Finders Keepers (Norman Brides)

by Wood, Lynn

  So while she contested with only one enemy, he battled against two, her intent was to kill, his only to subdue. He was ever careful of blocking her escape over the cliff, so he kept his back to it. She kept edging ever closer to the ledge. He was forced to parry both the thrusts of her sharp blade and her intent to seek the freedom of death a quick plunge over the precipice promised. Her movements in her weakened conditioned were not the lithe, graceful dance of the wild cat Michel once compared her to in a similar contest between them, but her enemy was no Salusian warrior, and she was surprisingly holding her own.

  Her astonishment at finding herself still alive was a momentary distraction she could ill afford. Her inattention caused her to trip over the tattered folds of her torn gown and she lost her footing and stumbled to her knees. Pouncing on his advantage, the demon lunged towards her but Melissa rolled swiftly as Michel taught her and jumped up, straining with the last of her strength towards the cliff’s edge, accepting she would lose this contest if she attempted to engage her opponent any longer. He caught her before she could take that final deadly leap. Laughing in heady triumph, his arms folded around her and pulled her close against his chest. He was breathing heavily and whispered obscene threats in her ear.

  “I’ve got you now, witch. You enjoy playing with your pretty little blade? Let’s see how much you relish it when I use it to separate your soft flesh from your bones.”

  Her terror rising to even greater heights as his vile promises sunk in, Melissa struggled wildly against his restraint, but it may as well have been against heavy chains instead of a man’s arms wrapped around her keeping her squirming form tight against his hard frame. She could feel his erect manhood pressing against her soft flesh through her thin gown and a different kind of panic filled her. She struggled with all her might against the steel bands of his arms. He laughed as their bloods mingled from their joint wounds and she realized her exertion only further aroused his depraved lust. Shocked horror at the prospect of what was to come robbed her of the last of her strength. Defeated she went limp in his arms. Weak tears streamed down her cheeks at her failure.

  Mixed with the sound of the demon’s triumphant laughter at his victory, Melissa thought she heard the neighing of horses coming from across the stream beneath them and hope that her father’s men had found her at last rose momentarily in her breast. Until she accepted, even if they did manage to find her, it would be too late to save her from the vicious rape her enemy intended. If they were Norman riders, her current predicament would be multiplied a hundredfold. Fresh tears spilled from her eyes until she noticed her breath came more easily than it had moments earlier. The evidence of riders nearby momentarily distracted her assailant and she felt his grip around her lessen almost imperceptibly. Feeling the slackening of his grip, she didn’t fight against it, knowing that would only give rise to an instinctive response to tighten his hold around his prey. So instead she simply slid to her knees. Before her enemy had a chance to recover from his surprise at her escape, Melissa scampered on her hands and knees to the cliff’s edge.

  “No you don’t, bitch!”

  Her attacker gave a furious bellow and reached for her ankle to drag her back. Desperately, she kicked out at the hands trying to restrain her. He pulled harder. She rolled over on her back and kicked and scooted closer to the edge. He was forced to step closer to gain a firmer hold on her squirming weight. She felt her head inch over the ledge and into open space. In his fresh rage he wasn’t aware of how close they were to the precipice. He reached down and jerked on her arm to bring her to her feet. She still held her dagger in her free hand and slashed at the arm gripping her. Yelling his fury, her enemy bent down and pulled her in one swift movement to her feet. She used the momentum granted by his own strength to bury her blade into his chest, then took advantage of his stunned cry of agony to free herself from his grasp. At the same time he lost his footing on the slick surface, dampened by their spilt blood, and plummeted over the edge.

  Shaking and breathing heavily at her narrow escape, Melissa sank back to her knees and then with careful deliberation inched away from the very edge just moments earlier she sought so desperately to reach. She didn’t feel the need to peer down into the ravine below to view the evidence of her enemy’s death. The thud of his impact reached her ears at the same time his furious, sputtering rage came to an abrupt end. She supposed he wasn’t a demon from hell after all, though she was convinced the devil was even now eagerly collecting his damned soul.

  Dazedly, she looked down at her hand no longer clutching her dagger. Michel’s gift to her went over the side with her enemy. The arm it was attached to bore the evidence of her fierce struggle as did what was left of her tattered gown. She could already feel her face swelling from where the Norman pig slapped her and the bruises forming on her tender skin. Pain coursed through her and she couldn’t prevent the moan that escaped her lips. She didn’t recall feeling pain in the heat of her battle for her life and wondered why she struggled so hard to retain her weakening grip on it, as now her death would be precluded by the almost unbearable pain gripping her.

  She wrapped her arms around her stomach in an instinctive gesture of comfort, accepting why she fought so hard. No matter how much agony she was suffering and the greater pain she would no doubt be forced to endure prior to being granted the release of death, she understood her torture and humiliation would have been a thousand times worse at the brutal hands of her attacker. At least now her death would come without the humiliation and indignity of rape, and whatever other beastly intent she glimpsed but could not completely comprehend in her enemy’s eyes. That was unless the riders she heard evidence of in the midst of their struggle also heard a sign indicating they were not alone in the area and decided to investigate.

  Melissa glanced down once more at her empty hand, her eyes clouding with deeper regret born of the implications of the dagger’s loss. The blade itself was probably smiling at the thought of its freedom from the embarrassing indignity of being strapped to a lady’s thigh instead of on the arm or belt of a fearsome warrior where it rightfully belonged. Michel’s dagger could now rest easily among its brothers in the knowledge it had served honorably its intended purpose.

  Even through her pain, Melissa smiled at the whimsical thought, pleased her grandmother’s early teachings were not completely undone by the strictures placed upon a duke’s daughter. Some of her Salusian spirit still clung to her weary soul. She was grateful it was not only her will that was formed in the Salusian tradition. Without her blade and Michel’s intense training she would have been easy prey for the man whose dead body lay sprawled on the rocks fifty feet below her.

  Michel would be proud of her. Her father would be proud too, but secretly a part of him would be appalled at the thought one of his lovely, nobly born daughters could best a trained knight in a decidedly unequal fight. A grin split her bruised lips at the thought of her father’s reaction, then without warning a deep, long-suppressed grief washed over her and a sob escaped from between her lips. Tears streamed down her cheeks, carving fresh trails through the dried blood on her face. She wrapped her arms tighter around her stomach and rocked back and forth stifling any further sobs in case the riders she heard evidence of were nearer than she believed. Gathering herself as best she could, she wiped the tears from her face and crawled on her hands and knees back to the entrance of the cave.

  She drew back into the darkest reaches of the small opening and huddled in the corner trying to make herself as small as possible as a precaution against prying eyes. She would stay alert. In the event the riders found her and they were brethren to her attacker she would not hesitate to follow her enemy over the edge of the cliff and end her own life. She could fight no more. She already used up more than her allotted portion of strength in the fight for her life. Lying down, she rested her head on her aching arm, making no effort to cleanse and bind her wounds first. Before she fell asleep, Melissa whispered a prayer the suffering she had alread
y endured would prove sufficient purification to expiate her sins. If God proved merciful, the dawn of a new day would find her in a beautiful place far from the damp cave which felt as if it was already closing around her like a tomb.

  Chapter Seven

  Luke scaled the rocky landscape until his boots rested near the edge of the precipice that drew him from a distance and surveyed what he could of the stark landscape in the failing light. Trees lined both sides of the stream they were following, but it wasn’t the old forest that held his attention, it was the patch of dark beneath him, out of place on the barren rock. Perhaps it was a dead animal that had slipped over the cliff or even a cloak of some unfortunate refugee from the war that had come to rest there, caught by the protruding edge of a sharp boulder as it floated towards the stream. Cloak. With fresh urgency Luke bent down and risked a closer look over the edge. There was definitely something down there and he was beginning to doubt it was the remains of some wretched beast. Just to contradict his conclusion, Luke thought he could hear the cry of a wounded animal whimpering in pain whisper across the wind.

  Rafe approached cautiously from behind. “Do you see something?”

  Luke glanced back at his friend. “Take a look. What do you think?”

  Rafe knelt down next to him and directed his attention to where Luke was pointing. The two men exchanged a serious glance and then Luke ordered, “Get me a rope. I’m going down.”

  Luke could see his friend thought it wiser to wait until morning for such an endeavor, particularly as the delay was unlikely to make any difference to whatever it was that lay dead on the outcropping beneath them, but Rafe had known Luke long enough to refrain from giving voice to his rational argument. Instead, he simply scrambled back to his feet to see Luke’s order carried out.

  When Rafe returned, Luke quickly secured the rope around his waist. With the assistance of a few additional men on the other end of the rope, Luke stepped over the side of the cliff. He was grateful his gloves protected his hands from the sharp rock because the wind was strong and uncertain, and more than once on the long descent he was slammed up against the face of the cliff. He was still several feet above his destination when he could make out the distinctive deep blue cloak adorned with the Michaels family crest sprawled across the unmoving body like a shroud. Mixed emotions filled him at the sight, the most prevalent of which was relief. His half-brother was dead. He could no longer defile the Michaels family honor with his depravity.

  Once again the sound of an animal in pain murmured along the wind and Luke pulled back hard on his initial relief brought about by his conclusion Mason must be dead. Wouldn’t that be the final irony if after his long search, his half-brother was not dead, but only injured, and it would be Luke who would be held responsible and accountable for keeping the bastard alive?

  Luke dropped the last few feet to the precarious narrow surface and knelt down next to his prone brother who lay face down on the rock. He felt for a pulse and began breathing again when he found none. He carefully turned his brother’s lifeless body over so as not to risk losing it over the ledge of the outcropping and stared down into the very dead, once angelic face of his half-brother, their father’s heir, and implausible pride. The handsome face and gold, shoulder length hair was now streaked and caked with dried blood. Deep gashes where his body must have slid against the side of the cliff on its descent marred the once perfect features that in life acted like a magnet to draw the fairer sex into his sordid orbit.

  At least until his reputation for the degradations he forced upon helpless women became known. First it was the servants who feared him and who kept their daughters hidden whenever the Michaels heir paid a visit to one of his father’s estates. Then the rumors surfaced in the surrounding villages. When the outcry grew loud enough his brother simply moved on to one of the other family estates. Luke was uncertain if his father knew of his brother’s debauched lifestyle and simply ignored it, or whether he was truly ignorant of the truth of his heir’s lack of honor.

  Luke felt guilty about not forcing their father to face the truth about his son. The few times he tried, their father brushed aside the rumors, the whispers and the resulting scandal with the excuse Mason was young, a little wild, yes, but wasn’t every man the same in his youth? He excused the accusations with the rationalization that there was always a whore willing to spread her legs for a few coins. They should be honored by Mason’s attention. Wasn’t he the son and heir of a long-distinguished Norman family? The village girls were foolish to give up their precious virginity, on the hope of what? That Mason would wed them? There was no possibility of such an outcome and Luke knew that as well as anyone. When the Michaels’ heir wed it would be a magnificent match, increasing the family’s wealth and influence in Normandy. No reach was too high. Luke supposed now such expectations would rest upon his, in his father’s eyes, unworthy shoulders. He immediately brushed the unwelcome prospect aside and focused on the matter at hand.

  Removing the rope from around his waist, he awkwardly secured it around his brother’s stiff frame. His movements caused his brother’s rich cloak to fall open and uncloak the mystery it had unknowingly hidden from Luke’s perusal. Luke’s eyes widened at the fresh revelation. His brother didn’t simply lose his footing and slip off the edge of the cliff. He was no doubt helped along by the sharp end of the blade attached to the other end of the jeweled hilt Luke could see protruding from his brother’s chest. Luke puzzled over the familiar chord that struck him as his eyes took in the fatal wound. He had seen such a blade before. It was, he thought, very similar to the unusual dagger Lady Rhiann wore strapped to her arm. A Salusian blade.

  Luke’s lips curved in a dark smile when he realized he underestimated Lady Melissa. Apparently her arrogance and her brother’s training were more than enough to confront his brother, a fully trained knight, and emerge the victor from such a contest. He grinned at the thought, then gingerly removed the blade and tucked it beneath the folds of his own cloak. Hopefully he would one day be able to return it to its rightful owner.

  There was no point sharing the news of his discovery with anyone else, particularly his father. As far as anyone would ever know, the Michaels’ heir plunged to his death off the face of a cliff, most likely in a battle with a wild boar or a pack of wolves, a contest he surely waged bravely but lost in the end. His brother’s scratched and scarred body supported such a tale. Luke would tell anyone and everyone his brother’s body landed on a sharp shard sticking up from the surface that pierced his chest. If he wasn’t already dead when he went over the cliff, at least he met a mercifully quick end upon impact.

  When he was finished securing his brother’s body, Luke tugged on the end of the rope, signaling his men to raise their burden to the surface. Short minutes later the rope was sent back down for Luke. When he reached the surface he was aware of the awkward silence greeting him and suppressed his unholy amusement at its cause. His men knew full well there was no love lost between him and his half-brother. They were obviously struggling with their choice of whether to offer their condolences or congratulations at his death. Rafe apparently suffered from no such misgivings.

  “Good riddance. If I had any ale I would raise a glass to the devil and give him his due for finally claiming his minion.”

  Luke covered his bark of laughter with a stilted cough more appropriate to the circumstances, and then distastefully eyed his brother’s prone form. “I suppose even in death he is not yet finished being a thorn in my side. We shall be forced to drag his stinking body all the way back to Normandy so my father might see the evidence of his favored son’s death with his own eyes. No doubt the funeral service will be worthy of an heir to the throne of France.”

  “At least this damp cold will finally prove an advantage to us. The stench shouldn’t be too bad.” Rafe remarked drily.

  The two men’s eyes met in amused understanding. Luke signaled his men to deal with his brother’s body then turned to gaze out over the ledge. �
�My brother must have been attacked by wolves. In the end he took his chances over the edge, perhaps hoping for a softer landing in the stream below, rather than face the prospect of becoming the pack’s next meal.”

  “I probably would have made the same decision. The scratches and blood covering his hands and face, and his torn cloak certainly support your conclusion. It’s a shame he ordered his men to stay aboard the ship. They would no doubt have saved him from such an end.”

  “Yes, well you know my brother was a keen hunter and would find his men’s offer of assistance an insult to his knightly skills.”

  “Indeed.” Luke turned to meet his old friend’s steady gaze. Here, Luke thought, was the brother of his heart even though they shared no blood of brotherhood. Rafe was the son of his father’s commander. The two boys grew up together under Rafe’s father’s watchful eye as it was clear from an early age Luke’s own father would spare none of his time or affection for his younger son. Rafe’s mother treated him like one of her own boys. She was the only mother he ever knew as his own died when he was still too young to retain any memories of her. His father, after burying two wives, and possessing an heir and a spare, apparently saw no need to venture again into the marital waters.