The Devil's Fire

by Sara Bell

  Tristam thanked Bertrand once more before dismissing him, but Gareth said nothing. He had no pleasantries to offer.

  Tristam started to open his door, but stopped to look back at Gareth, instead. “Perhaps you should stay in my chambers tonight. I'm certain there's plenty of room, and I'd understand if you didn't want to be alone in a strange place."

  "I'm certain Maris would love hearing you and I had shared a bed.” Gareth made a face. “I'm a grown man, Tristam, not a babe away from his mother for the first time.” He pushed open the door to his own rooms. “I know what you're worried about, and you needn't be. I'm not going to slip away in the middle of the night."

  "I never thought you would,” Tristam said. Despite his words, his shoulders relaxed a fraction. “I bid you goodnight, then. We'll face King Declan together at first light."

  "Goodnight.” Gareth slipped into his chambers before Tristam could say anything else.

  The guest quarters were lavish, with separate rooms for dining, sleeping, and sitting. Gareth was about to sit down in one of the inviting chairs before the hearth when a servant rushed into the room, ushering in two more men who carried a large metal tub. The three servants traveled back and forth, pouring in bucket upon bucket of steaming water until the tub was filled to the brim. A fourth servant appeared with Gareth's bags, placing them on a chest near the door.

  One of the men offered to stay and assist Gareth with his bath, but Gareth declined. Truth be told, he was looking forward to a moment alone.

  He bathed with relish, enjoying the feel of coming clean again after ten days spent traveling dusty roads. Afterwards, Gareth went to work removing ten days’ growth of beard with his dagger. He'd just finished shaving when the lead servant came back in bearing a trencher of food and a jug of wine.

  Once his belly was full, Gareth finally allowed the exhaustion of travel to overtake him. He stretched out nude on the bed and closed his eyes.

  He thought sure he'd fall straight to sleep, but the moment he sank into the softness of the mattress, Gareth's mind began to wander and sleep drifted out of his reach.

  He tossed and turned for what seemed an eternity before finally conceding that what he most needed was a walk, something to clear his head.

  While dressing in clean clothes pulled from his saddlebags, he remembered the courtyard they'd passed through on their way to the guestrooms. His destination set, Gareth pulled on his boots and then made for the door.

  The heat of the day had given way to a cool breeze that seeped through the fine linen of his tunic. Gareth relaxed into the solitude of the moonlit courtyard as he walked over to the fountain.

  He didn't see the man standing in his path, but he felt the bone jarring collision as the two of them tangled and fell to the ground in a heap.

  Gareth rolled away from the hapless stranger and then came to his feet. “My apologies.” He held out his hand. “I didn't see you standing there."

  "I should hope not.” Throaty laughter sounded across the quiet space. “I'd hate to think you greet everyone you meet by knocking them on their arse.” Warm and sturdy fingers wrapped around Gareth's as the man allowed himself to be pulled upright.

  With such scant light, Gareth couldn't see well enough to make out the other man's face. He couldn't see, but he could feel.

  The minute the stranger's skin made contact with his own, a hot flush snaked through Gareth's body. He hurried to break the contact, so caught up in the unwelcome sensation, Gareth didn't realize he was being spoken to.

  "What?"

  "I said, were you injured?” The stranger let free with another rich laugh. “You took a hard fall."

  "I'm fine save for my sorely bruised pride. And you?"

  "None the worse for wear. Care to sit down and tell me what has you so vexed that you ran me down?"

  "There's not much to tell.” Gareth took the offered seat, sensing when his companion took the bench across from his. “I came out here for a breath of air, ‘tis all."

  "Couldn't sleep?"

  Gareth sighed. “How did you know?"

  "I suffer from the same malady, on occasion.” He hesitated. “I take it there's a reason for your lack of slumber."

  "You could say that. It isn't every day a man travels across three kingdoms to wed a perfect stranger."

  "You must be Gareth of Lachlan."

  "I am. And you are?"

  "Allow me to introduce myself.” The man stood and bowed low. “A perfect stranger, at your service."

  Gareth was near speechless. “You mean you're..."

  "Afraid so.” The other man took in a deep breath. “I'm Alric of Kray, your future husband."

  Chapter Three

  "I'm sorry.” Gareth was grateful the darkness hid his reddening cheeks. “I sounded as if I don't care to marry you, didn't I?"

  "'Tis the truth, is it not?” Alric shrugged. “I can't imagine there's a man alive who relishes being ordered to marry against his will."

  "Then this marriage isn't something you want, either?"

  Another shrug. “I value my freedom as much as the next man."

  The notion that Alric might be as reluctant to wed as he was had never occurred to Gareth. He thought perhaps he could feel an odd sort of kinship with the man.

  "I know why I fought this arrangement,” Gareth said, “but what are your reasons for wanting free of the match?"

  Alric hesitated for so long, Gareth didn't think he was going to answer. Finally, he said, “Perhaps I'll reveal my mysteries to you some day, but not just yet."

  Though his words were far from sensual, the husky tone of Alric's voice sent thin fingers of heat trailing down Gareth's spine. For over two years, Gareth's body had lain dormant to any but the most basic of sensations. To have it awaken now—in the presence of a man who was being forced on him—was unwelcome, to say the least.

  He did his best to cover his discomfort. “You're a man of secrets, then?"

  "We all have our secrets, Gareth of Lachlan.” A hint of sadness colored Alric's words. “Not a man alive escapes life's blessings ... or its curses."

  A chill brushed over the surface of Gareth's skin. Until now, he'd completely forgotten Holden's warnings. He continued with caution.

  "You seem to have faired well enough."

  "But you cannot see me in the darkness, now can you? Be wary, Gareth of Lachlan. The light has a way of revealing things best kept hidden."

  Gareth was about to question Alric's meaning when a sudden breeze blew in, bringing with it an acrid smell—something akin to smoke—that blotted out the fragrance of the flowers and burned Gareth's nostrils. He turned to ask Alric if he smelled it as well, and that is when Gareth realized he was alone.

  He thought about searching the courtyard, but somehow he knew it would be of no use. With a shake of his head, Gareth headed back inside.

  * * * *

  The next morning, Gareth was standing in the door to his rooms when Tristam stepped out into the corridor. Tristam took one look at Gareth's sleep-starved face and whistled. “Had a hard night, did you?"

  If only he knew. After his encounter with Alric, Gareth's insomnia had escalated. He'd finally given up on sleep just before dawn, but he wasn't going to admit as much to Tristam.

  In the face of Gareth's silence, Tristam looked him up and down again, then sighed. “Not the best impression to give King Declan."

  Gareth shrugged. “Perhaps he'll be so disappointed by the look of me, he'll call off the wedding."

  Tristam ignored him. “Well, there's no help for your appearance. Declan will just have to take what he gets."

  "Please, no more compliments. You'll swell my head."

  "If you want pretty words, hire a troubadour. We've a king to charm.” Tristam grabbed Gareth's sleeve and pulled him out of the doorway just as Bertrand came down the hall.

  If Bertrand noticed the tension in the two men, he was wise enough not to comment. He bowed to them both and said, “King Declan wishes an audience
with you now."

  Tristam and Gareth both started down the corridor, but Bertrand gave a nervous shake of his head. Looking to Tristam, he said, “Actually, Sire, King Declan wishes to speak with Lord Lachlan alone."

  "A breech of the usual etiquette, is it not?” Tristam leaned his back against the wall, adopting a deceptively casual stance. “Kings typically meet together to discuss the marriage contracts of their heirs."

  "Beg ... begging your pardon, Sire,” Bertrand said in a high squeak, “King Declan hopes that under the circumstances, you'll understand his desire for a private audience with Lord Lachlan."

  Tristam looked to Gareth. “'Tis your choice. If you're uncomfortable with this, I'll insist upon an adherence to the usual rules."

  Gareth shook his head. “I have to meet the man sooner or later. May as well have done with it.” He clapped Tristam on the shoulder. “If I have need of you, you'll know it."

  "Of that, I have no doubt.” Tristam pushed away from the wall, giving Gareth a thin smile before returning to his room.

  With little other option, Gareth followed Bertrand down the corridor and through the great hall to a set of stairs on the far side of the keep.

  "His majesty will see you in his personal chambers, Lord Lachlan,” Bertrand said. “'Tis a great honor he bestows on you."

  Gareth nodded despite feeling anything save honored. He felt more like a lamb on its way to slaughter.

  Bertrand stopped in front of a jewel-encrusted door and made one solid knock.

  A hoarse but firm voice bade them enter.

  Bertrand pushed the door wide, but made no move to go in. “I'll be waiting here to escort you to the ceremony after your audience with the king."

  "Ceremony?” A jolt of panic prickled Gareth's spine. “What ceremony?"

  "King Declan will explain it all to you, my lord.” Bertrand flushed, as if he'd said too much. “You mustn't keep the king waiting."

  Guessing he wasn't going to get anything further from Bertrand, Gareth entered the king's rooms determined to gain some answers.

  The royal suite was much the same as the guest quarters. Same fine furnishings, same lavish décor. The difference in the king's rooms and the others was the smell. Someone had used incense and perfume in an attempt to mask the odor, but Gareth recognized the underlying scent, having smelled enough of it during his mother's long illness and Kiel's brief torment. The unmistakable stench of impending death.

  The King of Kray was sitting behind a golden writing table, his thin and trembling fingers prodding a quill over a piece of parchment. He looked up as Gareth came in, and Gareth was astonished by what he saw.

  Kray was a walking skeleton. His pale gray eyes were cloudy and wet, the bones of his face clearly visible through his sagging skin. What little hair he retained was matted and yellowed, not unlike the yellowed color of his flesh.

  "Come in, Lord Lachlan.” A thin chuckle rose from Kray's mouth. “I have nothing catching, I assure you."

  Gareth berated himself for staring. “My apologies, Your Highness.” He fell to one knee and bowed his head.

  "Get up, get up.” Kray waved his hand for Gareth to rise. He pointed to the chair just in front of his writing table. “Be seated. We've much to discuss."

  Gareth sat down, and Kray wasted no time cutting straight to the point.

  "I understand you're the bastard son of Jarric of Vale."

  If Kray expected Gareth to be ashamed of his heritage, he was in for a disappointment. Gareth simply crossed his arms over his chest and said, “I am."

  "I knew your father. A good man.” Kray laid aside his quill. “Were you close?"

  "We were.” Gareth didn't try to stop the smile that creased his lips. “I fostered under him."

  Kray raised one scant brow. “A most unusual circumstance, is it not, for a king to foster his own illegitimate offspring?"

  "My father was above convention."

  "That he was.” Kray studied Gareth's face for a moment. “You look like Jarric.” He reclined his chair so that it was propped on two legs, his hands braced upon the table's edge. “I understand Nadar inherited your father's throne."

  At the mention of Nadar—the brother who hated him—Gareth stiffened, but he did his best to hide the reaction from Kray. “Why wouldn't he?” he said as casually as he could. “Our father was married to Nadar's mother, not mine. I may be two years older than he is, but Nadar is the rightful heir of Vale."

  "Ah, but your father left you a fine holding at Lachlan, not to mention a hefty purse to go with it.” Kray laughed, a rusty, creaking sound. “I imagine that rankled your brother no end."

  "Perhaps, but there was nothing he could do about it. My father made certain the High King and the Council backed his decision to make me a part of his inheritance.” Gareth shifted in his seat. “No offense, Majesty, but I don't see what my family history has to do with our meeting."

  "I mention it only to illustrate the importance of family bonds to me.” Kray straightened. “I have one son and one daughter, both of whom I'd die for without so much as a blink if the need arose."

  "If you love your son as you say, why saddle him with a bastard?” In the face of Kray's questions about his parentage, Gareth decided to be blunt.

  "I couldn't care less what side of the blankets you were created on,” Kray said. “I've done much study on you, Lord Lachlan. I know you to be an honorable man, just the sort of mate I want for my son."

  "Bertrand mentioned escorting me to a ceremony after I leave your chambers.” Gareth narrowed his eyes. “Surely you don't mean to have the wedding today?"

  Kray sighed. “Bertrand talks too much, but as he's the third cousin of my first wife, I was honor bound to make him my steward.” He rested his hands flat upon the desk. “In this case, however, Bertrand is right. Necessity warrants you and my son to be joined at the earliest hour possible.” He hesitated, but only for a moment. “Word has it Lucien of Denmar is on his way here."

  "To what purpose?” Just the mention of Denmar's name had Gareth seething inside. “Surely he isn't daft enough to believe he can wage war against Kray."

  "I don't believe war is Denmar's intention,” Kray said. “I believe he's coming here strictly to cause mischief."

  "Damn the man, anyway.” Gareth tightened his fingers into fists. “What I wouldn't give to have Denmar squirming on the end of my sword."

  "Ill though I am, I'd welcome such an opportunity myself.” Kray cleared his throat. “Enough about Denmar. We're here to discuss your marriage to my son.” He locked eyes with Gareth. “A marriage, I understand, that you wish to avoid at all costs."

  Gareth didn't deny it. “I was married once before, a good marriage to a good man. I've no wish to wed again and tarnish my late husband's memory."

  Gareth expected Kray to argue. Instead, the man nodded. “I know how you feel. The day Alric's mother died, so too, died my heart.” He fell silent for a moment, and when again he spoke, there was a hard edge to his voice. “However sympathetic I am to your plight, I see as more important the necessity of this match. I'm hoping you see it as well."

  "I'm here, am I not?” Gareth watched Kray carefully. “Meaning no disrespect, Sire, but just what do you get out of this marriage?"

  "I receive the satisfaction of knowing my son is well cared for,” Kray said. “Is that not enough?"

  It would have been, had Gareth not been certain Kray was hiding something. Before he could voice his reservations, Kray continued.

  "Now, then, let us discuss the arrangements of the contract."

  The sound of that made Gareth nervous. “I thought all had been settled."

  "I'm talking about what's to happen after the nuptials,” Kray said. “You and Alric will be joint rulers of Kray upon my passing. You will, of course, live here after your marriage."

  Gareth had known it was coming, but the thought of losing Lachlan made his heart ache. “As you mentioned a moment ago, I have my own holding, Majesty."

&n
bsp; "One you shall keep, but as ruler of Kray you'll have responsibilities here—things you can't possibly handle from so far away.” Having settled the matter to his satisfaction, Kray moved on. “After the wedding, you and Alric will journey to Hume and pay tribute to my son-in-law."

  "Hume, Sire?"

  "You mean no one told you?” Kray sounded surprised. “My daughter, Glenna, is the Queen of Hume—wife to King Rowan. As she is round with child and unable to travel to Kray for the ceremony, you and Alric must go to Hume and pay your respects as a newly joined couple."

  Gareth had heard much about Rowan of Hume. He was a powerful man, an ally any king would be grateful to have on his side. No wonder Kray was bent on keeping him happy.

  He nodded to the king. “Is that all, Sire?"

  "Not quite.” Kray lowered his voice. “I also expect you and my son to procure an heir by whatever means you choose."

  Sour acid burned the back of Gareth's throat. He wanted no part in bringing an innocent babe into a loveless union. “If your daughter is with child, Majesty, would not her offspring be able to claim the throne of Kray?"

  "Glenna and Rowan already have a son, a boy of three named Stefan.” Pride marked Kray's words. “A fine lad who could inherit both kingdoms, but that isn't what I want, either for Stefan or Alric.” His eyes grew moist. “I want my son to know the joys of fatherhood. I trust you'll not deny him that?"

  Privately Gareth vowed to do his damnedest to talk Alric out of taking on heirs, but telling the king as much would only make an already unbearable situation worse. To Kray he only nodded again, which seemed to be enough for the man.

  "That's all then, save for one thing.” Kray stood, waiting until Gareth rose as well to say, “There is nothing in this world so precious to me as my children.” Kray's eyes lost some of their cloudiness, then. “Mistreat my son and I swear by The Creator Himself that I will hunt you down and make you pay."

  Despite Kray's frail condition, Gareth believed him. “Understood."

  "I'll leave you to show yourself out, then.” Kray pointed to the door. “If I know Bertrand, he'll be waiting for you."