Besieged Heart (No Ordinary Lovers Collection)

by Blake, Jennifer

  He wanted her; he had said so. At the same time, he was telling her that closeness between them was impossible, that her position made it so. She had known how it must be. Yet she had been driven to make the suggestion by a haunting and persistent yearning after the loving intimacy they might have shared.

  She could not dwell on these matters. There were decisions to be made.

  Drawing a deep breath for control, she gazed beyond his shoulder. “You leave me no choice,” she said in strained tones, “except to withdraw my request for you to act as my champion.”

  “That is your privilege,” he returned, his gaze steady on her face even as a white line appeared around his mouth. “I should warn you, however, that there is no purpose in withdrawing. Whether I seek the death of the baron on the field of honor or in your chamber is all one to me. Yet seek it I must, for I cannot stand by and watch you fall into the hands of such a monster. If I kill him on the jousting field, I will be applauded. If it is in your chamber, I will hang. Either way, my life is in the balance…and the weighing has already begun.”

  She heard the bitterness in his voice, and spoke in response to it. “Perhaps you expect me to hail your courage and your pledge like some woman of ancient Sparta by saying, ‘Come back either with your shield or upon it.’ That I cannot do. If it makes me faithless, so be it.”

  His gaze widened a fraction. His lifted his hand as if to touch her, then went rigorously still. He said in soft amazement, “You fear my death.”

  A strained laugh escaped her. “What else have I been trying to tell you?”

  He watched her for long moments, his eyes darkening with comprehension. Abruptly, his lashes swept down to conceal all expression. When he spoke, his voice was even more distant, as if he had already gone from her to the field where he and the baron would meet.

  “You have just made it even more necessary for me to defend you. There is nothing more to be said, then, except that you to wish me well.”

  She swallowed with difficulty against the hard press of unshed tears. “That much, at least, I can do.”

  He stepped closer and reached to take her hand. Carrying it to his lips, he turned it and pressed a kiss into the palm. Lowering it once more, he stepped back quickly, as if he thought she might detain him, or that he might seek to stay.

  His bow was perfection, holding the exact degree of homage that was her due. His knight’s cloak flared around him as he turned, swirling at his heels as he crossed the room with swift, steadfast strides. The door closed behind him.

  Gone.

  Her wizard, her Rayne, was gone. He was gone, and she had not given him her favor to wear. She had not kissed him good-bye or felt his arms around her. She had not told him she loved him.

  Why? Oh, why? Pride was the reason, her senseless, unbending pride.

  She would have confessed her love if he’d asked, if she had known with certainty that he wanted it. She wished that he had forced the issue as he had so many others.

  But must she always be constrained to do what was best and right? Could she not forget power and duty and give way to her own needs?

  It was too late. She closed her eyes tightly against the press of tears.

  No. She would not cry. Not yet. She had that much trust, that much faith.

  With a lift of her chin, she moved to summon her maidservant to bring her a cup of hot water steeped with herbs. It might help to warm her body. It could not ease the chill in her heart.

  ~ ~ ~

  The match between Rayne and the baron was no mere tournament, but rather an extension of the greater battle of the siege. The gathered soldiery with their accoutrements appeared as a panoply of waving flags, trumpeters, and the flash of heraldic devices, but there was no formal arena, no wrestling or other games, no feasting, and no fair.

  Mara had not requested a pavilion for her use, for she did not wish to view the spectacle at close range. The battlement would serve her as a vantage point. It gave a clear view of the field, but was not close enough that she must hear the grunts of pain or see the spilling of blood. She could discover the final outcome without being forced to wait until informed of it. Most of all, none would know her terror. None would see her grief, or her joy.

  The joust began just as the sun cleared the horizon, lending its golden light to the scene. Horns sounded, voices rose in harsh shouts. The heavy chargers snorted and pranced, their trappings and the armor of the two mounted men catching the light with flashes of gold and silver. Then, with a last salute of trumpets, the horses were pounding wide-eyed down the field with their hooves flinging clods of earth as high as their riders’ heads. Helmets set and closed, steel-tipped lances poised, the two combatants thundered toward each other.

  They came together like hammer upon anvil, a mighty ringing of metal on metal. Lances shattered and the pieces were thrown with the force of spears. The combatants heaved backward, rocking in their saddles. The baron dropped his broken lance as his charger reared, yet both men kept their stirrups. They rode past each other and down the field until they slowed their mounts, bringing them to a halt.

  There was milling and confusion. New lances were chosen. Once more the two contestants rode at full tilt toward each other.

  Mara snapped her eyes shut this time as the two men met. She heard the cracking wallop of a well-struck blow followed by the rattling thud of a fall. The shouts and yells of the crowd rang out. Only then did she dare look.

  The baron had been unhorsed, but was drawing his broadsword as he struggled to his feet. Rayne had lost his helmet; it had been struck from his head by the baron’s splintered lance and was rolling across the grass. He was dismounting, half out of the saddle as his squire ran forward to take his horse.

  The baron did not wait. With a wild battle yell, he attacked.

  Mara gave a useless cry of warning. With straining eyes, she saw Rayne spring to the ground and draw sword in a single fluid motion. He met the power of the baron’s assault with a determined, slashing defense.

  Their great, heavy blades showered orange sparks as they clanged together, scraping edge to edge. There ensued a glittering fury of hacking and slashing. With their sword hilts grasped in both hands, the two men used the strength of their whole bodies and weight of their armor to put speed and force behind their blows.

  The baron was concentrating on Rayne’s unprotected head. Rayne parried one blow, sprang back from another. He mounted an offensive in an attempt to get under the older man’s guard, but was forced to retreat under a flurry of blows aimed at his scalp. As he danced backward, the red sheen of blood tracked down his face from a slicing wound at the temple.

  Sickness rose inside Mara. Her eyes burned and her heart beat with shuddering strokes. She wanted to scream, to demand that the fight stop. The impulse to give up, give in surged inside her, to do whatever was necessary to protect Rayne from further injury.

  Two things prevented her. One was the certain knowledge that interference at this point would be a dangerous distraction. The other was the greater certainty that the fight would be over before her messenger could reach the field.

  The baron appeared to be in control. Wily, experienced, heavier of frame and well-protected from glancing blows above the shoulders, he bore down on his opponent. Rayne, on the defensive, took the sword strokes that dented his armor at his forearms and thighs. Yet he was more nimble, his swings with his broadsword were cleaner and faster. He could not be overpowered or driven an inch farther than he intended to go.

  As the contest wore on, age and rich living began to tell with the baron. He flagged visibly, his moves slowing. His offensive maneuvers lacked control, his swings became wilder. He staggered once, nearly falling, before he recovered from a hard blow against an opponent who was suddenly not there. His waning strength made him press harder. He struck at Rayne’s head as if he meant to cleave it from his shoulders. Teeth bared, he narrowed his vicious gaze to the younger man’s hair. Shining in the sun like a flying falcon’s win
g, it presented a perfect target.

  Abruptly, Rayne stopped retreating. Ducking under a whistling roundhouse blow, he swung backhanded into the body of his foe.

  The flashing point of his sword struck under the overlapping edges of armor plates, piercing the chain mail there. The baron faltered with a great cry that rose even to where Mara stood. His sword dropped from his hand. He toppled, falling with a thunderous metallic rattle. Rayne stood over him, his red-stained sword tip parting the grass.

  Rayne had won. Mara had seen it clearly and well. It was over.

  She clung to the stone of the battlement, watching as her men surrounded Rayne. The baron’s forces were inclined to avenge their leader’s death, and for a moment it seemed there would be a pitched battle between the besiegers and the castle’s garrison.

  Then Rayne was speaking. Soldiers listened, and slowly the crisis passed. The forces below began to disperse.

  Mara did not move. It was over, but where was the gladness, the sense of triumph? She was happy that Rayne was safe and the siege would be lifted, but surely there should be something more?

  It was several minutes before she turned away from the battlement. Her movements stiff, she walked toward the audience hall where she must await the return of her champion from his victory.

  Mara had thought he would come to her at once, striding into the hall like a conquering hero. He did not. Instead, the news drifted in that the baron’s army was decamping, retreating down the road with their siege engines in tow. A celebration was declared, of course. The retreating army’s discarded supplies were raided, and food and drink were prepared with rejoicing. The villagers crowded the hall to eat their fill and drink to their deliverance.

  Still there was no sign of Rayne.

  Inquiries brought no information of value. Everyone had seen him somewhere or other, but none knew where he was at present. No one could say who had tended his sword cut—or, indeed, if it had been tended.

  The night wore on. The minstrels played a final drowsy tune. The castle’s dogs, those few that had not mysteriously disappeared during the siege, gnawed the last bones under the table. Everyone was half-asleep from wine, full bellies and relieved nerves.

  One moment Mara sat alone at the head table, and the next her wizard was standing behind her chair in the silent manifestation favored by his kind. She glanced back; saw the brown robe, the cowl. Startled into indiscretion, she sprang up.

  “Rayne,” she cried, “where have you been?”

  The cowl covering his face dipped in homage. In deliberate tones, the wizard said, “You speak of your champion? He was here, yes, but he has departed. He has a care for Your Highness, and was proud to have been of use. Now with the siege lifted and the baron dead, he thought it best not to remain.”

  He was offering, she saw, a return to their old relationship of princess and adviser. He would be her wizard, always at her side. The time they had shared in the future need never be mentioned or brought to mind again.

  Was that what he wanted? Or was it only what he thought she would prefer?

  She did not know. Still, it was tempting. He would remain close; she would see him daily. She could explore his mind at will, and extend to him the same privilege. They could grow closer year by year, even if they never, ever, touched each other again.

  It wasn’t enough. She could not bear to face constantly his mask of indifference. That would drive her mad.

  “I had thought,” she said, “to offer a reward to the man who fought for me. It pains me that he has departed without waiting to see what it might be.” She watched him, wondering if he would remember suggesting once that a just reward might be her kisses, even herself.

  “He would not willingly distress you, but he required no reward.” The explanation was soft, without emphasis.

  She tried to see his face within the dimness of the cowl. It was impossible. “Yes, well. Perhaps it may be as well, after all. I have been thinking that I should gather my resources. I will need a dowry to present to my future husband.”

  He stirred, moving a step nearer. “It is inevitable that you will marry, but surely it can wait some little time?”

  “I fear not,” she said pensively. “This affair of the siege has set me thinking. A princess alone is far too tempting a target, as I’m sure you must agree. In any case, a nobleman of sufficient strength can help influence and control the other barons who might range themselves against my brother. It is plainly my duty to encourage that kind of stability.”

  “You will be leaving the castle, then.”

  She pretended surprise. “I suppose I may, depending on the wishes of my new lord. In any case, I will no longer require an adviser since my husband will no doubt reserve that position for himself. And I fear he may also be jealous enough to forbid me the services of a wizard.”

  “This noble husband—he has been chosen?” There was a strained quality to the words.

  “He has,” she said simply.

  The man behind the cowl was silent a moment before he inclined his head in abrupt acceptance. “There is nothing for me to do, then,” he said, “except take my leave.”

  She had thought he might fight his dismissal. His acceptance filled her with despair, but she had one more move to make in the battle for the end she desired.

  “I shall miss you, but our parting, like my marriage, has always been inevitable. I would like, however, to extend to you some small boon in token of my gratitude for your understanding and years of fine counsel.” She gave him a determined smile. “You will kneel, if you please.”

  “I want nothing.” That curt phrase, without preamble or title, was an indication of his agitation.

  She kept her smile, though it had tendency to quiver at the corners. “I command you this one last time, my wizard.”

  Still he hesitated. When at last he sank to one knee before her, the movement was graceless, almost uncoordinated. The stiff set of his shoulders indicated his reluctance and, she thought, revealed how tight a rein he held upon his emotions. Pressing her lips together to still their trembling, she reached for the small sword she had left ready on the table.

  He glanced up at the sound of the blade sliding from its sheath. As she passed it over his head to touch first his right shoulder, then his left, he flinched under the light blows before drawing breath as if to speak.

  She cut across whatever he meant to say in tones that rang around the near empty room. “I hereby confer upon you, Rayne Winslow, wizard to the court of Prince Stephen, son of Reddick, last true Baron Ewloe, the title of your father that has reverted to the crown, along with all the lands, honors and privileges to which the bearer of the name is entitled. May you wear the rank with the valor you have shown in acquiring it, and live in peace and harmony under its insignia.”

  Rayne flung up his head again to stare up at her. The movement caused his cowl to fall back, exposing his face, but he did not seem to notice. His frown caused the cut across his forehead to ooze fresh blood. “No, Your Highness!”

  She made a brief gesture indicating that he might rise. “Yes, Rayne, Baron Ewloe. It is done, and nothing can change it.”

  He came slowly to his feet. His was tight and hard as he spoke. “Nothing? Not even if, as a final act of my office as your wizard, I point out a danger in your generosity that you may have overlooked?”

  “Danger?” She watched him in suspended hope.

  “Indeed, one which may come directly from the honors and privileges of this newly reinstated title. How far do they extend, would you say? Do I, for instance, have command of the baron’s forces?”

  “So I should suppose, since they will now be in your levy.” Her tone was even, almost kindly.

  “In that case,” he informed her in grim anticipation, “I could also take up where he left off in his siege of Careen Carreg. Given my knowledge of the castle’s defenses, I believe I could take it in a single day. You would then become my prize.”

  “You wouldn’t,” she
said as purest gladness rippled along her veins.

  “I would. How can you doubt it?”

  Her head high, she said, “What of honor, then? I think you once declared it would prevent you from that kind of trespass.”

  “Oh, I would not take you by force,” he said with soft suggestion in his voice, “but I could bend my principles enough to use other means of persuading you to my dominion.”

  “Such as?”

  The words had hardly left her mouth before her mind was flooded with the warmth of sunshine and the scent of bruised bluebells, with the ripple of steaming, rose-scented water against her skin and the silken softness of silver fox fur under her bare back. And more—so much more that she felt feverish with the sudden, wondrous invasion of it.

  “Sorcery?” she whispered.

  “Memory, fresh, whole and returned for a purpose.” His smile had a wry twist of remorse. “I was not reared to be entirely noble.”

  Memory.

  Yes, she remembered now, and it was as if a part of her innermost self, long missing, had returned. On a swift, indrawn breath, she said, “You took that from me. How could you?”

  “I had my reasons, none of which are important now.” He paused, said with quiet speculation, “Do you think it will aid my siege?”

  “That, I cannot tell,” she said with a small shake of her head. “But I see no reason for such an extreme when the castle and all that’s in it can be yours by a polite request.”

  “A request,” he repeated as all expression was suddenly wiped from his face.

  “For surrender.” She gathered her courage and met his gaze again, waiting with what composure she had left for his answer.

  Rayne’s eyes widened into black pools of doubt. “I don’t believe,” he said softly, “that you mentioned the name of your chosen husband.”

  “Why, the great and noble Baron Ewloe. Who else?”