by Ruth Kaufman
Revenge. It was the wrong revenge. He forced himself to think back, trying to clear his mind, trying to focus on his mission. He closed his eyes and he could see Sullivan's Hill as if it had all happened yesterday.
Dark. It was so dark. Then, Logan realized he was lying on his back in the grass, staring up at the starless night sky. A strange light flickered at the edge of his vision, but he paid it no mind as he boosted himself to his elbow. A sharp spear of agony cut through his head, and he raised a hand to his forehead. His hair was plastered to his skin in thick clumps of wetness. Logan knew it was blood. Slowly, he sat up, gently probing the cut on the side of his head.
Burning wood. The smell wafted to his nose, and he snapped his head up to see the castle -- his castle -- burning! Thick, consuming flames billowed out from the interior of his home.
“Father,” Logan whispered, a frantic feeling knotting the inside of his stomach.
He was on his feet instantly. The world swam before his eyes and he staggered, battling off the effects of his wound. When the dizziness retreated, Logan searched the hill for his horse, but the animal was nowhere to be found.
He walked down Sullivan's Hill, resisting the urge to run, knowing he would stumble and fall if he did. How had the castle fallen? How could his father have been beaten so quickly, so easily? They had had food and reserves prepared for nearly a year!
His step quickened, his stomach twisted and every one of his muscles corded tight. Something had gone wrong. Terribly wrong.
He moved through town, fighting off the throbbing in his head, moving from shadow to shadow until the castle loomed before him. Smoke churned skyward from inside the walls in thick black clouds of destruction. As he came to the main road he had to pull back quickly.
Armored men were moving in groups along it.
Logan pressed himself close to the walls of the tailor's shop.
The flickering red of the flames burning behind the approaching men swayed over their tunics. Logan's eyes gaped. Lined with gold, the white tunics bore the symbol of the lion -- Farindale's crest!
His jaw tightened as he watched the soldiers disappear into the blacksmith's shop at the end of the street.
Suddenly, a movement across the road caught his attention. Logan swiveled his gaze to the shadows. He made out the figure of a man stumbling along the road. He was dragging his leg behind him, hurrying to escape.
Logan glanced one way along the street and then the other, making sure it was clear of guards, before racing across. He ignored the throbbing in his head as best he could, knowing he had to find answers. As he neared the bent man, Logan could see he was severely wounded. The man clutched his arm to his chest where his torn chain mail hung from his body, groaning with each step he took. Logan recognized the man's crest immediately, two swords crossed over a full moon. His family crest.
Logan caught him by the shoulder and turned him. The man whirled with a gasp. When he set eyes on Logan he sighed slightly, but none of the tension left his body and his gaze darted anxiously down the street.
“What happened?” Logan demanded looking at the castle.
“Lord Farindale defeated us. They burned the apartments and all who were within,” the soldier answered.
Logan's eyes riveted on the soldier's like hot metal. “My mother?” he gasped.
“Dead, my lord,” the man answered grimly.
Logan's lips parted in disbelief. Dead. “Father?” he asked, almost desperately. “Where is he?”
“Killed defending the castle.”
Suddenly, anger burned across his vision and he grabbed the man, shaking him for speaking the words he didn't want to hear, refused to believe. “This can not be! Farindale could not have gained entrance to the castle so easily!”
“The main gate was open!” the man hollered.
Stunned, Logan stopped shaking him. His fingers dug into the man's shoulders. “What?”
“Your father refused to close the gate, my lord,” the man said.
“Refused? But why? He knew Farindale was coming.”
The sounds of voices came from down the street and Logan ignored them, glaring at the man. The man tried to move from Logan's grasp, but his grip tightened.
“We must go,” the man pleaded.
Logan's hold was relentless. “Why were the gates open?” he demanded.
The man shook his head. “If we stay, it will be our heads!”
“Why!”
“He was waiting.”
“Waiting?” Logan repeated gravely. “For what? What could be so important to keep the gates open?”
“You.”
Utter horror swept through Logan. The soldier easily broke away from him and scampered away, casting only one backward glance at his former lord who stood unmoving. But Logan did not see him. His mind's eye saw Castle Fulton falling, his friends and family butchered. He felt as though the life had been cut out of him. He felt numb. His father. His mother.
All because of him.
The shock of guilt held him immobile in its clenched fist. Finally, a consuming grief filled him and he fell to his knees, pressing his palms to his teary eyes, his body trembling with remorse.
Behind him, the castle burned.
Logan had spent years waiting and planning to return to Castle Fulton and seek revenge. He clenched his fists. And now that he was here, all he could think about was Solace. Her innocence. Her pure beauty. He cursed silently.
The door opened. Even as his hope soared, Logan turned his head away from the bright torchlight that was thrust into the cell. Solace had come for him. He was free. Slowly, he rose to his feet, waiting for the manacle around his neck to be removed. But as the moment stretched out and his binding wasn't removed, Logan lifted his gaze. He raised an arm to shield his eyes from the blinding light and a shadow formed in his vision. A woman's shadow.
But it wasn't Solace's.
Beth stared at him through icy blue eyes. They glittered like frost in the torchlight. She stood a few feet from him, well out of his reach. Logan straightened his back, lowering his arm.
Finally, she clucked her tongue. “You, my dear falconer, are in grave danger.”
Logan remained silent. If she wanted the satisfaction of seeing him cower, she had come to the wrong man.
“You're to be executed at dawn,” Beth added.
Logan tried to remain placid, but couldn't quite stop the clenching of his jaw. “So, you've come to gloat?”
“No,” she replied with the same nonchalance. “Actually I'm here to save your life.”
Logan's eyes narrowed suspiciously.
“All you have to do is say that Solace concocted this entire thing. That she paid you to kill Graham. That's why she threw you the piece of wood.”
Logan's heart skipped a beat. “And what will happen to her?”
“She will take your place in the dungeon,” Beth said, shrugging slightly. “Possibly banishment.”
“Not execution?”
Beth scoffed. “Even my mother would not dare to risk Father's wrath.”
“Why do you hate her so?” Logan wondered.
Beth raised a dainty eyebrow. “All my life she has gotten whatever she's wanted with an innocent look, a sweet, sickening smile. It's time she received what is rightfully hers.”
The description sounds more like you than Solace, Logan thought disgustedly. But Beth had a good idea. He should implicate Solace. She was his enemy. She was Farindale's daughter. He opened his mouth to tell Beth what she wanted to hear.
But nothing came out. No words of accusation. Nothing. He could only remember Solace's upturned mouth when she spun in the rain, her fierce determination as she raced out of the castle to rescue the pregnant woman, her soft curves enfolded in his arms.
“So, what do you say, falconer?” Beth demanded. “Your life for hers.”
The way she said it sent a shiver of dread shooting up Logan's spine. “I don't think so.”
Beth's eyes slanted as she grim
aced with contempt. “Fool,” she spat, stepping aside.
One dungeon guard entered the cell, followed by another. They grabbed his arms, pulling him back against the wall.
“I hope your sense of misplaced honor comforts you when your face is no longer so handsome and my whoring sister refuses to part her legs for you,” Beth hissed.
Logan scowled at her words, the first inkling of anxiety beginning to creep into his stomach. Through the open door, the executioner entered the cell; in his hand was not a sharp-edged ax but a red-hot branding iron.
Chapter Twenty
“Solace!”
Solace looked up to see Peter walking through the Great Hall toward her. He reached the table where she sat and slid into the chair beside her. “I thought I missed you. Sorry I'm late.” He picked up a piece of bread from the trencher awaiting him and began eating.
Solace had long since finished her evening meal, or rather had not even touched her food. She had thought Peter wasn't coming. But now that he was here, she was nervous. She wasn't sure how she was going to attempt this line of questioning. She wasn't sure how the shield or the sword fit into the scheme of things, let alone Logan. “It's all right,” she said, lifting a mug of ale to her lips. She hardly drank. Was Logan some family member? A cousin perhaps? Or had he stolen the sword from some man, making the whole thing just a coincidence?
“Barclay tried another assault,” Peter was saying. “But we repelled it, thank the Lord. I just wish your father would hurry and get here.”
Solace wet her lips with her tongue. “Peter,” she said. “Tell me about your family.”
Peter straightened slightly and looked at her. He shook his head, his short cropped hair swaying. “You've been up in that dusty old room again, haven't you?”
Solace shrugged helplessly.
Peter dropped his head. “I don't know why you keep digging up the past.”
She gently placed a hand on his shoulder, her eyes full of concern. “I don't mean to hurt you. I just want to know. Those people in the tapestries...”
“It doesn't hurt me. That part of my past is long gone. Dead and buried.”
Solace dropped her hand from his shoulder as he took a long sip of ale. She wondered if he even realized how much of a lie that was.
“What's there to know? I already told you everything,” Peter explained.
“Do you have any cousins?”
“Only a few. I believe one is in Cavindale. But I never heard from them.” He bit into a piece of venison.
Cavindale. Shivers of anxiety shot through Solace's body. Logan had said he came from Cavindale. “And what about brothers?”
Peter's hand dropped slightly; a distant, hard look edged his brown eyes. “I had one brother.”
“You never told me you have a brother.”
“Had a brother. He's long dead now, too.”
“What happened to him?” she wondered.
He looked at her and Solace saw the pain in his eyes. “He abandoned his family.”
“What?”
Peter glanced at her with burning, reproachful eyes. “He left us,” he said vaguely. “I never saw him again after the siege.”
Peter's voice was cold, the frostiness of his tone chilling her. Solace's anxiety spread, encompassing her entire body. She refused to look at Peter, locking her gaze on the blazing hearth at the far end of the room. “What was his name?” she asked.
“Name?” Peter said, as if shaken from a bad memory.
“Your brother's name,” Solace entreated. “What was it?”
“Logan,” Peter replied. “His name was Logan.”
Logan awoke to a burning pain in his cheek. He struggled to sit up, wincing as he moved. He raised a hand to his face. The charred flesh of his cheek was painfully tender to even the most delicate probing of his fingertips. He remembered the x-shaped brand moving toward his face, the iron glowing an evil red. He had struggled, but against the guards' holds and his steel manacles, his efforts were useless. He didn't remember much after the brand touched his cheek.
He scanned the cell. The torchlight from the hallway flickered in through the bars on the cell window, falling across a tray of food near his feet. He could still smell the sick scent of charred flesh. His flesh. Suddenly, he lashed out with his foot, kicking over his meal. Immediately, he heard the scurrying of rodents as they rushed forward to take the scraps of food. His neck burned from chafing. He tugged futilely at the chain, but the movement caused the pain from his cheek to flare up.
He cursed Solace for entering his life. He cursed her for being so curvy and soft as to attract Graham's attention. To attract his attention. But most of all, he cursed himself for getting involved.
The drip-drip rang in the quiet dungeon again, sending the dull ache in his head flaring to a steady pounding. Logan hung his head, resting his neck on the edge of the metal manacle. His cheek throbbed in a grotesque, pulsating rhythm.
The clang of the lock echoed in his cell. The guard coming to take his food tray, no doubt. He did not look up as a circle of torchlight probed his cell. He watched with dull eyes as the light moved to barely touch the tips of his black boots. Then, strangely, he heard the rustle of silk. I must truly be going mad now, he thought. The beat of his heart rose in his ears, in cadence with the quick drip-drip sound in the distance.
Then a skirt moved to the very edge of the circle of light, the hem of the dress just touching his boot. Was it Beth coming back to gloat? Or was it...? It couldn't be hope that made his heart pound so madly. It couldn't be hope that made his breathing stop. Hope had been extinguished in him a very long time ago. It couldn't be Solace; he refused to believe it was.
Then why couldn't he lift his head to prove himself wrong?
The specter before him knelt. He saw the skirt bend, and then gentle hands took his. His gaze lifted over perfectly formed breasts to a slender neck, past full red lips to bright green eyes. All the anger that had burned in him was extinguished at the sight of her. She was lovelier than he remembered. And he wanted nothing more than to bask in her radiance, her innocence, to feel her kindness touch his wounded spirit.
She moved toward him and the circle of illumination moved with her, as if the light were coming from her. As it engulfed him in its warmth, washing over him like a warm blanket, he lunged for the shimmering splendor of her, capturing her in his arms, crushing her against his breast. Her hair was so soft against his cheek, her body so warm in the coldness of the cell.
“I'm so sorry,” she whispered.
“Sorry?” Logan wondered in a dry throat.
“It's all my fault,” she told him, trying to pull free of his hold.
Logan refused to let her go. “It's not your fault. That bastard got what was coming to him.”
“Oh, Logan,” Solace pulled back slightly and lifted a hand to his cheek. It froze in midair, her eyes going wide with shock. She gasped and pulled her hand away.
For a moment, Logan was afraid the light would recede with her, but it didn't.
“Your face...” she moaned.
He had forgotten. For one wonderful instant, he had forgotten the horrible X that had been burned into his skin. He raised a hand to his cheek as if to shield it from her view. He felt a moment of panic. Would she reject him now as Beth had prophesied? He fought the panic with the only weapon he had. Anger. He hardened his heart to her, lowering his hand obstinately. “Come to stare?” he asked.
“Who did this?” she agonized, reaching toward his face.
Logan pulled away from her touch, afraid it would burn him worse than the branding iron had.
A wounded look crossed her face, saddening those large translucent eyes. Then the look disappeared, replaced by determination. She slowly stood, towering over him like an inquisitor. “Tell me who you are and what you're doing here.”
“You know those answers already,” he said, tearing his eyes from her perfect face to look on the soiled ground near his feet.
“Did
you kill the dungeon guard?” she wondered.
“Have you come to interrogate me or get me out of here?” he asked.
She ignored him, continuing, “Were you looking for someone?”
Logan's entire body tensed. She knew. He was sure of it. She knew why he was here, who he was looking for. He knew for certain that he would never see the light of day again.
“Is Logan your real name?”
His eyebrows furrowed, and his eyes rose to lock with hers. “What's that supposed to mean?”
“What are you doing here and who are you, really?” she demanded.
Logan narrowed his eyes. Did she know the answers already, only wanting the truth from his lips? Or was she searching, probing him for the answers? How much of it did she know?
“Did you come for Peter?” she wondered.
A shiver of trepidation shot down his spine. Should he tell her? Dare he tell her? Would she call to the dungeon guards? Was this some elaborate trap set by Beth? “Where is he?” he couldn't help but ask.
Her eyes scanned his face, and he saw doubt there. “What do you want of him?” Solace questioned.
She had to tell him! He had to know! “Where is he?”
“Are you here to hurt him?” she asked.
The question surprised him. Why would he hurt his own brother? “Is he a captive?”
He saw the shock on her face, or was it surprise he had guessed the truth? He pushed himself to his feet. “Tell me. Tell me where I can find Peter.” Logan took a menacing step toward her. He grabbed her shoulders and was surprised to find his own hands were shaking. “Where is Peter?”
“Right here.”
Logan looked past Solace. A dark form stood in the doorway, outlined by a flickering torch from outside the cell.
The man took a step into the darkness, seizing Solace's arm and pulling her from Logan's hold. “Are you all right?” he asked her.
Solace nodded.
Peter set Solace aside and stepped forward. The light washed over his face, and it was all Logan could do not to gasp. He knew that face! He had fought beside this man just days ago and had not even realized who he was. But as Logan looked closer, he could see the boy he once knew in Peter's features, even through the lines of hardship around his mouth and at the corners of his eyes. His face had matured, and his features had become pronounced. He was a man now. “Peter?” Logan asked. He stood up straight, his heart stopping, for even though he stood face-to-face with his brother, he couldn't quite believe it was him.
