been wrong of him to use his ax. Another point in Gunnar's favor, he reminded himself.

  The two men clasped hands in what could only be called an illusion of civility, and then separated, each watching the other for any signs of movement. Gunnar tried to catch his breath, wincing with each. The longer this went on, he thought, the better chance that he had to recover and start to feel like himself again.

  Valdemar must have known it, because as Gunnar stepped back he stepped in, testing the older man's guard with the point of his blade. It was gone before Gunnar could slap it away with his shield, pulled back before it touched flesh.

  Faster than Gunnar had expected, he judged. That worried him. Before, in battle, Valdemar had always relied on his strength, wielding an ax that most men would have struggled merely to keep aloft. Yet it seemed that with a sword in hand, he had hands that could have matched anyone here.

  Gunnar was quicker, though. He'd always prided himself on the speed of his thrust, on his ability to hide his intentions until it was too late. He stepped up, his hands at the ready, his shield up—Valdemar's blade snaked out, Gunnar managing to catch it with the flat of his own sword and smacking it away.

  The riposte came suddenly, and arced around the edge of the shield, heading for Valdemar's unprotected sides, but he danced out of the way, tapping the blade with his shield as he did so.

  This wasn't going to be a fight that was settled quickly, Gunnar decided. There was time enough for him to be careful. He took a step, and as he did, his blade came around to see how Valdemar defended his forward leg.

  The shield came down hard, smacking the blade down before it found its mark, but as he stretched for the attack Gunnar felt something tearing in his side, a wound reopening. Something that hadn't happened since he could remember.

  The parry set him off-balance, and then the pain distracted him, and Gunnar stumbled. Valdemar, as quick as he had proven himself, didn't let the opportunity by. He moved in, his elbow kept in close. If he hadn't been practicing with a sword, then he was a natural genius with his body.

  The form was perfect, his blade making a straight shot towards Gunnar's ribs. It was all that he could do to get away with a light cut, barely able to smack the weapon away before he was skewered through.

  What was happening to him? Gunnar had fought better opponents. He could see the moves happening almost as if they were in slow motion, but his body was… sluggish. Something was wrong with him, very wrong, and he needed to get it sorted out immediately.

  He stepped back and tried to feel his muscles. Feel where he was tight, and what moved properly. What was wrong with him?

  His side was numb, even the ache of having torn something gone, and yet he still felt as if he could hardly move his sword arm. Even trying to adjust it, find a comfortable position, seemed to be as if he were moving through water.

  His shield arm was moving properly, but it was little consolation. A solid blow or two, and it would be splintered completely in half. This was certainly not the position he had hoped to find himself in when he had accepted the duel.

  Every advantage had seemed to be his when he had started. Valdemar fought with an unusual weapon, and he might have been caught off-guard by the challenge from a man who was, by rights, already dead.

  He hefted the sword again in his hand and circled around a testing jab, watching Valdemar for openings. He kept a neutral stance, and he wasn't too aggressive. Surprising. The unfamiliar weapon must have been having an effect on him after all, making him feel as if he had to compensate by being particularly careful.

  If that was what he was thinking, then it was absolutely right. How Gunnar could manage to get around him, though, that was the real question.

  "Have you had enough yet?" Valdemar smiled wolfishly, whirling his blade. He'd measured the distance well; it would be more than a step inside his guard, and the way that Gunnar's body was moving… he wouldn't make it before the big man could dance out of the way.

  The only way that he could turn this around would be to fool him into attacking when Gunnar was already waiting. That would put him in position. His shield was heavy, and it wasn't going to help him. Not if he had to bait an attack. He would need to give Valdemar an opportunity that he couldn't refuse, and at the same time one that Gunnar could close in an instant.

  He dropped it in the soil, the heavy wooden shield landing with a thud that seemed to Gunnar to be louder than it was.

  "Giving up?" Valdemar didn't relax for a mo
ment, even as he claimed his victory.

  "I don't need a shield to protect myself from an amateur," Gunnar called back. One of the boys laughed nervously. The words were bold, coming from him. He'd narrowly avoided a skewer through the heart once. Without the shield, it wouldn't happen again.

  He watched the point of Valdemar's blade carefully. He had to respond in an instant. The very moment that his point started towards Gunnar's unprotected flank, that would be the time to launch his counterattack.

  Valdemar circled, certain that there was some kind of trap. Gunnar silently agreed. There most certainly was a trap in store, but it was the furthest thing from certain. He only hoped that he wouldn't guess wrong about which way Valdemar would move.

  The berserker finally stepped in, his blade still waiting. He moved closer, too close for a lunging attack. Either could have caught the other with a swing, but still he waited. Gunnar let out a heavy breath. He wanted to attack, wanted to strike home and end this.

  But if he moved too soon, guessed wrong, then it would be easy for Valdemar to stop him. He would need to move suddenly, quickly enough to make it decisive, and he couldn't afford to gamble wrong.

  A movement caught his eye, Valdemar's blade starting to arc up for a swing. The swing that he would try to use to finally knock Gunnar from his command, the attack that would end the fight. He brought his elbow in close to his body and thrust over the incoming blade, right into the gap between the shield, moving aside, and Valdemar's shoulder.

  Right at the berserker's unprotected heart.

  Nine

  Deirdre watched the duel with all the interest of someone whose life depended on the outcome. What she hadn't expected was for Gunnar, confident as he always had been, to face the kind of opposition he did. He was supposed to be powerful, he was supposed to be the leader.

  Yet, as he stepped and circled, one thing was certain. He was outmatched in nearly every way. When he dropped the shield, she looked nervously at the others. That had to be some sort of admission of defeat. So why did no one move to finish the fight, to stop them?