by Tamara Leigh
"Scared, Mama," Oliver said into her shoulder.
For fear he might look up and witness the bloody clash soon to be upon Liam, she pressed a hand to the back of his head to hold his face against her body. "All is well," she soothed. "All is well."
Liam glanced toward the road where the Ashlingford knights appeared to be holding their own against the attackers, then shifted his gaze to the first brigand, a man much his own size, though older, who looked to be a worthy opponent.
Drawing back his sword, Liam slammed its edge across the other's. "For six years of naught!" he shouted, Maynard's deathbed taunt returning to him.
The brigand jerked sideways from the impact but managed to hold the saddle.
Driving his destrier past him, Liam set himself upon the second attacker, but at the moment their swords should have met, he listed far left of his opponent and swept his weapon downward. "For the lies!" he bellowed.
A squawk not unlike that of an incensed bird was evidence that he had found the soft belly of the brigand, who wore no chain mail to deflect the blow. The crimson upon Liam's blade confirmed it.
Leaving the mortally wounded man to his death, Liam wheeled his mount around to engage the first brigand a second time, and a moment later they crossed swords again. This time, though, neither blade gave, causing both horses to rear beneath the strain of the locked weapons.
One dangerous emotion after another clamoring to be set free, Liam met his opponent's gaze, saw a like anger there, and answered it by forcing the other man's sword away.
As the horses settled back to the ground, the brig-ind countered with a stroke that grated loudly across
Liam's mail shirt, then he heaved forward in an attempt to push his blade through the links. However, it was Liam who broke flesh first, his blade slicing through the man's exposed thigh.
With a fierce snarl, the brigand leaned sideways in his saddle, lifted his injured leg, and thrust his booted foot toward Liam's chest in an attempt to unseat him.
Grabbing his leg, Liam shoved him backward.
The brigand wavered on the edge of his saddle, his free hand grasping at his destrier's mane to right himself, but a moment later he plummeted to the mossy earth.
Although the time it took for him to recover would have been sufficient for Liam to run him through, the deceit of these past six years demanded more than an easy end. True, it was neither Maynard nor Ivo fallen before Liam—both far more deserving of his vengeance—but here was the means of release he needed so badly.
Fitting his hand more precisely around the hilt of his weapon, the familiarity of the worn leather against his palm and fingers focusing him, Liam dismounted.
On his feet again in spite of the gaping wound in his leg, the man beckoned Liam forward. "Come on, bastard," he challenged, the smirk of knowing on his lips.
Bastard? Aye, Liam acknowledged the truth of what he had suspected. This attack was by design. But whose? One of the disgruntled noblemen who had sought to make Thornemede his own? Or a man who wished Liam as far from Ashlingford as possible, and what better place than the grave? Though it could be either, Liam was drawn nearer to the possibility that it was his uncle. No matter how many of the attackers Ivo slaughtered, they would die having done a service for him. Unfortunately for Ivo, Liam had no intention of obliging him. Death would not take him this day.
Liam lunged toward the jeering man and, with one stroke, severed a dozen links of his shabby chain-mail tunic.
The man staggered back a step.
But Liam wanted more from him than spilled blood. He wanted satisfaction, and satisfaction he would have. "I still stand," he taunted his opponent.
The words spurted new strength through the man, and a moment later Liam was trading blows with him again.
Time and again Liam colored his blade with a life that would soon be forfeit, filled his ears with sounds of suffering that echoed the years inside him, and shouted his victories with a voice that rose to the heavens only to fall back. When the brigand foolishly swung wide, opening himself to death, Liam even then did not finish him off. Instead he allowed the man breath to recover before stroking his blade downward on his opponent's sword arm.
His face contorting with pain, the brigand retaliated with a sloppy slice, but one that earned him a small victory.
Oddly, Liam did not feel the pain in his forearm. Instead, he sensed only warmth as the blood flowed from the wound and trickled down his wrist. Turning his attention to the sword swinging toward him, he fended it off with a stroke carried high, forced the man's blade above his head, and leaned into him.
"You or me?" he asked between clenched teeth.
Uncertainty passed over the man's face. However, in the next instant something dashed it away—a glance behind. "You," he rasped, baring his teeth with renewed confidence.
Liam knew without looking around what had restored the man's spirit; others were coming to his aid. Knowing a greater challenge awaited him, he nodded. "Then we are done," he said, and, as if dreaming it, watched as he closed his left hand over his right upon his sword's hilt. Like a mother whispering "hush" in the night, his blade glided down and off the other's sword and so easily slid into place.
Pain widened the other man's mouth, and then he dropped to the ground.
It had been years since he'd taken someone's life, Liam realized, as he looked down upon the breathless man, and this day he had already taken three. But even as loathing for what he had done filled him, he swung around and deflected the blow of the brigand who charged him on horseback. However, there was no time to turn away the weapon of the one who followed the first—a weapon not unlike a club but differing in that its head was covered with iron spikes: a mace. Liam jerked back to avoid it, but though he spared himself a crushed skull, it caught him across the jaw.
Whooping loudly, the brigand rode past.
This time there was pain, the easing of Liam's anger in the face of death causing him to feel the blow as he had not with his first injury. Feeling both now, he looked to the two attackers, who had turned their horses about and were starting back toward him. They would kill him, he knew—either by sword or beneath the hooves of their horses.
Knowing that if he did not draw again on his anger he was as dead as the man at his feet, Liam looked into that raw place inside him where strength lay. Maynard, he reminded himself. Ivo. Anya. Ashlingford. Like a storm, the rage of years blew over him again, and when the brigands swept down upon him he was ready for them.
Wielding his sword with one hand, Liam reached with the other for the dagger upon his belt. It slid free and a moment later sailed through the air. Years of practice had perfected his left-handed throw—so perfect, in fact, that it struck the brigand swinging the mace exactly where he intended.
Grabbing his chest, the man fell backward and met death as he hit the ground.
Too soon the other brigand was upon Liam. In the path of the rushing horse, a sword leveled at his chest, Liam spread his legs, raised his weapon, and at the last possible moment leapt to the side and swung his sword. The man was unprepared for the blow, which caught him mid-back, and though his chain mail spared his blood, the impact lurched him forward.
The human side of Liam lost in the violence, the animal in him calculating his prey, he bolted after the brigand and fought as he had never fought before. He forced the man down from his horse, across the floor of the wood, and onto the road, and when the Ashlingford knights came forward to offer their assistance, he acknowledged them only long enough to shout them back. Their own battles won, they retreated to watch from a distance the man who should have been their lord prove himself more than worthy of the title. And finally, with the last of his great anger, Liam laid the brigand down.
The man fell without so much as a groan, turned his gaze to the heavens, and eased where he lay.
Looking about at the strewn bodies, Liam saw that not all the attackers were accounted for. Either they had fled with the realization they were the we
aker force, or they had regrouped to attempt another ambush farther up the road.
The Ashlingford knights had not escaped unscathed, the rent shirts of mail and slashed chausses revealing injuries not unlike those Liam had sustained. None was dead, however—as near a miracle as Liam had ever seen. Only Sir Gregory had fallen, and he appeared still very much alive where he sat propped against a rock, a hand to the wound in his side.
Liam fastened his gaze upon Ivo, where he stood to the right of a cut and scraped Sir John. Though his face mirrored repentance for the lives he had taken with his unholy sword, Liam knew his remorse was not truly for them but for what they had not accomplished. The bastard nephew still lived and would yet return to Ashlingford.
Liam had thought his anger spent, but it rose again to flex his hand upon his sword. One more life, just one more, he thought, stepping forward. What better place for a mock priest to die than upon the battlefield he had most likely created himself? There would not be any among the Ashlingford knights who would object did he perish among his equals.
But there was Joslyn. . . .
Liam looked toward the wood. She was still there, but did she cower behind the boulder? Or were her eyes this moment fixed upon him, ready to witness what would seem to her a heinous crime? Damnation!
Suppressing the desire to finish Ivo now, Liam captured his uncle's gaze and sent him a message that could not have been more clear were it spoken. Then he returned his sullied sword to its scabbard and turned back toward the wood.
Several of the Ashlingford knights followed him, all keeping silent as if commanded. Hardly had Liam set foot into the wood when, across the distance, he saw Joslyn where she stood before the boulders—no cowering lady, she—her bearing solid and upright hut for the little boy huddled in her arms.
Liam again reflected on his brother's choice of wife. What an odd match Maynard had made, he who had preferred his women simpering and needy—even if only acting the part. Joslyn seemed as far from that type of woman as could be. She was strong, though not as strong as she might have liked him to believe, Liam realized, as he drew near and saw in her haunted eyes the things she had just seen and heard.
Though it should not have touched him, in that instant a thousand regrets flooded him for what she had witnessed. From the moment he had turned from her, he had plunged so deeply into the heinous battle lo survive that he had forgotten her very existence. I le had—
Nay. It was just as well that he had put her from his mind, for had he tried to shield her from the warrior in him he would surely have given up his life for it. And it mattered not what she thought of him. After .ill, he owed her no explanation for who he was and what he had done.
"You are well?" he asked.
She stared at him a long moment before nodding, then shifted her gaze to his bloody jaw. Her lids flickered, but she did not swoon as many a lady might. Instead, she lowered her gaze to the marks of battle adorning his chain mail. "You are injured," she said softly.
"Are you ready to ride, Lady Joslyn?" he asked.
"I am ready," she answered, wanting to be as far from this place as possible.
"Can I look now, Mama?" Oliver asked, starting to pull back from her.
"Not yet," she replied, seeing beyond Liam the scattered bodies his men were examining. Throughout the fighting she had pressed her palms to Oliver's ears to prevent him from hearing the battle and death cries. She would not now allow him to see the result of this day's clash.
"I will carry the boy if you like." Liam surprised her with his offer.
Instinctively, Joslyn tightened her hold on Oliver. "Nay, I will carry him," she said, knowing she insulted Liam in not trusting her with her son, but also needing to hold on to this little life that had never before been so near danger. So near death.
He turned away before she could see his reaction. "Then let us be gone," he said, heading out of the wood.
They had hardly covered any ground before one of the knights called to him, "This one's alive!"
Halting, Liam looked behind him at Joslyn. "One of the knights will assist you in mounting," he said, and motioned for her to continue on to the road.
It being enough to look upon one injured man, Joslyn had no desire to see another, and that one most likely near death. Lifting her skirts higher, she swept past him toward her horse.
Liam wondered what was in her mind as he stared after her, but he pushed his ponderings aside and strode to where the knights looked down upon one of the attackers—the first man Liam had put his sword through.
There was no hope for the brigand, Liam saw; it was only a matter of time before he lay as dead as the others. But something might be learned from him ere he passed on.
Going down onto his haunches, he demanded, "Who hired you, man?"
Cradling his belly, the brigand turned his ashen face to Liam and slowly curled a grim smile at him. "Why, the devil himself," he whispered. "You . . . you know him, don't you?"
Aye, he knew Ivo, but was he the devil referred to? "I am sure I do," Liam replied, "but why don't you tell me anyway."
"You'd like that, eh?" The brigand choked.
"More than you can know."
"And what be my reward?" The man's eyes sparkled with the irony of pocketing something he would have no use of in hell.
"A grave," Liam offered. "Else you are left as pickings for the beasts of the wood."
The man's lids fluttered closed over his eyes. "I will have to think on it a moment."
"You will be dead by then."
With effort, the brigand opened his eyes far enough to peer at Liam. Then he nodded. However, whatever he intended to say was in the next instant severed from him by the sweep of a dagger that laid open the great vein in his neck.
11
"God would not have made him to suffer so," Ivo said, wiping his blade as he straightened. "Tis merciful to speedily deliver a dying man from his tortured end. Did I not teach you that, William?"
Liam had not seen it coming, his uncle having appeared behind him unnoticed. With a roar, he drew his sword and lunged to his feet, but when he would finally have put an end to Ivo, another thwarted him.
Sir John caught Liam's sword arm. "Think, Liam," he entreated. "Think!"
God, how could he think after all that had happened this day? When what he wanted most in this world was to rid himself of this one last demon?
"The church will be upon you if you shed his blood," John reminded him.
Grudgingly, Liam nodded and, when John released him, lowered his sword. "Tis not over with, uncle," he said. "By all that I am, this day you will account for."
Shock and outrage swelled on Ivo's face. "You think I did this?" he demanded.
"I know it," Liam said, and pivoted away before he lost control of himself again.
"You dare accuse a holy man of making death upon God's people?" Ivo shouted after him.
Liam knew he ought to walk away, but he turned back. "You are hardly holy with the blood of those you have this day slain all upon you," he said.
Ivo's nostrils flared. "Look to the noblemen who lost Thornemede to a bastard," he said viciously. "There you will find the one responsible for this."
Instead, Liam looked to each of the four knights who stood around the dead man, and saw in their eyes that they also believed Ivo responsible. Contenting himself with that, he turned and tramped back across the wood pausing only to retrieve his dagger from the man he had felled with it.
Resuming his stride, he glanced at his bloodied forearm. Though the gash was wide, it was not deep. In fact, the bleeding had all but stopped. As for his jaw . . . ? He fingered it. Aye, it would need attention, and certainly stitches.
Liam swung into his saddle and instructed the others to mount up. "Sir Robert," he called.
The man guided his horse alongside Liam's. "My lord?"
"We will pass the night at Settling Castle to tend to the worst of these injuries. As you appear to have fared better than the rest of u
s, I wish you to ride on to Ashlingford and tell them of our arrival, that they might prepare for it; then I would have you continue to Thornemede and inform the castle folk that their new baron will arrive a fortnight hence."
The knight inclined his head. "I will do it. Anything else, Lord Fawke?"
How strange to hear himself called such, Liam thought. "Nay, that is all."
With a press of his heels and a slap of the reins, the knight set off down the road.
Though Liam had every intention of riding straight past Joslyn where she was mounted ahead—of leaving her to follow behind—the sight of Oliver still hugged tight to her made him draw in the reins.
"Frightened?" he asked, indicating the little boy.
Through her stupor came a flicker of surprise that Liam would express concern for her son. "He does not understand," she said in a low voice. "I would not allow him to see, or hear, yet 'tis as if he did."
"He feels your fear. Thus it has become his own."
A frown puckered her brow. "Mayhap," she said.
Why he should care, Liam didn't know, but suddenly he did. Still, there was naught he could do about it, he reminded himself. He started to urge his mount forward, but then remembered what he carried in his pouch: the top, which he had taken from the rushes of Joslyn's chamber.
He pulled it out, and in the next instant silently cursed himself. Damn, he made himself look a fool. But it could not be undone. "Boy," he called to Oliver, "I've something here for you. Would you like it?"
The child stirred in his mother's arms, then peeked up from her shoulder. "Mama!" he exclaimed. "'Tis the top A-papa made for me."
"So it is," she murmured.
"Would you like it, Oliver?" Liam asked.
The boy nodded. "Aye." He reached to take it. "Have you my stick too?"
"I fear not, but another can be made/'
Clasping his toy to him as if it were the dearest thing in the world, Oliver looked up at Liam for the first time. In the next instant, his joy dissolved. "Ooh," he breathed.
Liam had forgotten about his jaw. Uncertain whether it was awe or fear the little boy was feeling, he berated himself for having allowed the child to witness that which his mother had tried to shield him from, and said the first thing that came to mind. Til not wrestle that bear again." As a child he had loved to have tales of beasts told to him. Now if only Oliver was as intrigued .. .
