Angie Arms - Flame Series 03

by The Darkest Flame

  “She is a wife,” he replied, lowering his gaze to the task at hand.

  “I have never seen you look at a woman as you have been looking at her all day,” Damien observed, to Garrick’s irritation. He thought if he remained silent, Damien would likewise fall silent, but it was not meant to be. “She is comely for a child.”

  “She’s not a child,” Garrick responded, with aggravation evident in his voice.

  “She’s exceedingly small for a full grown woman.”

  “There is nothing wrong with my woman,” Garrick ground out, infuriated that this man would be judging his wife when his own wife had been nothing but a problem for him from the beginning.

  “Then why did you beat her?” Damien asked, and he could hear the man’s anger just beneath the surface.

  “She was reluctant to share the marriage bed,” he said, without missing a beat or even looking up at the man. The sound of the other men’s strokes faltered, before picking back up.

  “I would think a woman of that size would not give up enough of a fight for a man such as you, that it would come to blows.”

  “You see to your wife, and I will see to mine,” Garrick said, as he got to his feet. He threw the stone down and resheathed his sword, all the while knowing he would have to sharpen it more later. He stalked away and knew Ryann’s eyes watched him go.

  For the rest of the afternoon and evening the men prepared for war. Their numbers alone could bring the walls of any castle tumbling down, but Garrick was not a man to leave things to chance. He had an advantage, knowing the layout of Stroud’s keep, he was able to devise a plan of attack before arriving outside the walls, so his men would be ready, and have the element of surprise. The less prepared they were to fight such large numbers, the more likely they would just hand the boy over. Stroud was the type of man that would rather throw the boy’s head over the walls to them, then give the living one back.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  “Countess?” the voice behind her was tentative, and she turned quickly to find Lord Damien standing behind her. Despite his size and age, he had the look upon his face of a boy who did not wish to tell her what he had come to tell her. She took pity on the man she did not know, but who seemed to like her husband. She wondered again what he had done to Garrick.

  “Yes Lord Damien,” she said, with a warm smile she hoped would put him at ease.

  “I hoped I might have a word with you,” he said politely, and she had the distinct feeling this was foreign to this soldier. He had the bearing of a man who spoke if he had something to speak of, and he did not have to be polite in doing so.

  “Of course,” she replied. He held his hand out and offered her a small bow to indicate she was to move farther from the camp, so they might be afforded some amount of privacy. They walked what appeared out of earshot of the rest, and Ryann stopped and turned to Damien.

  She waited for him to speak first, but when he did not, she decided to take the bull by the horns and maybe he would get around to telling her what was on his mind. “It was kind of you to bring your army to get Daley back.”

  Damien only nodded, but his gray-green eyes studied her shrewdly from head to toe. His gaze lingered on her face often, and she could tell by his frown he did not condone Garrick’s treatment of her.

  “You must be a good friend to Garrick,” she said, studying him for his response.

  The big man shrugged. “We’ve been to hell and back together more than once,” he said, as if this alone made them friends. She did not know a great deal about men, but what she was learning was they could be difficult at best.

  “So you all have fought together for a long time,” Damien silently nodded, watching her a bit wearily at this point. “Then I wish you to know something that would anger him if he knew I told you.”

  “Then perhaps you should not tell me,” he said, in a flat tone that told her plainly she needed to tread carefully where he was concerned.

  She shook her head vigorously. “I must so you do not think poorly of him.” When Damien’s chin raised a notch in agitation, at her she assumed, she did not hesitate. “Garrick did not beat me.”

  A scowl passed across his face, “Who does he protect?” It seemed as if his voice was full of more anger that he would protect the person who beat his wife, than if Garrick had done it himself.

  “He protects me. I cannot tell you more. I just did not want this to get in the way of your friendship.”

  Damien nodded. “You are as wise as you are fair,” he complimented her with a bow. “I sought you out to assure you, you have my protection from Garrick if you needed it.”

  She smiled, a genuine smile that broke across her features, stretching her skin and making it ache. “I appreciate the gesture, but it is entirely unnecessary.”

  Damien looked at her as if she said Garrick had two heads, but he chose not to question her further. She did not think the man would believe her when she told him she thought her husband was not the man he let everyone else see. He would never believe she was becoming pleased it was Garrick who claimed her for his wife. She knew the alternatives, had dreaded one of those for years. Though he had not necessarily been kind to her, he had not been abusive, and had thus far given her a great deal of consideration.

  “Is Daley a relative of yours?” Damien asked, redirecting the subject.

  “No,” she said, as she offered him a gentle smile. “He is my stable boy.”

  “Are you lacking for stable boys?” Damien scoffed.

  “No,” she replied quickly, and with enough censor in her voice he appeared to be chastised. “Daley is special to me as are all my children.”

  “The Lady Ryann has a soft spot when it comes to those cast adrift,” Garrick’s voice said from behind her. She turned quickly, offering him a smile, and despite his cold demeanor as he looked down at her, she moved closer to him.

  Damien studied the pair for a moment before nodding. “It begins to make sense,” he said, with a small smile curving his lips.

  “What is beginning to make sense?” Garrick asked, and Ryann heard the agitation creep into his voice.

  “This crazy life,” Damien said, clapping Garrick on the shoulder. “Come my friend,” he said, with a smile directed at Ryann, “Let us take our meal and regale your young bride with stories of your exploits.”

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  Garrick stared into the flames of the fire. Beside him, sitting silently was Cyrille. As usual the big man sat a little apart, further away from the fire, deeper in the shadows. Garrick never knew what to say to the man, not when he thought he could conquer all Christendom, and especially not now when the man was hideously scarred by a Saracen blade and flames, where they attempted to burn him. They all gathered around the campfire. Ryann shared the log Garrick sat upon, her leg brushed his from time to time, her shoulder brushed his arm, and each time it made him tense. Why he couldn’t say. It was as if his body was curled in anticipation ready to spring, but it had nothing to do with what would come at dawn. She had listened to the stories the men told, until her head was falling over onto him, and he finally told her to go to bed. Damien had sought his bed some time ago, along with the other men, leaving him alone with Cyrille. It was just fine with him, of all the men he could be sitting with on this melancholy night, it was the silent one he preferred.

  His hands worked, rubbing against one another as he leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, going through the plan of attack for tomorrow, down to the last man. Each scenario of what could happen at each level of attack ran through his head, and again he worked through the plan to insure they would be ready for anything. He was no fool to think battle would go anything like Halvor’s plans. He did not know why he sat worrying over the battle tomorrow. He dealt with the night before battle usually by finding a whore to comfort him, in the only way they could, then found his bed, but slumber was elusive on this night. Perhaps, because there were no whores with them on this journey.

  His eyes strayed above the f
lames and fell on the slumbering Ryann. She was curled up in a tight ball, her hands tucked beneath her chin. In the darkness of the night, with only the flickering light casting a soft glow on her face, he could see none of what Stroud’s men had done to her. He remembered her vivid blue eyes full of life looking up at him, as she had earlier with trust, and something else he dared not delve to deeply into. He studied her peaceful face, so innocent, even now, despite all that he had allowed to happen to her.

  “Is she what you expected?” Cyrille’s whispered voice came to him. If the man used his voice beyond a whisper, it was raspy and did not last long before dwindling to nothing. Garrick refused to look at him, could not look at him, because he did not wear his hood. Without his hood, it was a reminder of what could have befell them all, if only they had been brave enough to try to protect one another. Only Cyrille, and now he was a reminder to them all that bravery came with a price.

  “No,” Garrick said, dropping his eyes back to the flames. Now was no different than any other minute of this day, and his eyes were drawn back to her. He shrugged, “I don’t know what I expected.”

  Silence fell again. “She’s nice.”

  “She is too nice,” he said in the same whisper. It sounded strange, felt strange, to take into consideration someone else. Those nearby, but mostly Cyrille. His own whisper made it all seem better, as if they were never held prisoner, as if all the things that came after did not matter.

  “How can anyone be too nice?”

  Garrick knew he should end the conversation there. But there was comfort in this moment, the night before he attacked yet another keep with innocent people inside. Some would die. Some always died. He found more comfort than he ever found with a whore, with Ryann sleeping the most peaceful of sleeps and a friend, perhaps, next to him. Friend. His hands twisted with one another again, before he forced them still, and turned to look at Cyrille.

  It was a brave man he saw. A strong man, who managed with his sacrifice to save their lives, at least one of their lives. If no one’s life but his brother’s. When had Garrick ever saved a life? He was a braver man than Garrick would ever be, because Garrick would not sacrifice himself for another man. “She sacrifices herself to help others,” he said quietly.

  Cyrille’s one eye studied him. Garrick could not imagine surviving his eye cut from his head. Cyrille was stronger than any man he knew, and he envied him that. He found it difficult to believe he envied this man for surviving his torture. “She’ll be okay. She has you to watch over her.”

  The corner of Garrick’s mouth drew up into an unfamiliar smile. Since when had he begun to smile? “She went toe to toe with Lena,” Garrick said, feeling pride suddenly flow through him for his small wife.

  “I heard Marcus tell Damien the story. That must have been a magnificent sight.”

  “I thought Lena would kill her.” He watched Cyrille’s eye move to gaze at the woman across from them. Suddenly Garrick had an urge to make him stop, to shield her in all her vulnerability. He looked quickly away from Cyrille, and again his eyes fell on his wife. Her hair glowed in the sliver of the moon poking through the canopy of trees.

  He heard Cyrille get to his feet. He heard the hesitating shuffle the man made in the effort. It was not as bad as it had been in the beginning, now the man was learning to use his injured body better, learning to compensate. The question of friendship came to his mind again. With the question also came the question did he trust Cyrille, or anyone for that matter, for surely a friend was someone who could be trusted. He scowled angrily to himself for even thinking such a thing. A long time ago he told himself to trust no one, for everyone had a secret agenda, always. Cyrille’s faltering steps quietly faded away, and all that was left was the muffled sounds of the night camp.

  Across the way he saw his wife’s face twist in a grimace, then relax once again. He wondered not for the first time what it would be like to mate with her. He barely suppressed a snort at that thought. They weren’t animals. What did he plan to do, throw her down and fuck her like he did one of the whores? The thought made him shudder. He was not that kind of man. He didn’t want to be that kind of man.

  The Countess Ryann Fenton rolled a little backward, her hands rose slightly, and pain etched its way across her brow. He stood and moved quietly around the fire, keeping his eyes on his new bride. She was in the throes of a nightmare. He cursed Stroud again inside his own head, and made a vow before he reached her side that tomorrow he would kill the man for that nightmare, and all those that would likely haunt her for the rest of her life.

  Standing over her, he was witness to her terror as he had been when they first found her. He wanted to end her nightmare, but he would have to wake her, so he hesitated. A whimper escaped her, and he stooped down toward her, ready to reach for her and release her from dark clutches. Before he could, she gasped and was sitting up straight. For the briefest of moments he saw fear so intense he drew back. Within a breath of time that fear was filled with sadness, and a tear trickled down from her eye, glowing in the moonlight. His hand could not be controlled as it extended to wipe the tear from her cheek, a finger following the path down to her chin. Such a delicate face. He seized her by her shoulders, dragged her from her bed, and pulled her roughly against himself.

  He cursed himself, expecting her to be frightened. Instead she adjusted her position and cradled herself in his arms. Burying her head in his chest she cried quietly, only her shaking shoulders told him the kind of sorrow she succumbed to. Eventually she grew still. He held her for another moment or two, then kissed the top of her head, smelling her scent, then he released her and laid her back on her bed. He went so far as to pull the furs overtop her, before he turned away.

  He sought his own bed and lay awake for what seemed hours, feeling her curled in his arms. So small and frail snuggled against him. He couldn’t treat her like one of his whores. She was his wife, his to protect for a lifetime. She would carry his children, perhaps another man’s, but soon those men would be dead and it would not matter. He would raise it as his own, male or female, because wasn’t it entirely his fault. He should have listened to Christopher, the man who protected her for so long. That was the problem of late, his mind was too fuddled with thoughts of his wife. He had not wanted a man he did not know anywhere near his wife, and there was no clear reason why he should be that way.

  With that thought came the one that plagued him before. Christopher knew his wife, had known her for years, had protected her, and he did not like it. It was as if he still held his wife cradled against him, he could still smell her hair. He recalled her movement earlier that brought her closer to his side, no one had ever moved closer to him just to be closer to him. She smiled every time he came near. Perhaps this was because she was ready to have children. Wasn’t she already of an age to be having babies? He could not detect any ulterior motives, anything that would make it to her benefit to pretend, as it seemed she was pretending. Any children she had with him would be legitimate, unlike all those others she had taken in. Of course, that was it. She was seeking an heir as was he. He smiled to himself and suddenly the feel of her in his arms took on a different meaning, and he grew rock hard. She was just across the way. His by all rights. But he knew he could not take her that way. She would need gentleness to accommodate for her innocence and hellish treatment.

  Fear entered his mind for he did not know how to be gentle. He did not know how to ready a woman to receive him. What if he hurt her? What if he terrified her? He wanted to do none of those things. She had already experienced both, and he would rather not have an heir if he had to subject her to it again. Where did that thought come from? He would have to talk to Alena, she would know what he needed to do to make it easier for her. With that thought in mind he finally drifted off to sleep.

  Chapter 7

  Garrick had two armies at his back and at one time he would have unleashed them all onto the keep, to the victors the spoils. Now he had Daley’s safety to worry a
bout, if the boy still lived. He took with him the men he knew could get the job done, Damien, Cyrille, Halvor, Roland, and Marcus through the gate ever weary of a trap. These people weren’t his enemy he kept telling himself, as the peasants fell back allowing them clear passage.

  “Stroud!” Garrick yelled at the top of his voice, as he stood in the center of the courtyard.

  An older knight stepped forward, offering a bow but refusing to come too close. “Lord Garrick, Barron Stroud left before your arrival.”

  His first instinct was to drive a sword through this man and have the keep ransacked. That would do no good. He was not here, to seize or even destroy anything. He wanted to return Daley to Ryann and spill Stroud’s blood for bringing harm to her, not make the innocent suffer. Enough already had.

  “Where’s the boy?”

  “In the master’s chamber,” the man said, pointing toward the hall.

  “Gather everyone outside the walls,” Garrick ordered Marcus, before moving in the direction indicated. Cyrille fell in step with him and he almost sent him away, but thought better of it. Each chamber door they checked, ordering those out who hid within, until they reached the master chamber. Garrick tried the door, but the keyed lock was bolted. Without a word spoken Cyrille stepped forward and heaved his bulk into the door. Two more times and the door gave way, spilling him inside. Garrick was immediately through behind him, his eyes darting left and right, first for danger, second for Daley. What he saw he was not prepared for.

  The boy who had stood up to him for his lady, huddled nude on the far side of the bed. His knees were drawn up to his chest, ankles crossed, his hands were clutching his knees with such force it would likely leave similar bruises to what was already there. He quivered with his fear, and never raised his head to see who intruded.