by Barbara Bard
Before she could cry out, the hilt of his dagger crashed into the side of her head. The girl collapsed in his arms, her bundle falling to the ground. Seizing her, he dragged her toward the rear of the nearest building as the bundle on the ground began to wail and scream.
The bundle was an infant.
Knowing the baby’s cry would attract the villagers as nothing else could, Primshire hesitated a fraction. If he left his victim, he might escape unseen. But if he took her with him, as his black urges demanded, he might not. His dark need won out. Tossing the unconscious girl over his shoulder, he ducked through the small alleys between buildings as shouts and questions rose in the air. Torches flared in the lane as men and women surged into the streets, and found the baby.
Now the hunt would be on.
Primshire hustled as fast as he could with the unconscious girl over his shoulder, unable to climb over the tall, spiked fence. Forced to run for the gate, he hoped none had the foresight to close it shut, penning him inside. Men ran past him toward the source of the chaos, leaving him free to hurry to the gates. Casting frantic glances both behind and ahead of him, burdened under her weight, Primshire prayed to a god he didn’t believe in to get him through the tall spiked fence before it closed him inside.
Just as he dashed through them, and into the fields beyond, they swung shut. He heard the bar fall into place where nothing save a battering ram would open them if the defenders kept them closed. Sweating with relief and his urgency, Primshire ran for the darkness. He knew the girl would wake soon, and he was far too close to the village when she did. At this distance from it, even a deaf man would hear her screams.
Splashing across a streamlet, he ran on, gasping for breath. On his shoulder, she stirred, moaning. Within moments, she would wake fully, and she would begin to scream. Too close, too close. He hurried away from the village, hoping to put a hill between it and them where perhaps the sounds of him cutting her would not be heard. No such helpful hill presented itself, and the girl on her shoulder thrashed.
She screamed.
In desperation, Primshire threw her to the ground. The girl tried to get up and run, scrambling away from him, yelling, get away from me, get away from me. He pounced on her, his knife slashing her cheek. That only made her cry louder, kicking at him, her fists punching, flailing in her fight for her life. Panicked, her fist cracking against his half-healed wound, Primshire stabbed her in the chest once, twice, thrice.
The peasant collapsed, her screams gone, her life fled. Panting, blood dripping from the blade, Primshire gazed down at himself. Gore covered him from his head to his legs, staining his clothes. “No, no, no,” he moaned, trying to wipe it away, but only smeared it further. “No, this can’t be, it’s not supposed to go like this.”
Not only did he not have time to undress, or relish her screams as he took her life slowly, he killed her without the torture that fed his dark urges. Without sating them, the urge would be upon him soon, maybe within hours. And the blood – how can he clean the blood from them? How can he ride into his castle without the stares, the gawks, the knowledge that his people would know him for what he was?
Not far away, dogs bayed. Voices raised, encouraging them. Torches lit the moors. The hunter has become the hunted. Sheathing his bloody dagger without cleaning it, Primshire ran. He didn’t bother to keep to the shadows, the dogs would find him in spite of them. Splashing across the stream, he hesitated, lost, for the moment, disoriented, he forgot where he left his horse.
Hoping he ran in the right direction, he bolted downstream, seeking the larger river where he had tied his roan. Finding it, he waded through it, slowed as he fought against the current, thinking his scent would be lost as the water tossed it down to the ocean. His horse snorted as he dashed up, spooking at the odor of fresh blood on his clothes. Untying the reins, he threw himself into the saddle, and buried his spurs into the fresh wounds he had delivered previously.
Flattening his neck, his roan gelding raced across the moors, up and down the hills. Without guidance from his master, the gelding bolted for home, food and shelter, safety. Faster and faster, Primshire whipped and goaded the beast into a headlong pace. Risking a glance behind him, he saw little save blackness where not even the stars shone down. He grimaced in triumph, for not even their hounds could follow him now.
Ahead of him, the lights burned in the windows of his castle, and guided him home. His exhausted, sweating roan galloped tiredly into the bailey, his steel shod hooves echoing across the tall stone structure. Grooms and men-at-arms swarmed from their holes, asking questions, lighting torches. Too late, Primshire realized his blood-soaked clothing lay clear in their sight. Eyes stared as fingers made the sign against evil.
“Bandits,” he roared. “Tried to kill me. I got them instead.”
He swung down from his saddle as a groom, bowing, took his sweating and bleeding roan from him. Rather than rush to his aid, his men-at-arms backed away from him, their fingers still making the sign. Primshire glared at them, daring them to question him.
“Tomorrow,” he bellowed. “You all hunt them down. Highwaymen, robbers. I think they were Scottish. Yes, they were Scots. A reward for their heads!”
Rather than the rousing cheer he expected, his soldiers simply stared at him, at the blood on him. At his clean sword, but still dripping dagger. At his fear, at his madness. “Good gold for their heads,” he tried to shout into their judgmental eyes.
He found his balance, his sense of self, at last. “Go on back to your beds,” he commanded. “You ride out at first light, find the rest of them and bring their heads to me.”
Under his stare, the grooms, the men-at-arms, slowly dispersed. Like mice, they crept away, glancing back over their shoulders, muttering. He watched them go, knowing that half his authority over them went with them. They would not obey him, and half of them would desert before breakfast. They knew, he realized. They knew he was little more than a rabid dog, and one that needed to be put down.
“I’ll hang them,” he whispered to himself, striding toward his quarters. “Hang a few, the rest will fall into line. Yes, that will do it. Show them who is master.”
He climbed the stairs toward his chambers, scenting the stench of blood that hung over him like a pall. Though he reveled in it during his kill, it now clung to his nostrils like an unwelcome guest. Not realizing he was not alone, Primshire started at the sound of her voice.
“Catch another one, did you?”
Primshire stared up at Jessica as she stood on the stairs above him. She wore a loose robe over her night gown, her rich dark hair hung down over her shoulders, covering her like a shawl. Her marvelous sloe eyes looked him up and down slowly, as though relishing the sight of the blood on him. “My, my,” she tittered. “We have been busy.”
He struggled to find his tongue. “Bandits,” he muttered. “Scottish highwaymen.”
Her hand fluttered at her throat. “Am I in danger of these terrible robbers? Perhaps I should return to London where I will be safe under the protection of my dear husband.”
Though she feigned fear, Primshire recognized the mocking laughter in her dark, sloe eyes. “You are perfectly safe in my castle, Duchess,” he choked, stepping up the stairs toward her. “I will protect you.”
“Will you? Somehow, I no longer feel safe here.”
“No, no, you are under my protection, my shield. I will never permit harm to come to you.”
Standing at her side, he loomed over her, meeting her upturned eyes, he ran his blood-stained fingers down her cheek. He expected her to flinch away, but instead, she smiled. To his thinking, it appeared to be secretive and filled with desire. It both puzzled and pleased him.
“Perhaps you should escort me to my chambers, then,” she said, her voice thick with lust.
“Why, of course, Duchess. It would be my honor.”
Sliding his arm through hers, he walked with her back up the stairs, leading her to her lavish guest quarters. Jessica stroll
ed at his side, her enigmatic smile shadowed in the light of the torches as they passed them. His own desire grew, heating his loins, the stench of blood that mixed with the need to take her violently made his head giddy.
Inside her chambers, Jessica barely dismissed her maid before attacking him, ripping at his clothes, tearing his bloody tunic. That she wanted him was clear, and he would not disappoint her. Half carrying her, half dragging her, he took her into the bedchamber and threw her roughly onto the big bed. His hand on her waist spun her onto her belly and lifted her hips.
Not caring if she were fully aroused or not, Primshire mounted her in a single, hard thrust. She gave a sharp shriek, but pushed her hips back against him. Seizing a fistful of her hair, he pulled her head back, exposing her throat.
Pounding away at her center, his pleasure climbing high, he licked and sucked at her bared neck and jaw, listening to her thick moans of lust. Taking her with as much violence as he dared, he satisfied himself with using her to sate his lust, his orgasm rocking through him before she climaxed. Throwing his head back, he blasted his seed deep into her, groaning, ecstasy riding him in waves. Spent, breathing hard, he pulled away from her, his organ now flaccid. Jessica turned over and hiked her robes, baring her lower body.
“I am not satisfied,” she said, her legs spread. “Use your tongue.”
Primshire stood up, and bent to the floor to find his trousers. “No.”
“What did you say?”
“You heard me.”
Pulling them on, he tied his laces, eyeing her growing anger and not caring a whit. Wondering if his tunic was still fit to wear, at least until he returned to his own chambers, he started from the bedroom.
“How dare you walk away from me, Primshire,” she snarled, getting up off the bed.
“My castle,” he replied shortly.
As he bent to pick up his sword belt, Jessica attacked him again, in rage, not lust, this time. Jumping onto him, she seized hold of him with legs and her left arm while her right struck him on the side of his face, his head. Roaring in fury, Primshire straightened and plucked her from him as easily as though she were a child. He did not strike her with his fist as he longed to do, but released her to fall into a heap on the floor.
“Do not do that again,” he snapped. “I might forget I am a gentleman and beat you to a pulp.”
She rose, sneering. “What gentleman? Murdering innocent women is hardly the work of a gentleman.”
“They are animals.”
Picking up the remains of his tunic, he didn’t bother putting it on. Carrying it, he stalked for the door.
“Is it wise of you to make an enemy of me?” she asked as he opened it.
Primshire eyed her with distaste. “You don’t frighten me, Duchess.”
Chapter 22
Just as he had suspected might happen, five of Primshire’s men-at-arms deserted in the night. With Jessica beside him, he stood in the bailey, watched by the remaining soldiers and glared at Lord Avery. “I want them found and brought back. Today.”
Avery nodded. “I will see to it, My Lord.”
“I want them alive. They will serve as an example to the rest of my people what happens to cowards and traitors.”
“Of course, My Lord.”
Avery bowed low, and went to organize the men he needed for the hunt, shouting orders. Primshire caught the Duchess’s eye, observed her tiny smirk. Though she seemed cordial enough at the table when they broke their fast, he did not fail to see the faint spark of malice deep within her eyes. Her lengths of hair were bound up with pins, and tiny ringlets trailed down her slender neck. Wearing an azure gown of rich brocade, she had never looked more beautiful to him.
“Perhaps you should ride with them, Marsden,” she purred. “I wouldn’t do for the men you send to fetch them back actually join these deserters.”
Primshire scowled. “They wouldn’t dare.”
“Oh, I quite disagree. You see, they fear you and not in the way that keeps them loyal.”
Her dark eyes drifted around at the activity in the bailey, the soldiers saddling horses without their usual banter and laughter, and even Primshire observed the fingers making the sign against great evil as they worked. “They are terrified of the monster in you, Marsden,” she went on, her voice cool, soft. “They do not understand it, and run from it.”
“But you are not afraid.”
Jessica eyed him sidelong. “Because I understand you.”
“You may be right,” he admitted. “I should lead the hunt. If only to prevent these idiots from missing the trail out of sympathy.”
“A very good decision.”
Riding out at the head of twenty five men-at-arms, Primshire, with Lord Avery at his side, found the trail of shod horses traveling in a group leading south. “They are horse thieves as well as deserters,” he grumbled. “Those are my horses they ride.”
“We will have to ride hard if we are to catch them,” Avery advised. “They have several hours head start.”
“Then let us get on with it.”
Spurring his horse, Primshire set a fast pace, racing over the moors with his band behind him. He called for no breaks as the hours passed, still following the clear trail in the trampled grass and heather, but he suspected he was drawing close to the deserters when he saw a thin tendril of blue smoke just beyond a tall ridge. Raising his fist, he slowed his mount to a trot, studying the terrain.
“We have to encircle them,” he said, “prevent them from running. Our horses are tired, while theirs may be rested.”
“I agree, My Lord,” Avery replied, also gazing around at the hills. “If I may suggest, perhaps you and I should ride to the top and have a look.”
Though Jessica’s words about the rest of his men deserting revolving in his head, Primshire reluctantly agreed. Too many men atop the ridge might alert his quarry. At the base of the hill, he turned to the soldiers, and said, “Wait here.”
The hill was steep with loose soil that slid out from under the hooves of their horses. The animals made it to the top, breathing hard with their nostrils flared while Primshire and Lord Avery dismounted behind a shield of rocks. Keeping their bodies low, they crept to the edge and peered down. Five men sat around a small fire, five horses, still saddled and bridled, grazed in the grass below Primshire.
“I think we can get their horses away from them, My Lord,” Avery murmured. “We stand a much better chance of catching them if we do.”
Primshire examined the area, rubbing his itching facial wound with his thumb as he looked for potential advantages. “Yes,” he said slowly. “We send some mounted men to hide behind those boulders to the right. Others will ride around the base of the ridge. You’re slender and quick, Avery, you work your way between them and their horses, but not until me and the others are in position.”
“Right, My Lord.”
“We will have them on two sides with the ridge on the third. Without their mounts, they are caught.”
Remounting, Primshire and Lord Avery rode back down the hill. The men-at-arms listened as Primshire snapped orders that sent half his soldiers round the ridge to the left, while he led the rest around to the right. Avery rode with him until they reached the end of the hill, then dismounted. Taking his bow and quiver, Avery offered Primshire a quick salute before slithering into the rocks with the dexterity of a snake.
Riding at a walk toward the concealing boulders, Primshire, unable to see his prey, listened intently for any indication he and his men had been noticed. He heard little save the soft breeze over the heather, and the click of steel-shod hooves striking stones. Feeling certain that had they been discovered, he’d hear the loud sound of horses galloping.
Hoping he gave Avery enough time to make his way to the deserters’ horses, Primshire gave a loud war cry – the signal. Jabbing spurs into his horse’s flanks, he and his soldiers charged around the rocks, swords at the ready. The five fugitives leaped to their feet, shock and horror opening their mo
uths in round O’s as they bolted for their horses. Lord Avery popped up from behind the boulder, yelling for all he was worth, slapping the rumps of the horses with his bow.
The animals scattered, charging to the left and right rather than run up the steep incline, yet were too well trained to run very far. Spinning around, Avery nocked an arrow to his bow, and fired it into the shoulder of the nearest deserter. The man fell with a sharp grunt, the others charging past him, drawing their swords.
Sweeping in from behind, Primshire and his band of twenty five soldiers closed in around them, arrows nocked and ready to mow them down like barley. Desperate, knowing their fate, the four still on their feet opted to fight to the death. Turning around, they huddled in a tight group, teeth bared in grimaces, fear-sweat sliding down the sides of their faces.
