"You have to stop dreaming of her,” Jules had insisted. “She's gone, Dek. Let it be."
But he could not. He always looked for her everywhere he went.
Pain his subconscious mind could not hold at bay suddenly seared him, jerking him away from his memories. His eyes fluttered open and he drew in a harsh gasp.
"You couldn't stay out, could you?” Jules snapped. “You always have to do things the hard way, don't you?"
"You want a swig of liquor, Commander?” Guy asked.
"Aye. Give me the whole fucking bottle.” He was staring at Maire, relieved that she was still there, that he hadn't dreamt her. “I never thought to see you again."
Jules’ head pivoted toward her. “You know him?"
Maire was so surprised that the Black Baron still remembered her that she couldn't speak. It wasn't until the man named Jules repeated his question with a menacing growl that she cleared her throat and answered. “He is the Laird of Drogh-gheay."
"Aye, he is your Overlaird,” Jules answered.
"Not mine,” she said beneath her breath.
"Aye, yours!” the horrid man snapped at her. “And every other Vardarian's!"
Clenching her hands into fists, she dug her nails into her palms, reveling in the pain as little half-moons cut into her flesh. The Black Baron's eyes were fused with hers as he greedily drank from the flask held to his lips. Though there were feverish sparks in that demon-green gaze, she also thought she saw a hint of laughter and raised her chin, consigning him to the deepest pit beneath the slime of the Abyss.
He was so happy to see her after all this time he wanted to throw back his head and howl with relief, laugh until he cried. “Don't worry. I'll get there yet, lass,” he said as his man took the flask away.
Maire's eyes widened, sure now he could intercept her thoughts.
"What?” Jules demanded. “Get where?"
"Hell,” Deklyn muttered and once again his head rolled downward as the loss of blood and the pain overtook him, plunging him once more into unconsciousness.
"What's wrong with his eyes?” Andy asked, his forehead creased.
"They're closed, you moron!” Jules hissed at him.
"Drag the sweater sleeves off his arms while he's out,” Guy advised and between them, he and Andy did just that. When they had the sweater off the injured man, they stepped back.
Jules reached for the protruding shaft, pulled on it but it would not come free of the Baron's shoulder. He twisted it in an attempt to work it free and the result was his patient coming awake with a yelp that startled everyone.
"Fuck!” Dek spat, his entire body trembling from the pain.
"Had to be done,” Jules said in a callous tone though Maire saw what it was costing him to hurt his overlaird. The man armed sweat from his own brow. “The point is a broadhead with mec blades, Dek."
"What does that mean?” Andrew asked but Jules ignored him.
"The blades are retracted close to the ferrule before the shot. Upon impact, the blades snap open as they penetrate with the cutting edges facing the entrance wound, making it impossible to pull out without doing real damage,” Guy explained.
Jules hissed a truly vulgar curse. “There could be only two blades but most likely there are three. Hell, there may even be four. I've got to make a wide incision to work around the blades. It'll take time to work the point free."
"Booze,” the injured man whispered. “Gimme all you got. Hell, give me the entire distillery before you do that to me again!"
"If you don't shut up, I'll brain you one, and you won't have to worry about the fucking booze,” Jules grumbled.
Once more, Andrew held his commander's head until he'd consumed all the liquor the young man had been able to find. She knew it wouldn't be enough. As much as she hated him, hated what he stood for, his suffering was having a strange effect on her. She should be happy he was in pain but oddly enough she wasn't. Then there was the guilt she hadn't expected to be feeling, too. She owed him for saving her life all those years ago for she knew without doubt his friend would have eventually crippled her or—worse yet—killed her had he not returned and intervened.
"I have some tenerse if that would help,” she said.
Jules whipped his head around. “Why the fuck didn't you tell me that before now?” he demanded.
"I just thought of it, you insufferable bastard!” she snapped, surprising him for a moment, then he took a step toward her, fist clenched.
"We would appreciate it, lass,” Guy said, stepping quickly between her and Jules.
Without looking at Jules, she went to her small cupboard and retrieved a bottle of purple liquid, bringing it back to hand over to Guy. She shrugged. “There's not much left, but it will help to deaden the pain."
"Every little bit will help,” Guy told her. He administered the tenerse to his commander.
"Ugh,” Deklyn scowled as the taste of the drug exploded on his tongue, instantly numbing his mouth if not his shoulder. “That tastes like moldy shite."
"Been swilling down moldy shite, have you?” Jules asked with a snort.
"Have another drink,” Guy said but his overlaird shook his head in denial.
"Just finish it,” the Black Baron said through clenched teeth and grimaced as he lay down again.
"We need to make it so he can't struggle like he just did,” Guy said. “One false move and you could sever a muscle or artery in his shoulder making the arm useless. If you nick the main artery, he'll bleed out."
"You think I don't know that?” Jules bellowed. “You want to do this, Guyland?"
"I think we should get some of the men in here to hold him down is what I want,” Guy said without batting an eyelash. “Make it where he can't jackknife as he did a few minutes ago."
"Go,” Jules ordered Andrew, waving his fingers at the younger man. “Get Giles and Rupert and be quick about it."
Andrew hurried out, casting Maire a worried look as he went. There was a loud, piercing whistle beyond the door, the shouting of two names and then the sound of boots crunching over the snow.
"We need you to help us hold him down,” she heard Andy say.
As the men tramped into the cottage, Maire felt dwarfed by their massive size. Towering over the bed, they bent over to aid Guy and Andrew in holding down the extremities of their wounded leader.
She saw Yn Baase grab handfuls of her spread, twisting them as Jules retrieved the knife again.
"You ready, Dek?"
She saw him nod, watched him close his eyes in anticipation of the pain. As soon as the blade was put to him, he shrieked, twisting so violently the men were hard-pressed to restrain him. His cries of pain made the hair stand up on her arms, and she crossed them around her, trembling as he continued to bellow. The men struggled with him, begging their overlaird to pass out. His cries were so loud she had to slap her hands to her ears to filter the unnerving sound.
"Wench, get the hell over here!” Jules ordered.
Having to bite her tongue not to curse him Maire shook her head in denial of his order then gasped as Jules shot away from the bed, grabbed her arm in a punishing grip and dragged her to the bed.
"I'm going to wind up beating your ass yet, bitch!” he thundered, whipping her around so she was flung up against the bedside table.
"Watch what you do, Jules,” Guy warned in a hard voice, “or I'll beat your ass!"
Jules snarled then pointed a finger at Maire. “Sit down at the top and hold his head in your lap."
"I will not!” she said, eyes flashing.
One moment she was breathing, the next she was struggling to draw air into her lungs for Jules had his powerful sword hand wrapped around her throat, squeezing the life from her. She scratched at his hands with her nails—drew blood—but he didn't seem to notice. His eyes were pinpoints of fury, lips drawn back as he squeezed her neck between his thumb and index finger.
"Do you have a death wish, bitch?” he snarled in her face, spittle hitting her ch
eeks.
"Jules, let her go.” It was Deklyn's weak voice giving the order as he struggled to sit up. “If you hurt her...."
"I could snap your gods-be-damned neck like a twig!” Jules threatened.
Maire's vision was beginning to blacken, and she was seeing stars. Though she clawed at his hand until she drew a stream of blood, he kept his brutal grip on her throat until Guy stepped over to him to slam the edge of his hand on the crook of Jule's arm, breaking the hold.
"Stop it! He said to let her go!” Guy told him. “We don't have time for your melodramatics!"
"The bitch...."
Maire didn't hear what else he said for she was rubbing her injured neck, struggling to drag air into her depleted lungs. Her ears were pounding, all sound dulled, her head suddenly throbbing from the lack of air. She wasn't even aware of the hard hand gripping her upper arm. She was forced onto the mattress beside the Tarryn laird and when his men lowered him, his sweat-dampened head was heavy on her lap. She looked down to see him staring up at her, guilt and pain turning his eyes dark green.
"I'm sorry for what happened,” he said and the words stunned her, so she couldn't speak. “I should have stayed. I will regret not doing so on my deathbed, tarrishagh."
"What?” Guy asked, brows drawn together. He stared at Maire.
"Let's do this,” Jules snapped, obviously not liking the undercurrents flowing between his commander and the woman. He took up the red-hot knife, wrapping its handle in the shirt Maire had been mending to keep from burning his hand. “He's as numb as he's going to get."
The other four men bent over once again, bracing their hard, calloused hands on the legs and feet, shoulders and arms of their overlaird. The moment the hot blade was applied, the injured one stiffened, his back coming off the mattress.
Maire didn't have time to consider what she was doing. She put her hands to each side of his head to hold it. He was gasping for breath, his eyes wild as he tried to break free of the men restraining him. He cursed, spat like a cornered snake, but they kept him down until the point came free. Before his scream was cut off in mid-vibrato, Jules applied the poker to the gaping wound to close it.
Maire had to clap her hands over her ears again for the scream that came this time was many decimals higher and louder. She heard the glass in the window break and turned wide eyes to the destruction.
"Thank the gods, he passed out,” she heard Andrew say and looked back around. Jules was sweating profusely, his breathing ragged as he stared down at his overlaird. The big man was trembling violently.
"Put that poker in the fire and sit your ass down in that rocker before you fucking hit the floor!” Guy ordered.
Jules didn't question the command but stumbled to the rocker, the poker still clutched in his hand when he crashed to the seat. His teeth were clicking together, his eyes mirroring the guilt of having caused such agony. Guy stepped over to take the poker from him and when he did, Jules looked up with tears in his eyes.
"I really hurt him, Guy,” he said, voice breaking.
"Had to be done,” Guy reminded him in his own words. He looked around at Maire. “The water is hot enough. Will you bathe him down for us, lass? I think he needs a woman's touch just now."
It was on the tip of her tongue to say no but five sets of war-hardened eyes were staring at her. She dared not deny them. She nodded and eased the unconscious man's head from her lap. Andrew went over to the fireplace to dip water into the basin for her.
"You have our gratitude, wench,” the young man said as he placed the basin on the table by the bed. “His life is dear to us."
She didn't reply but set out to do as she'd been asked. With the Tarryn overlaird naked except for the buckskin breechclout covering his loins, she felt her face flame as she plied the warm rag to his blood-streaked arm. It had been four years since she'd been near so much bare male skin and never had she seen such thickly corded muscles or as many battle scars. His chest was crisscrossed with fine white lines she was sure had been made by passing blades. There were two other puncture-type wounds and one puckered scar on his right thigh that looked as though it might be a burn.
However, his face, despite the thickening growth of a few days beard, did not show any scarring. There was mud streaked on his chin and forehead—extending up into his thick shock of ebony hair—but no trace of the hard living that had peppered his body with the tell-tale signs of brutal battle.
As she ran the rag over the mud on his forehead, she studied his face, thinking his was not the countenance of the demon people were told it was. Certainly, he did not look as though he could turn milk sour with such a handsome visage. He was just as handsome—if not more so—than the first time she'd seen him. His features were patrician, signifying his high birth. The nose was finely chiseled with just a slight tilt downward at the end to give it a boyish cast. The curve of his lips was appealing for the lower was thicker than the upper, which had a definitive bow shape to it. Long, thick eyelashes swept over cheekbones that were high, slanting down boldly to a lantern jaw and strong cleft chin. Both ears were pierced though he wore no jewelry save a medal slung around his thickly corded neck and a gold signet ring on the index finger of his right hand. His eyelids fluttered and opened for a fraction of a second—just long enough for her to see that green glow staring back at her before the lids closed again.
"They are green. I thought they were black,” she said without thinking.
"Beg pardon?” Guy asked behind her.
"Nothing,” she said and forcibly looked away from that devastatingly beautiful male face, moving her rag down the Tarryn overlaird's side before ringing it out in the water.
"Were you speaking of his eyes, lass?” Guy asked. “The color of his eyes?"
She shrugged. “Aye,” she mumbled. “I remember them as being black."
"I knew there was something wrong with his eyes,” Andy said. “They're green now!"
"I was too busy to notice,” Jules grumbled.
"He let her see the true color of his gaze?” one of the other two men inquired with awe.
Jules flung out a dismissive hand. The rocker creaked. “It would seem so, Rupert."
With all but their overlaird staring at her she straightened. Even the bastard who had taken up residence in her beloved rocker was looking back at her with something akin to puzzlement.
"What of it?” she demanded, the wet rag dripping into the basin.
"His eyes were black,” Guy said. He looked exceedingly uncomfortable.
"Like his soul,” Jules said on a sigh as he laid his head on the back of the rocker. “Isn't that what you Vardarians say about him?"
"I speak not of him at all,” she said as she set back to bathing the blood and mud from the man on the bed. “I think even less of him."
Jules raised his head. “You're going to open that pretty little mouth of yours one time too many, and I'm going to snip that vicious tongue out of there for you."
"She's entitled to her opinion,” Guy reminded him.
"No call for her to be badmouthing the commander, though,” one of the two men whose name she didn't know spoke up.
"Was she doing that?” Guy asked. “I heard no insult, Giles."
"It was implied,” Giles stated. “She said she didn't think much of him."
"She said she thought even less of him, Giles,” Guy corrected. “I take that to mean she doesn't give him any thought at all.” He locked eyes with Maire. “Isn't that right, lass?"
Maire had no trouble reading between the lines. He was deftly warning her to be careful what she said around the overlaird's men.
"Aye,” she said, looking away. “That is what I meant.” She moved the rag to her patient's leg.
Jules snorted but kept his thoughts to himself.
Guy walked to the other side of the bed and laid a hand to his commander's cheek. “He's got a fever,” he reported.
"I'd be surprised as hell if he didn't,” Jules said. He pushed up wearily fro
m the chair, coming to stand beside Maire. He, too, laid a hand to the unconscious man's face. “We're going to need a poultice for the wound.” He sighed then turned to Maire. “I don't suppose you have any medicines in this hovel of yours."
"My home is not a hovel,” she snapped, her eyes flashing up at him.
"Do you or do you not have....?” Jules barked.
"I used charcoal paste on my husband, and it cured a knife wound to his arm,” she said.
"Where's your husband now?” Guy asked.
"He's dead."
"Figures,” Jules snapped. “She probably killed him with one of her home-made remedies."
"He was killed by a Tarryn trooper!” she hissed.
"My granny used charcoal paste on me once,” Andrew said, drawing Jules’ glower to him. “It did work, Captain."
"What do you need to make the poultice, lass?” Guy inquired.
"Ash from the fire and boiled water,” she said, wishing she'd kept her mouth shut.
"Scoop out some of the ash, Andy,” Guy instructed.
"The hod is empty,” Maire told the young man. “Just drop them in there. I'll make the paste when it's cool enough to handle.” She moved past Jules—straining not to touch the odious warrior—so she could go around to the other side of the bed.
"I don't have coozies, bitch,” Jules growled at her.
"Never prove it by me,” she said under her breath. She didn't think anyone had heard her but Guy winked at her, his lips twitching as he stepped back to give her room.
"You've got spunk, lass,” he said. “I like that."
Even though the man was a Tarryn, Maire was finding it hard to maintain a dislike of him. Both he and the young Andrew had been as pleasant to her as was possible under the circumstances.
"If we aren't needed no more,” Rupert said, “we'll see to the men, Captain. I'm supposing we won't be going nowhere for a day or two."
"Most likely not,” Jules groused as he raked a hand through his long brown hair. “We can't take a chance of his wound opening up on the trek to Norvus. That's what? Thirty miles away?"
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