by Колин Глисон
Gavin swallowed back the dryness of fear at the unmistakable sound of battle, and froze all thoughts of self-rebuke from his mind. He would curse himself later. Now he must keep his wits clear in order to subdue their attackers.
Bellowing a clear battle cry, Gavin drew his sword as they rushed into the midst of the skirmish. He engaged one of the attackers, who wore a helm to cover his face and had been about to strike Clem and Tricky. A quick glance away from his opponent revealed no sign of Madelyne, and Gavin summoned all of his strength and rage to plow his sword through the chest of his adversary. He wheeled Rule about and cantered around the perimeter of the melee, which seemed to be dying down now that he’d reached it. In fact, those that remained were men from Mal Verne, with the exception of three bloody bodies that lay unmoving on the ground.
“Madelyne!” he shouted, rising on his heels in the saddle.
“She is taken!” cried Clem between gasps of air. He clutched his side even as he held Tricky in place on his lap. Gavin took in the sight of red staining his friend’s arm and fury escalated within. “They came upon us from nowhere, and took my lady right from behind Jube!”
Gavin fought the urge to rush pell-mell in the direction Clem pointed, and halted for a moment, his chest heaving with heavy breaths. “Jube!” he shouted, then looked where another man pointed.
The tall blond man stood to the side of the road, his sword hanging at his side, violence darkening his features. The destrier that Gavin recognized as Jube’s was on its side, its gut slit open and spilling entrails onto the dirt road.
“They made certain I could not save her!” he shouted furiously, rage roughing his voice. “By the rood, I’ll murder the man who took my Blazon!”
“To me!” Gavin roared, calling his men to cluster about him. “You who cannot fight, do you ride ahead to Prentiss Keep and relate this stealing of the lady to Lord Markhand’s captain of the guard—ask for reinforcements. We go east and will see them as they come to join us. Those who can, follow me!”
Rule leapt forward and the others fell in behind. Fortunately, the ground was soft from the rains and left a clear pattern of tracks along the easterly road. Gavin and Rule kept a generous lead from the remainder of the party—approximately eight of the fifteen men with which they’d left Mal Verne.
As they thundered down the road, Gavin forced himself to focus on reaching the kidnappers and saving Madelyne. The man he’d killed had worn no standard or livery that could identify him. It was likely he was part of a band of thieves that preyed on travelers. Mayhaps Madelyne been targeted and taken to be held for ransom. If that were the case, then she would not be harmed.
The tightening of his chest—the fear that he was wrong, that there was some other reason for her kidnapping—grew and he urged Rule on further.
* * *
Madelyne swallowed the fear that bubbled in her middle, nauseating her. Mayhaps ’twas the stench of the man who carried her on his mount in front of him that caused her stomach to turn, but most likely it was the horror that she was no longer in the safe hands of Gavin Mal Verne, and had been catapulted into a worse fate than that of being taken to the king.
Her hands were bound tightly in front of her with a rough rope, and she clutched the mane of the horse in hopes that she would not lose her balance and be trampled under its hooves. The man behind her—she’d heard his name given as Arneth—breathed heavily, leaning forward and billowing stale breath into her face.
Lord Gavin.
She thought his name, praying that he would have heard her scream and was even now racing to save her. She did not know who had taken her, nor had the four men who accompanied her captor said anything to disclose the reason for her kidnapping. She had seen through the whirlwind of fear and fighting that some of the men who’d ambushed them had been left for dead, and the others had been separated, retreating in a different direction.
Suddenly, they changed course, wheeling off the road and into the underbrush. She heard a grunt from Arneth, and the reek of his breath buffeted more strongly as he shouted, “We are followed! Break away!”
A leap of hope lunged in her chest, and she wrenched her head to look back. Arneth’s face, drawn together in ugly intensity, loomed inches behind her, his gray teeth bared in concentration. Madelyne jerked away from the ugly proximity and felt her seat slip. Bracing her aching legs against the side of the horse, she struggled to regain her balance even as she heard the man chuckle in her ear.
Dear God, please let that be Gavin. Please let him find me. Madelyne prayed with more vehemence than she’d ever thought possible on those nights at the prie dieu in Lock Rose Abbey. I will cease these errant thoughts of him if You will grant me this.
She felt Arneth shift behind her, and then heard his exclamation of surprise. Loud thrashing, heavy breathing, shouts and the unmistakable sound of steel being slid from within steel filled her environment…and then suddenly, it was over.
A howl reverberated in her ears as she felt a jerk behind her, then the loss of Arneth’s weight in the saddle as he tumbled to the ground. She clutched at the horse, a cry escaping her lips as she began to slip, and then suddenly, she was lifted—plucked easily from her seat—and slammed onto the front of another saddle.
She did not even need to look behind her to know that it was Gavin whose powerful arm held her steady in the seat in front of him, and whose brawny thighs enclosed her. Her heart still thundered in her chest even as they slowed to a canter, and then a trot, and finally to a standstill in the middle of the forest.
If there had been others in the chase, they had left them far behind, and the stillness of the wood caught up with them as they stopped in a small clearing. The only sound was his rough breathing mingling with her own.
Gavin said naught, and she, too, had remained silent, trying to catch her breath and slow her heart. He slid from the saddle, his feet landing on the ground in two rhythmic thumps. When he turned his face to look up at her, raising his arms to lift her from the saddle, Madelyne nearly recoiled in shock.
It was Gavin Mal Verne, and yet it was not.
If she had thought him to have a mask of stone for a face before, she had not a clear idea of how that truly should look—for now his countenance was still, angry, and hard, and his gray eyes blazed with intensity and ferocity as his chest heaved with exertion. His wide brown hands slipped under her bound arms and lifted her down with a gentleness she had not expected.
“I cannot plead your forgiveness enough, my lady,” he said stiffly, his flat gaze inscrutable. “My foolish actions and lack of attention to your person were disgraceful and inexcusable.” He looked down at her hands, which were beginning to gray due to the tightness of her bonds. His mouth pinched and she saw his face darken. In a trice, he had sliced the hemp at her wrists and began to chafe them gently.
The pinpricks of circulation returning to her fingers caused her to pull away and shake her hands. “Lord Gavin, I am in your debt for your protection of me—”
“Do not be a fool, my lady,” he snapped, spinning away to stalk toward Rule. “’Tis I who am indebted to you, and ’twas my folly that caused you to be in this state.”
He gathered up the trailing reins of the well-trained destrier and, with a quick pat on his nose, led the horse toward Madelyne. Mal Verne’s thick dark hair sprung wildly about his face, brushing the heavy black brows that drew together in angry points while curling softly about his ears and throat. The cord of his neck throbbed and thrummed with his furious pulse, and his sensual mouth leveled into a thin, hard line. “Come now, I will get you back to the others where you will be safe.”
He stepped toward her, and the energy that surrounded him engulfed Madelyne even as he reached to touch her. Pushing aside her earlier bargain with God to cease her deviant thoughts of Gavin Mal Verne, she looked up at him and replied, “I cannot be any safer than when I am with you, my lord.”
Her heart swelled in her throat and her stomach turned a little flip w
hen he paused, his hands resting on her shoulders. The harshness in his features eased into derision and weariness clouded his eyes. “If you imagine that, Lady Madelyne, then you are even more of a fool than I believed.” He made ready to lift her, but she stopped him, reaching out to place a light hand on his chest. It felt solid and warm beneath the shifting, chinking of his mail.
“I am no fool, my lord,” she replied, suddenly annoyed at his persistence on that track. “An’ if that is all you think of me, then—”
“Nay, Madelyne, that is not all that I think of you,” he whispered, and suddenly he pulled her to him, his mouth slamming down onto hers.
Those lips that had moments before been hard and unyielding became soft and coaxing as they closed over her mouth that parted in surprise. They molded to hers, hot and smooth and slick, tasting of mint and sweat and man…Gavin. Gathered up against his solid chest, Madelyne felt the bumps of the mail and the bands of his arms holding her close, his hands cupping her head from behind. She fitted against his tall length, thigh to thigh, belly to belly, mouth to mouth. Her hand moved up to touch his thick, damp hair, and her fingers brushed the heat and moistness of his neck.
Her world spinning, Madelyne kissed him back, tasting him, tentatively caressing his mouth while his lips devoured hers—demanding from them, from her—leaving her breathless and her eyelids weighted closed. A fiery heat built within her, surging into her middle and down, lower, to pool there where they fitted, hip to hip.
One of his arms slid to the base of her back, crushing her close, lifting her up against him as his mouth continued to coax and caress hers. She felt a thrill of surprise when his tongue slipped inside her, bringing all the heat and sleekness of his desire. He sighed into her, giving a short shudder, and dragged his lips away with a soft, deep-throated moan.
Gavin stared down at her, breathing heavily, his fingers sliding from the back of her neck to rest on her upper arms. He gazed at her for a long moment with hazy eyes, a myriad of emotions playing across his face before the harshness settled there again.
“As I said, Lady Madelyne, a fool is not all that I think of you.” His words were rough and hard. He continued to look at her with eyes that had cleared and flattened to match his tone as he gathered up Rule’s reins. “I’ll not apologize for that—nay—but I’ll see that it does not happen again. Now, you will put your misguided self into my passable care until we reach Prentiss Keep, and then we shall start off for the king’s court with a rested band of men and no more of my transgressions.”
Eleven
Fantin’s howl of rage ricocheted off the walls of the small room, followed by the clatter of tin goblets, eating knives, and metal platters as they tumbled to the floor. “Imbeciles!” he shouted, eyes bulging as he stalked fore and aft amongst his men. “Each of you! All imbeciles!”
He could not even take pleasure in the way they cowered before him, for pure rage empurpled his vision. Madelyne had been within his grasp…the Stone so close he could taste its power…and now he sat empty-handed in some bloody, primitive tavern with naught but godless cretins to serve him. Unblessed, they were, and he, foolish as he was, had brought them into his employ, thinking to share with them some benefit of the Gift once it was his. But now, nay. Nay.
“Out of my sight! All of you!” he ordered, heedless of the proprietor’s worried face peaking around the doorway.
The men fled—those who were left of the thirteen—and Fantin slumped in his chair, fighting to regain clarity over the haze of fury that fogged his faculties. These rages that befell him at moments such as this, and with more frequency now that he came closer to the fruits of his labor, affrighted him with their vehemence and strength. Rufus had cautioned him to work to control them, else he might become too impatient and suffer God’s displeasure. Thus, Fantin raised his eyes to the heavens and prayed for a moment, allowing the comfort of this familiarity to wash over him.
He barely finished his words of supplication when his mind wandered back to the moment…the moment when he had seen her, seen the girl and recognized her—before slipping away from the small battle to allow his men to finish. In an attempt to maintain anonymity, he’d left the actual seizure of Madelyne to his trusted man Arneth, choosing to keep for himself the pleasure of killing Mal Verne—of putting an end to the man who stood always betwixt Fantin and his work. But to his surprise and fury, the bloody coward had not been present when the ambush took place.
God’s bloody teeth! The fury threatened to rise within Fantin again, rattling his nerves and stringing his muscles tightly. How could he have come so close, only to have her swept away? Never again. Never again could he trust those fools to do what he must do for himself!
His fist closed around a knife and he stabbed it into the scarred wooden table, burying it as deep as the first digit of his finger. His shuddering breathing rasped in the sudden silence, and his fingers opened and closed, opened and closed around the hilt of the knife.
His breathing slowed again, and at last he was able to reach for his goblet of wine—he disdained ale, for it was the drink of mean serfs—and drink heavily, draining it with several gulps.
Could he have been wrong? Could he and Rufus have misunderstood?
Or…mayhap it was another test.
Aye. Another test. He nodded and sank to the floor, to his knees, to prostrate himself there.
He must ask forgiveness…for failing. For allowing the bloody heathen Mal Verne to best him. For allowing his rival to once again stand in his way, to keep him from completing his work.
The stone floor bit into his knees, but Fantin reveled in the pain. He knew he must bear it, enjoy it, worship it. He must find some other painful penance to bear, now that he had failed his God again.
Curling his fingers into the edge of the rough table, Fantin dropped his forehead to the wood with a loud and painful thump and stared down at the floor with vacant eyes, praying, begging, pleading…silently and violently…for something. For God to speak to him, to guide him.
Tears filled his eyes. He tried so hard…so hard to be the man God had chosen him to be. To fulfill his destiny. To be all that God wished him to be. A drop fell to the floor, dampening the dust below, and seeping into nothingness.
At last, when he looked up, he saw a flicker of movement at the doorway—the wisp of a skirt as it fluttered past. “Hail! Wench!” he called, suddenly thirsty…and famished.
The skirt paused and returned to view, and with it came a comely wench with a low-cut, but soiled, bodice. She sauntered in to the room. Obviously she was either unaware of his high ire only moments before, or, now that it had subsided, was unafraid.
“My lord, how may I-a be helpin’ ye?” She flashed him a coy smile and came to stand next to his table, generously showing her cleavage to its best advantage.
The ample mounds of her pushed-up bosom threatened to erupt from the tight bodice, and he saw them vibrate with her movements.
And he knew .
God had responded to his pleadings. Here was his penance. “Come hither, my lovey,” he invited in his smooth, rich voice. He smiled.
She bent forward, and, eyeing her cleavage, he reached to slip a long finger into the deep crevice between the globes. She allowed him to slide his hand down to cup a heavy weight, sighing and smiling in the same way all whores did…the way Nicola had, and Retna.
“Eey, my lord, I see what ’tis y’r wishin’ for.” She grinned, showing three holes where teeth had been and moving around the table to stand next to him. “Wit’ such fingers as you have, I can bet at the pleasure you give. An’ let’s see what we have to work with, now.”
“Aye…let us indeed.” Fantin did not relish taking the filthy whore to his bed…but ’twas God’s will, and, in truth, his desire flared there beneath the table. After doing this task, he would serve his penance and mete out the punishment God had chosen…upon himself and the woman.
* * *
Gavin’s jaw hurt. His teeth ground into each
other, jarring slightly with the rhythm of Rule’s sure-footed trot, as he focused his attention on the road in front of him—looking over the dark head that rocked below his chin and sent a faint smell of something floral to his nose.
He refused to think about the thick, shininess of that bare braid, or to admit that with one slight movement of his arm, he would brush against her ribs. Instead, he concentrated on what he should have been doing instead of chasing stags through the wood: delivering Madelyne de Belgrume safely to Henry’s court.
He would not allow himself to be distracted by the memory of those lush lips beneath his, and the way her lids had slid closed over luminous gray eyes, fanning thick black lashes over her fair cheeks.
A spear of desire shot through his abdomen and for a moment he was helpless to the memory of her soft curves pressed against him and the tentative slide of her tongue over his. In sooth, he had committed his share of sins in his life…but surely this was too great a penance even for those.
He shifted uncomfortably in the saddle, then gritted his teeth as the movement brought him in contact with Madelyne’s rigid back. She’d been more silent than usual, ducking her head when faced by him whenever they’d met in the day they spent at Prentiss Keep, and now that they had been back on the road again, she and Patricka kept to themselves when not ahorse. The bit of spirit Madelyne had begun to show since leaving the abbey had disappeared, leaving her little more than the silent, serene nun he’d taken from Lock Rose Abbey. Verily, he’d frightened the wits from her with his clumsy, forceful assault in the wood.
He almost regretted it—that succumbing to his base urges—but, in all truthfulness, he knew he would do it again if he had to do it over. It had been so long that he’d embraced or kissed a woman that did not smell of the farm, or did not need to scratch the fleas and lice that infested her hair. And surely it was only that novelty causing his mind to spin with the memory of a soft, scented noblewoman in his arms—nun though she was. With a frustrated rake of fingers through his hair, Gavin vowed to find a clean, willing woman when they reached the king’s court to flush this haunting memory from his mind.
