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

by Faye, Amy

  Their gaze was equally split between the cavaliers in their bright-polished uniforms and the Vikings they escorted, though Gunnar could not hear what they said. He could guess well enough from their faces. They were afraid, but at the same time seeing them all subdued gave the townsfolk a measure of courage that they'd not have had otherwise.

  He turned back forward. There was nothing here but distraction. Gunnar had a job to do, and he couldn't let himself get distracted from it. This entire surrender had been a distraction. He had to get back to Deirdre, had to make sure that she would be safe.

  There was no room for regret, now that he was already here, but he realized dimly that he should never have stayed. He should have gone with her. But he hadn't. Instead, he'd chosen to stand and fight, and though he'd made his mark on the English troops they fought, the cost he'd paid was far too high.

  Something red streaked through the sky, slapping into the side of Arne's head. He stumbled a step, yanking Gunnar's hands. As he stood back up, he had what little remained of a tomato dripping, and he stunk to heaven.

  A brown muck that he hoped was mud smacked into another of them, and then the entire crowd had gone mad throwing things, cursing at the Danes as they walked. The mounted soldiers let it continue for a moment before the one at the head turned and gave a signal.

  Two of them peeled off from the group and rode up the sides. "Order, order!" they cried, using their height advantage and sheer radiance to convince the peasants that it wouldn't be wise to argue, and aside from a scant few more mud-pies they stopped. Gunnar took a deep breath and kept his back straight, kept his eyes forward.

  He could feel something drying on his shoulder, a substance just sticky and unpleasant enough to worry about its origins. He shouldn't have stood for the insult. They should have been terrorizing these people, taking their things and burning their homes.

  Proving to them, and to the Gods, how overwhelming their superiority was. But instead they endured this humiliation at the hands of men whose hands had likely never held a sword, who had never been in a serious fight. Men and women who knew nothing about what it was like to risk your life for something.

  He held back the urge to turn and spit on the ground to show them exactly what it was that he thought of them. He had to control himself. The walls surrounding the inner city were a welcome sight, if for no other reason than that the entire place wasn't completely absurd.

  They were thick stone, and as he crossed beneath, he saw that they were wide enough for four men to walk side-by-side without fear of falling off. There was no way that they could have gotten through.

  On the other side of the stone wall were a pair of wooden doors, and the leader, his white-and-red feathered cap making him look at once handsome and foppish to Gunnar, stepped down off his horse with the help of the young man who rode beside, and rapped his steel-gloved hands against the door.

  A sliding click, and the door opened to reveal a grubby-looking little man who gestured them inside. The entire line of them were taken inside of a small room caged in with metal bars, and only when they had been locked inside were their ropes loosed.

  The iron bracelets, on the other hand, continued to tie them all within a few feet of the walls, so they couldn't hope to break out by force.

  There were a hundred questions running through Gunnar's head, but one question, the most important, he already knew the answer to.

  They needed to get out of here, and they needed to do it soon. How they would do it, he didn't know. Who would be with him, he wasn't sure. Some might have refused simply because he wasn't in charge any more.

  But if he knew one thing, it was that if they hoped to escape with their heads, it had to be soon.

  Twenty-Eight

  Five minutes. Deirdre didn't count to the second, but the constable couldn't have been far because within five minutes the girl's mother had returned with a uniformed man, too old for soldiering but with the body of a man who'd been in that life.

  "She was right here, she threatened me and my daughter! She had a knife, and—oh, you should have seen her. She was soaked in blood, from her head down to her toes!"

  Deirdre looked herself up and down. There was more blood than she'd imagined, but nothing like 'soaked,' and she hadn't threatened anyone. Whatever the woman had experience, it wasn't what Deirdre had done, but there was no question who she was talking about.

  "Now, Millie, calm down and tell me what you know."

  The woman wasn't calming down. She kept repeating herself, over and over. Blood-soaked, had a knife, threatened her and the girl. As if he would finally understand if she just used different words.

  Deirdre couldn't keep watching around the corner as the constable started scratching his head. She was in danger here, that much was clear. How had things gotten off to such a bad start?

  The question of whether or not she could even reveal herself if she wanted to pulled to the forefront. Now someone said she was a dangerous mad-woman who was brandishing a knife at a young girl. She'd have to dispel that notion before she even started to explain the very real danger she found herself in, and it wasn't clear that she would get the opportunity.

  She had to get out of this place, get herself cleaned up somehow. A change of clothes, perhaps, though it seemed unlikely. And she had just come in the way she was headed. East and south. If she went back the way she'd come, she risked as much as going straight through, only she was going the wrong way entirely.

  The gamble was whether or not she could make it in the delivery alleys between buildings all the way out of town, or if she would have to brave one of the wider streets proper. And if she could get lucky enough to avoid anyone seeing her.

  Time seemed excruciatingly slow as she tried to walk. The ground was packed hard, here, and the earth was cool, but she ignored the cold that had worked its way into her feet. There wasn't any time for that. The alleyway jagged right, and she followed it.

  It didn't just dead-end, and she was thankful for that, but to her disappointment it terminated in a street, and even as her view opened up as she approached, there didn't seem to be an alley entrance on the other side. Either she would have to go back the way she'd come, and risk the constable, or she had to hope that nothing would find her before she could get out.

  She kept herself crouched low, like she'd seen Gunnar do. It was day-time, but she might be able to risk it. If she was lucky, that is. Closer, closer. She'd be able to come around the side of the next building, and then see what was coming up.

  A quick peek, and then checking the other directions. The road stretched a few hundred paces before petering out into grassland. Not ideal, but she could make it. She counted the doors on each side, tried to calculate the risk that someone might come out while she walked by. But the risk didn't matter any more when she heard a woman's voice behind her.

  "You there."

  It didn't sound violent, which was a surprise, but Deirdre turned so quick that she lost her footing and fell on her butt. The woman behind her looked good. Well-dressed and manicured. Like a proper lady, really. "I—I just want to go home. I'm just passing through, please, I don't mean no trouble."

  The woman's face bunched up in confusion, and then her face brightened with understanding.

  "Come with me, let's get you inside." Deirdre didn't move. "Come on, I'm a friend. You can trust me."

  The way the lady winked at her made Deirdre's skin crawl. She clearly wasn't understanding something, and the lady did little to explain, but when she started to move, waving a gloved hand for Deirdre to follow, she decided she had little choice. That, or face the constable and hope he'd listen to her story.

  The house was nice, no bigger than the others that Deirdre had seen in town, but larger than the cottage by half. The garden out front was full of flowers and herbs, a collection that drew Deirdre's attention as much because of its lush beauty as because they were all herbs with a decidedly medicinal use.

  When she was ushered inside,
the lady called out and a young maid, younger than Deirdre, came out.

  "This poor woman is absolutely freezing! Fetch a blanket, and get some hot water for a bath drawn immediately."

  Deirdre hadn't told her so, but looking at her toes she could see that they'd turned a deep shade of purple. Perhaps it was more obvious than she'd hoped. The lady took off her hat and gloves, hung the woolen coat on a hook by the door.

  "You must be Deirdre."

  Deirdre blinked. "I'm sorry?"

  "Oh, I'm sorry. Brigid must not have told you, I'm Amelia. Your teacher and I go back quite a way, she's told me so much about you."

  Deirdre's teeth were clicking together as she started to regain warmth, her limbs starting to burn with returning heat and blood. She couldn't decide what to say. If this woman and Brigid went back so far, it was odd that she wouldn't have mentioned her.

  Then again, there were a great deal of things that Brigid hadn't told her, it seemed. Like where she was going, or that she had kept correspondence all those years.

  "Is Brigid here?"

  "Oh, here?" The woman's voice had a sing-song tone that grated on Deirdre's already-worn nerves. "No, why of course she's not here."

  Deirdre tried not to react to the news. The maid came back in, carrying a heavy bundle of blankets, which she handed to Amelia. Amelia, in turn, took Deirdre by the arm and guided her to a sofa, helped her put her feet up and tucked her in tight.

  "The bath should be ready in just a few minutes, but my—you certainly look hungry! Barely skin and bones!"

  The lady herself had a noticeably trim figure, cutting a fantastic silhouette. Could Deirdre have ever looked like that? She doubted it.

  The sound of oil sizzling on the stove made her want to get up, to investigate the increasingly delicious smells coming from the kitchen, but she'd been put here for a reason, and though she scarcely wanted to admit it the heat was too comforting to pass up.

  She laid her head back and closed her eyes, only for a moment. She would have plenty of time to rest after she ate, and after her bath. But the feeling under the blankets was so comforting, she had to admit, and it wouldn't hurt to just relax.

  The smell of cinnamon and cooking pork belly wafted through. When Amelia came back, a platter between her hands, she found Deirdre asleep. She put the tray on the coffee table and watched for a moment. Such a pretty girl. She could see why Brigid had favored her.

  Such a pretty girl would certainly be a good choice.

  It didn't matter where he died, Gunnar thought. The Gods could see in England as well as they could in Denmark. As long as he fought bravely and accepted his death like a man, paying the price for his actions was the furthest thing from cowardice.

  The truth was, he'd already done what was important. He'd saved the woman who he cared about. She would be back at her home, and safe, any time now. Perhaps she would find a new one, would find a new place in life. A more comfortable existence.

  He liked that thought, liked imagining the thought of her running some little shop selling her smelling-herbs. Perhaps flowers. The way her wide hips swayed, carrying a little flower basket through town to advertise.

  It was strange not to think of himself in that image, but he'd already been captured. Already he was chained to a wall, and it was only a matter of time until their captors figured out what to do with them. The order would be death, he was certain of that much. He could almost hear them building a platform for it outside. Or was he imagining it?

  The thought didn't bother him. He'd been so unafraid of death for so many years it was pointless to start now.

  Valdemar leaned into him, whispered something he didn't hear. Gunnar turned back and asked him to repeat it.

  "We need to talk."

  "What would you possibly need to talk to me about?"

  Valdemar's expression wasn't pleased with that response. "We need to get out of here, right?"

  Gunnar raised an eyebrow, then laid his head back. Did they have to get out? It was a lost cause. "I'm not afraid to die."

  "Brothers in battle, brothers in chains, and here you call me a coward?"

  The silence between them stretched on for minutes. Gunnar wanted to be left alone. Alone with his thoughts, alone with his speculations, and alone with his little view out the window opposite their cell, just small enough to show the ankles of people walking by. The tiny little window out into this unfathomable city.

  "Are you going to listen to me or not?"

  "No," Gunnar answered without turning back. There was more between them than a little grudge, he knew that much. It had been too much to just play as if they were old friends. As enemies, it was easy to be motivated against him, but as allies, and near death as it is, he had little reason to listen.

  Valdemar was too clever by half, and with the way that things had been going between them there was no doubt that he could turn things in such a way that Gunnar wouldn't realize that he was the one duped until it was his head on the chopping block alone.

  But in spite of that, the word 'escape' rang in his mind. Escape, survival, homecoming.

  Was any of it possible?

  They were inside a wall perhaps ten feet across. No, they couldn't break through the wall, so they would have to fight their way through guards who would certainly know where they were headed and block their retreat. On the advantages side, they were close to one exit. If they could have only a few minutes' lead time, then they might be able to get out of the wall without a problem.

  It would be easier without the bars between them and the door. It had a heavy metal bolt that pulled to open. A few men had been brought in after them, thieves if he didn't miss his estimation.

  Then, once they were out, they would have to hope that no one on a horse came after them, and they certainly would do so. No amount of running would matter if someone knew where they'd gone, because the mounted soldiers would ride them down in a matter of hours.

  So they would need to have a way out of this room, a room with iron bars as thick as Gunnar's thumb, and then get through the wall without anyone seeing and realizing what had happened. Then they would need to get through town unnoticed, make camp somewhere they wouldn't be found, and then get out of the area. No, it wasn't going to work.

  "You're thinking that it's impossible, aren't you?" Valdemar paused a moment. "You're thinking that you're a brave man indeed—you saved the woman, and she'll always carry a torch for you, right?"

  Gunnar turned, ready to tear into him. Ready to fight. But what would be the point now? In these chains, it wouldn't be a good fight, and there wouldn't be much point in it regardless. They'd still be stuck right there next to each other. So instead he turned away again.

  "Of course that's what you were thinking. You were thinking that it hardly mattered what happened to you now, because you're beyond help. Well, I'm sure that's what she thinks, too."

  What did he know? Gunnar's eyes never left the window, watching the feet of everyone walking by. It was surprising how different they could be, just from that. How he could make out what sort of life a person lived by the quality of their shoes. The thought was a good enough distraction.

  "She certainly left in a hurry, didn't she? Imagine, though. Imagine whether or not Hilde would have left you, in the same situation. She'd have stayed. She'd have fought, same as you. Or she'd have taken you across her shoulders."

  "Don't you dare speak to me about my mother," Gunnar growled. His mother's stories were still told in the mead-halls. Stories to be lived up to. She had been a strong woman. He had to be strong to follow behind her.

  But the thought was insidious, wormed its way into Gunnar's head. Had she left him behind because he made her? Or had she because it didn't much matter? He tried to think. Did she look back for even a moment?

  His eyes left the window, flicked toward Valdemar. But he managed to keep himself in line, didn't turn his head at the very least. Couldn't give him the satisfaction of having gotten under Gunnar's skin. />
  He was wrong about Deirdre. She was afraid, but she would do what she had to do. It was her belief in him that had let her go, not that she didn't particularly care. But it rubbed like a burr in his mind. What if he was wrong, though? He wasn't as clever as Valdemar, and not near as clever as Deirdre.

  It would be easy to play him for a fool, for a woman like that. If she'd wanted him to be her pawn, then could he have stopped her?

  He struggled not to think it any further. It wasn't proper, not at all. But the idea was insidious. He couldn't get it out of his head, regardless what he wanted to think.

  He had to find a way to prove, once and for all, that he hadn't been made a fool of. That he'd done the right thing. His pride hurt as he turned back, frowning.

  "Tell me about your plan, and we'll talk."

  Twenty-Nine

  The first thing that Deirdre noticed when she woke up was that she didn't hurt any more. Her body felt surprisingly alright. The second thing she noticed was the smell of food, still hot, set on a plate beside her.

  Not the bacon that she'd been preparing to eat before she fell asleep, either. A sweet roll and a thick cut of beef, far too nice for anyone she had only met the night before to give her. Deirdre made a mental note to thank Amelia when she saw her next.

  The scent of poppy was fainter, and she didn't notice it until she had already started to dig into the food that had been presented, along with a little note to her to enjoy the food. Very tasteful and surprisingly thoughtful. Had this woman really known her teacher? It seemed strange to think that Brigid had known anyone with a lick of manners.

  She was a shrewd woman, and more capable than Deirdre could express—but the very furthest thing from having any manners. Which begged the question where her hostess was. The question raised a second one. Who else lived in this place? She had seen a maid, her plain-looking features hazy in Deirdre's memory.