Varden's Lady

by Maren Smith

  "I guess we're walking,” Varden said as he climbed down out of the carriage.

  He untied his horse from the back, so the driver and soldiers could return to Cadhla ahead of them. One stayed behind, though he lingered perhaps a hundred yards ahead of them out of deference to the brewing argument.

  Varden swung up into his saddle and followed her brisk march down the road, his huge horse plodding slowly along behind her. “I have called you Claire for seven years, it's how I think of you. Mallory isn't a difficult name. I don't know why I can't seem to remember it."

  She rounded on him. “Because you don't believe in her, that's why! She's just a convenient sex partner when you're in a good mood and a lunatic to be locked away when you're not. You must think I'm a real idiot! I'd have to be not to notice the third story library is being refurbished into Cadhla's own private sanitarium. Complete with padded walls, I understand. How cozy!"

  Varden pulled back on the reins, stopping the horse. “It's a comfortable room. I've spared no expense."

  "Then you go sit in it!” She grabbed her muddy skirts, spun, and started walking again.

  "This is a pointless argument,” Varden said, following her once more. “The room is unfinished. In fact, no work has been done on it for weeks now. And I haven't locked you in it, anyway."

  "You haven't dismantled it yet either."

  As he had no intention of dismantling that room, Varden tried a different approach. “I don't think of you as a convenient sex partner."

  "Well, that's half right; you just don't think of me!” She swung back to face him and he stopped the horse again to keep from getting ahead of her. “All you have to do is snap your fingers, and I come running like some little bug-eyed lapdog. Arf-arf, oh what can I do for you, master?” She flung out her arms, flecks of mud flying from her fingertips. “I can't believe this is what I thought I was missing. This is why I came back. To be some embittered duke's beck-and-call girl!"

  When she turned and started walking again, Varden asked, “Are you done feeling sorry for yourself?"

  He hadn't yet started after her, which turned out for the best because she spun back around so fast and so near to him that, had his horse been moving, it would have walked right over the top of her. Before he realized her intent, Mallory had scooped up a handful of mud and flung it at him, hitting him square in the chest.

  The horse shied, snorting and stamping its feet as a second mud ball hit Varden in the side of the head. He fell out of the saddle more than he dismounted, barely managing to get the reins around a tree branch as the third mud ball hit his shoulder, splattering across the back of his neck. Clumps of cold, wet dirt dripped into the collar of his doublet and down the back of his shirt.

  "Stop!” Varden threw his hands up to protect his head and darted away from the horse before the stallion panicked. The fourth mud ball was so wet that it fell apart mid air, spraying through his fingers and hitting him in the mouth, cheek, and chin. He kept his arms up, hoping to deflect the fifth, which never came. After several seconds, he cautiously lowered his hands a few inches.

  Mallory had more mud splattered on her than he did. Her hands were covered in it, nearly up to her elbows. There were splotches across her stomach and breasts and muddy clumps oozing down the thick strands of her hair that had fallen out of her coiffure. As he watched, she dissolved into tears.

  Varden held open his arms, and sobbing loudly, she walked into them. She wrapped her filthy arms around his waist, and they simply held one another, neither caring about the mud or the rain, or even the soldier, waiting patiently atop his horse a hundred feet away, watching the road. Though as the first booming roll of thunder passed overhead, they both looked up.

  "Figures,” Mallory said, sniffling.

  Studying the darkening sky, Varden said, “I think we're going to get even wetter. Are you done walking?"

  She nodded. “My feet are cold."

  "I would like to point out—if it won't start another argument—that you did throw away two perfectly good shoes.” He held up both hands when she drew back from him. “But only if it's not going to start another fight."

  Mallory raised her hands to wipe her tears away, but Varden stopped her in time. “Trust me, your hands are worse than your face right now. Here.” He reached into his doublet for his handkerchief and tried his best to wipe her eyes, nose and mouth clean. Folding the handkerchief to find a clean spot, he then wiped his own. By the time he was done, there were no white spots anywhere on the cloth. Varden sighed and tossed it into the woods along with her shoes. “Kenton is going to love this explanation."

  They both did their best to shake the excess mud from their hair and clothes before Varden helped her up on the horse and then swung into the saddle behind her. As they again started back toward Cadhla, Varden said, “I'm glad we got the chance to talk. Although, in the future, given the preference, I would like to stick with pillows."

  Mallory lay back against him, her face turned up to the Heavens, letting the rain wash over her skin. “We should have picked a better day, too. Just look at those clouds. We'll be drenched."

  He slid his palm up over her stomacher to cup her breast. “Did you dress this way to please me?"

  She wiped at the mud on her skirts with an equally muddy hand. “It doesn't matter. I've ruined it anyway."

  "You look beautiful."

  "I'm covered in mud."

  There was one clean patch on the back of her neck, and Varden kissed it. “You are still beautiful. I don't think I've ever seen such a fiery display of temper as the one you just gave me."

  "You're as crazy as I am.” She reached up to cup the back of his neck and pulled his mouth down to hers. “I like that in a man."

  "We're too dirty for this,” Varden murmured against her lips.

  "I know."

  He kissed her anyway. “You will be the death of me yet."

  "Dying isn't as bad as most people think."

  "In your arms, bise, I can well believe it."

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  Chapter Sixteen

  The next night it stormed even harder. Lightning and thunder split the darkness, rattling the glass in every windowpane and seeming even to shake the floor.

  Mallory stood at Varden's balcony windows, looking out over the empty bailey as she chewed her thumbnail. It was a horrible night to be out chasing reivers, but, despite the brewing storm, the warning fires had been glimpsed at Candlewick, and that's where Varden had taken his soldiers. But that had been hours ago and, in that time, the warning fire at Barton-Under-the-Hill, as well as Yetholm, had briefly appeared before the lights gradually winked out in the heavy rain. A second and third sentry patrol rallied in the bailey, drawing reinforcements from the Field before setting out to defend the towns. In all likelihood, Varden would not return until dawn.

  And when he did return, he would likely be cold and wet and ready for a warm, relaxing bath. Much like last night, Mallory thought with a smile. She hadn't thought that bathtub capable of holding two people. Varden had ingeniously, pleasurably proved her wrong. In fact, he had proved her wrong in three different positions. She couldn't wait for him to come home tonight and test her theory on position number four.

  The entire night's sky flashed with blue-white light and thunder boomed through the bailey, shaking the castle walls, and startling Mallory. She hoped Varden had found shelter out there.

  There was a knock at the door, and Mallory nearly jumped out of her skin.

  "Good evening, Your Grace,” Kenton said as he eased open the door.

  "Kenton!” Mallory pressed a hand to her rapidly beating heart as the manservant entered the room with a silver tray bearing a porcelain teapot and two cups. “You scared me! Is Varden back? I didn't see anyone ride in."

  "Not yet.” Kenton set the tray on a small table between two chairs by the fire. “I saw your light was still on and thought you might like something to help you sleep. Nanna said you seemed a little restl
ess when you visited the nursery tonight. Has Grete retired already?"

  "She has a cold, I think.” Mallory left the window for the first time in hours. She sat down, not realizing how chilly it was by the window until she felt the heat from the fire.

  "Spiced wine?” Kenton offered her a cup, which she took with a murmur of thanks.

  "I thought toddies were the usual bedtime relaxant in primitive England.” Mallory blew softly at the lip of the cup before sipping the hot drink. She needed to relieve some of the worry churning within her, worsening with the growing ferocity of the autumn storm outside.

  He arched his brow. “Primitive England?"

  She blushed. “Sorry, it just slipped out."

  "Hm.” Kenton let the comment slide. “Lady Abigail prefers a small sip of claret, perhaps with a dollop of laudanum, though only on the nights when her arthritis is particularly painful. Grete occasionally sneaks a pint, and I have an unfortunate fondness for good brandy."

  Mallory took another sip. “This is good. Not too sweet. A little bitter even."

  "I'm glad you approve.” Kenton topped off her cup before filling his own. He sat down in the chair opposite of her and neatly crossed his knees.

  Mallory asked. “What about Varden?"

  Kenton's hesitation was barely noticeable. He sipped his drink. “His Grace used to imbibe anything that couldn't move faster than he did. However, as of late, I have noticed his liqueur cabinet remains locked. I suspect the key was given a liberal tossing off the castle wall. A shame, really. Now I shall have to find some new fault on which to needle him."

  The room suddenly brightened with a brief, flickering white light and the thunder that followed sounded more like a cannon exploding in the bailey. The windows rattled.

  "The storm is coming closer,” Kenton commented mildly as Mallory looked back at the balcony doors over her shoulder. “Don't worry about His Grace. He did not become a favorite of the Queen's through incompetence. He is very good at what he does."

  "Do you think he'll be back tonight?"

  "He is more likely to ride through the gatehouse at dawn. He'll stagger into his den to record the night's activities, consult me as to whether there is anything that requires his immediate attention and then, if there are no emergencies, he will fall face first into bed, not to move again for approximately six hours. If there is an emergency, then he'll be here yelling at you, since you are most likely to be the one responsible for it.” When Mallory smiled, Kenton toasted her with his own cup. “On behalf of myself and the rest of the staff, none of whom have fallen victim to his temper for nigh onto a month now, Lady Mallory, we thank you."

  Setting her empty cup aside, Mallory studied him by the firelight. “You really do believe me, don't you?"

  "I feel no inclination to quibble over identities and the theological improbability of souls coming back from an immortal state.” Kenton shrugged. “What do I know anyway? I am merely a servant in my master's house."

  At that, Mallory snorted. “Most servants don't sit with their masters’ lunatic wives to share a cup of spiced wine."

  "I said I knew my place. I never said I practiced it."

  When the wine was gone, Kenton turned down the covers on both sides of Varden's bed and warmed the sheets for her. “Would you like me to wake you when he arrives?"

  "Yes, please."

  "Very well.” Kenton removed the tray and cups, taking them with him. “Good night, then."

  When the door had closed, Mallory climbed into Varden's side of the bed. It felt empty without Varden there to fill the space beside her. She shook her head at her own foolishness and rolled onto her side. She must be getting spoiled if she could not spend one night alone.

  Having no delusions about her abilities with a flint and stone, Mallory left a candle burning on the bedside table should she need it. She felt a little silly, like a child in need of a night-light for fear of the dark. Lightning lit the room again, and the balcony doors rattled from the cannon-like boom that quickly followed. With blankets snug around her, Mallory hugged Varden's pillow to her chest and watched the rain splash shadowed patterns on the small poured-glass panes.

  Had Varden taken cover somewhere or was he boldly out in the thick of the storm? Mallory could almost see him, seated so proud and strong astride his horse with rain that dripped from his hair to the end of his nose. He would be soaked to the bone when he got home.

  She smiled to herself. It would be her job to warm him again.

  As the next flash of light washed the room with its blue-white light, Mallory sat bolt upright in bed. Did she blink and dream it, or was that indeed a face staring back at her through the window?

  The face closely resembled Varden's, but not closely enough.

  Thunder masked her shout as Godfrey kicked open the balcony doors, breaking the windows and scattering glass like white pebbles across the stone floor. Mallory fell out of bed when he lunged after her, but the sheets snared her legs and she spilled head first onto the floor.

  Mallory screamed, “Kenton!"

  Then Godfrey was on her and his hands were around her throat, squeezing. She kicked, her knee catching his ribs and the pressure let up, but only for an instant. He slapped her, knocking her head back against the stones. Stars exploded behind her eyes, the room spun and his hands were again around her throat, squeezing until she couldn't breathe.

  Darkness closed in around her. Afraid that he would kill her if she lost consciousness, Mallory fought to stay awake. She forced herself to stop struggling and lay still beneath him, feeling the icy rain dripping from his hair onto her face.

  "You said you loved me,” Godfrey rasped. “You said you would do anything for me. And yet, the first time I turn my back, you betray me by cozying back up to Varden. I have suffered for you, my pearl. I think you owe me a little gratitude.” He bent, as if about to kiss her, then stopped bare inches away. “A little appreciation.” He grinned suddenly, letting go of her throat to flip her onto her stomach as if she were little more than a doll.

  Mallory gasped and choked. His hands were no longer squeezing the life from her, but his knee was jammed into her mid-back, pressing down on her lungs until she wheezed.

  "I wonder how willing you are to save your life right now.” He bent back over her, the stubble of her beardless chin scrapping her neck, his hot breath caressing her ear. “Desperate enough to want to please me? You would have to work very hard to do that, with this mood that I am in. Are you willing to try?"

  Mallory felt nauseated. She gagged and almost lost the wine she had just drunk, then forced herself to nod.

  "Liar,” Godfrey hissed into her ear. “Do you think I'm stupid? Maybe you think I'm forgetful, and just don't remember how you pointed a gun at my head, stared straight into my eyes, and pulled the trigger."

  Mallory cried out as he grabbed the collar of her nightgown and ripped it down the back, past her waist and to her knees. Cold drops of water splashed her buttocks and thighs as he grabbed a fistful of her auburn hair and jerked her back onto her knees. He pressed his groin into the cradle of her thighs while she braced her hands against the floor and tried not to throw up.

  "How does it feel knowing you are about to die, hm?” Godfrey yanked her hair.

  Scalp burning, hurting, Mallory grabbed the back of his fist to keep him from ripping her hair out by the roots. She hissed through clenched teeth, “You tell me."

  He laughed, low and soft. “No matter what you do tonight, come the morning, my brother is going to walk into this room and he is going to find your broken body right here on the floor. I want you to know your fate, know that I will carve your treachery into your flesh and that I will enjoy hurting you over and over again.” He kissed the side of her neck. “Don't worry about our son. I will take good care of him as well."

  Mallory opened her mouth to scream again, and Godfrey stuffed the torn scraps of her nightgown in it. The gag muffled her cries, but did nothing to protect him against her teeth. Sh
e bit his fingers, savagely grinding her jaw back and forth until she tasted blood. He struck her, cracking her head against the stone floor again and a warm rush of blood gushed over her nose and lips.

  "That did not please me,” he said, wrapping torn strands of her nightgown around her throat and pulling them tight. “You are going to have to try harder."

  Mallory clawed at his hand, choking.

  "Don't worry,” he said as he fumbled with the fastenings of his breeches, his excitement making him clumsy. “I promise to make you buck with pleasure before you die."

  A chair splintered across Godfrey's back, the impact knocking him into the bedside table, which broke. Grabbing her arm, Kenton heaved Mallory up off the floor and out of Godfrey's reach. Mallory immediately fell back to her knees when he cut the cloth from her throat and at last she could breathe again.

  A sword in his hand, as calm as ever, Kenton stood between him and Mallory. Though Godfrey was by far the larger man, the manservant made no show of backing down.

  "You've made your last mistake,” Godfrey said as he warily gained his feet.

  Kenton bowed in mock servility. “If that is what you choose to think, who am I to correct you?"

  Godfrey drew the steel blade from its scabbard at his hip. “A dead man."

  He lunged, the clash of steel striking steel singing over the howl of the storm outside.

  Holding a hand to her bloody mouth, Mallory staggered toward the door. Blood streamed in jagged lines between her fingers and down her arm. The room was spinning. Every time she tried to catch her balance, the floor gave a lurch and she stumbled. Nothing would hold still. Her shaky legs gave out before she reached the door. She fell against a chair, then slumped to the floor. Her head throbbed. Bile rose in her throat and her stomach lurched. Mallory doubled over, vomiting.

  As powerful as Godfrey despite his leaner, wiry frame, Kenton beat him back in strokes as expert as they were merciless. With each inch that Godfrey receded, he became more furious. He ducked around a chair, forcing Kenton to pursue and gaining enough time to grab the lit candle from Varden's bedside. He flung it, the hot wax splashing Kenton's face as the candle sailed past him to land against the bed.