The Angel of Blythe Hall

by Darci Hannah

  Chapter 14

  NO REST FOR THE WICKED

  IT HAD BEEN A LONG NIGHT FOR JULIUS BLYTHE, LONG and arduous. He and his men had covered forty miles in the darkness, set a blind ambush, performed a daring raid, abducted the king and his consort, failed to abduct his sister, and failed to kill Kilwylie; at least they had lost none of their own. It wasn’t a maneuver designed to last more than a minute or so, he knew. It had required a great deal of stealth and strategy, and as always with strategy, success relied on studied and projected behavior, chance, and caprice, and because of those variables they had been only 50 percent successful. He didn’t like being 50 percent successful. He preferred 100 percent, and the god of caprice usually obliged. But it was Kilwylie he was dealing with here—a cunning devil if ever there was one. And the pity of it was that Kilwylie was the only enemy he had ever faced who had a thorough understanding of how his mind worked. That was the consequence of friendship, a lesson he learned four years ago.

  He also hadn’t planned on his sister being so feisty. He would have laid odds that she, out of all of them, would have been the easiest to pluck from a horse in the dead of night. Docile, angelic, malleable Isabeau. But he had failed. He had only had one chance, and he had failed. Kilwylie had guarded her closely and had almost gotten her killed. He released Seraphina then, the dear old woman, and deeply regretted sending her back to Kilwylie. She deeply regretted being released. But they both knew that without a diligent governess, Isabeau wouldn’t stand a chance. He had promised that he would return for them both once the king had been secured.

  As it was, their captives, frightened, tired, bound, gagged, and hooded, were too demoralized and exhausted to put up much of a fight, thank God. And by the time they wove silently through the forested hillside that surrounded their headquarters in the old peel tower, they were positively stupid with fatigue. He wasn’t much better off himself, and he knew it. He had underestimated his old friend, and worse, he had underestimated the extent the man was prepared to go to in order to play this last and final game through to the end. He had witnessed Kilwylie’s attempt to kill unarmed shepherd boys, a calamity narrowly averted. The sight had stunned him; it was a gutter move of the lowest kind, and yet he knew why Douglas had given the order. And it was this knowledge that chilled him most.

  His head ached from lack of sleep, and his limbs had begun to feel sluggish and heavy. He was used to pushing himself hard. He had gone days without sleep before—days upon days of hard physical activity. With physical activity you could turn your mind off occasionally and fall into the rhythm of the movement. But there was no rhythm here, just an emotional drain that was beginning to wear him down. As he rode inside the crumbling walls of the tower, he gave a private sigh of relief. He thought of his bed then, his cold, empty bed on the top floor, and had a wistful image of himself sleeping there beneath the stars. But even he knew he wasn’t for bed yet, for there was no rest for the wicked, especially when the wicked had two pressing interrogations to conduct.

  The man standing guard in the tower opened the heavy door when he saw them. His face, shocked at first to see the two hooded captives, fell into a look of alarm. He was about to speak when Julius saw young Will Crichton, the messenger he had sent to Fergie Shaw, slumped against a wall in the corner. One look at the lad told him all he needed to know. His clothes were torn, his hair clumped with sweat, dirt, and dried blood, his gaunt face bruised, and his sword arm gingerly cradled. Julius nodded to the guard and dismounted. “How long has he been here?”

  “Arrived two hours ago, my lord.”

  Julius handed his horse to his groom, and quietly gave Dante his orders. He then motioned to Clayton Hayes, their medico, who just above two hours ago had employed his deft hands in pulling Marion Boyd from her saddle, to tend to the boy. Clayton, spying young Will, had already dismounted and approached him. “I’ll go get my tools,” he said quietly, looking at the crude bandage soaked with blood. “I’ll need to dose him.”

  Julius nodded. “Let me have a word with him first.” He watched Clayton leave and awoke the boy.

  “My lord,” the boy uttered upon seeing him, alarm and urgency flooding his abused face.

  “Hush now, lad.” Julius, speaking softly, gently guided the young man up the stairs, while below, his men received their orders from Dante.

  With great care Julius peeled the blood-encrusted clothes from the young man and laid him on his pallet. He noted the bruising on the body and knelt beside the boy, carefully removing the bandage on his arm to assess the wound. It was a deep gash, clear to the bone, and was still bleeding profusely. He placed his own hand firmly over the wound, feeling the warm blood pool beneath his palm. He then closed his eyes and gently squeezed. He could feel the boy relax beneath his touch; he could feel his pain dissipate as the blood began to slowly coagulate. Then Julius opened his eyes. He removed his hand, wiped it on the boy’s discarded shirt, and tore a clean piece off for a bandage. This he secured tightly around the wound. “You’ve taken a beating, m’lad,” he said softly, soothingly. “But ’tis nothing we cannot fix.” He smiled and brushed a thick lock of red hair from the wet brow, staring into the deep-blue eyes as he did so. He was relieved to see that the boy was breathing easier. “Now then, if you’re ready, Will, can you tell me what happened?”

  It was a story that confirmed his worst fears. Will had found Fergie Shaw and his small detachment early in the morning. He had delivered the message and was planning to ride back to Blythemuir with the men, leading Sir Matthew on a merry chase back to the king. Their billet for the night was in sight of Sir Matthew’s own, hidden in a thick grove of trees on a distant hillside. They had just broken camp when they saw Lord Kilwylie and his men racing toward the King’s Guard. They were shocked to see Kilwylie, for he wasn’t supposed to be north of Berwick.

  Will’s eyes filled with tears as he told the rest. “Kilwylie rode into Sir Matthew’s camp early yesterday morning, all friendly, all helpful, and seemingly impatient tae tell Sir Matthew something. And then they dismounted, m’lord. Kilwylie’s men dismounted, fully armed … and began slaughtering them all. When we figured out what was happening, we mounted and set on them, prepared tae kill every one of Kilwylie’s bastards. But it was mayhem, sir, for Sir Matthew thought we were fighting him too. It was a three-way attack. I took a hit and went down. It was old Fergie who got me away. He got me away, m’lord, and begged I carry the message. ‘Tell the master what happened here, Will,’ he said, ‘for nobody would believe it else.’ I dinnae want tae leave, m’lord. I dinnae want tae leave them!” Will uttered, tears streaming down his bruised face. “I dinnae want tae leave because I knew they were all going tae die!” He stopped then, and Julius held him as he sobbed. “Kilwylie slaughtered them all in a coldhearted, bloodcurdling display of shameful deceit!”

  Clayton Hayes had come through the doorway with a sense of urgency, carrying strips of linen and his bulky leather case. But he pulled up short when he heard the boy’s story. He looked at Julius; the master was holding the young man as he wept. Their eyes met and held. Clayton had been with the master for two years, and in that time he had never seen anything resembling fear in the eyes of Julius Blythe. It was partly the reason he had abandoned his rich patron, the Duke of Bourbon, for he had never met another soul like the young Master of Blythe. That he showed fear should have consoled him; for it meant this brash child of caprice and destruction was human. But it didn’t. It only served to scare the hell out of him.

  Julius nodded to the doctor and spoke one last, gentle word to the boy. “I’m glad you made it back, Will. You did the right thing by bringing this message. The good doctor’s going to sew you up now, and then you’re going to get some rest.”

  Julius Blythe walked out of the room, a hollow in the pit of his stomach, a chill in the space around his heart, for the full caliber of Sir George Douglas had been revealed, and he feared the price it would cost him in order to end the game.

  An hour la
ter, after all the orders had been carried out, Dante took hold of the captive the master wished to interrogate first, still bound, gagged, and blindfolded, and brought her up to the master’s chamber, just as he wished. The woman was tired, desperately so, but she still had fight in her once she realized she had been separated from her lover. She had kicked him, square in the shin, and had even tried to bite him through her hood. She was cursing him too, and quite colorfully, but the gag prevented him from understanding most of it. It was a pity. Feisty women with profane and venomous tongues in their heads greatly aroused him, and this little beauty was a particularly delicious treat. After a short, enlivening struggle he finally reached the landing and knocked on the door; the profane beauty tried to kick him again, and he smiled, a bit wistfully, knowing that she was about to be tamed by the master. And once they were tamed by the master, they were never really quite the same.

  “Here we are, Mistress Boyd,” Dante whispered softly near her hooded ear. “My advice, if you wish to see the morning, is to do as the master wishes. Bend to his every whim; feed his every desire; ignite the flame of lust, not anger. He’s the devil to cross.” And then, gently, he untied her hands and removed the hood from her head; the gag he did not touch.

  She turned on him, anger and indignation flashing in her dark eyes, the words “hog-rutting ingrate”—or something very similar—coming from her sweet, muffled lips. And then her eyes fell on him. She stopped moving, and her mouth fell silent, for this was the first time Marion Boyd had gotten a good look at him. Her reaction was one he seldom tired of—on the face of a woman. When men looked at him like this, he killed them. But now, before the master’s door, he invited it, fueled it, peering hungrily into the eyes that so desperately wished to excoriate him. He smiled and pulled her close; she did not fight him. Smiling still, he softly pressed the latch; the door clicked, and with a suddenness designed to shock, he pushed her inside the room.

  Washed, freshly shaved, imperceptibly dosed, and immaculately dressed in a doublet of rich black velvet trimmed in gold, Julius Blythe stood leaning against the shadowed embrasure of the window and watched as Marion Boyd stumbled across the threshold. He made no move to steady her. She was greatly agitated, and he knew why, for Dante did as he was told. The Venetian had shown himself to Marion, a young woman with an astounding hunger for passion. The result was as he expected: quick breathing; outrage, not anger; shoulders back; nose in the air—and, most tellingly, she had spun to face the door. It stood slightly ajar, revealing the space on the other side to be dark and empty. That she was facing the door caused mild relief. It told him what he needed to know, but he would put her through her paces nonetheless, and he would try to enjoy it.

  It had been a long night; thirteen of his elite force had been mercilessly slaughtered. Sir Matthew, his old captain, had been ambushed and murdered as well, and the blame would fall on him. His mood was frighteningly dark, and alcohol had tempered it little. He knew it was unwise to have Kilwylie’s minx of a cousin brought here—a woman who would not so much as put up a fight if he took her. And he wanted to take her, but not without a fight. He wanted to make her pay for the trouble she had caused them all. He thought of the king, who was now, at this very moment, being locked in a cell deep below the earth. He thought of Isabeau, and Kilwylie, and fought to expel the execrable vision that floated before his eyes. The bastard would use whatever means possible to bring him down—James, Isabeau, even his own pretty little cousin, who was now frothing with desire for her exotic, dark-eyed jailor. Her passions were fickle, and he would teach Mistress Marion Boyd a little lesson in loyalty.

  He silently admired her as she slowly turned around: the proud tilt of her head, the fiery gaze, the palpable sexual titillation rising in her like a building tide. She was magnificent, like a prized mare coming into her first heat, and he could just understand why a young man like James Stewart had shirked his duty and his guard to ride forty miles through the heather. She pulled the gag from her mouth and looked wildly around the derelict room, her eyes trying to adjust to the low light. He took one last sip from the mug and gently set it on the sill of the window. It was time to begin.

  “I see you’ve met Dante,” said the master, stepping silently from the shadows. The soft light from the brazier fell across his face, gilding the tips of his hair and dazzling the damascene trim of his dark clothing. The effect was deliberate. He watched her dark eyes as they fell on him. Her burning indignation slowly transmuted into warm appreciation and welcome relief. Her lips parted slightly as her body fell silent. Julius, silently amused, continued. “A most alarming young man, is he not? He was the property of a Turkish pirate when I found him. His striking male beauty had been a curse. The Turk regarded him much as you do right now—as an object of desire. Later, I caught that Turk and gave him to Dante. I watched as he slowly killed the man. I still have visions of the old pirate, on his knees, begging for a knife to end his life. He didn’t get one. Dante had a lot of anger back then.”

  Her mouth, twisting into a grimace of distaste during his story, fell open in astonishment. “You’re mad and offensive. First the gag and the hood, and now this—this horrible little story. This is no kind of greeting between two friends.” Pique had now replaced the open invitation.

  “Friends? Is that what we are? I don’t think so, my dear. And I tell you this story purely as a favor to you, because if you were listening, you would understand that Dante’s story is a cautionary tale of beauty. When he was younger, like you, he had used his beauty to get whatever he wished. There was no door in Venice that would not open for him, until the one day when he overstepped even his remarkable reach, and his enemies caught him and used his beauty against him. Take it from me, it nearly destroyed him. He has now learned to use the gifts God gave him for what they are. Dante has a brilliant mind; his male beauty is merely a distraction—a disarming weapon he uses when it serves him, or, at times, when it serves me.”

  “You’re wrong if you think I’m remotely attracted to that … that … gutter boy! I know what you’re doing, and you’re wrong!” She was deathly tired and still reeling with emotion; tears suddenly appeared in her large pleading eyes. “I know you’re angry with me,” she stated, and moved closer to him. “But you must know that I had no choice? He is the king. I thought you were smart enough to understand that! And then you go and do something stupid and abduct me and torment me with your wicked Venetian toy! Well, Mr. Blythe, you’ve wasted your time.”

  He pulled up, astonished for a moment that she actually believed the abduction had been about her. There was no doubt in his mind then. Marion Boyd was no trained seductress; she was exactly the person she appeared to be—young, beautiful, spirited, and entirely self-absorbed. Her only crime was being related to George Douglas, and they had both used the poor thing enough already. “Be quiet and sit down, Marion,” he said coldly, motioning to a chair by the brazier.

  “I prefer to stand, thank you,” she replied, endearingly defiant.

  “Very well. There seems to be a little misunderstanding here. You seem to feel that I took my men, at great risk to their lives, and set an ambush specifically to abduct you. Did you ever think, for just one moment, that perhaps the king was the target here?”

  “James? No, of course not!” It was plainly and confidently spoken.

  “For God’s sake, why not?”

  “Because I know you, Julius Blythe,” she whispered, looking unnervingly into his eyes through her tears. “I’ve known you four times now, and it was only half a night. I wanted to know you more, much more. And you wanted the same. There is no use denying it, Julius. We are made for each other,” she told him firmly. He was disquieted to find that she was quite possibly correct. He would be a fool to deny that there was an attraction there—a physical attraction that was overpowering at times. But he was weak at the moment. He wasn’t thinking straight. He was exhausted and slightly drunk. He fought to bring himself under control as Marion continued. “But we d
idn’t have time to pursue our relationship. Your sister was perfectly horrified when she learned of it and wanted to kill you. I’ve never seen her so angry. She’s dearer to me than any of my own sisters, you must understand, and I was willing to suffer her anger for you. But then James came. It was just as much a surprise to me as it was to you. Have the courtesy to at least believe me when I tell you that!”

  “You really had no idea he was coming?” He stood perfectly still as he watched her.

  “No. Why would I? I’ve been encouraging him at his own court for some time now, but to no avail—just a polite smile and a few kind words. He looked at no one. He was too shy and too comfortable in the company of Isabeau.”

  “Who suggested you encourage him?”

  “Don’t misunderstand the situation, Julius. I’ve always liked James. Who wouldn’t want to be his mistress? His Privy Council is scouring the kingdoms of Europe to find a fitting wife for him. But there aren’t any. They’ve been encouraging him, in the meantime, to take a mistress. Why not me? Being the royal mistress gives me power, a power I wouldn’t otherwise have.”

  “A power to help your family rise above the Humes and the Hepburns, perhaps? Your uncle, the Earl of Angus, has slipped tremendously since the Humes and Hepburns have tightened their grasp on the young king. He must be angry.”

  She looked at him, sorrow touching her tired eyes, a prideful contempt in her voice. “You seem to think I have puppet masters pulling my strings. I find that mildly offensive. I’m a grown woman! I make my own decisions, and I am master of my heart; I choose whom to give it to. Angus and Kilwylie support me, but they do not dictate.”